"How Few Days Make Up A Century" - Dracula fan fiction 1/?
Title: How Few Days Make Up A Century
Fandom: Dracula (novel/historical)
Character/Pairing: Count Dracula (Vlad Draculea), Vlad Dracul, Mircea Draculea
Summary: Tracing the life story of the novel's titular character, from his mortal life as the infamous Vlad Tepes of Wallachia to his immortal one as the equally infamous Count Dracula.
Rating: PG
Warnings (for this chapter): Mentions of war, violence, and some religious prejudice
A/N: Written for the "eternal" prompt at 50_darkfics. This is...rather a large project, and an unusual one for me. Also, I'm going to do my absolute best with the historical details, but everything is contradicted somewhere, and,in the end, I'm just going with what works best.
Chapter One - Initiation
1436, Tirgoviste, Wallachia
The room was small, not at all the sort of expansive throne room that would have impressed any visitor, whether enemy or ally. In fact, it was so small that it barely held all the members of the Order of the Dragon and their families. As the boy looked up at the unfamiliar figures crowded about him, all he noticed about them was the identical silver medallion, signifying membership in the Order, that each of them wore around their necks. He knew well the image of a dragon embracing a cross, which was stamped on each medallion; his father had often, proudly, shown his to the boy, explaining what the symbols meant.
There were a few faces he recognized, however, among the tall figures with their rich clothes and silver medallions. There was his father, dark beard neatly trimmed for the occasion, his dark eyes half watching the boy - whose name was Vlad - and half critically observing the others in the room for any sign of discontent or secrecy. Beside him stood Mircea, Vlad’s older brother, holding his own, brand new, silver medallion and grinning, trying to catch Vlad’s eye. In another part of the room, Vlad’s mother sat, perfectly composed, her glossy hair held up by a net of gold and small gems. Beside her stood the nurse, carrying Radu, Vlad’s younger brother, who was, for once, not kicking and screaming.
But Vlad had to stop looking around the room then, for the bishop in front of him was beginning to speak. His voice was strong and steady, nothing like the quavering voice of the priest he was used to. Vlad thought that he would listen more carefully to sermons if they were given by this bishop. “Do you swear to always remain a member of the Holy Roman Church, and to, for all your life, abide by its rules?”
Vlad, who had been carefully taught what to do on this night, said, “Yes.”
“Do you swear to do all in your power to aid the Holy Roman Church, donating as much as you are able to its churches and monasteries?”
“Yes.”
“Do you swear to eradicate heathenism where you find it, to tolerate no breach of the laws of the Holy Roman Church?”
“Yes.”
The bishop lifted the last of the new silver medallions, hung on a fine cord of leather, and placed it around Vlad’s neck. It was far less heavy than he had expected it to be - it was only made of a thin layer of silver. He wanted to touch it, to feel the indentations of the designs beneath his fingers, but he had been admonished to fidget that night, so he didn’t move.
“I pronounce you, Vladislav, son of Vlad Dracul, a member of the Order of the Dragon, committed to the protection of the Holy Roman Church and all her works.”
The bishop dipped his fingers into the small bowl of holy water and, with his first two fingers, drew a cross in holy water on Vlad’s forehead. The water was uncomfortably cold against his skin, but Vlad didn’t react.
~
Normally, none of the brothers would have gone to one of father’s banquets, even Mircea, who was seven, but it had been Vlad and Mircea’s initiation, after all, and father was eager to show off his sons now that his throne was finally secure. He had successors, three of them, and, Vlad Dracul wasn’t about to let anyone forget that fact.
So Vlad found himself at a banquet, closer in the day to when he normally went to sleep to when he ate dinner, and already tired from the hours of formal ceremony which had taken place before he and Mircea had finally received their medallions. The room was overwarm, heated by blazing fire near the head of the table, one unnecessary for the time of year. But he was determined, in defiance of the dizzying warmth of the fire, not to fall asleep, both because father would think him babyish and because this might be his only chance in a long time to see so many warriors and nobleman from so many different places.
Mircea didn’t seem tired at all, remarkably. He talked to practically every guest seated near him, charming them all with his enthusiasm for their stories of battle or horsemanship. “What an enchanting little boy,” the lady seated across from Vlad and Mircea, said to father, her smile seeming as painted on as the roses in her cheeks, which even Vlad could tell were from powder, “and he looks just like you!”
Father smiled benevolently. “That’s Mircea, my eldest. Mircea is named after his grandfather, my father.”
Vlad thought that father’s explanation was a bit unnecessary. After all, who hadn’t heard of Mircea the Elder?
“And you’ll be as great a warrior as he is, I’m sure,” said the man sitting with the lady. Vlad noticed that his hands, currently occupied with cutting up his meat, looked so soft that the man surely could never have been to battle himself.
Mircea nodded enthusiastically. “I hope so!”
The adults laughed. Then, they turned their attention to Vlad, who said nothing, and certainly nothing enchanting. “And this is your youngest?” The man asked father uncertainly.
“Vlad is my middle son,” father answered, “I have another, Radu, just born last year.”
“How great a prince you must be,” said a man who hadn’t spoken yet, a wheedling edge to his voice that Vlad would one day recognize as flattery, “to just have been crowned voivode and to already have three strong sons to defend your throne!”
A satisfied smile appeared on father’s face, though it looked a little as though he was trying to hide it. For the first time, Vlad had a moment of contempt for his father. How could he believe the wheedling man, let alone take his compliments to heart? “God has indeed blessed me,” he said, his right hand self consciously going to the medallion around his neck, “to give me such a beautiful wife and so many sons.”
“Oh, where is the princess tonight?” the woman who had previously spoken asked, “I saw her at the ceremony, and hoped to be able to speak with her now. Is she feeling well?”
There was a note of brief uncertainty in father’s voice, but one that was quickly quelled. “Cneajna was tired tonight, and decided not to join us for the banquet. But she sends her warmest regards to all of you.”
Vlad looked down at his almost untouched plate of food. Mother didn’t approve of banquets. They made her head ache and were manifestations of excess and gluttony. Whenever father talked of her coming to one, mother quoted verses from the Bible and took to her room, sometimes with Radu. Since Vlad had never been to one of the banquets before, he didn’t know whether father said that mother was tired every time. It seemed likely. The noblemen must all think that she was the most sickly woman in the land.
“Now that you are voivode of Wallachia,” a man dressed still in the worn clothing of a battlefield began, leaning in close towards father, so that the nearest candle cast a flickering light on his face, “when will you begin your campaign against the Turks? They are the Order’s greatest enemy, intending to spread their heathen religion beyond their own borders.”
Father took a sip of wine. “God will make it clear when the time is right,” he said, clearly ending the conversation in every way that mattered.
But the man seemed to be unused to taking hints, even such obvious ones. “The news of their atrocities grows each day,” he continued, his voice low with vehement passion, “and the people will look to you for protection. If you do not do your duty to them, then it will soon be Sultan Murad II who we call voivode, not you, my lord!”
Father’s fists were clenched, Vlad noticed, and he sounded as though he spoke through gritted teeth. “I assure you, while I live, the Turks will have no power or influence here.”
Finally, the man seemed to realize that he had gone too far. With a respectful nod, he went back to his food.
Vlad wanted to turn to Mircea and ask him in a whisper why father didn’t order the man punished, but he had the feeling that Mircea didn’t know the answer anymore than he did. Neither did he think that Mircea would be able to tell him about the ‘atrocities’ that the Turks were doing. No one seemed to actually describe those, only mention those in hushed whispers when it didn’t seem as though Vlad or Mircea were listening.
Well. If no one was ever going to tell him about those things, then Vlad would simply have to find out for himself. Even at five, it already seemed clear to him that no one ever actually meant what they said.
Chapter Two
Fandom: Dracula (novel/historical)
Character/Pairing: Count Dracula (Vlad Draculea), Vlad Dracul, Mircea Draculea
Summary: Tracing the life story of the novel's titular character, from his mortal life as the infamous Vlad Tepes of Wallachia to his immortal one as the equally infamous Count Dracula.
Rating: PG
Warnings (for this chapter): Mentions of war, violence, and some religious prejudice
A/N: Written for the "eternal" prompt at 50_darkfics. This is...rather a large project, and an unusual one for me. Also, I'm going to do my absolute best with the historical details, but everything is contradicted somewhere, and,in the end, I'm just going with what works best.
Chapter One - Initiation
1436, Tirgoviste, Wallachia
The room was small, not at all the sort of expansive throne room that would have impressed any visitor, whether enemy or ally. In fact, it was so small that it barely held all the members of the Order of the Dragon and their families. As the boy looked up at the unfamiliar figures crowded about him, all he noticed about them was the identical silver medallion, signifying membership in the Order, that each of them wore around their necks. He knew well the image of a dragon embracing a cross, which was stamped on each medallion; his father had often, proudly, shown his to the boy, explaining what the symbols meant.
There were a few faces he recognized, however, among the tall figures with their rich clothes and silver medallions. There was his father, dark beard neatly trimmed for the occasion, his dark eyes half watching the boy - whose name was Vlad - and half critically observing the others in the room for any sign of discontent or secrecy. Beside him stood Mircea, Vlad’s older brother, holding his own, brand new, silver medallion and grinning, trying to catch Vlad’s eye. In another part of the room, Vlad’s mother sat, perfectly composed, her glossy hair held up by a net of gold and small gems. Beside her stood the nurse, carrying Radu, Vlad’s younger brother, who was, for once, not kicking and screaming.
But Vlad had to stop looking around the room then, for the bishop in front of him was beginning to speak. His voice was strong and steady, nothing like the quavering voice of the priest he was used to. Vlad thought that he would listen more carefully to sermons if they were given by this bishop. “Do you swear to always remain a member of the Holy Roman Church, and to, for all your life, abide by its rules?”
Vlad, who had been carefully taught what to do on this night, said, “Yes.”
“Do you swear to do all in your power to aid the Holy Roman Church, donating as much as you are able to its churches and monasteries?”
“Yes.”
“Do you swear to eradicate heathenism where you find it, to tolerate no breach of the laws of the Holy Roman Church?”
“Yes.”
The bishop lifted the last of the new silver medallions, hung on a fine cord of leather, and placed it around Vlad’s neck. It was far less heavy than he had expected it to be - it was only made of a thin layer of silver. He wanted to touch it, to feel the indentations of the designs beneath his fingers, but he had been admonished to fidget that night, so he didn’t move.
“I pronounce you, Vladislav, son of Vlad Dracul, a member of the Order of the Dragon, committed to the protection of the Holy Roman Church and all her works.”
The bishop dipped his fingers into the small bowl of holy water and, with his first two fingers, drew a cross in holy water on Vlad’s forehead. The water was uncomfortably cold against his skin, but Vlad didn’t react.
~
Normally, none of the brothers would have gone to one of father’s banquets, even Mircea, who was seven, but it had been Vlad and Mircea’s initiation, after all, and father was eager to show off his sons now that his throne was finally secure. He had successors, three of them, and, Vlad Dracul wasn’t about to let anyone forget that fact.
So Vlad found himself at a banquet, closer in the day to when he normally went to sleep to when he ate dinner, and already tired from the hours of formal ceremony which had taken place before he and Mircea had finally received their medallions. The room was overwarm, heated by blazing fire near the head of the table, one unnecessary for the time of year. But he was determined, in defiance of the dizzying warmth of the fire, not to fall asleep, both because father would think him babyish and because this might be his only chance in a long time to see so many warriors and nobleman from so many different places.
Mircea didn’t seem tired at all, remarkably. He talked to practically every guest seated near him, charming them all with his enthusiasm for their stories of battle or horsemanship. “What an enchanting little boy,” the lady seated across from Vlad and Mircea, said to father, her smile seeming as painted on as the roses in her cheeks, which even Vlad could tell were from powder, “and he looks just like you!”
Father smiled benevolently. “That’s Mircea, my eldest. Mircea is named after his grandfather, my father.”
Vlad thought that father’s explanation was a bit unnecessary. After all, who hadn’t heard of Mircea the Elder?
“And you’ll be as great a warrior as he is, I’m sure,” said the man sitting with the lady. Vlad noticed that his hands, currently occupied with cutting up his meat, looked so soft that the man surely could never have been to battle himself.
Mircea nodded enthusiastically. “I hope so!”
The adults laughed. Then, they turned their attention to Vlad, who said nothing, and certainly nothing enchanting. “And this is your youngest?” The man asked father uncertainly.
“Vlad is my middle son,” father answered, “I have another, Radu, just born last year.”
“How great a prince you must be,” said a man who hadn’t spoken yet, a wheedling edge to his voice that Vlad would one day recognize as flattery, “to just have been crowned voivode and to already have three strong sons to defend your throne!”
A satisfied smile appeared on father’s face, though it looked a little as though he was trying to hide it. For the first time, Vlad had a moment of contempt for his father. How could he believe the wheedling man, let alone take his compliments to heart? “God has indeed blessed me,” he said, his right hand self consciously going to the medallion around his neck, “to give me such a beautiful wife and so many sons.”
“Oh, where is the princess tonight?” the woman who had previously spoken asked, “I saw her at the ceremony, and hoped to be able to speak with her now. Is she feeling well?”
There was a note of brief uncertainty in father’s voice, but one that was quickly quelled. “Cneajna was tired tonight, and decided not to join us for the banquet. But she sends her warmest regards to all of you.”
Vlad looked down at his almost untouched plate of food. Mother didn’t approve of banquets. They made her head ache and were manifestations of excess and gluttony. Whenever father talked of her coming to one, mother quoted verses from the Bible and took to her room, sometimes with Radu. Since Vlad had never been to one of the banquets before, he didn’t know whether father said that mother was tired every time. It seemed likely. The noblemen must all think that she was the most sickly woman in the land.
“Now that you are voivode of Wallachia,” a man dressed still in the worn clothing of a battlefield began, leaning in close towards father, so that the nearest candle cast a flickering light on his face, “when will you begin your campaign against the Turks? They are the Order’s greatest enemy, intending to spread their heathen religion beyond their own borders.”
Father took a sip of wine. “God will make it clear when the time is right,” he said, clearly ending the conversation in every way that mattered.
But the man seemed to be unused to taking hints, even such obvious ones. “The news of their atrocities grows each day,” he continued, his voice low with vehement passion, “and the people will look to you for protection. If you do not do your duty to them, then it will soon be Sultan Murad II who we call voivode, not you, my lord!”
Father’s fists were clenched, Vlad noticed, and he sounded as though he spoke through gritted teeth. “I assure you, while I live, the Turks will have no power or influence here.”
Finally, the man seemed to realize that he had gone too far. With a respectful nod, he went back to his food.
Vlad wanted to turn to Mircea and ask him in a whisper why father didn’t order the man punished, but he had the feeling that Mircea didn’t know the answer anymore than he did. Neither did he think that Mircea would be able to tell him about the ‘atrocities’ that the Turks were doing. No one seemed to actually describe those, only mention those in hushed whispers when it didn’t seem as though Vlad or Mircea were listening.
Well. If no one was ever going to tell him about those things, then Vlad would simply have to find out for himself. Even at five, it already seemed clear to him that no one ever actually meant what they said.
Chapter Two