The October morning was crisp and sharp, the sky's cerulean face unmarred by either clouds or haze. The sun offered a balmy warmth, cut only by the soft, cool breeze that flowed from the snow-capped mountains ranging the horizon. Golden seas of hay swayed to and fro, neat farmland giving way to untamed countryside.
Beyond all this was the forest, wild and thick with underbrush. Birds called to one another from their roosts, feathers rustling as the occasional brown bear lumbered by in search of food. The canopy was a curtain of red and gold, branches reaching for the cloudless heavens.
The child wandered aimlessly beneath the rich foliage, soaking in the beauty of the day. As the sun climbed higher over the mountainscape, he also climbed the hilly plains skirting the forest's edge. Stopping at the crest of one hill, he pressed one tiny palm to the bark of a tree and breathed in the fresh air. Lips parted in a smile as the cool breeze stirred his untamed locks, tickling his cheeks. This was his beloved homeland, the country he was proud of; it was beautiful, alive, thriving.
He squatted to the warm earth with all the carelessness of his seven years, watching the beetles and ants scurrying around the base of the tree. In a fit of spontaneity he attempted to climb the tree itself, testing his weight on every low hanging branch within his reach. When his one real hope snapped off in his hands, he gave up and instead began to swing the switch about, practicing his form. He beat the steppe grass mercilessly, enjoying the sharp whistle of his new blade as it cut through the air.
One well-aimed jab prodded a sleepy frog into motion, forcing it to leap from the grass and sit, stunned, in the leafy shade. It eyed him with a blank stare, throat undulating silently. He dropped the branch, a wide smile splitting his round face as he knelt over this new diversion. The frog, recovered from its impromptu stabbing, gave a small hop. He crept forward two steps, rocking back on his heels as he studied the wide-eyed animal.
"Grribbit." The croak was loud enough to startle him. He lost his balance, tumbling backwards into the dust. Sensing an opening, the frog hopped quickly down the hill, powerful legs pushing it towards the river that lay just beyond the steppe.
Frowning, he picked himself from the ground and dusted off the back of his tunic before starting off in pursuit of the amphibian. He was halfway down the slope when he heard something that made him pause. Tilting his head, he strained to hear the sound, both plaintive and whiny, on the breeze. It was only one word— his name —the syllables drawn out almost beyond recognition.
He faltered, one careful eye still trained on the retreating frog. He knew that he ought to listen, to turn back before it was too late. But at the same time he felt an impish sense of satisfaction. It was Radu, trying to find him and probably starting to panic now that he was out of sight. Serves you right, he thought with a mischievous smile. He'd tried to entice his brother to join him, but the older boy had been too absorbed in his manuscripts to take notice.
However…. He glanced up at the sun, shielding his eyes with one hand. It was too early for him to be missed. Radu saw nothing when he was reading, save what was written on the page. And it was only midmorning, far too soon for them to return to the castle. They'd contrived to stay in the forest until they were wanted for afternoon lessons. By the angle of the shadows, he could see there was still an hour or so before noontide.
Probably it was nothing. He shrugged, turning back to continue his pursuit of the frog. But before he took ten steps, a second voice joined the first. Rich and powerful, breaking on the cusp of manhood, it echoed across the fields. The frog was instantly forgotten; turning on his heel, he paused only to be certain of what he heard before racing back the way he'd come.
He crashed across the swaying steppe, picking his way over the uneven ground as fast as possible. Every few moments he leaped above the grass like a locust, judging his distance before plowing on. Small for his age, he was still clumsy in his growing body; more than once he fell to the ground, sliding in the dust and crushing wildflowers beneath him. Each time he wiped what dust he could on his sleeve, biting back the hiss of pain as he redoubled his speed.
Heart hammering in his breast, he was panting heavily as he reached the tree line. Radu he could ignore easily; his brother hated a tussle and would sooner run than try to punish him for wandering off. But Mircea… Mircea he dared not disobey. His eldest brother was twelve where Radu was only nine, and one of the largest people he knew— larger than even the servants, for he could order them about with ease. It was Mircea who would one day be leader of Wallachia.
Flinging himself onto a cart path, he avoided the worst of the muddy ruts and leapt over standing puddles of water, shoving aside brush and loose branches. He searched the canopy for the telltale intertwined branches where he'd seen his brother last, and found it after only a few minutes of searching. There, at the tree's base, stood Mircea.
"Where have you been?" he asked amicably, leaning down to pluck a stray blade of grass from his hair. Mircea's hair was like Radu's: a long, dark curtain that flowed like silk over his shoulders and down his spine. He kept it pulled out of the way, tied at the base of his neck. At times, he desperately wished his hair could be long and straight like his brothers'. His hair was a wild nest of curls that would just as soon break a comb as yield to it. "We have been calling you these ten minutes hence."
"Walking." It was his habit to never say more than a few words at once. The reason why tumbled headfirst from the tree, narrowly avoiding a broken neck.
"You knew better than to go off on your own." Radu dusted off his manuscript, shaking leaves from his long clothing. He was only a few inches taller, barely clearing Mircea's breastbone, but liked to pretend he was just as important as a future ruler.
"And you both shouldn't be outside the gates," Mircea pointed out with a hearty laugh. "He without sin cast the first stone. Is that not right, little brother?" He winked. "What if the Hungarians were to come?"
"Let them come," Radu sniffed. "If I hid in a tree, they'd never find me."
"I believe you, little bird, with all my heart." Mircea tousled his hair, grinning widely when Radu scowled and moved out of the way. He took a deep breath, preparing to venture into a full sentence and tell them about the frog. Before he could get a word out, Mircea added, "Everyone's looking for the two of you. They couldn't find you in your chambers, but I guessed you'd be out here. I have them scouring the cellars for you," he chuckled. "So come along, before we're caught and whipped."
"Why do they need us?" Radu grumbled, looking forlornly at the inviting branches of his favorite tree. Mircea's nickname for him rang true; he really was like a little bird. If he could make his home in the treetops, he would.
"He wants you," Mircea said simply. He felt his heart skip a beat; Radu visibly paled.
"What for?" he demanded. "We've done nothing to—"
"How should I know?" Mircea's nose crinkled. "He just does. I was ordered to go find my brothers, and so I have. If we hurry, I can pretend I found you both in the gardens. I'd rather not be caught in a lie." Without further ado his feet left the ground, Mircea's large hands throwing him over one shoulder like an empty sack of grain. He gasped, wincing as the bone dug into the softest part of his stomach, and then they were running.
He bounced on Mircea's shoulder, squinting as the leafy forest gave way to bright sunshine once more. Radu kept up two paces behind him, graceful as a deer with the tome clutched to his chest and his long, loose hair billowing behind him.
So… this is what it was like to be summoned. He'd never been summoned by Him before. Mircea spent nearly all his time in His presence, and Radu was often summoned to be punished for transgressions, but as the youngest he was often forgotten about entirely. That was perfectly fine with him; it was easier to be continually overlooked. Often it meant he could nick an extra apple from the table, or sneak out through the gate alongside a passing cart.
But now he'd been remembered, and summoned, and would have to appear before Him. He was a shadowy figure, tall and foreboding with no face to speak of. In fact, he had a much clearer picture of His boots; whenever He and She passed everyone had to bow, himself included. There wasn't even a voice to go alongside the terrifying image in his mind. All orders from Him were filtered down through the mouths of Mircea and the servants. To stand before Him was a frightening thought, one that made his stomach churn and skin clammy.
They reached the curtain wall in record time. Mircea practically tossed him over a low end, one they'd often used as an escape route in the past. Falling, he managed to grab hold of a tree limb and slow his descent enough to land on his feet. There was a solid thunk as Radu's tome fell on his skull; he rubbed the dull throb away with one hand, scrambling to move before his brother had time to crush him.
Their home was more a manor than a real castle, even though some of the others called it such. Mircea vaulted over the wall, landing safely on his feet before grabbing them by the neck of their tunics and lifting them from the ground. He swung helplessly as Mircea dragged them along, Radu half hopping, half carried through the front door. The steward met them in the grand hall, his finger wagging in time with the plume on his cap.
"Where have you been, naughty hellions?!" he hissed. Radu scowled darkly and he followed suit, glaring at the steward before yelping as Mircea dropped him without warning. "Go on, go on!" He waved the three of them towards the solar. "You know He doesn't like to be kept waiting." They hurried along the long hall after their brother, stopping only when he gestured for them to wait. Mircea slid through the great oaken doors as soon as they opened, leaving them alone.
"Should we say "Your Excellence"?" he whispered, chancing a full sentence as he tugged halfheartedly on Radu's sleeve. His brother eyed him with a scowl, shaking his head so that the long curtains of hair seemed to shimmer in the pale light.
"You will call him Father, of course!" he snarled, shoving the manuscript into the passing hands of a startled servant. "What are you, a fool?"
It was a rhetorical question, with no reply expected. No one ever called Him father, not really. It was always milord, or sir, or (behind closed doors) He. Even his mother was She to all who spoke of Her, including his brothers. He'd never had much of a reason to speak to his parents, much less address them; he was never in their presence for more than a few moments, in any case. He pondered over this until Mircea reappeared— or rather, his head did around the door.
"Come along, then," he said, in tones of grand importance that rivaled the steward's nasal intonation. Mircea threw open the doors, ushering them across the threshold and into the brightly lit brilliance of the solar. He squinted, blinding clinging to Radu's sleeve as they were pushed towards the center of the room. It took his dazzled eyes a moment to adjust, the shadows dancing before his lashes slowly resolving into more human-like figures.
Radu stiffened beside him, and he immediately let go as his eyes found the large chair only a few lengths from where they stood. Were they to address the room, or wait until they were called upon? Should he bow?
He waited for Radu to shove his head down in forced oblation, as he was wont to do during church services, but nothing came. Turning his gaze from the curious throng skirting the edge of the room, he cast his eyes about for something familiar. His heart skipped a beat when they landed directly on Him.
His first thought was that He had Radu's eyes—or, rather, that Radu had His. They were nearly black in their darkness, dark as the depths of an unexplored cavern and just as full of mystery. His second thought was one of comprehension; he could see, now, why the servants spoke of His hair when they yanked at his tangles. It was the same wild mop of untamed shadow, thick curls that spilled over his shoulders.
Those black eyes stared back at him over a prominent nose and full beard, mouth set in a straight, unreadable line. He was tall, so tall, even while seated; compared to Him Mircea was an ant, a frog, something of no consequence at all. He understood Mircea's reverence now, and Radu's fear. The beard parted and the resounding voice rang like thunder in the valley, rumbling through the room and settling deep into his chest, a thrumming song that drowned his rapid heartbeat.
"I ask for my sons and you bring me two young men. They are already so grown, Mircea?" The room broke into peals of laughter; he felt his cheeks blaze with heat, hunkering lower in the collar of his clothing. He longed to hide behind Radu— or better, to run to Mircea and disappear entirely behind the taller boy. He looked down in shame, finding His boots and gaining some comfort from the familiar sight. At least they were the same, out of everything else in this room.
"Radu. Come forward, boy." Out of the corner of his eye he watched his brother's limbs as they unfroze. He abandoned him to the center of the room, movements stiff as he approached within arm's reach of the throne. "How old are you now?"
"I am nine years, Father." In that terrible moment, when Radu was bade to speak, his voice did not tremble once. It filled him with pride that his brother could appear to be so mature, so unaffected.
"Nine already? My." There was a long pause, and all waited with bated breath for His next words. "Your tutors praise your intelligence. They say you love to learn."
"I-Indeed I do," Radu answered. This prompted a chuckle.
"I see. And what would you enjoy learning, in the future? I'm told you are not as skilled in the sword as Mircea." Another, longer pause. Radu fidgeted beneath His unwavering gaze.
"Mathematics." His voice was a hopeful whisper. "Foreign languages. Astronomy."
"Mathematics, languages, astronomy," He repeated, rubbing His chin. "We shall see. I may be able to procure a tutor learned in those specialties."
"Thank you, Father." Radu sounded breathless, his eyes shining at the prospects.
"You may go." He waved him away, turning His gaze to the youngest. "Now you," he ordered. He blinked twice, realizing that He meant he should approach the throne. Gulping, he traded places with Radu and stood before Him, filled with equal parts fear and awe. "And how old are you, now?"
For a moment he hesitated, expecting someone to speak over him. Radu often spoke for the both of them, and when all brothers were together it was inevitable that Mircea did the talking. But to his astonishment, no one stepped forward. Perhaps they did not dare answer His question if they weren't the one asked?
"I…" He cleared his throat. "I am seven." His voice sounded small and helpless compared to the others. "Father," he added quickly, somewhat amused at the novelty of the term.
"Seven years… has it truly been that long?" He mused, tilting his head. He thought it over a moment before laughing. "Well, do you share Radu's love of learning?" Was there a polite way to refuse? The court roared with laughter, and he realized that his expression must have said more than enough.
"N-not very much," he stammered, trying to salvage the answer.
"Then what do you like, boy?" He considered this question a moment, lips pursed in thought.
"I like to be outside." He seemed to feel, rather than see, Radu stiffen once more. "In the garden," he added, more for his brother's benefit than his own. "In the sun."
"Outside, eh…." Again, the hand ran over the thick beard. "Well… well. If books and tutors don't interest you… then what would you like your gift to be, Vlad?" The sound of his name, said in that voice, cowed him. He could see why his brothers were not quick to answer. A gift? He swallowed thickly, trying to gather enough courage to speak.
"A bow." The answer burst from somewhere deep in his chest. "Like Mircea's bow. A-and a sword." The ebony brows rose high above His dark eyes. Then, to his humiliation, those surrounding him once more fell into helpless laughter. He felt as though someone had set him ablaze, everything from his toes to the roots of his hair burning fiercely. What was so funny? Had he said something wrong?
"I told you that Vlad was a warrior at heart, Father." That was Mircea, his words ringing with mirth. "He loves to shoot my bow, even if it's too large for him."
"Then he most certainly needs one his own size," He agreed. "Perhaps, my son, you will lead an army of your own one day." He placed one large hand on his head, tousling the locks the same way Mircea did. "We shall see, little warrior. We shall see."
"Thank you, Father." He followed Radu's example, eyes downcast as he retreated from the throne. He smiled, but it seemed to be for not just one, but all three of His sons. He basked in the proud expression, knowing that his brothers were doing the same. It was not often they were the center of such important attention.
Little warrior. He repeated the term to himself. Mircea often called Radu little bird, but there had never been a nickname for him beyond that of 'younger brother'. Radu called him shadow, however, that seemed more of an insult than a true nickname. But little warrior… that, he would not mind in the slightest.
Even so, you'll stay my shadow always, won't you, Vlad?
Won't you?
His entire being lurched, recoiling from the sound of that foreign voice. It was familiar and yet not, causing a strange pain to ricochet in the place where his heart ought to be. What was that? It hurt, far more than when van Helsing's stake pierced him all those years ago….
A frayed memory lingered on the edges of his mind; it was housed in a dark, festering corner. He knew that, should he look at it directly, he would find something he didn't want to see. So he turned away, back into the willful blindness, searching for those last scraps of childlike contentment—
"Master?" Mircea? No, a female— "Master. Ma-ster." Who? Who is being summoned? His eyes opened, blinking up at a field of sunny wheat. Where am I?
"Walter said to bring this down to you before I left. He's busy." Wheat could not talk; this messy crop was not grain, but golden hair. Ah, yes. He frowned. I am here. "Are you even awake?"
"I am." He stirred properly, reaching out a hand for the metal pail that contained his breakfast. Taking the first of several blood packs, each carefully preserved in melting ice, he wiped the remaining sleep from his eyes with his thumb.
"Good evening," Seras Victoria remarked snidely. Not many dared to speak at all in his presence, much less in a taunting manner; Seras was one of the rare few who didn't bother to bite her tongue. Then again, he couldn't help but appreciate that sort of frankness.
"Good evening." She had only been with him, with the Hellsing Organization, less than a decade. Nothing but a drop in the well of eternity, and yet long enough to forget what it was like without her. The addition of a vampire had been different at first, but now each day was as normal as the next. Too normal for his liking.
You're getting too attached, a mocking voice in the back of his mind remarked. It was a fact, and a true one at that, but he didn't know what to do about it. It was better to just ignore it, to let it be drowned out by the constant wailing of the lost souls trapped within him.
"Are you on a mission this evening?" Seras was dressed in operative fatigues tonight, the dark color of her pants blending seamlessly with the shadows ever-present in his dungeon abode. She even had a bullet-proof vest, although she certainly didn't need one… at least, not in the way her human counterparts did.
Now that she regularly partook of the blood, she was becoming quite the fascinating creature. Her strength was growing daily, and even he had some— not much, but some —difficulty in shooting her. The best bullets still had natural limitations, after all. "No beret?"
She laughed, the sound ringing in his ears long after it faded from the room. He was more used to screams; in fact, he favored them over the former. But something in her voice struck a chord in him. It was the first thing he'd ever noticed about her, in that quiet Cheddar forest.
"There wasn't one that would fit!" She shrugged. "We only hire big headed men." The double entendre was not lost on him, the corner of his mouth twitching.
"A mission, and no one invited me. I'm almost offended." Her brows arched in clear surprise.
"I'd wager you're not needed, not on something this small." She tilted her head. "We're not even sure it's a vampire; I'm only going because it's my troop in action. It's funny," she added in genuine confusion, "I'd have thought that Sir Integra would—"
"My master is preoccupied at the moment." He rolled the blood pack in his hand, testing its give. The plastic was paper thin; no matter what Walter claimed, it was nothing compared to the natural elasticity of human skin. "For once, I am one of the last things on her mind."
"Oh… it's that Vatican mess, innit?" It was true. Some nonsense with the Queen, and a subsequent trip to Italy, had left his master fuming. With her temper flaring this high, Integra would be no fun to mock; likewise he had not been given orders to kill, not even to fight the vampire hunter Anderson. Therefore it was none of his business, and he didn't care enough about particulars to make it his business. As far as he was concerned this was some petty, human dilemma: one that he wanted no part of.
"It doesn't concern either of us," he remarked coolly. "Now, tell me about this mission."
"Well… there's not much to tell," she explained, puzzled. She shifted her weight to one leg, tapping the stone floor with the toe of her boot. "I want to solve it peacefully if I can. Save the silver for when we need it."
"I see." That was no fun at all. Of course, the word "peaceful" didn't have a ready place in his vocabulary. He didn't mind the downtime; despite what his master might think, he didn't spend all day twiddling his thumbs in her basement. He was still the king of vampires, with endless counsel to give on that front. He'd written enough letters during his years of servitude to fill up the manor twice over, with several more room's worth to spare. "You'd best be going, then. The night is yet young."
"Right, you're right." She glanced up at the thin casements, seated high above the rotting basement beams. "There's what, an hour before sundown?"
"Perhaps a little more. The days grow long, this time of year." She nodded, turning on her heel and waving over her shoulder."
"I'll be off, then. See you later, Master."
"Good hunting, Police Girl." She faltered at the old nickname, opening her mouth. He waited, but she merely cleared her throat before offering one last tight-lipped smile. Do you think it's time, then? Have you earned the right to a full name? Better yet, did he think that she'd earned it? It was hard to say. Certainly, she had grown, but there was something still markedly human about her. He worried that she might never lose that last scrap of weakness, and yet… he was also concerned that she would, given enough time.
You certainly did... if you ever possessed it at all.
Growling, he silenced the voice with a thick mouthful of blood, ripping into the pack with his teeth. With the first pangs of his eternal thirst abated, he turned his thoughts instead to the peculiar dream.
Why had he dreamed of that? It was nothing more than a small, insignificant memory. More than five hundred years had passed since that time. Mircea, his father, Radu— they were all lost to him. Two of the deaths he'd wished, at one time, to have prevented. The other, he'd gone out of his way to ensure. And even then—
It does not matter. Why bother to remember those times? He finished one pack and reached immediately for the next. They were memories of life, of innocence, and hope, and humanity… in his present state, he had no use for any of them.
My father. He had grown up to resemble the man, save for his mother's pale eyes. Radu had resembled their mother, and Mircea had only a little of their father in his remembered features. It was he who'd inherited the wild hair, the strong cheekbones, the height and build. And even they were remnants of the past. He could change his form at will now, preferring a thinner build. When he felt self-indulgent, he allowed his hair to become the long, silken curtain of black he'd always wanted as a child.
Even so, he sighed to himself, reaching for his third pack of the night. Even so, it's not as if it matters now.