.:homecoming:.

Their homecoming is a subdued affair, marred by a waiting hush, as an unseen weight shifts its shadow upon them. The battle's brevity and its brutality make an impression, indelible scratches in stone; the guard looks at its masters with caution now.

Mercurial word spreads, from the eastern steppes to the northern taiga, about a coven risen from Rome's ashes, cloaked gods who forge the law. The rumours speak of loveliness hedged by perfect madness, of immortals who play games of their own devising, using lives as pieces.

Eventually, a name is given to them, a bastardized title cobbled together in a dozen tongues: the Volturi. It invokes the patience of death, coming with the sweep of dark wings on a pewter horizon, not cruel but viciously, terribly unfeeling.

Aro smiles. The title, he believes, suits his dear ones rather well.

-

We are changed, Sulpicia thinks, then wonders what has bidden this unfamiliar, staining observation into the gleaming precision of her mind. Time carries only sentimental significance, and she is quite certain that her companions ignore its bindings.

The passing of days proves her incorrect, bringing to light small deficiencies. The first absence she marks is the disappearance of Caius' laughter, the odd gallows humour that is as customary as his barbed temper. Her white-haired brother loses the softness at the edges, not gradually, but in a moment, as thought it has been snuffed out, a candle overturned. Sometimes, Sulpicia sees him with his arms tangled around Athenodora, holding her so tightly that handprints would mark her spine if she were mortal. Desperation, Sulpicia thinks, and does not understand.

She does not know how to detail Marcus, even within her own thoughts. In the eyes of the mind, she sees him as a wraith, though she cannot fathom the bonds that keep him anchored to the red rock of Volterra.

Aro—she smiles when she thinks his name, an exquisite, treacherous grin. He is blindly joyous, pleased with his new empire, a glowing, gleaming plaything stretched before him to rule and watch and explore. No specters haunt him in the daylight hours, and he is untouched by the chilly menace of fear.

Perhaps stirring of wariness trouble her at times, when her mate chooses to spend nights in his study among his books and curiosities. It strikes Sulpicia in a bitter moment that the known world could, during its better days, fascinate Aro more than she does. The ruffled lace of her vanity does not like this thought, but unpleasant ruminations have become a recent habit.


Author's Note: I apologize for my lack of updates. There are frightening things such as midterms in my immediate future, and they have a way of consuming my time.

As always, an enormous thank-you to everyone who reviewed. Comments are always appreciated.