The scent of fresh blood fills the air, her lips are pale doors before it. Edward is faintly reluctantly glad for the innocuous disinterested way it calls to him -- not like the scent that calls for his demise each time he gets too near it.

Carlisle fought him, as Edward mirrored his moves as he made them. It was a bonus to have gotten to wrestle and spar with him for decades. But recognition wavered Carlisle into shock, more in his thoughts than his actions. But also for the name addressed, for the nearness and expectedness of it. Aro. Aro. Aro.

Volterra at it's height. It takes the air from his thoughts.