DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya

AND Dracula – Bram Stoker

CASTLES IN THE AIR

THREE

12 MAY 1897

I awoke alone, Vladimir having vacated the bed and bedchamber entirely. If not for the queer circumstance of my waking in such an equally strange and solid place, I would have thought it a dream. If not for the grim pallor of my skin and the soft, pink punctures on my neck, I would have thought myself rescued by a reclusive hermit and not a vampire at all.

I shivered, dressed, and shivered again, noting that the coals in the hearth had gone cold. My memory of the previous night was foggy at best and fractured at worst, but I recalled the expression of the vampire as he carefully lit the fires for my benefit. I had mistaken his posture for stiff nobility, but in afterthought I realized it was nervousness. The candles had been dusty and firewood sparse in the chamber, the coal scuttle nearly empty, indicating that nothing had been lit in some while, and would not have been last night if not for my need. Remembering the way he had shied from the delightful warmth and chasing light, preferring my body-heat to the flames, I felt certain of his fear. Could it be that vampires were, indeed, flammable? If so, then his fear was well justified and I resolved to take precautions in future to light all manner of flames myself, thus sparing him the danger and discomfort.

Furthermore—and I am now ashamed to admit this, but must record it in the interest of a true account—the knowledge of his weakness relieved me. Even though Vladimir did not threaten my person in the night, and, indeed, guarded my sleep as he promised, he was a predator of mankind, a creature who had supped on my blood and would do so again if I allowed it; perhaps even if I did not. He had not yet harmed me, but, knowing not his mind or intent, I had no notion of what he would be like now that he was restored to his health. I could not quell the creeping sensation that I had become his willing prisoner, and a convenient food cache at that.

Feeling disquieted, I left the bedchamber. It was ice cold in the castle. A witching power seemed to hold sway over it, making it a favourable place for a nightmare's gamble.

The absence of windows did not escape my notice. The castle's labyrinthine corridors were long and dark in the way of subterranean caverns, lit only by sparing torches—for my benefit—tucked deeply into alcoves. I advanced cautiously, taking small, blind steps and holding my hands at the ready for an unexpected encounter, but my eyes had adjusted reasonably well to the rationed light, even if my body was not yet resigned to the rationed heat. A wiser man would have retreated to the light and warmth and safety of the bedchamber and waited for his host to return, but my fear and discomfort was suspended at present; my survival instincts dwarfed by my insatiable curiosity.

"Curiosity," scolded my mother's ghost, "is what killed the old cat in the attic, and it will kill you too, foolish child! Just look at yourself!"

It was then that I saw my reflection.I looked slovenly in my state of undress and suddenly blushed at the risk of Vladimir finding me. Needless, really. He had seen me at my most carnal baseness the night before; yet, still I felt embarrassed by my foolish pride for thinking myself the equal of a noble.

I had been accused in school of possessing an underbred pride. It had been said as an insult, served with a sneering smile by a bragging acquaintance, and it had made me feel everything but proud. I had not believed it then. I had been angered by it, seeing it as a challenge to my intelligence. But I could see the truth in it now.

I could see it in the way I stood: in the erectness of my posture, in the green of my eyes. For who did I think I was, a mere farmer's son, strutting these lofty halls like a lord of the castle? Who did I think I was compared to beings such as Lord Vladimir? It had once been my father's dearest hope that I inherit his farm and continue it, but I did not, thinking myself worth more than my birthplace and upbringing; thinking that I could become more with the tools of my cleverness and ambition. And knowing that, was I not proud? Was I not prone to exceeding arrogance, thinking myself better than I ought to be? Or rather, thinking that my scholarly pursuits were more admirable than the toils of my father? My mother often chirped that I was—am—a "wicked child", but always in jest; always in a fit of worry for my safety, or with affectionate reproach. But perhaps there was—is—some honesty in her words. I was many things, and still am, as most men are, but meek and humble and content were not listed amongst my virtues. I do not even hesitate to blaspheme, because: oh, my God! I had been hungry for as long as I could remember! Hungry for things I was not suppose to want. I had always wanted more knowledge, more influence, more wealth, more of the world, more of my own sex.

To think such impure things shamed me from day-to-day outside of these walls, but here—here, somehow, I disregarded it. Here in the castle, the shame felt muted. I felt safe from the regimented outside and was not afraid to explore myself deeper. Here, I let myself think on my dreams and desires and felt a strange sense of calm and—yes, indeed—pride come over me. Because on the inside, this is who I was—who I am—and, despite everything, I liked him. I had never and would never want to adhere to conformity. I wanted to know more, see more, do more, achieve more, and I wanted it all with a man in my arms.

My heart wanted for me to hold Vladimir in my arms. If only I could find him, now.

"Boris?" said Vladimir, finding me instead.

He smiled at me as he swept across the flagstone, a jolly bounce in the roll of his feet unlike the night before. He looked well, his beautiful, bright face emerging from the darkness as if from a pool of black water.

"Apologies, my—Vladimir," I chuckled, forgetting our deal, "I did not mean to interrupt your slumber."

"My slumber?" His voice was peppered with lighthearted perplexity as he shrank the distance between us. "You thought me sleeping down here?"

His bemusement surprised and further embarrassed me. I picked at my wrinkled shirtsleeve, pushed to my elbow. "Oh," I said awkwardly, "you were not?"

Vladimir laughed, his voice echoing in the stonewalled emptiness, but it was not unpleasant. His tolling filled the space like holiday bells. "Of course not!" he smiled, delighted by my mistake. "I have a perfectly good bed upstairs with you in it, my dear. Why on earth would I sleep down here?"

"Well, to escape the daylight, I suppose," I guessed, forgetting my recent observation. But Vladimir was keen to remind me of it:

"There are no windows in this castle, my dearest, so rest assured," he chided playfully, "I am quite protected and much more comfortable in my bedchamber than in this dank underground.

"But you are kind to worry for me," he added, placating me.

"Forgive me," I said, "I thought—well, perhaps it is foolish, but I have been led to believe that you—vampires, that is—sleep in coffins."

He laughed again and put his arms around my neck, drawing us together. "How utterly morbid," he smiled.

"You do not, then?" I asked, cupping his hips in my hands. "Are you not nocturnal and fallible to sunlight?"

"I am nocturnal, and the sunlight does do me harm," he admitted, "but I sleep in a bed like a civilized being, not like some dead thing in hiding. I am not dead, Boris, as I have said, and I see no reason why I should have to sleep like the dead in the ground. I am undead, I really cannot stress that enough."

"Forgive me, my lord."

"Vladimir," he corrected. "And there is nothing to forgive.

"This," he said, when we were once again ensconced in the bedchamber, "is where I prefer to sleep."

He sat upon the dishevelled bedding and bid me to join him. I perched on the edge while he sat cross-legged, like a child. He laced our fingers together as he spoke, taking an intimate interest in the lines and calluses of mine. It was as if we were about to play a clapping game.

"I died in this bed," he said after a pause, "which is why I sleep here."

"You mean to say, this is where you were changed from the living to the undead?"

"No," he said, studying my ink-black cuticles. "It is exactly as I said: this is where I died. In this bed, my sire drained me of my mortal blood and then, just before I passed beyond the living world, fed me of his own. That is how a vampire is created. He took my corpse down into the crypts and that is where I awoke—the place you thought that I slumbered. It is why I dislike it. I must return there each night, but I do not like to linger. It is too morbid and brings back unpleasant memories of my distant life, and sometimes I recollect what I felt upon waking that first time as the newborn undead: that I was entirely alone."

I squeezed his hands, trying to convey comfort, but his word-choice confused me. "Your sire?" I asked. "He is your father?"

Vladimir's eyes softened thoughtfully. "He was like my father, in a way.

"Yes," he nodded with conviction. "He was more of a father to me than my mortal father ever was.

"My mortal father had four sons, of whom I was the youngest," he began. "He was a wicked, selfish man, who sacrificed me—his most detested child—to the vampire without regret, thinking only of saving himself and the sons he thought worthy of their inheritance. I was the fourth, the smallest and weakest, and the reason my mother died. I do not know what my father would have bargained if any of his other sons were at risk, but because it was I he did not hesitate. He traded me to the vampire in exchange for his life and the lives of my older brothers. I suppose he thought it was a good bargain, a paperless contract that would buy his own safety. I expect that he assumed me dead, and that the vampire would kill me—feed on me and then discard me. But instead he adopted me. He did feed on me, but he kept me afterward, and when I was old enough to inherit his legacy—for he was very old and tired of life—he gave me the gift of his immortality, and then quietly let himself die.

"I believe my mortal father would turn in his grave now, if he knew what became of me, his despised child. I have lived scores longer than he, in wealth and comfort and security.

"The thought makes me glad," he smiled spitefully.

"Why do you think he adopted you?" I asked. "The vampire, I mean. Why not just feed on you?"

Vladimir nibbled his lip for a moment, and I swallowed.

"I think he was lonely, and that is why he spared my life, at least at the start. And I think... I understand it," he confessed. "I remember little of my mortal life, but I know it was not happy. The vampire saved me from it.

"There is a memory I have, which I cannot forget and would give anything to do so. I suspect the repetition of the abuse is what ingrained it in my mind, that not even my dying could erase it, because I can still recall it vividly:

"When I was a child," he said, "I had lovely hair—"

"You still do," I interrupted, gently coiling a long lock around my finger.

Vladimir smiled, but the memory made it melancholy. "My mortal father would threaten me often. Pray I never grab hold of those pretty locks, or I'll pull them even longer! he would say, and did so. He pulled me by my hair like a dog by a leash. Then one day a vendor at the summer fair offered my father a trade for my hair, and, before I could protest or escape, I had been seized by my brothers and held while my father sheared my hair like a sheep, clean to my scalp. He was rough and I cried, fearing he would pull it out by the roots. The vendor asked if he could buy me from my father, but my father denied him, seeing in me a renewable source of income as long as my hair continued to grow. I was eight-years-old, and for the next six years my father harvested my hair like a crop every spring to sell at the fair, unconcerned by my shivering in the winter months. I learnt to wear a hood for warmth and to hide my shame from gossips, and I thought myself the very unluckiest child in the world. I learnt to prognosticate winter illnesses for myself, and, indeed, I fell ill often with evil colds, and nearly died of influenza once. But my father and brothers did not care. They would divide my hair into equal portions and tie each with bows of twine and sell it at market, like any other thread. I once saw a woman in the village wearing a bracelet of red-gold and knew it to be my own braided hair; she, wearing it as an adornment the way I never could.

"It is the reason I still wear it long now," he proclaimed, tilting his head; a lock fell over his shoulder, shining.

"An act of defiance?" I grinned.

He nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. "Something like that, yes.

"Come," he said, standing suddenly. He pulled me by the hand into a dressing-room, where a large portrait hung.

He reached for a candle, but I intercepted his hand and took it for myself. He looked relieved.

"This is you?" I asked, seeing the portrait come to light.

It was a stupid question, because the likeness of the child was undeniably my lord's. Just as I had never seen a more beautiful man, never had I seen a more perfect child. He was an angel encapsulated in oil-paint; skin like light, hair like fire, eyes like the bluest jewels of the earth. He once had blue eyes, I thought, and then looked sideways at my companion's deep garnet hues. A vampiric condition, then. I returned my captivated gaze to the portrait, admiring the child's long mane of red-gold hair, soft curls spilling over his shoulders nearly to his waist, like a woman's. If Vladimir had not told me his story, I would have looked upon his past-self and seen a pampered child. But now, knowing of his sorrows, I could see the length as a rebellion in spite of a childhood bereft of such a human privilege as owning one's own hair.

"It is you," I repeated with confidence.

Vladimir smiled nostalgically. "Yes, it is. My sire had it commissioned not long after he formally adopted me, hoping to preserve this image of myself for me, so that I would never forget what I once was.

"You laugh at me," he noted in amusement, "because you will never live long enough to forget such a thing as your own childhood, but it is a very real danger for me."

"You were a beautiful child," I complimented, looking again to the portrait. "How old were you?"

"I was fourteen in this portrait," he said, then tapped the gilded frame.

I followed the appendage and saw the artist's signature and the date, and was surprised, for only then, seeing those numbers etched in history, did the truth of his immortality really strike me.

1463

My breath caught in my chest, because I was standing beside a man—an immortal man—who was over four-hundred-years-old! And he was just as lovely and youthful now as he had been then.

The true reality of his eternity hit me, and in that moment I loved and appreciated him all the more.

We fell together on his bed and I made love to him on the Sabbath in a direct defiance of God. It thrilled me, and I felt as an addict, knowing that nothing—no threat of earthly punishment, no damnation of my immortal soul—could ever convince me to abstain and repent of my sins. Vladimir was not a sin; he was my salvation, my redemption, and I told him of my love for him. I whispered it in infallible sincerity to the darkness, which protected us both. I repeated it as I loved him, then as I fell quietly beside him in exhaustion, and said it once more in a drowsy undertone, the way men speak to each other in the dark.

I drifted in-and-out of myself, and saw the clock, and noted that it was not yet evenfall, though I could have sworn it was later. But time was stagnant in this secluded place and had no purpose for me, nor I for it.

During that time, I was in possession of a deep and ever growing happiness. I was pleased by Vladimir, who looked down upon me. In my delirious state, I worried that the ivory reed of his neck was too delicate to withhold the lustrous weight atop it. I might have spoken it aloud, for he laughed and kissed me. And then I was pulling him to me again, for curiosity is a restless and unscrupulous impatience, and my ravenous curiosity to know my lord—again and again! every last inch of him!—controlled me.

"I want you to drink from me," I said, holding him close.

He smiled with his teeth, and replied: "You are spoiling me, my dear."

"It is entirely selfish," I said, my tone joking, my words sincere. "I like to see you flush with life, my vampiric lord. Besides, I am a hardy Bulgarian farm-boy with blood to spare."

"Hmm," he purred, lifting my hand to kiss the knuckles, "not a farm-boy, a man. That explains these strong, handsome hands."

I raised a finger to those smooth, bloodless lips, cold as glass. I wanted to see them apple-red again and kiss their warm plumpness, swelling as if from a bee string with my own life-blood. I would give it willingly, if only for the reward of those tender lips pressed to mine.

"You are a kind man," said Vladimir, bowing his head. I felt his nose brush my throat. "A generous man," he continued, kissing my neck. "My man," he whispered, and sunk in his teeth.