Eternal Night (III) Chapter 2: This Space Between Us, a van helsing fanfic

Happy Friday! How about some angst? ;)

Chapter 2
This Space Between Us

Vladislaus Drăculea had always prided himself on his reputation for utter self-mastery. There was rarely ever an instance where he gave way to the purity of his more human emotions without absolutely intending to do so first. Restraint and discipline were the two guiding principles his father had instilled in him as a young boy – long before his days as political hostage of the Ottoman Turks. Old Dracul had hoped that iron will and sense of control would cure his son of passion. Instead, it taught Vlad how to shape, wear, and shift between masks – rarely displaying his true feelings, let alone acknowledging them. He had never had a reason to call this aspect of his personality into question.

That is, until Francesca.

His diffidence in the face of the Váci Street massacre from three weeks ago had wedged an unintended bit of distance between himself and the woman, and it hadn't been quite so obvious to him until this evening.

Vlad knew that the defeat had been eating away at his intended, that the guilt of it had often woken her from a dead sleep in the afternoon while the sun still hung high in the sky. And given the way she had willfully and arrogantly strutted face first into what was undoubtedly a trap earlier this evening, it was clear that the shame had put her on a spiraling path of self-destruction.

Frankie had been hesitant to direct the alliance almost from the moment he had suggested the change in leadership. Until the incident on Váci, she had often asked – in a purely indirect way, of course – if he was certain her spearheading this effort was the right thing to do. He had hoped she'd overcome her self-doubt and realize the potential he already knew she possessed. But the slaughter of three weeks ago had shaken her.

He'd be lying if he said it hadn't shaken him as well.

Her continued hesitance when it came to being blood-bound to him wasn't helping anything either. He had always been so confident in his natural talents of persuasion, but Francesca had proven herself as willful as ever.

That wasn't to say Dracula couldn't empathize with her reservations. Being blood-bound meant having complete, unrestricted access to your bonded mate – that direct mental link no doubt being one of the things that frightened her most. He tried not to be offended by it, her implied lack of trust, but it had grown more difficult not to take the whole thing personally as the woman herself had become more withdrawn, more secretive.

Can we really do this?

It was the question the man often found himself wondering night after night when he'd wait by the fireplace for her to return home for the day. The temptation to build walls of his own, to succumb to old habits and hold her at a distance as he had with all of his past paramours – it never had the chance to take root in him. The old inducement always seemed to vanish the instant she crossed the threshold of his front door.

This morning was no exception.

One look into those soul-destroying blue eyes of hers and he was lost all over again… even with the tension and the strain and the unresolved issues that still lay between them. All it took was a single glance and he knew he could never give her up. And if that meant submitting to her will for a change, to obligingly take a back seat even though every inch of him screamed to dominate and command, he was becoming more and more willing to entertain the notion.

She had arrived right on time as he had all but demanded earlier in the evening, but unlike nights previous, she was presently covered in blood, her eyes wild with frustration. She locked the door behind her with the sheer power of her will before pulling what looked like someone else's jacket from her body. Her blouse had been sliced and torn beyond hope of repair, soaked in blood – though by the scent of it, it wasn't hers.

"Trap?" he asked conversationally, never once moving from his spot by the fire.

"Your brother sends his regards," she grumbled irritably, pulling off her filthy boots and dropping them beside the door.

At least she had the decency not to track mud and filth all over his flat.

"That all he sends?"

She fished something out of her pocket before tossing it over in his direction. He caught it with ease and only studied it with vague interest as she started to peel her blood-soaked blouse up and over her head. The flash of skin and swell of breast immediately ensnared his attention.

"I made sure to fish out the hidden camera in the eye before taking it with me," she explained, letting the blouse drop into her small pile of clothes with a loud slop before she pulled her equally damp and messy hair from her face, tying it back into a haphazard bun on the top of her head.

Her navy blue lace bralette was equally stained in blood, though not nearly as drenched. But seeing her in so much skin… His eyes traced the path of a stray rivulet that had dripped from her blouse when she had been removing it as it slipped sensuously over a breast before vanishing between her cleavage line… and it took every ounce of that aforementioned self-mastery to keep the lust from his eyes.

"It's the insignia of the Fraternitatem et Sanguis," she explained, seemingly unaware of what the sight of her was doing to him.

"Ah yes – his lovely little club that's out to get me. The design is a bit on the nose," he mused, depositing the pin face-down on the mantle before allowing his eyes to fully return to her. She had rolled the bottoms of her skin-tight pants up to her knees and was now making her way over to him, picking up her pair of sparring sticks resting on an end table as she did so. "Don't you want to shower first?"

"I'm too pissed off to shower right now," she said behind gritted teeth. And then she lunged at him.

He was prepared, of course, and met her attack with an effortless block, using the bo staff that he had left propped up beside him. Grateful he had had the foresight to clear out the living room of furniture and general decor before her arrival, they were free to move about.

She was moving with unusual ferocity this morning, her manuevers hard and exact.

"Are we going to talk about it or am I to be subjected to your silent treatment for another day?" he asked lazily, easily keeping pace with her.

"That's rich coming from you," she snapped back at him, nearly catching his fingers with one of her sticks. "You've barely said anything to me since Váci, about Váci. I know you want to berate me for my complete and utter failure, for playing into Marcus' hands like some kind of novice, but you haven't. Honestly, I wish you'd just do it already so we can bloody move on."

"Hold on," and he quickly disarmed her – much to her chagrin – but he held the end of his staff below her chin, a silent command for her to stay put for a moment so he could finish speaking. "That's why you've been so distant lately? Because you think I'm angry with you?"

"Aren't you?"

"I'm certainly disappointed that you went ahead without consulting me first. We still don't know how many people died as consequence. But I'm not angry. Marcus has centuries of experience on both of us when it comes to these things. Was I hoping you'd at least see the trap for what it was? Of course, but I never expected you to do any of this without making some mistakes along the way."

He finally lowered the end of his staff, allowing her to retrieve her sticks so they could resume their fight.

"I told you that I would be with you on this every step of the way," he reminded her, studying her face as she twirled the sticks in her hands, loosening up her wrists before stretching her neck, rolling her shoulders back once, twice. "I can't do that if you shut me out… or go rogue on me like you did this evening."

"I knew what I was doing," she insisted before attacking again.

"You walked into another trap… the only difference being that it was willfully this time."

"We needed the Oradea tunnel."

"I agree, but you shouldn't have gone barreling in there like some kind of swaggering hothead…"

A quick series of maneuvers later, and he had her flipped over onto her back, the base of her skull bouncing slightly as it hit the hardwood floor. She groaned, but offered him no rebuke for not going easy on her.

Vlad leaned against his staff a bit as he watched her lie on the ground.

"Did you get it? The tunnel, I mean." he asked.

He was grateful when his question was met with a smirk.

"Of course I did."

"At what cost? That's an awful lot of blood you have on you." He offered her a hand and she took it, allowing him to pull her back to her feet. Sweet contact.

"I killed another council member. So you can add that to my resume." His brows shot up in surprise, but he remained silent, still casually leaning against his staff. "Augustine sent Ildar to 'fetch me.'"

Vlad whistled.

"I'm sure that went over well."

"Astrid is also dead."

He made a face.

"Good riddance. I admire ambition in a woman, but hers was toxic. Did you at least spare Lee?"

"He said he knew you," she pointed out, returning to a ready stance. It was Dracula that attacked first that time.

"I vouched for him when he expressed a wish to study under one of my old spymasters in the early 2000s. He was good – very good. When Shang died, I offered Lee the position of spymaster and was disappointed when he decided to go freelance and work with his sister instead. But she had always had a hold on him that even I could never really understand."

"He wants to come work for us – well, for you."

Dracula chuckled at that bit of news.

"Of course he knows I'm still in Budapest."

"He also seemed to know you and I were in contact with one another."

He shrugged, still keeping his attention fixed on their fight.

"He's good."

"Well? Should we take him on?"

"If you're wondering if he can be trusted, then yes – he's as loyal as he is discrete. But that's not what you're asking, is it?"

"We could use a spymaster…"

"Would certainly help us avoid another Váci."

He hadn't intended it to be the jab it had come out as, and when he noted the shift in her expression, he quickly recanted.

"I didn't mean it like that."

But Frankie's hits had gone notably harder, that earlier softness now absent from her face as her eyes narrowed. She moved faster, utterly focused, even as her gaze distanced, darkened.

"If you'd stop with the politically motivated bullshit for five seconds and actually be the king you're supposed to be, Váci never would have happened."

The venom in her words tasted bitterly of resentment, and for a third time since they had begun, he once more made a point to disarm her. He then tripped her with the edge of his staff, sending her flying onto her back once again. But to his private relief, she didn't stay lying down. As they had been practicing, she immediately tapped into the one thing that gave her an edge over him – her dark passenger.

With an ease that he never would have thought possible two months ago, she turned her demon's cage into a bordered field before vaulting over the wall to join it, to partake and share in its fury. Her eyes went black, irises a blend of violet and crimson as she used her feet to pull his legs out from under him. He rolled away before she could pin him down, using the staff to put more distance between them, but she grabbed the edge of the long piece of wood and held fast as they both rose to their feet.

"You know why I've stayed in the shadows," he began, but she had ripped the staff from his grip and snapped it in half over her knee before tossing it aside.

"Marcus already treats me like his puppet. Don't you dare for one second think I'll let you do the same," she snarled and her fist went flying for his face. He blocked her attack, and then the next, actually having to make an effort to keep up with her now.

It was a nice change of pace – in spite of the nature of their present conversation.

"You know I would never…"

"But I don't know that. That's the point," she interjected, moving to kick him, but he blocked that too.

"When have I ever violated your trust like that? Stop pretending you don't know why I'm having you lead in my stead. You need the experience."

"Your people need you more."

"Our people are conceited. We are immortal, and amongst the undead especially, a firm hand has always been required. We're too powerful of a race and too bored with eternity to be checked by anything other than violence. If you're going to rule by my side as my equal – which is what we both want – then you need to prove to them that you can be just as ruthless as I, just as dominant, just as unbreakable. They need to see you as I do. They need to understand without a shadow of a doubt that you don't just deserve that place at my side, but that you have the wherewithal to earn it, to take it, to own it. It is your birthright – and not just because of the prophecy, but because of what you are."

She managed to get a hit in just then, a hard blow to his jaw, but he returned it in kind with a strike of his own, before twirling her around once and then sending her skidding across the floor and into a wall.

"You are both nosferatu and lamian strigoi; a child of Lilith and Lamia with the power of both heaven and hell buried inside of you. You have the blood of queens running through your veins. You were born to rule, to lead, to command… and to unify."

He stalked toward her as she pushed herself to her feet, the ferocity in her face undiminished by the flicker of pain that sparked through her as her body healed from his most recent attack. Vlad moved to strike again, but she blocked him, maneuvering out of the way so he couldn't pin her to the wall and their sparring resumed.

"You made a mistake," Dracula continued roughly. "You made a mistake and people died for it. It happens. It will probably happen again before all of this is said and done. Loss is an unavoidable by-product of war. So stop personalizing it. Stop tormenting yourself over it, and for Lucifer's sake, stop insisting on carrying the burden all by yourself!"

He caught her flying fist in midair and held it for a beat before pulling her forward suddenly. He maneuvered her hand so he could grip her wrist instead and though she pulled against him, he held her fast, staring deep into her eyes.

"We are equals or we are nothing," he stated, the words she had once spoken to him now sucking all of the fight out of her. The whites of her eyes remained black but her irises flicked to a fully violet hue now. "If we're going to make this work, you can't keep shutting me out every time we disagree or one of us fucks up… and I can promise you, we're both going to be making a lot of mistakes and there will be casualties. They are inevitable. But I want this to work, Francesca. I want us to work, and it won't if we can't trust each other… if we can't forgive each other."

Frankie said nothing for a long time, just staring into his face as she considered his words, the urgency in his expression.

He watched as her eyes gradually returned to normal, lash line glistening with unshed tears as another wall within her cracked and crumbled. Even with her hair and skin stained and matted with blood, she was still beautiful to him, that vulnerability in her countenance softening the hardened edges of his own temper.

His grip on her wrist relaxed as he lifted his free hand to caress her cheek with the back of two fingers. A shuddering breath passed her lips.

"I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for what happened on Váci Street," Frankie suddenly whispered. "The people trusted me to protect them, to lead them to victory, and I…I failed them. I failed all of them."

He gathered one of her tears with his knuckle, brushing it aside as he finally released her wrist to take her face between both of his palms.

"I forgive you," he said softly, the words nearly shattering her as she finally pulled her gaze from his, a soft cry breaking from her. But he held her fast before she could retreat into herself. "I forgive you," he repeated with noted urgency. "And until you can do that for yourself, at least let me help you carry this. You needn't do it alone… you shouldn't have to do it alone."

Francesca's tears tumbled freely and silently over his hands as he brought her attention back to him. She held to the front of his shirt, fisting her fingers around the material before her head tilted forward. He closed the rest of the distance, meeting her lips in a soft, tender caress that sent her heart up into her throat. His hand slid to cup the nape of her neck, drawing her face back to his once the kiss had been broken so he could brush another to one corner of her mouth. Then the other.

The silken heat of her had the man struggling against the leash of his self-restraint, particularly when she opened for him so effortlessly. The caress of tongue that followed nearly drove a groan from deep in his throat as that slick, wet slide of flesh sent a shiver down his spine and straight into his cock.

The scent of all that blood still on her wasn't exactly helping things either.

"I'm really going to need you to take that shower now," he said, his voice low, graveled with lust.

"Afraid to get a little messy, your majesty?" she teased, the husk in her voice doing astonishing things to his insides.

"Hardly," he whispered darkly. "But my sense of discipline only goes so far and you have no idea what I wouldn't give to lick all that blood off your body." Vlad wrapped an arm around her waist to pull her flush against him so she'd feel the magnitude of his words. Feel them she did.

"Are you sure that's the only thing you want to lick clean?"

She felt his body's reaction the second she had uttered the words and she had to bite back her laugh.

"You are a wanton little tease," he chided, his exclamation punctuated with a swift smack to her ass. She squirmed against his hand as he massaged the sting with his palm. "You know what happens every time I try to get between those fetching legs of yours."

"I can't help it if my demon wants to fuck you, too. The offer to chain me down still stands."

But as predicted, and to her eternal annoyance, he shook his head.

"We've discussed this," he reminded her, releasing her from his hold. "The first time I take you, I want you as a fully present and active participant. I don't want you lost to your blood-rage..."

"You're just trying to break me down into agreeing to the blood-bond," she replied with a conspirator's grin, her brow arched as if silently daring him to refute the accusation.

"Can you blame me for wanting you utterly and completely?" and he offered her his best charming smile. "I'm a greedy, selfish, territorial bastard, Francesca de Chacier."

"That's the understatement of the century."

"And you're an equally greedy, selfish, territorial woman," he added with an amused tilt of his head. "And so willful." He tsked once as if he disapproved.

"Your perfect equal," she said with a self-satisfied smirk.

He hummed his appreciation before placing another kiss on her lips.

"Now please go take a shower before I go completely mental."

She offered him a playful curtsy.

"Yes, your majesty."

He slapped her ass one more time for good measure as she made her way around him.

"I love it when you call me that."

That morning found Francesca slowly drifting to sleep in Vlad's bed, her back to his front, body tucked into his as he held her close. A soft smile curled her lips as she sighed, contented in his arms. The rising sun just beyond the bedroom walls made her eyelids heavy, even as her mind continued to churn over a fusion of conflicting thoughts and feelings and worries.

She loved Dracula – there was no question or doubt in her mind on that score.

So why was she still hesitating when it came to taking that final step of being blood-bound to him?

The prophecy demanded it, yes; and what was more, there was a very good chance that doing so would cure her of her blood-rage. Was knitting her soul to his such a terrible price to pay for that kind of freedom? Or would she be exchanging one set of shackles for another?

Her brow furrowed a little at the cynical thought, even as it flitted across her brain.

No – Vlad had no interest in keeping her as a pet or possession.

She knew he loved her, knew how much he respected her and her autonomy. His words this evening were evidence enough. He viewed her as his equal and what was more, he treated her like one. He held her to the same standards he kept, pushed her, challenged her… but also respected the boundaries they had both laid together.

Even if it left him with needs and desires that as of yet remained wholly unsatisfied.

She felt bad about the whole thing – though not enough to bend when it came to being blood-bound. She had even offered that morning to make it up to him in a way most men wouldn't be capable of refusing, but whether out of honor for their original agreement or sheer spite, he had declined her offer to service him.

But he had been tempted… she had felt it in the way his eyes had scorched her skin for nearly a full twenty minutes after the fact, as if he had been reconsidering.

It was with these thoughts that Frankie gradually slipped into an uneasy sleep.

Instead of being greeted by the usual plain of gray mist, she found herself thrust into a dark and choppy rehash of the final days of her mortal life – in particular, those last handful of encounters with her long-deceased husband, Alphonse de Châlon, the Duke of Nivernais. She couldn't remember the last time that monster of a man had invaded her dreams, but she couldn't seem to escape the recollections that played before her mind's eye – his betrayals and infidelities, the abuse and assaults, the isolation.

She had sworn to herself the night she had taken his life that she would never be owned by another man ever again – a drunken vow made as her newfound power had overwhelmed her very being. She had kept that promise for centuries, always free to give her heart and body, but never her soul – never all of herself.

Francesca watched from a distance as the newly turned vampire version of herself in the dream continued to feed on the struggling Alphonse beneath her – but then she was the one feeding on him.

She and her younger self were one, whole, a single being unified in the ecstasy that came with the complete and utter control over what remained of her abuser's existence.

He would never hurt her, would never touch her, would never control or manipulate her again.

She would snuff him out entirely once again, here and now, just as she had four centuries ago.

But a new player entered the scene then, her maker, her salvation – Eduardo de Meirás. Satanas was encouraging his new fledging in her hedonistic indulgence, urging her to continue feeding, to rip and claw through her husband's flesh so she could eat out his blackened heart.

But at the command, something in her shifted.

Frankie was no longer in control.

Her dark passenger was.

And to her horror, she looked down to realize that the man beneath her wasn't Alphonse, but Vladislaus. She was tearing him apart with her nails, her teeth, his blood a growing pool of crimson beneath them.

No! Stop it! You're killing him! You're going to drain him! STOP!

She tried to shout the words, but she couldn't get them out of her mouth. It was like being trapped inside of her own body, left to witness the horror as some other entity hijacked her.

Stop! Please stop!

But the carnage continued until she had freed his undead heart from his ribcage, only to crush it in her hands. And then Vlad went still beneath her.

Francesca was screaming within, banging on the invisible walls that kept her bound inside of herself, struggling to get free. After what felt like an eternity, she was finally able to reclaim control over her limbs again, but the damage had been done. Eduardo was nowhere to be seen, leaving Frankie to sob over the lifeless body of Dracula alone.

She had killed him.

Frankie had lost control over that demon inside of her and she had lost Vladislaus as consequence.

Another anguished sob threatened to tear loose from her throat when the man beneath her suddenly roused, startling her. His eyes snapped open, but they were not that glorious blue she had come to love so much.

His eyes were black.

Black as pitch.

Two soulless, obsidian mirrors, only when she looked into his eyes, it wasn't her own face she saw, but that of a monster.

She was the monster.

A chill ran through her entire body, her head screaming for her to run… but she was paralyzed. She couldn't move, couldn't speak. For Dracula, or whatever demon had possessed him, was inside her head as well and his grip on her mind was merciless, unbreakable – thick talons digging into her grey matter and holding on tight.

It was his smile that sent an old familiar tremor of fear vibrating through her.

And then she was pinned beneath him, screaming as he drove his fangs into her throat and tore, ravaging her, devouring, swallowing her up as the darkness around them closed in. She tried to push him off of her, hitting against his chest with ineffectual fists, but it only seemed to inspire his madness, because his hands were suddenly pushing up the skirt of her nightgown.

A cold dread coiled around her heart and squeezed the breath from her lungs as the weight of his presence pressed further down on her mind, threatening to extinguish her out of existence.

But isn't this what she deserved?

Didn't monsters like she deserve such a fate?

A small flame sparked inside of her, retaliating.

No! No, she did not deserve this, and she would not endure it! Not again, not for a second longer.

But the fear was stronger than her fire and even though she begged him to stop, practically choking on her tears and her horror – he persisted.

And when she caught sight of his face again, it was Marcus above her… and then Alphonse… alternating back and forth between the faces of those who had held her captive, spinning in infinity until she was sick with the rage and the terror.

And yet, just before he could complete his violation of her by claiming her body, Frankie was mercifully pulled from the nightmare.

Dracula had woken from a dead sleep to what sounded like the voice of Mariella Bernardini shouting in his ear, telling him to wake Frankie up. The experience had been disorienting and he would have ignored it and gone back to sleep had he not been horrified to discover a shadow hovering over Francesca's side of the bed. The darkened apparition looked at him with a pair of glowing red eyes before suddenly vanishing into thin air.

But the stench of sulfur it left behind was clue enough as to who the culprit was.

Why Lilith would be here in the first place was beyond him – but the fear that was roiling off of Francesca in waves proved a sufficient distraction. The woman at his side was as still as death, but her slumbering face was contorted in an amalgamation of terror and grief – brows furrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Francesca! Wake up!" Vlad commanded, shaking her roughly. It took some effort to pull her out of her dreams, but at last she awoke, shooting upright in bed and gasping needlessly for air. The stench of her fear hit him like a wall and left his gut curling as she dry heaved into a sob.

But it was the way she looked at him there in the darkness of his bedroom that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Horror.

Complete, unbridled horror.

He had seen the look enough times in his centuries of living to recognize it, but never had it come from her. Not once.

What lies had Lilith been painting in her mind?

Mercifully, the fear in Frankie's expression soon melted away into what looked like relief as she wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his neck as tears poured from her eyes. He held her as she cried silently, soothing her with soft whispers and a palm at her back, gently rubbing up and down.

When she had begun to relax more fully against him, he eased her back onto the mattress. Her head immediately tucked into his neck as if she were a small child. He continued to hold her, running his fingers through her hair as he whispered to her in his native tongue. They lingered like this for several long minutes, but eventually, he could feel her succumbing once more to the sway of the noonday sun, and then without a word of explanation, she drifted back to sleep.

Vladislaus, on the other hand, remained wide awake, unnerved by what had transpired and bewildered as to what would have possessed the bride of hell to make such a visitation. He'd have to talk to Jacob about warding the flat later that evening. But presently too curious to help himself, Dracula very carefully slipped into Frankie's mind so he could witness for himself the visions Lilith had given her.

What he beheld proved profoundly disturbing – but in a way dreams could often be, the visions proved themselves rather illuminating on some deeper level. Francesca's reservations when it came to being blood-bound were far more convoluted than she had a tendency to let on. He had always assumed that the damage she had sustained when she had been married to Alphonse was solely responsible for her disinclination toward marriage, at least for herself. Her autonomy, after all, was her most prized commodity.

But it was so much more than that.

He was astonished to learn that she actually wanted to be bound to him – wanted it more than she even had words to articulate, but she was so deeply afraid… afraid of the blood-binding not curing her blood-rage, afraid of hurting him, afraid of surrendering control only to have him violate her trust down the road… afraid of losing herself entirely.

He dug a little deeper, beyond the revelatory nightmare from Lilith into other corners of her mind, deciding to shuffle through some of her past relationships to see if he could glean any other beneficial nuggets.

What he found were many iterations of la sirène – the temptress, the dominant seductress – each one protected by her high walls and utter mastery over her lovers. She rarely ever granted full submission to another – and he could see why. The few times she had, especially in the last two hundred years, she had been met with heartbreak, betrayal… and death. So much death. Her blood had killed so many, men and women alike, and she remembered all of them, had catalogued all of their faces.

This was it.

The last wall, the final piece of her armor – it was fear of what she was and what she had needed to become in order to save herself. Fear of becoming that creature again – a being that had spent decades trying to fill a hole only to make it bigger, when all she wanted to do was feel safe enough to surrender.

He mulled over the things he had learned for an indiscernible amount of time, pondering and wondering how on earth he was going to help her over this hurdle, how they could break down this final wall of hers.

As partners.

As equals.

Together.

No ideas worth pursuing came right away, so in an effort to soothe both her and himself, he pulled her a little closer to his body, tightening his hold. As if in subconscious response, the hand she had rested on his chest moved up to cover the lion brand just a few inches from his lifeless heart.

They would get through this. He didn't know how, but he chose to believe it.

And what a strange thing it was, for the son of the devil to suddenly be having so much faith in what he couldn't see.

I still remember where I was when I wrote the original first draft of this chapter. It's strange how rereading it this morning prior to posting brought all that back for me.

You know, the great tragedy of being human is that trauma of all kinds - no matter how small or great, compounded or otherwise - it never fully goes away. There will always be something to trigger those old wounds, bringing the associated feelings and memories up to the surface. So much of who and what we are is informed by that trauma - for better or worse, the vast majority of it unconscious.

HOWEVER - it is possible to loosen the grip and influence trauma has on you. Healing is possible, even if the scars of the past remain. Mourning what was and what could have been will never be a one-and-done deal. It'll come in waves throughout our lives, even if we've managed to convince ourselves that we're over and fully recovered from that old hurt when we're not. And there's no shame in that. We can't put a time limit or a deadline on anyone's healing - including our own.

I think that's what made writing Frankie's story so cathartic, but also so incredibly difficult. Because so much of it hits so close to home.

I'm glad she at least has Vlad, though. And a wonderfully supportive network of family and close friends. I wish all of us could have that.

...

Anyways, wow - that got way deeper than I had intended! lol Sorry for that. As always, would love to hear what you thought of the chapter, so leave a review! And remember that I will be taking next week off from posting, but I'll be back with the next chapter sometime on Monday, February 28th. And then we should be back to fairly consistent updates until we finish out the story.

Thing are only going to get more intense. I hope you'll stick around for the ride.