I do not own NBC's Dracula.

And I am not a vampire.

Kind of Monster

In the beginning, he was only Vlad Tepis. Third prince of Wallachia, second son of the house of Basarab of Romania. A young medieval warrior prince, vicious and cruel on the battlefield, gentle and tender with his lady Ilona.

Amongst other pursuits, he served on the high council of the Order of the Dragon, a most prestigious position. Until he betrayed their trust, defied their wishes. So strongly that in the face of his betrayal, they chose to punish him in a way they had no other before or since.

They judged him guilty of heresy, a common sentence to any they found distasteful and disruptive to their goals. They burned his bride and made him watch. Then, as a final stroke, by their own power and not of the God above, they excommunicated him from their earthly church and performed vile occult rituals to damn him, recreate him to be something else.

The first vampire. Dracula.

But who is he really? What kind of monster can he be?

This man who hires live musicians to make his forbidden lady smile. A man who dances with mental patients for their enjoyment.

And his.

For this man whom they call a monster does indeed enjoy to dance. And to bring a light into the eyes of those who have none makes him feel human.

If only for a short time.

He who runs like a delighted, grateful child to walk in the light of the sun, touch the sparkling, splashing water, and bask in the warmth it gives now that it may not burn his flesh.

And when he fights against his most loyal companion Renfield, he fights as a man. Knowing he could lay him low with his vampiric brutality and power, he fights as a man.

Even if that means to lose.

Encouraging the dreams of the woman he secretly loves. Though it buys him no gain, no upper hand whatsoever. Only to see her smile. Only to see the light in her eyes. Only to know that in this life, she will live as she sees fit and be happy and proud and content.

He is immeasurably strong and determined. This man who stoically holds his poise a few seconds, just a few seconds, longer while the serum steadily fails and the vicious burn steadily spreads over his face. Blistering it. Crisping it.

And does not flinch until he is away and can scream and roar his agony alone in the darkened carriage where none may see.

This yearning man who looks at her so carefully so that she may not see his adoration, his love. Who struggles to keep all his forbidden feelings for her locked away inside so that none may see.

And of course, fails.

This supportive man who attends her most important surgical examination. Something unimportant to him, made important by her attachment to it. He stands in the shadows, silent, unseen, lifting her up though she does not realize he lingers. And this man who is proud of her, loves her even more, for her strength in the face of her fear and obstacles.

And revels to see her applauded by her superiors, the men who now can no longer regard her as simply a woman.

A needful man who imagines her the first time he takes his physical pleasure from another. So he can accept finding comfort and release for a short time. Because, she, his beloved, is the only woman he has truly loved, truly desired.

A vampire who refuses to confine himself to shadowy corners and reaches painfully again and again for the warmth of the sun that burns.

This manipulative man who chooses to garner the trust of the vampire huntsman rather than kill her and in the end when his hand is forced, does so with swiftly and with compassion.

This ruthless man who dispatches his once trusted second in command to gain the upper hand and rid himself of a troublesome ally but then pays regretful, sorrowful homage to him in the evening flames.

Driving the woman he loves into the arms of another man simply in the hopes of making her happy. To his own personal misery and anguish.

This compassionate man who hides his true self away from everyone save his man Renfield. The man he saved so very long ago. Not because he needed a legal counsel, but because he knows what it feels like to live as an outcast. An outcast in a polite society with fangs and claws deeper than he could ever weld.

A quiet soul who plays simple, lovely, haunting tunes whilst pining in remembrance for his long dead wife, his long dead life. And plotting the degradation and demise of one who could stake him to ashes.

A man who is gentile, yet bold in his social interactions. Welcoming yet threatening in his dealings. And takes a brief moment to smile, to hold a gaze, to offer a subtle quip to those who may hear it.

This tender-hearted man who sheds tears for his fellow tortured vampires, soothes them, mourns them, and continues to move toward the goal of renewed light, renewed humanity.

This craving man who watches against the light of the burning sun for the smile he so desperately longs to see as she discovers his heartfelt memento. Though he knows it is forbidden, his love for her.

And sulks like a petulant child before the sun when he is denied the beauty of that smile.

Following her, though she sees him not. So that he may gaze upon her beauty, catch a whiff of her pure scent on a drifting breeze. So that he may ensure her safety against the threatening, saucy bohemians of seedy London.

This hopeful man who gazes at her in her exquisitely beautiful spirit with such carefulness and joy. Like a child taking delight in Christmas.

This gentile man who treats her dearest friend with such respect and never brings to light her shallow frippery. All to show kindness to her.

And who damns that friend to an existence as the undead for the vile deception against her, his beloved.

This intriguing man and his cards. He uses them to explain magic tricks and delight the mind. He uses them to reach out to the sun, only drawing back into the shadows when his inhuman flesh sizzles.

Cards of encouragement, cards of pleading request, cards of invitation, cards of temptation.

Cards used to gain access to a most private establishment of controversial repute and blackmail financial means from a man who, like him, cannot live his love out in the light of day.

And kisses that man's lover lightly upon the cheek simply because he can. Because he knows what it will do to them both.

This powerful man who not only rescues his man Renfield from the torturous hands of an evil witch woman, but then gently nurses that man back from the brink of death. Blotting his brow, cleaning his wounds. Acting as nursemaid. With tenderness and care.

He takes such simple delight in holding her, the woman he loves. When his arms are around her, all the rest of the world seems to stop, pause in its turnings and goings-on so that he may to touch her and hold her as simply a man.

This powerful man who laughs in the face of swords, lances, knives, stakes, surviving a century in an metal box. But is brought to searing frustrations by a pinprick needle. Not simply because it hurts but because the pain is enjoyed by he who draws it.

This man who feels umbrage at his sludge of vampiric blood being so casually scorned. His yearning need for sunlight cast so casually aside.

What kind of brutal, bloodthirsty monster gets his feelings hurt in such a manner? Like a turtle without a shell?

He was not born a monster. He did not chose to become a monster. He evolved into a monster when everything precious to him was destroyed. He was cursed, doomed, damned. He never asked for it. He never wanted it.

They denied him death to keep him from being reunited with his true love Ilona and to deny him peace and rest. They thought they were damning him.

Instead, they were creating a monster and handing it the capabilities to annihilate them.

He was created out of hate and pure evil. As punishment. Penance for his crimes against wicked men.

But what kind of monster can he be?

This Vlad Teppis.

This Alexander Grayson.

This Dracula.

The very definition of multi-faceted, that's him.

This little introspective never really found a place in 'The Long Game'. But that doesn't mean I shall have it waste away in my Word documents, now does it? ;)

And yes, I know it's fractured and randomly jumps all over the series, but that was kind of the point, yeah?

I believe there will be no more I shall tell for them after this. Though I will always love them so and what they represent to me about humanity.

Thanks to Orcrist1974, Sekhmet49, and Ealasaid76 for such fantastic reviews and to my sweet deelove1 for reviewing this story as you have done so faithfully with all the others.

Thanks as well to sbenton1, Werejaguar of Halloween Town, ioananix, Orcrist1974, and MittknightDr for adding your support to this tale.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.