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Vlad Tepes the Third was a demon. This was the reputation that was he held amongst the people outside of his country. He could care less about that. He was king of Romania, his people were the only things that concerned him. Admittedly even amongst some of them there were whispered conversations about his unrestrained opinions and detached mannerisms, but it was agreed upon by all his subjects that he was a good king to them, and to Vlad that was all that mattered.
Of course there were things about their king that they didn't know.
The Romanian ruler held two secrets to his name, both known only to one other person besides himself. The first was his own personal form of meditation, a mind centering exercise that, in his opinion, was great for dexterity of the fingers. Vlad Tepes the Third was supremely efficient in the craft of knitting. He was a dab hand at crochet and other home crafts too but knitting was his favourite for relaxing after a long day of warring with the Turks. The various scarves and sweaters he made were usually gifted to the person aware of his first secret, who was also the focus of his second secret.
The second secret was the doting love he had for his niece Elizabeth Bathory. Elizabeth was noble, high-handed, a dreamer, sometimes timid. Something of a merciless sadist but in the world they lived in sometimes you had to be cruel.
Elizabeth had made herself at home in Romania a few years ago, and as it stood she was the sole reason Vlad hadn't abandoned the concept of family.
The two of them had a standing appointment every Wednesday, to meet in Elizabeth's favourite parlour room in the castle and have afternoon tea. As one might be able to tell from the way she dressed, Elizabeth was not a believer in 'less is more'. She was a noblewoman from birth and probably had never been introduced to the saying.
She always had the table set with a table cloth made of rich fabric, the tea would be some new exotic blend that he 'just had to try', and of course the tier of multicoloured pastries.
When Vlad entered the parlour that afternoon, Elizabeth was straightening out the cutlery on the table. She was wearing one of her layered white and pink dresses that showed off the spiked boots she was so fond of.
"Good afternoon Elizabeth." He greeted her, at the sound of his voice she spun around to meet his eyes, offering a smile to match his own and a small formal curtsy, "Make anyone cry today?"
"Sadly no," she responded as the two of them took their seats, "but it is only 4:30." She amended in a promising tone.
