Disclaimer: Young Dracula is owned by people who own it, which just happens to not be me. The OC's however... yeah—I own 'em!


Author's Note: And more about the De Fortunessa's are revealed! Muwahaha! From here on out, the story becomes just a little more AU... enjoy!

Reality Slayed the Dreamer: Yay! My mysterious reviewer is revealed! **dances madly** It really makes me happy that I can keep you entertained with the Dracula's and De Fortunessa's antics whilst you've been in hospital— here's hoping I continue to! (No pressure, yeah :P)

Deductive Android: You are most definitely welcome~! More...sugar...for me? Reeeeeaaaallllyyyy? I do so enjoy mad sugar rushes! They make me go all whooliy in the head! :3 As for the reading more—here you go~!


Drink My Soul

This chapter goes out to Reality Slayed the Dreamer: thanks so much for your compliment, in return: here is your update!

**attempts a courtly bow*

Chapter Six: Possibilities

"Most people are not really free.

They are confined by the niche in the world they carve out for themselves.

They limit themselves to fewer possibilities by the narrowness of their vision."

V. S. Naipaul

"This is pointless," Bertrand growled towards the younger vampire.

"Uh, what?"

That, Bertrand was tempted to point out, is precisely the question I've been asking myself whenever I'm in a room with you.

"Can you not concentrate on what I am asking you to do for one iota of a moment?"

"I was!" Vlad protested, and Bertrand rolled his eyes.

"Yes," he said, "because I clearly asked you to, not try and use telepathy, but instead kiss the air whilst imagining Erin." Vlad flushed and Bertrand felt the urge to bite something. With a resigned sigh, he murmured, "Just once I wish you would understand your responsibility."

"Hey! I never asked for any of this!"

"And yet, you have it Vlad, use it!" Bertrand fled the room, fled from Vlad to be more specific. His anger was pulsing in time with the short breaths, a rage aimed at the –he scoffed inwardly—Chosen One. The boy couldn't separate need from want, his longing for Erin from the need as Chosen One to rise to power and take control. Even if all Vladimir wanted was to live 'with' Breathers, at least the boy took an interest in the well-being of his kind. Though Bertrand refused to allow that to happen, he would change the way the boy was thinking. But now? All because of Erin, the boy had become distant shirking his duty, there was only so many times he could push the boy. Anger, the elder realised bitterly, did not mix well with children of which Vlad persisted on behaving like. It was infuriating.

Bertrand put all of his time, his life (or 'un'life) into his training so as to bring the Chosen One to a heightened sense of glory when his potential was released, with Bertrand having taught all that he knew. Every secret. Every technique. Everything. Gnashing his teeth together he decided to go Myra—his little sister tended to know what to say, or at least she was good to spar with. Just thinking about what he gave up, made Bertrand angrier—his relationship with Arabella had been pulled apart by what he needed to do in regards to the Chosen One. And yet Vlad did nothing, nothing, to make his sacrifice worthwhile. In that respect Vlad was the perfect vampire—selfish. But in that aspect only. Were he to emphasise his vampiric prowess into his training it would be worthwhile—but no such luck existed.

Entering the living area Bertrand frowned and approached his stationary sister. There was something...not quite right. Her posture slumped, head in her hands, though he could hear no sounds. "Myra?"

She looked up, face blank. "What can I do for you brother?"

"You could tell me what happened?" Bertrand offered, seeing the diminished golden eyes.

"Or," she replied simply, "I could give you a reason for why I should leave once the sun sets."

"Leave?" Bertrand barely restrained his sadness, his frustration. On one side he had the Chosen One who did not want to be the Chosen One. On the other he had Myra whom no longer wanted to be Arabella, was being haunted by Gothar the demented and yet still wanted to leave his protection. Why couldn't they just nod their heads, accept their lot in life and do something about it instead of complaining about how 'bad' they had it? He gave a tired sigh. "You've been here a week, Sister. Leaving seems radical when all you've done is mope around your coffin. Why would you want to go?"

Ignoring the jab, which Myra expected from her sibling she focused on the why. It was a good enough question, one Myra wasn't sure she knew the answer to—not that it really mattered to Bertrand, so long as he got what he wanted: her to remain.

"Because..." he raised an eyebrow urging her to continue, "I don't belong here."

"In what way?"

"I have no purpose," she ground out, tearing her eyes from his and glaring at the empty fireplace, "I just...I am. I have no reason to want to stay, nor desire to."

"Your protection."

Pause. "And?"

"Need there be more than one reason, Myra? You have a protection whilst your here, by me, the Count," she flinched, "by..." he hesitated, "Vladimir."

"There is no protection, Bertrand—if Gothar has access to my dreams."

Bertrand took a stunned step towards his young sister. "The reason behind why we could not wake you. Why are you only bringing it up now?"

"Because, Bertrand—he knows I've found you. He let me escape, brother. I'm not safe here, nor are you."

"He...he knows where we are?"

Myra shook her head. "I don't now...but he did ask if the Chosen One was with you. Whatever he's planning, it has to do with Vlad."

Practically pouncing on his sister, Bertrand gripped her shoulders tightly, grey eyes bright. "What did you say? Did you tell him—?"

"N-no, the Count woke me up then," he let her go, beginning to pace as she continued, "I'm not sure what Gothar knows. If he let me escape, then..." she faded off and Bertrand halted suddenly as he understood what she meant. The 'what could' scenario—Gothar could have had her followed, a likely proposition. They were in trouble—but Bertrand was charged with protecting Vladimir as much as the rest of the Draculas. More so, he had to protect Myra. He turned to her now, eyes narrowed slightly observing her in a new light—she had changed so much in 300 years. But Bertrand couldn't decide whether or not he liked this change.

"You said 'Gothar', Myra. A week ago you could barely think his name."

Myra met his gaze openly, face as smooth and blank as an empty canvas. "I'm...I'm Myra now," she informed him uncertainly, "I shouldn't have fear of a name that means nothing to me."

He paused before muttering, "Fear of the name increases fear of the thing itself."

Myra blinked. "What?"

He flashed a smirk, and moved to sit in the opposite arm chair. "It's nothing...just a breather thing, one of the characters said."

"The character was wise," she replied softly.

"Or raving mad," he added with a shrug, "that aside- I think it's time I address the danger we're in. Have you informed the Count?" Bitterness swept across the soft features as her eyes blazed angrily- she shook her head. "This," he pushed, "is something he ought to know."

"Then perhaps," she glared, "it is you who should tell him."

Bertrand lent back in the chair. "The Count and I do not see eye to eye," he informed her.

"Well, brother that's something we share then," she hissed.

"You could not wile him with your charms, sister?" he teased.

She sneered, a look which did not suit her features in the slightest. "How could one 'wile' that, moron? Pray tell."

"Lover's quarrel?"

"Bertrand," the warning tone was accompanied by a low growl, and sobered him in an instant.

"The Count," he paused, "he is still the Regent. It's part of his duty."

Myra rolled her eyes painstakingly, as sarcasm accompanied her retort. "Au contraire, brother. He is a Regent, which is in love with a Breather and would run from his duty without a second glance..."

"Must run in the family," Bertrand muttered to himself.

"Oh?" Myra raised a brow.

He slouched in the chair. "The half-fang Vlad is obsessed with, it's infuriating. I can't get him to concentrate on one task for more than a second—and it's even worse when I'm with the Count and that breather is there." Bertrand shook his head in frustration, "It's like the Dracula's don't understand the concept of 'vampire'."

"Perhaps it's because the idea of 'vampire' has been warped," Myra said, thinking out loud, "Like something which is purely vampire has turned them whether fully or subconsciously against falling into place within our society."

"Yet I am being blamed for something that is not my fault!" Bertrand growled, "If Erin could simply disappear—" Myra cut him off with a light laugh, he glowered, "What?"

She hummed softly before stating, "It's like that the first time," his eyes narrowed and Myra elaborated in a matter-of-fact tone, "First love, Bertrand." Bertrand stared into the empty fireplace, refusing to think, or refusing to remember rather. He focused on each individual muscle, flexing them in their pairs and then in groups. Starting with the foot: Extensor digitorum and extensor hallucis longus tendons.

Myra watched the stony face, noting the stiff movements which started from his feet. She waited until the biceps moved before murmuring, "I still remember, Lav—"

Bertrand's eyes flickered to hers, and Myra stopped herself saying the name. "Love," he scoffed, "what a pathetic notion." Disheartened, she gave him a small look of understanding—two hundred years and the pain was still fresh.

"You don't have to resent her—"

"I don't. It's the Slayers I resent."

"It's understandable, she was—"

"Shall I reopen your wounds whilst we sit here confessing, sister? Not that you ever felt anything towards a single one of them. Perhaps it is you behind the Dracula's notion of what being a vampire means has become warped!"

Myra flinched, physically and mentally. "My only point was that you would be seen doing nothing without her, give Vlad the same courtesy," she said simply, voice void of all emotion.

Her mind was reeling, not knowing whether to take what Bertrand said seriously or not. Her eyes stung, so she closed the lids on the world. Focused merely on deciphering her new feelings. After all, it was her fault to some degree, was it not? To put it simply: she had burnt the Count. No. Not she—Arabella and she was not that person. Or at least she thought she wasn't. Myra was still different. Not as angry at the world, not as power hungry and not as flighty. Gothar had seen it his duty to break her, and Myra was the result. She opened her eyes, though could not make sense of the things around her.

She was, better.

Then again, Myra didn't have the first clue what better actually meant. All she could remember before Gothar was the Count—their time had been turbulent with Magda vying for his attention every moment she could. But she had been happy—or Arabella had. If Myra was not that person, it meant all ties with who she was had to be cut. No Gothar meant, no Count, no Magda and 100% no Bertrand. It felt like someone had traced down her spine with a finger dipped in ice, and Myra recoiled instantly from the thought of trying to forget. Bertrand loved her as much as he could without having to physically say the words. But he was, to some degree, healing as well. Perhaps there was a way to be a mixture of Myra and Arabella—perhaps Ingrid served as more of a purpose then to simply infuriate her father.

Perhaps Ingrid could help her heal.

"Myra!" she blinked staring directly into Bertrand's panic filled eyes. "Don't do that again," he murmured, "I am sorry if my words hurt you, but don't do that again."

She squinted at him, eyes stinging. "What have I done now?"

"Your eyes," he hesitated for a moment, "they were all gold, and then—" he raised his hand as if to caress her cheek, but instead swept his thumb underneath one of the eyes and raised it to her face: Blood. "Your eyes," he continued, "...they started to bleed."

Myra widened her eyes despite the pain— "How," she began, but Vlad sprinted into the room, face pale. Bertrand flickered his eyes towards the fireplace quickly before connecting to Myra's again, ordering her to turn her head—she complied without an argument. This was something which the siblings would have to figure out on their own. Myra realised that as much as she wanted to run and escape from all of this, she couldn't- she was... safe.

"Bertrand, we've got a problem."

Swinging around to face him Bertrand folded his arms across his chest, hiding his blood covered thumb in the ball of one of his fists. "We have more than one," Bertrand intoned, with a glare, "What's happened?"

"The Praedictum Impaver is glowing," Vlad blurted, and beckoned Bertrand to follow. The 300-odd year old vampire felt the urge to bite something all over again as his eyes lit in annoyance. He made a mental note of all the things he needed to do, preferably before he died, his sister left or the Clan Leaders made themselves known. Number one: Open the Praedictum Impaver. Two: Train Vladimir without being reduced to ash by the Count. Three: Figure out exactly what it is Gothar the Demented was planning to do. Four: Myra, and this was perhaps the biggest task of all—he had to stop insulting her, fix her so she wasn't as weak (what would the Clan Leaders say if they say her like this?), and figure out why her eyes are bleeding which brought him to the most confusing thing, an emotion he hadn't felt since a child: he needed to figure out how she can bleed... (on second thought, Bertrand frowned, that may have to move up on the list of things to do).

It was not a lot of things to do, providing all participants were willing and ready to do what he said—but no that was too much to ask for. The Dracula's (and his sister for that matter) were all infurating, it was their way, or none at all. Bertrand was convinced that the De Fortunessa's were cursed.

He blamed Erin.

For everything.

Just because he could, and just because—he didn't like her.


AN.2: What do we think? ;)