"If only night could hold you where I can see you, my love
Then let me never, ever wake again..."
(Evanescence)
His hand trails along the sloped railing of the stairs, winding gracefully upwards into some unknown, mad darkness. He collects the dust on his hand carefully, pausing to examine it as silver moonlight peers in from a skylight above.
The filmy matter on his palm fascinates him. Born to debauchery and graveyard walks, he is the epitome of impurity and Satan's lies. And yet… he is beautiful in body. Powerful. Jewels glitter on his clothing, like a million tiny eyes watching his prey as he stalks them. His skin is porcelain, without the rosy blush. Centuries of gazing at the moon have stained his blue eyes silver, and the dark shadows beneath them only intensify his inhuman appearance.
He is evil.
He is beautiful.
"'Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it,'" he whispers in the silence.
His grey lips purse, blowing any trace of dust from his hand. Some motes join others on his clothing, while the rest fall like fairy dust onto the steps. He makes his way into that unknown darkness, out from under the watching moon. There is no sound in the upper hallways of the castle. His malefic court has long since vacated the dancing hall, their festivities chilled in the wee, sickly hours of morning. He himself will have to depart soon, to the lonely grave that he calls his home.
Another night, he mourns quietly. Another long, bitter, wasted night.
His son, Herbert, appears in the doorway to one of the many rooms. His father's gaze slides past his pale, beautiful face, looking down at his own hands.
"Father," the young man scolds.
(Young being in a physical sense; it has been nearly two centuries since these two have enjoyed the pleasure of dreams.)
"You must retire now," Herbert insists. His long, perfectly-manicured fingers click against the stone wall annoyingly. "The sun will soon be waking."
"And the rest of us will be dying," his father answers. Sarcasm. He ignores Herbert's look of confusion, gliding down the hallway at his usual funereal pace. His son doesn't understand his brooding ways. He cannot comprehend why one of their kind would waste away eternity in wishing for the impossible.
The vampire's feet move noiselessly. He does not resent his son for this. Why should he? "Let boys be boys," as the old idiom goes. Beneath his brooding silence and his son's orgasmic energy, there lies a deep bond of love and trust. The count spoiled him silly, growing up, and they both know it.
He always was a bright, cheery boy. Full of sunshine and peals of laughter. Insufferable, sometimes, with his mockery, but he got that from his father.
He follows his languishing thoughts down the corridor. He rests his hand on the knob to his own chambers, and hesitates. Nothing there, either. Only books and more books. Dusty and languishing like his own body. Growing weaker in spirit, even as he feasts on the profits of human life.
A weary sigh rattles from his chest, just as a soft voice is heard from down below. He lifts his head.
Sarah!
A joyful exclamation in his mind. He follows his steps back to the winding staircase, looking down through the gleaming cobwebs to his little seraph below.
"Sarah," he whispers.
She doesn't hear him, but he doesn't lower his voice by accident. He is cowardly, and unsure of what she thinks of the gloomy, old castle, or of him. He can catch a glimpse of auburn curls through the stairs, a youthful white cheek…
She is climbing up.
No, no… He hurries down noiselessly, meeting her just as she turns towards the next spiraling set of stairs. Herbert is not in a pleasant mood, due to the early hour, and he would only tease her mercilessly. Tease him mercilessly.
"Sarah," he says again.
She gives a little gasp when she sees him, and he smiles in welcome. She looks so beautiful there, her lower body shrouded in darkness, but her face bathed in moonlight. She wears only a cheap gown for sleeping, with a garishly-woven shawl hanging off her shoulders. He's pleased to see she's wearing the red boots he sent her, delivered by his foolish yet devoutly loyal servant, Koukol. They fit her small feet perfectly. Everything looks perfect on her.
"Your Excellency," she says sweetly. "I'm sorry… I got lost…"
"Not a safe place to get lost, my child." His lips curve upward. "It is fortunate I found you before something else did."
She blushes, confusing him. Certainly not the reaction he expected. The child seems to have no fear at all. "Well…" he says finally. "What are you doing out of your room?"
"I had a nightmare."
"A nightmare? Of what?"
"I don't want to think about it," she says firmly. "That's how nightmares come back again."
His bony fingers play with a medallion about his throat. "Do they?"
She murmurs something in response, looking about her in uncomfortable silence. He is making it worse, he knows, by staring at her. He is acting like a premature schoolboy. And yet… and yet he cannot stop. Her hair is making the most delicious, tantalizing line down her throat, ending in a gentle curl just over her right breast.
His canines are aching when he speaks again. "Go back to bed, Sarah. I trust you'll find sleep will be a better friend to you."
"I can't sleep," she sighs.
Morning is coming. He doesn't have forever. Ironic, he thinks to himself. That a creature like me should be trapped, in this supposed eternity.
"Please, child," he says, even more softly. "Leave me alone for awhile. I will see you tomorrow night."
Sarah's brown eyes, warm and trusting as a baby deer's, shimmer faintly. He did not mean to make her cry. Perhaps that was too harsh.
Distressed, he stops himself from reaching out. His taloned hands could slice her flesh in a heartbeat. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I hate to leave you. But Koukol is always somewhere nearby."
"I hate that smelly, old hunchback!" she cries. "I don't want him near me… not ever!"
He looks startled by her outburst. "You mustn't blame poor old Koukol," he says softly.
"I hate him." Her lower lip trembles. "He disgusts me."
He continues to regard her quietly, her words hurting more than she knows. Koukol is a gentle soul. An imbecile, yes, but his heart is in the right place. He is mortal, just as she is.
And he? He is immortal. She wants to be near him, Count von Krolock, because he is beautiful. Because like an exotic, poisonous snake, he has lured her in without much effort at all. And she will trust him, of course. Even if she chooses not to. He can make her trust him—perhaps even love him—but he cannot do this to her. Her pure spirit must not be soiled by his horror. He has watched her grow from a tiny girl in her village, miles below the castle, at the summit of the great mountains. She is so beautiful now, and he cannot, he will not,destroy her.
Would she hate him, if he was hunched over and deformed? Of course. She is only a child. She has not even reached her eighteenth year of life. Her crotchety old father, Chagal, spoils her terribly. But this only adds to the grace and charm that makes her who she is.
The charm that makes him want her so much.
Her throat is too close to him.
"I'm sorry he repulses you so," he says, swallowing bitter venom. "I have provided some means for your entertainment, which he can show you. Then he will leave you in peace, if you wish it."
Her rosy lips tremble. "I don't want to be alone, Your Excellency."
"'Count' is quite adequate," he teases.
She reaches out. He can smell her warm skin before he feels it, closing tightly about his sleeve.
"I don't want to be alone," she whispers.
Too close. Too strong.
He tugs himself free from her grasp. "Loneliness is everyone's demon, child. You must befriend it; let it show you what you cannot see in other's company."
He leaves her, before the scent of her overwhelms him. He reaches the top again, and pauses. Is it his imagination, or can he hear tears falling? He wants to rush back down, tilt her back with clawed hands, and lick the pretty drops from her cheeks.
Krolock looks to his right, dazed by weakness and thirst, only to find his son is still awake. Staring at him.
"You're a fool," Herbert scoffs. His eyes snap, like faceted blue crystals. "You want what you think you can't have, so you torture yourself by waiting?"
"Waiting for what?" Krolock answers quietly.
"You know." With a flick of an embroidered tailcoat, his son disappears, the contempt on his face obvious.
On any other day, the boy would have gotten a swift reprimand or slap to the face with that remark, but tonight… Krolock couldn't find it in himself to care. He weakly made his way to his chamber, his body screaming to hide away from the approaching light. He bolted his door before kneeling beside the long black box on the floor. When he opened the lid, he felt is resembled a door; a door to all his hidden fantasies, longings, and occasional self-debasement. How many times had he opened this door, only to find no true rest at all?
He was too tired to answer. The sky was grey now.
Removing his cloak, he folded it carefully before climbing inside. A trance slowly overtook him, only one thought escaping before he exhaled the last breath of the night.
I love you, Sarah, steaua mea.
steaua mea - Romanian, "my star"