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winterVlad Draculea: historical character. Death: original based on Maki Ichiro's interpretation of the role of Tod in Elisabeth. Sequel to this.
BLOODMARKS 2: DORSUM
Anno Domini 1447
The torture chamber's high windows came out just above ground level of the courtyard of this fortress at the shores of the Black Sea. The young janissaries who practiced their sword work there complained of the smell of human waste and burning flesh, but for Vlad both had been part and parcel of life in Segésvar and Tirgoviste, the sewers and the open cooking fires of the cities of Transylvania and Wallachia. What he smelled when the guards took him past those windows was rotting raw meat, stale blood, what remained of amputated limbs and prisoners that were no longer useful.
Inside the dungeon, the stench was stronger, but at least he had distraction. The smell of fresh blood from his own back overpowered all else, and with every breath each mark of the lash sent new spasms through him. He'd sent the medic running with kicks and a well-aimed rock, so there was no invasive odour of salve to overwhelm the scent.
That was the way they did it, he knew. First a lashing, because even after almost three years he still did as he wished. Then tender attention to confuse his mind until gratitude won over hate. Hell. Hell if he'd let them.
That was the way they got to Radu, his little brother, now so pretty and pampered in silk and kohl. On the intellectual level that was all that was left to Vlad - even his anger had been tainted by the Turks - he knew he could not have done anything to help Radu. But he could protect his own spirit from breaking. He still had that to control. His own man.
Three years soon. He was in his sixteenth summer now, though the dungeon was cold even when the sun scorched. Too old to be a janissary, one of stolen children made into the Sultan's elite soldiers, for all that he'd been taken from his father as they had been. And they had almost stopped trying to make him one, only taking care now to put fear into him by making him watch the tortures and the executions. He watched, yes. And he learned.
Oh, he learned.
The dungeon was growing darker, and he tried to make out whether that was because of the night falling or his own strength failing. The whipping had been a bad one; he knew he would faint soon, which was the only reason the medic had not ordered him held down. He would sleep, and then they would come and salve his wounds, but for now he was content to play the wild animal, the wounded wolf too dangerous to approach while it could still bite.
The pain did not dull his senses but made them sharper. He could hear the young janissaries in the courtyard talking about dinner, which meant it was indeed heading towards evening. Two boys, young indeed by the sound of their voices, talked quietly by the window nearest to him in hushed Bulgarian. Vlad wondered how long it would be before the boys were whipped for it, as he had been so many times. The janissaries were soldiers of the Sultan, and the Sultan demanded Turkish, even from children with not two decades of years between them, torn from their parents as tribute that very spring.
He heard many footsteps outside as all were called to the dining hall for a meal before the sunset prayer. Janissaries wore heeled boots, and each heel echoed on the stones. He almost missed the identical sound that echoed much closer.
The door had not opened, he knew that. He bit his lip not to hiss from pain as he raised himself on his arms enough to turn his head towards the sound.
Measured footsteps on the stairs of the dungeon. High boots, heeled, black tooled leather rather than the brown of janissary boots. His eyes slid upwards to a coat of darkest blue, silver embroidery and sapphire buttons, open over dark breeches and a white shirt. Such slim legs, he thought.
A narrow hand in a black glove slid over the stone wall. Vlad's eyes followed the line of the sleeve to the shoulder. A lock of silver hair.
He closed his eyes. Had it been seven years since that summer? Even the smell was the same, stale and fresh blood on the dog's coat, stale and fresh blood on his skin.
The footsteps ceased and he opened his eyes again. Death, as beautiful as on that summer day, was looking down at him. It might have been a trick of the light, but Vlad thought he saw puzzlement in those large eyes.
"I didn't think I could die of a stupid whipping," he rasped.
Death's head lowered, the purple eyes closing momentarily. "It is not your time." There was a moment of hesitation in the pleasant tenor voice. "Few can see me unless I will them to. Fewer still know me."
Vlad was getting a crick in his neck. When he lowered his head to his palm, the highest he could see was Death's thigh. He had read enough Turkish and Arabian poetry to learn to appreciate a shapely thigh, but still he preferred to look people in the face.
"My mother's people were curious kinds," he muttered, raising himself on his elbows again. His entire back spasmed with pain, drawing a muffled scream from him. "Hellfire!"
The boots right in front of his nose moved. Death sat down on the floor, half-kneeling. The flagstones faded to blackness with an icy sheen where the coat was spread under a dark-clad leg. Vlad thought he really should stop thinking about those legs, even if the sleek curve of one thigh was a hand's breadth away from his nose.
"That would explain things." Death raised a gloved hand to adjust the lapel of the embroidered coat. "Some people do have this gift. It does them little good."
"At least I get company." Vlad let his eyes follow the lines of Death's neck and jaw. Seven years, and he still had no answer to that question. It annoyed him, and he was too tired to be properly annoyed, even by the hair sticking to his bloodied back. "Are you a man or a woman?"
That got him a startled look followed by a smile, white teeth flashing in the falling twilight. "The categories are a little narrow for me. Man will do, for now, for you." Death's hand rose again, black leather touching pale lips. "Why do you want to know?"
"Was wondering how much mercy I could count on," Vlad shot back, hissing through his teeth at the pain in his back. "My hair-"
"You would throw yourself at the mercy of Death?" There was amusement in Death's voice, but he reached out with one hand, deftly gathering Vlad's long black hair away from the bleeding lash marks.
It hurt, but Vlad forgot about the pain when he felt those fingers brush the nape of his neck. He kept his eyes on Death's, and before careful blankness descended, he saw a flash of hunger. He wondered how long it had been since Death had allowed himself to touch someone.
"Thank you," he whispered.
He shifted his body, gritting his teeth against the pain, propping himself on one arm. Death's fingers shifted on his skin, gripped, helped him assume a new position on his side. Their eyes did not leave each other.
"You get to see this place a lot, don't you?" Vlad muttered, breaking the silence.
"Often enough. Many die under the lash."
"I'm too stubborn." Vlad flashed Death a grin. "Once I get out of here, I think I'll keep you busy for a while. I have a lot of people to kill."
Death's hand spread over Vlad's shoulder, moving slowly down the arm, as if trying to take in as much sensation as possible. "You're so certain you'll get out?"
"If I go after something with all my determination, I get it," Vlad said simply. "And what I want is freedom. With blood on the side."
"You might just get it," Death murmured. He shaped his fingers along Vlad's forearm, his eyes falling closed again.
Vlad thought he saw a shiver. He raised his hand to the sleeve of Death's coat, repeating the motion of Death's hand until his fingers were closed around Death's wrist. It was narrow as a woman's, and he slipped his fingers under the edge of the glove, peeling the leather back bit by bit.
Death's fingers clenched into a fist, then relaxed.
Vlad didn't take his eyes off Death's face as he brought the hand to his lips. The long lashes fluttered when his teeth closed around the tip of the middle finger, nipping firmly, holding the glove in place as he slid Death's hand out of the confines of the leather.
The purple eyes opened, the hunger undisguised now. The bare hand rose to Vlad's shoulder again, sliding greedily against muscle, slipping down to his chest. Short nails caught at his skin. He found his own eyes falling shut.
"How do you kill?" he forced out in the darkness.
The voice was very close now. "With a kiss."
Vlad reached out and touched a lean thigh, shaped it with his touch. He heard leather sliding on skin again, then another bare hand smoothed his hair, lifting his head to rest on that thigh as his shoulders and arms were touched, explored, caressed. Cool fingers skirted the edges of his wounds. He could smell the scent of Death, the smell of a winter morning, ice and sunlight.
As pain and exhaustion sent him sliding into the darkness, he forced his lips to move.
"Come see me again. When I start keeping you busy."
The last sound he heard was Death's quiet laughter.
BLOODMARKS 2: DORSUM
Anno Domini 1447
The torture chamber's high windows came out just above ground level of the courtyard of this fortress at the shores of the Black Sea. The young janissaries who practiced their sword work there complained of the smell of human waste and burning flesh, but for Vlad both had been part and parcel of life in Segésvar and Tirgoviste, the sewers and the open cooking fires of the cities of Transylvania and Wallachia. What he smelled when the guards took him past those windows was rotting raw meat, stale blood, what remained of amputated limbs and prisoners that were no longer useful.
Inside the dungeon, the stench was stronger, but at least he had distraction. The smell of fresh blood from his own back overpowered all else, and with every breath each mark of the lash sent new spasms through him. He'd sent the medic running with kicks and a well-aimed rock, so there was no invasive odour of salve to overwhelm the scent.
That was the way they did it, he knew. First a lashing, because even after almost three years he still did as he wished. Then tender attention to confuse his mind until gratitude won over hate. Hell. Hell if he'd let them.
That was the way they got to Radu, his little brother, now so pretty and pampered in silk and kohl. On the intellectual level that was all that was left to Vlad - even his anger had been tainted by the Turks - he knew he could not have done anything to help Radu. But he could protect his own spirit from breaking. He still had that to control. His own man.
Three years soon. He was in his sixteenth summer now, though the dungeon was cold even when the sun scorched. Too old to be a janissary, one of stolen children made into the Sultan's elite soldiers, for all that he'd been taken from his father as they had been. And they had almost stopped trying to make him one, only taking care now to put fear into him by making him watch the tortures and the executions. He watched, yes. And he learned.
Oh, he learned.
The dungeon was growing darker, and he tried to make out whether that was because of the night falling or his own strength failing. The whipping had been a bad one; he knew he would faint soon, which was the only reason the medic had not ordered him held down. He would sleep, and then they would come and salve his wounds, but for now he was content to play the wild animal, the wounded wolf too dangerous to approach while it could still bite.
The pain did not dull his senses but made them sharper. He could hear the young janissaries in the courtyard talking about dinner, which meant it was indeed heading towards evening. Two boys, young indeed by the sound of their voices, talked quietly by the window nearest to him in hushed Bulgarian. Vlad wondered how long it would be before the boys were whipped for it, as he had been so many times. The janissaries were soldiers of the Sultan, and the Sultan demanded Turkish, even from children with not two decades of years between them, torn from their parents as tribute that very spring.
He heard many footsteps outside as all were called to the dining hall for a meal before the sunset prayer. Janissaries wore heeled boots, and each heel echoed on the stones. He almost missed the identical sound that echoed much closer.
The door had not opened, he knew that. He bit his lip not to hiss from pain as he raised himself on his arms enough to turn his head towards the sound.
Measured footsteps on the stairs of the dungeon. High boots, heeled, black tooled leather rather than the brown of janissary boots. His eyes slid upwards to a coat of darkest blue, silver embroidery and sapphire buttons, open over dark breeches and a white shirt. Such slim legs, he thought.
A narrow hand in a black glove slid over the stone wall. Vlad's eyes followed the line of the sleeve to the shoulder. A lock of silver hair.
He closed his eyes. Had it been seven years since that summer? Even the smell was the same, stale and fresh blood on the dog's coat, stale and fresh blood on his skin.
The footsteps ceased and he opened his eyes again. Death, as beautiful as on that summer day, was looking down at him. It might have been a trick of the light, but Vlad thought he saw puzzlement in those large eyes.
"I didn't think I could die of a stupid whipping," he rasped.
Death's head lowered, the purple eyes closing momentarily. "It is not your time." There was a moment of hesitation in the pleasant tenor voice. "Few can see me unless I will them to. Fewer still know me."
Vlad was getting a crick in his neck. When he lowered his head to his palm, the highest he could see was Death's thigh. He had read enough Turkish and Arabian poetry to learn to appreciate a shapely thigh, but still he preferred to look people in the face.
"My mother's people were curious kinds," he muttered, raising himself on his elbows again. His entire back spasmed with pain, drawing a muffled scream from him. "Hellfire!"
The boots right in front of his nose moved. Death sat down on the floor, half-kneeling. The flagstones faded to blackness with an icy sheen where the coat was spread under a dark-clad leg. Vlad thought he really should stop thinking about those legs, even if the sleek curve of one thigh was a hand's breadth away from his nose.
"That would explain things." Death raised a gloved hand to adjust the lapel of the embroidered coat. "Some people do have this gift. It does them little good."
"At least I get company." Vlad let his eyes follow the lines of Death's neck and jaw. Seven years, and he still had no answer to that question. It annoyed him, and he was too tired to be properly annoyed, even by the hair sticking to his bloodied back. "Are you a man or a woman?"
That got him a startled look followed by a smile, white teeth flashing in the falling twilight. "The categories are a little narrow for me. Man will do, for now, for you." Death's hand rose again, black leather touching pale lips. "Why do you want to know?"
"Was wondering how much mercy I could count on," Vlad shot back, hissing through his teeth at the pain in his back. "My hair-"
"You would throw yourself at the mercy of Death?" There was amusement in Death's voice, but he reached out with one hand, deftly gathering Vlad's long black hair away from the bleeding lash marks.
It hurt, but Vlad forgot about the pain when he felt those fingers brush the nape of his neck. He kept his eyes on Death's, and before careful blankness descended, he saw a flash of hunger. He wondered how long it had been since Death had allowed himself to touch someone.
"Thank you," he whispered.
He shifted his body, gritting his teeth against the pain, propping himself on one arm. Death's fingers shifted on his skin, gripped, helped him assume a new position on his side. Their eyes did not leave each other.
"You get to see this place a lot, don't you?" Vlad muttered, breaking the silence.
"Often enough. Many die under the lash."
"I'm too stubborn." Vlad flashed Death a grin. "Once I get out of here, I think I'll keep you busy for a while. I have a lot of people to kill."
Death's hand spread over Vlad's shoulder, moving slowly down the arm, as if trying to take in as much sensation as possible. "You're so certain you'll get out?"
"If I go after something with all my determination, I get it," Vlad said simply. "And what I want is freedom. With blood on the side."
"You might just get it," Death murmured. He shaped his fingers along Vlad's forearm, his eyes falling closed again.
Vlad thought he saw a shiver. He raised his hand to the sleeve of Death's coat, repeating the motion of Death's hand until his fingers were closed around Death's wrist. It was narrow as a woman's, and he slipped his fingers under the edge of the glove, peeling the leather back bit by bit.
Death's fingers clenched into a fist, then relaxed.
Vlad didn't take his eyes off Death's face as he brought the hand to his lips. The long lashes fluttered when his teeth closed around the tip of the middle finger, nipping firmly, holding the glove in place as he slid Death's hand out of the confines of the leather.
The purple eyes opened, the hunger undisguised now. The bare hand rose to Vlad's shoulder again, sliding greedily against muscle, slipping down to his chest. Short nails caught at his skin. He found his own eyes falling shut.
"How do you kill?" he forced out in the darkness.
The voice was very close now. "With a kiss."
Vlad reached out and touched a lean thigh, shaped it with his touch. He heard leather sliding on skin again, then another bare hand smoothed his hair, lifting his head to rest on that thigh as his shoulders and arms were touched, explored, caressed. Cool fingers skirted the edges of his wounds. He could smell the scent of Death, the smell of a winter morning, ice and sunlight.
As pain and exhaustion sent him sliding into the darkness, he forced his lips to move.
"Come see me again. When I start keeping you busy."
The last sound he heard was Death's quiet laughter.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-09-30 08:30 pm (UTC)I'm just babbling now, I know.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 07:40 am (UTC)And there will be more. Including a romantic walk among impaled corpses. I really worry about Vlad sometimes ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 06:12 am (UTC)Fun fact - I saw the funeral stone of Vlad son's Mihnea yesterday. A bit plain among the ones of Sibiu/Hermannstadt mayors, but still interesting since it's the only one having a cross, sitting on an overturned semilune (symbol for battles with the Ottomans).
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 07:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 12:56 pm (UTC)Just wondering - how much of this is historical?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 01:06 pm (UTC)While there are differences in opinion among historians, I'm going with a combination of four different books about Vlad that I read. Radu getting seduced and Vlad getting punished for being a stubborn git are things everyone agrees on. The separation's the iffy part, but three out of four books have Vlad stuck in the Asia Minor fortress. And I did my research on janissaries, too :)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 01:11 pm (UTC)So I can claim that reading this is actually historical research. Wonderful. *g*
Btw, my Death just needs a bit of polishing, so he should show up later tonight...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-01 08:59 pm (UTC)(Says she, plotting exactly what VK will do to Rudolf, and oh gods, it's twisted and graphic...)
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 02:08 am (UTC)And, oooh? VK and Rudolf?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 05:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 12:18 am (UTC)As for this story, I agree with the other comments that it's great. Oh Vlad, you have so many issues. I had a brief humorous mental image in which someone sends him to violence management, but then, Vlad would probably end up killing the therapist. Which leads to Death popping into the office and raising an eyebrow...
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 05:45 am (UTC)...you know, I don't need more crackfic in this series ;) Though the mental image is an alluring one. So glad you like it!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 07:36 pm (UTC)Death sat on the edge of the desk, tapping one boot against it. “Just what did you do this time?”
If Vlad the Impaler had possessed the ability to make puppy eyes, he would have done so. “Blame Gabriel—he’s the one who suggested I needed violence management.”
“And this naturally leads to you stabbing the therapist through the heart with his letter opener, causing blood to get all over his office?”
“Of course!” Vlad glanced at the opposite side of the room. “You do realize that the nice, soft leather couch has remained blood-free.”
Death was silent for a minute before smiling the tiniest bit. “You are a conniving brat,” he said, getting off the desk and moving over to where Vlad was.
“You know you love it.”
As even Death and Dracula deserve their privacy, we will now leave them alone, pausing only to say that the receptionist joined in the fun a short time later, and that the janitor cried when he saw the mess.
The End
(no subject)
Date: 2006-10-02 08:38 pm (UTC)I really shouldn't be giggling so much :D
(Although Vlad is out for blood. Just so you know ;))