TITLE: An Impossible Combination
CHARACTERS: The Volturi, a focus upon Aro and Sulpicia in this chapter
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A while ago, the brilliant H. K Rissing suggested that I should write a series of one-shots featuring the Volturi coven and Guard during their respective favourite days or moments. It was a compelling plot-bunny, and I just had to develop it. I am extremely grateful to H.K Rissing for coming up with this idea and letting me play with it. The one-shots will centre around a number of characters, time periods and perspectives.
The title of the fic is taken from a quote by (my hero) Mark Twain : "Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination." Given the protagonists of this story, I thought that it was fitting. The title of this chapter is taken from the lyrics of the song 'Sympathy for the Devil' by The Rolling Stones. Aro seems to merit it.
A NOTE ON THE SETTING: The Volturi fought a number of wars against the Romanians, the first and most decisive beginning in 500 A.D and ending about a century later. This one-shot is set immediately afterwards.
Volterra; 603 A.D.
Aro speaks:
A war's end brings with it such unbearable lightness. Our foes have had their numbers whittled into twigs and dust, the fluttering remains of their dead left to the whipping wind. We, tossed like twigs upon sea foam, mad and directionless for a century, must learn to stand once more.
We are not the Greeks, skulking home from Trojan ruins, cursed by the gods and forsaken by our kin. Our triumph is flame-edged, reborn from the ashes; the world speaks of it with reverence already. There is something so lyrical about the victory of the meek and downtrodden, as a too-wise Nazarene knew, though I will make a point of not permitting it to happen again.
Ah, but I am scheming once more. Not the time, I think.
I rise from my desk, letting papers drift aside like snow, and wander away. The dawn begins to smear the horizon with bloody fingers, and I wish to watch, like the Egyptians of old. It may be simple, superstitious even, falling upon one's knees to mark daybreak, but I understand the impetus. After glancing over my shoulder to see death's dogging footfalls for the better part of a hundred years, something simple as surviving to view the day's beginning seems delightful.
In my mind's eye, I imagine my entire coven scowling at such opulent sentiment, and even that thought is glossed by joy.
I find my way onto the narrow terrace that flanks my chambers, taking care to remain in the blue darkness pooling at the palazzo's walls. Before me, the rusty roofs and tangling building of Volterra curl, tossed in rambling designs. Beyond that is sky and stone, wealth hewn from rock, and knowledge stolen from all corners of the world.
And it is mine now, for the taking, forging and destroying.
Unbidden, Sulpicia appears behind me, resting her little chin on my shoulder as she raises herself on tiptoe and gazes into the middle distance. I cannot read her features, and she cleverly keeps herself from my bare touch.
She is a lovely creature, my wife: a siren, a muse, a metaphor. A man in love must be such dull company. I make no apologies.
"Sulpicia," I purr, caressing the arched cadences of her name with my tongue, as I would her body. "Come here and look," I beg, gesturing to the glorious dawn staining the skyline and creeping catlike into carelessly opened windows. It seems endlessly fitting, a canto from an ancient epic, to mark the blissful beginning of a new age by watching the red-rimmed, reborn sun.
"You are far too old to be enamoured of something so mundane, dear heart," she says, evading my arms, a defiant Daphne to my ardent Apollo. My gaze strays to her ankles, slim and pale, peeking from beneath the hem of her haphazardly knotted robe; there is such exquisite flesh waiting beneath the smokescreen of silk and reason.
Giddy glee spurs me forward and I tangle myself around her, her mind quickening beneath my fingertips. The thoughts I see, a no man's land, remain delightfully unpained by the carnage and ash of the century behind us. Such ferocity, supreme resilience forged and tried, is both rare and lovely
"And yet, sweet Sulpicia, you cannot pretend to not want me, foolishness and all," I grin, confident that my deity of a wife is utterly seduced by supremacy.
"Mm," she breathes, deliberating. "Perhaps." Her eyes are glossy obsidian as she tilts her head onto my chest, becoming a precious, perfect doll in the space of a gesture. It would be simple of me to accuse my Sulpicia of sentimentality, the need for touch and tenderness, but perhaps a simulacrum of softness taints even her snow-strewn skin and colder mind.
I capture her fingers between my own then, pressing a reverent mouth to the frail little bird-bones. Each breathy caress stains my vision with shades of soot and writhing, wrenched bodies, though her memory offers no condemnation.
Such an exquisite aberration I hold in my arms, and I can be no prouder.
"Tell me, why is the master of the known world barefoot and tousled on his terrace? It's so very ordinary," she says, her smirk imperious as she shatters my reverie asunder. Roman birth lends her an impossible propriety that amuses and astounds in equal parts.
"Like the emperors of old, I need reminding that I am fallible." Oh, I am lying of course, but rhetoric must be practised before it can sway the masses.
"Not today," she decides, discarding my deception like unneeded advice. "Besides, I believe that's my responsibility."
"Keeping me in my place? I'd have it no other way." That moment is unguarded, raw-winged as a newly hatched bird, but I owe Sulpicia my veneration after tugging her across the fallen Empire and asking her to witness the cataclysm of battle as only Caius could craft it.
"Where do we go now, my dear?" I murmur into the curling crown of her hair. The sun has flooded the horizon with old copper; the world does not seem so enchanted now, but barbed, bladelike.
I would not call myself afraid. A darker shade of uncertain is a better description.
"Certainly not back to bed, husband," she laughs. My hands have wandered, it seems, to the delicate bows of her hips, the apple-sweet arches of her breasts concealed beneath washed silk.
I permit myself a moment of sulking, if only to see her smile and murmur something wifely and soothing, her lips like moths upon my throat.
"There are speeches to be given, alliances to be negotiated and fallen comrades to be honoured. Surely you cannot tire of being a tyrant so quickly," she says instead, and I cannot help but laugh. Thank the merciful gods that I have secured myself a position, however tenuous, in Sulpicia's good graces; else I'd have the sort of enemy who is desired and never defeated.
"And if I did, it seems that my loving wife would be the first to claim the title," I tell her, grazing her polished cheekbone with my mouth.
"I don't deny it."
Sulpicia's skill, I find, is to over-emphasize her beauty, inviting her watchers to drown themselves in her grace and forget what sort of animus waits behind those shadow-edged eyes. Time has taught me that she is too useful a councillor to be overlooked, cooler than Caius, sharper than Marcus.
"How shall I address those who fought for us, my dear? Recall your illustrious Roman childhood and tell me what your generals did," I say, half-teasing.
"This triumph of yours is only for the senate and people of Rome," she muses. "Or Volterra, in this case. You are merely a humble man, pleased to be of service. Try to repeat that without smirking."
"Next you'll have me say that I wish to step down from leadership and devote myself to a life of scholarly contemplation," I huff. Modesty is a dreadfully unappealing prospect.
Sulpicia pushes me with palms spread like wings, towards our damask-lined chambers and the flint of rule woven into blackness.
[-]
The tower room, the chamber with the chairs, needs a grander name, for our seats are now thrones, symbols of carved and gilded supremacy. Perhaps I will keep the heart of our home austere, some sort of reminder that I am interested in justice, not might. How strange that such a lofty ideal can be conveyed with sparse furnishing. My kind thrives on imagery as much as the merest mortals, I am delighted to confess.
There is something marvellous about cowled robes. My idea, of course, but no matter.
The fabric reduces everyone to a mere colour, a slash of black or ash or slate, taking away such petty things as history and temperament, leaving only strength, a perfect, dignified display of unity. Before me, there are at least thirty shadowed figures, the frayed survivors of an immortal war. Half of them already call me master in their hearts, and the rest...
Perhaps I can win them over.
"My dear ones," I murmur, as I stand, keeping my voice low and feathery. They, after all, should strain to hear my words, triumphant though they are.
"On this day, I cannot call you my friends. After we have fought, suffered and witnessed death side by side, I must insist that we are kin, bound by blood and oaths."
To my left, unobtrusive and plain, my guard tightens bonds as an archer would his bow, her brow ridged in thought. I must thank her for her timing, if nothing else; it, as much as my words, sparks embers in the listeners' eyes. They draw closer, eager as children hearing a fable.
"We stand at a precipice today," I continue, letting darkness pad around the edges of my voice. "Our enemies are humbled, but not defeated. Our laws are known, but not upheld. The mortal world struggles in ignorance, and we will meet the same fate if we are not watchful."
Fear, exquisite, emaciated fright, enters the eyes of a few in the assembly. Oh, I do not wish to terrify them into compliance, for I am not so unschooled in the art of guile, but this doubt is precious. It opens the mind to such ludicrous ideas.
"When you depart from here, calling no-one your master, I ask only this: keep our kind secret. I do not make this request as a king, but merely a man who longs for peace."
I am rather proud of myself. The obedient rabble will fill the continent with those loyal to my brothers and me, while dissenters can be dismissed as uncaring, cruel, fit only for Caius' justice.
I open my arms then, in a ghostly embrace and a martyred prostration.
"Stay in Volterra, my dear ones, as long as you wish. Else, leave with our fond wishes and the certainty that the world lies open before you."
There are cheers, of course, because that is the necessary conclusion to dramatic oration. I do not much care for the mood of the mob, a fickle creature at best, but such sentiment can be harnessed when one has certain assets at his disposal. Unobtrusively, I brush a palm over Marcus' knuckles, and watch bonds like silken strands weaving themselves into a tapestry with me at its centre, a beautiful thing, impossible to destroy.
"Perfect," I sigh, my triumph hidden behind steepled fingertips.
[-]
The night unfurls upon leathery wings, punctuated by the shimmering pinpricks of stars and bonfires. Clumsy human voices vaulted in song climb through the narrow windows of the tower chamber, and I smile, throwing my gaze into trembling torchlight. It is St. Marcus' Day, after all, and celebrations are necessary, though the city is half-empty, the sanctuary of ghosts and memories rather than eager-hearted mortals. My followers have been shepherded outside of the city walls by Demetri and Felix, I hope; little Volterra should not have its people slaughtered as immortals rejoice.
My brothers have disappeared too quickly, and I marvel at their trepidation. Their minds are near-synchronous with worry, an utter rarity among cautious Marcus and uncaring Caius. The future troubles them, it seems, an unfamiliar terrain hissing with the horror that only fevered imaginations can concoct.
They'll come around, I suppose, but it may be better if they do not.
I will admit that I have no liking for sharing power, but I do not wish to have blood on my hands or accusations of heartlessness hurled at me either. My dark-haired brother is tragedy cast in the shape of a man; his tale only buys us sympathy. A grieving family, haunted by melancholy is such an endearing notion, after all. We should, perhaps, concoct an equally heart-rending history for Caius, to excuse his particular brand of madness.
"Plotting all alone in the dark, my dear?
As always, Sulpicia finds me before I descend into brooding, and I thank her for it, longing to twine my fingers through the spilled sunlight of her hair.
"There is much to think about, love. And it seems that nobody else is willing to aid me," I say, letting a touch of hurt enter my voice. Being exceptional is a burden, and I am certain that she would agree.
"Already, you cloister yourself away. I know that madness and power walk hand in hand, but I would expect your descent to take a little longer than a day," she says, offering me her hands. Whether she aims to pull me away or show me her mind, I cannot say, for I rise and half-lift her in an embrace.
"Stay with me tonight?" I offer, imagining the blackness turning warm with candle-wax and the scent of her skin.
"Oh, so you are not putting me aside now that you've won your empire. I'm terribly flattered," she says, her voice side-stitched with glee as we leave the room of torches and thrones, retreating into the laughing night.
[-]
The time passes too quickly then, marked by touch and scheming of the sort that only happens between lovers in the dark. When the barest shade of turtledove dawn touches the horizon, I raise my head from its customary place, cushioned upon Sulpicia's hair and skin.
"This will go splendidly," I tell her, referring to the next war, our rule, the coming millennia, or perhaps something far more grandiose.
"Hubris," she sighs under her breath, burying her face in a pillow. "Spare me your Elysian visions, husband."
"I will delight in proving you wrong."
(MORE AUTHOR'S NOTES, in case the first few were too short for your liking): Please let me know what you thought of this chapter.
I have not planned out the entire series of one-shots just yet, which means that you can also feel free to suggest characters to write about, and what their favourite and/or happiest moments would be. I'd be interested in hearing perspectives that aren't my own because, as this story suggests, you all have very cool ideas.