WRITTEN IN THE STARS
DEDICATED TO KATY
Whose denial about Dracula/Van Helsing slash amused me for so long and who inspired me when I was cursed with that dreaded disease known as Writers' Block
Disclaimer: I don't own Dracula or any of his Brides. Oh, how I wish I owned Dracula…
PROLOGUE / CHAPTER 1- SORROW
It is still early afternoon, but the sun died long ago and the day is dark. Cold winter clutches at the land, freezing the small village with its icy grip. The dark rivers overflow, lapping at the banks of frozen mud and a sharp wind tears across the valley, scattering the dead leaves. A blizzard is on its way, the heavy clouds can be seen rising over the mountaintops and the birds scream as they head for the security of the nest.
The people in the village lock up the cattle, stock up firewood. Then they barricade their doors and hide away inside their cold stone and wooden homes. The fields are now empty except for a single person. A man, walking slowly, strolling across the frozen ground. He is dressed finely, all in black. His cloak billows on the steel breeze and a few strands of dark hair dance over his pale face. Everything about him is elegant, from his clothes and hair to the very way he moves. He stops by the river and looks down into the water. He has no reflection.
This is Count Dracula, vampire, the walking dead. He crouches down and gazes into the depths of the river, his face is drawn and his eyes are devoid of emotion. Hollow. Then a flicker of pain stirs in their depths and he stands up, screaming a name to the heavens. There is no one to answer his call. Lost in despair centuries old, he sinks to the ground, to his knees, head bowed. His shoulders shake and his control wavers, his elegant composition falters. Two drops of blood fall to the ground. Vampire tears. After a minute or so he straightens up and rinses the streaks of blood from his face with the freezing water. Then, with a shuddering sigh, he turns and heads back towards the castle on the mountains. The swirling snow chases after him, the wind screams, howling its rage and the earth shudders at his footsteps. The dead are not meant to walk and the earth groans beneath his hated feet.
The Count ascends the stairs in his castle, throwing his cloak and gloves to the floor. Two women sweep towards him, trying to croon and caress away his despair. Dracula brushes his brides aside and heads to the west tower. They try to follow but he turns and bares his teeth with a snarl. The brides wail in rebuke but they leave him to his thoughts. The Count shuts the door behind him and mounts the windowsill, pressing his head against the cold glass. He closes his eyes and remembers four hundred and fifty years of life, dwelling on memories he cannot forget no matter how hard he tries.
Then he opens his eyes and gazes out into the swirling snow. Faces dance before his eyes and flashes of the past burn into his vision. Dracula pulls out a piece of parchment, and unfolds it. He doesn't read the words, he doesn't need to; he knows them off by heart. Dracula, immortal and weary of the world, remembers the past, a night a hundred years ago.
Chapter 2 coming soon and it will be a lot longer than this one. Please review; I'll love you forever if you do...