TAINTED BLOOD (Aro Volturi X Reader)

Once Was

Dawn had approached, and Aro knew it was going to be a dark day. The sky, usually a canvas of vibrant hues, was shrouded in a thick, leaden grey, mirroring the weight in his chest. It rained, a relentless, monotonous patter against the marble and stone of the Volturi palace, each drop a hammer blow against his already weary soul.

He was having continuous coughing fits, each one a violent expulsion of air that left his lungs raw and his throat burning. His Volturi robe, once a symbol of power and majesty, was now stained with crimson, the blood from his coughs marring its pristine white.

Aro, the leader of the Volturi, the most powerful vampire in the world, was going to die.

His gifts, once so potent, were fading. The whispers of others' minds, the echoes of their thoughts, were growing fainter, muffled as if by a thick fog. He could sense the fear, the whispers of rebellion, the burgeoning hope that his death would bring. His power, once absolute, was slipping away, leaving behind a hollow shell.

He had lived for centuries, witnessed the rise and fall of empires, the ebb and flow of human history. He had seen the world change, but his own inner world, his own essence, remained constant. Until now.

The rain continued, a relentless, mournful dirge. It was a fitting soundtrack to his demise, a symphony of despair echoing the desolation he felt within. He looked out at the storm-wracked landscape, the grey sky mirroring the emptiness he felt inside.

He had seen many dark days in his long life, but this one was different. This was the day he would face his own mortality, the day he would relinquish his control over the world. He had lived by a code, a set of rules that ensured the balance of power in the vampire world, but now, as his life ebbed away, he wondered if it had all been worth it.

He had been feared, revered, and hated, but he had never been loved, until his mate appeared. He had been alone, even in the midst of his power. Y/N shown him compassion and taught him kindness.

As the rain continued its relentless assault, Aro closed his eyes, accepting his fate. He knew that the world would go on without him, that the Volturi would survive, Y/N would live her pure mortal life and he would have a daughter to live his dreams. Though, the balance of power would be anguished. But he also knew that something essential was dying with him, something that could never be replaced.  The last of the old guard, and the world, he knew, would never be the same again.

Aro stood before the mirror, his reflection a pale ghost of the man he once was. His skin clung to his bones like parchment, his eyes, once bright and crimson, now dull and clouded with fatigue. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, the strands catching on the rough texture of his calloused fingers.

He needed to make everything seem okay. Even if he was sick and frail, even if his cough rattled in his chest like a dry leaf in a winter wind, even if the world spun dizzyingly around him at times. He needed to stand tall for when he fell.

He was Aro,  the man who had seen generations come and go, the man who had weathered every storm, both literal and metaphorical. He had taught the children to read in the Volterra orphanage, he had calmed the anxieties of the townsfolk, he had led them through famine and drought. He had always been the rock, the pillar of strength.

But now, the rock was crumbling. The pillar was leaning. He was fading.

He took another deep breath, the air catching in his lungs. He forced a smile, a thin line across his lips that did not reach his weary eyes. He straightened his shoulders, the pain a dull ache in his bones. He needed to be strong. He needed to be the man they expected him to be.

He walked out of the room, his thoughts full and twisting. The rain hammered against the grimy windowpanes, mimicking the relentless drumbeat of guilt in Aro's chest. The only sound besides the rain was the ragged rasp of his own breathing. The words echoed in his mind, a mantra of self-loathing:

 Monster... deserved death... monster...

You deserve to die, You deserve to suffer the same fate you inflicted on your sister

Aro's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the cavernous hall. The Voltrui trial doors, normally a reassuring symbol of justice, now loomed before him, heavy and ominous. He'd walked this path countless times, a familiar route etched into the very fabric of his being. Yet, today, each step felt like a journey across a vast, uncharted desert, each breath a struggle against the suffocating weight of anticipation.

The doors, carved from obsidian and adorned  intricately, seemed to groan as they swung open. The sound, a low, mournful creak, echoed through the hall, silencing the hushed whispers that had been his constant companions. As he crossed the threshold, the world seemed to slow to a crawl. The air thickened, becoming heavy with the scent of fear and anticipation.