A Flawed Perfection

By DxDevlin

Disclaimer: I own nothing the plot

Summary: Duke Devlin's real name is Bukerye, just like every man in his family for centuries. His family was cursed with the gift of perfection, a curse that was out to destroy him. With the descendent of their curser right under his nose, he can destroy it-, right? But things aren't always what they seem…

Author's Note: Don't know why I wrote this. I like it though. I made it up as I went along. If it looks boring in the beginning, keep reading. It gets more interesting. And by the way, 'Duke' is Duke Devlin, the Dungeon Dice Monster guy…remember?

Chapter 1:

Bukerye

Bukerye. That was the despicable, unfortunate name given to Duke by his all-too-loving mother. The correct pronunciation was 'Byuke-er-rye,' but that sounded no less inviting than dinner with a conceited Englishman. Duke preferred it as 'Buck-er-eye,' but where would anyone get with a kiddy and much too playful name such as that? His friends taunted and tormented him relentlessly about his cursed name, hooting like wild animals and forming rings around him. They were innocent, he knew; they were his buds, but the shameful lashing had gone deep within him, nestling a small spot in the back of his heart.

It wasn't Duke's mother's fault that he had to be stuck with such a distasteful name. It wasn't his father's fault, either. Nor his grandparents. Nor his great-grandparents, for that matter.

The fault could only be fairly placed on Bukerye Devlin, his great-great-great-grand-uncle. This was a man born with deliciously good looks. At least, that was what all the women of his time declared. His flattering hair was dark, shiny, and as smooth and slick as oil. His deep eyes were as dark and mysterious as a storm looming on an open sea. His skin could be described as velvety, if such a thing was possible. It was tanned to a crisp, almost, every inch of it.

…but details aren't necessary.

Bukerye was a god with women. They deified him; crept over him like snakes slithering on prey. Well, except that he wasn't prey. He was their god. They worshipped him. They served him. They did anything to get their thirsty hands on him. He didn't even have to talk. A nod, a flip of the tongue, and the swish of his hair were enough to lure anyone. He would mumble his 'mmmm…s' and 'ahhhhhh…s' and the ladies would mumble 'Bukerye, Buuuukeryyyyyye…,' every time glorifying his name.

But not everyone revered him. A nobleman named Lasquar, in particular. Lasquar was far more sophisticated and heaps smarter, but his looks weren't so fortunate. He was hard-core and sly, and the attention Bukerye received from the ladies was far too disgusting for him to tolerate. So Lasquar cursed this Bukerye, to put it simply.

Curses don't exist, they say.

They do, actually, just not in any describable form, whether physical or not. There is impenetrable magic in this world, and there has always been. These invisible, untouchable, inaudible forces are in the air, in the water, in our bodies. Most walk blindly through life, ignorant of them. But not everyone. Some people manage to infiltrate these forces. They train their minds to do the impossible. They are the Enlightened Masters; the ones who pick out pebbles in the air and walk on them; the ones who can curse people for eternity.

Lasquar was one of them. He put a curse on Bukerye that was so lethal and toxic, yet so magnificent and splendorous that it was almost like the gift of death.

It was the curse of perfection.

Well, for the men, at least. "Every son that you shall bring into this world shall be name Bukerye," Lasquar had whispered wickedly. Then he left. The curse was set. Every son from the time of the first Bukerye Devlin was named Bukerye. If there were brothers, they would be named Bukerye I and II. If there were girls, they would be dubbed common names by their parents. But the men were all cursed, if that's what you'd call it. They were cursed with deliciously good looks, a godlike way with women, the drive to succeed, a flawless life…

But even perfection had flaws.

With each generation of men, that one statement was realized, grasped, comprehended. The drive to succeed was intolerable. The generations of Bukeryes pushed themselves mercilessly at every chance, every opportunity; it forced them to writhe in intolerable wrath at every opportunity wasted. The deliciously good looks were soon to become bitter as the men simply became nauseous of their attractiveness. Hours of excitedly examining every pore, every hair on their bodies transformed into hours of compulsively obsessive hours of disgust. The women; they would crawl over the men like wild beasts looking for prey, except that once again, the men were gods. The women were untamable, it seemed. The Bukeryes produced children after children; the women were so crazy. The prospect of settling down soon vanished into the air, just like the Bukeryes' happiness. The family tree spread like a bushfire in the midst of damp trees, but rarely did one get married. Still, every son was named Bukerye. Every one. And every Bukerye was cursed, just like the first one.

Lasquar had been quite smart.

Actually, his first name was not Lasquar. That was his last name. His first name had been Dilan, pronounced 'dee-long,' the French way. He was their curse. Their enemy. Their vengeance.

And he was right under Duke's nose. Well, that wasn't his name, actually. It was Bukerye. But the tormenting had shattered Bukerye from the day he met his first friend, so he changed it to Duke. Duke Devlin. It sounded noble, it sounded royal, it sounded suave. It sounded perfect.

One more thing added to his perfect life.

It wasn't that bad, like all the other Bukeryes. It was a sign that the curse was wearing off. Or at least the Bukeryes were beginning to fight it. Duke didn't care about his looks as much as most of his friends. He was more laid back, letting nature take hold of his life. He went to school, he hung out with friends.

He had already invented his own game.

The curse was clearly taking control of his life, it seemed. Dungeon Dice Monsters, he had called it. He invented it and became its one master. He obsessed over it day after day, night after night. He changed colors, he added new rules. He knew that there was no such thing as 'perfect,' yet he strived to reach it. It was playing with his mind.

So the day he found out about Dilan Lasquar, his life changed. When he found out that a best friend of his was Dilan Lasquar's great-great-great-grandson, he thought he was going to have a heart attack. He did almost, actually. And he probably would have died.

But Dilan Lasquar had not given the first Bukerye the gift of luck.