Emerald examined the rough, stone-like cover, attempting to decipher the carvings. "If I'm not mistaken, you know I can't read this ancient script." A look of disappointment washed over Emerald's face, his eyes losing some of their brightness.
"Ohh, sorry, I have something for that." Genna reached into her jacket and handed Emerald a piece of glass. She then turned her attention to the notes and assignments, offering no further conversation.
"I didn't ask you to do that," Emerald said, a hint of color rising in his cheeks.
"Well, we both know what happened with the record you had due yesterday, and you're not seriously considering writing all this work right now. The state of the table suggests otherwise," Genna replied playfully, her voice a soft rasp.
Emerald, taking the glass, returned to his intriguing story.
As Emerald continued reading the script from where Genna had left off, he delved into the story of 'Timothy, son of Tehrur.'
The son of Tehrur's quest for salvation proved fruitless. He journeyed across various lands, and with each step that wounded his feet, he experienced a profound sense of peace and transformation. Reflecting on his bleeding feet, he mused, "These feet, once adorned with the jewels of comfort, now shed blood – a truly wretched sight, yet it reveals my growing humanity."
Upon reaching a small village in barren lands, he was met with jeers and a barrage of arrows. He pleaded with the villagers, "Oh, people of this land, what harm has this poor man ever done to you?" Their hostile replies contained only one word he understood: "jewels of comfort." He realized his opulent attire was the source of their animosity, a symbol of the despised throne.
Casting aside his precious jewels, the son of Tehrur donned a wolf skin he discovered. He eventually arrived at a nomadic herding village nestled in the mountains. Seeing his distressed state, they welcomed him with warmth and kindness. He learned that these people of the outskirts harbored deep resentment towards the capital and the throne, which had sown endless bitterness since its establishment, claiming countless lives and dreams.
Finding solace in this peaceful existence, the son of Tehrur's royal identity was inadvertently revealed by a village girl. Like all royalty, he bore a distinctive mark on his thigh, near his genitals. Ambushed in his sleep by the girl, he narrowly escaped death. Naked and bruised, he fled into the night, scaling the mountain. During his desperate climb, he lost his footing and tumbled down through the dense forests that blanketed the mountainside.
The son of Tehrur awoke to the sight of a roof above him. A woman sat nearby, her voice raspy as she spoke her name: "Ann." That was me.
Emerald, pausing in his reading, looked up at Genna. "Madam Genna," he inquired, "who wrote this book?"
Genna, her pen still gliding across the page, looked up with a profound smile. "Ah, 'Timothy, Son of Tehrur'," she said. "A truly rare find. It was written by a most unusual pair: the first vampire himself, and Anna the Cursed, who was said to be the last true witch."
"So," Emerald clarified, pointing back to the text, "this 'Ann' mentioned here... that's the Anna you were talking about?"
Genna simply nodded, her smile lingering, before Emerald returned to the book, his curiosity piqued by this enigmatic author.
Son of Tehrur, this time, bore the marks of his birth without error, his bruises concealing the tell-tale signs. His will had finally subdued his tongue, and he began the slow climb back to health.
Our village was a sprawling haven, nestled deep within the dense forests of the northern mountains that stretched towards the vast, frozen sea. We were a coven, a community solely of women. The very nature around us had claimed our men, a price for the tranquility it offered. Indulging in intimacies amongst ourselves, seeking solace for our desires within our own sisterhood, we aged, our lineage unbroken but unchanged. We held no trust for the men beyond our borders, and none were born within our secluded haven.
But one day, the rhythm of our lives shifted. Nature, it seemed, finally acknowledged our long patience, bestowing upon us a singular gift. This gift was so rare, so significant, that the entire village erupted in fervent anticipation, each woman yearning to claim a part in its arrival. I, Ann, was the first to find him, and thus, the responsibility of his care during his fragile healing period fell to me. Once he regained his strength, I began to administer herbs, subtly slowing his recovery.
In the interim, whenever the yearning for a man's touch stirred within me, I would lull him into a deep slumber. By the time the Son of Tehrur had fully mended, I found myself halfway with child, carrying his seed within me.
(To be continued)