Father
Author: H.J. Bender
Pairing: --
Rating: T
Summary: A thirteen year-old Velkan begins to understand what he has become, and finally faces the one whom he knows only as 'Father'.
Disclaimer: Main characters, events, original storyline, etc belong to Universal Studios 2004.
A/N: I have taken a few liberties with ages and dates, though minimally. Enjoy.

I am the corner of all rooms
I am the shadows of all trees…
I am the nightmare of all fathers.
-Rammstein, Mann gegen Mann

V. The Sacrament of Evil

It came to pass during the year of 1877 that the townsfolk began to take notice of an oddness about their beloved prince, though the changes that affected him were too gradual to invoke the shock they should have: he ceased to smile, and walked around with a perpetual look of worry etched onto the face which grew handsomer each day. He rarely spoke and seldom laughed anymore, and always he appeared worried and lost, looking about himself as if searching for a familiar face that continued to evade his eyes. One might easily get the impression that his mind was restless, churning mysterious thoughts that he shared with no one.

The clothes he wore were dark, plain and colourless, which was especially unusual for being a child of noble blood, and to whom the means of possessing vibrant, fashionable garments was available. His skin, though fairer than most, was pale and wan, as if he lived in a dark place that never knew the sun's warmth or saw its golden rays. Children of his years were expected to look ruddy and hale, full of hot blood and energy. Velkan possessed energy, but it was unlike that of any child's; he had a shadowy passion that intimidated those around him, even his family, and while he was passive and soft-spoken a great deal of the time, when his temper broke it was a frightful thing.

His father was often the fountainhead of his angst, due largely in part to the increasing burden of Velkan's already difficult training. The king viewed his actions as justifiable, for a year earlier werewolves had returned to the Vaserian forests, and were heretofore responsible for the deaths of nine people and an uncounted number of livestock. The peaceable wolves who dwelt in the woods were driven from their sylvan home by these malicious invaders and subsequently slaughtered by overzealous villagers who feared any four-legged creature with teeth and claws.

The task of ridding the village of these ferocious predators automatically fell on the shoulders of the Valerious family, and the townspeople were anxious to see what prowess the new generation of royalty bore. Velkan was still but a boy, and though his swordsmanship was superiour to all save his father's, he was not ready to join the hunting party just yet. Thus Boris began training his son with almost ruthless intensity, the pressure of perpetuating his lineage with an expert warrior weighing heavily on his greying head. The gypsy king was getting older and his usefulness was declining, this he knew, and it would not be long before he became a liability in the field.

Velkan, for the most part, endured the rigours of his lessons with grim acceptance, though there were times when he questioned his father's reasons for spurring him so relentlessly. Boris had not the heart to rip away what remained of his son's childhood by telling him of his centuries-long obligation to his family, so Velkan's queries often went unanswered. This made for unpleasant rifts in their relationship, and as the prince reached adolescence it became even more difficult for the two to get along.

"He is at that age, Isabel," sighed Boris one evening after a particularly fiery argument which ended in Velkan retreating to his room in a perfect fury. "He is starting to understand how the world works, and yet I worry that teaching him too much will destroy him for ever. He is maturing too quickly for his years, and I know that it is my fault alone. I drive him like a slave to be flawless in his skills, yet I cannot tell him why for fear of ruining his life, if I've not already done so. Tell me, Isabel: am I such a terrible father?"

"Never, Boris," assured the queen. "You are simply doing what is best for him, giving him guidance and discipline when he needs it most. You must be stern with him or else he will never respect you. Years from now, when Velkan has grown up and taken his place at the head of the table, he will thank you for your strictness."

"There is a fine line between a king and a tyrant," Boris muttered dourly. "He must think me a monster for the way I treat him. He has not called me 'Papa' in over a year, did you know?"

"He is thirteen, Boris," said Isabel with a grin. "He cannot still be calling you 'Papa' when he is a full-grown man."

"Perhaps not," the king said, "but he will always be my little boy."

Isabel put down her stitching and walked across the study to sit in her husband's lap, putting her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek comfortingly. "Do not fret, darling. This hardship will pass as he grows out of his moodiness. It comes with the age, you know. He need only understand that you love him unconditionally, and these rough patches will be mended in time. You will see."

"I hope you are right. Perhaps it is time then that he receive his First Communion—I think it would do good for him to be reminded that his Heavenly Father loves him unconditionally as well."

† † †

Velkan had always been uncomfortable in church. He complained that it made his skin crawl and his stomach sour, and that he alternately broke into chills and fevers. His parents only half-believed his claims, and thought that perhaps it was the stale air and draftiness that so affected him. Each Sunday the prince was the first person out of the church once service had ended, bursting through the wooden doors as if the structure were aflame and it was every man for himself. Afterwards he would be quite well again, and Boris assumed that Velkan shared his sentiment when it came to being cooped up in a dusty old church for hours on end.

The cathedral sat on the other side of Vaseria, beside the deep, swiftly-moving waters of the river, and hardly a soul could say that it had not seen better days. The town itself was in a period of decline, and though the gypsy nobility that governed the province had substantial assets, anything of value lay with the land, the estate, and the small but treasured collection of books and ancient arms. Vaseria had never been particularly wealthy to begin with, but its citizens lived comfortably, if humbly, and accepted what they were given from both God and the earth with gratitude.

They had even come to tolerate the supernatural horrors of the vicinity, though much time had passed since a person had last fallen victim to vampirism—over thirteen years to be precise. The townsfolk didn't question why, but counted their blessings and hoped that perchance the Count and his pets had chosen another village to terrorise; Vaseria had more than seen its share of bloodshed.

On the eve of Velkan's first communion, the king hosted a small celebration at the manor, not quite as extravagant as the yearly Christmas or Easter festivities, but with music and dancing as befit the occasion. It was more for the children than anyone, however, Velkan was strangely withdrawn the entire evening, and eventually had to be dragged from his seat by Anna, who demanded that she be given the first dance. It was difficult—if impossible—for the prince to be morose when his little sister made such an attempt to cheer him, so he danced with her as she requested, and had a grand time. The twosome could be quite silly when the caprice struck them, and Velkan spun Anna around until her curls flew loose from her ribbons and she was laughing dizzy. This brief moment of lightheartedness eased the boy's glumness and brought a rare smile to his face.

Later that night, once the great hall had gone dark and the guests had returned home, Anna tip-toed down the corridor to Velkan's room and crawled into his bed. "Papa says you'll be grown up by tomorrow," she whispered to him, huddling close. "What do they do to you at communion?"

"The same thing Mother and Father do at Mass," Velkan answered, allowing her to cling to his side. "You receive the Eucharist, which is rather like what Jesus did at the Last Supper. You are given a bit of unleavened bread to eat, and some wine. It is symbolic of the sacrifice Christ made to free us from sin, His body and His blood, and helps us to resist temptation."

"That doesn't sound too bad." She paused for a moment, as if hesitant to ask, "Why are you so worried?"

"Who said that I was worried?" Velkan feigned ignorance, but in his heart he knew that he was not deceptive enough to hide his feelings from his sister.

"Something is bothering you," said Anna. "You are afraid."

"I am not afraid of anything," Velkan retorted.

"Nonsense. Everybody has something that they fear, even the people who say they don't."

Velkan released a long sigh and stared through the dark at the ceiling. "Before you can receive communion you must first go to confession, and tell the priest every bad thing you've ever done. He will then ask God to forgive your sins, and give you prayers to recite whenever you feel you are straying from the Path. Your conscience must be clean before you can receive the Eucharist."

"Well, you should have no problem," said Anna cheerily. "You've been good all your life."

At this, Velkan turned his head to gaze at his sister with a hopelessly lost expression.

Anna's smile abruptly disappeared. "You have been good all your life… haven't you, Velkan?"

The prince's eyes glistened with tears. "Anna," he whispered, "there is something terribly wrong with me."

"What is it?" she asked fearfully. "Are you sick? Are you dying?"

He shook his head. "No. At least not mortally."

"Then… what is the matter?"

"Dreams," murmured Velkan. "All my life, from as far back as I can remember, I have dreamt of a dark saint and his three angels. They watch over me, and guide me through forests and across mountains to their palace of ice, where they live with a hundred thousand sleeping angels that are frozen and cannot wake. The saint calls me his son, and tells me that he has brought me there to wake the sleeping angels. But I don't know how to do it, as I tell him again and again. This dream, Anna, it makes me feel so sad."

"It doesn't sound so bad, Velkan," said his sister, squeezing his hand. "You are dreaming of holy beings, and that is a good thing, isn't it?"

"These beings are not holy, Anna," he said lowly. "They may appear that way on the surface, but they don't shine in the way that God does. I can feel something different about them, coldness where there should be warmth, darkness where there should be light. They whisper things to me that cannot be true, tell me to do what I know in some part of my heart is wrong. But I find myself believing them, and finding happiness in what I am told to do, no matter how disturbing it is." He shook his head regretfully. "My dreams are all wrong, and I walk through each day haunted by them. The only time I feel at peace anymore is when I am dreaming of the dark saint; I know his home better than my own, and I feel more welcome within its crystal walls than here in my own bed."

"O Velkan," Anna whispered, cuddling to her brother's side protectively. "I won't let anything bad happen to you, I promise. The priest will make everything better tomorrow, you'll see."

"I think it is already too late for me, little sister," he said lifelessly. "Something inside of me is starting to die; I know it is my soul."

"Don't say such horrible things, Velkan," Anna chided, though her voice trembled with fear at her brother's words. "Tomorrow when you go to confession, the priest will hear your troubles and ask God to help you, and then you will be well again, Velkan. You won't feel sad anymore, ever."

"Of course I won't," the prince said softly, putting his arm around his sister and holding her close, more grateful for her presence that he could ever remember.

But despite even this intimate reassurance, a quiet voice in his head told him that no one—not even Almighty God—was capable of helping him any longer.

† † †

Velkan attended his first penance the following morning, which dawned rainy and dreary and made the world seem as if it were mourning a sad event. The prince had awoken ill to his stomach, though he told no one of how he felt, not even Anna. The silver crucifix his father had given him for his seventh birthday seemed heavier than usual, but he wore it nevertheless, ignoring his own physical discomfort in light of his mounting anxiety about receiving his sacraments.

The walk to the church with his family seemed to last for ages, and with each step the nausea roiling in Velkan's stomach steadily worsened, though he knew not why. The cathedral was dark, ominous, sitting by the river like a crouching predator with its sharp, unfriendly steeples. These negative thoughts had never presented themselves in Velkan's mind so vividly, and the boy could not help but to feel as if something truly awful was going to befall him this day.

Confession was brief, and Velkan spoke nothing of his dreams or his senses of being doomed beyond salvation, already knowing that there was nothing the cleric could do to absolve him of these spiritual defects. And when he at last kneeled on the altar before the priest to receive the Eucharist, he gagged on the unleavened bread and retched it out. His family, sitting in the pews behind him, stood up in alarm and demanded to know what was wrong, but Velkan's throat had shut itself and he could not answer. He spat out the wine onto the priest's vestments and began to choke, as if he had instead been given a bitter poison. His own suspicions had confirmed themselves in that moment, and Velkan knew then that he was beyond all hope.

"I'm sorry," he said in a gravelly voice as the tears coursed their way down his cheeks. "I do not belong here. I never have."

With those words upon his lips, he turned and fled from the cathedral, through the doors and into the rainy forest. He ignored the calls of his family behind him and ran all the harder, leaping over dead trees and underbrush as nimbly as a young wolf, barrelling ever onwards with his heart slamming the blood through his veins. He wanted to run away and become lost, never to return. It would be better that way, he thought, to disappear without a trace. Mother and Father could have another son, one who is not flawed like he is, a better son, a happier son. They could easily replace him, forget that he was ever born, and Anna would delight in being a big sister.

Velkan's lungs could not sustain both his running and the sobs into which he then burst, and he fell to his knees on the wet ground and cried in the middle of the silent woods.

"O God," he wept, cradling his face in his hands, "if you are merciful you will kill me now and spare my family of the burden I will bring to them. I know I am not of your flock, Lord, and there is no place for my soul in Heaven. But I beg you, on behalf of my family, release me from this curse before it consumes me."

"Do not wish for death so quickly, Velkan," came an oddly familiar voice, and the prince sprang to his feet and turned to behold a man in a cloak the colour of night—the Dark Saint himself—gazing at him with a faint smile on his immortally elegant face.

"My lord," gasped Velkan reverently, averting his eyes and going down upon one knee respectfully.

"You need not genuflect, my son," spoke the saint, stepping forward to help Velkan to his feet once more. "You know me well enough to treat me as kin. Come, let me see your face. It has been ages since I last looked at you." The man smiled as he wiped the tears from Velkan's cheeks and swept his rain-soaked hair from his eyes. "There you are. I knew there was a prince beneath it all. My, how handsome you've grown."

The boy felt at once joy and terror, but knew not which to express. He pulled away slowly and stared into the saint's shadowy eyes. "This can't be," he said uneasily, taking a step back. "You… I know you. I have seen you before, and not only in my dreams."

"You have a good eye for recognition," said the man as he moved closer. "I was the musician who healed your wounded knee when you fell in the forest, and the drunkard who fought the men who meant to abduct you and hold you for ransom. I was the wolf who killed the innkeeper's afflicted dog when it sprang at your throat last summer, and the owl who sang you to sleep as a child. I have been with you, Velkan, from the day you were first born to this moment now, and you have not left my thoughts for thirteen years. Always I think of you."

Velkan was overwhelmed by this revelation—to discover that his saint was in fact as corporeal as he himself was—but there were questions that still burned within him, demanding to be answered.

"You know me well, my lord," he said gently, "but I know nothing of you, not even your name. Who are you?"

The man smiled hollowly. "You may call me Father."

"F-Father?" Velkan stumbled as his head swam from the unexpected affirmation, and a half-horrified look crossed his face. "How can that be? I already have a father!"

"True," said the saint with a nod, clasping his gloved hands behind his back and beginning to walk a semicircle about Velkan, "you have a father. But he is not your father."

"Then who is the man who raised me?"

"Nobody," was the cold reply. "He may have raised you, but I am the reason you live this day. You would have been dead long ago if not for me."

"So that makes you my father?" Velkan demanded. "What of my mother, then? Do I not know who she is, either?"

"You have already met your mother," the man laughed. "All three of them. Do you not recall flying with them?"

Images of the angels and the storm at the windmill went rushing through Velkan's mind for the first time in years, as if from a long-forgotten dream, and he sputtered nonsensically in an attempt to find his words, his brain and his heart and his soul fighting each other for dominance of his senses. The saint looked upon him sadly and opened his arms, inviting the prince into his embrace; Velkan readily threw himself into the folds of his father's cloak and wept out of sheer confusion.

"There, there, my little Velkan," said the man as he petted the boy's damp locks soothingly. "I can help to ease your pain—starting with this wretched thing." He reached to Velkan's throat and grasped the chain of his crucifix, ripping it from his neck quickly enough for it to be absolutely painless.

Velkan gasped when he felt the heaviness lift from his soul, and when he discovered that his cross had been removed he made no move to retrieve it, but fell into a gloomy state of resignation once more. "What am I?" he asked his father. "What have you made me?"

"You are something unique, Velkan," said the dark saint, gazing at the swinging crucifix in his gloved hand with an expression of utter loathing. "You belong neither to God nor Satan, neither Heaven nor Hell. You are free from everything save death, but in good time death too shall cease to bind you."

"If that is true, then to whom do I belong?"

"Me, Velkan." The ebony cloak wrapped itself about the prince, hugging him close like the folding wings of a dragon. "You belong to me."

At this point in the black void of Velkan's life, he surrendered himself to the one he knew could answer his questions, unlike the man he once called Father, who was either incapable or unwilling—determined, seemingly—to keep his son ignorant forever. But the man who held him now, his saint and his sire, possessed the knowledge to answer these questions, as he possessed the ability to release Velkan from the world that seemed to reject him. Here was power, here was knowledge, here was his salvation and freedom from all the chains that held him captive on God's Earth.

"I will go beside you, Father," the prince vowed in a delicate whisper. "And I will find a way to wake the sleeping angels for you, no matter what I must do. I will wake them."

Vladislaus Dracula smiled at his son, filled with inexpressible delight to see his years of hard work and devotion to this mortal child come full circle through only the power of suggestion alone. The boy was truly his own, his heir and his opus, and no force existed that could undo what had been sealed in blood thirteen years ago.

A sudden, high-pitched whistle sliced through the air, and there came a hollow thump as three arrows lodged into the Count's chest, mere inches from Velkan's head. The boy looked up and let out a horrified scream as his saint released him and staggered backwards, clutching the arrows that had pierced his heart.

"Run, Velkan! Get away from him!" came the cry, and the prince turned to see Boris plunging through the underbrush with his crossbow in hand; five of his armed hunters were rushing towards them in attack formation.

"What have you done!" Velkan shouted hysterically, running to the wounded man who, surprisingly, was still on his feet and looking more breathless and annoyed than riddled with pain. Velkan wrapped his arms about his saint's waist and held on to him protectively.

Boris, already blanched in the face from shock, ordered his men to halt. He stared at his son, his precious little boy, in the clutches of his worst enemy, and desperate tears burned in his eyes. "Come away, Velkan," he begged softly. "Come back to Papa."

The boy looked utterly betrayed and confused—he gulped, shook his head, and clung tightly to his saint, who wrenched the arrows from his chest with slow deliberation and tossed them aside.

"Well, well," Vlad muttered gruffly as his wounds began to heal. "Boris Valerious. How nice it is to see you again. It has been quite some time, thirteen years, if I am not mistaken." He smiled smugly. "You have aged. Humans have such talent for growing old."

"What have you done to him?" the gypsy king snarled, directing his attention to his foe.

The Count said, "Nothing to which he objected."

"Velkan, love, I know you can hear me," Boris spoke to his son with desperation in his tone. "You must resist the words he is putting into your mind. They are lies that only-"

"You are such a simpleton, Boris," Dracula snapped, and rested his hand on Velkan's shoulder possessively. "He is not under my control, nor has he ever been. He is by my side of his own will, and that is where he shall stay."

"You wretched monster!" Boris shouted. "What evil do you hope to accomplish with a young boy? Release him! He is of no use to you!"

"O, but he is," the vampire insisted fervently. "You see, I desire a child of my own, a male, someone to rule beside me when my kingdom covers the earth. My wives have failed to grant me this single wish, so I have been forced to resort to alternative methods of acquiring an heir."

He looked down at Velkan affectionately and stroked the boy's cheek—the king's blood boiled as he was forced to watch this grotesqueness, helpless to stop it.

"Yes," murmured Vlad, "he shall be my heir, my son, from now on." He raised his head to glare at Boris. "When he was born, I visited him that night and took him into my arms as a father; I poured my blood upon his head to save his soul from being given to God without his consent, and he now carries the seal of Dragulia upon his ghost. I have allowed him to choose his own path –by way of light or darkness– and he has chosen to follow me. Every moment he has lived, every breath he has taken, every decision he has made, has been of his own desire. He is mine, Valerious, and you shall die before taking him from me."

The gypsy king was mute with horror as incredulous tears trickled from his eyes. "You are a liar, Count," he stated obstinately, unwilling to lay bare his heart's sorrow before his opponent. "Velkan was never yours, and if I must die to free him, then so be it." And he drew his gleaming sword from its scabbard.

Dracula only grinned at the prospect of this foolish mortal's challenge, and Velkan tightened his arms about his saint. "Don't harm him," he implored his human father. "He is my saint, and I love him. I belong with him now—I am already too far beyond redemption. Please, Papa. Just leave him be. He will look after me and-"

"Enough, Velkan!" shouted Boris, though his severity was directed at Dracula. "You were never told who this creature truly is, so I will tell you now: he is Count Vladislaus Dracula, the spawn of the Devil, a destroyer of all that is good and true, a liar and a deceiver. Our family has been fighting his evil for the past four centuries, and it was he who murdered your grandfather, your great-grandfather, and countless other Valeriouses. It is the mission of our family to see that he is eliminated, for if he is allowed to exist, he will cast the world into an eternal darkness, and we have sworn an oath to God to prevent this from happening. Dracula has planted a seed of evil in you, Velkan, but so long as the light of Heaven shines on this earth, there is hope for you. There is hope, Velkan, my boy. Do not throw yourself into Hell with this monster!"

Dracula glowered darkly at the king. "You talk too much," he muttered, pulling free the pin in his hair. "If you insist on saying anything further, I would much prefer you to scream it." And he flung the pin at the man's face, where it embedded itself into his right eye with a sickening sound.

Boris howled in pain and reeled backwards; his five guards sprang towards Dracula at the same moment, but with a half-turn the Count sent them flying into the trees without laying so much as a finger on them. "Come, Velkan!" he called, but when he looked down at his side, the prince was not there.

"Papa!" Velkan cried as he skidded to his knees beside his fallen father. "Papa, don't move. You will be all right, Papa." He then lifted his grief-stricken gaze towards his saint. "Why did you hurt him!" he cried. "There was no need for violence!"

"He is a fool, Velkan," said Vlad warningly. "Mortals are weak both in body and mind, do not forget. Killing them ought to be considered a mercy."

"You forget that I am still mortal!" the prince snarled, his tears replaced by anger. "Do you think the same of me? A fool who is better off dead?"

"Never, my son—you are singular from all humans, a god amongst the whole blundering race. Come with me now and I will tell you more of-"

"I don't need to hear another word," Velkan said dangerously, taking up his father's gilded sword and standing before the Count, poised to fight. "You would injure a man needlessly, and there is no honour in destroying those weaker than yourself simply to prove your strength. I am not so heartless as you, Dracula, nor will I ever be. Now go, and leave my family alone!"

Vlad was stunned for a moment, and then his amazement degenerated into perfect rage. "Why, you ungrateful little brat," he hissed, eyes darkening with deadly shadows. "After all that I have done for you, you would betray me for a worthless, ignorant wretch-!"

"He is my father," Velkan stated proudly, and pointed the tip of his sword at Dracula, "and I do not want to see you ever again."

"I am afraid that cannot be helped," the Count muttered as he approached the boy. "You see, I have invested too much in you, my little prince. I would not throw away those years of toil simply because you decided to hate me today. You will come to your senses again, and when you do, you will pay dearly to receive my good graces once more."

"You have no grace, sir," Velkan said, and, with the swiftness of a striking cobra, darted forward and lashed out with his father's sword. Truly he was exceptional; the blade narrowly missed Dracula's depthless eye, instead opening a red sliver on his cheek. The vampire seethed in his fury and reached out to snatch the insubordinate youngster by his collar.

"You would dare to strike me, you little bastard?" he growled, knocking the sword from Velkan's hand. "You belong to me, you serve me, and you will obey me."

"I would rather die!" the prince cried, and he wrenched free his silver crucifix—still grasped tightly in Dracula's fist—and thrust its long end into the vampire's chest. The effect was instantaneous.

The Count let out an unearthly screech as the holy metal pierced his infernal flesh, and he threw himself backwards, away from the boy, and pulled the bloody talisman from his body. The cross burst into flames and liquefied in his hand, and he glared at Velkan so venomously that for the first time in his young life, the prince knew what true terror felt like.

Dracula's shape began to shift, fangs sprouting from his mouth and talons from his fingers, his skin growing dark and leathery like a dragon's as he revealed his true form to Velkan, who screamed in horror and scrambled towards his father. The hellish monstrosity spread his wings and lifted into the air to pursue his quarry, but a volley of arrows sang through the misty forest air and planted themselves into his beastly body. Velkan turned to see the other members of the king's hunting party—twenty strong—reloading their crossbows and readying their pistols, shouting to each other as they formed their offence.

It was then that Velkan understood the meaning behind his years of training: he was to fight this hideous creature, as had every generation before him. This was his purpose, this was his destiny. This was what Papa did not want to tell him, the reason why he would not answer his questions. Velkan realised the truth now, that he had been deceived by his saint, this Dracula, for so long, and he wept in shame.

The vampire bellowed in rage as both arrows and bullets tore through his body. The forest was filled with a deafening cacophony as the huntsmen emptied their quivers and barrels into the loathsome fiend, who gave a final anguished roar before tearing up into the canopy and soaring away from the assault.

The king's men ran to assist their fallen lord and his stricken son, and carried them back to the manor as swiftly as they could. Though the doctor did all that he could, he was unable to save Boris' eye; the gypsy monarch would wear a patch over his empty socket for the rest of his life. However, such gruesome disfigurement as this would be considered a mercy compared to the silent ridicule that Velkan Valerious would face in the coming years.

To Be Continued...