Set mid-series 3 somewhere. Stupidly early Christmas crack!fic because it occurred to me as I walked up the hill in the snow earlier and I figured we needed some silliness in this fandom right now. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Not mine, that would be ridiculous.

Good King Wenceslas looked out,
On the feast of Stephen,
When the snow l-

"The feast of Baldur, Vlad." Bertrand interrupted his quiet carolling to himself as he worked his way through a dull essay on proper vampiric legal protocol. "Do you really know nothing of vampire traditions and lore?" Vlad sat back, lowering his pen.
"Vampires have Good King Wenceslas?" Bertrand sighed.
"We have the great King Veceslav, yes. Although we don't sing about him. And he really wasn't as impressive as his title would lead you to believe. You really don't know about him?" Vlad folded his arms, sensing an opportunity to get out of the boring work for a while.
"Why don't you tell me?"

Bertrand sighed.
"If I'm going to tell you bedtime stories, should I replace all the characters with people you know and make you the hero, like a little child?" Vlad grinned widely and nodded. Bertrand didn't seem as put out by this as he'd expected, but he settled into his chair more comfortably and waited for Bertrand to begin his tale.

The great king… Vladimir… looked out of his window. It was the feast of Baldur, and he was abstaining from the celebrations as a mark of respect for his late Queen's passing. The dust that had once been her army and its leader lay outside the window, covering the ground for miles –

Bertrand stopped with a mischievous smirk.
"Deep and crisp and even."
"Are you trying to scar me for unlife? You're ruining the caro-"
"If you'd rather go back to your work…" Vlad fell silent and glowered at him. "Good. I'll carry on. Deep and crisp and even." The Chosen One twitched, but didn't protest.

The great king was hungry. But then he noticed a peasant trudging wearily across his line of vision, gathering ashes into a large sack.
"Bertrand," he called, and his loyal, highly intelligent, not to mention extremely handsome-

"Bertrand, get on with it," the real Chosen One grumbled, and he caught himself.

"Bertrand," he called, and his loyal servant came to his side. "That peasant. Who is he? And what is he doing?" The servant frowned out at the man, trying to make out his face, but for a while Bertrand did not know who was collecting the ash from the ground.

"Robin," Vlad supplied, taking the hint, and Bertrand grimaced.
"I thought you liked Robin. Do you call all the people you like peasants?" Vlad frowned.
"Fine… Jonno, then."

Then the man turned, and Bertrand glimpsed his face.
"That's Jonno. He's collecting ash to mix into his pottery, to bulk it out cheaply. He lives in the nearest village, with his family, and they never have enough food."

Vlad straightened up, excited.
"Glad you didn't say Robin now, he never thought he had enough food. The story would never have ended." Bertrand frowned at him.
"May I continue?"
"Yeah! This is my favourite bit!" He didn't know why his tutor seemed so surprised; it was the best bit of the story, the heartwarming tale of how the king brought the peasant food and Christmas cheer.

"Well, we can't have that," King Vladimir smirked. "Bring me food, lots of food. All my favourites, the richest you can find. And wine," he added as if as an afterthought. "There might as well be wine."

"How generous." Vlad was beaming despite his tutor's irritation.
"Could you let me finish?"

Bertrand hurried to obey his master's every wish – Vlad bit back his curiosity as something sad and longing crept into his tutor's tone; Bertrand wouldn't stand for any more interruptions and he was probably just hungry himself – and they set out into the night, Bertrand carrying all the provisions as King Vladimir focused on following the peasant back to his dwelling. Once they got there, they laid out all the food and wine on Jonno's table, as if for a great feast, and the looks of joy on the peasants' faces were bright and grateful.

Then Vladimir and Bertrand ripped out their throats and drained their sweet, delicious blood before sitting down to their feas-

"Bertrand! That's a horrible story!" His tutor shrugged unapologetically.
"We're vampires, Vlad. What did you expect to happen?"
"But the whole moral of the story is about giving away what you have to help the needy, that's why they give them the food-"
"The moral of the story," Bertrand corrected him with a smirk, "is that even poor people can have rich blood. Do you want to hear another, or are you ready to finish your work, now?"

Vlad picked up his pen and began to write.