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She found him sitting on the ground, his breath heavy.
Some part of her wanted to ignore it. She might have forgiven the boy somehow. But not him. Not the self-crowned king. He had been the one to kill Carmilla, and no matter how much she knew that Carmilla would have died either way, she could not look at him and see anything but the murderer of her sister.
Morana could sense he was weak. He smelled weak. Hungry. She could hear his heartbeat as well. It seemed that he was not well. Of course he was not. He was a proud man, and a proud man like him would not sit on the floor in the corridor of his castle.
He had not noticed her. While he was perceptive, she was ancient. It took no effort for her to be noiseless. It happened without her even thinking about it. And she was still a good eight yard away from him.
He had drawn his knees to his body, breathing slowly.
There was something else in his scent. Something sweetly. It took her a moment to realize the origin of it.
Ah. Right. He was a proud man, but he was devout as well. And his devotion to his god showed in him flagellating himself again and again. Some times those wounds would become infected. She had known about this before.
That was why he smelled of fever, too.
He was not the kind of person who would get sick. Despite him coming from a warmer place – much like her – he had only gotten the coughs twice since he had crowned himself king.
She could not forgive him. She could not. He had killed her sister. He had killed Carmilla. Even though Carmilla would have died either way. She knew that. Striga was right.
She did no longer hate him. Not fully. She could see the things he was besides being the killer of her sister. He cared about the people. He cared about Striga. He cared about the boy, about Hector. And Hector, for better or worse, was her friend. He had become her friend.
So, she could no longer hate him.
But she would not forgive him. Not like this. Not like she had forgiven Hector. Because Hector had not been the one to kill Carmilla. It had been the self-crowned king.
She stood there. At least for a minute. Looking at the man. He was wearing robes of red, yellow, and black. Robes as she knew the people from his cultures wore. He had never conformed to the way royalty in these lands would dress. He was himself. He would not compromise on this.
Finally she broke her silence, went over to him. She pursed her lips, feeling her own fangs against them. But then she spoke. “It does not befit a king to sit on the ground.”
He raised his head, looking up to her. His eyes were just a bit glassy, telling her she was right about him having a fever.
“I…” He fell silent after this one word. Seconds passed. “I am just a bit dizzy.”
Often times she had wondered, if he even felt the pain from his open back. It appeared often that he didn’t. Maybe he had just gotten that used to it that it did no longer register to him.
She had him seen injured. He rarely reacted to it.
“Let’s get you to your room,” she said. She hated it, but she held out the hand to him.
Another moment passed, but then he took her hand, allowing her to pull him up.
She was not a strong vampires. She was not like Striga. But she was still a vampire and stronger than a human could ever be. She pulled him up easily. Then she put his arm over her shoulder, because he was swaying.
Wasn’t it silly? So often over those last years had she fantasized about killing him, and avenging the two sisters she had lost. But she understood now that it would not bring them back.
She had understood it all along, of course. And yet, she could not shake the feeling that it would have felt good never the less.
It had been like that for Carmilla, no? The anger had felt good. Punishing the world that had harmed her had felt good. At least for the moment.
“I can walk on my own, Morana,” the self-crowned king said.
“You cannot,” she replied. And she kept holding him up. Even through the robes she could feel his fever.
Hector would have to help him. He understood medicine by now. He understood how to heal the human body.
There was a deep irony to it. No magic could do it. There had been magic once. So far along that even to her it was just the whisper of a memory. But she knew that back when her kingdom was still standing, before her culture had been ground to sand by the never stopping maws of time, there had been magic that could heal the body. But even she had forgotten how it was cast. Everyone had. Because her culture was gone, and so much of the knowledge that had existed back then had as well. She was the only one to remain. The only witness. And her memory was holding onto stories, not knowledge. Because no mind was made to remember that much.
She did not fully understand it. Why he was whipping himself. He said it was to open himself up to his god, and maybe it was. She did not know. Because she knew that his god was not real. She had been walking this earth for millennia. She had been alive before people had even prayed to his god. She had been alive before people believed in hell and heaven and this one god. She had been alive when that god had been part of a pantheon, before some of his followers had elevated him above the other gods, before they had called the other gods demons. She might not remember it. But she knew it.
She knew that once she had been a goddess. Or at the very least the people had treated her like it. Maybe his god had once been like her. Or he had been made up. More than enough of the gods mortals had prayed to over the years were.
But the self-crowned king would not hear it. He would insist on flagellating himself to show… what? His loyalty to his god.
She really did not know.
But she got him to his rooms. The ones he was sharing with Hector.
He fell onto the sofa in the sitting room with a deep sigh.
Of course it was dark outside. She would not be up otherwise. But the silvery light of a half-moon was falling through the wide windows of the room.
“You will kill yourself one day,” she said, her voice softer than she had intended.
“If I do, it might be my time to die,” he replied.
She paused, looking at him. Wondering what she would feel if he died. Or rather when he died. He was mortal. Even if his dead would not happen young, he would eventually die. How old would he get? Sixty years maybe? Seventy? He was in his thirties now. What were another thirty years for her who had lived millennia?
“I thought it was against the laws set by your god,” she said. “I read the book. I heard the songs. Your god forbids you to kill yourself. I know many of your faith forbid any sort of harm of their own bodies.”
“Not quite,” he said. “People differ. It is tatbir. To remember those who died for the faith.”
“Is that really why you do it?”
At this question he was silent. A silence that spoke more than any words could.
She watched him. He shifted just a bit, not meeting her gaze for a moment. Normally he would do this. Would just meet her gaze, but right now he did not.
Of course she knew that she should not care. She should not. He was after all the man who killed her sister. He was a self-crowned king, who did not deserve the crown he had taken. Not that he was wearing an actual crown. He had refused it. Because he did not see himself apart from the people.
She knew quite a bit about him by now. About the place he had come from. Or rather the non-place. Growing up nomadic before being taken. Being a slave. Freeing himself. Surviving by violence. Serving Dracula. Feeling a righteous hatred against the world. And then letting go of it.
He was loved.
He was.
Hector loved him. Quite a few of the people did. A different love of course than that between him and Hector. But love non the less. Even Striga loved him. Like a brother. Like she had once love Carmilla.
She did not. Morana did not.
She did no longer hate him. But it was not love she felt.
But maybe, just maybe, she did not want him to die.
“I am going to get your boyfriend,” she said, her voice dry. “I would advise you to lie down a bit. Humans should sleep in the night after all.”
Now his gaze met hers. And for a moment he held it. Then he nodded. “I will.”
That was all there was to say. She turned. And left. The boy – Hector – he would very likely be in the stables. She had a feeling he was. He would be able to take care of the self-crowned king. At least he cared.
