Incompatible

Prologue

Seven years before...

"Lucien, come to my wing." My father gruffly commanded me through a servant. I wonder often if he remembers that I'm his son, not a worker. I stand reluctantly from my perfectly polished wood desk, intricately engraved with shapes of flames. They look to be somewhat angry, yet peaceful.

I push my red velvet stool under the desk covered in paper and ink. Papers scrawled over in writing my thoughts and ideas. It's supposed to be an attempt at organizing my mind. It's having the opposite effect.

I walk over to my bedroom door, the heels of my shoes clicking on the floor. I open the door and step into the hallway, which is unusually empty. I close the door to my bedroom behind me, walking in the direction of my father's wing.

The corridor's walls are covered in red wallpaper, tiny gold flames all over the wallpaper. Some of the flames look almost like the shape of water droplets, but I suppose that's just from fading over the years.

The floors are a smooth black marble. The ceilings have chandeliers hung, sparkling with diamonds and gold. There are occasional tables along the hall, only for decoration. There are also famous artworks on the walls. I stop when I see a new one. I trace my fingers along its gold frame. The portrait is of a beautiful siren. My father has a fondness for the sea and the creatures within it. Sirens, especially, even though he's aware that they're not friendly. I haven't a clue why he's so drawn to them. It's honestly ironic, since our kind is prone to heat and fire. Water is our weakness. It's best to stay away from all things having to do with it.

I take back my thin fingers, my nails a natural deep red. My eyes find their way back to the corridor before me. I fix my posture and walk in the direction of my father's wing.

I arrive there, only to see him waiting for me. He looks... unwell. His usually sleek and clean outfit is wrinkled and rugged.

"Father? Are you alright?"

His eyes seem pained. I assume not.

"It... it's your mother." He chokes out, his voice strained and quiet.

My eyes widen.

My mother...

She's been sick for about four years. I seriously thought she was getting better...

Without a word to my father, I rush past him, into their bedroom. There she is. My frail, weak, pale, mother. She's lying on the bed in what looks to be an uncomfortable position: flat on her back, arms directly to her sides.

I feel a lump form in my throat.

No.

I rush over to her, my movements sharp. I kneel at the side of the bed beside her. I take one of her hands in mine. Her beautiful red veins now a light orange shade.

She's gone.

No, no, she can't be! There's still so much we need to do.

I stand, towering over her. My eyes burn, my face heating. My eyes spill with some sort of liquid for the first time. I gasp. I wipe the liquid from my face, blinking the rest of it in my eyes away.

My father enters the room. "She's gone."

For once, silence is unbearably loud.

I usually like the quiet.

Not today. Maybe not ever, anymore.

I'm not sure.

I don't know.