The Cursed: Threads of Destiny

Kinara - III

She doesn’t like change. She has known 5 people who were there her whole life—one has died and one has gone and lost his mind—if order is disrupted in the remaining three, all she has to do is remain passive and everything will go back to the way it should. She is not fond of people knowing her and expecting to continue that relationship. What would she even talk about? All she does is go back and forth between her home and the tunnel. Friendships remain strong when there is something to share by everyone involved. She doesn’t want anyone who won’t stay forever—and no one, not even the cursed supernaturals, stays forever.

“How ‘bout ‘Browny’ with a y?” Vivian says. She sounded sure—even if she says that she dislikes the name, she would keep calling her that.

“To compliment your eyes,” she continues, pausing for a moment, “Yeah, I like Browny. So, tell me Browny, where are you taking us?”

Nowhere I want you to be, she thinks, narrowing her eyes and taking the last turn.

“Wait, did you mark the trees?” she says, “Very subtle—had me wondering what they were.” She sounds impressed, as if she achieved some great feat.

She speaks, again after remaining silent for a few moment, “Are you not going to talk? I didn’t mean to ask, but I’m too curious. Wait—do you have like selective mutism? I had a classmate who had that. Wouldn’t speak, but she was tough as nails, not gonna lie. Maybe she just wasn’t good with words.”

“You shouldn’t assume,” she says, slowing down as the sound of the river fills her.

“Oh, wow,” Vivian whispers, moving to stand next to her, “How’d you find this?”

She looks at her and finds her looking back, expectedly, and says, “It found me. I was wandering and it found me.”

“Neat. Come here often, Browny?”

“Every now and then. The moon’s looks nice from that rock there,” she says, pointing a rock larger than both of them. If she’s going to give up her place of comfort, might as well do it with grace. She looks at Vivian, acknowledging her height and other features. She would make a good fighter, if she isn’t one already, she thinks. Her body is lean with good enough muscles in her arm and legs, plus points for have a metal arm. Her attacks would be quick and deadly. She nods in approval.

Vivian shifts her gaze from the rock to meet her eyes. The wonder and playfulness had vanished from her eyes and she walks backwards, creating a distance between them as if she’s realising that talking to strangers in woods is not a good idea.

“You’re-you’re not like those people, right?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Those people?”

“People who do rituals to turn them into supernaturals,” she says, taking another step back.

“And if I am? What will you do?” she says, indulging once more, locking her hands behind her back, “If I am a ritualistic, then I’ve clearly done it before. How do you know I haven’t succeeded before this? If I have, then how do you expect to get out of here?”

Something shines in Vivian’s eyes when she says those words. Some of her initial amusement returns with a hint of fear, but mostly realisation. She stops in her tracks and raises an eyebrow as a smile stretches across her lips. She shakes her head as if to discard her words.

“I don’t believe you,” she says, “You’re too young. Older people are obsessed with living forever and having power. Youngsters like you already believe that they are powerful and immortal. It’s very sad, if I’m being honest.”

“Strange to say that when you yourself are young.”

“I never said I don’t feel powerful and immortal, Browny,” she says, walking closer to her.

She blinks as her eyes widen in surprise—a question comes to her mind. People love to gossip. The world may turn in the other direction and war may throw everyone in the fire, but people love to gossip. She remembers a rumour going around in the place she was held at—they never thought to shut up while working on her—that there exists a group of supernaturals who refuse to come forward because they hold all the strings. They don’t need to reveal themselves. If something doesn’t go the way they want it to, they can simply turn the tide. She forgives her kind for their lack of imagination for naming these people the Immortals.

There is a voice in the corner of her mind that screams at her to leave this place and go back home. Home is secure—she can handle any danger from her home. She doesn’t have a home.

“Are you one of them?” she asks, closing her eyes to concentrate on bringing her energy to the surface.

“One of whom?” Vivian says as if indulging in play with her prey. When her eyes start to burn, she opens them, clenching her jaws as the fire travels down her exposed arms and burn her skin. The pain is too familiar, but it’s still pain, unfortunately. The flame in her hands is controlled and ready to kill if needed.

“Oh,” she says, looking at her with strange eyes when a chuckle escapes her mouth and turns into a laugh. She steps closer to her, and her flames rise slightly as she says, “Would you like to know, Browny? What I am?”

Ugh, I can’t kill her if I’m not sure if she is one, she thinks as her burn descends, They will not accept another mistake. The burns on her arms heal as soon as she begins to take back her energy. It’s an exhausting process but useful when it’s needed. She decides that she needs evidence. If she is what she suggests, then she cannot be allowed to escape their grasp. And if she turns out to be important, then their chances of completing their ultimate mission would soar tou the sky.

“How about this?” she says, “ You tell me what you are and I’ll tell you what I am.”

“Sure. In your own time, Vivian,” she says, turning around and walking away, “Have a good night.”