Sick of me yet, dear readers? I hope not, because I still have a ton of one-shots to post while I work on some of my longer projects. Here's an everyone-is-probably-slightly-out-of-character type fic I hope you'll enjoy regardless.
Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it ain't mine.
"You're still here?" Bertrand looked up from his book as Ingrid continued. "I would have thought you'd be running for the hills by now." He frowned; what had he done now? Was he in trouble with the Count, or Vlad? The vampiress saw his confusion and smirked. "Oh, typical Vlad. He hasn't even told you, has he?" He closed his book and set it down, giving her his full attention.
"Told me what?"
Ingrid produced a book of her own, holding it out to him. It appeared to be a reprinting of an old vampire text, shiny and new.
"Turn to page one hundred and seven, and the last few paragraphs might be of interest to you." She made to leave, but paused in the doorway and turned, still smirking. "Oh, and... I'm sorry." He waited until she was definitely gone before opening the book and skipping to page 107.
The Chosen One will not take the throne without resistance, however. Enemies will beset him from all sides, but destiny itself will be his most fearsome foe. The prophecy is clear. The Chosen One's fate is a forked path; he will lead our race to glory, or else he will crumble to ash at dusk on his eighteenth birthday.
Bertrand frowned – he thought he had read everything there was to read about the Chosen One. He glanced at the cover; The Wisdom of Angharad, c. 385 BC – Rediscovered and Translated for Modern English Vampires. It was an obscure text, then, probably lost for centuries, and he supposed he might have overlooked it. Then what was this about Vlad dying?
The only way for the Chosen One to survive is for him to prove his dominion over the realm of sentiment. There is a ritual that will suffice to preserve his unlife and allow him to rise to greatness, and it requires relatively little to perform. It must take place at midday on the eighteenth anniversary of his birth.
He let out a completely unnecessary sigh of relief. Vlad could be saved, and there were still three days to go before he turned eighteen. His ignorance would not have to cost his protégé so dearly.
The Chosen One must cut out the heart of a vampire who loves him, not as brother, father or son, but in that all-consuming fashion known as romantic love, and drive a fresh stake therein as his victim looks on. Only by sacrificing the one who loves him most can he survive to lead all vampires to victory. Should he be beloved by no vampire, he is not worthy of the throne, for all great leaders draw into their orbit those who cannot help but be entirely devoted to them, and in this case he shall perish. Should he fail or refuse to complete the ritual, he lacks the force of character required to lead, and shall be committed likewise to dust.
Bertrand flicked the page, trying to find an alternative; Vlad would never kill anyone just to save himself, much less someone who cared for him.
He must be prepared to hunt down his prey if necessary, for though the ritual will have stronger effects if the victim is willing, they will suffer great pain in their last moments. There are few who would wish to endure such a fate, however strong their loyalty, and even the prospect of glory cannot entice them to submit, for the victim's name is to be wholly struck from all records of our kind.
Bertrand skimmed the rest of the page, but the text had moved on to describing an archaic coronation ceremony. There was no other way, then; Vlad had to kill the vampire who loved him most. His tutor had a sneaking suspicion that Ingrid knew exactly who that was.
"I would have thought you'd be running for the hills," she'd said. Vlad couldn't know, however... could he? Ingrid had suggested that he knew about the rite itself, which meant that he should have come to Bertrand by now to ask for advice. The only explanation was that he knew about Bertrand's affection for him, and knew what it meant. Of course he wouldn't want to give him time to run.
He was doing Vlad an injustice, he realised; hadn't he just been thinking of how unlikely it was for Vlad to kill to save himself? Perhaps he simply hadn't told Bertrand because he hadn't wanted him to know. He probably wasn't planning to go through with the ritual. Even now, he might be mentally preparing himself to turn to dust in just three days' time.
That couldn't happen. Bertrand had never been as sure of anything in his life. He would search for any mention of this ceremony in any other text, and try to find a more palatable alternative, but if this was the only solution, Bertrand would see to it that it was done. Vlad's continued existence was so much more important than his, and not just because he was the Chosen One.
Two days passed, and Bertrand didn't catch so much as a whiff of sawdust to suggest that Vlad was preparing for the ceremony. He couldn't help but appreciate the irony as he slipped into the Design & Technology lab in the middle of the night to whittle his own stake. So engrossed in his work and his thoughts was he that he didn't even notice Ingrid pausing at the door, a tiny smirk creeping onto her face.
On the morning of Vlad's birthday, when he got home from a night in town, he was greeted by a table groaning with presents. Ingrid had given him a new pair of boots, the Count a new travelling cape. Bertrand stepped forward, but the Chosen One's sister intervened, a positively evil look on her face.
"Why don't you two go down to the training room for a chat? We'll still be here this afternoon. You can give him his gift there." The Count looked as if he was about to protest, but Ingrid shot him a look and he accepted the unspoken instruction to wait for explanations later. Vlad rolled his eyes, but she seemed serious, so he shrugged awkwardly at his tutor.
"Whatever you say, Ingrid. Come on, Bertrand, we can get some training in while we're there."
They sat side by side, leaning against the training room wall, and Bertrand produced an ornately-carved wooden box from inside his jacket. He handed it to Vlad.
"Happy birthday." His student smiled at him.
"Thanks. I've always wanted a-" Bertrand rolled his eyes.
"Inside the box, Vlad." The younger vampire shrugged and lifted the lid. Inside he found – predictably – an old book, which turned out to be a collection of poems by Cowper.
"Didn't think you'd be interested in poetry, Bertrand." He lifted it out, and underneath it was a DVD – the latest comedy that was taking the breather world by storm. "Or DVDs. Thank you!" Bertrand simply shrugged, glad that the present was well received so far.
Vlad picked up the DVD, intending to read the back cover, and his face fell. He turned to Bertrand, suspicious.
"What is this?" He indicated the other contents of the box, no longer hidden by his actual gifts. Bertrand sighed.
"I know about the ritual, Vlad. Ingrid told me." Vlad frowned at him.
"Why are you giving me a stake and a knife? Is this some new plan to get rid of me? Because if so, you could have picked another day, really any other day..."
Bertrand shook his head.
"It's alright. I don't mind. You're far more important than me, and if this is how you have to come to power, then so be it. I looked into alternatives, but there was no mention of another way. It was a lot to take in, but I never had any doubts about going through with it. We've got a few hours until noon, we can train if you-" Vlad cut him off.
"Bertrand, what the blood and garlic are you going on about?"
Neither of them noticed Ingrid and a scowling Count peering around the doorframe at them as Bertrand handed over Ingrid's copy of The Wisdom of Angharad, bookmarked at page 107. As Vlad opened it and began to read, he spoke earnestly.
"I thought you knew- Ingrid made it seem as if everyone knew... it's me, Vlad. You don't have to turn to ash, because that vampire exists. And I won't run. If this is how it ends, then that's alright. I won't have wasted my existence."
Vlad was skimming page 108 now, looking horrified.
"Why didn't anyone tell me about this?"Bertrand faltered.
"I thought you knew. Ingrid said-" The Chosen One cut him off.
"I'm not doing it. That's... it's not fair. Couldn't someone have given me a bit of warning? Oh, by the way, Vlad, you're going to crumble to ash on your eighteenth birthday, welcome to legal adulthood? And I thought my sixteenth was bad." His tutor shook his head.
"You're not going to crumble to ash, weren't you listening? It'll be easy, just stay calm and it'll be easy." He was trying to convince himself as much as the boy.
"No, you're not listening. Isn't there some way around it? I can't kill the vampire I – wait. You? Why would this involve you?" Bertrand hung his head.
"Bertrand? Why?" He reluctantly lifted his gaze to Vlad's face.
"I'm in love with you. I'd apologise, but I suppose it doesn't really matter now." Vlad swallowed, glancing down at the box on the floor.
"I'm not doing it." He paused for a moment. "What if the feelings are mutual? Isn't there some provision for keeping the Chosen One's... Can't the person I'm in love with be some kind of exception?" The tutor gaped at him, unable to believe what he was hearing, let alone the awful timing of this discovery. The tension was broken by a slow clap from the doorway.
"Love? I wasn't expecting that, I thought you'd just tell him you fancied him and he'd laugh in your face. But you're in love with him? And you," Ingrid turned her attention to Vlad, "feel the same? Oh, this is priceless. Better than Twilight." The Count looked as if he was about to argue with his daughter, but she didn't give him a chance, striding over to pick up The Wisdom of Angharad. "You'll notice that this is very new and shiny for a book of prophecy. That's because I had it printed especially for the occasion. I have to admit, I didn't expect you both to fall for it so completely. And you, Bertrand, sharpening your own stake? He's definitely whipped, Vlad." They stared at her blankly and she rolled her eyes. "There is no prophecy. I made it up. Happy birthday, neither of you are going to be dust after all." She turned to leave, pulling her father along with her. "I live for drama."
Then they were alone, and an awkward silence hung in the air as they both stared at the floor.
"Would you – were you really going to just let me stake you?" Bertrand didn't move as he answered.
"I would have made you stake me." Another moment passed before the tutor spoke again. "Did you mean-?"
"Yes." Vlad interrupted. "Is that OK?"
Bertrand looked up to find that Vlad had shifted position, kneeling beside him, his present forgotten, watching him intently. He nodded dumbly, and they both leant in.