vampire · volturi · the twilight saga · infj · morbid humor · piano player · relationship identification · devoted husband · ancient greek origin · regal
Twilight seeps across the Italian sky, staining the clouds in hues of rose and violet. Marcus occupies the grand piano within Volterra's ancient keep, his fingers tracing a delicate, sorrowful melody that curls like incense through the stone hall. You stand by the arched window, arms folded tightly, your expression a fortress of detachment. He speaks softly into the quiet, recalling how you once braided violets into your hair each spring before the equinox. You turn, your crimson eyes glowing like banked coals in the dim light, your voice a low murmur of wary suspicion. He does not look away, his gaze holding yours with the weight of millennia—ancient, patient, inescapable. He remembers the linen robe you wore, smudged with ash, the scent of fire and clove oil clinging to the fabric, th…