Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: His Brides

Undated Entries:
Winter, 1897

Mirella,

She of the black tresses and laughter, she of the soft lips and soft hands. She who kept me company through long nights, who brushed my hair and told me stories, wild fanciful tales of faraway places, of Moscow under Catherine the Great, of Paris and Rome, of Barcelona and Marrakesh. Mirella who took me into her arms and warmed my body with her own. Mirella who loved me as much as I loved her. I drew her to me, and I would have kept her with me until the sun burned down to ashes.

Mirella, my love, fell to the hunger, and I kept her close, tried to help her find her way back. Mirella who hunted and feasted with all the relish of her living self, who gave herself entirely to the hunger just as she had to me in her life. Mirella of the black tresses and the beautiful sunrise smile.

Mirella, sleep now, and dream of the white fields of snow.

~~~

Alexandreina,

She of the quick tongue and quicker wit. She who would draw a knife to defend herself. She who knew the sigils and the gestures that make up more than a simple warding, who could draw a veil across men's eyes, and cause the winds to rise at her bidding. Some said she was the Devil's concubine long before she met me. Widowed far too young, with a son and daughter of her own, her people believed her spells had cost her the life and protection of her husband. It was simply cruel fate, not the curse of God upon her house. She was too beautiful, too outspoken, too powerful in her own right. Such a thing could never last.

Alexandreina who defied me openly, who drew my eye with a quick and unexpected laugh, who cracked the ice around my heart. She was a gift, for her mothers and aunts feared her insolence would never be suffered by their protector. They cast her out, in an attempt to appease my temper. But her insult amused me, enticed me. She was so beautiful, and so furious with me. I could not help but fall in love with her. She had dark brown hair, and green eyes. A witch's eyes, with the sight, the ability to look upon those things that lay between the worlds. I courted her for months, with flowers and beautiful trinkets and baubles, but it was the books of poetry and other arcane ephemera that turned her face to me. We were a tale the grandmother's told, of beauty and the beast.

Alexandreina who fell into my arms and who wept upon my chest, who begged for her freedom, and when I gave it to her, who refused to leave. Alexandreina whom I loved for many years, taking her to my side in small sips, keeping her for as long as I could.

Alexandreina who is the strongest of the three, who still keeps company with me from time to time, who still knows my heart and who loves the monster as much as she loves the man.

Alexandreina, with her beautiful lips and her cruel eyes.  My Alexandreina.

~~~

Tsura,

She who sought me out, who pursued me. Dark of eye and hair, dark of temper and heart. She stole into under the shield wall and into the castle of her own volition, broke the seals on the sanctuary, and placed herself into my coffin. Tsura, who lay her head down upon me, cold and still and yet, alive. She who was too young to die. Too beautiful. I took her back to her mother, and left her there, without a word. She suffered the lash for her transgressions. Tsura, who came back to me. Alexandreina found her, and kept her as a play thing.

My lovely wolf maiden, Tsura, who ran barefoot in the woods, who killed with her bare hands, man and beast alike. Tsura who knew the power of the night, of the storm, of the beasts of the earth. Tsura who danced like the fire itself, who brought music back into these halls, who mixed potions and tinctures to draw the dreams up from within the mind, making them spill out all around us. Tsura, who took me as a slave to her lithe young flesh.

Tsura who saved me from the King's men, who drew them away and led them on a merry chase. Tsura who found me, who led me home again, who refused to let me age, who screamed and fought to keep me from the deep slumber, who fed me and washed me and made love to my waking corpse.

Tsura who gave up her life to be with me, and to whom I gave the curse in return. Tsura, whose icy kiss I still seek out, whose brave heart I will never forget.

Tsura, my wolf maiden, my bride.

Journal of Vlad III, Draculea: It Begins

Februarie, 1897

Castle Dracula

 

I have sent word to Budaphest (so strange to call it thus) for an agent who speaks English.  I would take myself away from the petty concerns of this backwater country.  I long to rule over a living kingdom again.  The man, I do not remember his name, was in Istanbul not long before, and brings word of many business opportunities in this New Rome.  

 

London, the seat of kings.  Of great minds and great culture.  She thrives on the meat of mankind, it is said, a hive of industry.  The age of reason has come forth into the light, and as always, the darkness follows behind, staining the hem of her gowns with filth and blood.  It is glorious and I would see it with my own eyes.

 

The wealth of my treasury is easily converted to currency.  I send word under seal, and they will come slathering to my door like the starved wolves they are. 

 

I will learn their tongue, and I will walk among them, and they will know the fear and majesty of the Prince who defied God.

 

 

2nd of Aprilie, 1897

Castle Dracula

 

The language comes easily to me.  I remember the text Abel brought me from Varna.  I believe it was Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and the works of John Donne, the poet.  There were others as well, and I find the language has not changed so much.   Yet, I must practice with its native speakers.  My mother's tongue is still heavy on my lips, and colors all that pass them.

 

The Englishman took his time setting up my accounts, and his mind strays to ways to further profit from my inexperience with Western financial instruments.  It does not matter to me.  There remains such wealth in my coffers, he could squander half of it and I would still have enough to see my plans through to completion.

 

Ten manor houses, houses befitting royalty, in and around the heartbeat of this New Rome.  London, my new home, my new love, you are my next conquest, by blood and by fire if necessary.  Fifty boxes of earth are only the beginning.  I shall take the mountain with me, one handful at a time, if that is what the hunger requires.  I shall spread it across the whole of the world until there is no dark place I cannot come to rest.  My children will go forth, beautiful and terrible, and I will see them rise to the highest places in society.

 

Kings and queens will beg to become part of my court.  I shall rule as never before.  I shall rule in the Light! And the Englishman, with his greedy thoughts, shall be duly rewarded for his ardor, and shall feast upon pestilence until the end of his days, always within reach of everlasting life, but eternally denied the gift.  He shall rot in a cell, his mind turned only to thoughts of hunger, of mindless, gnawing ravenous need for life, in all its forms.

 

 

 

28th of May, 1897

Castle Dracula

 

Ah Renfield, my black-hearted scribe.  I can feel him, and feel that his pathetic mind has shattered, but the blood bond remains.  I can hear him calling, across the leagues that separate us.  Ravenous for life, for the secrets of the blood eternal.  He will never see it from my hand, but he will serve me in other ways, yet.  I have no need to dispose of him, harmless vile thing that he has become.

 

They sent another in his place, one Jonathan Harker.  With him comes a miracle I could never have foreseen.  He carries with him a graven image of my beloved.  No, she is not my beloved, but a woman, with the given name Wilhelmina.  Mina, as he calls her.  His betrothed.  It is fascinating to look upon, not a painting, but a feat of science, captured with light and chymicals.  But she is the very image of my Elizaveta.  She wears her face, her eyes, even the soft hint of a smile on her lips.  It is impossible, but how can it be anything less than destiny.  I look upon this portrait, this photograph, and I see my beloved looking back at me.  She has come for me.  She walks the earth again, a world away in my city, in my London.  She waits for me.

 

I shall keep him here, for a month or more, until I make the passage.  My beloved will not be kept from me by time or distance.  I shall keep him here, a prisoner, and I shall return in his place.  He wears the barest sense of her in his skin, and I have tasted perhaps a hint of her in his blood.  That they are betrothed surely matters not.  She will look upon me and she will know me for who I am.  Her Prince, returned from the battlefield, returned to her whole and alive.  I will forgive her the lie that took her from me.  It will be as if she never fell.  I will have her in my arms again.  I will take her to my breast and make her my Princess, my eternal love.  I swear, He will be powerless to keep her from me.  His treachery is at an end.  My love walks the earth again and she will be mine.

 

This I swear, by blood and by my oath.