The Cursed: Threads of Destiny

Morgan - I

The first thing that he learned after he decided to kill his mentor was that it is extremely hard for a vampire to kill another vampire. You’d think it’d be easy, but no. Because what kills his master also kills him. That is why he has to go out of his way to invent methods to kill his vampire mentor, who does not seem to want to die any time soon, even after all the centuries he has lived. He, in all his foolish, prolonged youth, had first tried decapitating, conveniently forgetting that he is an infant compared to his master.

Actually, he is an infant in all sense of that word to the supernatural community. He is not very old, to start with, to be considered the heir of the most prominent vampire coven in history. He does not consider himself violent either, which of course contradicts the fact that he is a vampire. He loves the artsy and history-loving side of the whole gig, in fact, he was born (the very first time, as a human) for that side, but the silent and quick violence of biting and drawing blood, he almost died trying to deny it.

But, of course, like many things, his master couldn’t afford that to ever happen. He had said to him that he never lets the gift that he gives his direct successors go to waste. He couldn’t, at that moment, find the words to make his master understand that what he had been given wasn’t a gift, not for him. Not then, not now. But there was something in his eyes then that said that he knew what his heir wanted to say. Perhaps he’d seen it so much before that it is now easy to recognize.

Another thing his master had said to him, that terrifies him as much as it delights him even now, was that he would be his last successor. It almost makes his life a little more bearable, knowing that no other has to go through this kind of s**t again, but it’s also scary knowing that so much is depending on him while he is doing everything in his power to prevent it. He wishes so desperately to become braver with each attempt he makes on his master’s life, but he just becomes more reluctant, more attached. His master is kind in a way that he let him be with his mother until she died. In a way that he never forced him to drink blood directly from a human. In a way, his father was never present to be kind. But his master is not his father.

His master is random history sessions in the middle of a training routine. He is a disciplined bastard who will extend any combat training by an hour if he so much as steps 1 millimeter wrong. His master is when he waits for him to finish stargazing at night, even when what he has to say is far more important than already dead things shining in the sky. He is when he gets lost, as if he has reached his final death and is looking upon his life as a movie playing all the bad things he did. He is when he says that he still remembers his natural family; his sister’s smiles, his mother’s eyes, and his father’s voice.

His master is not his father. He doesn’t know what a father should be. Even in the one-hundred years that he has been alive, he could never understand the true meaning of fatherhood, or what it implied. Is it simply 'we don’t talk much, but I love my father'? Is it 'he is quick to anger, but he tries to make me laugh'? Is it 'he doesn’t understand what I really want, but my father tries his best'? Is it 'I don’t really know my father, but he is a good father'?

The contemplation always wears him down, and so he sighs as quietly as he can, so that all these supernaturals surrounding him cannot hear him. He doubts they care, with all this noise, but he doesn’t want to show it. His coven depends on him to represent them, and he makes sure to carry out his given duties to the best of his abilities. He wishes to be anywhere but this tiring gathering, wondering why he has put himself through this every few, short months. He looks away from his master talking to the Domovoi dignitaries, handling the socializing with grace and comfort.

The Domovoi have been one of the most positively accepted supernaturals given their simplistic and protective nature. He has heard reports of naturals saying that many of the Domovoians remind them of a loved one and that their presence brings harmony to the house. Domovoians are obviously against the whole human-blood-drinking but they love the cannot-enter-the-house-without-permission part enough to maintain positive relations.

Though not everything relating to Domovoians is known or understood, he is positive that they are the spirits of people’s ancestors and that they are not attached to the house, but rather their family. And they are not only old, short and bearded men. They can be a woman, or a child, or tall. They are also one of the most recent supernaturals to come to light. He thinks that because it took Domovoians such a short time to be accepted by naturals, they are at the center of everyone’s interest. He’d been surprised to see them as he knew they were reluctant to leave their houses. But this just made them all the more fascinating.

“Morgan?” a voice calls from somewhere to his right. He doesn’t turn, though he recognizes the person immediately, because he isn’t there yet. Some of the people around them turn their heads, whether in curiosity or contempt, he doesn’t want to know.

He leans closer to the counter and says to the bartender, “Two vodkas please.”

“In one moment, sir.” As he reaches the counter, there are two drinks in front of them.

“Zach,” he says, handing a glass to the soon-to-be second in command of the whole kingdom, “Or should I say ‘Your Grace’?”

“No, my friend,” he says with a light chuckle as he accepts the glass of alcohol, “The King hasn’t decreed it yet.”

Morgan gives him a small smile, as he turns to rest his back on the counter, before his eyes fall back on his master, who glances at him for a brief moment before moving on to the next conversation. His eyes search to find what he believes to find, and he does. On the other side of the room, the King talks with the Mer representatives, throwing kind smiles in between his soft voice as he politely and diplomatically rejects their offer of union once again. But his eyes wander and find the two of them at the bar, like the old friends they are.

Is it politics? The vampire heir and the werewolf prodigy? It’s good PR, and honestly they couldn’t care less. No, it is something else. Both the leaders of their respective species are in on a secret that their pupils are unaware of. Well, Morgan is unaware. He doesn’t know if Zach is unaware or if he is aware and is choosing to ignore whatever it is. He sighs again and looks at his friend, clanging their glasses together before taking another sip of their drink.

“Are you terribly bored?” Zach asks, trying to hide his curiosity behind his glass as he takes a sip.

“How can I? With all this expensive alcohol?”

Zach lets a chuckle escape his lips, not moving the glass away from his mouth, nodding as if he agrees.

“How have you been, if I may ask, Your Grace?” Morgan asks, bowing his head.

“I have been well, Your Highness,” he says, and a smirk appears on his face as his friend groans in annoyance at the mention of his formal title, before slight concern takes its place, “But I can’t say the same about you.”

Morgan waves his hand as if to dismiss the topic as he takes another gulp to avoid providing a reply. He looks at Zach, who has been waiting patiently for an explanation with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s just one of those days,” he says. A statement that he always says to explain his particular paleness and hollow eyes. His lips are wet with vodka, but that would not bring color back to them. He closes his eyes for a moment to get the phantom taste of blood out of his mouth and to practice his restraint. Zach leans in closer and the grip of his hand on his glass tightens. Zach’s blood, despite being that of a werewolf, smells…divine. He had noticed it when they first met, and though it wasn’t his blood that made him seek the werewolf's friendship, his urge was (and still is) one of the hardest things to control.

“Morgan,” he whispers and pauses for a moment to have his complete attention, “I don’t know what that means.”

A smile breaks across his face as he opens his eyes. He sets his glass down on the counter and pats Zach’s back, and says, “It’s alright. You wouldn’t understand with all the beauty sleep you’re clearly getting.”

“That’s it, then? They don’t let you sleep?” He pauses for a moment, tilting his head, “Do you sleep?”

“Don’t ever use your twilight knowledge with me or any vampire. How many times do I have to tell you that?” he says, “And, of course, I sleep.”

“You never know,” he says, shrugging as his eyes wander and settle on someone in the crowd, “I gotta go.” Zach finishes his drink before tapping him on the shoulder twice, signaling to meet him later, in a more informal setting and away from all the curious eyes.

His eyes find his master, who signals him to return to society and mingle with the people. He nods in Zach's direction to confirm their meeting before putting on a polite smile for his targets. God help me not to put a stake through my heart, he thinks as he begins a conversation with the younger Domovoi representative.