Y/N is a witch on the run from Viktor and his Death Dealers... for conspicuous reasons. Along the way she makes a vital yet crucial decision that leads her to the Volturi. Aro Volturi had no intention falling in love with a mortal, let alone a witch...
The world was a blur of white, a swirling vortex of cotton that pressed against Aro's eyelids. He felt a dull ache, a throbbing in his head that resonated with the nameless fear that gripped him. He tried to move, to open his eyes, but his body refused, locked in an unwelcome stillness.
Then, the white receded, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colors, a rush of memories. Not the cold, calculated memories of his immortal life, but something different, something warm and familiar. He was a child again, a boy with unruly brown hair and eyes that shone with an almost reckless innocence.
He was in a field, the sun warm on his skin, the scent of cut grass filling his lungs. He was chasing a butterfly, its wings a kaleidoscope of blue and orange, its flight a graceful dance in the summer breeze. He could feel the wind whipping through his hair, the sun warming his cheeks, the thrill of the chase coursing through him.
The butterfly landed on a daisy, its delicate wings fluttering. He reached out, his hand trembling with anticipation. But as he neared, a shadow fell over him, long and dark. He looked up to see his father, his face etched with worry, his voice a low rumble.
"Aro, come back. It's getting late."
The boy hesitated, his eyes glued to the butterfly. Then, with a sigh, he turned back, the joy of the chase fading into the familiar warmth of his father's presence.
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The memories came in flashes, a montage of childhood moments. He was playing hide-and-seek with his younger sister, the laughter echoing in the warm summer air. He was fishing with his father, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of the water against the boat. He was reading by the fireplace, the crackling fire casting dancing shadows on the walls, the smell of woodsmoke filling the air.
But then, the memories shifted, the warmth fading into a coldness that gnawed at his heart. He was older now, a teenager with a growing sense of unease. He was watching his father, a shadow of his former self, his eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored the growing emptiness in Aro's own heart.
He remembered the whispers, the hushed conversations, the fear that had settled like a shroud over his family. He remembered the day his father had succumbed to the illness, his eyes filled with a love that knew no bounds, his voice weak but steady as he whispered, "Be strong, my son."
The memories faded, leaving him alone in the darkness, the ache in his head growing stronger. He felt a tear roll down his cheek, a salty reminder of the life he had lost, the love he had cherished.
He was no longer the boy chasing butterflies, but a vampire, the ruler of the Volturi. But in the depths of his unconscious mind, he was still that child, yearning for the innocence and simplicity of his mortal life, for the love of a father who had been taken from him far too soon.
Then, he saw her face, Didyme's face, etched with terror and betrayal. He saw her eyes, wide and pleading, before they glazed over, a film of death settling over them.
