#Does an aro person have a kill count for simply existing?

[artemx746]

Can somebody write a soulmate or hanahaki au where the concept isn't extremly amatonormative?

Thanks

[volterran-wine]

𝐕𝐨𝐥𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏 - 𝗗𝗮𝘆 𝟏𝟒: The Nutcracker — Aro, Sulpicia, Jane & Alec

Summary: It is December, and Aro with the closest of his family indulge in their favourite tradition during the holiday season. There is nothing more he loves than the theatre, so sharing precious memories with the people he holds dear? Remarkable. Aro reflects on his relationships and counts his blessings.

Wordcount: 860 words

Authors Note: Yes, I have resumed some of the work dedicated to the calendar. I am with my family and faring better, I will however not push myself to have all remaining posts be published right on time.

𝐄𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐲, 𝐞𝐧𝐣𝐨𝐲

Roma, 2004 AD

It had become somewhat of a tradition. Not one they carried out every year, nothing ever felt annually when one lived as long as they did, but it happened frequently enough to be considered one of Aro's traditions. One he always looked forward to when they made plans for December.

He had adored the theatre all the years he had walked this earth, revelling in the way it could transport him into another world for just a couple of hours. It eased his mind, and let his soul wander to different planes of existence. Thankfully he had managed to bestow the same love on to his wife and children. Aro would have gladly went alone if they were against it, but would have felt a different kind of loneliness settle into him if they were not with him.

They always had the most private of booths, making sure he could enjoy an evening out with his family in peace. Wherever him and Sulpicia went stares would always follow, they were a ridiculously good looking couple after all; he did not fault mortals and immortals alike for their jealousy. And his children, his wonderful and perfect Jane and Alec did attract their own special kind of attention as well. It was not uncommon for a brave soul to compliment them on how well behaved they were, if only the humans knew the twins had outlived them by centuries at this point. Of course they also had other guards with them, tucked away in dark corners to make sure they were protected if something were to happen. Personally, Aro did not think any vampire could be that foolish.

The quartet had made themselves comfortable in the booth, Aro and Sulpicia sharing a smaller sofa; Jane and Alec sitting at either side of them. It did not take long before the girl besides him turned in her seat, looking up at him with those doe eyes he had trouble saying no to. With a dramatic sigh did he gesture for her to speak, her face lighting up in a mischievous grin. "Could we please stand by the bannister?"

Alec turned in his own seat, mirroring his sisters expression as best as he could towards Sulpicia. "It would be easier for us to see, we are so high up... " His wife could not hold back an amused snort at the boys words, as if they were not able to perfectly see every minuscule thing that happened in the theatre with their advanced senses. Aro let out a laugh of his own, lighter than it usually was before raising a hand to lovingly caress Jane's cheek.

"Fine, but do not fall off, you will draw attention to yourselves; and kill the poor humans below us." Their conversation was of course spoken in hushed tones so humans around them would be none the wiser. They would simply observe a father looking sternly at his two beautiful children, urging them to behave for one evening.

He peppered the sweet girls face with kisses, cradling it lovingly as her bell like laugh filled his ears; he was truly blessed. Aro leaned back, giving Alec a look before dragging him into a hug; planting kisses against his temple before letting him scurry off towards the banister with his sister. He watched the two of them as they practically hung off the edge, startling an older couple seated in the booth besides them.

A part of him wanted to reprimand them, but he also enjoyed seeing them so carefree; childlike as they should have been. Aro had strived to give them as good of a life as he could, but it was not always easy; their gifts were tremendous and keeping them from the guard would have been impossible. Sometimes he let his fantasies flourish, wondering what it would have been like watching the twins grow up; happy and content. He would have introduced them to vampirism one day of course, but it could have been a far more gentle moment. Not one plagued by searing fire and screams filling the night.

A hand placed itself over his, startling him out of his own thoughts that had begun to spiral; Sulpicia’s emotions filled him with warmth instead. She had moved his glove down slightly, one perfectly manicured finger rested against his skin as she looked deep into his eyes. Aro did not know what he would have done without his wife, she truly was his saving grace. The last hundred years had been difficult, and though his thoughts and emotions would stray from time to time; she was always there to ground him. Her love was truly precious, something he shared with no other; and probably never would.

"Did my darling wife desire kisses as well?" Aro spoke in a sugary sweet tone, grasping her hands and kissing the knuckles gently as he gazed lovingly at her, in return Sulpicia leaned closer; so their foreheads rested together. In front of them Jane and Alec shared a look, mock disgust passing over their faces before turning back to the stage; eagerly awaiting for the performance to begin.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐱𝐭 Aro & Family: I one hundred percent believe that Aro is a family man deep down, and that having children is something he has wanted. It is impossible for me not to view him, Sulpicia, Jane and Alec as this perfect little monster family.

𝐈𝐧 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠: Family content centred around Christmas does something to me.

[theoriginalcarnivorousmuffin]

I love Painting Red Madonnas! I also love Aro, and while Aro is admittedly...A Lot, it does make me sad that Marcus and Caius are generally depicted (not just in your fic, even Bella suggests it in New Moon) as being all, "Ugh" whenever he talks. Has the man had any fulfilling conversations with anybody since Carlisle left? Obviously Marcus would be uninterested, but Caius? What do you think? (This is now a general question about how you envision the relationship among the leaders, oops)

First off, I’m glad you like my story so much!

Second, this is actually a lot to unpack.

I guess we’ll start on how I see their relationship in general and then move on to why Caius and Marcus both just “ugh” whenever Aro gets going.

I actually think the three Volturi leaders have a very deep bond. First, I think people make Chelsea out to be far more powerful than she actually is. Rather than go into too many details, check out this post. Chelsea is very useful, but more in the sense of changing your priorities slightly or else making someone seem more tolerable or more aggravating. She can’t make something from nothing nor can she render something into nothing.

So, these are three guys who have done this never ending, frankly kind of ridiculous and a little thankless, job for thousands of years that a lot of people just don’t get. (I’d get into why I think the Volturi law is vital for human society stability in Twilight, and that I believe the Volturi are doing this not only for vampires but mostly for mankind, but that’s a post on its own). To stick with it that long requires not just Chelsea, and not simply a shared very strong ideal that never wavers or dims, but a very close sense of friendship, trust, and fraternity.

More, these guys came together with no common bonds, separated from each other by hundreds of years, and well came up with this.

My point being, all three of them I imagine, are very close. They call each other brother, Marcus actually married Aro’s beloved sister, the only thing he took with him from his human life, and here they are three thousand years later. Even Marcus who, albeit with the help of Chelsea, had felt anything less for Aro would undoubtedly killed himself by now.

That said, at this point they’re a bit more like family than I’d say friends. Family, barring grave circumstances, you know entirely too well and you’re stuck with them through thick and thin. They know the best of you and they know the worst of you and you can count on them still being there the next day. This means you know all their annoying habits, quirks, and more and you can’t leave.

Caius is a barbarian king who has no patience for subtlety or gray areas. Someone breaks the law ergo you murder the shit out of them. Done. Let’s go eat dinner. (I imagine Aro despairs of him).

Marcus I imagined, before the death of Didyme, was the voice of mercy in the group. (I could get into why I think this but it’s very headcanony and has to do with a) marrying Didyme b) what little we do see of him in canon c) the fact that Aro has to play the weird role of middle cop/good cop to Caius’ bad cop which makes it likely there was an original, missing, good cop voice). He would be the one advocating for understanding the circumstances of criminals, considering mercy, etc. (which is a very necessary voice to have as much as Caius’ voice is needed). This, I imagine, would have irritated Caius to no end and probably frustrated Aro at times as well. 

Then, of course, Didyme died, Marcus became depressed and barely functional and now Caius and Aro just have no idea what to do with him except that hope that one day he might snap out of it. He never does.

They all have their quirks, just like the rest of us, and things that probably irritate the hell out of the other two.

Which brings us back to Aro.

Aro is, as you mention, a lot.

My god, the man has so much energy. We see very little of him in canon but his enthusiasm and energizer bunny nature practically hops out of the page. Not only that, but his moods sometimes change so fast it’ll give you emotional whiplash. Even if you really really really like Aro, that’s a lot to handle for even a few hours.

Now try handling that for a thousand years. 

Now, try not just handling that, but Aro, with that same enthusiasm, rambling nonsense about Carlisle Cullen for centuries. Bringing up Carlisle Cullen is like accidentally mentioning someone’s beloved dog. Sure, the dog is great, the pictures are cute, but suddenly you’re listening to someone spending hours talking about their goddamn dog. You may like this person, love this person, but how much of this can you take? 

And remember, he likely does talk this much about Carlisle. First, he brings up Carlisle like twenty times when Edward and company are in Volterra. Second, Jane drops a hint that she’s been hearing about Carlisle nearly non-stop for the past few hundred years and was convinced Aro had to be exaggerating. Because this guy can’t actually exist.

And not just that, but I always imagine that conversations with Aro are a bit like talking with Abe Simpson. He gets on these rambling, nonsensical, boring tangents (half of which are about Carlisle Cullen). Aro can be your greatest friend in the whole, wide, world and I am hard pressed to believe you could willingly sit through thousands of years of that without some measure of “Ugh” coming through.

That said, I think Carlisle did sit through Aro’s rambling nonsense and actively enjoyed it. Carlisle in canon gave none of the “ugh” indication that Marcus and Caius gave off. And that’s why Carlisle is Aro’s best friend and part of the reason Aro’s head over heels. 

[goldeneyedgirl]

JALICEWEEK20 DAY 6

The Way of Things

JaliceWeek20 Day 6: Reincarnation

Notes: I... don’t know. It just sort of happened? This wrote itself. There were a few more lifetimes I thought about including (there was a Jessamine and Alice ‘life’ that I really wanted to include but it’ll be a standalone fic once I’ve done a bunch of research) but I think I’m happy with it? 

This was absolutely inspired by a gorgeous Thor fic I read a few years ago based in Norse mythology and the creation of Yggdrasil; if I can find it, I will absolutely link it because it was an incredible piece of writing. 

Also go me! I’m kind of getting a hang of writing sex adjacent scenes! I remember not being able to look directly at my cursor when I implied a blow job in Shadow to Light, I’m oddly proud!

Now, just the second part to Against a Wall. 

Word Count: 4,322

NSFW - not graphic but yeah. 

--

Soulmates are funny things. They do not start out existence together; they must find each other - it might take one life time, it might take ten. It is important they undergo this struggle; some souls are not meant for regeneration - they shine and burn out within a lifetime or two. But others get stronger, more powerful, during those early searching years.

And one they find one another, they are forever more entangled. The oldest and strongest eventually fuse, unable to be separated in life or death.

Of course, eventually they burn out. But not in a tragic way; more like in a way that is last page of a very good book; the wilting of a final flower in autumn; the way snow melts in early spring, with sense of peace and satisfaction, and utter tranquility. And as they dissolve into starlight and dust, they begin the cycle anew. It is neither good nor bad or anything in between.

It is simply the way of things.

—

When they meet the first time they are vampires in Dacia - the land that will become Romania. It is an era of indulgence for vampires in that region, and if any records had been kept, it would have declared nearly dangerous levels of changes.

She is Alis, a peasant girl changed by a careless vampire who fed and left her in a ditch. She’s a gentle beauty, with long dark hair, sharp and cunning eyes, and even after the change, her skin maintains a slightly golden tint of someone who spent their life in the sun.

He is Jesper, who mentions nothing of where he came from or what he was before he arrived to hover at the fringes of the Romanian court. He has a reputation in the court, with the ladies and the men both, and Alis is entirely aware and slightly amused by that. She catches his eye more than once, but is illusive like a quicksilver, unbent and unbowed.

Until she isn’t.

It’s been a good hunt, blood soaked through their clothes to their skin that they lick off each other in their frenzy, and she learns exactly how he developed such a reputation. He learns exactly what he was looking for as he finds himself skin to skin with the spirited girl that has always seen him coming before he could catch her. But he has her now, and he’s not letting go.

She doesn’t seem to mind. They become a common sight, as a pair, their hands constantly entangled. They are not at court to curry favour or power or anything more than their next meal, but their relationship is magnetic, and more than one jealous or yearning gaze falls upon them as he presses hot kisses to her neck as he ties a choker of sapphires or diamonds around her pale throat.

The Volturi attack a century or so later, and they stand with the Romanians, their leaders and their friends. He remembers thinking they cannot possibly fail; they are the side of the kings, of the angels. He remembers admiring her as they lined up; the way she had pinned her hair with the silver clasp he’d given her, the way her dress fit her and the smirk on her lips that promised something to look forward to in their personal victory celebrations.

They don’t survive. In the chaos of the battle, it is hard to say how they each fell - the Volturi take no prisoners anyway, so a quick death in battle is preferable to an execution. But they fall and they are burnt, and their ashes mingle in the purple-grey smoke that fills the field.

When Lord Aro finds a silver hair clasp discarded on the battlefield, still clinging to a clump of dark hair, he pockets it and later presents it to Sulpicia, polished to shine and on a bed of velvet. It is a curious and beautiful piece, the shape of a raven’s wing, and it quickly joins the Volturi’s treasury without a single thought given to its origins.

—

In whatever counts as the afterlife for souls and spirits, they reunite. It will take more than one life to work out their powers, the boundaries, of this resting place - how to shape it to their preferences, how to give themselves form. For now, it is just a long horizon of contrasting light, and they are little more than sentient energy, mingling and expressing regret and pain at the demise of the other, of relief of being reunited, of contentedness being once again with the other.

Time is not something that exists on this plane, and soon they learn how to change what is around them; a swathe of sandy beach that meets perfectly clear water, expansive grassy plains that fit between quiet, looming forests that are quiet and cool. They are no more fixed than any other aspect of this space, but it remains unexpectedly consistent.

Sometimes, there is a house. It’s immediate form never changes, but the outside facade does, as the lifetimes pass them by. Somethings a log cabin, other times an English cottage, or a farmhouse, or a bamboo hut. It is their every-changing, ever-evolving desires, a nod to their shared past and their hopes for the future. It is their reward, their sanctuary.  

They learn how to shape themselves as well. She fluctuates a little more than him, but she is always small, always naturally dark-haired, always cunning but sweet. He is always tall and always blonde and too charming for his own good, and sometimes not he is she, blonde and tall and could charm birds from the trees. It doesn’t matter either way; the small one greets them just the same, with enthusiasm and passion and sweet sadness at their demise but always joy at their return.

And that is where they are together until the next life.

—

The next life is simpler; a part of a nomadic tribe. She is married, in their customs, to him when she is little more than a child and he just barely a man. And despite how they were raised, he is kind and gentle to her and has no interest in her as a wife before she becomes a woman.

It is a hard year, a bad year, as they travel the mountains and ridges, the snow sharp against their faces. Few of the tribe have born children that year, and less still have lived through the winter; when food is so scarce, the dying are calmly let go so that the rest might survive. There is an undercurrent of resentment when he hoists his child-bride onto his back so that she might make the climb; that he, young and strong and likely to live long and hardy, gives his share of food and water to the bony waif he is bound to.

But she lives through that year, and the next. She lives enough years that they are both ready for her to become a wife, and everyone who scorned her frailness, her smallness, the waste of a strong husband on such a girl, is shocked when she conceives and carries his child so easily. First a son, then two daughters, all born close enough together that the old women of the tribe mutter.

The tribe becomes stronger, settles in one place for longer and longer periods of time - where food and water are plentiful and they are safe from predators and other threats.

She dies during her fourth pregnancy, slipping away in an ocean of blood no one could have prevented. Her eyes are wild and frightened, and he promises that he’ll watch over their children and see them safe, and weeps openly over her body and that of his second son.

He dies after his second daughter is married to a neighbouring tribe, to a boy who looks at her like she is a miracle, and he knows his job is done. The death is quiet, in the still of the night, in the shelter that he once shared with her. As he passes from the world, he remembers the nights when it was him and her amongst the furs, and then their children pressed between them, and then the  firm bulge of the child who would ultimately kill her. He holds no resentment for the cause of her death, just a faint and worn sadness, and as he drifts away, he is certain he can hear her laughing.

—

He is a soldier, to protect his family, for a cause he finds entirely repulsive. But he mouths the words and holds the gun, and does not recognise her when he is ordered to shoot. Why would he? They’ve never met. She dies in the mud, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because they end up naming him a traitor and he dies in prison heavy with regrets.

In their sanctuary, they reunite in silence, with sad eyes and gentle embraces. Whatever powers above govern creation, they still send the souls and soulmates to earth, to be swallowed up and spat back out by human machinations, human fears and flaws and greed.

It is simply the way of things.

—

She is a barefoot thief in the streets of Paris, dangerously fast, and subtle of hand. She tells no one her story, or at least, no one her truth. Ragged and smirking, people mistake her for a child, and so there is little trouble to be had - if she’s caught at all.

She runs into him, lounging in an alleyway, tricking lords and ladies out of coins wiht sleight of hand, and is delighted with their potential. She’s old enough to be charmed by sharp green eyes and a lazy grin, and young enough to contemplate the sheer levels of chaos they can cause.

They live like kings those next few years, pinching pearls and purses, watches and rubies, and living in an icy dormer room wearing stolen rings to convince others of things they’ll get around to eventually. It’s really not much - a narrow bed with wafer thin blankets and a shared pillow; water that runs cold and brown into a bucket; pigeons that nest in the rafters and shit all over their clothing.

Doesn’t seem to matter, though, when she welcomes his kiss and sleepily encourages him when he rolls on top of her during the late night hours, frost forming on the weave and weft of their clothes. When their work is good, he brings her flowers from the seller on the corner, and she tucks her pockets full of cakes for them to share, and really, neither could imagine a finer life than together in their little tower.

But time marches on, and soon they recognise that the tricks that have gotten them this far in life aren’t going to be overlooked forever. There are less nobles on the street, less coin and jewellery to be fleeced, and so they decide to leave for the country - he’s not afraid of dirty work, and she’s not afraid of anything.

The journey will be long, and she steals a book for him on their way - he’s determined to teach her to read. It’s a neat little Bible with a smart green cover with the name ‘C-a-r-l-i-s-l-e C-u-l-l-e-n’ written in neat script on the front page.

They settle in a village, where she becomes a laundress, then a seamstress, and he finds work with horses. They marry in the village parish, where the kind priest is happy to absolve them of the sin of living as man and wife before their vows, and keep their secret. They exchange stolen rings for ones of brass, from a jar the priest keeps for that purpose.

There’s a tiny two-room cottage they occupy; those early years of hunger and neglect have left their mark on them both, and so there are no children in this life. But there is an endless parade of animals that he brings home tucked under his jacket; wounded or lost or discarded, and she finds that she doesn’t so much mind waking up to a blind duck on their bed or a sickly fox on the pillow next to her, when he is always so pleased with their progress, with their improving health. He saves more than he loses, and he takes pride in that. Some are set free and returned to the wild, but others linger until they are something of a spectacle in town - the house with all the animals.

They live a long life, a good one, and it ends peacefully. They are buried side by side in the village cemetery, with wooden crosses that bare their names, and prayers muttered in their honour.

But one Carlisle Cullen never gets his Bible back.

—

The good lives give them less time together in the in-between, if such a thing could be accurately measured. They wade, knee-deep into that perfect ocean that stretches out to their infinite horizon, hand-in-hand, and then they both feel it; that fizzing, tingling feeling as whatever oversees them pulls them back; back into bodies and minds, back into lives and places, and they once again have to go through the push and pull of finding the other and crossing their fingers it’ll happen sooner rather than later.

As he becomes nothing again, he holds her smile tight in his mind with a prayer that this will be the time, this will be the life, that he’ll recognise her for who she is to him as soon as he sees her.

She hopes its a long life, a good one, with his hand in hers always.

—

He’s reborn in Texas in 1863 and dies nineteen years later, only to rise again.

She’s born in Mississippi in 1901 and dies nineteen years later, only to rise again.

They meet in 1948, and if he knew any better, he’d tease her about keeping him waiting for thirty-seven years, six months, and three weeks. But it will be a while more before they both remember things like that, so he can’t. Instead, he falls completely and utterly in love with her, in a way that echoes right back through to that very first meeting in Dacia.

He wonders if its possible to miss someone he’d never met before, when he takes her hand. She wonders if he’s going to disappear, to startle and panic about the future that lies before them and leave her behind.

He kisses her like a starving man, and she almost immediately drags him - a willing supplicant - into her bed because it doesn’t matter what life they’re living, she’s never been particularly subtle. He knows exactly what to do to make her scream indecently, and she puts her mouth to every single one of his scars, and he wishes he could weep - with relief and guilt and a million other things that are knotted up inside his head.

And she will untangle each and every single one with enough time.

They unknowingly draw from each of the lives that have come before - they are nomadic for more than two years, criss-crossing across the country. He is no less fixated on animals - as a human, it was the training of them; as a vampire, they are his salvation. Their hands are always entangled, their gazes always on the other.

This time, they find a family, and some quiet, subconscious little corner of her mind decides she likes that they aren’t alone this time. There’s a small joy in the memory of a ‘family’, and a warm feeling - one that she doesn’t know originated from a long-ago life where they were the ones welcoming new children into their heart and home, one she doesn’t quite recognise. But families are shaped so many different ways, and the Cullens are just another way to fit together, and so they stay.

It’s a good life, an untroubled life - at least until Edward gets tangled up with a human girl and the cursed Volturi. Somewhere, the great puppet master jerks the strings and decides that if history is so desperate to repeat itself, well, it might as well put on a show.

They escape the Volturi once (a flight to Italy to save an idiot brother), and twice (Renesmee shall live, Joham shall die, and Aro leaves without any new amusements and deeply, infinitely disappointed in his beloved Carlisle).

Third time’s a charm.

—

Aro’s great error shall go down in history as underestimating the damage he has done assembling his collection, the rage and resentment that boils like an undercurrent in the vampire world. He is not a beloved leader, but a feared one.

In truth, which will be lost to both time and the fact that the powers above don’t keep written or oral histories as humans comprehend them, his undoing is two things: the fact that in all things there must be balance.

And an ancient silver hair clasp shaped like a raven’s wing, that his Sulpicia wears in her hair as they arrive at the battlefield, cloaked and over-confident.

The battle is ugly and fatal and messy and all those things wars usually are, and there is no certainty in their victory, not with the wolves involved, with the shifters and the cryptids that have crawled out of every shadow and space to be done with Aro and Caius forever.

(Stefan and Vladimir are naive if they think they will fill the vacuum left behind in Aro’s wake; Jasper takes them both out quietly on the battlefield, when neither of them can call out the betrayal or identify their killer. Sometimes ugly things need to be done, and he’s not above getting his hands dirty.)

The battleground is smokey and even her supernatural eyes struggle to see through the gloam; her dead heart heavy as she looks for him. Voices call for help; for missing limbs, for injuries, for protection and she ignores each and every one.

She doesn’t know why she stops at the sight of a silver hair clasp, ancient and lost in the mud. Or why she reaches for her own hair, cut short.

Or why she picks it up and unlocks something inside her own mind. It is not an explosion of information, a supernova of memory. It is simply an intense awareness of who she is and who she was and who she will be. It is a confidence in her stride as she moves through the battlefield with a sense of self she has not known since before her home was known as ‘Romania’.

Jasper is bent and twisted, Rosalie limp on the ground, and those vicious, hideous twins hold them captive, like fish twitching on the line. Their deaths are not imminent, because who could take down the little vipers and stop their little game?

Jane’s head is off her body, and Alec’s too, before Jasper has shaken off the pain, expecting Peter or Maria or Emmett to have gotten a lucky shot and dismembered Aro’s little favourites.

Instead, it is his mud-streaked wife with a strange look in her eyes and emotions skittering over her skin like static. A battlefield is no place for a lover’s reunion, but she still bestows a kiss on his kneeling form (so ready for his own execution) that is so positively lascivious that it takes him a minute to remember himself.

And then he remembers himself.

The scales have been rebalanced, and the fight is won by a toss of a coin that finds Aro, Caius, and Marcus on their knees in the mud, waiting for their own trial. The oldest of the gathered line up - Carlisle, Amun, Maria, the Chinese coven - to pass their judgement, but the memories that press on both of them demand their pound of flesh, and Edward eyes them both uneasily.

Instead of violence, of sliding down a slope that turns them back into the monsters of old, into the truest of nightmares, Alice crouches in front of Aro with her wide dark gold eyes, and pulls the hair clasp from her pocket.

Aro’s rage is cold, at the few strands of Sulpicia’s hair that are still trapped in the metal, and if he could, he’d shred her to pieces in that moment, gift be damn. But she smiles sweetly, and strokes the etched feathers.

“Did you know?” she asks quietly, only loud enough for the fallen Volturi kings to hear, and Edward who hovers in case this spirals into a cataclysm, “When he gave me this, I mean?”

Aro stares at her, straining to touch her and understand, but his guard holds him tight and all he can do is sneer at her.

“The night before you brought your army,” Alice plucks the strawberry-blonde hairs from the fixture and tosses them into the mud. “He pinned this in my hair and we danced; we thought we’d win. And I suppose we did.”

Aro gapes at her, Caius is spitting curses, and Marcus is just pleading for his peaceful death - and how many lifetimes has he lived without Didyme, has he wanted to return to that in-between space?

She sees the scar on Esme’s face and finds it hard to care.

Edward is backing away in horror from whatever he sees in her mind, and Jasper is helping her stand, returning to their place amongst the very confused witnesses - what could the diminutive vampire say to the Lords of Volterra that would inspire such a response. The three are summarily executed without ceremony, and they are scattered over the fire without reverence.

Alice tosses the hair clasp in, too. It is better to be burnt to nothing, to be forgotten and buried by dirt and ash. It is too close to becoming a cursed object, one that will follow them, if they place too much belief and trust and hope into it. It has witnessed two downfalls, and it will never witness another.

He holds her tight in the aftermath, as they count their dead and make their plans. Edward is already whispering warnings into Carlisle’s ear, of the shape their thoughts and memories take. But they are family, and that comes before everything else.

(It’s not exactly their fault that Edward is a shiny new soul, and it’s going to take him a few lifetimes to understand what he’s seeing and hearing. Harder especially for him, with his gift so strong so early in the cycle. But everything happens for a reason.)

Despite the curiosity wafting off everyone, they say nothing and they go… well, not home, but to the closest residence, the headquarters of this war. A sprawling property with enough beds for the wounded, the wolves, and the lovers.

That’s where she makes good on her unspoken promises from eons again, of their private victory celebration. She sits astride him, her hips rolling hard against his, drawing out his groans and growls as he grips her thighs almost tight enough to crack. Their gazes are locked the entire time, her tongue skimming over her lips, as she lets her emotions tell him everything that she wants and everything she plans to take.

He remembers fucking her in the dirt in Dacia; his mouth between her legs as she hollered obscenities in a Paris attic; and the urgent, passionate loving-making of a marriage finally consummated.

She remembers bloody emeralds looped around her throat and resting between her breasts as she gets down on her knees and takes him into her mouth, his fingers tangled in her hair; the delicious weight of him on top of her, their sweat mingling and cooling in the frozen night as their flimsy bed creaked against the wall; and his soft encouragement in her ear as he grasps her around the waist, their hands resting together on the gentle swell of her stomach.

It is times like this that their talents are burdens and gifts both because it is so much, so very much, and in all that passion and true love, there is also loss and regret.

But they have each other, and they will weather this new storm together.

—

They are hardly the only couple to spend the night tumbling together, but they must be the loudest, because when they reappear the next morning with darkened eyes and clean clothes, Jacob and Emmett are looking at Jasper with a new and very specific kind of respect, and if she flips both of them off behind Esme’s back, no one has any proof.

They don’t talk about what they’ve learnt, because it probably wouldn’t mean anything to anyone else. It doesn’t make sense, doesn’t matter, until the mantle of it settles upon you. And then it is everything.

Instead, they hunt. They have won the battle, won the war, and whilst rebuilding will take time, they can take this small moment to feast with their family and relish freedom from fear.

She truly doesn’t know what comes next. He truly doesn’t know if it will be good or bad. They will live this life for as long as it lasts, long may it last, surrounded by the people they love and trust.

And then they will die.

And then they will live again. Maybe they will live another ten lives, maybe another one hundred. Maybe one day they will cross paths with their family again, or they will choose to have children again. Maybe they will be long lives full of joy and laughter, maybe they will burn out fast and hard, but full of feeling.

But the thing they are now both and utterly certain of, above all else, is that they will walk each step hand-in-hand.

It is simply the way of things.

[rezares]

Reza Kasraoui-Müller Five* (8)  Identities

 *five identities he claims, two he doesn’t acknowledge, and one he is struggling to

Word Count: 1366

 Father - In late 2009, an agreement was made between a sorcerer and a fairy, to conceive a child. The fairy and the sorcerer had slept together before, but were always nothing more than ‘allies with benefits.’ But the fairy wanted a child. A child, but not a husband. The sorcerer wanted neither but agreed to supply the other half of the DNA for the child. As the fairy’s pregnancy progressed, however, the sorcerer realized he couldn’t just have a child in this world and not be involved, so the arrangement was modified to be a co-parenting situation between two people that are not, never were, and would never be in love.

 On August 27th, 2010, Sabiha Ibitsam Ghadir Basira bint Reza Kasraoui was born in Hammamet, Nabeul Governorate, Tunisia. Reza’s life revolved around her from the moment she took her first breath. Her mother, a fairy named Rafika, had to practically pry her from his arms to nurse her.

 Sabiha is Reza’s greatest joy and he cannot imagine ever being separated from her again. To Reza, being a father - Sabiha’s father - is his whole reason for living. Before he is anything else, he is that wonderful little girl’s father.

Sorcerer/Magick - It’s predicted for this to be in the number two spot, but I actually struggled whether or not to place this here. Because frankly Reza feels disconnected from the experiences of most sorcerers around him - currently. I think...Reza himself would more closely identify with ‘magick’, and with pan-magickal struggles and social justice.

 Like...Reza probably has more in common as far as lived experiences, with a British werewolf than a British sorcerer. Because British werewolves and Tunisian sorcerers are both heavily discriminated against. Magic is illegal in his home country, he’s been put in jail and denied housing and work for being a sorcerer. British sorcerers, while inconvenienced by restrictions and regulations, simply do not face a comparable level of stigma to sorcerers in Tunisia.

 Reza would probably say that prior to living in Austria and now Swynlake, he would have identified more strongly with “sorcerer” as not just a label, but an entire piece of his identity. Tunisian sorcerer culture is rich, complex, and really forges a community. It means something very specific to be a sorcerer from North Africa. Now in Europe, he doesn’t as strongly identify as a sorcerer. At least, he doesn’t...think of himself as part of a community of any sort that would also specifically include say, Howl, Hera, or the Qin sisters.

 In Swynlake, Reza feels more connected to this abstract pan-magick identity. He feels closer to Hades than to any sorcerers here other than his sisters and his apprentice, Aurora.

Activist  - Reza, before anything other than being Sabiha’s father and being a sorcerer, identifies strongly with being an activist for magick rights. His pen name for pro-magick writing, Ares, the god of war, was a fitting alias.

 It isn’t just magick rights, though. During the Arab Spring, Reza was heavily active locally in the movement that ultimately toppled the Ben Ali dictatorship. He cares a lot about social justice and in every society he lives in, whether Tunisia or Swynlake, he actively seeks to speak out and fight against injustices.

 His activism is intersectional, no matter what continent he’s on.

 Muslim - This one is interesting because of its placement on the list. I thought Muslim would be fifth, below Tunisian, but it’s not and I’ll explain why in the Tunisian blurb.

 Reza is...not the strictest Muslim. He drinks alcohol and has sex outside of marriage - you know, breaks “rules” that are convenient for him like every person of faith does. But he finds comfort and community in Islam and his Muslim identity is very important to him.

 As a now out magick, Reza is unable to even enter Saudi Arabia, and is therefore unable to complete his hajj, one of the five pillars of Islam. It legitimately hurts him, but he tells himself all the time “God will understand,” and make sure he gives to charity more than is simply required by Islam.

 Tunisian - The fifth most important identity of Reza’s, is his nationality. I thought it would be higher, honestly, like maybe second or third, but as I psychoanalyzed Reza more, I realized that while it was important to him, and that he’s proud to be Tunisian...it’s number five.

 Because Tunisia’s rejected him in a way. He can’t live freely in the country that he loves. He is Tunisian but Tunisia does not see him as part of her.

 I thought Tunisia would be above Muslim on his list of identities, but I’ve come to find out that apart from his most important identity - as Sabiha’s father - he feels more strongly about the identities were he finds community. He finds more community in being Muslim here in Swynlake than with being Tunisian.

 Demiromantic - So, honestly. Reza has never heard this word, he doesn’t know what it is. But he’s demiromantic, booooorderline aromantic. Like he’s not ace, he’s quite heterosexual, but he’s never...loved anybody. Like that. And never had a longing to.

 He has the capacity to - he’s not actually aro, but he’s not able to love somebody in that way unless there’s a strong emotional attachment. Reza’s never had an attachment that strong to somebody emotionally. Even with his daughter’s mother, he wasn’t even that close friends with her, they were just a sorcerer and fairy who had mutual friends and sometimes hooked up.

 He had few female friends in Tunisia that he got very close to. While attitudes toward men and women interacting are less conservative generally in magick circles, people still can raise eyebrows if single men and women act too chummy. So Reza’d only ever really had male true friends; and he’s hetero, so of course none of those strong emotional bonds turned to something deeper.

 Like, he finds it odd that he’s never really had a proper “crush” on a woman, but he just writes it off as “my life up until now was fucking wild, of course I didn’t have time for that.”

 Disabled - This is one Reza both isn’t fully aware of, but is also aware of and in denial. The bomb set off by anti magick extremists at a sorcerer’s wedding Reza attended that nearly killed him had left him with permanent effects.

 Before the attack, Reza made most of his money as a server, bartender, fisherman, or construction worker. Even after the nearly two years of surgeries, physical therapy, and re-learning to walk again, doing these things is now impossible for him. He cannot stand up for eight, ten, thirteen hour shifts waiting tables or slinging drinks. Standing for more than a few hours at once is extremely painful. Sometimes he’ll have pain flare-ups if he’s not even doing anything.

 He keeps thinking one day it’ll get better, that it’ll go away, but he’s coming to realize this isn’t going to change back to normal.

 POC - This is the identity that like, Reza always was aware of, but has only recently come to understand what it fully means. I’ll explain.

 Reza is a man of color...from a country populated by people of color. Of course he was aware of global white supremacy - Western European beauty standards, colorism, etc -, and he was aware that he and his sisters were a bit different than most of their neighbors, as they were half white Austrian, but like….eh. Lots of Tunisians with two Tunisian parents were lighter-skinned than Reza so.

 Prior to about four years ago, when he lived in Austria for medical treatment, Reza hadn’t ever lived a racialized existence. For the first almost thirty-two years of his life, his ethnicity and Muslim faith were two things that made him blend in, not stand out.

 It’s only in the last four years that Reza’s had to grapple with what it means to be a person of color in a predominantly white society -- because he’s from a society of other people of color.