Chapter Text
Vulta finds that he is developing an appreciation for rock music, but he still needs to train his ear to it. As tutors help him resurrect his stale voice, he translates the Ministry discography into something more classical, listening to the existing albums before recreating them on his violin by ear. Soon nuns wheel a grand piano into the apartment, and a smoky ghoul takes up residence inside of it, spitting out pieces of notated sheet music as Vulta experiments with different arrangements.
For the first time in his life, the demon is utterly silent. Grown fat on music and love and beauty, it sleeps contentedly upon its hoard of artistic gold.
By day, Vulta is an unofficial seminarian, learning alongside the other initiates of the church. At night he delves into the Ministry back catalog, imprinting the songs on his soul. The fact that you love these performances serves as further enticement to practice; sometimes, as you dance across the candlelit marble floor, ghouls creep in through the balcony door to watch you. Primo sends you home from the greenhouse with flowers every day now, and you’ve taken to braiding them into your hair, tucking them into the pinfolds of your charming dresses. As spring turns into summer, you become the very image of Persephone on her green throne.
Vulta is happy that you’ve found something of a mentor in Primo. He is even happy when you go out of your way to be kind to Copia, to tease and flatter him, mostly because it leaves the man snorting and rolling his eyes. It isn’t until Psaltarian begins gushing at dinner one night about the fact that it’s been so long since their Papa had a Prime Mover that something in Copia’s sullen exterior cracks, and he casts a sympathetic glance at you.
“Do I like being a Prime Mover?” you ask Copia, the very image of hesitant confusion. Terzo is now simultaneously cackling and choking on his wine, a ghoul has materialized out of nowhere to thump him on the back, and Vulta is utterly lost.
“Ah, that depends.” Copia looks at Vulta, and he sees no resentment in his twin. Only curiosity, and awkwardness, and the barest glimmer of humor. “How do you feel about the, ah, pitter-patter of little antichristi feet?”
Vulta takes his turn to choke. Beside him, you go red as one of Primo’s roses.
But your hand seeks his out beneath the table, heavy with the silver ring you now wear.
The cracked top strap of his mask finally breaks. The creative team leaps upon this opportunity, noting that Vulta will need to design his papal paint. The idea of standing bare-faced in front of thousands of people is enough to make his courage waver, and as you sit beside him with the pots of white and black makeup, struggling to come up with ideas, his temper flares. The next day he storms into the creative studio and tosses a sketch on the table, nodding toward the 3D printers and other fabricating equipment.
“I will wear your stupid paint, but I will also hide my face,” he informs the team, pointing to the sketch. The half-mask is craggy, sharp, an exaggerated and more menacing version of his own bare skull. “Metallic leather will be light enough for me to sing.”
“We could make it in metal, too. Or bejeweled. For official events.” One of the Ministry seamstresses reaches for the sketch, her eyes filling with appreciation. “Silver?”
“Silver,” he agrees. Thinking back to the thrift shop blazer that now hangs in his papal apartment, he adds, “And royal purple.”
That evening, Terzo chokes on his wine again. Vulta continues not to understand.
You are the only constant in his life. The reason he wakes up each day, the joy he returns to at the end of it. By summer’s close you are his wife, and Primo takes the opportunity to make a sermon out of your wedding feast, noting that in a world of boundless choice and free will, the decision to love only one other is not a sacrifice that limits, but a selfless gift that is renewed each time the sun rises. The sheer beauty of this sentiment convinces Vulta that perhaps he is finally on the right path.
The warmth of you in his arms that night assures him that he is.
One day, while organizing his now compendious collection of sheet music so it can be digitized, he finds traces of the song he once devoted to you from the loneliness of his cold cell. Chuckling, he sets it up on the piano and plays it anew, trying to remember the lyrics. You return from the garden just in time to hear him beg you to save him.
Warm and smelling of sunlight, you slide onto the bench beside him and keep doing just that.