Father
Author: H.J. Bender
Pairing: --
Rating: T
Summary: Dr Victor Frankenstein arrives in Transylvania, unaware of his benefactor's evil intentions. Velkan, tired of continuously suffering, acknowledges himself as being Dracula's son and then discovers a mysterious door...
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.

Without you, I cannot be.
With you, I am also alone...
The forest stands so black and empty,
And the birds sing no more.
-Rammstein, Ohne Dich

VII. The Good Doctor

Journal of Victor Frankenstein, M.D. Ph.D.
24 March 1886

Arrived safely in the remote Transylvanian province of Vastrea. The nearest township appears to be Vaseria, roughly two kilometres away. It is a dismal and vacant-looking village, and its folk appear wary of strangers passing through. I resent the thought of returning, but the castle with which the generous Count has provided me must be supplied if I hope to have the machines in operation by this week.

The 15th century structure is built upon a rugged section of rock at the foot of the mountains, making the high altitude convenient for performing electrical diagnostics. While the castle has sat empty for several decades (as has its village), it is quite intact and resistant to the elements, and that is all I could ask, considering the Count's excessive graciousness in funding my research and equipping my new labouratory. His faith in my work makes me anxious, and though he has not yet disclosed the reason for his interest in this field of science, I nevertheless hope to achieve his expectations, whatever they may be. He has proven to be a great benefactor and a loyal friend, and I look forward to working with him.

Victor Frankenstein put down his pen and gazed out at the steady downpour through the hazy, mildewed glass of the windows. It had been raining ever since he had first entered this cold northern region of Romania, at least four days in succession by his own reckoning. He could hear torrents gushing from the stone gargoyles on the ledge and was grateful to be indoors, regardless of the castle's draftiness. The man was loath to admit that he would be forced out into the rain to fetch some items from the nearby town, and at least hoped that no one would ask him questions. While being a doctor and well-read in Latin, he knew little of the Romanian language, and the dialects which the gypsies spoke in these parts were practically indiscernible.

Victor doubted there was any way he could hope to blend in with the villagers; thirty two years old, blond-haired and blue-eyed, the German man with his decidedly western-European attire and ruddy complexion stood out from the pallid, dark-haired citizens like a goose amongst ducks, and he was already quite aware of the superstitions that the natives harboured.

"Why are they so distrustful of a new face?" Victor had made so bold as to inquire of his new friend shortly after he had first arrived at the castle. "They seem almost terrified of people they have never seen before."

"That is the typical ignorance of these simple village folk," Dracula had said with a fleeting smile. "They still believe in witches and werewolves, and the nobility is no more learned than they are. The king incites this madness by professing his belief in such fairy-tale monsters, and has brought ruin to Vaseria because of it. Do not look to make friends with the locals here, Victor," the Count warned. "They will only fill your head with their childish fables."

The words echoed in the doctor's mind as he recalled Dracula's admonishment, and closed his journal as he stood from his desk. Uneducated as the townsfolk were or were not, the doctor would have to establish some form of trust with them if he expected to continue his research in this lonesome corner of the world.

† † †

The rain was relentless as Victor entered the town square on horseback, the road already reduced to a muddy mire. He saw no people walking about, though he assumed that anyone with an ounce of sense would be inclined to remain indoors on a dark, overcast day such as this—perhaps the villagers were not as ignorant as Dracula had said they were.

Victor hitched his horse at a rickety post outside of the general store and tried to look as unassuming as he could as he made his way into the decrepit wooden building. It was dryer and warmer inside, though not by much; a man sat in a chair behind the counter, smoking a pipe and whittling a piece of wood. He glanced up as Victor walked in and then went back to his carving. The store was dark and cluttered, tools and food items scattered about on shelves and crowding the counter. The doctor's eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where dozens of rows of garlic hung on display from the rafters. Crucifixes large and small adorned every available space, and though his Romanian was poor, he was able to translate a sign that read: Melt Your Silver Here Buy, Sell & Trade

Pushing these peculiarities to the back of his mind, Victor proceeded to hunt down the supplies on his list—such as heavy gauge rope and canvas tarp—and was a little disappointed at the lack of variety, but, given the circumstances, was nevertheless glad to find reasonable substitutes.

He was just about to ask the manager if he had any iron pins in stock when someone else walked into the store, shaking the rain from their black cloak. Victor was surprised when the hood was drawn back, revealing the handsome face of a young man, quite a number of years younger than the doctor was himself. He appeared to be of some import, given his aristocratic appearance and the stern tone in which he spoke to the store keeper; Victor would have guessed him to be part of the upper-class gypsy nobility, but the colourless garments he wore suggested that he had either just come from a funeral or was a villainous fiend. Victor doubted either, although the general disposition of the town could easily be misconstrued as one of mourning.

He found himself staring at the youth, subconsciously examining him with his keen scientific mind, when it suddenly dawned on him that he had seen no children in Vaseria at all, not even people remotely close to his own age—save for this fine specimen standing here now. The whole village seemed comprised of old, harrowed-looking individuals with their faces wrinkled from years of hardship and their hands twisted and calloused from toil. Perhaps children were not allowed out of doors at certain times, he thought, or perhaps were there none of which to speak…

"You there. Stranger."

Victor was startled from his reverie by none other than the young man himself, who stood gazing at him with the same intensity in his eyes that the doctor recalled seeing the first time he had met Count Vladislaus Dracula. There was something keenly secretive lurking in the depths of those pale blue irises, and it felt both captivating and unnerving to be caught in their path.

"You speak Latin?" Victor answered unsteadily.

"I am not stupid, if that is what you are implying," Velkan Valerious answered coldly, dropping a heavy bag upon the counter.

The German gulped. "I am very sorry. It is just that I am new to Vaseria and-"

"What business brings you to this place?" the prince interrupted. "You are obviously no huntsman or soldier. We do not take kindly to outsiders in our midst."

"I-I am a doctor of science, Dr Victor Frankenstein. I was formerly a medical student at Goldstadf here in Romania, " he explained hastily, intimidated by the young man's frankness. "I have come here to complete my research."

"What sort of research?" Velkan asked, stepping closer.

"Biological, particularly in the area of cell restoration and regeneration. Er, that means the re-growth of-"

"I know what it means, sir. Do not patronise me."

Victor was soundly rebutted. "My apologies... ah?"

"Velkan," said the gypsy, lifting his chin. "Velkan Alexandru Valerious."

"My apologies, Master Valerious. I meant no disrespect. I have only just arrived and have yet to get acquainted with the people of this region."

"You will find that the people here are not the type to acquaint themselves with anyone, especially not foreign scientists. You would do well to keep to your own, doctor."

The razorblade tension of their conversation ended there, and Victor was immensely relieved. While his first interaction with one of the locals was by no means a crowning success, it was no great failure, either. The Count had been incorrect in telling him that the villagers were a stupid lot of frightened sheep, and this unusually austere young gentleman with an admirable command of the Latin language was proof of it. Victor was intrigued by his noble character and hoped that they would cross paths again.

The doctor paid for his supplies and then made his way out into the rain once more. After his departure, Velkan was left to dwell at length on the reason why an obviously well-read western man would travel to a distant place such as Vaseria to complete his research. There were no universities or museums to which one of his extensive education could take advantage, nor was Transylvania ranked among the most affluent regions in which to study medical science.

It perplexed and disturbed Velkan; something about the doctor's presence did not feel right, and though he appeared to be a harmless enough fellow, there was a haunting way about which he had first looked at the prince, as if he had almost recognised him. It reminded Velkan all too clearly of the stares he received from the townsfolk, the ones who continued to hate, pity, and fear him; the ones who saw in him nothing but the image of his estranged father. Son of Dracula, Offspring of the Beast, were their thoughts. Velkan knew for he heard their fear, smelt their loathing, witnessed their contempt, and it was thus that he felt with every bone in his body the powerful aura of the Count's control over this newcomer known as Frankenstein.

"Watch him closely, Mr Grasu," said Velkan to the store keeper as he turned to leave. "I fear that man's good intentions will be put to evil use."

† † †

Victor was surprised to find the Count waiting for him when he returned to the castle: the tall, darkly-clad man stood before the hearth in the large parlour with his violin on his shoulder, filling the cold, empty halls with the echoes of a tragically beautiful song. He seemed oblivious to any other presence, fingers slowly waltzing at the instrument's neck and body swaying with the motions of the bow as it sang across the strings.

Victor watched in silence for a while, not wishing to intrude on his guest during this intimate moment. Such sadness and longing was in the melody; it reminded the doctor of the eyes of the young man whom he had just met not an hour before, and he was instantly affected by the profoundness of the melancholy tune. It filled him with a vague sense of sympathy for the Count, who seemed to elicit the song's very substance from the depths of his own despondent soul.

Dracula, with his back still turned to the doctor, drew out the last note and then lowered his bow. "I used to play that piece for my son," he said solemnly, gazing into the fire. "I once knew many songs, but now I cannot remember any others save for his."

"I am sorry," Victor said gently. "Your son… did he pass away?"

"He is quite alive, unfortunately," sighed Vlad as he turned and set his violin against a wingback chair. "When they are young you expect them to follow in your footsteps and inherit the world you have given them. But then they grow, and you discover that the life you had planned for them is a life which they do not wish to live. However, the true irony-" Here he smiled in such a way that he looked both grief-stricken and insane. "-is that you love them too much to force your world upon them, and you would sooner die than see them become an ugly reflection of yourself."

Victor said timidly, "I am afraid I do not understand you, my friend."

The Count laughed suddenly, his mood as mercurial as the shifting wind. "Hating to love and loving to hate," he declared, voice reverberating off of the stone walls. "This is one of life's most contemptible miseries. If not for death, there would be nothing left to fear. That is why I have brought you here, Victor—so that you may show the world that its days of terror are numbered, to find a cure for the disease known as death!"

Vlad stepped close and placed his hand upon the doctor's shoulder. "I believe in your work, Victor. I believe that the length of our lives should not be determined by our Creator, but by ourselves, by we who are trapped in the fleshly prison of our own bodies. You, my good doctor, shall open the eyes of mankind when you succeed in this bold endeavour, and you will be remembered throughout history for the victory you have won on humanity's behalf."

"The victory of science over God," said the man softly, entranced by the powerful gaze of those hollow eyes and finding himself automatically believing the words, no matter how incredible they sounded.

"Yes," Vlad murmured, leaning uncomfortably close to Victor's neck. "You will show this truth to the world and a new age will arise: an age of enlightenment and knowledge, brought about by you alone, Victor. And there will be a special place for you in this kingdom, a throne upon which you will sit and be honoured by those who were given life by your gifted hands."

The Count paused with his lips hovering above the pulsing vein in the doctor's throat, and then slowly drew away. "Do not disappoint me."

† † †

"He is up to something, Anna," Velkan spoke to his sister as he stood in the study of Valerious Manor that evening, staring out at the rainy forest in the distance. "I can sense he has a plan, and I would not doubt that the arrival of the German stranger is his doing. Yet I simply cannot imagine the purpose a scientist could serve him."

"Perhaps he has grown tired of his typical Romanian fare and decided to sample a more western flavour," Anna replied with grim humour as she sat with her boots propped upon her father's desk. "Dracula has no mind for academics—he is an animal."

Velkan swallowed dryly as he resisted the urge to defend the vampire lord, knowing that such words would accomplish nothing. "We know so little of him, don't we?" he inquired softly, almost speaking to himself. "Aside from the tales that Father told us, we know nothing of his life at all."

"There is little life about him to learn, Velkan," Anna said darkly. "He was an ambitious tyrant who met his end at the hands of one of his own. Even his followers despised him; that must give you some clue as to his true nature. It is best not to question too deeply into these matters, otherwise you risk becoming…" She trailed off and fell into an uneasy silence, knowing that she had strayed into a topic of conversation that the family tried not to mention.

Velkan turned around to face his sister. "We cannot blind ourselves to history, Anna. Doing so would only harm us. Knowledge is one of the greatest powers of mankind, and sometimes studying the past is the only way to predict the future. Time never stops, nor does it stand still, but it does repeat itself, and perhaps if we knew more details of Dracula's past, we could discover secrets that would-"

"Do not be so quick as to forget that knowledge is also dangerous," the princess quipped, rising from her chair. "True, there is power in it, but one must first have the ability to hold that power without allowing it to overtake them."

"Do you fear me to be overtaken?" Velkan said a little too harshly. "Because I was once a victim of Dracula's fancy, that makes me more vulnerable than any other person? No, Anna—it makes me better than any other person, for I have witnessed the extent of his strengths and I do not fear him."

"You are beginning to sound boastful," Anna replied sharply. "Does being so much higher than the rest of us simple folk give you a sense of satisfaction? Simply because you can see in the night and read others' thoughts, you feel you are better qualified to deal with Dracula than anyone else?"

"I did not ask to become what I am!" he suddenly shouted, startling her. "I was robbed from God's hands to be used as a tool of vengeance, and you think I am proud of this?"

"I am not criticising you, Velkan, I am trying to help you! You cannot face Dracula by yourself. He is as much my burden as yours."

The prince turned his back, and Anna moved forward to embrace him. By her many years of closeness, she knew that her brother was moments away from an emotional collapse, and she had to reassure him in order to keep him from falling more deeply into the pit of despair that already threatened to swallow him whole.

"Together, Velkan," she said to him steadily, cheek pressed to the nape of his neck and arms wrapped tightly about his chest. "We fight this together, and we must not linger upon unpleasant truths. We share this responsibility. We share the blame, we share the hatred."

"But it is too much," came his broken whisper. "I am tired of hating him, Anna. There is a part of him in me now, and to hate him is to hate myself. I cannot do this anymore—it feels wrong. It hurts me. It hurts-!"

Anna could feel the silent sobs beginning to wrack his body, and held him all the tighter. Tears reduced her vision to blurs and shadows as she sensed her brother's suffering as acutely as if it were her own. "Feel me, Velkan," she breathed. "Know that I am here for you. I am here for you, as I will always be…"

"He is my father, Anna," the prince suddenly choked. "He is my father, and I love him. I belong with him and all the legions of the damned, and I cannot hate him any longer!"

Velkan gasped loudly as his sorrow claimed him, and he began to quietly weep. His legs, weakened from bearing the weight of his accursed soul, lost their support and he toppled to his knees on the rug, dragging Anna down with him. "Let go of me," he begged. "Don't even touch me."

"You are my brother," she stated as firmly as the knot in her throat would allow. "I will always be proud to call you my brother, Velkan, even if you were the son of Satan himself. I love you, and I will not let you give yourself to Dracula until he has first sent me into Hell. Stay with us, Velkan. Don't leave us just yet. Please don't leave us…"

They sat on the floor of the study, shedding their tears together as they rocked slowly back and forth like lost little children with no way of returning home. Unbeknownst to them, Boris stood just beyond the threshold and had heard the entire incident. The once-valiant gypsy king felt what little hope he still carried in his heart extinguish like a tiny flame in the wind. Hearing his only son –his precious little boy whom he had loved and nurtured and tried to protect from evil– at last resign himself as the enemy's property was more than he could bear.

This was the end of all things, the last and final chapter in the long story of the Valerious' heroic attempts to rid the world of Vladislaus Dragulia. Velkan was no longer a bearer of the family name; the Count had succeeded in corrupting one of his opponent's offspring beyond salvation, a deed more painful and humiliating than death itself. The responsibility of bearing the next generation would now rely solely upon Anna, who was far too devoted to her wayward brother to concern herself with becoming a wife and mother. She would die fighting, the last of the Valerious, and she would shut the doors to Purgatory behind her.

Boris leaned heavily against the wall as he listened to his children weep, and he cursed Dracula for the hundred-thousandth time.

† † †

Verona was perched upon the northern battlement of the highest tower, dark hair billowing in the arctic wind, watching with eager eyes for the return of her lord while Marishka crouched beside her. Though the snow and sleet had formed glimmering crystals of ice upon their sheer gowns and pale flesh, they did not feel the bitter sting of coldness.

"He will not be back until dawn again," the fair-haired woman said with sadness in her voice. "Come, Verona. We must hunt without him tonight."

"He gave us that promise the last time he missed us," she replied, moving not from her post. "I will not allow him to break his vow again."

"You know he cannot help it," Marishka insisted gently. "The scientist requires all of his attention now, and you cannot punish yourself for his absence. Please go with me, Verona—Aleera has already left, and I do not like to hunt alone."

With a heavy sigh, the vampiress relented her vigil and followed her sister into the sky.

Such had been the nights of late: three beautiful brides sitting alone and neglected in their castle fortress as they waited for their husband to return from his affairs in the mortal realm. While they were by nature as wild and free as untamed beasts, the women harboured a desperate need for Vlad that had been instilled in them the moment their lord's blood had passed over their lips and made them into the eternal beings they now were. They craved his presence and constant attention, dependent upon his imitation of affection as if it were the most intoxicating drug in the world.

It could easily be said that they did not truly love Dracula, but loved only what he represented: rebellion, charisma, ambition, immortality. They were addicted to his power, drunk on his omnipotent image, and worshipped him as priestesses would worship their god. The brides were aware that their master would never truly return their passion as humans would to each other, but they willfully ignored this fact, choosing instead to believe that this was the evolution of love, its highest and most superiour form which only they had the grace to receive.

A part of each of them, perhaps the single remaining shred of humanity left fluttering amongst the rubble of their demolished souls, knew that this was but a fanciful lie, and that they were only shiny, pretty things locked inside a black and hollow heart.

But that heart was changing, the brides had noticed; it was filling with a vile liquid that threatened to drown them all in its revolting sweetness, an essence that not one of them had summoned forth. Their envy of Velkan Valerious had grown into an ugly, ponderous thing when they realised that it was he, the mortal prince, who was putting this disgusting substance into Dracula's heart, returning to him all the things that creatures of their ilk loathed and despised.

If the Count had poisoned Velkan against his family, so had Velkan poisoned the Count against his own.

Jealousy begot hatred, and hatred begot the need for vengeance. The brides no longer rejoiced at the idea of Velkan joining their family, and would see him dead before they surrendered their places to bow before their enemy's son.

† † †

The cold paleness of approaching dawn cast its sallow light through the windows of the Valerious armoury, where Velkan sat staring at the large map of Transylvania with sleepless eyes. Senses dulled by the half-empty bottle of wine that sat before him on the table, he gazed over the yellowed parchment for the hundredth time, not searching, but contemplating.

So this is my prison, he thought. I was born here, I live here, and I will die here. Never shall I feel the ocean's breeze. Never shall I sail across the waters, nor see the lights of great cities, nor taste the sweetness of love's first kiss. I was doomed the moment I was conceived, fated to live my life for one purpose, a purpose I know I can never fulfill. My life is already over—I am dead inside, but still I feel pain...

Velkan shut his eyes tightly. He did not want to suffer the agony of living any longer. He did not want to suffer the hatred that others harboured towards him. He did not want to feel this hopelessness, this futility, this sorrow; he did not want to feel anything ever again. Happiness had left him when he was a child, and now nothing awaited his future but more despair and misery. How he wished to be eternally numb, lifeless and senseless to the world that had turned its back on him, leaving him stranded in this limbo known as Vaseria.

He swallowed the last of his wine and set his goblet on the table as he stood to his feet, his mind heavy and his body weakened from too many years of torment. He walked slowly to the map and rested his forehead against its canvas face, his fingers gently tracing the curving lines of the rivers and the sharp edges of the mountains—these were the boundaries of his hell, his prison, his grave, and there was no escaping its walls. He was trapped in this horrible place with people who would never truly understand him, not even his own family. He was completely and utterly alone, hanging between the world of the dead and the world of the living.

"O God," he whispered, "where am I? Where do I belong?"

Velkan slipped slowly to the floor where he sat in silence, listening to the sun rise in the east as he lay his head against the atlas. He stared, unblinking, unable to close his eyes despite the fatigue brought on by a sleepless night. His mind, of its own accord, had begun to read the narrow column of Latin text that he now knew by heart, his eyes following the words on the map's left side until they were abruptly cut off by a large chest. It did not occur to Velkan for a while, but gradually he came round, frowning slightly when he realised that the sentence had not ended correctly—in fact, it had not ended at all. There was more to the inscription behind the trunk.

With a sudden burst of energy, Velkan scrambled to the chest and grabbed its corners, pushing with all his might. Whatever was in it was incredibly heavy, and it took a great deal of grunting and pulling to move it only a few inches across the stone floor. The trunk had obviously sat there for decades, for the revealed corner of the parchment was pale, untouched by sunlight, and the sigil of a winged serpent graced its edge like a macabre fingerprint.

The prince gave one last heave and the trunk was pushed clear. He kneeled down to read the hidden text softly: "…lux respice; Deum ac ianuam, imbeat aperiri." He raised his head. "Look to the Light before setting forth; in the name of God, open this door."

Before Velkan's astonished eyes, the map began to change. It faded and withered from the centre outwards, blanching and growing smooth until its surface became as reflective as glass. He sprang to his feet and away from the atlas, watching with shock as it transformed into a broad, seamless mirror—and nothing else.

Velkan stared at his bewildered reflection with his heart pounding in his breast, waiting to see if something even more incredible would happen, but nothing did. His curiosity claimed the better half of his sensibility, and he stepped forward cautiously to inspect the mysterious object. He placed his hand upon its surface, but his eyes seemed to deceive him, for his hand met with nothing. Was it an illusion? He reached farther and farther still, riveted in disbelief as he beheld his hand sinking through the surface of the looking-glass. Whatever was on the other side was positively freezing, and when he pulled his hand away, it was covered in ice.

Velkan rubbed his frosty fingers meditatively, trying his hardest to think amidst the whirling tumult of his already overtaxed mind. Something—or someplace—was behind this mirror; it was a door, and the presence of the dragon crest at the bottom of the map led Velkan to believe it could only mean one thing.

Taking a deep breath, the prince closed his eyes and stepped forward, vanishing through the mirror without a sound.

To Be Continued...