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DVD commentary 1: Als Es Sommer War
For
assimbya, Als Es Sommer War, DVD commentary edition. Same warnings as the initial story - slash, angst, bloodplay, BDSM, humiliation, dubious consent.
This was not the first part of Roses for Lucifer I'd written (more like 6th or 7th), though it's the chronologically earliest of the ones I've finished so far. There will be another dealing with Johannes von Krolock's last days as a human being, if only because publishing plans would require there not to be a gay BDSM sex scene in the first chapter. On re-read, I've noticed that I must have subconsciously planned that even then - note how the whole initial scene proceeds without mentioning that Johannes is a vampire, and the only flashback given is to events that passed between his awakening as a vampire and this moment. It also contains a longer flashback on Izabela von Krolock, but now that I've planned out Schatten, the preceding chapter, I see that in that one, we won't get to see Iza through Johannes' eyes at all. It's only here that the reader sees how much Johannes loved her.
Als Es Sommer War was written over the course of two months, while trading snippets and bouncing ideas off
fyrie, who rocks to the high heavens.
ALS ES SOMMER WAR
Castle von Krolock, the border of Transylvania, Holy Empire of the German Nation, Summer of the Year of Our Lord 1617
I'm still not quite sure where Castle von Krolock is, exactly. I thought it would be the southern Hungarian-Transylvanian border, but I forgot that parts of Hungary were under Turkish rule at the time, so I had to move it further north. I don't think I'll ever pinpoint the exact location, though after the First World War it'll end up in Romania.
The pain tore through him, unrelenting, merciless.
For over three hundred years, the chapel had housed Mass and vigils, christenings and funerals. The stones themselves had soaked in the sanctity of words and water spilled, until even the carved doorframe burned him as he leaned against it. Inside the chapel, the darkness was barely muted by starlight falling through the window, soft and charcoal-grey.
If you haven't noticed yet, Johannes von Krolock is a baroque poet. Not a particularly good one. It makes for frustrating writing from his POV, because he insists on using convoluted imagery and more adverbs and adjectives than I'm comfortable with. Fortunately in this story, he's too burdened by angst to really let loose with the verbiage.
Johannes von Krolock forced his feet to move, to take one last step into the chapel. His knees gave out under him, and with the slowness of the setting moon he fell to the floor.
Even the floor had echoed to the words of thousands of rituals. Now it was ice under his cheek, leeching the semblance of life from him as he struggled to turn his head. But now he saw it.
The last carved tomb in a long line of his ancestors, the other side of the chapel still empty to receive the bones of those that would come after him. A place beside that tomb left still, though the coffin - the one ordered when Johannes had been ill and all thought he would die - now rested in the lowest crypt of the castle. He would not join her in this place of holiness, he knew.
I had no firm basis for the von Krolock chapel, but in spirit it resembles the Basilique Saint-Denis on the outskirts of Paris.
As he began the agonising crawl, limb by limb taking him out of the chapel and into the safety of the courtyard, profaned many times over by spilled blood, he realised that in his one glimpse, he had not read the words written on her tomb. He whispered them now, as he crawled.
Izabela von Krolock, de domo Szilagy. 1598-1617. Requiescat in Pace.
Outside, leaning against the stones that still burned him, using that pain as an anchor for his mind, he tried to remember her scent. A little more than a week, and it was already fading in his memory.
The following sequence is taken almost word for word from von Krolock's song Unstillbare Gier, where his first kill is described to have happened in the summer of 1617, lying in grass with a woman he loved, as the corn was golden and the sky was clear, at a time when he thought he could win against his curse and restrain himself from drinking blood.
He only remembered how the corn had smelled, earth-rich and harvest-ready. Izabela had been surveying the fields when he joined her and dragged her to a grassy hill that already smelled of hay when they lay down on the dry herbs in the twilight. She had blossomed as he lay in his illness-that-wasn't. She had been warm, flush with life, with struggling through all the daily toils of running the estate. Finally there was something that caught her attention, let her show her quality. He could not remember ever being happier with her.
So young, she had been. Seventeen when he saw her, when he knew she must be his. Not that young in his parents' time, but now girls her age were flitting through ballrooms, blushing at boys their own age. Too young to marry, too young to bear, too young and too innocent. He had fallen into her knowing eyes and jaded smile, and she had not known what she was toying with.
Izabela is one of the reasons this will not be the first chapter of Roses For Lucifer. There will be another, called Schatten, in which von Krolock is still human and Iza shines in all her glory. Suffice to say that Herbert takes a lot after his mother.
Lying on the grass, he had told her everything, for the first time, and for the first time he had seen a woman in her eyes, not a girl.
Too much, that. Too many memories. He stopped before they turned bitter and stinging, as the taste of her blood. He pushed himself upright, catching unneeded breaths.
You are a monster now, he reminded himself forcefully. Be strong as one.
This sentiment will be echoed throughout the story, as Johannes lets himself descend into despair again and has to be kicked out of it. Note that this time, he does it for Herbert - compare it with the end of the story, where he makes the same decision in the long term.
Still, it was evening, and his feet carried him to the doors of the nursery. Eva, Izabela's old nurse, curtsied to him as he entered. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the young wet nurse duck out of the room. He did not blame her. Tales were already carrying, of how the Graf would not enter a church even at his wife's funeral, of how he barely touched his food and never went out in sunlight. The girl was local and would know the meaning of such tales.
Von Krolock's interest in his son's well-being is quite exceptional for the age. Children, especially ones under the age of three or so, were considered expendable, since they died so often. Even later, they were usually shipped out into the country until they were old enough to learn things.
Under the light covers, the small body was unmoving, and for a moment he wondered whether he had not been too late. Then sparkling grey eyes opened lazily, and his son reached out to him.
He felt Eva standing by the door. She would know the tales, too, yet she allowed him in the room.
He knelt by Herbert's bed and took his son into his arms. So small, so frail still, and already he could not imagine foregoing this nightly ritual anymore than he could forego feeding. He knew children died often, but for once his strange dreams were a blessing. He had known Herbert would live past his first birthday and beyond, and the boy had not proven him wrong.
And once again my subconscious ran away from me. This fleetingly mentioned vision became the structural brace of the entire first book of Roses, from the beginning of Schatten, where Johannes first sees it, to the end of the first story with Herbert as a vampire, where it's realised.
Tiny fingers tugged on his sleeves, and he obediently kissed Herbert's forehead. "I hope you weren't of any trouble to Fräulein Eva today? You should be mindful of the fact she's older than you and can't move so fast."
"Father!" The boy giggled, then hugged von Krolock's neck tightly.
Herbert never calls his father Vati or Papa. It's always the full Father, Vater, simply because neither of them ever thought to use anything else.
Johannes lifted the child into his arms, then walked over to the window, gently rocking the small body. Duty brought him here, to his son, but he could not deny that Herbert's presence banished some of his demons. The boy was an anchor to his mortal life. He wondered if the golden hair would darken as Herbert aged, but then Izabela's locks had been the same, fine and straight and palest gold, so unlike his own thick black hair...
Random fact: Herbert's hair doesn't change in colour, but in texture. By the age of five, he has a pale gold version of his father's hair.
He felt Herbert shift in his arms, stifling a yawn with a small hand, and he smiled. Such good manners, and the boy had not passed eighteen months of age yet.
He set his son down on the bed once more. "Sweet dreams, dear one. You need to have a lot of energy to tire your caretakers out tomorrow."
Herbert sat on the bed, looking up at him hesitantly. "Father? Where Mother? Mother come?"
Oh.
Von Krolock closed his eyes, trying to find the words. After almost a year of refusing to see the child that had cost her so much discomfort and pain as she bore him, Izabela had reluctantly consented to visit the boy every Sunday night, eventually going so far as to hug Herbert and address him by name. With her golden hair and beautiful dresses, the delicate lace collars framing her face, she must have seemed like an angel to Herbert. And now-
"I'm sorry, little one," he murmured, his hands clenching on his thighs as he knelt by the bed. "Mother is gone. You won't see her again, and I won't see her either. She didn't want it, but she had to go."
The grey eyes, so much like Izabela's, but innocent in ways that she had never been, blinked. "Why?"
Von Krolock managed to clamp down on the emotions that tore through him long enough to shake his head, kiss his son one more time and sweep out of the nursery.
Izabela had been so happy, that evening. In bloom of her abilities at last, weaving fanciful dreams in the air, the Lady of the castle overseeing the lands as he was left to delve through his books and alchemical artefacts. And friends, she had told him, he needed to invite friends over more often. She knew she had complained of boring scholars and strange-smelling alchemists, but people like the Wallachian lord were interesting - so many tales to be told, almost as good as seeing things herself. And, she had added, once Herbert was a little older, maybe they could go somewhere? Vienna, Venice, Rome, Madrid?
Izabela's problem was that she married too young, and that she thought von Krolock would sweep her off to the lands from which he'd come, the far-away cities where he studied, because she was bored to tears by brushing her hair and doing needlepoint. He, on the other hand, came home to find a safe haven from the visions of the future that were threatening his sanity. Conflict ensued, especially after she got pregnant and then denied him access to her bed for fear of another pregnancy. He did love her, and she was learning to love him in turn, but it was no fairytale match.
It had been easy to open himself to her in turn. To tell her that there would be no more nights and weeks spent in his laboratory, that the Wallachian had offered him the very immortality he'd been seeking. Not the true philosopher's stone, a shortcut with the abyss stretching out along both sides of the path, each step a danger in itself, but still a force to withstand the years.
She had held his hand and reassured him that he was not alone in this. She had drawn him towards her, for the first time in months, and laughed as he buried his face in her skin. She whispered that if he found ways to allay the tortures of childbearing, she wouldn't mind a little girl to dress up and show off and marry to a nice young man in St Stephen's Cathedral.
St Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna, is the one she means. It would be three centuries before the Budapest one was built, and Budapest was under Turkish rule at the time.
She had ridden fast through the forest, before, and a branch had left a wound on her throat.
Enough, enough of this, he almost whispered aloud as he stumbled through the hallways of the castle. How long since he had slept, now? There was an empty coffin in the crypt, prepared to the Wallachian's orders, but no, not yet, not to lie like a corpse and accept, submit, embrace. Better to distract his mind, to read, write, bury himself in knowledge and possible cures rather than cold stones.
In the library, he leaned on his desk and let his knees buckle under him once more. Only for a moment, as he gathered his strength. Only for a heartbeat.
And von Krolock's heart does not beat, as much as he would want it to. When accepting Draculea's bite, Johannes thought he could manage to avoid having to drink blood and accept other darker sides of vampiric existence, including the rage and closer connection to his own emotions. This is the main conflict of the story, Johannes versus his demon, pride and civilisation versus nature. He's very young here, only beginning his journey to the vampire he is in Tanz der Vampire.
* * *
Several weeks passed between the writing of the first scene and the second, mostly because of my hangups about writing sex scenes. This is a very intense scene that was slow in coming. Up to that point, I had written a grand total of five sex scenes, and none as kinked as this one. Furthermore, this one features kinks that leave me cold, like S&M and humiliation. I'm very grateful to
fyrie for holding my hand and letting me flail at her.
At first, he was not sure what woke him. Immobile, he took stock of his surroundings.
The library, a place more familiar to him than his own chambers. Cold stone under his body, but no colder than his own flesh. Sun, somewhere, falling through windows that he really should have blackened or curtained off by now, but again none of it touching him.
A booted foot prodded him in the ribs. "On your feet, Excellenz."
At first he thought his ears deceived him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the man - vampire - towering over him. Green eyes shadowed by too long lashes, a glint of fangs, dark waves of hair falling over broad shoulders clad in vulgar red. Draculea, who had promised him life and granted death and despair.
And hello, Vlad. For the record, this is a character who showed up in my head when I read his biography and made himself at home. He's ambitious, driven, casually vulgar, frequently incautious and surprisingly intelligent. He's spent his entire life relying on his cunning and cruelty to keep him alive; this left him a surprisingly good practical psychologist. If Machiavelli had been more interested in recent Balkan history, Vlad would have made a perfect model for The Prince. If you're interested in his life, I recommend Raymond McNally's and Radu Florescu's Dracula: The Prince Of A Thousand Faces.
A shudder ran through him, but he steeled himself against it. No. No weakness, not in front of him.
He forced his hands to stillness as he reached for the edge of the desk, raising himself to one knee.
Then his leg was kicked out from under him.
He toppled to one side, his sleeve catching on the edge of the desk, tearing a hole in the cloth. He twisted to avoid another kick, but it was just Draculea going down on one knee beside him, a broad hand twisting in the cloth at von Krolock's throat.
"You were eager to embrace life eternal," the vampire lord said conversationally. "What is the meaning of this?"
Von Krolock closed his eyes, the library replaced by the image that haunted him continuously. Even the fear on Izabela's lifeless face was a better sight than Draculea's green eyes. "I do not have to account myself to you."
"Wrong." The hand clenched, lifting his head from the floor. "You account yourself to me. You obey me. I am your Sire. You are mine."
Still that tone, casual, emotionless, and von Krolock wondered if Draculea ever gave in to anger.
"Izabela," he whispered.
"My condolences." Was there tenderness in the way the Wallachian lowered him back to the floor, touched his throat, jaw, eyelids? "I would have arrived to the chit's funeral, but I do not get along with the servants of God. A small foible that you've no doubt discovered yourself."
"Izabela-" He drew a deep breath, lifting his hands to Draculea's shoulders in an approximation of an embrace. "It was for her."
It was for her that he damned himself, he means, and without her there is despair. This is what Draculea has to overcome in order to make Johannes go on. And Vlad needs Johannes to go on so that he can use his new Sorcerer. He's a practical sort of person.
The laughter was as coarse as the wool under his fingers. "You truly are an idiot."
He tried to twist his face away from that touch, but a sharp nail pressed against his eye, threatening to gouge it.
"She was a callous, gold-digging bitch," Draculea continued. "She cared for none, not even her own child, and she only ever loved the image of you that she created in her mind. She didn't deserve regret."
Somehow the words passed him by, though they painted a familiar image. He chuckled wearily. "How do you know?"
"Did you think I only visited you at night?"
A throwaway mention that turned into a pivotal scene in Schatten, the prequel to this story.
A flash of bright anger, and his eyes snapped open as his hands clenched, straining uselessly against the corded muscles of Draculea's neck. Did that snarl come from his own throat?
"Good." Draculea laughed again. "Hate. Hate me, if you will, but hate and live, live forever!"
His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind still remembered the tricks of brawls in student inns from Prague to Padua. A moment to get his knee up, and the kick knocked Draculea into the desk with a heavy thud.
Random fact: Johannes is next to useless with a sword, but in hand-to-hand he acquits himself well. He plays dirty.
Propelled by anger, he stood up smoothly, calling on four generations of Grafs von Krolock and his own pride to lend weight to his voice. "Leave my house. You are no longer welcome here."
At this point there was another pause that took a few days as Draculea appropriated a whiteboard and plotted his course of action. I did mention this fic was slow in coming.
A low growl turned into grating laughter. He turned away, unwilling to even look at the other vampire. Stripes of sunlight cut through the library, glittering on jewelled covers of manuscripts and making old leather gleam. They beckoned him. Just one step, out of the castle gates-
Arms slid around his waist, and he stiffened as Draculea's wide hands met and tangled over his abdomen. Leaning against his back, the vampire lord smelled of blood and horse-sweat, almost human, almost real.
Full lips touched his ear. "Idiotule." The insult sounded almost affectionate. "You are lucky, my sorcerer, that I know exactly what to do with ones like you, with that pride and pain you revel in. I know well, and personally."
Props to
alice_montrose, my consultant on all things Romanian :) Idiotule means idiot, of course.
Movement, too fast to register, and a punch sent him to his knees. He fell forward, catching his weight on his arms. A hand caught his chin, gaudy rings glittering.
Draculea changes the cut of his clothes as the years pass, but not his style. He wears red clothes with green capes or all black, cut in regional Hungarian or Balkan styles rather than Western ones, and his jewelry is always rich. The colour schemes are related to the Order of the Dragon: the members of the Order were supposed to wear red clothes and green cloaks on ceremonial occasions on all days except Fridays, when they were supposed to dress in black.
"It's going to be a pleasant task," Draculea murmured, baring his fangs.
There was an edge to von Krolock's anger that had not been there before, dark as venal blood, sweet as pain. He willed it to show in his eyes as he looked up at the vampire lord. His hand clenched, nails scraping the wooden floor.
"I learned torture from masters," Draculea continued. "I know hundreds of ways of causing pain. Simplicity works best."
Another blur of movement, and a vicious kick, stab of pain in von Krolock's chest. Barely, he kept himself from falling, though each breath set off a spasm of pain.
I was surprised how many people were grossed out and disturbed by the rib-breaking as well as the fact Vlad goes on to use the pain from the broken ribs for BDSM purposes. To my defense, it was all Vlad's own idea. I just do the typing.
Hands on his shoulders, and Draculea's face closer again, tongue sneaking out to wet scarlet lips. His eyes slid to the vampire's throat, pale, immobile-
"Vampires," Draculea whispered, "do not need to breathe."
Without drawing air for a snarl, von Krolock rolled away. A knife on the desk, doors to the laboratory, acid and lye and aqua regia-
Aqua regia is a mixture of acids that's strong enough to dissolve gold. It decomposes quickly, but von Krolock has been distracting himself with trying to come up with alchemical cures for his condition.
The weight on his arms and thighs pinned him to the floor, dust under his cheek, fingers twisting into his hair to pull his head up again. In front of him, a patch of sunlight, its heat and light blinding to his eyes.
Long fingers locked around his wrist, squeezing the bones together, moving his hand measure by measure closer to the sunlight. Then pain, and a white lance in his ribs as he drew a breath to scream.
Another hand clenched around his throat, stifling the sound. The pain was stunning, blinding, centuries or heartbeats before his hand was released.
He was rolled over onto his back, away from the patch of sunlight. He lifted his hand to his lips. It trembled with each gasping, unnecessary breath, but every stab of pain helped, helped forget the burning that left his fingers scorched and blistered, blackened by the ash that had been his skin.
A hand smoothed his hair, spreading it on the hard floor. He turned his face into the touch, then startled as lips brushed his jaw.
"The sun kills us," Draculea whispered, the low voice thrumming against his skin. "So does faith. We are of darkness and of lies. Do you believe in God, Johannes?"
His mouth was dry as dust, and he swallowed before answering. "God is dead. I've long since stopped searching for him."
Gott ist tot, nach Ihm wird nicht mehr gesucht - chorus of von Krolock's first song. Of course, it goes on: Wir sind zum ewigen Leben verflucht - we are cursed to live forever.
"Good."
A firm kiss was pressed against his lips, and a weight settled on his thighs. Draculea shifted, and though von Krolock's sight was still blurred, the smell made his mouth water.
Draculea pressed his bleeding wrist against von Krolock's parted lips. "Drink."
This would be the reason Johannes is up for more fun instead of passing out from pain. Blood promotes vampire healing, and in Roses the act can also erotic if the participants choose to treat it as such.
The blood was thick, sluggish, with far more substance than human ichor. There was pain in Draculea's blood, and betrayal, and loneliness. Not for the first time, he wondered who the Wallachian was, with the name of a monster and the face of a devil.
He thought he had seen that face, on a painting in a palace near Buda.
Throughout, von Krolock doesn't suspect that Draculea is the real McCoy. All he sees is a Wallachian brute with a crude cunning to him. He does not see how skilfully he's being manipulated at times.
Draculea had a dagger in his other hand and he held the flat of the bloodied blade against von Krolock's chest as he flicked open one button after another. Those large green eyes gleamed in the shadow.
"You still cling to life."
"It's the thirst - I can't fight it," he protested. He knew he should rise, command, banish, but it hurt too much to move.
"You will learn to like it," Draculea whispered. "It can't be quenched, but it's so fun to try."
The blood-smeared wrist was moved away from his lips, and he almost protested, but then his arms were being stretched over his head, smoothed into place by careful touches. His hands clenched around something he thought had to be the lower railing of a shelf, a metal rail that provided a latch for the sliding ladders, his own construction and design. It felt smooth under his hands, sun-warm, a firm hold in a world that wasn't like anything he'd known.
He did not realise he had closed his eyes until Draculea kissed them, his cheek, jaw, lips, sharp fangs nipping with an elegance he had not thought the Wallachian was capable of. After the pain and the rich bitterness of blood, it was a shock of gentleness. He opened his lips without protest, turning the kiss into a lazy exploration that made them almost equal. He was damned already, wife-slayer, blood-drinker, so what was one more sin, as pleasant a one as this?
Just a note - character POV is not identical to writer POV. Johannes is old-school Catholic, Jesuit-educated until he ditched that for the more interesting black magic things, so he takes the sodomy prohibitions seriously. He's had a bit of bisexual fun in his student days, but he felt guilty, confessed and did penance for it. The vampire thing is rather freeing in that he doesn't have to worry about damnation for any other reasons anymore.
Draculea's hands had been moving over his arms and shoulders, from his hands to his neck and back, but now the vampire lord sat up again. Von Krolock arched after him with an annoyed murmur, but a rattle of metal brought him short.
At this point, I was about to gloss over the actual happenings, because my narrator declared he would never talk of such crass matters. But I realised that this time, the sex had meaning. Draculea wanted to make von Krolock embrace the animal, carnal side of his new existence and deal with von Krolock's fears. A few mental images later, I got the young vampire talking again.
The iron chain of the medallion that had rested on Draculea's chest was now knotted around von Krolock's wrists, binding him to the rail, leaving him pinned under Draculea's weight.
He jerked, rattling the chain until it bit into his scorched skin. "Let me go!"
Draculea's red lips curved in a mocking smile. "I don't think so, Excellenz."
A jab into his broken ribs sent von Krolock arching with a hiss as the pain stabbed through him. As he twisted away from the touch, he realised that his chest was now bare, his shirt pushed up his arms and bunched around his wrists. Each touch felt like fire, and he stifled the growl rising in his throat.
Draculea's laughter echoed in the room. His hand pushed harder, keeping the other vampire pinned to the floor by pain alone as his legs were wrenched up one after another, each boot sliding off with seeming ease under preternaturally strong fingers.
For some reason, this casual show of strength impressed Johannes a lot. Suddenly he ceased struggling in my head and the narrative started flowing.
When the ties of his breeches slipped loose, von Krolock tried to struggle, but a minute movement of Draculea's other hand made his world contract to the pain of bone fragments sliding against each other in his chest.
A part of his mind was dazedly wondering how it had come to that, but his anger was rising, circles of flame in its darkness.
Teeth scraped against his collarbone, raising red welts but not breaking the skin. He turned his head away as Draculea rubbed his cheek against the hollow of his throat, like a cat marking a place with its scent. He could hide under this anger, retreat under the surface to a place as dark and cold as the night-
"I think you still haven't had enough," Draculea whispered in his ear. "You think too much, Johannes. Feel."
The smugness in that voice made something give inside him. He surged up, snarling, unmindful of pain, his teeth snapping a hair's breadth from Draculea's skin.
He sagged in his bonds, his cheeks burning, as Draculea laughed. He turned his head away, willing his hair to hide his shame at behaving like such an animal. His chest spasmed with a choked-off sob, then pain again from his broken ribs.
At this point I threw up my hands and let von Krolock have the keyboard. For the record, pain isn't my kink at all, and I abhor humiliation to the point where I can't watch the kind of comedies that base their gags on making people look like fools by e.g. making them say vulgar things in a language they don't know. The fact I was able to describe the headspace of the bottom in this situation both surprises me and makes me feel quite good about my writing skills.
The hands on his skin turned gentle again, guiding him to turn over until he saw nothing but the dusty floor and the darkness of his own hair barring the light from his eyes. It hurt less to breathe this way when propped on his elbows and knees, and the familiar pattern of breath helped still the shivering, as did the pain in his burned hand twisting in the chains. His wrists were crossed, pressed against each other, and as his other palm brushed the burn, he realised new skin was already growing there.
Then nails raked his thighs, drawing him back against Draculea's hips.
"Being on your knees suits you," the other vampire murmured. "I might just keep you this way."
He growled before he could stop himself, bucking against the chains and grip both, letting the pain flow through him, revelling in it. He felt the touch of hair on his back as Draculea leaned over him, then kisses brushed across trembling muscles, over his spine, an agile tongue outlining each fragment of bone under the skin.
There may not be formal negotiation and von Krolock isn't given a choice, but still I class this story as BDSM rather than torture/rape. Once things turn sexual, he cooperates, and while he's surprised by Draculea's actions and even more by his own emotional responses, he does not resist them. He reacts to them. This turned out to be the key to the narrative method of this story: Johannes' emotional journey as a reaction to the sex, rather than mechanical description of actions and positions.
A brief, sharp bite to his neck as one hand slipped from his hip to open him, and he forced his mouth open with panting before he could bite through his lip. Bruises could be hidden, gloves worn, but not marks on his face-
Pain again, because he was nowhere near ready enough, though the keening sound he made was lost in Draculea's growl. He forced himself to relax, immobile, not even trembling as the other vampire moved, until the invasion was complete.
Draculea was breathing now as well, his chest pressed to von Krolock's back, hands resting on the younger vampire's shoulders. One of them shifted and they shuddered, drawing breath at the same time.
Von Krolock bent his head lower, resting it on his crossed arms, stretched almost to breaking. His back was arched, tense with pain and longing. He didn't know if it was his damnation or his human nature, but something in him was past the anger now, past the mortified pride, though not at peace with how he was, bound and pinned, unable to escape even if he wanted to. Fire in his veins, twined inseparably with the white heat of pain.
He had thought he'd never be warm again.
And here we have the very point of the story. Von Krolock as a human is so wrapped up in layers of inhibitions that he almost never connects to this darkly burning core that fuels him. This gets easier the longer he's a vampire, but it'll be decades before he can do it at will. This is also the source of his strongest magic.
He snarled and bucked under Draculea, throwing his head back at the flash of pleasure. He felt the other vampire's movement, surprised laughter, then nails were clawing his sides again, pinning him until their rhythms were in time. A strong hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back, and he growled into the air, baring his fangs.
As he bucked again, jarring their pace in a way that sent sparks flowing through his head, he heard the creak of metal and realised he could tear himself free. If he wanted to.
With one of those grasping hands wandering lower, he decided he did not. Teeth cut into the nape of his neck again and he did not stifle his moan. Draculea seemed to appreciate it by the way his teeth bit deeper and his - attentions - intensified -
The railing did give way then as the spasms of pleasure tore through him, the pain turning into ecstasy of its own. Two more thrusts, jarring his whole body as if his very bones had turned molten, and they were falling, shuddering with pleasure, the floor hard and cold under their bodies.
And let's hear it for the sex scene where not a single relevant body part is named, and yet the whole thing is kinked to hell and back. Really, I could not put it any other way - von Krolock is far too refined to describe things vulgarly.
Draculea bit the young vampire's lip and received a tired snarl in return.
"I am your Sire," he murmured wickedly.
Von Krolock shifted, slipping his hands free of the railing and bringing them to his chest. If it allowed him to trace the lines of sweat on Draculea's chest, there was nothing to it. Scientific curiosity about the physics of exertion in corpses, he thought.
An arm slipped around him as he examined the chain that bound his wrists and the medallion on it. He threw the other vampire a curious look. "That's the symbol of the Order of the Dragon. I thought they were long dissolved. Where did you get it?"
When all is said and done, Johannes von Krolock is an emo geek. His mind is full of angsty poetry and historical trivia. He's also easily distracted by intellectual questions.
"From my father." Draculea leaned in to lick a trace of blood from the other vampire's neck. "Indirectly, but the assassins that killed him brought it as proof to Buda, and I requested it when I was invested in the Order."
It's one of a dozen theories, but I went with Vlad Dracul having been killed on John Hunyadi's orders. This gives an extra slant to Vlad Draculea's later fate, because in order to free his land from Turkish influence, he has to work closely with the man who ordered his father's death. Vlad is not a simple man.
Von Krolock turned his head sharply, narrowing his eyes. "I think I've read this story."
He shook his head. It was quite impossible, of course. A legend dead a century and a half before, still used to frighten children, a name easily appropriated by someone who wished to inspire similar terror.
Draculea's laughter was warmer than before, and his arm tightened around von Krolock's waist. "I was a legend in my own lifetime, Johannes. Much is lost, but much remains as well. And the Order of the Dragon died and lived with me."
Von Krolock looked at his bound hands again. He had seen a portrait, once, and there had been a resemblance. The same sensual lips, sharp line of nose, cheeks and eyes delicate enough to belong to a woman and cruel enough to belong to a demon. As if the painter had heard a description of the man before him, though not of how wide the shoulders were, how strong the hands, how wicked the sparkle in those dark green eyes.
The portrait is the Ambras portrait of Vlad Dracula, the best-known one. It's considered either to be based on detailed descriptions or an actual portrait of Vlad painted in Hungarian captivity, unlike woodcuts that were generally aimed at making him look as scary as possible.
He held his hands higher so that Draculea could untangle the chain from them. "Tell me about the Order of the Dragon."
"There is one danger to the life of the West," Draculea said as he slipped the medallion around his own neck again. "War ends. Plague ends. All these threats contain the seeds of their own destruction. When they are past, we rebuild. What we should fear is those who seek to replace us instead of destroy us, to enslave us to their own cause. Take our children and raise them to do their bidding."
"The Ottoman Empire." Von Krolock looked at the other side of the library, where several copies of the Qu'ran rested alongside his theological books. He had not approached those shelves since his turning, afraid of the pain even the sight of a cross could render unto him now. "Even as vampires, if our civilisation falls..."
Draculea grinned. "No wine, no women, no song. Hence, the Order. We work behind the scenes, with secrets and dirty work. The night is ours, after all. And I could use a sorcerer of your power, and a seer."
The scary thing is, Draculea maintains that this is by far not the strangest setting for a recruiting pitch of his. He thinks the time he convinced the king of Hungary to set him free and let him marry the king's cousin instead of torturing him, all in the torture chamber while chained to the rack, was far more impressive.
"Magic is less reliable than gunpowder." Von Krolock sat up, slipping his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. "And my sight is less reliable still."
"Is it? I've watched you for the past few days, Excellenz. I noticed a distinct lack of collapsing or demolishing the furniture in your rooms due to fits of visions. I'd say the spectre of madness is past you."
Von Krolock paused with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. It was true - since he had started this new damned existence, he had not once been brought to his knees by visions of the distant future. The thought - was less pleasing than it should have been.
The change in von Krolock's magic is a gradual one. The journey will take over two decades to complete. At its end, he can walk through shadows and command them, page through people's minds as easily as books and see centuries into the future, though vaguely.
"Perhaps that gift is lost to me," he offered quietly.
"Or under your control, after three decades of controlling you." Draculea's fingers stole inside his shirt again, moving purposefully over his bruised skin. "This will hurt."
Incidentally, von Krolock is 33 at the moment of his death.
Von Krolock stifled a cry as his ribs were sharply pulled into alignment. He leaned against Draculea's chest, letting the other vampire support him. The contact felt comforting until Draculea nipped at his throat.
"You should be healed completely by next sunset," the vampire lord said as he let go, reaching for his own clothing. "Try your magic then. You'll find it comes easier to ones damned as we are. In decades to come, you may start to discover powers you never suspected."
Von Krolock felt a prickle of curiosity. "What kind of powers?"
"They differ for each of us. I would show you my command of mist and wolves, but both require darkness to accomplish. Next time, my sorcerer."
Vlad is rather unbelievably smug at this point. He has brought Johannes back to sanity, he has him interested in the Order of the Dragon - he knows well enough that if he hooks his curiosity, he has him in his grasp - and Johannes turned out to be a very entertaining bedmate. Their relationship will be a complicated one, but "friends" will be a good way to describe them.
"Next time?" He fastened the rest of his clothing before rising to his feet. His ribs already hurt less, knitting together rapidly.
"The Order demands much of me. You will have time to accustom yourself to your new status before winter draws me to these mountains again. I'll have books sent here, what little of our lore is written. I may have commands for you also; my messengers will bear my sign."
Von Krolock nodded slowly. The sun had moved to the west, leaving the library almost in shadow, letting him approach the window without risking burns. The forest was summer-green, the fields beyond it gold, heavy with grain. He looked down to the meadow in front of the castle walls, where Izabela's old nurse Eva stood with her arms stretched open, looking into the forest.
Draculea's hands rested on his shoulders again. "No more foolishness, Johannes?"
He leaned back against his Sire's grip as he watched the tiny figure toddle out of the forest, easily evading Eva's grasp. Through the open window he heard Herbert's joyous laughter, saw the sunlight glitter in the boy's golden hair.
And here's the twist: Johannes accepts his monstrous nature, but what gives him the impulse to go on living is the fact he has to watch over Herbert, to see that boy grow into a man. It's Herbert who will be the centre of his life.
"No more," he agreed.
He had not told Herbert bedtime stories for weeks now. He would have to make up for it. A story of demons and old warrior princes tonight, perhaps? His boy liked that sort of fanciful tales.
-FINIS?-
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This was not the first part of Roses for Lucifer I'd written (more like 6th or 7th), though it's the chronologically earliest of the ones I've finished so far. There will be another dealing with Johannes von Krolock's last days as a human being, if only because publishing plans would require there not to be a gay BDSM sex scene in the first chapter. On re-read, I've noticed that I must have subconsciously planned that even then - note how the whole initial scene proceeds without mentioning that Johannes is a vampire, and the only flashback given is to events that passed between his awakening as a vampire and this moment. It also contains a longer flashback on Izabela von Krolock, but now that I've planned out Schatten, the preceding chapter, I see that in that one, we won't get to see Iza through Johannes' eyes at all. It's only here that the reader sees how much Johannes loved her.
Als Es Sommer War was written over the course of two months, while trading snippets and bouncing ideas off
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ALS ES SOMMER WAR
Castle von Krolock, the border of Transylvania, Holy Empire of the German Nation, Summer of the Year of Our Lord 1617
I'm still not quite sure where Castle von Krolock is, exactly. I thought it would be the southern Hungarian-Transylvanian border, but I forgot that parts of Hungary were under Turkish rule at the time, so I had to move it further north. I don't think I'll ever pinpoint the exact location, though after the First World War it'll end up in Romania.
The pain tore through him, unrelenting, merciless.
For over three hundred years, the chapel had housed Mass and vigils, christenings and funerals. The stones themselves had soaked in the sanctity of words and water spilled, until even the carved doorframe burned him as he leaned against it. Inside the chapel, the darkness was barely muted by starlight falling through the window, soft and charcoal-grey.
If you haven't noticed yet, Johannes von Krolock is a baroque poet. Not a particularly good one. It makes for frustrating writing from his POV, because he insists on using convoluted imagery and more adverbs and adjectives than I'm comfortable with. Fortunately in this story, he's too burdened by angst to really let loose with the verbiage.
Johannes von Krolock forced his feet to move, to take one last step into the chapel. His knees gave out under him, and with the slowness of the setting moon he fell to the floor.
Even the floor had echoed to the words of thousands of rituals. Now it was ice under his cheek, leeching the semblance of life from him as he struggled to turn his head. But now he saw it.
The last carved tomb in a long line of his ancestors, the other side of the chapel still empty to receive the bones of those that would come after him. A place beside that tomb left still, though the coffin - the one ordered when Johannes had been ill and all thought he would die - now rested in the lowest crypt of the castle. He would not join her in this place of holiness, he knew.
I had no firm basis for the von Krolock chapel, but in spirit it resembles the Basilique Saint-Denis on the outskirts of Paris.
As he began the agonising crawl, limb by limb taking him out of the chapel and into the safety of the courtyard, profaned many times over by spilled blood, he realised that in his one glimpse, he had not read the words written on her tomb. He whispered them now, as he crawled.
Izabela von Krolock, de domo Szilagy. 1598-1617. Requiescat in Pace.
Outside, leaning against the stones that still burned him, using that pain as an anchor for his mind, he tried to remember her scent. A little more than a week, and it was already fading in his memory.
The following sequence is taken almost word for word from von Krolock's song Unstillbare Gier, where his first kill is described to have happened in the summer of 1617, lying in grass with a woman he loved, as the corn was golden and the sky was clear, at a time when he thought he could win against his curse and restrain himself from drinking blood.
He only remembered how the corn had smelled, earth-rich and harvest-ready. Izabela had been surveying the fields when he joined her and dragged her to a grassy hill that already smelled of hay when they lay down on the dry herbs in the twilight. She had blossomed as he lay in his illness-that-wasn't. She had been warm, flush with life, with struggling through all the daily toils of running the estate. Finally there was something that caught her attention, let her show her quality. He could not remember ever being happier with her.
So young, she had been. Seventeen when he saw her, when he knew she must be his. Not that young in his parents' time, but now girls her age were flitting through ballrooms, blushing at boys their own age. Too young to marry, too young to bear, too young and too innocent. He had fallen into her knowing eyes and jaded smile, and she had not known what she was toying with.
Izabela is one of the reasons this will not be the first chapter of Roses For Lucifer. There will be another, called Schatten, in which von Krolock is still human and Iza shines in all her glory. Suffice to say that Herbert takes a lot after his mother.
Lying on the grass, he had told her everything, for the first time, and for the first time he had seen a woman in her eyes, not a girl.
Too much, that. Too many memories. He stopped before they turned bitter and stinging, as the taste of her blood. He pushed himself upright, catching unneeded breaths.
You are a monster now, he reminded himself forcefully. Be strong as one.
This sentiment will be echoed throughout the story, as Johannes lets himself descend into despair again and has to be kicked out of it. Note that this time, he does it for Herbert - compare it with the end of the story, where he makes the same decision in the long term.
Still, it was evening, and his feet carried him to the doors of the nursery. Eva, Izabela's old nurse, curtsied to him as he entered. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw the young wet nurse duck out of the room. He did not blame her. Tales were already carrying, of how the Graf would not enter a church even at his wife's funeral, of how he barely touched his food and never went out in sunlight. The girl was local and would know the meaning of such tales.
Von Krolock's interest in his son's well-being is quite exceptional for the age. Children, especially ones under the age of three or so, were considered expendable, since they died so often. Even later, they were usually shipped out into the country until they were old enough to learn things.
Under the light covers, the small body was unmoving, and for a moment he wondered whether he had not been too late. Then sparkling grey eyes opened lazily, and his son reached out to him.
He felt Eva standing by the door. She would know the tales, too, yet she allowed him in the room.
He knelt by Herbert's bed and took his son into his arms. So small, so frail still, and already he could not imagine foregoing this nightly ritual anymore than he could forego feeding. He knew children died often, but for once his strange dreams were a blessing. He had known Herbert would live past his first birthday and beyond, and the boy had not proven him wrong.
And once again my subconscious ran away from me. This fleetingly mentioned vision became the structural brace of the entire first book of Roses, from the beginning of Schatten, where Johannes first sees it, to the end of the first story with Herbert as a vampire, where it's realised.
Tiny fingers tugged on his sleeves, and he obediently kissed Herbert's forehead. "I hope you weren't of any trouble to Fräulein Eva today? You should be mindful of the fact she's older than you and can't move so fast."
"Father!" The boy giggled, then hugged von Krolock's neck tightly.
Herbert never calls his father Vati or Papa. It's always the full Father, Vater, simply because neither of them ever thought to use anything else.
Johannes lifted the child into his arms, then walked over to the window, gently rocking the small body. Duty brought him here, to his son, but he could not deny that Herbert's presence banished some of his demons. The boy was an anchor to his mortal life. He wondered if the golden hair would darken as Herbert aged, but then Izabela's locks had been the same, fine and straight and palest gold, so unlike his own thick black hair...
Random fact: Herbert's hair doesn't change in colour, but in texture. By the age of five, he has a pale gold version of his father's hair.
He felt Herbert shift in his arms, stifling a yawn with a small hand, and he smiled. Such good manners, and the boy had not passed eighteen months of age yet.
He set his son down on the bed once more. "Sweet dreams, dear one. You need to have a lot of energy to tire your caretakers out tomorrow."
Herbert sat on the bed, looking up at him hesitantly. "Father? Where Mother? Mother come?"
Oh.
Von Krolock closed his eyes, trying to find the words. After almost a year of refusing to see the child that had cost her so much discomfort and pain as she bore him, Izabela had reluctantly consented to visit the boy every Sunday night, eventually going so far as to hug Herbert and address him by name. With her golden hair and beautiful dresses, the delicate lace collars framing her face, she must have seemed like an angel to Herbert. And now-
"I'm sorry, little one," he murmured, his hands clenching on his thighs as he knelt by the bed. "Mother is gone. You won't see her again, and I won't see her either. She didn't want it, but she had to go."
The grey eyes, so much like Izabela's, but innocent in ways that she had never been, blinked. "Why?"
Von Krolock managed to clamp down on the emotions that tore through him long enough to shake his head, kiss his son one more time and sweep out of the nursery.
Izabela had been so happy, that evening. In bloom of her abilities at last, weaving fanciful dreams in the air, the Lady of the castle overseeing the lands as he was left to delve through his books and alchemical artefacts. And friends, she had told him, he needed to invite friends over more often. She knew she had complained of boring scholars and strange-smelling alchemists, but people like the Wallachian lord were interesting - so many tales to be told, almost as good as seeing things herself. And, she had added, once Herbert was a little older, maybe they could go somewhere? Vienna, Venice, Rome, Madrid?
Izabela's problem was that she married too young, and that she thought von Krolock would sweep her off to the lands from which he'd come, the far-away cities where he studied, because she was bored to tears by brushing her hair and doing needlepoint. He, on the other hand, came home to find a safe haven from the visions of the future that were threatening his sanity. Conflict ensued, especially after she got pregnant and then denied him access to her bed for fear of another pregnancy. He did love her, and she was learning to love him in turn, but it was no fairytale match.
It had been easy to open himself to her in turn. To tell her that there would be no more nights and weeks spent in his laboratory, that the Wallachian had offered him the very immortality he'd been seeking. Not the true philosopher's stone, a shortcut with the abyss stretching out along both sides of the path, each step a danger in itself, but still a force to withstand the years.
She had held his hand and reassured him that he was not alone in this. She had drawn him towards her, for the first time in months, and laughed as he buried his face in her skin. She whispered that if he found ways to allay the tortures of childbearing, she wouldn't mind a little girl to dress up and show off and marry to a nice young man in St Stephen's Cathedral.
St Stephen's Cathedral, Vienna, is the one she means. It would be three centuries before the Budapest one was built, and Budapest was under Turkish rule at the time.
She had ridden fast through the forest, before, and a branch had left a wound on her throat.
Enough, enough of this, he almost whispered aloud as he stumbled through the hallways of the castle. How long since he had slept, now? There was an empty coffin in the crypt, prepared to the Wallachian's orders, but no, not yet, not to lie like a corpse and accept, submit, embrace. Better to distract his mind, to read, write, bury himself in knowledge and possible cures rather than cold stones.
In the library, he leaned on his desk and let his knees buckle under him once more. Only for a moment, as he gathered his strength. Only for a heartbeat.
And von Krolock's heart does not beat, as much as he would want it to. When accepting Draculea's bite, Johannes thought he could manage to avoid having to drink blood and accept other darker sides of vampiric existence, including the rage and closer connection to his own emotions. This is the main conflict of the story, Johannes versus his demon, pride and civilisation versus nature. He's very young here, only beginning his journey to the vampire he is in Tanz der Vampire.
* * *
Several weeks passed between the writing of the first scene and the second, mostly because of my hangups about writing sex scenes. This is a very intense scene that was slow in coming. Up to that point, I had written a grand total of five sex scenes, and none as kinked as this one. Furthermore, this one features kinks that leave me cold, like S&M and humiliation. I'm very grateful to
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At first, he was not sure what woke him. Immobile, he took stock of his surroundings.
The library, a place more familiar to him than his own chambers. Cold stone under his body, but no colder than his own flesh. Sun, somewhere, falling through windows that he really should have blackened or curtained off by now, but again none of it touching him.
A booted foot prodded him in the ribs. "On your feet, Excellenz."
At first he thought his ears deceived him. Then he opened his eyes and saw the man - vampire - towering over him. Green eyes shadowed by too long lashes, a glint of fangs, dark waves of hair falling over broad shoulders clad in vulgar red. Draculea, who had promised him life and granted death and despair.
And hello, Vlad. For the record, this is a character who showed up in my head when I read his biography and made himself at home. He's ambitious, driven, casually vulgar, frequently incautious and surprisingly intelligent. He's spent his entire life relying on his cunning and cruelty to keep him alive; this left him a surprisingly good practical psychologist. If Machiavelli had been more interested in recent Balkan history, Vlad would have made a perfect model for The Prince. If you're interested in his life, I recommend Raymond McNally's and Radu Florescu's Dracula: The Prince Of A Thousand Faces.
A shudder ran through him, but he steeled himself against it. No. No weakness, not in front of him.
He forced his hands to stillness as he reached for the edge of the desk, raising himself to one knee.
Then his leg was kicked out from under him.
He toppled to one side, his sleeve catching on the edge of the desk, tearing a hole in the cloth. He twisted to avoid another kick, but it was just Draculea going down on one knee beside him, a broad hand twisting in the cloth at von Krolock's throat.
"You were eager to embrace life eternal," the vampire lord said conversationally. "What is the meaning of this?"
Von Krolock closed his eyes, the library replaced by the image that haunted him continuously. Even the fear on Izabela's lifeless face was a better sight than Draculea's green eyes. "I do not have to account myself to you."
"Wrong." The hand clenched, lifting his head from the floor. "You account yourself to me. You obey me. I am your Sire. You are mine."
Still that tone, casual, emotionless, and von Krolock wondered if Draculea ever gave in to anger.
"Izabela," he whispered.
"My condolences." Was there tenderness in the way the Wallachian lowered him back to the floor, touched his throat, jaw, eyelids? "I would have arrived to the chit's funeral, but I do not get along with the servants of God. A small foible that you've no doubt discovered yourself."
"Izabela-" He drew a deep breath, lifting his hands to Draculea's shoulders in an approximation of an embrace. "It was for her."
It was for her that he damned himself, he means, and without her there is despair. This is what Draculea has to overcome in order to make Johannes go on. And Vlad needs Johannes to go on so that he can use his new Sorcerer. He's a practical sort of person.
The laughter was as coarse as the wool under his fingers. "You truly are an idiot."
He tried to twist his face away from that touch, but a sharp nail pressed against his eye, threatening to gouge it.
"She was a callous, gold-digging bitch," Draculea continued. "She cared for none, not even her own child, and she only ever loved the image of you that she created in her mind. She didn't deserve regret."
Somehow the words passed him by, though they painted a familiar image. He chuckled wearily. "How do you know?"
"Did you think I only visited you at night?"
A throwaway mention that turned into a pivotal scene in Schatten, the prequel to this story.
A flash of bright anger, and his eyes snapped open as his hands clenched, straining uselessly against the corded muscles of Draculea's neck. Did that snarl come from his own throat?
"Good." Draculea laughed again. "Hate. Hate me, if you will, but hate and live, live forever!"
His body was heavy with exhaustion, but his mind still remembered the tricks of brawls in student inns from Prague to Padua. A moment to get his knee up, and the kick knocked Draculea into the desk with a heavy thud.
Random fact: Johannes is next to useless with a sword, but in hand-to-hand he acquits himself well. He plays dirty.
Propelled by anger, he stood up smoothly, calling on four generations of Grafs von Krolock and his own pride to lend weight to his voice. "Leave my house. You are no longer welcome here."
At this point there was another pause that took a few days as Draculea appropriated a whiteboard and plotted his course of action. I did mention this fic was slow in coming.
A low growl turned into grating laughter. He turned away, unwilling to even look at the other vampire. Stripes of sunlight cut through the library, glittering on jewelled covers of manuscripts and making old leather gleam. They beckoned him. Just one step, out of the castle gates-
Arms slid around his waist, and he stiffened as Draculea's wide hands met and tangled over his abdomen. Leaning against his back, the vampire lord smelled of blood and horse-sweat, almost human, almost real.
Full lips touched his ear. "Idiotule." The insult sounded almost affectionate. "You are lucky, my sorcerer, that I know exactly what to do with ones like you, with that pride and pain you revel in. I know well, and personally."
Props to
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Movement, too fast to register, and a punch sent him to his knees. He fell forward, catching his weight on his arms. A hand caught his chin, gaudy rings glittering.
Draculea changes the cut of his clothes as the years pass, but not his style. He wears red clothes with green capes or all black, cut in regional Hungarian or Balkan styles rather than Western ones, and his jewelry is always rich. The colour schemes are related to the Order of the Dragon: the members of the Order were supposed to wear red clothes and green cloaks on ceremonial occasions on all days except Fridays, when they were supposed to dress in black.
"It's going to be a pleasant task," Draculea murmured, baring his fangs.
There was an edge to von Krolock's anger that had not been there before, dark as venal blood, sweet as pain. He willed it to show in his eyes as he looked up at the vampire lord. His hand clenched, nails scraping the wooden floor.
"I learned torture from masters," Draculea continued. "I know hundreds of ways of causing pain. Simplicity works best."
Another blur of movement, and a vicious kick, stab of pain in von Krolock's chest. Barely, he kept himself from falling, though each breath set off a spasm of pain.
I was surprised how many people were grossed out and disturbed by the rib-breaking as well as the fact Vlad goes on to use the pain from the broken ribs for BDSM purposes. To my defense, it was all Vlad's own idea. I just do the typing.
Hands on his shoulders, and Draculea's face closer again, tongue sneaking out to wet scarlet lips. His eyes slid to the vampire's throat, pale, immobile-
"Vampires," Draculea whispered, "do not need to breathe."
Without drawing air for a snarl, von Krolock rolled away. A knife on the desk, doors to the laboratory, acid and lye and aqua regia-
Aqua regia is a mixture of acids that's strong enough to dissolve gold. It decomposes quickly, but von Krolock has been distracting himself with trying to come up with alchemical cures for his condition.
The weight on his arms and thighs pinned him to the floor, dust under his cheek, fingers twisting into his hair to pull his head up again. In front of him, a patch of sunlight, its heat and light blinding to his eyes.
Long fingers locked around his wrist, squeezing the bones together, moving his hand measure by measure closer to the sunlight. Then pain, and a white lance in his ribs as he drew a breath to scream.
Another hand clenched around his throat, stifling the sound. The pain was stunning, blinding, centuries or heartbeats before his hand was released.
He was rolled over onto his back, away from the patch of sunlight. He lifted his hand to his lips. It trembled with each gasping, unnecessary breath, but every stab of pain helped, helped forget the burning that left his fingers scorched and blistered, blackened by the ash that had been his skin.
A hand smoothed his hair, spreading it on the hard floor. He turned his face into the touch, then startled as lips brushed his jaw.
"The sun kills us," Draculea whispered, the low voice thrumming against his skin. "So does faith. We are of darkness and of lies. Do you believe in God, Johannes?"
His mouth was dry as dust, and he swallowed before answering. "God is dead. I've long since stopped searching for him."
Gott ist tot, nach Ihm wird nicht mehr gesucht - chorus of von Krolock's first song. Of course, it goes on: Wir sind zum ewigen Leben verflucht - we are cursed to live forever.
"Good."
A firm kiss was pressed against his lips, and a weight settled on his thighs. Draculea shifted, and though von Krolock's sight was still blurred, the smell made his mouth water.
Draculea pressed his bleeding wrist against von Krolock's parted lips. "Drink."
This would be the reason Johannes is up for more fun instead of passing out from pain. Blood promotes vampire healing, and in Roses the act can also erotic if the participants choose to treat it as such.
The blood was thick, sluggish, with far more substance than human ichor. There was pain in Draculea's blood, and betrayal, and loneliness. Not for the first time, he wondered who the Wallachian was, with the name of a monster and the face of a devil.
He thought he had seen that face, on a painting in a palace near Buda.
Throughout, von Krolock doesn't suspect that Draculea is the real McCoy. All he sees is a Wallachian brute with a crude cunning to him. He does not see how skilfully he's being manipulated at times.
Draculea had a dagger in his other hand and he held the flat of the bloodied blade against von Krolock's chest as he flicked open one button after another. Those large green eyes gleamed in the shadow.
"You still cling to life."
"It's the thirst - I can't fight it," he protested. He knew he should rise, command, banish, but it hurt too much to move.
"You will learn to like it," Draculea whispered. "It can't be quenched, but it's so fun to try."
The blood-smeared wrist was moved away from his lips, and he almost protested, but then his arms were being stretched over his head, smoothed into place by careful touches. His hands clenched around something he thought had to be the lower railing of a shelf, a metal rail that provided a latch for the sliding ladders, his own construction and design. It felt smooth under his hands, sun-warm, a firm hold in a world that wasn't like anything he'd known.
He did not realise he had closed his eyes until Draculea kissed them, his cheek, jaw, lips, sharp fangs nipping with an elegance he had not thought the Wallachian was capable of. After the pain and the rich bitterness of blood, it was a shock of gentleness. He opened his lips without protest, turning the kiss into a lazy exploration that made them almost equal. He was damned already, wife-slayer, blood-drinker, so what was one more sin, as pleasant a one as this?
Just a note - character POV is not identical to writer POV. Johannes is old-school Catholic, Jesuit-educated until he ditched that for the more interesting black magic things, so he takes the sodomy prohibitions seriously. He's had a bit of bisexual fun in his student days, but he felt guilty, confessed and did penance for it. The vampire thing is rather freeing in that he doesn't have to worry about damnation for any other reasons anymore.
Draculea's hands had been moving over his arms and shoulders, from his hands to his neck and back, but now the vampire lord sat up again. Von Krolock arched after him with an annoyed murmur, but a rattle of metal brought him short.
At this point, I was about to gloss over the actual happenings, because my narrator declared he would never talk of such crass matters. But I realised that this time, the sex had meaning. Draculea wanted to make von Krolock embrace the animal, carnal side of his new existence and deal with von Krolock's fears. A few mental images later, I got the young vampire talking again.
The iron chain of the medallion that had rested on Draculea's chest was now knotted around von Krolock's wrists, binding him to the rail, leaving him pinned under Draculea's weight.
He jerked, rattling the chain until it bit into his scorched skin. "Let me go!"
Draculea's red lips curved in a mocking smile. "I don't think so, Excellenz."
A jab into his broken ribs sent von Krolock arching with a hiss as the pain stabbed through him. As he twisted away from the touch, he realised that his chest was now bare, his shirt pushed up his arms and bunched around his wrists. Each touch felt like fire, and he stifled the growl rising in his throat.
Draculea's laughter echoed in the room. His hand pushed harder, keeping the other vampire pinned to the floor by pain alone as his legs were wrenched up one after another, each boot sliding off with seeming ease under preternaturally strong fingers.
For some reason, this casual show of strength impressed Johannes a lot. Suddenly he ceased struggling in my head and the narrative started flowing.
When the ties of his breeches slipped loose, von Krolock tried to struggle, but a minute movement of Draculea's other hand made his world contract to the pain of bone fragments sliding against each other in his chest.
A part of his mind was dazedly wondering how it had come to that, but his anger was rising, circles of flame in its darkness.
Teeth scraped against his collarbone, raising red welts but not breaking the skin. He turned his head away as Draculea rubbed his cheek against the hollow of his throat, like a cat marking a place with its scent. He could hide under this anger, retreat under the surface to a place as dark and cold as the night-
"I think you still haven't had enough," Draculea whispered in his ear. "You think too much, Johannes. Feel."
The smugness in that voice made something give inside him. He surged up, snarling, unmindful of pain, his teeth snapping a hair's breadth from Draculea's skin.
He sagged in his bonds, his cheeks burning, as Draculea laughed. He turned his head away, willing his hair to hide his shame at behaving like such an animal. His chest spasmed with a choked-off sob, then pain again from his broken ribs.
At this point I threw up my hands and let von Krolock have the keyboard. For the record, pain isn't my kink at all, and I abhor humiliation to the point where I can't watch the kind of comedies that base their gags on making people look like fools by e.g. making them say vulgar things in a language they don't know. The fact I was able to describe the headspace of the bottom in this situation both surprises me and makes me feel quite good about my writing skills.
The hands on his skin turned gentle again, guiding him to turn over until he saw nothing but the dusty floor and the darkness of his own hair barring the light from his eyes. It hurt less to breathe this way when propped on his elbows and knees, and the familiar pattern of breath helped still the shivering, as did the pain in his burned hand twisting in the chains. His wrists were crossed, pressed against each other, and as his other palm brushed the burn, he realised new skin was already growing there.
Then nails raked his thighs, drawing him back against Draculea's hips.
"Being on your knees suits you," the other vampire murmured. "I might just keep you this way."
He growled before he could stop himself, bucking against the chains and grip both, letting the pain flow through him, revelling in it. He felt the touch of hair on his back as Draculea leaned over him, then kisses brushed across trembling muscles, over his spine, an agile tongue outlining each fragment of bone under the skin.
There may not be formal negotiation and von Krolock isn't given a choice, but still I class this story as BDSM rather than torture/rape. Once things turn sexual, he cooperates, and while he's surprised by Draculea's actions and even more by his own emotional responses, he does not resist them. He reacts to them. This turned out to be the key to the narrative method of this story: Johannes' emotional journey as a reaction to the sex, rather than mechanical description of actions and positions.
A brief, sharp bite to his neck as one hand slipped from his hip to open him, and he forced his mouth open with panting before he could bite through his lip. Bruises could be hidden, gloves worn, but not marks on his face-
Pain again, because he was nowhere near ready enough, though the keening sound he made was lost in Draculea's growl. He forced himself to relax, immobile, not even trembling as the other vampire moved, until the invasion was complete.
Draculea was breathing now as well, his chest pressed to von Krolock's back, hands resting on the younger vampire's shoulders. One of them shifted and they shuddered, drawing breath at the same time.
Von Krolock bent his head lower, resting it on his crossed arms, stretched almost to breaking. His back was arched, tense with pain and longing. He didn't know if it was his damnation or his human nature, but something in him was past the anger now, past the mortified pride, though not at peace with how he was, bound and pinned, unable to escape even if he wanted to. Fire in his veins, twined inseparably with the white heat of pain.
He had thought he'd never be warm again.
And here we have the very point of the story. Von Krolock as a human is so wrapped up in layers of inhibitions that he almost never connects to this darkly burning core that fuels him. This gets easier the longer he's a vampire, but it'll be decades before he can do it at will. This is also the source of his strongest magic.
He snarled and bucked under Draculea, throwing his head back at the flash of pleasure. He felt the other vampire's movement, surprised laughter, then nails were clawing his sides again, pinning him until their rhythms were in time. A strong hand twisted in his hair, pulling his head back, and he growled into the air, baring his fangs.
As he bucked again, jarring their pace in a way that sent sparks flowing through his head, he heard the creak of metal and realised he could tear himself free. If he wanted to.
With one of those grasping hands wandering lower, he decided he did not. Teeth cut into the nape of his neck again and he did not stifle his moan. Draculea seemed to appreciate it by the way his teeth bit deeper and his - attentions - intensified -
The railing did give way then as the spasms of pleasure tore through him, the pain turning into ecstasy of its own. Two more thrusts, jarring his whole body as if his very bones had turned molten, and they were falling, shuddering with pleasure, the floor hard and cold under their bodies.
And let's hear it for the sex scene where not a single relevant body part is named, and yet the whole thing is kinked to hell and back. Really, I could not put it any other way - von Krolock is far too refined to describe things vulgarly.
Draculea bit the young vampire's lip and received a tired snarl in return.
"I am your Sire," he murmured wickedly.
Von Krolock shifted, slipping his hands free of the railing and bringing them to his chest. If it allowed him to trace the lines of sweat on Draculea's chest, there was nothing to it. Scientific curiosity about the physics of exertion in corpses, he thought.
An arm slipped around him as he examined the chain that bound his wrists and the medallion on it. He threw the other vampire a curious look. "That's the symbol of the Order of the Dragon. I thought they were long dissolved. Where did you get it?"
When all is said and done, Johannes von Krolock is an emo geek. His mind is full of angsty poetry and historical trivia. He's also easily distracted by intellectual questions.
"From my father." Draculea leaned in to lick a trace of blood from the other vampire's neck. "Indirectly, but the assassins that killed him brought it as proof to Buda, and I requested it when I was invested in the Order."
It's one of a dozen theories, but I went with Vlad Dracul having been killed on John Hunyadi's orders. This gives an extra slant to Vlad Draculea's later fate, because in order to free his land from Turkish influence, he has to work closely with the man who ordered his father's death. Vlad is not a simple man.
Von Krolock turned his head sharply, narrowing his eyes. "I think I've read this story."
He shook his head. It was quite impossible, of course. A legend dead a century and a half before, still used to frighten children, a name easily appropriated by someone who wished to inspire similar terror.
Draculea's laughter was warmer than before, and his arm tightened around von Krolock's waist. "I was a legend in my own lifetime, Johannes. Much is lost, but much remains as well. And the Order of the Dragon died and lived with me."
Von Krolock looked at his bound hands again. He had seen a portrait, once, and there had been a resemblance. The same sensual lips, sharp line of nose, cheeks and eyes delicate enough to belong to a woman and cruel enough to belong to a demon. As if the painter had heard a description of the man before him, though not of how wide the shoulders were, how strong the hands, how wicked the sparkle in those dark green eyes.
The portrait is the Ambras portrait of Vlad Dracula, the best-known one. It's considered either to be based on detailed descriptions or an actual portrait of Vlad painted in Hungarian captivity, unlike woodcuts that were generally aimed at making him look as scary as possible.
He held his hands higher so that Draculea could untangle the chain from them. "Tell me about the Order of the Dragon."
"There is one danger to the life of the West," Draculea said as he slipped the medallion around his own neck again. "War ends. Plague ends. All these threats contain the seeds of their own destruction. When they are past, we rebuild. What we should fear is those who seek to replace us instead of destroy us, to enslave us to their own cause. Take our children and raise them to do their bidding."
"The Ottoman Empire." Von Krolock looked at the other side of the library, where several copies of the Qu'ran rested alongside his theological books. He had not approached those shelves since his turning, afraid of the pain even the sight of a cross could render unto him now. "Even as vampires, if our civilisation falls..."
Draculea grinned. "No wine, no women, no song. Hence, the Order. We work behind the scenes, with secrets and dirty work. The night is ours, after all. And I could use a sorcerer of your power, and a seer."
The scary thing is, Draculea maintains that this is by far not the strangest setting for a recruiting pitch of his. He thinks the time he convinced the king of Hungary to set him free and let him marry the king's cousin instead of torturing him, all in the torture chamber while chained to the rack, was far more impressive.
"Magic is less reliable than gunpowder." Von Krolock sat up, slipping his arms back into the sleeves of his shirt. "And my sight is less reliable still."
"Is it? I've watched you for the past few days, Excellenz. I noticed a distinct lack of collapsing or demolishing the furniture in your rooms due to fits of visions. I'd say the spectre of madness is past you."
Von Krolock paused with his fingers on the buttons of his shirt. It was true - since he had started this new damned existence, he had not once been brought to his knees by visions of the distant future. The thought - was less pleasing than it should have been.
The change in von Krolock's magic is a gradual one. The journey will take over two decades to complete. At its end, he can walk through shadows and command them, page through people's minds as easily as books and see centuries into the future, though vaguely.
"Perhaps that gift is lost to me," he offered quietly.
"Or under your control, after three decades of controlling you." Draculea's fingers stole inside his shirt again, moving purposefully over his bruised skin. "This will hurt."
Incidentally, von Krolock is 33 at the moment of his death.
Von Krolock stifled a cry as his ribs were sharply pulled into alignment. He leaned against Draculea's chest, letting the other vampire support him. The contact felt comforting until Draculea nipped at his throat.
"You should be healed completely by next sunset," the vampire lord said as he let go, reaching for his own clothing. "Try your magic then. You'll find it comes easier to ones damned as we are. In decades to come, you may start to discover powers you never suspected."
Von Krolock felt a prickle of curiosity. "What kind of powers?"
"They differ for each of us. I would show you my command of mist and wolves, but both require darkness to accomplish. Next time, my sorcerer."
Vlad is rather unbelievably smug at this point. He has brought Johannes back to sanity, he has him interested in the Order of the Dragon - he knows well enough that if he hooks his curiosity, he has him in his grasp - and Johannes turned out to be a very entertaining bedmate. Their relationship will be a complicated one, but "friends" will be a good way to describe them.
"Next time?" He fastened the rest of his clothing before rising to his feet. His ribs already hurt less, knitting together rapidly.
"The Order demands much of me. You will have time to accustom yourself to your new status before winter draws me to these mountains again. I'll have books sent here, what little of our lore is written. I may have commands for you also; my messengers will bear my sign."
Von Krolock nodded slowly. The sun had moved to the west, leaving the library almost in shadow, letting him approach the window without risking burns. The forest was summer-green, the fields beyond it gold, heavy with grain. He looked down to the meadow in front of the castle walls, where Izabela's old nurse Eva stood with her arms stretched open, looking into the forest.
Draculea's hands rested on his shoulders again. "No more foolishness, Johannes?"
He leaned back against his Sire's grip as he watched the tiny figure toddle out of the forest, easily evading Eva's grasp. Through the open window he heard Herbert's joyous laughter, saw the sunlight glitter in the boy's golden hair.
And here's the twist: Johannes accepts his monstrous nature, but what gives him the impulse to go on living is the fact he has to watch over Herbert, to see that boy grow into a man. It's Herbert who will be the centre of his life.
"No more," he agreed.
He had not told Herbert bedtime stories for weeks now. He would have to make up for it. A story of demons and old warrior princes tonight, perhaps? His boy liked that sort of fanciful tales.
-FINIS?-