.:cadence:.
It snows.
The flimsy film of crystal-beaded flakes is a precious rarity in Italy; nothing can restrain the younger guards from rushing into open courtyards and resuming long-forgotten games beneath a blizzard-silvered sky.
The glissando of spilling laughter trickles through stone in rivulets, a gleeful anomaly in slate-shadowed Volterra. Enthusiasm, sweet and unhindered, insinuates itself everywhere, until a smile reaches Aro's ascetic features.
"I suppose that little will be accomplished today," he announces with a sigh that is feigned and feathery. There are papers scattered in drifts over a scarred desk, but Sulpicia's warm weight, eagerly pressed in his arms, is distraction enough.
"You do not seem unduly perturbed," he adds, kissing the corners of her contented-kitten grin. Beneath questing fingers, her thoughts are orderly, neatly-faceted crystals aligned to refract the light.
"Your inability to remain attentive is oddly amusing," she says, her words lilting and lazy.
"You are to blame for that," he complains, but there is vague tenderness winding its tendrils through Aro's speech. His cleverest plans, snaking, incisive creations, have been concocted like this, when Sulpicia's mind is his own, a bitter terrain of blackness and peace.
"What is it that you were reading before I interrupted?" Sulpicia asks, collected and clipped. She flees from excessive affection, her mate knows, and his thoughts wheel to dust and documents.
"A letter from Carlisle. He describes his travels, in great detail, as you might expect." A smirk paints cool condescension upon his features, before the troublesome thoughts ebb. "You can read it if you like. He addresses you intermittently."
She scoffs. "I would rather not. That man is entertaining when he is conflicted, not when he describes, with limitless precision, the flora and fauna of some gods-forgotten colonial outpost."
"That was a cruel observation," Aro muses, "and perfectly correct." The silk-edged pride in his voice is unmistakeable.
As the evening unfurls, the paper in question is tossed upon a carpet's delicate weave and promptly forgotten.
.-.
An eerie sunrise coaxes shy shimmers from shivering snow, and Sulpicia is entranced. She does not often seek loveliness, but the iron bleakness of winter, scratched in shades of pale, draws her away from the emphatic caresses that mark a reunion.
It is the whisper of Aro's hand along the arabesque of her spine that pulls her away from the window and the dreamscape breathed by frost beyond the glass.
"There is much to be done," he reminds, and the pendulous weight of an empire that finds its precarious balance around them returns, unbidden and perhaps unwanted. Nonetheless, she intertwines cold fingers with his and walks towards a world marked by a dark passion play of omnipotence and ghastly masquerades.
This, Sulpicia recalls, is the taste of joy—heavy and intoxicating, ornate as old amber. If Aro shares the thought, he keeps his silence, but distant, deadly adoration sparks behind garnet irises.
-fin-
Author's Note: And we're finished! I must thank all of you, for reading, reviewing, favouriting, nominating and formspring-ing questions. You've been the most wonderful bunch of readers imaginable, and this story wouldn't have been completed without your support, critique and overall awesomeness.
I hope that you enjoyed reading A Thousand Stairs story as much as I enjoyed writing it.