The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

He squeezes her, not wanting to let go, “Then come back to me,” he replies with a shaky voice.

Forcing herself to let go, she turns away from him and rushes through the door. Todd stands outside with Greystar, tying a satchel onto his saddle. The horse paws at the ground, waiting impatiently. Though she doesn’t need it, Todd gives her a boost up. The horse takes off immediately not needing direction.

As they fly through the town, Mora looks over her shoulder, trying to get one last glimpse of Rick-but she can’t make anything out through her tears. LOSS

The ride through the forest seems to take forever though she doesn’t recall any bit of it. The early morning gloom of the sun behind the clouds fades quickly once she reaches the public road to Derven. Despite the tremendous amount of darkness around her heart, the bright and beautiful day serves as a picturesque reminder of her old, unhappy life. Mora hardly notices anything, counting on Greystar to take her directly to the castle. A million thoughts, regrets and guilts race through her head. She is off of the horse and running through the halls in the castle before she even realizes that she is home.

Taking the twisting and turning hallways at full speed, she almost slips and falls twice on her way to her father’s bedroom. With a great heave she crashes through the doors. The royal doctor and Laren stand next to his bed. Mora runs over, grasping her father’s hand, “Father? Father! I’m here now,” she exclaims breathlessly.

He painfully turns his head towards her; his usually tan face seems deathly pale. She briefly notices the bandage on his chest, covered with blood. The dullness of his eyes tells her that he doesn’t have much time left.

“Out,” he tells the doctor and Laren. They bow, leaving quickly. Mora gets up, sitting on the edge of her father’s bed so she can stroke his face.

He smiles at her, “I’ve missed you, Namora.”

“Don’t talk,” she begs through her tears.

He shakes his head at her, “There is something I need to tell you,” he says, “I don’t have much time so please listen carefully.”

She tries to stifle her sobs when her father squeezes her hand.

“Your mother didn’t die, she killed herself,” he says with no more conviction than talking about the weather.

“What? I don’t understand,” Mora exclaims.

“A long time ago, when I was a little younger than you, I met the most beautiful woman. She fled here, from Sceadu. My father had arranged for me to be married to the oldest daughter of Geofen but when he caught me in the orchard saying goodbye to the woman from Sceadu he immediately called off my marriage because he knew that I loved her. That is how I came to marry your mother.”

“I thought my mother was from Derven?” Mora wonders if her father is losing his mind along with his life.© 2024 Nôv/el/Dram/a.Org.

“No. Years we spent together, deeply in love. I began to grow old but she-she did not; she kept her beauty as perfectly as the day that we met. It was maybe ten years, when she was pregnant with you that she told me her secret.”

“Secret?”

“Your mother was an immortal,” he coughs painfully.

Tears stream down from her face, she looks at her father like he is crazy, “Please father, don’t talk,” she begs.

He shakes his head again, catching his breath and continues, “No one knows why it happens but it just does. Some people are born who don’t age or die like everyone else. Your mother was one hundred and ninety-seven years old when we met; I know child, I found it hard to believe too. Then she told me why she fled from Sceadu.”

“Why?” Even though a majority of her mind does not believe him, a small flicker of curiosity gets the better of her.

“King Irron.”

“The previous one?”

“No, they are one in the same. Your mother was the oldest immortal-the second oldest was born just a few years after her. That child grew to be an evil man who became a King. Irron hunted down all the other immortals and killed them.”

“But why?” The wheels of her mind begin turning.

“Because it is a very difficult thing to kill an immortal and only the immortals have the strength and knowledge to do so. He was after your mother so she fled her long time home in the dark forests to come to Derven. When she became pregnant with you, her heart grew very sad. She knew that he wouldn’t quit until she was dead but she didn’t think herself strong enough to stop him. Your mother did what she thought was right and killed herself so that you and I would be safe.”

“No,” Mora says firmly with disbelief.

Her father points to a box on the night stand, her mother’s box. Mora hands it to him.

“An immortal’s bones are different from a human’s; the outside of them is covered with metal. This metal is found nowhere else and the only thing that is strong enough to pierce that metal is itself.” His voice begins to grow weaker.

She thinks of the day Irron told her he wore a metal vest to protect himself; she was only able to injure him because she cut through his muscle, where there was no bone.

“After you were born, your mother,” the King continues with great sorrow, “locked herself in the throne room. I can still remember the screams,” he begins to cry. “She cut through her chest and broke off one of her ribs so that she could stab herself in the heart,” he opens the box, pulling out a wicked looking curved knife, “before she died she made me promise that when you were old enough and strong enough I would give this to you, so that you could kill Irron and put an end to his cruelty.” He hands her the knife.

It is only when Mora turns it in her hands that she realizes the hilt is made from broken bone and that the blade, a sharp, dark metal, is the size and shape of a rib. She drops it onto the bed in disbelief.

Her father’s breathing becomes labored, “One more thing, quickly child,” he reaches out to her, squeezing her hands in his with the last bit of his strength, “An immortal’s blood is infectious; anyone who drinks it becomes a mindless being who only does what the immortal demands. I have suspected for years that all of Irron’s army has been infected. Since you are half immortal, I don’t think it will have any effect on you but you must beware of any of the Sceadu that try to drink Alumenian blood. The only way to break that curse will be to kill Irron.”

Dark, beady eyes of the Alumenian soldiers. His special wine. Blood. Drinking blood… The wine, from the tree in the cave. “Father,” she says quickly, “I have been drinking Sceaduian wine since I was captured!”

He smiles faintly, “Your mother was a great healer in our lands, though none knew what the secret ingredient in her tonics were.”

“I think I can heal you,” she grabs her mother’s dagger and holds it to her arm only to be stopped by her father. She looks sadly into his fading eyes, “But why?” she chokes out.

“It is your time now,” he smiles.

His grip begins to loosen. Slowly, the smile fades from his face. The light soon vanishes from his eyes. Mora bursts into tears. She leans over his body, stifling her sobs against his skin.

She doesn’t know how long she sat there with her father-minutes? Hours? Days? Time no longer holds any perspective for her. She forces her tears to stop, her body to quit shaking. She makes herself look away from the empty vessel that was once her father. She rises to her feet and her body unconsciously does the rest. Her arms move without direction, pulling open the door. In the hallway, the sun shines brightly through the windows, the day continuing on without her father. She holds the bone knife tightly to her chest. When her feet stop, she forces herself to look around. The doctor rushes past her into the bedroom. Mora’s eyes stop on Laren. Locking the pain down deep inside, she puts it away for a time when she has the luxury of dealing with it. Her voice comes out blank, all of the emotion drained out of her, “The King is dead. Sound the bells.”

Her body carries her over to the bench where Laren is; he stands quickly and signals for a guard to follow her orders. Mora can feel her body defaulting into the perfect posture and she sees her hands folded neatly in her lap around the knife. Laren takes a knee in front of her, placing his fist over his heart.

“What are your orders, Queen Namora?”

She looks at her old friend. Queen Namora… yes, her father is dead, which means that she is now the Queen. She is not prepared for the responsibility but she doesn’t have the leisure to find her courage; death waits for no one. She breathes deeply. Laren looks at her seriously, knowing what she is about to say. She doesn’t recognize the voice that comes out of her mouth, “I declare war against Alumenia. We need to leave tonight-I have suspicions that King Irron isn’t honorable enough to wait the week he said he would.” Her body stands and starts walking down the hall, “I should address the townsfolk now.”

“Perhaps,” Laren rises to his feet, his calming voice stops her, “a change of clothing would be suitable, your Majesty?”

She looks down, remembering that the pants and revealing shirt she grew to know over the past few weeks isn’t exactly proper attire for a Queen, “Yes, that is a very good idea.”

“I’ll let the handmaidens know. I will also have the guards announce your upcoming inauguration,” he bows before walking away.