Author's note: This is intended to be a short story with an unlikely pairing, I guess I'm not giving too much away by saying that it will take place before Dracula turns Marishka and also serves as an explanation as to why Igor is the way he is when we run into him in Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. And speaking of Igor, it's a shame that name has gotten such a bad rep. It's not an uncommon name in Slavic-speaking countries, and I am actually fond of it. So please, no "Igor" jokes. Well, joke if you will, but I still like the name!
Disclaimer: If you recognize it from the Van Helsing movie, it is not mine. I am merely borrowing the characters and playing in their world, and no money is being made off of it.
Eternal
Golden.
The wheat swayed, heaving and tossing, an ocean of gold. The girl sitting framed by expensive drapes in the upper story of a glittering white house shifted and squinted, straining to find a figure among the many workers in her father's fields.
Marishka had barely turned eighteen and already she was tired of suitors. Tired of their pomp, of their glitter, their showy poetic speeches and overt attempts to conquer her hand in marriage.
And little surprise it was that suitors should court her. Beauty and wealth are a potent potion to stir young nobles' desires. Her father possessed more land than just about anyone in the region, and the land yielded rich gifts each season. And who could rival the beauty of the only daughter of Viscount Ibanescu? Tall, slender, fine-boned, delicate, with golden waves for hair, porcelain skin and honey colored eyes, Marishka Ibanescu had little competition amongst the girls of her rank. And she did not care. Did not care one bit for all her suitors and their fawning praise.
Marishka, physical beauty aside, was a strange girl. She dreamt her days away and sulked while embroidering, hardly was a smile seen on her face except when in the worlds of her imagination. She read insatiably, but never the works that were expected in the hands of a young noblewoman. She stole into her father's library, in the darkest hours of the morning just before dawn, and with a candle dug out the oldest books on folklore and myths, the ways of the common folk not befitting a blue blooded child such as herself. The maid would find them stuff under the mattress, but feigned ignorance rather than stirring the wrath of the Viscount. What he did not know brought harm to no one. Her worst habit, the one that brought her parents to frenzy and earned her a personal escort, was the trips through the surrounding forests. Yet she could not will herself away, even if she had been inclined to try. For a child of such fair features, always dressed in white and ivory and forever being compared to a shining ray of light, Marishka was far from fearing the darkness. And that was just not appropriate.
Maybe it was petulance against being swamped by prospects of a loveless marriage, a worse fate the girl could not imagine. Maybe it was her improper fascination with the commoners she so delighted in. Maybe it was just the fanciful dreamings of a sheltered girl, longing for adventure but never having tasted pain.
Whatever the reason, Marishka was in love with a servant, and stars above forbid her father or mother should discover Igor.
She twisted amongst her cushions, and finally caught sight of the red-headed youth. He was harvesting wheat with the other servants on the farm, and Marishka sat transfixed as he worked in the distance, his sickle flashing in the sun.
He had come to work in the Ibanescu household some few years prior. Marishka had been sneaking back to the house after one of her forest visits, slinking behind the storage shacks and glancing over her shoulder more often than watching where she was heading.
With a startled yelp, she collided with a human wall but her stumbling fall was prevented by strong callused hands on her white-clad shoulders. The hands dropped quickly, and the youth began a rapid, mumbled, seemingly endless apology. Recovering from the fright, Marishka let her eyes drift to the averted face and found herself startled once more.
The young man was new to her, but she assumed he was of the new batch of hired hands needed in the fields. His deep-set eyes were downcast and when they briefly flickered up once, she caught a flash of bright blue. His hair, thick and falling nearly to his shoulders, was of a color she had never seen on anyone before, red as rust and threaded with gold. Her first impression of having hit a wall was not unfounded, as he towered well above her, and his powerfully muscled arms and chest spoke of strength from hard toil and youth. He was everything her pasty-faced, dainty suitors were not, and his rugged, coarse features were more beautiful to her than any smooth, pampered face that had flattered her over the years.
"Please," she stammered, abashed at having openly starred, "it's quite alright. My apologies for my clumsiness, it can be such a bother having two left feet…" Trailing off, it was the girl's turn to look away.
Now it was the youth who stared. Igor had heard of the Ibanescu girl's beauty and was hardly taken aback by it. He had expected it, and was well prepared for what he saw. What he heard, on the other hand, gave him pause. Surely an angel of such beauty and an heiress of such wealth would not be apologizing to a field hand. And yet his ears had never failed him before. While he gaped at her, she gathered up her skirts and hurried away, lace and golden hair streaming behind her, cheeks flaming though he would not see it.