Notes:
- During the 19th century, the Catholic Church maintained a strong presence in Italian education, particularly within orphanages. As such, it was customary for children in these institutions, regardless of their intended vocation, to receive instruction in Latin, often from a very young age.
- This story reimagines Dracula's origins, placing him in an era far earlier than that of Vlad Tepes.
Three days had passed since Jonathan's unsettling encounter with the woman in the abandoned wing of the castle. Her face remained etched in his mind—a haunting blend of beauty and something he couldn't quite define. As he tried to rationalize it, to convince himself it had been nothing more than a dream, the memory of her touch, cold as marble, lingered as undeniable proof that the experience had been all too real. There was something strangely familiar about her, a flicker of recognition in his subconscious, like a half-forgotten dream from his childhood in the Roman orphanage. He couldn't place it, but the feeling persisted, a subtle unease beneath the surface of his fear.
During these three days, Jonathan had witnessed the arrival of several groups of gypsies in the castle courtyard. Their vibrant wagons and the lively sounds of their unfamiliar language initially sparked a brief glimmer of hope, a possible connection to the outside world. He frantically tried to signal them from his window, waving and shouting, but while they briefly glanced up, acknowledging his presence, they quickly returned to their tasks, seemingly indifferent to his plight. He watched them unloading supplies and setting up camp, a gnawing suspicion forming in his mind that they were in the Count's employ. A chill, deeper than the castle's ancient stones, settled in his bones.
Under the Count's watchful eye, Jonathan penned letters – to Mr. Hawkins, the solicitor who had sent him, and to Mina, his dear twin sister. From the outset, the Count dictated the content. To Mr. Hawkins, he wrote of the complexities of the property transaction and the Count's insistence that he remain for an extended period to finalize the details. To Mina, he fabricated a lighter version, reassuring her that all was well, though the intricacies of the business dealings would delay his return to England. Each carefully crafted lie, each forced reassurance, felt like a betrayal, tightening the knot of anxiety in his chest. The words, though in his own hand, were the Count's, carefully constructed missives designed to reassure and deceive.
In these same three days, Jonathan found himself haunted by the return of strange and vivid dreams – the same ones he hadn't experienced since he and Mina were orphaned children in that Roman orphanage. These dreams didn't torment him, but their sudden reappearance after so many years left him deeply unsettled. In them, he found himself walking the marble halls of what he could only describe as ancient Rome. The grandeur of the surroundings was breathtaking – columns rising toward a vaulted sky, statues of ancients gods gazing down at him with impassive eyes, and the hum of voices speaking a language both foreign and familiar.
Mina was always there with him, her presence as vivid as the stone beneath his feet. She appeared older than he remembered her from their childhood, dressed in a white stola edged with golden embroidery, her hair braided and crowned with laurel leaves. The image of her, so regal and serene, sent a pang through his heart. It was Mina, undeniably so, yet at the same time, it was as if she were someone else entirely, someone tied to this ancient world in ways he could not understand.
At times, she would turn to him with a knowing look, her lips forming words he could not hear. Other times, she stood beside him in silent communion, her gaze fixed on a distant horizon as though watching for something – or someone – to come. The dreams were so vivid that, upon waking, Jonathan found himself disoriented, the smell of stone and the echo of voices still clinging to him like a fading mist. They left him with a strange mix of fascination and unease, as if he had glimpsed a life not his own, yet undeniably connected to him.
Desperate for some sense of calm, he moved to the window. The night was clear, the pale yellow moonlight casting its gentle glow over the vast landscape to the south. Hills rose and fell in the distance, their edges softened by the silvery haze, and the shadows pooled in the valleys like dark velvet. It was beautiful, almost peaceful—a stark contrast to the sinister stillness of the castle.
Jonathan leaned on the window's stone frame, breathing deeply, letting the cool night air soothe him. Yet even as he tried to focus on the beauty outside, he could not escape the creeping awareness of his captivity. The walls around him felt more like a prison with each passing hour.
As he gazed into the night, his attention was caught by movement—something shifting below and to his left, one floor down. Jonathan leaned forward, pressing himself into the deep stone recess of the window for a better view. His pulse quickened. It was the Count.
He could not mistake the hunched shoulders, the flowing cloak, or those gnarled, distinctive hands. Jonathan watched as the Count emerged from his own window and, to his astonishment, began to crawl downward. The man—if indeed he was a man—moved with the impossible agility of a lizard, his fingers and toes finding purchase on the weathered stone as though it were a level floor.
At first, Jonathan thought it was a trick of the light, some distortion caused by the moon's glow. But the longer he watched, the clearer it became. The Count moved deliberately, fluidly, scaling the sheer wall headfirst, his cloak billowing around him like a pair of dark wings.
"What kind of man is this?" Jonathan whispered to himself, his voice trembling. His stomach churned with a mixture of awe and terror.
The Count disappeared into the shadows of the courtyard below, leaving Jonathan frozen, still clutching the stone of the window frame. He could not tear his gaze from the spot where the Count had vanished. His thoughts raced. How could any man—any human being—accomplish such a feat?
But as he tried to make sense of what he had seen, another movement caught his eye. His heart skipped a beat.
In the window adjacent to where the Count had emerged, another figure appeared. It was the woman.
Her golden hair shimmered faintly in the moonlight, framing her face as she leaned against the window's edge. Jonathan's breath caught. She was still, watching intently, her gaze following the Count's path down the wall. For a moment, Jonathan thought she was unaware of him, but then her head turned slowly, deliberately, until her eyes met his.
Jonathan froze.
Her expression was unreadable, a strange blend of curiosity and calm. There was no trace of surprise in her gaze, only a quiet intensity. The two of them stared at each other across the chasm of stone and shadow, and for a moment, Jonathan felt as though she could see straight into his soul.
She raised a hand, her slender fingers brushing the edge of the window frame. The motion was subtle, almost delicate, but it sent a shiver through him. It was as though she were acknowledging him, letting him know she was aware of his presence—and of his watching her.
And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she stepped back into the darkness of her room, vanishing without a sound.
Jonathan staggered away from the window, his chest heaving, his mind a tempest of unanswered questions. The oppressive atmosphere of his room was suffocating, and he couldn't bear it any longer. He snatched the lamp from his bedside table and headed for the library, just down the hall. Even the short journey felt interminable. Every shadow that danced along the corridor seemed to writhe with malevolent intent, each creak of the ancient floorboards a threat to his already frayed nerves.
Finally, he reached the library. He sighed, pushing open the heavy door and stepping inside. The familiar hush of the room settled over him. Rows upon rows of shelves, laden with leather-bound volumes in English and various other languages, reached towards the high ceiling. A large table dominated the center of the room. The library offered a semblance of normalcy, a sanctuary where he could, at least temporarily, lose himself in a good book and forget his imprisonment in the castle. Here, his imagination could take flight.
Jonathan scanned the shelves, trailing his fingers along the spines of the books. He set the lamp down on the table and began to pace. He pulled a book from the shelf and flipped through its pages, but the unsettling image of the woman's gaze from their strange encounter three nights prior lingered in his mind. "Who are you?" he wondered, the question echoing in the silence.
A shiver ran down his spine. He forced his attention back to the book in his hands, trying to find solace in the printed words.
Thirty Minutes Later
Jonathan was absorbed in a scientific treatise, momentarily losing himself in the complexities of Newtonian physics, when the library door slowly creaked open. He stiffened, his heart leaping into his throat, then forced himself to appear nonchalant, slowly marking his place in the book with a finger before glancing up. It was the woman.
His initial surge of confusion began to wane, giving way to a cautious curiosity. The stark pallor he remembered from their previous encounter had softened, replaced by a more natural, though still unnervingly pale, complexion. For the briefest moment, he thought he saw a faint trace of crimson on her lips, quickly blotted away with a delicate handkerchief she produced from the folds of her dark dress. She seemed nervous, her eyes darting about the room as though carefully gauging his reaction to her presence. Yet, amid this unease, he caught a fleeting glimpse of that same predatory gaze he had seen three nights before—intense and piercing—only for it to vanish as swiftly as it appeared. A tremor of fear coursed through him, but it was mingled with something else: an inexplicable pull towards her, as if tethered by a thread of familiarity he couldn't quite place.
Jonathan remained silent, returning his gaze to the book, though he watched her surreptitiously from the corner of his eye. She drifted towards the bookshelves, her fingers trailing lightly over the spines as she perused the titles. Finally, she selected a volume, a slim, leather-bound book with faded gold lettering, and moved to a chair some distance away from him. She settled into it gracefully, opening the book and beginning to read, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Several hours had passed, and a strange sort of quiet companionship had settled over the library. Though no words were exchanged, Jonathan had grown accustomed to the woman's presence. He returned to his reading, yet found himself glancing up from time to time, only to see her still absorbed in her own book, her expression intent and focused..
He couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen her before—not just in the abandoned room three nights ago, but somewhere deeper in his memory. There was something in her features, in the way she carried herself, that resonated faintly, like an echo of a half-forgotten dream. It teased the edges of his mind, just out of reach, adding to the unsettling mystery that surrounded her.
At the same time, he noticed that she, too, would occasionally glance in his direction. Her looks were brief, almost furtive, but every so often he caught a flicker of that same predatory gaze she had turned on him that first night. It sent a chill through him—a reminder of the vulnerability he had felt under her piercing eyes. Yet just as quickly, her expression would soften into something more reserved, almost contemplative, leaving him wondering what thoughts lay hidden behind her quiet demeanor. What secrets did she hold? What did she truly know about this castle
They remained thus, enveloped in the hushed stillness of the library, the only sounds the rustling of turning pages and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Suddenly, the woman stiffened, her head snapping up, a look of sharp alertness in her eyes. She whispered, so low he almost didn't catch it, "He is returning to the castle."
The air in the room seemed to thicken, the comfortable silence replaced by a palpable tension. The woman rose abruptly, her movements fluid and graceful despite the urgency in her demeanor. She replaced her book on the shelf with a decisive click, her gaze settling on Jonathan. For a moment, she hesitated, as if weighing her words. Then, a faint smile touched her lips, a flicker of amusement in her eyes, quickly replaced by a more serious expression.
"It is written," she said, her voice low and melodic, with a hint of an accent he couldn't quite place, "that it is most uncouth for a gentleman to remain unintroduced in the presence of a lady. Most... uncouth." The word hung in the air, a subtle reprimand laced with a touch of wry humor.
A flush crept up Jonathan's neck. He'd been so taken aback by her sudden appearance, and subsequent silence, that the usual social niceties had completely escaped him. He rose quickly, a slight stammer in his voice as he spoke. "Forgive my lapse in manners, madam. I am Jonathan Harker, solicitor, from London." He bowed his head slightly, a gesture of respect ingrained from years of ingrained social conditioning.
The woman's lips curved into a genuine smile this time, softening the sharp angles of her face. "Brunhilde," she replied, her voice a low murmur, the name sounding strangely archaic, as if plucked from the pages of a forgotten history. There was a subtle Germanic lilt to her pronunciation, hinting at origins beyond the Carpathian Mountains. "Brunhilde of the Vistula." She offered a slight curtsy, a gesture as antiquated as her name, adding another layer of mystery to her already enigmatic presence. Then, her eyes twinkling, she added in flawless Latin, " Vides in te vestigia terrae Caesarum, domine Harker." (I see in you traces of the land of the Caesars, Mr. Harker.)
Jonathan, startled by her unexpected use of Latin, found himself responding instinctively in the same language, a habit ingrained from his childhood. "Nati sumus Romae, soror mea et ego, sed ab Anglis adopti." (My sister and I were born in Rome, but adopted by the English.) He and Mina had learned Latin as children in the Roman orphanage, a vestige of a life they barely remembered. It had become a private language for them, primarily a source of mischievous amusement. Mina, especially, delighted in peppering her conversations with Lucy Westenra with Latin phrases, watching with glee as her friend's brow furrowed in confusion. It was their secret code, a source of playful conspiracy and inside jokes, a way to share a bit of nonsense and private amusement in even the most ordinary of settings. Hearing it now, in this strange castle, from this equally strange woman, resonated with an unsettling familiarity, tinged with a unexpected touch of whimsy. He couldn't help but wonder if Mina would find the situation as absurdly amusing as he did, were she here with him.
"I would gladly linger and converse further, Mr. Harker," Brunhilde continued, switching back to English with a wistful note in her voice, "but I must take my leave."She turned towards the door, then paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder. Her expression shifted, the subtle amusement replaced by a profound sadness that seemed to emanate from her very core.
"There is something you should know, Mr. Harker," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "My sisters and I… we are not as he is." She hesitated, as if searching for the right words, her gaze distant and clouded with a sorrow that seemed to reach across the centuries. "We were… victims. Trapped by a fate we did not deserve." Her eyes met his, and in their depths he saw a flicker of something desperate, a plea for understanding he couldn't comprehend. "There was no malice in our hearts, Mr. Harker. No ill intent. Only… a tragic end, and an even more tragic… continuation." She paused again, her breath catching in her throat. "We were… made this way, Mr. Harker. Against our will. And the one who made us…" her voice trailed off, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air. "He is evil. He embraced… this."
Then, with another fleeting, sorrowful glance, Brunhilde turned and slipped silently out of the library, leaving Jonathan alone amidst the echoing silence and the weight of her enigmatic words.