A/N: Short and not edited. I keep trying to catch this moment between Damianos and Celise but I can never make it feel right. Maybe you guys know what is missing? Any yes I know. Dyonisius is that greek grape god but I just liked the way it flowed with Damianos.

No cord or cable can draw so forcibly, or bind

so fast, as love can do with a single thread.

Robert Burton

Grand Master Damianos Dyonisius spotted a flash of chestnut brown hair fleeing the crowded room. He could only assume her empathetic abilities had skewed her, normally, tightly controlled emotions. She was the only light caster in his coven. That made her valuable; his fellow dark casters doubted her worth. Celise Ivanov was the ideal personification of a light caster. She couldn't throw a curse if she wanted, although she could annoy someone to death with her little magic butterflies. She squirmed in fear in the presence of her dark counterparts. Damian didn't want her fear though.

Light casters. Being "light" didn't necessarily make them "good"; being a dark caster didn't make them "bad". It just meant that a caster tended to only use light colored energies or dark. There was a small number that could use both very efficiently: Shade casters. The dark energies were known for being a bit more dangerous. Most dark casters succumbed to their energy's instinct. That is what frightens light casters. Damian, who hadn't always tried to resist, was good at suppressing these dark urges because if he surrendered extreme consequences could follow; most of which would affect those around him.

He now regretted promising Celise he wouldn't enter her mind without permission. It would be so much easier to talk to her if he could rely on her thoughts. Being an empath seemed to make things rather difficult for her. Though her emotions were normally in balance once in a while someone would project what they were feeling a bit too intensely and she would suffer for it. It had surprised him when she chose to work in cultural studies. That career required quite a bit of actual contact. She had done remarkably well, though, and had become know as one of the most skillful cultural researchers in her field. He'd had a Hell of a time convincing her to take her rightful position as Head of Cultural Studies.

He followed her sent to a quiet and secluded staircase where he found her sitting and sobbing silently against a stair post. The sight broke something in him. It seemed so wrong for such a creature to cry. For a few moments all he could do was gaze upon her weeping and beautiful form. If she was aware of his presence she hadn't offered any sign of recognition; she simply continued to cry. When he finally decided there was nothing he could say he went to her side and held her. Like a needy child she surrendered her grip on the stair post and collapsed her upper body onto his lap and continued to weep.

He knew there was nothing he could say or do to take away a pain that wasn't really hers. She cried for a random passerby: for someone she didn't know and probably never would. In his eyes this made her all the more beautiful; that she could love someone she didn't know. In this moment he realized what the confusing but pleasant emotion he had been experiencing in her presence was. He now knew what he had been waiting for all these centuries: love.