Hi everyone,
I'm thrilled to share a fanfiction story that's been growing in my mind for a while now—like a little seed that's finally sprouting!
In my research on Volterra, I stumbled upon the ancient Etruscan civilization that existed centuries before Aro's time. Their mythology and philosophical ideas are absolutely fascinating (I highly recommend you look them up if you're into history!). So, I've woven some of their ideas into this story :)
Just a quick note: I'm eager to improve and bring my ideas to life as smoothly as possible. Your feedback—both positive and negative—is greatly appreciated!
Thank you for joining me on this journey—I hope you enjoy it!
Souls of Perdition
Prologue: Veil
The air beneath the Etruscan tombs clung heavy with damp and decay. Every breath tasted of rot, the stench of ancient earth and long-dead souls gathering like a film on their tongues. Shadows slithered along the walls, crawling into the cracks of the ancient stone, following them deeper into the catacombs.
Aro's marble fingers trailed over the rough-hewn walls, brushing against the ancient symbols carved into the stone. As his fingertips traced the worn grooves, he felt them hum beneath his skin—whispers aching to be heard.
Behind him, Didyme's presence radiated. The air around her was softer, more breathable—almost intoxicating against the oppressive gloom. She glanced over her shoulder at the yawning darkness behind them.
Aro's voice cut through the silence, soft but deliberate. "Sister, we stand upon the threshold of a mystery even the ancients feared to speak of," he murmured, his voice reverberating off the damp stone. "This place... it was whispered of when we were still mortal. The old men would tell us not to venture near these hills, lest the spirits of the damned drag us beneath the earth."
"And yet, brother, it was not fear that led you here today," she whispered, her voice tinged with a blend of curiosity and concern.. "Tell me true, Aro—what compels you to seek out such darkness? I know your ambitions, but this place…" She drew in a breath, her lips tightening in distaste. "It reeks of death."
"This is no simple tomb, Didyme." Aro pressed his finger into the grooves of the symbols carved on the wall, the dust clinging to his marble skin. "The Etruscans believed this to be a gate—a passage to realms created by the gods. It is a place where traitors and murderers find neither rest nor salvation." He paused, his fingers pressing into the stone, as though trying to absorb its secrets. "Not even immortality can protect us here."
Didyme gazed around at the impending ceiling, at the moss hanging limply like dead bats. "The gods themselves have turned their eyes from this place," she murmured. Her aura dimmed slightly, the faint glow around her flickering like a candle in the wind. She took a step closer to Aro, her fingers brushing against his cold arm. "You speak of godhood, brother, but we are not gods. Your gift shows you every thought, every secret; my aura can bend the sorrows of the living. What could the dead offer that we have not already surpassed?"
"The abyss does not judge like men, Didyme," Aro replied, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. "It senses the truth beneath the surface—what even we may hide from ourselves. But…" He turned back to her, his expression sharper now, focused. "Your gift, Didyme, your ability to bring joy even to the hopeless… that is what will unlock its power. You were born to bring joy to the world, but here—here, you may bring dominion."
Didyme's eyes flickered with disbelief. "Dominion?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "You believe that my gift, can bend this abyss to your will—to command death itself?"
Aro turned to face the abyss, his gaze fixed on the black water. "Not just death," he whispered. "All of it—life, death, joy, despair. We can bend it all to our will. Not as conquerors, but creators. Together, will ascend."
Didyme's posture faltered slightly, her fingers curling into the fabric of her cloak. Her gaze moved from Aro to the gaping void ahead of them. "Aro, you are playing with forces beyond our understanding. I have no desire to command the abyss, nor shall I let it command you." She grasped his arm tighter, her nails scratching across his skin like stones over granite. "And what of your soul? Or have you forgotten you had one? If this place is as you say, then it will judge us both. The souls of the dead may rise to meet us here, and they will not care for your grand designs."
Aro's voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes fixed on the cavern before them. "I was never one to heed warnings, Didyme. This is no myth, no fable from frightened men."
She gazed into his crimson eyes, glowing like blood moons rising through mist. They pulsed with certainty, powerful and ambitious. Her brother had worn them throughout their decades of power, and it settled the trust blooming within her. She argued no more as he led her further into the abyss.
They reached the heart of the tomb, where the stone floor opened into a huge cavern. It was as if a giant had gouged through the stone, creating a chasm that seemed to devour light. Stalactites hung from the ceiling like the teeth of some great beast. Their jagged tips glinted in the hollow light, dripping slick, dark moisture; each drop echoed like a mournful dirge. Stalagmites rose from the cavern floor, twisted and grotesque; their strain reflected the stench of agony in the air. Enveloped into the stone ground lay a pool of water, black as oil. It heaved so thick that no light could penetrate its surface.
Aro took another step forward, closer to the abyss, his ambition burning through his desiccated veins. But he ventured too close, and the stone began to crumble beneath their feet. Aro pulled Didyme against the cavern wall as bits of stone fell into the black waters, so viscous that its surface remained still—as if forming a wave would be too cumbersome.
Aro straightened as his eyes peered through the cavern. His gaze landed on a narrow path nestled into the cavern's wall, trailing down towards the water. It was treacherous and slick with moisture, the edge facing the abyss naked and crumbling. His eyes gleamed with feverish intensity as he stared into the black void.
The faint hum of the abyss grew louder as they descended the stairs. It resonated through the cavern like a distant, mournful wail. The path beneath them wound deeper, more treacherous, the stone withered with age and neglect. The black water stretched before them like a waiting predator, rippling faintly in anticipation; a fox creeping through the vineyard.
Eventually, they reached the bottom.
Aro stood at the precipice, his eyes locked on the pulsing vein. Didyme's aura flickered more violently now, as though the abyss itself was testing her, tasting her fear.
"Can you feel it?" Aro asked.
She took a step back, her aura dimming further as the weight of the abyss pressed down on her. "Yes. But it is not power, Aro," she whispered. "It is emptiness."
The abyss stirred beneath them, the black water rippling as if something deep below was awakening.
Pale shapes began to rise from the depths, indistinct at first, mere shadows bleeding through the surface. But as they neared, they sharpened—gaunt human forms, hollow and grotesque. Their skin hung like wet parchment over their bones, sagging into the dark crevices of their faces. Empty, white eyes locked onto Aro, unblinking and hungry.
Their skeletal fingers stretching toward him with cold, unrelenting hunger.
The air thickened, growing suffocating with the weight of their suffering, pressing in on Aro's skin. His steps faltered, the ground crumbling beneath him as the souls surged forward. Their skeletal fingers reached for him, grasping for the bitter greed pulsing through his veins. Their bony hands wrapped around his legs, pulling him closer to the edge.
The souls did not speak, but their thoughts bled into his mind, filling it with the poison of their suffering. They showed him images—flashes of their deaths—his red eyes boring into them, draining the life from their veins as they died in agony. His power had been their ruin. His ambition, their death sentence.
Didyme moved closer, her eyes wide. The air around her shimmered faintly, her aura flaring in response, bright and pure. She reached out for him, her fingers brushing against his waist as her gift surged. The warmth of her happiness radiated, and the souls recoiled, flinching from the light. Her happiness, so foreign in this place of shadows, drove them back.
But when Didyme looked into Aro's eyes, her breath caught.
His eyes—once so calculating and assured—were wide with fear. The terror that radiated from her strong, powerful brother shook her to her core. She had never seen him afraid. And in that moment, doubt crept into her heart.
Her light flickered, faltering under the pressure. And the souls, sensing the shift, fixed their hollow eyes on her like moths to a flame.
Their skeletal hands reachws past Aro. They crawled toward Didyme, no longer repelled by the light but drawn to the cracks that had begun to form within her.
Aro's chest tightened as he heard their thoughts. The abyss feeding on her fear, her doubt.
His chest tightened, heavy as he began to understand his mistake. The abyss judged not to destroy, but to feed—to consume the weakest part of the soul. He could hear their hunger for her soul—sweeter than any vengeance, brighter than his own bitterness.
And if he stayed, it would take them both. But if she fell, the abyss would claim her, leaving him untouched.
The decision settled within him, cold and absolute.
In a swift motion, Aro flung himself backward, toward the safety of the ledge—and at the same time, he pushed Didyme toward the abyss.
Her eyes widened in shock, her fingers slipping from his grasp as she stumbled. The souls scrambled towards her with urgent necessity, the water hissing and snapping around her. It pulled her down into its depths, the aura of bliss that had once made her adored now twisted into a scream of betrayal.
"Aro!" Her voice echoed through the cavern, and her aura flared one last time, but it was no longer bright with joy—it was tainted, darkened by the fear that had taken root in her heart.
Aro's crimson eyes widened as he watched her sink into the abyss, her light extinguished in one final, pitiful flicker. The darkness swallowed her whole, leaving only a faint ripple to disturb the surface of the water.
The abyss quieted, leaving only silence in its wake.
Aro stood at the edge of the chasm. His hands, still outstretched, trembled faintly. The weight of his betrayal was heavy on his fingertips as he stared at the water's surface, where his sister had vanished, the silence suffocated him.
He had thought himself invincible. But even gods could fall.
And with her light extinguished, he would stand alone.
The black water reflected nothing but the oppressive darkness around him. But in his mind, Didyme's final, shocked expression seared through his calcified heart. A cold sensation crawled up his spine, as if the fingers of the abyss still clutched at him, even though it was her it had claimed.
In the silence that followed, Aro's heart, long hardened by ambition, felt the faintest stirrings of something unfamiliar—guilt.
A low, guttural sound rumbled through the chasm, as if the very stones were alive, breathing. The surface of the water rippled once more, pale shapes rising beneath it, the same hollow eyes turning toward him, accusing, condemning.
His feet moved before his mind could process. Aro turned, his cloak billowing around him as he sprinted toward the tunnel. The tomb's passageways twisted and turned, each step deeper into the network of Etruscan burial chambers. He could still hear the abyss behind him, that low, sickening hum growing louder, reverberating through the stone. The sound crawled up his spine, its weight crushing, inescapable.
The shadows stretched, twisting and writhing, like fingers curling toward him—as if trying to throw him back into the abyss.
But Aro's thoughts were sharp, his survival instincts honed by centuries of manipulation and deception. He would not fall to this place. Not like Didyme.
Aro's crimson eyes narrowed, and the cold began to settle once more into his heart. Didyme's death would haunt him, yes, but it would also serve him. He would weave her tragic end into a story of so devastating, so deeply rooted in sorrow, that no one—not even Marcus—would dare to question its authenticity. He would mourn her as deeply as he had ever mourned anything, with such precision that no one would dare question his grief.
And then, as he forced his feet to move faster, the feeling shifted—relief, morbid and bitter, washed over him. With her light extinguished, Marcus' precarious affections would be snuffed out as well. No more whispered rebellions, no more quiet defiance. Only his command remained.
By the time Aro reached the fortress of Volterra, his pace had slowed. He entered the grand stone hall with a purposeful stride, his cloak trailing behind him in shadowy folds. The guards barely glanced at him, though some murmured about his disheveled state. But inside, Aro's movements were deliberate, his hands trembling only slightly as he entered the ancient archives.
He pulled scrolls and tablets from their shelves and threw them into the hearth. Flames licked at the edges of ancient parchment, curling the words into ash. Aro watched as centuries of knowledge were consumed; no evidence of the Etruscan Veins remained but the faint scent of burning ink and the hollow emptiness of the vault.
With shaking legs, Aro moved toward the bookshelves. Grasping at the dark tendrils of lore, he searched feverishly, flipping through brittle pages. Somewhere, in the sea of dust and fading ink, there had to be a name—a creature, a forgotten force—something capable of sealing what even he could not. The discarded volumes thudded behind him like a dying heartbeat.
He needed to seal the tomb so deeply, so perfectly, that no one—not even the most desperate—could stumble upon its cursed depths. The abyss would remain hidden, forgotten, unless one sought it with a soul so shattered that oblivion felt like a gift.