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Maman once told him the march must never end.
Maman once told him to build a new kingdom.
Maman once told him to carry on as King.
Maman once told him to...
Her words are ever fleeting, the sound of a ghost trying to breathe. Meursault wakes up each time to the soft remains of her voice. Maman, he thinks first before remembering his new place. She is the Princess who slumbers; he, the defeated Prince now turned King.
Always, in that first moment of rousing, he thinks he’s back there again. With his Family. La Manchaland. Everyone is laughing and smiling, and everyone is screaming and pleading. Always, Maman is there, telling him to be King. And always, he obeys, a good child, a good Prince.
Now, he’s what remains of that old, desolate kingdom. The Third Kindred. Their new King. Everyday is the same. Meursault does what he’s told, and every day, he gets a little closer.
Even when he finds himself yearning to visit the Barber. Even when he wishes to confess again to the Priest. Even when he wants to dance with his Princess, back when the air still sung of the guests' laughter. But like Father, perhaps this is the price of being King.
He was given two rules and no more:
One, the march must never end.
Two, he must raise his kingdom.
(Third, he must live. A whisper that won't quell. Meursault thinks and thinks and cannot unthink Maman’s voice from his mind.)
It takes three months for Meursault to meet him again. Three fleeting months to come face-to-face with his Family’s murderer.
The Firefist Office. The lone survivor.
And the monster of La Manchaland, who reduced his old kingdom into nothing. Meursault remembers the last one the most. It haunts his dreams, sometimes clinging on when he wakes. His Family screams, and he can do nothing but watch as they burn and burn.
Maman, he thinks, because some part of her will always remain - her face shrouded in smoke, hands grabbing him by the shoulders. Each time she does, he can smell her body dissolve into melted flesh and fat. Pressure then rise inside his throat, overwhelming him with pleas and thirst and his Maman’s duty.
Live. Rebuild. Propagate what remains.
On the WARP Train, the monster looks the same as that night. Those eyes so cold and dead, a face lined with a pain Meursault now recognizes. But there is no mask to keep him as a monster to be feared. His prosthetic arm hangs limp at his side. The fuel tanks he carries are nowhere to be seen.
Like this, he looks human. Fragile, almost. Like this, he looks weaker than he has any right to be.
He should kill him, Meursault knows. The monster of La Manchaland has never been more vulnerable. Forced to his knees like a commoner, precious blood dripping like candle wax down his skin. His accursed fire is gone. One swipe of his nails is all he needs to end his life. Just as easily as his flames did to his home, his Family.
Just as easily as it did to Maman.
But her rules echo in his mind, reminding him of what comes first. Vengeance is not what is expected. A kingdom is. And a King needs subjects for him to fulfill that important duty. Meursault sees that bloodlust in his eyes, that ever-rising fire behind his hollow gaze. The desperate need to live stoked by a vengeance that refuses to die.
A strength unmatched by all the other passengers he’s turned.
A King needs a knight to guard his kingdom. A knight needs a purpose for them to carry on. If Meursault can remold that strength for himself…
Yes. It cannot be coincidence that this man is before him now.
It only takes a mere second for Meursault to bare his fangs. For the monster of La Manchaland to realize what is about to happen.
“No, no… I won't let you, get off me, get away!” he hisses. His limbs scramble for purchase, face like an animal backed into a corner. But he is weak now. Human. The squires easily wrestle him in place. His own bared fangs are blunt and useless and everything Meursault’s isn’t.
Meursault draws near, fangs like a razor at his neck. The scent of ash and blood coil heavily around his tongue. Teeth pierce into his jugular, and the man gives an anguished scream. It travels to his blood, so warm and thick - tasting like pain, like hate, tasting like he wants to live and die. Meursault nearly chokes as he laps it all in.
In return, he gives him a new purpose. A new life. A new place.
In return, he makes him his.
(Just like Maman did for him.)
The first month is as expected. Gregor refuses to feed. He bites and growls and lashes out like a feral thing. He refuses to be tamed with his now sharp fangs. He wants to die, Meursault knows. But not before he kills him.
A cycle that will never end, like the blessed Parade. His kingdom.
But that’s fine. Meursault knows how to stay his hand. A kingdom cannot be built in a day; a knight does not become one with just a decree. Meursault pries open his mouth with a mother's patience again, one hand cupped around his jaw, another around a Bloodbag’s throat. The blood gleams like a necklace of red gems. A treasure to be sought by any other Bloodfiend. But to Gregor, he reacts like it’s poison instead.
“I won’t,” he says with a guttural growl. His face has grown sallow, wrinkles everywhere under his eyes. Saliva pours headily as he tries to fight off his thirst. “I won’t become a monster. Big Sis won't forgive me if I do."
What a strange thing to say. None of them are. They're human, even if most still question it. Gregor was more of a monster than any of them were. Laying waste to the buildings that brought the guests so much joy, destroying the Bloodfiends that were simply trying to survive. He’d tortured them for information, too. Burned the blood right in front of their eyes. That was how he got so far.
That was how he managed to destroy them.
“You have no choice if you want to live,” Meursault says. The shriveled corpses they were before could not be called living. Existing, perhaps. But Meursault remembers what living was like. There was no hunger, only happiness. No masks or forced smiles to pretend they were content.
“And if I don’t?” Gregor rasps. "Will you kill me then? Put me out of my misery?" That won’t work on him either, Meursault thinks. Not when he belongs to him. He can bare his fangs all he likes, but he will never be able to kill or goad him into it. Like a child who needs to be taught. He is young. Immature.
Ah. Was this how Maman felt back then?
“Then you’ll never obtain what you seek,” Meursault says simply. He knows Gregor will learn, especially when given purpose. Whether it’s revenge or loyalty - in the end, it’s a reason to keep living.
He swipes his fingers over the Bloodfiend’s pouring neck, slides them into Gregor’s mouth without any warning. Gregor’s tongue laps at it involuntary like breathing. His red eyes widen, pulse racing hotly at the betrayal.
His remaining hand tries to push him away, but Meursault makes him cling on, makes him swallow it all. The first drop of blood is his first step to understanding. More fingers shove down his throat as Gregor gags around him. Drool spills out, and with it, an attempt at bile. Nails and teeth dig erratically into Meursault. Gregor is panicking now, at this blood his body is failing to refuse.
Stop, he hears again and again. He shouts and curses and fights like he might die. The plea only comes when he can’t stop drinking.
It matters not. Meursault will make him yearn for it like he should.
(And in the end, Gregor has never looked more alive and more dead.)
A year passes. The march of time melts into their beings like blood. The WARP train continues as his kingdom grows and grows. Fixers, agents, civilians - they are replenished with each new and sanguine rehearsal. The economy classes are where they gather the most. The passengers there, Meursault finds, are always the most eager to live.
Gregor is quieter now but no less dangerous. He’s only briefly tamed - bowing to his yearning for blood, the hierarchy that now makes up his very essence, his very being. He hasn’t displayed proper behavior yet - always trying to isolate and marching sluggishly along when forced. He does not use his hardblood arm. He does not take any Bloodbags or Bloodfiends.
Sometimes, he tries to protect the passengers instead. Most times, he watches them, newly red eyes betraying his silence.
This time, Meursault finds him looking at a passenger still asleep - a woman with a tired face and long, brown hair. There is a mole right under her left cheek. A small choker wrapped tightly around her neck.
She’s familiar, and it takes a second for Meursault to realize why.
“She reminds you of her,” he says. “The Big Sis you’re so fond of.”
Gregor’s teeth grits, and nails dig into his own skin. Without his cigarettes, he’s taken to injuring himself in more blatant ways. Meursault knows before this ends that he’ll have to force-feed him again.
“Don’t put her name in your mouth,” he hisses. “Not when your kind stuffed her body into those wretched clothes.”
The Barber would’ve snipped off his tongue for that insult. But Meursault simply lets it pass between them. As King, he demands respect. But as King, he knows how to be efficient.
Punishing Gregor now won’t give him what he needs.
“These clothes are required for our roles in the Parade. As Prince, they were to show my status. As King, their purpose remain the same.”
Gregor scoffs, and it’s a dark, cruel sound. “Isn't that a nasty cult. You’re no better than the ones who claimed they were suffering instead.” Then his eyes shift, as if remembering something ugly. He searches Meursault’s face with a gaze he can’t read.
“….You used to be someone, didn’t you? Before they forced you into that fucked-up role of theirs.”
Meursault’s brows furrow in surprise. Gregor rarely asks him of anything, preferring silence instead.
“I was,” Meursault says. “But who I was is the same as who I am now. The only difference is my Bloodfiend status, and—“ He thinks of Maman. “A place to belong. That is all.”
“A place to belong…? Don’t give me that crap.” Gregor’s teeth gnashes. The fangs he despises are buried deep into his lip. He’s injuring himself again, and that makes Meursault feel—something.
The Priest used to do that, when the guilt and self-loathing became too much for him.
“I am only stating the truth. If you do not wish to hear it, do not ask me such questions.”
“Ha… you really are a bastard, aren’t you? As if killing my office wasn't enough for you.”
Meursault’s throat tightens. 671 Bloodfiends killed. 3,449 Bloodbags burned. “You killed my Family as well. I was left as La Manchaland’s only survivor. Are we not the same? Do we not share the same sins? The same fate?”
Gregor’s eyes flare from a simmer to a scorching flame. “Haah... that's some bullshit, isn't it? Trying to act like we've suffered the same. I’m not like you. Not when you—“
”Just like you lost your Big Sis to us, I lost my Maman to you as well.”
Silence. Gregor’s hands clenches and unclenches. His breathes come out ragged. It takes a moment for him to speak again.
“Is that why you turned me?” he says very quietly. “As revenge for killing your mother?”
“No. I was not given such an order. I merely found your strength to be necessary for my kingdom. That is all.”
He recoils as Meursault reaches out to wipe the blood from his lips.
“I don’t want to live like this,” Gregor says. He spits out this like the word is rotting on his tongue. He turns to look at the passenger again, a yearning for bygone days heavy in his red eyes.
“If it pleases you, then that woman can be your—“
”Wings, that just makes me want to vomit. I’m not a monster. I’m not like you.”
This time, when Meursault grabs him, he forces him to kneel. He has his patience, his love, but Gregor can’t keep fighting him forever.
“You’re not. You’re my Child now. My subject,” he says. “As King and the one who've sired you, it is my responsibility to look out for your well-being."
He gestures to a Bloodbag standing idly behind them.
“Most of all, it is my duty to teach you. Open your mouth, Gregor. It’s time for you to learn.”
In the decade that passes, Meursault teaches his Kindred. Before the Parade and after it. Sometimes, behind closed doors if he must. It makes the loneliness easier. Better than it used to be. He wonders if this how it feels, to be like Father. To have favorites.
Gregor is no longer that same, stubborn child. Now a little more broken, he slowly realizes his place. The bite in his voice has mostly dulled into nothing. The flame in his eyes has quieted to a flicker. He still hates him. That, Meursault know will never change.
But everything else can. The way he talks to him, the way he looks at him. The way his body responds to him.
All it takes is time.
Meursault is not cruel. He’s only doing what he’s told. To be the King his Maman ordered him to be, so that the blessed Parade can continue on eternally.
For that purpose, he makes Gregor submit. A King cannot let his unruly subjects be. To do so would bring about that same end again. Meursault remembers La Manchaland before and after Father's return.
Therefore, this is necessary, breaking him in. Teaching him the fundamentals where the hierarchy cannot. A knight must always protect their King just like a child must always obey their parent. Maman never did this for him, but he's seen the Barber do the same for her own.
Wielding that same precision, Meursault searches for Gregor's old wounds. It’s not pain that he hates the most or even the eternity he loathes. Meursault figured that at the beginning, when he saw his body swathed in old burns. When he wouldn’t stop harming himself with scars and starvation afterward.
When even now, he's still waiting for a revenge that'll never bear fruit.
No, the answer is something easier. Human. It’s the pleasure that scares him, as if Meursault has taken something he can't get back. The betrayal of his body is a tool better than what any gouged flesh or cold threats can do. Like nails scrapping at his heart, there are no defenses for this entirely new hunger. His hate does not make him immune, only weaker. Softer.
"Better," Meursault says as Gregor kisses him without teeth. His eyes flare like coals catching a flame. But his mouth remains silent, his body responsive. His hands clench into fists, resisting where his throat can't anymore.
He'll make a fine knight one day, knowing he'll fight this hard for him. There are signs of erosion already. Cracks breaking through. He sits obediently by his side now. Obediently at his place beneath him.
Meursault draws his lips back to him again and sighs. Gregor's hands are wrapped around his throat but no more.