Had random inspiration for a short, maybe ten part story. Dracula will probably seem OOC because I'm going for obsessive/innocent romance between him and my character. I started an AO3 account and my username is WordPorn, so this story will also be posted there. I don't own Van Helsingbut I do own the plot and my characters. This chapter is extremely short but the following ones will be far longer and include more dialogue
Please r&r!
When the Night Calls
01 - The Red String of Fate
The nights in Transylvania were never silent if you listened close enough, and the present was no different because the now was plagued with blood.
A crusade that had began decades ago raged on in the inky dusk, frost clinging to the ground where hurried feet marred its serene beauty for a glimpse at the monster in the sky. Dracula faced the ever looming threat of his persistent enemies the Valerious, and it appeared that he was losing. Endless shots whistled through the air—hollow silver casings filled with some liquid that, when it hit home, tore a hellish peel from Dracula's maw as he howled in pain. The hooves of the horses were thunderous, only second to the roaring sound of his wings as they beat the air and they pursued his withering form as it tried to hide itself in the dark clouds.
One arrow sought him out, tearing through the tendons of his back and burying itself to the hilt in his chest, specifically the cavern where his dead heart lay. Even among the others that had marked him, this one burned the most, and with a final attempt to salvage what was left of his longevity, he disappeared in a flash of black smoke as he began to plummet towards the ground.
When he did hit the ground seemed to shake, leaves scattered in a forest a safe distance away from his hunters, where hardly any homes were but scarcely one or two. No one would dare to startle him, weakened or not.
A hunting trip gone horrible wrong had led him to this: pushed to the brink of a slow death, caused by innumerable wounds that weeped a blackish crimson viscous liquid that substituted as his blood.
In one of the houses not so far away a young woman could hardly find herself asleep. Her mind was wrought with whispers she heard in the forest, accompanied only by the crickets and other creatures that lurked in the shadows of the night. Aeliana heard a howl tear her peace asunder, and then there was a resounding thud no less than twenty meters away, and she knew she would not sleep again.
She was not ignorant to the source of the sound, and yet her feet moved on accord of her heart, her mind oddly quiet as she tip-toed through her home and to the outside, where she would seal a fate she did not yet know had been strung.
Twigs snapped underneath her feet, a single candle she shied from the breeze clasped in her hands. Aeliana did not shake or falter as the distance waned, nor did the prudence of her decision dawn on her, and it would not for a considerable time. Perhaps ever.
She noticed how silent it was as she ventured into the thick woods, the shouting and pursuance of the hunters dying out as if they had not existed at all. Her fear was present in her small steps, but her persistence and determination pushed her forward. The nightdress she wore was thin and short, so it didn't snag on stray branches or thorns. Her feet were bare and quiet as she made her final approach.
When she saw him laying in a pool of his own blood she watched as he transformed from a winged monstrosity to a man.
His injuries were many, spanning over his arms and abdomen in gaping holes that refused to heal as they usually would. Aeliana was not daft, and for a moment her feet jerked in apprehension, but her heart was blind to anything other than helping the man in the spurred moment of sympathy. She moved forward.
In the small glimmer of the light Aeliana could see him quiver, cloaked in a suit as dark as the night around him. It was emblazoned with golden stitching, appearing as a variety of classic military wear from years ago. It was sullied by...whatever poured from his afflictions, which had begun to flow heavily and flooded the soil.
Dracula was too weak to move, hardly able to even manage a glimpse at the girl that found herself standing above him in naught but a nightgown. He snarled in an attempt to warn her off despite his state of distress, but she showed no sign of leaving in her slow advance.
"Shh," she whispered, hands drawn up as if in surrender, "Don't move." Against her words he jostled, groaning in pain at the jerky movement that sent jolts of hurt through his whole body. Aeliana bent down, her hand ghosting over the skin of his cheek—it too was marred with harm, but it was deathly cold. She had expected little else.
The most prodigious wound was at the center of his chest, marked by an arrow that pierced his skin and was still embedded in him. Aeliana snapped it in half with some effort, leaving only a small visible piece that led into his chest. Her mind was running ramped, the wind whirling loudly like a storm in her ears as she pressed her palm to the place and pressed down. His hand clutched her wrist and ripped it away as if he did not want her to feel the heartbeat that was not there. Where their skin touched everything was on fire.
Dracula was conflicted. His body yearned for her blood to heal, and yet no real thirst tore at his control even in his weakened state. His hand shook as he looked at her, his vision clearing at the sight of her soft face—a welcomed sight after running so rapidly from death. Her hair was untamed and falling around her shoulders like a golden halo, a round face that was untouched by the harshness of the world. She was one of the most beautiful people he'd ever seen, and her eyes met his as she spoke.
"Please," she whispered, "let me help you."
Her eyes were not a spectacular shade of electric blue like his, in fact they were a dark shade of brown that was hardly discernible from her pupil to the human eye. Thankfully he was not condemned to be unable to witness the shade, a comforting color that sucked him into a warm embrace and made him feel as if he were melting. Dracula let her hand go, and immediately her fingers sought the top of his uniform to unbutton it. When finally the sticky material was pulled back it revealed a swelled hole that was swarming with thick dark liquid. Her hand hovered over the spot before finally pressing down, the blood seeping between her fingers as she felt his chest. There was no heartbeat as she'd suspected.
Aeliana was not surprised, and she did not show any fear or apprehension as her eyes drifted back up to meet his. There was no remnants of disgust, only a heady mixture of sympathy and boldness that made her iris appear a lighter color.
"You do not fear me," he murmured neath a ragged breath, his voice warped by a husky texture from the pain his chest endured to exhale the words. She heard him, he knew, but she did not offer him an immediate response.
He saw her lips move before he heard her voice, and it felt as if he had heard them the first time because now her face was closer, and the experience felt ultimately heightened. "Be still." Then in an action that took him by surprise, she closed her eyes and gravitated her face over his, and in a swift movement pressed her lips to his.
They were soft and relenting, not moving in a specific way or with any purpose. He could taste the innocence on her, an unfamiliar savoring thing he had not known he needed until this moment. His eyes widened at the surge of surprise that spurred on his want, that feeling that made his body tremble with desire. Dracula yearned to pry her lips apart and languish further in her, but suddenly his chest was burning something fierce as if hot tar had been poured into his wounds.
Aeliana drew back, thoughts reduced to a dull drum of nothing as if her brain had been replaced with cotton. Her lips felt like they were buzzing with electricity, and it took many moments for her attention to be redirected to the purely white glow that was emanating from the palm of her hand and spreading over the bare skin of his bloodied chest. Her breath was pulled from his chest like the string of life that was pouring from her fingertips, and though the temptation to close her eyes became great she found herself unable to look away.
Something in Dracula's face was transforming on account of the feeling in his chest—rumbling that reminded him of a heartbeat, something he'd thought he'd never remember for the rest of his damned eternity. His lips fell apart, a breathy gasp or groan bubbling in his throat as the pain in him turned to one of the single most pleasant sensations he'd ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Like a lover's caress, here in the dead of the night—like the brush of soft silk as the dress you pulled off fell from her body amidst a throe of passion. He leaned closer into her, pressing his body into her hand and craning his neck so his head was just a breadth away from her shoulder. Here he could smell her scent, and he knew he would never forget it. Sweet honey and pines, a thing of pure love and nature.
The bullets began to tug from his skin as if a string were pulling them out, and when they were clear the flesh would mend itself back together. And then the arrow came, too. The liquid that had coated it and what had busted from the innards of the hollow bullets poured out in a stream of dark green as the blood began to recede as if time was rewinding.
When the glow slowly began to fade, only after all the injuries were rebounded and all the items used to inflict them accounted for, Aeliana let her eyes tear from his as her lids began to drift shut. She felt the disconnect as soon as the air between them was cut, like someone had taken that flight of pressure on her chest and released it, leaving only glimmers of longing and emptiness behind. She was too tired and too naive to understand this, and Dracula could hardly recall it himself.
For once in his long life he did not know what to say, even with all the strength restored in his previously battered body. As his savior began to fall against him the only recognition he could provide was his arms around her as he pulled her close. Her heartbeat had lowered, and unfamiliar pangs of worry jolted him to attention. He untied the cape from his shoulders and wrapped her in it to assist in her retaining all the warmth she could. The frost did not effect him, but it would no doubt take a toll on her.
Then the sounds of approaching enemies sounded, and one look at the torches at a not-so-far distance confirmed his concerns. He did not hesitate a moment. No longer dragged down by his wounds, Dracula transformed and set off to the skies with one flap of his powerful wings.
Her home was not far away, and easily detectable with his close proximity to the thinning canopies of the trees (which also provided a more risky but effective cover). It was a quaint thing, far smaller than any home he'd ever lived in—smaller maybe than even a single room in his castle. Immediately he sought her quarters, finding an open window to a place that wreaked of her smell.
It pained him to put her down onto the bed, to have to relinquish her warmth that had embedded itself into his skin. Dracula did not wish to part with anyone so pure as she—a person who healed a monster such as himself (where had her powers come from? This thought came and left almost immediately). He could not remember any touch that had made him feel more alive, and leaving her here felt like he was condemning her to a life of hell. His would suffer too, with the memory of being without her.
Dracula bent his head to better gaze at her, laying atop a ragged cot that looked like hay strands knotted together. At the very least he would leave her with his cloak, if not only to serve as a blanket, but also a reminder of the deed she had dealt to him.
The one he would repay in some time to come.
His lips descended on her forehead, then he pulled back and placed another under her ear, and the final one on the inner part of her wrist. When he pulled back a small black line appeared and twisted itself there, standing taught like a string of ink until it sunk into her skin and faded from eyesight. His fingers drifted over her face, head having fallen to the side in her slumber and her hair slicked to her sweaty cheek. He pushed the lock back, her silent thoughts drifting to a pleasant dream that told him all he needed to know.
"Soon, Aeliana. Very soon." And he drifted away from her touch, fearing if he stayed any longer that he wouldn't be able to leave her side. He took one last look, and when he was out the window and swallowed into the night, he thought not of the hunters but of the woman that had made him feel the closet to love in a long time.
She slept peacefully, unable to confront the thoughts of the vampire king she had saved—the man who killed countless of her neighbors and feasted on their blood like wine. To her it was a duty to help people, even the darkest creatures of the night.
It would be many years before she was called to the darkness, and many more before she would see her prince again.