Archive of My Own

Morgan learned from a very young age that the wisest thing a man could ever do in a fight is run. His mother taught him that, saying that there is nothing worth resorting to violence for. But the second thing he learned, after she died, is that most fights only last around ten counts because most well-adjusted people, even the best so-called monster hunters, aren’t properly trained in extensive combat— not everyone grew up like him and his little sister, never playing fair in their training because there is no such thing as honor in true fights.

One. Morgan clutches his mother’s dagger, sidestepping the sword the man swings toward him. 

Two. He sends his feet kicking against the woman’s shin as she’s about to turn to behead him. Did she really think she was about to kill Morgan the same way she killed mother years ago? It’s nearly laughable.

Three. The woman stumbles to the ground and the man screams as he realizes that his blade had just met the wrong person.

Four. Morgan turns around and swings his hand as the distraught man, tears streaming down his face, drops the golden sword. He gives up and Morgan takes the chance because playing fair has never been his principle. With one smooth cut delivered by the platinum blade, the man’s body joins his wife’s. Blood slowly flows on the marble floors— Atharian nobility and their love for marble— and Morgan simply… watches.

Five. He stands in the middle of an ugly scene. A mess of limbs, of flesh, of blood. Illuminating the truth of this situation, sunlight leaks through the curtains because the two dead fools thought they could stop a vampire with the sun. Did they think it was that easy?

Did you really think it was that easy? Did you think you were the fucking hero of an action story, the conqueror of all evil, the one who will avenge your parents, bring them back? Did you really think you can get away with this? Because you AREN’T, MORGAN. YOU CUT THEM UP INTO PIECES THE WAY FATHER TAUGHT YOU TO BECAUSE HE TOLD YOU THAT’S HOW YOU CUT PREY BUT YOU FORGET THAT YOU CANNOT KILL WHAT CANNOT DIE. DO YOU THINK YOU CAN SILENCE THE GUILT? DO YOU THINK KILLING THESE HUMANS WILL MAKE CARMILLA SMILE AND BRING ERIS BACK FROM THE ASHES? YOU’RE STAINING THE FAMILY NAME WHEN IT WAS NEVER EVEN YOURS TO DRAG THROUGH THE MUD IN THE FIRST PLACE. THIS WAS NEVER, EVER YOURS TO TAKE. YOU DISGRACE THEM. HOW WILL YOU FACE THEM, KNOWING YOU TAUGHT YOUR SISTER TO KILL, TO BE CRUEL? SHE USED TO HAVE A KIND LIGHT IN HER EYES BUT WHEN SHE TURNED THIRTEEN AND WAS STARVING, BEGGING FOR BLOOD, YOU COULDN’T EVEN GIVE YOURS UP AND INSTEAD DRAGGED A SIREN’S BODY TO HER FEET AND TOLD HER TO DRINK. SHE WAS CRYING AND ALL YOU DID WAS PAT HER BACK AND TELL HER IT’S OKAY. WHEN BLOOD WAS ALL OVER HER FACE AND SHE SHIVERED IN FEAR, YOU SMILED AND TOLD HER YOU’VE TAKEN CARE OF IT, WHEN BEHIND YOUR BACK, YOUR HANDS WERE SHAKING. YOU ARE A FUCKING COWARD, YOU KILL, YOU LIE. YOU HEARD ERIS CRYING A FEW ROOMS AWAY AND ALL YOU DID WAS SIT IN YOUR BED AND AIMLESSLY STARE AT THE WALL IN FEAR. YOU SAW YOUR FATHER DROP TO THE GROUND AND ALL YOU DID WAS PUT A HAND TO YOUR MOUTH TO HOLD BACK YOUR BILE. AND WHEN YOUR MOTHER WAS BEHEADED, ALL YOU DID WAS RUN EVEN IF SHE WAS THE ONLY WOMAN WHO EVER CARED FOR YOU AND LOVED YOU. YOUR TRUE MOTHER LEFT YOU BECAUSE SHE COULDN’T STAND TO LOOK IN YOUR FACE AND PRETEND THAT SHE LOVED YOU EVEN FOR JUST ONE MOMENT AND THE ONLY GOOD THING YOU DID WAS DISTANCE YOURSELF FROM YOUR SISTER AND TELL HER TO PRETEND SHE NEVER EVEN KNEW YOU BECAUSE YOU KNOW. YOU KNOW, MORGAN, YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE DOWNFALL OF YOUR SISTER. IT HAS ALWAYS BEEN YOU.

Six. He washes his hands and looks at the mirror.

Seven. A pristine-looking man stares right back at him.

He doesn’t recognize the man in the mirror.

Eight. The mansion is as silent as ever, as though it was a home for ghosts. His boots click against the clean, polished marble floor. The curtain is gently pulled to the side with a maroon ribbon tastefully holding it in place. The afternoon sun casts its light in panels.

Nine. The air smells like leather.

And ten, at home, he sits in the dining room and raises a glass to his sister who looks equally delighted. He pushes a plate toward her.

Carmilla smiles and takes the fork. She pokes the food on the plate and says, “You missed me, huh? I guess I should be gone a lot more frequently.”

“Good. Less people bugging me,” Morgan says before taking a sip of wine. Less voices, you mean?

“Blegh,” Carmilla sticks her tongue out. “You cook me a meal when I visit so what does that say about you?”