Chapter Text
Bonus Chapter: Crownless Before Her:
Set the night of Aro's confession in the war room.
The halls of the Volturi stronghold had never felt so hollow. Each step Caius took echoed faintly, swallowed by the unyielding stone, as though the fortress itself sought to bury the sound in its depths. The air carried a weight that seemed to press against him, heavy with the remnants of the revelation he had just endured. The vaulted ceilings stretched above, their shadowed arches curling into endless obscurity, and the distant torchlight flickered weakly, as if shying away from his presence.
Caius moved through the corridors like a phantom, his pale figure blending into the gloom that cloaked the fortress. The dancing flames cast restless shadows on the polished stone floor, twisting and contorting with every step he took, the spectral shapes reminiscent of the vision spoken aloud to him only minutes ago flickering in his mind. Even the faint draft that stirred through the halls felt lifeless, carrying no sound but the soft rustle of his black cloak as it trailed behind him.
It was not just fear that gripped Caius. It was something deeper—an ache that nestled itself within the core of his pride and took root there, unyielding. He had ruled and commanded, but now his steps felt like those of a man adrift, bound only by his own resolve. The fortress walls, once symbols of strength and dominance, now seemed cold and distant, their grandeur hollow against the silence surrounding him.
His gaze lingered on the intricate tapestries lining the walls, the rich embroidery of gold and crimson failing to stir the admiration it once had. Instead, the elaborate designs seemed out of place—mocking him with their vibrancy in the face of what he now carried. His thoughts spiraled, threading themselves tighter as the image of his wife consumed his mind. The memory of Athenodora, unwavering and fierce, eclipsed all else. She was the reason for his every step, the purpose in the muted resolve that drove him forward.
He had not spoken to anyone since leaving the war room. His silence mirrored the quiet that enveloped the halls, broken only by the faint whisper of flame and the distant echo of stone beneath his feet. Words felt meaningless now, incapable of expressing the ache of knowing what might have been. What would have been. His feet commanded him onward, guiding him with resolute certainty back to his wife within their shared quarters.
The image of her—his Athenodora—in the snow, her body turning to ash as she curled around him in an embrace after he had been executed—failing in her task of vengeance—was carved into his mind like scripture. It was more than a memory; it was a haunting, etched deeply into the marrow of his being, relentless and immutable. She had tried to shield him. Him. The same man who had always commanded. The same man who had once named sentiment a weakness and mercy a flaw. And yet, in that moment of desperate devotion, she had seen neither flaw nor weakness—only love.
It was that love, unwavering and fierce, that now gnawed at him. It twisted the edges of his pride and pulled him from the depths of his grief, leaving nothing but the raw threads of fear and longing to drive him forward. Fear and love. These forces, once dismissed as trivial by him amongst his enemies, now mockingly bound him, commanding his every thought, his every step—commanding him back to his wife’s side as though nothing else in his world existed.
The corridors had stretched endlessly before him, and he felt relief as he reached the door. Their door. His pale fingers curled around the golden handle of their private chambers, his grip firm but trembling. It was as though the weight of her absence pressed against the polished metal, and for a brief, agonizing moment, he did not move. The stone beneath his feet felt unfamiliar, as if the ground itself no longer recognized him as the man he once was.
The silence behind the door was deeper than anything he remembered—unbearable in its vastness. It seemed to reach out to him, filling the void left by the truths he had just heard, by the images conjured by Aro that burned into his mind. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, swallowing the ache that threatened to consume him whole.
He entered.
The door closed soundlessly behind him, its quiet finality sealing him in the intimate stillness of their chambers. The air was warm, tempered by the soft crackle of the fire that flickered within the hearth. Shadows danced faintly along the walls, moving in time with the flames, casting a golden hue across the space—a sanctuary untouched by the weight of the world outside.
She was there, seated in her customary place by the hearth, her posture elegant yet unassuming. The faint glow of firelight caressed her pale skin, enhancing the ethereal quality of her presence. The gilded edges of her long blonde hair gleamed like a crown under the flickering warmth, each curled strand appearing almost luminous. Her crimson eyes rose to meet his the moment he entered, sharp and searching, but she did not yet speak. There was a silent understanding in her gaze, a depth of emotion that made words seem unnecessary.
He crossed the room without a word, his steps deliberate and measured. The polished stone beneath his feet bore no sound; even his presence seemed reluctant to disturb the quiet that enveloped her. Each movement carried with it the weight of his thoughts, the truths spoken and the images that still lingered, carved deeply into his mind.
And then he was on his knees before her.
Not in show.
Not just in apology.
In reverence.
His hands reached for hers, the motion slow and uncertain, and for once, they trembled. The weight of three millennia of pride, power, and control had fallen away, leaving only the raw vulnerability of a man stripped bare before the one person who truly mattered. His fingers brushed hers lightly, as though he feared she might dissolve beneath his touch, and his grip faltered, trembling with emotion he could not suppress.
His gaze lifted to meet her own—not as one of three kings commanding a throne, nor as a ruler wielding authority, but as a man. A man who had come perilously close to losing the one thing that anchored him to the world, the only thing that had ever given his eternity meaning. The flicker of firelight glimmered faintly in his crimson eyes, illuminating the turmoil that twisted within them. Eternity, he realized, was not a gift. It was a curse without her by his side.
“You died trying to save me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, yet thick with regret. Each word felt like it had been dragged from the depths of his soul, exposing the raw ache beneath his composed exterior. “And I—who was supposed to be your strength—crumbled first. I failed you.”
Athenodora’s gaze did not waver. Her expression remained steady, her crimson eyes holding his with an ancient wisdom born of millennia. There was no pity in her features, no softness that might diminish him further. She had witnessed Aro’s behavior in the clearing, could infer enough to understand what he meant—Alice’s vision—and yet her response carried none of the weight that might have crushed him under shame. Instead, her look was one of unwavering understanding, of profound connection that required no explanation.
Her hands rose, pale and graceful, to cradle his face gently. The motion was slow and deliberate, her fingers light as they brushed against his skin. Her touch carried no judgment, no reproach, only the most delicate and gentle caress—a wordless reassurance that spoke of love far greater than the frailty of his regrets.
He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing briefly as the last traces of his composure dissolved. In that moment, there was no throne, no empire, no dominion over the immortal. Only her. Only them.
That night, Caius did not command. He did not speak of the coven, of war, or vengeance. He worshiped her in reverent silence, with lips and hands, in the quiet hush of their bedchamber where time did not exist. The world beyond their walls faded into irrelevance, leaving only the sanctuary they created together.
The silk of her gown whispered as he lifted it from her form, the soft rustle of fabric falling to the floor like the shedding of a burden. The sound was delicate, almost reverent, as though even the fabric understood the sanctity of the moment. The scent of her—cool roses and something faintly like wild honey—rose to meet him, enveloping him in a fragrance that was uniquely hers, a scent that had become his solace.
Her skin, smooth and luminous beneath his touch, seemed to glow with an inner light, like sculpted alabaster warmed by firelight. His hands moved with a tenderness that belied his strength, tracing the contours of her body as though committing them to memory. Each curve, each line, was explored with aching precision, his fingers lingering as if to ensure he would never forget the feeling of her.
He kissed her slowly, reverently, as though each press of his mouth might restore something in him that had broken. The weight of eternity, of battles fought and victories claimed dissolved in the softness of her lips. His touch was unhurried, deliberate, as though time itself had bent to their will, granting them this moment of softness within the confident rule of their eternity that had never faltered until now.
His fingers traced the lines of her ribs, the gentle slope of her waist, the delicate hollow of her collarbone. Each touch was a silent vow, a promise etched into the very fabric of his being. She sighed into him, a sound softer than breath, and it stirred something deeper than desire—something sacred. It was a connection that transcended words, a bond forged in the quiet intimacy of their shared existence.
Their bodies moved together in a language older than the empire they ruled, a rhythm that transcended words and time itself. The velvet sheets beneath them seemed to cradle their forms, soft and yielding, as though the fabric itself understood the sanctity of the moment. The firelight danced across her bare skin, casting golden hues that illuminated her like a living sculpture, each curve and line glowing with warmth and life.
He laid her down with a tenderness that belied the strength in his hands, his movements deliberate and reverent. His mouth followed the path of his cold fingers, tracing the contours of her body with kisses that carried the weight of unspoken apologies. Each press of his lips was a silent confession, a plea for forgiveness he could not articulate. The faint whisper of his discarded clothing brushing against the floor echoed quietly, a sound like the release of a burden he stripped from himself with quiet urgency.
She met him with equal fervor, her touch grounding him in the certainty that she still lived, that she was still his. Her presence was an anchor, a lifeline that tethered him to the world of her he had nearly lost. There was no demand in her movements, only acceptance—a quiet reassurance that spoke louder than words.
As he sank into her, a cry tore from his throat, raw and unrestrained. It carried the weight of longing and guilt, a sound that echoed the depths of his soul. His grip tightened, his hands trembling as though she might vanish beneath him, leaving him adrift in the emptiness he feared. His kisses grew more urgent, more pleading, each one a desperate attempt to hold onto her, to prove to himself that she was still there, and the vision had never come to pass.
He buried his face in her neck, his breath ragged and uneven, whispering her name like a prayer. The words fell from his lips in a litany of devotion, each repetition cracking under the strain of his emotions. “I love you,” he murmured against her skin, the phrase repeated over and over, dissolving into gasps and groans that carried the weight of his heart.
His body trembled with the force of his emotions, every movement a plea for forgiveness and closeness. His hands clung to her hips, his touch reverent and unyielding, as though memorizing the feel of her beneath his fingers. His mouth traced paths of worship, from the delicate curve of her jaw to the graceful slope of her chest, down the soft, inviting hollow of her stomach.
She arched into him, a soft moan falling from her lips as her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer. Their rhythm deepened, more frantic now, driven by the need to feel—to remember that they were still here, still whole.
Caius grew louder with every thrust, each cry more ragged than the last. His control, his silence, his poise—everything he had built crumbled in the heat of her body, in the reality of her presence.
“Athenodora,” he gasped, again and again, as though speaking her name might anchor him. “Mine… still mine…”
Their passion spilled over in waves, fierce, tender, and overwhelming. Her cries answered his, rising in tandem, as if their voices might keep the world itself from collapsing.
He gripped her shoulders, pulled her tighter, pressed his forehead against hers as their climax neared. His breath came in broken moans now, every thrust more desperate than the last, his voice shaking with anguish and adoration.
“Don’t leave me,” he choked, lost in the moment. “Not now… not ever…”
She answered with a breathless, “I’m here,” and it unraveled what was left of him.
He surged forward with a hoarse cry, burying himself in her, shuddering against her as pleasure rippled through every inch of him. He sobbed her name, arms locked around her as if to cage her to the earth.
They trembled together, trembling with more than climax—trembling with memory, and fear, and salvation.
But he could not stop. Not yet. Not when he could still feel her beneath him, still taste her sighs and gasps. He kissed her again—her mouth, her throat, her chest—more fervently than before, desperate to reclaim the moments the vision would have stolen from him had it become reality.
“Again,” he whispered against her lips, breathless. “Please… I need—”
She welcomed him, and he slipped inside her once more with a sound that was almost a sob. The pace returned quickly—urgent, consuming, louder now. Every sound he made echoed in the chamber, unguarded and wild. Her name left his lips in strangled cries, over and over, as if it were the only truth he could speak.
Their rhythm became a storm. He moved with abandon, clutching her thighs, her waist, her hands—desperate to pin her to him, to feel her completely. Her moans rose to match his, raw and fevered. They were not careful. They were not silent. They were gods undone.
Caius buried his face in her shoulder, his voice a rasp. “You’re mine… you’re mine… you’re mine…”
Their second climax broke over them like a wave crashing through the temple they had built from need. His cry split the air—sharp and anguished and loud. Hers followed, fractured and holy.
And then finally, finally, the silence briefly returned.
It pulsed with aftershock, with lingering want. Caius’s breathing slowed, but the tension in his muscles did not fade. He touched her face, her throat, her heart, as though reassuring himself that she was truly there. His voice returned in a whisper, no longer frenzied but raw with reverence.
“Once more,” he pleaded, his lips brushing her temple. “Slowly… let me feel all of you.”
She answered with her hands, guiding him to her again. And this time, they moved like tides—deliberate, tender, unhurried. His moans deepened, hushed and trembling, each one a confession.
“I adore you,” he breathed. “Every part of you… every breath…every sound you make.”
He rocked into her with aching care, his hands roaming over her body as if to worship it anew. There was no urgency now—only devotion. The fire cast their shadows across the walls, a flickering mural of gods made human in the dark.
Athenodora arched into him, her voice joining his, slower now, softer. Their cries were longer, lower, drawn out like sacred chants echoing beneath the stone vaults. He kissed her face between each thrust—her cheeks, her brow, her lips—his rhythm measured and reverent.
And when they came, it was not with cries but with silence broken only by breath—his crimson eyes rolled back and his forehead pressed to hers, his voice a broken whisper against her lips.
“You are my everything.”
And then stillness.
And when they were finished, their bodies lay entwined, the weight of their many years lifted for a fleeting, sacred moment. The stillness between them was profound, a quiet they had not known in millennia. It wrapped around them like a protective veil, shutting out the shadows of the past and the unrelenting weight of their immortal existence.
He held her as though the world beyond the room could no longer be trusted, his arms tightening as if the very act of releasing her might allow something precious to slip away. His grasp was firm yet tender, his head resting against hers, his breath falling in uneven, measured sighs of emotion.
He clung to her—not as a ruler clings to his dominion, nor as a warrior might to his sword. He clung to her as a man. A man who had stood at the precipice of loss, the edge of oblivion, and had nearly destroyed the very thing that tethered him to life. His own arrogance had almost cost him everything. Pride had been his downfall, threatening the one truth that had remained unshaken in the thirty centuries he had walked the earth: her.
And he could not bear to ever let that happen again.