A/N
Forewarned, this likely breaches the film's canon as well as real-world history on numerous fronts, so while that doesn't excuse errors, just forewarning you.
Thirty Pieces
If Mehmed, son of Murad, sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and one of the most powerful men in the world, spent a second longer than necessary in this God-forsaken country, it would be one second too many.
There were some who spoke of the beauty of Transylvania, of this continent as a whole, but be they wiser men then he or more deluded, he couldn't see the beauty which they spoke of. Even in summer, the skies of Wallachia and Transylvania were constantly overcast. Just as constant was the drizzle coming down from that sky, as if God himself was taking a piss on saints and sinners alike. And below God's oversized manhood were endless fields of grass, in the shadows of mountains. Their slopes covered by endless forests, hosting all manner of creatures that wanted to bite him, claw him, shit on him, or some macabre combination of the above.
At the least, he thought, as he led the Ottoman column to Castle Dracula, the cool air it made it easier to wear his armour. Less chance of being cooked alive in the day, less chance of his body rotting on the ground should he fall. But it also meant that every evening, when he retired to his command tent and had that armour removed, his underclothing was soaked. The drizzle got everywhere. Soaking into every nook and cranny of his clothing, his body, and sometimes, he feared his soul as well. God's baptism of piss.
Alas, his duty in this life was to collect tribute. The realm of that tribute? Transylvania. And who was he to question his father's orders?
"Fucking hate this place."
He allowed himself a small smile, as he listened to Zayed moan about the rain, and the wind, and the cow shit he'd stepped in earlier this day.
"It's summer, and it's still like this." His second looked at him, a scowl visible beneath his helmet. "What do these people do when it's winter?
Mehmed shrugged.
"Come on, you've been here before. You must have picked up a thing or two."
The sultan remained silent, pressings his horse onward towards their destination.
"Were you not friends with Prince Vlad? Isn't there anything you-"
"Come the winter, the people of this land freeze, starve, and fuck." He came Zayed a look. "Not necessarily in that order."
His second chuckled. So did some of his bannermen. He decided against telling them that it wasn't meant as a joke. That the winters in this part of the world were harsh, and that many succumbed to the frost's touch before departing for Heaven or Hell. That all the fucking they'd do in their hovels allowed little babies to be shit out so that come next winter, there'd be another supply of little souls for Death to take. Bearing their souls to the Devil's realm where they'd at least be a little warmer.
He also decided against correcting Zayed on the notion of Prince Vlad being his friend. Vlad, the Impaler – former Janissary of the Ottoman Empire. Vlad, of the House Dracul, no longer putting people on big pointy stick, but using his own pointy stick to continue his house's lineage. Vlad, former ward of the House of Osman, who was most certainly not Mehmed's friend, nor even ally. Transylvania only existed because the empire allowed it to. And that mercy would only last as long as the Transylvanians produced a steady supply of silver.
Part of Mehmed hoped that one day, Vlad would do something stupid. Brave, yes, but stupid. Something stupid enough that it would give Mehmed cause to put this land to the torch and thus be allowed to move onto bigger and better glories, in the lands further west of here. Because that's where the power was on this continent, such as it was. There was a time when the Byzantines had been the power in this part of the world, but with the fall of Constantinople, if the continent had a hub, it was in the Italian city-states. A supposed rebirth of art and learning, as the people there embraced their Greek and Roman heritage.
Maybe one day, he'd find out. The Ottomans already rivalled the glories of Rome and Persia, why not go the extra mile? Already their armies massed against Hungary, it would be a simple matter to keep marching. Ever west, until they reached the lands where the sun died.
Fucking died here already. Mehmed looked up at the sky. Still drizzling.
"Did you ever come here, prince?"
He looked at Zayed.
"When Vlad was of your court?"
"No." He had no reason to answer, but he'd entertain the man for now. "Vlad turned up in Adrianople, and was taken back to this land as a Janissary. I only learnt years later that he had left our ranks and reclaimed his ancient title."
"Ancient indeed." Zayed nodded at the castle the Ottomans were approaching. "Just look at thing, eh?"
Mehmed scowled, glancing aside. "I'd rather not."
"Oh? Strikes fear into the heart, eh? Brings out tales of beasties?"
"What in God's name are you on about?"
"My lord, if it's not too impertinent for me to say, surely you've heard the stories of this land? Creatures of the night, drinking blood of man and beast? Shapeshifters of fur and claw, transforming in sync with the phases of the moon?"
Mehmed, still scowling, murmured, "Can't say I have."
"Really? Nothing of the ladies of mist, whose voices can drive men mad? Of the walking dead, emerging from their graves to bring Satan's wrath upon the Earth, having been rejected from the Kingdom of Heaven? Of the students of Scholomance, whose dark arts reawaken the dead, who wear the Devil's shadow like a cloak?" Zayed frowned. "You've heard none of such tales?"
"No, Zayed, I haven't," Mehmed lied. "I don't care for pagan superstitions, and nor should you."
"I'm just saying-"
"I'm not paying you to speak, I'm paying you to serve as my loyal subject, and shield upon this Earth. Which means that you speak when spoken to, and don't distract us with monster stories best suited for women and children." He looked back at the men-at-arms marching behind him. "And that goes for all of you."
None of them said anything. Truth was, he had no way of knowing if they were even listening. They carried the banners of the empire, the crescent flapping in the icy summer wind, but he could see in the way they carried themselves that they were loathe to be here. Whether it be they wished to move onto greater glories, or simply longed to return to their families in warmer climes, none of his entourage wanted to spend any longer in Transylvania than he did.
Which was just as well. Less muss, less fuss, less Turkic-Sylvanian bastards that he'd have to deal with the next time he came to extract tribute. And, he supposed, looking at the castle that loomed over them all, the less time he'd have to spend in the shadow of Castle Dracula.
It cut out of the landscape like a spear tearing through flesh. Strong, imposing, and covered with blood. Not literally of course, but the castle had been assailed countless times over this land's bloody history, and yet, it had never been taken. Even the empire had not laid siege to the fortress, instead agreeing with Vlad II of Wallachia to have his son be taken as a royal hostage. With high towers, high walls, and but a single gate over a single bridge, Castle Dracula was all function, no form.
But, Mehmed supposed, function had a form all of its own. Because here, even in summer, watching the castle's banners flap in the icy wind, its towers reaching towards the cloudy sky…
Vlad grew up here. He gave his horse a little kick. No wonder he grew up to be so fucked up.
"Are you in a hurry, good prince?"
He looked at Zayed. "The sooner we get our silver, the sooner we can march south. And I, for one, don't want to be in this land a second longer than necessary."
"In this land?" Zayed asked. "Or simply in the shadow of the castle?"
"…yes," said Mehmed, eventually.
"No royal welcome, Lord Vlad? No pageantry? No pomp and circumstance?" Mehmed grinned as only a shark could. "No hearty greetings for your brother?"
The man on the throne frowned. "There's much I could correct you with on that assertion, Mehmed. But in the end, it would tell you nothing that you don't know already."
"Yes," the sultan murmured. "I suppose not." And I already know you're a shit, Vlad.
The great hall of Castle Dracul was practically empty, and he'd seen but a handful of courtesans as they'd passed through its dreary halls. On the roof above them was the sound of rain pattering against the stone. The water sliding down the windows like blood might a blade. Castle Dracul might still have more form than function, but inside, at least, there was an effort made towards artistry.
Stain-glass windows, showing all manner of idolatry. Banners, depicting the creatures of Transylvania – charting the deeds of every lord of House Dracul. And before them, sitting on the throne, Vlad Dracul himself, flanked not only by his lords, but men-at-arms as well. The same ones that guarded the hall's door, and every part of the castle.
Vlad was prepared, Mehmed silently admitted. He could order his soldiers to attack the Ottomans within his hall now, and there was naught they could do to stop him. It would bring down a fire upon his realm scarce different from the wrath of God himself, but here, now, Vlad had power over his visitors.
"Is that for us?" Mehmed asked.
Even with the big chest beside the lord's feet.
Vlad nodded to one of his men, who promptly carried the chest over to Mehmed. Kneeling down (the prince liked to think in more ways than one) to unlock it. Revealing the shine of hundreds of silver coins. All of them bearing Vlad's features, his house's name, and the Christian year of their minting.
"You please me, Vlad." Mehmed raised his gaze to the Son of the Demon. "You've been away from home for so long, I sometimes forget what you look like." He took one of the coins, holding it up to see the prince's face looking back at him. "A nice picture for my chamber walls, yes?"
"I'm flattered," Vlad murmured.
"Perhaps you should be," Mehmed murmured. "Few traitors survive abandoning our ranks. Fewer still are able to become regional lords who wed and bed." He looked around. "Where are Mirena and Îngeraș, anyway?"
Vlad remained silent.
"Would Îngeraș not be interested in meeting his uncle?"
One of the lords murmured something in his native tongue – the words, Mehmed didn't understand, but the intent, he did.
"Îngeraș and Mirena are at her father's estate," Vlad murmured. "It is the time of summer harvest, and they'll find merriment to keep themselves occupied." He leant forward, meeting Mehmed's gaze. "And they will be safe."
The two men stood there in silence. Only for a few seconds, but each might as well have been as long as a year. If eyes were the window to the soul, as some scholars claimed, Mehmed wondered what Vlad saw in his? Perhaps the little nugget of truth that he wished they could be allies, again? The strange boy who'd turned up in court all those years ago hadn't spoken Turkish, and his pale skin and lank hair were a bit of an oddity, but there'd been a time, once, when the royal hostage of Murad II could have been considered a brother. A friend, almost. An ally, certainly, as Vlad had directed the Ottomans' wrath before rejoining his old house.
Mehmed let his gaze linger on Vlad's retinue. How many of them knew the full details of the Son of the Demon's deeds? How many bodies he'd impaled? How many of their sons had he slain, how many of their daughters his men had raped? Perhaps they knew full well, and had sided with the evil they knew over the evil they didn't.
But then, what did it matter? He knelt down and ran his hand through the silver coins, checking their weight, and their markings. Silver was silver. Over a dozen vassals in a dozen lands, and the ways of the world remained the same – pay the silver price, or the iron one. And be they Vlad Dracula or not, most had come to prefer the former.
"Counting your loot?" Vlad murmured.
Mehmed looked up at the castle's lord. "Loot is such a strong word, Lord Dracula. This is simply tribute. I leave the looting to…less civilized men."
One of the lords spat. Zayed gripped the hilt of his blade, and Mehmed himself did likewise. However, Vlad raised his hand, and slowly, all the other hands dropped from their hilts. Even as the castle's lord walked forward to the Ottomans.
"You have your thirty pieces," Vlad murmured. "There is nothing left to discuss."
"Thirty pieces?" Mehmed murmured. "You take me for a Judas?"
Vlad remained silent.
"The Prophet ended up crucified, no thanks to some pieces of silver," Mehmed asked. "You'd know all about sticking people onto wood, wouldn't you, Lord Impaler? How well did that end for him?" He smirked. "You take yourself for Jesus?"
One of the lords began to protest. Vlad shushed him, and Mehmed's smile widened. Be Jesus the son of God, a prophet, or a charlatan as the Jews claimed, it didn't matter. The story ended on a crucifix either way. And even if he be Judas, Vlad was in no way worthy of God's love either.
Vlad, who was now standing but a few feet away. His hand on his blade. Its hilt not nearly as ornate as the one of Mehmed's, but just as lethal. Drenched in sin, as surely as blood, as befitting the Son of the Demon.
"Do you miss it?" Mehmed whispered. "The good old days?"
Vlad remained silent.
"Do you think God will welcome you to his side, when you leave this mortal coil?" He nodded to one of the stain-glass windows, depicting the supposed son of God wearing his Roman crown. "Even casting aside such idolatry, will he forgive your sins, Vlad, now that you're in your so-called home?"
Vlad remained silent.
"Or, more likely, will you end up in Hell? Its darkest circle, reserved for traitors and heathens?"
Vlad, much to Mehmed's surprise, chuckled. Even more to his surprise, he leant into the prince's ear. Whispered in it, as if they were children again.
"If I am destined for Hell," he murmured, "at least I know I'll have your presence to comfort me." He took a step back, glancing at the silver. "Now take your pieces, Mehmed. The Romans are calling."
For a moment, the two men stood there. For a moment, Mehmed's mind was filled of tales – of the Romans and other sons of long-dead empires. Of the stories he had heard of this realm – of creatures of the night, as vulnerable to silver as men were, in their own way. Of the possibility that his father was going to recruit Janissaries from their vassal-states, and that it would serve both of them if Vlad began preparing for that eventuality now. Even for a moment, if only a flicker, he wished for simpler days, and simple circumstances. Where the only swords they held were made of wood, and where the sun shone in a cloudless sky.
Simpler days…
"I take my leave," Mehmed said. He clapped his hands and two of his men came to retrieve the chest. "I bid you farewell, Lord Vlad. Here's to a good harvest, and many more to come."
"I'm sure you wish that."
Simpler days, Mehmed reflected.
And like his memories, gone in a moment.