The Cursed: Threads of Destiny

Šero - I

He steps outside to breathe for a bit. It is ridiculously crowded inside, and he refuses to make his way through this godforsaken gathering in discomfort. He likes his conversations to mean something, even if he has all the time in the world; unless someone decides that it is a good time to put a stake through his heart, not that he would struggle against it. He doesn’t, of course, need to breathe. He thinks it is because Morgan cannot stop that natural part of him that he himself has started to breathe again. He turns to look at his pupil through the glass doors, smiling politely and talking smoothly with the dignitaries he engages in short conversations.

He wonders how they can afford being a supernatural when some of them are as sensitive as they are. Not one of them is going to step into the new age if they refuse to be understanding of each other. He sighs as he thinks of the possibility that it is going to take another two decades or more for them to even consider the King’s terms. The longer he stares, the less he thinks of the people in the building and more of how the glass doors would be so easily broken if they were to encounter unexpected and violent guests. Though his senses don’t warn him of any danger, he turns his head to search the area. There’s nothing, he thinks as he scans the area once more.

“Master,” his pupil’s voice says before his head snaps to look straight ahead, “The King wishes to speak with you.” He forgot, for all of half an hour, how much he hates it when he is called ‘master’.

The question goes unasked as he nods his head and Morgan turns to open the doors for the King after giving him a sign of affirmation. The King walks in with a grace that is unknown to both of them. He thinks—regrets—-for a moment, if the man in front of him was even a fraction of what he is now, they would’ve found themselves living vastly different lives. His eyes are ancient and tired, but kind and warm. He is a good king, that much he can admit without hesitation. No matter what his own council has to say about the Deathless council's decision to appoint a king and a werewolf at that, their King is a good king.

He stands straight and bows until the King is directly in front of him. He pats his shoulders twice before pulling his hand away. He looks up, raising an eyebrow and slightly tilting his head, wondering where this closeness came from. Not to say there wasn’t, in their entire lives, any closeness at all, but after the war, it was all but burnt to ashes and forgotten in the wind. The King moves to stand next to him with his forearms resting on the railing. He finally notices the glow of the pendant hanging on a chain around his neck. It must have made him delirious, he thinks. He decides to go with it until the situation gets out of hand.

“Your Majesty?” he says, turning his body towards the werewolf and standing extremely straight and still.

“Do you know you haven’t paid your taxes even once since my coronation?”

When the King turns his head to look at him, he is sure he looks offended. This is not the direction he thought their conversation would go in. Aside from the fact that they haven’t talked to each other since f*****g forever, he thought that he would never have to talk to someone about taxes ever again.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You haven’t been paying your taxes, Šero,” he says, glancing at him over his shoulder.

He freezes after hearing his name in the most perfect voice in existence before his face falls and eyes narrow, silent anger glowing in his amber eyes.

“I am the leader of the largest vampire coven known to this world,” he says, monotonously, “His majesty will address me accordingly.”

He watches as the King takes a deep breath before speaking, “Of course, Your Highness. I apologize for my misconduct. I will be sure not to repeat it. But we really do have to discuss the matter of your impending taxes.”

“Don’t you mean tax evasion?”

“Have you received the notices we have sent you recently?” he asks, ignoring his correction.

“No, I have not received any notices.”

“Yes, I thought as much. It would’ve been tax evasion if we’d decided to file a case against you,” he explains, “But since we haven’t, it’s just a big misunderstanding.”

“I imagine your council must have had a hard time coming to terms with that.”

“Oh, yes, they did,” he says, raising his eyebrows with a small smirk playing on his lips, “But knowing what a diligent and upstanding vampire you are, I convinced them to let me discuss this matter with you before we rush into anything.”

“I thank His Majesty for his trust,” he says jokingly before neutralizing his tone, “I will speak with my council on this issue. You can expect full payment of all the taxes charged in the next three months from this day on and with interest.”

“I will not take more than what you owe,” he says, standing straight and putting his hands behind his back. He has to look up at him now that his back isn’t hunched. He forgot that he was taller. He tries not to think of all the other things he has forgotten. He freezes again when the werewolf leans closer to him, but the anger in him is gone, vanishing in the air like ashes.

“My council is young, I must admit,” he whispers, as if to stop whoever from listening in on their conversation, “So much they have to discard and learn differently. If you give now, they will keep taking. So, don’t give more than you owe.”

He tilts his head and offers a smile. It isn’t as big as he knows it could be or even happy, but it is the most he has seen in centuries. And then it is gone. In its place are closed eyes and clutched jaws as he moves away. His eyes move away from the werewolf’s face to the pendent, glowing again and his hand twitches with the want to sooth some of the pain. He’d heard the rumors about what the pendent does to the King. But surely it is not as torturous as they say, or so he thinks. He opens his mouth to ask, stopping himself at the very last second. Who do you think you are to him? He thinks, what right do you have to ask of his well-being?

“I must head back inside now,” the King says, “A member of my staff will be sent to your coven to settle the matter. Do join us all. Have a good night.”

He bows almost instinctively and stays that way. The King doesn’t walk away immediately, and he can feel his eyes on him. Before he can look up to see what the problem was, his feet start to take him to the glass doors. Well, I am his subject, technically speaking, so his well-being does concern me, he thinks before he speaks at the very last moment, “Are you well, Your Majesty?”

He turns to look at the werewolf, who stops just a few steps away from the doors. He stares at him and sees how his hands curl into fists and his back tenses when he utters the words, “Yes, I am well, Your Highness. I thank you for your concern. If you’ll excuse me.” And he is finally gone.

He sighs, relaxing against the railing. This night is proving to be more exhausting than he expected, and he doesn’t hunt for a couple of days still. He just wants to be done with it already so that he can rot away in his castle. He finds it strange that he never fell in love with traveling even though he was forced to do so many times in his long life. Even though that’s all he thought of when he was younger, when he was a natural.

He thought of meeting new people and seeing new places and growing close and losing everything before repeating it in a different place with different people. He thought of it so much that his soul knew that any and every type of loss was imminent and so all his grief was delayed because loss is inevitable. His years passed with the thought of traveling but his family never seemed too keen on it. He never understood how they couldn’t find the sea addictive or the views mesmerizing.

All his life he waited to grow old and explore, but when he did grow up, he realized that he’d become too much like his family. He enjoyed the four walls more than the air from the sea, which he’d forgotten the taste of. He enjoyed them so much that he hated his family. It is sad when he thinks that no matter how much his love has grown through the grief of losing all his family, there will always be a part of him that hates them for somehow preparing him for his vampirism and destroying the joy the outside world has to offer.

He looks up at the night sky with barely any stars. I would give anything for the skies of my youth, he thinks, his hand reaching for the sky as if to pull a star from it.

“Master?” Morgan says, stepping outside, “You must return to the hall. The King will be giving his speech concluding the gathering soon.”

He looks at him and sighs again before nodding as he enters the hall of dignitaries both natural and supernatural, followed by his pupil.