TAINTED BLOOD (Aro Volturi X Reader)

After Thought

The walls of Rivendell seemed to press in on Aro, mirroring the turmoil within his ancient heart. Each step echoed through the cavernous corridors, a hollow sound that matched the emptiness he felt. His mind, once a fortress of unwavering control, was now a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

A flicker of hope, fragile and tentative, danced within the depths of his despair. The remnants of his Volturi, loyal to the end, and the delicate friendship between Elrond with his Elven armies offered a glimmer of possibility. Could he, Aro, the immortal who had ruled with an iron fist for centuries, reclaim the throne he had lost? Could he rebuild the legacy shattered by his own hand?

yes, his own hand.... He knew it was his fault. He is the reason Marcus turned and became tainted. Aro executed his own sister, his own blood and family.

Let's rephrase.... he murdered her and Marcus wanted revenge.

But the hope was fragile, constantly threatened by the crushing weight of guilt. Aro, the immortal who had prided himself on his unwavering resolve, his ruthless efficiency, his absolute control, was a coward. He had failed. He had allowed the Volturi, his creation, his legacy, to crumble before a force he had underestimated. The whispers of his failure echoed in the silent halls, a constant reminder of his weakness.

The image of Caius, his co-ruler, forever silenced, flashed before his mind's eye. The memory of Marcus, stoic and strong, now ruthless and careless of his own actions. But he didn't blame him. Aro had failed them. He had failed the Volturi. He had failed the very essence of their existence. He had failed Marcus.

His fingers tightened into fists, his nails digging into the soft flesh of his palms. The pain, both physical and emotional, was a familiar companion, a constant reminder of his inadequacies. He was a failure, a shadow of the powerful immortal he once was.

He stopped, leaning against the cool stone of the wall, the weight of his guilt threatening to crush him. He closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to consume him for a fleeting moment. He was Aro, the immortal, the ruler, the king... but he was also a broken man, haunted by the specter of his own failure.

Yet, even in the depths of his despair, a flicker of defiance remained. He would not surrender to the darkness. He would not allow his Volturi to be extinguished. He would rebuild, he would reclaim, he would prove that he was not the weak coward his mind whispered. He would rise from the ashes of his failure, guided by the fragile hope that still clung to his shattered heart.

The faintest glimmer of his old, ruthless self-sparked within him. He straightened, his shoulders regaining a fraction of their former authority. The Volturi might be broken, but Aro was not. He would rise again. He would rule again. He would remind the world who he was.

He would do it for Y/N and his unborn child. He had to. He could not stand seeing a dreadful word by Marcus's hand. Let alone allow his mate and child living in it. The only way he could protect them, was to rule.

But, Aro still carried guilt within him. He was ill and as he recently found out. He would stay ill. No, he was not allowed the luxury of death nor the luxury of full recovery. He had to outlive his immortal life in pure illness.

Aro looked out the panned window. The sun, a molten orb of orange and red, dipped below the horizon, casting long, languid shadows across the manicured gardens outside. Aro, his crimson eyes reflecting the fading light, moved with an uncharacteristic slowness towards the bedchamber. It was there, in that sanctuary of soft fabrics and muted colours, that he expected to find Y/N.

As he approached, he noticed the door was ajar, a sliver of darkness revealing the flickering warmth of candlelight within. A melody, soft and sweet as a summer breeze, drifted out, beckoning him closer. He paused at the threshold, his heart, a muscle he rarely acknowledged, quickening its pace.