Second Drop

    Fingers covered with dust.

    Cough cough, cough cough.

    Fingers covered with blood.

    The elder stared at his hand, resigned to his fate. He was lucky in more than one way. To live this old in the current kingdom’s state, this was a feat not given to many. For more than a decade now, diseases have been growing with more abundance than crops. The more the first thrived, the fewer arms there were to harvest the scarce latter ones. After his stepson died a year ago, Grandpa Drakis had no other choice but to resume what he hoped was past him. Labouring, tending to an ungrateful land. Despite his bones cracking from time to time, some louder than others, he couldn’t just give up. In this house of his, there was after all still a young mouth needing to be fed. His granddaughter.

    Ah yes… This was the other reason he was lucky to die.

    So that he wouldn’t get to see Milly’s corpse. It’s been over a week now since the illness gained her lungs, since they forgot they were supposed to let her breathe out air, not blood. When he left for the fields this morning, her heart was still beating.

    Now, leant against the wall of his house, he couldn’t find the strength to stand up. His knees were clement enough to bind him to the ground.

“There’s no more hope for this kingdom…”

    Although, barely did the thought cross his mind before he spotted a pair of legs, a pair of feet stepping closer to him. If Grandpa Drakis considered for a while that it could’ve been a mere neighbour checking if he was already trespassed — in order to deal with his body before death’s fragrance bloomed entirely — the boots intrigued him.

    These were two white boots, speckless. If the colour was peculiar enough, what Grandpa Drakis could hardly believe was how new they were. If he leant forward, he would’ve been able to spot his reflection in them.

“How are you feeling? You should eat a bit.”

    The young man’s voice was soft as he knelt in front of him to offer a piece of bread. It also carried an accent too perfect and immaculate.

“A… noble?”

    Faintly, the old man raised his chin to discern the young man’s face.

    And surprised he was.

    His lilac eyes met Grandpa Drakis’s, his long creamy locks flowing over his shoulder. He wore a crown of gold on top of his head.

“Prince Siméon..?” The elder let out in a wheezing breath.

    No, that wasn’t possible. The prince fell ill, like his father. If he were still alive by now, he would be in no better shape than his beloved Milly. And if he were in good health, why would he risk visiting mere peasants?

    And yet. A nod was the answer he got.

“You don’t have to worry any more. Things will change. I will make out of Pomme Rouge a place where all the breeze carries is the fruity scent of our apples.” The prince paused, frowning ever so slightly. “Will you live to see this day?”

    Before he knew it, Grandpa Drakis’s sunken cheeks were damp from the tears which rolled down them.

    He shook his head, or at least that was the move he attempted to perform.

“It’s too late for me…” He trailed off before, along with hope, fear crawled into his mind. “Please… Please… Instead, give this… give it to my granddaughter. She’s so weak, she has nobody else to count on… please…”

    The prince caught his hand vaguely outstretched between his, his warmth seeping into the elder’s cold joints.

“I swear it to you, I’ll do all that is humanly possible to save her.”

    And, when he noticed the old man’s eyes were losing their glint, Prince Siméon leant forward offer the exhausted peasant a comforting embrace, his hand gently tapping his back.

“You did well.” He murmured. “This nightmare will end. It will.”

    If he could, Grandpa Darik would have scolded the prince for being fool enough to hold the sick, dirty man he was in his arms.

    Although… what he ignored was that Siméon couldn’t fall ill any longer. The pact he had sealed saved him, and unbound his ties to time in a single night.

    Until his last breath, the old man couldn’t decide if the prince’s words were a cruel lie or a merciful dream he would take with him to the afterworld.

── ⋆⋅♰ ⋅⋆ ──

    That day, Siméon failed to keep one of the promises he made to that old man. For, barely had he entered the room when an aggressive stench forced him to pick a silk handkerchief and press it to his nose.

    A bug landed on the lassie’s face when the prince approached her bed. The insect made its way to her open mouth, and inside.

    A quick look around was enough for the prince to note the poverty they lived in. The girl’s bed was the only one. Perhaps the old man sold his to make some money and feed, or try to heal, his beloved granddaughter.

    When Siméon bothered to check her pulse, he perceived its last remnant. Had he bitten her, and perhaps she could have stayed alive.

    But…

“Vampires are known to ransack villages, if not kingdoms. Like they did with Bellemir a decade ago…”

    That wasn’t his wish.

“I don’t want her to risk losing more than her life.”

    He told it to the old man. That he would do what was humanly possible.

    So, instead, the prince made sure that Milly was buried in the finest coffin, and that the previous king himself wouldn’t have been ashamed of her tombstone.

    Many days like this one followed. Indeed, Siméon wanted to see for himself the state of his kingdom. He wanted to bring them comfort, but also to understand better Pomme Rouge’s illness. He already suspected it prior to his incursions in the villages neighbouring his castle. It wasn’t, so to speak, a single disease ravaging the kingdom. There was a multitude of. And, unlike the one he contracted — the same which killed his father before him — most were supposedly easy to heal.

    But the folks’ purses were far too empty to afford medication. It wasn’t exclusively the peasants either. Even the merchants, even part of the low nobility.

“When did Pomme Rouge become so poor?”

    That was something that surprised Siméon. More than surprised, it offended him that his father let his folk live in such indecency.

    He wouldn’t allow it to last.

    Soon, the prince became the king, his crown heavier on his head.

    One of his first decisions was to use the castle’s wealth to offer his folk food. He had to bring it from neighbouring kingdoms in the beginning, for people were too weak to cultivate the lands.

    When they recovered a tenth of their strength, so did the fields.

    The recovery was slow. It was tedious. A step forward often meant two steps back. It was like dancing in the reaper’s arms. Fingers covered in flesh intertwined with cold bones.

    All the while, King Siméon couldn’t help but worry about his own condition. He wondered if one day he would lose his mind too, if he’d end up with urges he wouldn’t be able to contain. And, most importantly, he worried his heart would lose the warmth he held for his folk.

    The sole idea of ending up seeing his folk as mere cattle weighed so much on his shoulders that, whenever he caught himself eyeing a maid with envy, he locked himself in his quarters. He could spend days locked inside. He didn’t cower in fear in a corner of his room, though, but rather tried to reason with himself, waiting for the moment he’d be confident enough to walk among his subjects.

    He simply needed that time, he needed to gain confidence in himself. He needed that time to adapt to what he became.

    And, during these days he’d spend alone, Siméon’s thoughts would often end up circling around that mysterious vampire who visited him when he was at his weakest.

    To what extent was he a creature to fear?

    Naturally, he was dangerous. Siméon had no doubt that if he ever seemed to forget the pact that tied them together, he would return and take everything from him.

    Still, why allow him to leave? If he had wanted mere blood, he would have looked for a healthier human. The thought once crossed his mind that this creature was toying with him, that he only wanted him to live so that he would make his kingdom a healthy one, an ideal hunting ground for a bloodthirsty monster.

    But then, why request of him to kill down to the last vampire?

── ⋆⋅♰ ⋅⋆ ──

    Months, years passed, until Siméon spotted the faintest of hints that his visitor was lurking.

    One day, he was taken by surprise by a moment of weakness. He stumbled. His balance lost, he barely caught himself in his fall, leaning against the wall. A servant helped him regain his quarters where he fell asleep.

    Weren’t vampires supposed to be immune to illness?

    Waking up past midnight, the king made a discovery which gave me a hint at the source of his weakness. Although he preferred to keep it a silent thought, one he didn’t allow to take up too much room. For, what he found in his room was a chalice filled with a crimson liquid.

    A cold breeze brushed his cheek, allowed in by the window left mid-open.

    If Siméon froze at first, unable to avert his soft lilac gaze from the chalice, his fingers curled into a tight fist. He finally reached for it. And poured its content into the closest plant pot.

    Though, if the king hoped that his newly found weakness would remain but a rare occurrence, in a month’s time his case worsened. To the point that a rumour, according to which the king was ill again, began to spread. Siméon knew that if he did nothing, this would end up dampening his folk’s mood. That all his efforts would be lost.

    Once more, it was midnight. Once more, a chalice filled with rusty liquid laid on his bedside table. Sat on the edge of his mattress, the king considered it with a conflicted gaze.

“Quit looking at it with disdain.” A voice heard a single time yet already etched in his mind scolded Siméon.

    A sigh. Thoroughly annoyed.

“How much more blood do you have to spoil?”

    At his visitor’s complaint, Siméon raised his eyes towards the window.

“Not a single drop more if you stop bringing it to me.” Siméon tilted his head, his voice ever so poised.

    Raising his chin, the vampire glared at the king for an unnerving while, the clock’s pendulum ticking each second away with the impatience of an executioner’s axe.

“That’s mere fowl’s blood.” The intruder sharpened his crimson gaze.

“Which kind of fowl?” The king’s smile sharpened in reply.

    For some reason, the vampire’s anger seemed to flare down, a jaded look replacing it.

“It’s not human blood.”

    In truth, Siméon knew there was no escape from it. It was unwise to keep worrying his people. Still, part of him remained reluctant. Like a child carefully isolating his vegetables in a corner of his plate, as if they were poison to his soul.

    Siméon’s fingers tightened over his knees.

“Maybe I’m allergic to blood.” He averted his gaze, his smile slightly exasperated.

    No words answered him. Instead, footsteps growing closer let him know that the vampire was drawing closer to him. His pace mirroring his annoyance.

    But before the king deemed it necessary to glance at him, a firm hand connected with his jaw. Forcing Siméon to meet his gaze.

“Maybe the wise king of Pomme Rouge needs someone to feed him.”

    With a pressure of his fingers, the vampire was compelling Siméon’s lips to unseal. Seizing the chalice with his free hand.

“Nghh…”

“Or do you lack the determination you had back then to save your kingdom?”

    The king’s gaze flickered at these words. More affected by the argument than he wanted to admit, it was enough for his intruder to make him open his mouth. Forcefully pouring the thick, ferrous liquid down his throat.

    Gulp after gulp, the blood made its way to the king’s innards.

    It didn’t take long for Siméon to clutch the golden-haired man’s wrist. Although, despite the pressure he applied, it didn’t erase the satisfied smile over the vampire’s face.

── ⋆⋅♰ ⋅⋆ ──

    Shortly after that night, the rumours about the king were alleviated. Not fearing to weaken before his folk again, Siméon resumed his frequent visits to town. He made sure that the guards, that the low nobility followed his instructions.

    The last death was never the last. Until it was. Or, well, the last caused by the epidemic.

    The lands, the fields were healing along with its people. The air was becoming breathable. Over the years, it gained a fruity note.

    Pomme Rouge was once more a kingdom Siméon could contemplate without feeling a pang in his heart.

    Yet…

    He was aware that this newly gained balance was a fragile one. He was in no condition yet to honour his promise to the vampire. It wasn’t possible to stagnate for too long either, or his kingdom would end up targeted by the very threat he aimed to exterminate.

    Hence, King Siméon kept discreetly setting his pawns on the board without alerting the population. For years now, he’s been able to set in place a more generous wage for the kingdom’s guards and knights. The official reason was to reward these men without whom he would’ve been unable to assist the agonising folk. The less official one was that the king wanted to entice more people to join their ranks. He made sure they were trained well, for a hand holding a knife, unknowing of the art of combat, was a hand holding a twig.

    But these weren’t the only doings of the king.

    He also tended to his relationships with the neighbouring kingdoms. A special rank was created for merchants approved by Siméon. They were sent, trading only the finest goods, collecting the rumours the king seemed to only humour listening to. Yet, in truth, he was searching for information about the vampires. Where they thrived, where they last attacked. But also which kingdoms feared them the most. He made sure to tighten his bond with the latters.

    A cornered creature is more likely to pounce all claws out. These would be the allies they would need in order to accomplish the feat of defeating the vampires.

    Less than a decade later, Pomme Rouge was finally ready to fight the threat endangering its folk. By that time, they began to notice that their king wasn’t aging. But, if some suspected the truth, there were none to be found badmouthing or fearing Siméon. He was the Wise King, adored by his people.

    As for their first target, it was a blatant choice in the king’s eyes. The kingdom which fell under the yoke of these bloodthirsty monsters. Bellemir.

── ⋆⋅♰ ⋅⋆ ──

    The king’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridor. Crimson splatters sullied the whole place. Some recent, others long now dried. Soaked into the wallpaper as if they were part of it.

    Months went by before humans managed to take control over Bellemir’s castle. In truth, it was unexpected for them to win so quickly. But it was also the only way they could achieve to drag victory to themselves. For, with their vitality which knew no bounds, if the conflict lasted for ages, vampires would have simply won. There was no chance for mortal creatures to offer them a decent distraction in an endurance challenge.

    Or, at least, not without the cost of too many sacrifices.

    Hence, King Siméon placed his bets on a more cunning approach to the matter. To unsettle these fierce creatures, he decided to claim that fallen kingdom where most of them gathered over the last decades. He planned the assault carefully. He even had his craftsmen conceive peculiar balloons which floated while carrying holy water. His warriors launched them over the most populated places, archers piercing them with their arrows. Some described a rain, the vampires writhing under the droplets.

    Yet, despite his recent achievements, the intruder who once offered him eternity didn’t show himself. In truth, he didn’t appear before Siméon’s eyes after that night he forced him to feed on blood. Still, the king knew he was close. Once in a moon, a rusty offering appeared in his room.

    Observing the remains of Bellemir’s glory, Siméon’s lilac eyes searched for hints of the royal presence permeating these walls long ago. There was something he wanted to ascertain. A doubt, a possibility suggested by his instinct.

    Lying in a corner, a teddy bear leant against the wall. Stuffing agglomerated over a large cut, one of his ears was covered in mould. Siméon’s jaws tightened at the sight.

    It wasn’t long after Bellemir knew its tragic fate that Pomme Rouge began decaying.

    At last, the king reached a hallway adorned with giant paintings framed in gold. The portraits of the royals.

    Step after step, he crossed that place, his eyes scanning the paintings.

    Until one made him pause.

    Shifting his weight, his white boots turned to face a certain portrait. Covered in scratches where vampires’ claws had unleashed their fury, the figure was still recognisable.

    That of a young man dressed in white silk, his golden hair barely touching his shoulders. A hand leant against his hip, an air of confidence pervaded his expression.

“I want you to promise me that you’ll exterminate down to the last vampire.”

    The words echoed in the king’s mind, reluctant to understand what it entailed.