Matteo's silvered gaze shifted from that paper within his hands, to his son and back again. All this time they had been walking away from Isabella!? Really, he supposed, he should hardly have been surprised. Dorian had desired his and Alexander's assistance on this unusual quest of sorts. To inform him that Isabell had been merely a street away would have served as nothing but a distraction and too- perhaps prompted him not to have come at all. His son was, admittedly, rather....cunning. As he should be for Fae. Matteo, despite himself, could hardly prevent that warm simper that found his lips at that very realisation- at least until Dorian so declared Sebastian and himself were retiring to have 'tea'. This Dorian, it seemed, had near mastered the use of innuendo. Any further words the Frenchman might have offered on his son's plans however were interrupted by Alexander's soft insistence he simply...let them go. The Macedonian was right. Dorian and Sebastian were hardly in danger any longer. They didn't need Alexander or himself and yet....how difficult it was to...say goodbye. Even if there was every chance they might see one another again before that three days was up and his Dorian waited for him at home. The Monarch's hand reached for Sebastian's own. The Incubus, for his part, hardly seemed inclined to argue as the pair turned from them with that clear intention of seeking that hotel Dorian mentioned. A single, final question from the Frenchman however prompted the pair to pause a final time. Just where Dorian had learned to wield a polearm of all things, was one question the Frenchman was uninclined not to find an answer too.
Dorian assurance that his 'grandfather' had taught him seemed to prompt a ready confusion to both Matteo and Alexander's features. Alexander, in all the years Matteo had known him had near never utilised such a weapon. The Hunter prefered the lighter, more offensive spear. A polearm was heavier, cumbersome and incredibly difficult to use with real skill. That weapon, in the right hands, could be devastatingly powerful and yet few masters of the polearm had ever existed. The time, patience and agility taken to wield it saw many abandon it in favour of other weapons that took far less time to use well. Matteo himself had done that very thing. Why on earth would Alexander have taught Dorian to use it? Matteo's near questioning gaze shifted toward his own Father then, the Hunter appeared near equally as baffled as himself before seeking to correct the group at large, insisting that weapon was better called by its true name the 'Kontos'.

"Thank you, World Book."

Those teasing words he offered Alexander were so followed by a light chuckle before Dorian's own head shook once more. The Monarch insisted that Alexander was not the Grandfather who had instructed him. Matteo's own features were quick to shift into a look of bafflement once more. How many Grandfather's did Dorian have? Surely he did not mean Isabella's parents? They had been human, surely they had died centuries ago? Indeed, Matteo himself had never even met them, both having passed, in his world, before Isabella had met him. Alexander, beside him, had grown almost pale. The hunter, perhaps, having anticipated that singular name Dorian uttered as if such a thing was hardly remarkable at all. Hephy. The Monarch was quick to turn then as he uttered those directions for finding Hephastions house. Was Hephaestion truly alive in this world? Had the Alexander of this time....saved him as his Alexander had been able to do? Matteo's gaze shifted near warily towards his own Father then only for Alexander to turn almost abruptly and begin to make his way through the crowd with single-minded determination. The Frenchman's shouts seemed to nearly fall on deaf ears, Matteo forced to hurry after his companion as they finally broke free of those gathered people- what remained of the Ark at last began to dip beneath the surface of the water.

Alexander's gaze was quick to turn towards him, the hunter insisting he wanted to see Isabella, did he not? That journey so apparently inclined to take them no more then twenty minutes. Matteo, long ago, had given up attempting to understand just how the Macedonian seemed able to know the length of any journey they took. His impossible memory, perhaps, afforded him some ability to perceive time with an accuracy most others did not. Twenty minutes. They were only twenty minutes away from his Isabella and too, it seemed, Hephaestion. Matteo moved to fall silently into step beside his Father. Neither man was inclined to speak upon that journey. Each entirely lost within their own thoughts. Would his Isabella be as he remembered her? Would she sound the same? Look the same? Would she...feel the same? A near unusual sort of...anxiety so began to blossom within the Frenchmans chest. That sensation was a mix of anticipation, nervousness and a simple hesitation to face that unknown. How badly he desired to see her, his Isabella and yet....what if she was not as he remembered? How loath he was to have that memory tainted in any fashion, yet too, how much he desired to ask his very soul mate what he had managed to say to her to convince her to let the him of this world...turn her as she had refused in his own. It had been...centuries since he had felt those near raw feelings of grief and guilt. They had been all consuming once and while perhaps they did not threaten to drown him now as they once had- their pain was still no less potent. Ah, but how very, very much had been left unsaid between his soul mate and himself. How desperately he desired to see her. Hold her. To exist near her even once more.

Matteo's gaze shifted but briefly towards his companion. Alexander strode beside him with that same single-minded determination he had seen his Father wear countless times before. That very look was one that had led their army over impassable mountains and to a victory agianst impossible odds. Nothing, Matteo was certain, would prevent Alexander from that path now. Hephaestion was the single and only true...fault within the Macedonian's armor. The one topic Alexander seemed...unable to discuss. At least not for any length of time. The hunter was so hardly an...emotional being in any sense. Alexander so often was the very epitome of control when it came to such things and yet time and again the very notion of Hephaestion had prompted a crack within that impossible facade. One Alexander strove to hide. Even Matteo knew better then to attempt to pry beyond what information Alexander had uttered over the years. The pair, at last, paused at the end of the street Dorian had penned neatly onto that slip of paper. Alexander's hand lifted, gesturing down that street with that soft assurance Matteo simply needed to go to her, to find her. TheFrenchman's gaze shifted to stare down that street.

"I have been waiting some five centuries to find her again."

Those very words were so barely above a whisper and indeed, Matteo hardly knew who he uttered them too as he moved to step away from his Father then and begin that walk toward the house Dorian had promised him his Mother lived. The near ancient Fae, however, managed no more than several steps before he turned to Alexander once more.

"Alex? If you truly do find your Hephaestion, I....would like to meet him, oui?"

Matteo moved to turn upon his heel then, the Frenchman continuing down that neat, leafy street that seemed so far away from the Italian palaces his Isabella had once called home. The evening was quiet, even the air seemed still. Matteo's hand reached out near automatically to brush over the tops of the white picket fences he walked alongside, counting those house numbers as he did. Hmmm. Was this truly how his life might have been? Isabella and himself, living in some quiet street merely a block away from Dorian and a street away from Alexander? What had she ever said to him that had made him leave France and his own homeland? A place he rarely ventured from for to long. A near soft simper found his lips at the very thought. Those houses seemed to grow steadily more opulent. This, undoubtedly, a wealthy area of the city and yet that near...homey feel had hardly been lost. This. This was the number. Matteo paused outside that luxuriant home. Even from outside those gates he could see a well manicured lawn and garden, what was surely a swimming pool lingered behind the house, an unmistakably French fountain adorned the front garden. Matteo so hardly bothered with any attempt to discover how those electronic gates open, the Frenchman merely teleporting neatly to that front door. Should he knock? Ah, how readily he spoke of fate and destiny to others and yet when so faced with his own how inclined he was to hesitate. Matteo's tongue moved to brush across his lips in a truly rare gesture of nervousness before his hand at last lifted to knock agianst the wood of the door.

c'est dur d'être un dieu.