"Nobility" - Dracula fan fiction
Title: Nobility
Fandom: Dracula (novel)
Character/Pairing: Arthur, Dracula, Dracula/Arthur, implied Arthur/Lucy
Summary: AU. At a party of his father's, Arthur is introduced to a sort of nobleman completely unfamiliar to him.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slightly dark seduction, classism on the part of the characters, far too many literary references.
A/N: Written for the "rule/ruler" prompt at 50-darkfics.
“Arthur, I’d like you to meet someone.”
Arthur turned, a polite smile already on his face in readiness to be introduced to a typical one of his father’s acquaintances - perhaps an elderly woman with papery skin and an extravagant hat, or the daughter of such a woman, a girl with a gown dripping with bows and an over-loud laugh. Or perhaps a stodgy, rich man, newly come into a fortune in cattle or banking of something like that.
But the man standing beside his father was nothing like anyone he’d seen before, though Arthur couldn’t quite figure out why. He couldn’t be older than forty or younger than thirty five, but he seemed ageless, his dark hair unstreaked with gray but his green eyes seeming to hold more knowledge than Arthur could conceive of. He was dressed simply, in dark clothing, but there was a sort of effortless aristocracy in his bearing that Arthur didn’t think he had ever seen the likes of before.
“This is Count Dracula, just moved to London from Transylvania. Count, this is my oldest son, Arthur.”
The Count gave Arthur a small smile, baring white, straight teeth. “I am glad to meet you, Arthur Holmwood.” There was an accent to his voice, but not so much that it was at all difficult to understand him.
Arthur made sure that his polite smile was still in place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Welcome to England.”
Arthur’s father rested a hand awkwardly on his son’s shoulder - Arthur knew that the gesture must be for show, for some reason or another. It wasn’t generally the way his father behaved with him. “Arthur, would you tell Count Dracula a bit about the social scene here in London? Unfortunately, I have other guests to greet.” And, before Arthur could give his assent, his father was gone.
He didn’t know what to say, how to begin a conversation with this foreign Count. Luckily, the Count spoke before an awkward silence ensued, barely smiling but the mirth in his eyes disarming Arthur. “Would it possible for us to talk inside? I was told that in your British autumns, days so full of sun as this were a rarity, and so was unprepared for the weather today.”
Arthur had thought the sun that day a blessing, but, now that he looked, it was true that the Count’s skin was remarkably pale, and likely susceptible to burns. Transylvania must have even more foul weather than England. “Oh, of course. There’s a study just inside - we can go there.”
Truth be told, Arthur was glad to get away from the crowds of the party - however used to it he might be, managing a dozen tiresome conversations at once always made him quickly feel exhausted. Talking to the Count might be tiresome as well - he had no idea - but at least he’d be away from everyone else.
The Count said little as they walked to the study, with its bookcases of classics that no one in the house actually read, and its chairs made for the express purpose of being sat in by men as they smoked, drank brandy and discussed politics. The Count sat down in one of them, and Arthur saw that there was something…indefinably odd about his movements, as though he was made of some different substance than the rest of them. He sat up perfectly straight, too. Arthur tried to imitate him, feeling guilty about his own inferior posture, but he didn’t quite manage.
“If it’s not too forward a question, may I ask why it is that you decided to come to England?” Arthur asked, after offering the Count a cigar, an offer which was rejected. Arthur didn’t take one either.
“No, it’s not too forward a question. However, there are many reasons. There is…an age to the world I inhabited in Transylvania. Crumbling castles, old blood. Gold coins that have lain in coffers for centuries. It is a beautiful world, and one that I have longer relished, but it is a world that…dies out easily. We noblemen live alone in our castles, each the last of our family lines, and we do not speak much with one another, or with our subjects. We are all too lost in ancestral memories. The Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania, indeed, all of Romania, is a land of ancient memories.
“England, your glorious country, is, by comparison, a new, living nation. Discoveries are being made here, books are being written, theater is being performed. The bright lights of the future seem to be clearer in no other part of the world. That would perhaps even be enough, but I have also realized that, despite your country’s genius, there seems to be a certain…nobility absent in even those you call noblemen.” - the Count smiled and Arthur wondered if he was referring to his father - “All are of the bourgeois - that is the new phrase, I think - to some degree, concerned with such petty matters as the number of servants they own or what color of fabric is this year suitable for handkerchiefs. They need the sense of ancient wisdom that I have seen in my land, and I need the life that I have seen in theirs.”
Arthur didn’t speak for a moment after the Count had finished. There was something about the other man’s speech that had sounded as though he had not come from a different country, but from a different world altogether. His words seemed to flow together like a sort of archaic poetry, dark and red and rich as old wine. Arthur had never thought about his status as part of the aristocracy before, not really, not other than bemoaning it to Jack in his school days when he wished that he could be someone reassuringly middle-class, like Jack himself. In fact, aristocracy had never seemed to be a specific quality to him before - it was more like a tiresome place in a complicated web of etiquette and social connections, a responsibility to go to a certain number of parties a year and own a certain number of formal outfits. But the Count talked about these things as no one else he had ever met had, and, moreover, he seemed somehow to embody these ideas of nobility and aristocracy, though in a way that Arthur could never manage to articulate or even really understand.
Finally, after a long pause during which the Count regarded him calmly, seeming completely untroubled by Arthur’s lack for words, Arthur asked, “What do you think makes someone a nobleman, then, if it’s not…all those petty things you mentioned?”
The Count steepled his long, pale fingers, regarding Arthur seriously. “The noblemen, Mr. Holmwood, are those forever ready to lead their countrymen against any enemies who might show themselves. They are the intelligent of a nation, looking at the state of things objectively and seeing what the masses of peasants, moved by emotion and instincts of morality, cannot.” Again, he smiled, as though confiding in Arthur some secret. “In my nation, the aristocracy fought against the Turks. In yours, they fight against sodomy. Hardly the same.”
The Count’s candor was unnerving, and Arthur found himself stuttering. This wasn’t the sort of conversation one was supposed to have at these parties. “But don’t you think…don’t you think that immorality is a plague too, invading our country as surely as any army? All of us are…the soldiers of Christendom, aren’t we, bound to set an example for all our fellow Christians?”
Again, that smile. “No.” There was a pause, and the Count glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “I fear that I’ve stayed here rather longer than I intended to. I shall have to be leaving now. Thank for this conversation, Mr. Holmwood, it was a pleasure. I hope that I shall have the opportunity soon to continue it. Please bid your father farewell for me, and thank him for the invitation in the first place.” He was almost out the door, moving in that strange, disconcerting way he had, when he turned back to suddenly, “You may want to read some of the writing of Niccolo Machiavelli. It could prove quite interesting to you.”
~
“You’re a bit like one of those aesthetes, I think.”
It was Saturday, and Arthur had invited the Count over for tea - not that the other man seemed to have drunk any of that beverage yet, but that was immaterial. Arthur didn’t know quite why he’d invited the Count, not precisely. It was true that, outside of Jack and Quincey, he didn’t have many real friends, but he didn’t want the Count as a friend, not exactly…he was just too interesting, too charismatic, too unusual for Arthur not to want to talk to him more.
“Am I? I wasn’t aware. In my country, there is no such movement, at least not that I am aware of, and so I fear that I never looked all that closely into their philosophies.”
Arthur frowned, suddenly feeling quite awkward and stupid. “It’s just…the way you talk about morality and religion and things like that…they talk about things like ‘art for art’s sake’, and all that sounds a little like the things you say.”
“Ah, I see. Oscar Wilde is an aesthete, is he not? The author of The Picture of Dorian Grey? I found that book delightful, though I would hardly say that it exemplifies my personal ideology.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, I think so. I haven’t read that book you mentioned, though. I heard that it was…very scandalous. Not at suitable to by read by anyone in…polite society, I suppose.”
There was an unidentifiable expression on the Count’s face. “You should read it. It’s about a young, handsome man who is thoroughly corrupted by an older aristocrat who teaches him the uselessness of morality. The young man then goes on a personal quest for immortality and preservation of his youth and beauty, utterly losing his morals in the process.”
Somehow, Arthur felt like blushing. “I…I see.”
The Count’s tone didn’t shift at all, and that fact seemed odd. “Are you married, Mr. Holmwood?”
Arthur smiled. This, he knew how to discuss. “Not yet. I’m engaged - to Lucy Westenra. She’s…the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, I think. We’ll be married next month.”
For the first time in either of their conversations, the Count seemed surprised. “Would this be the same Lucy Westenra who is the close friend of Miss Mina Murray?”
This seemed random, and Arthur had to take a moment to consider the question. “I think so. Why do you ask?”
But the Count didn’t answer the question, saying instead, “I would like to meet Miss Westenra at some point.”
~
“I read The Picture of Dorian Grey.”
This time, Arthur didn’t have the excuse of a meal to invite the Count over - more reasonable, perhaps, as neither of them had really eaten anything at tea that Saturday. And, Oscar Wilde’s florid words filling his mind, there almost seemed to be a…danger to speaking to the Count again, though Arthur couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“What did you think of it?”
Truly, Arthur had no idea. He didn’t read much, now that he was out of school, and a book like that one was completely alien to him. “I’m not sure, not yet. It was odd, though, the idea of someone staying young forever like that. It made me wonder what the world would be like…if things like that could actually happen. I suppose that’s the purpose of fiction - to make you imagine the world differently.”
There was amusement in the Count’s green eyes, though none in the set of his mouth. “Can you truly be sure that such things do not happen? I think it entirely possible that all the events of Wilde’s novel could occur in your London. Criminals, as a character in one of Wilkie Collins’ books said, are only caught when they’re stupid. Would it not be likewise with practitioners of such dark arts as the bartering of one’s soul for immortality? Especially when the perpetrators are true members of the aristocracy, like Lord Wotton and Dorian. Anything can be concealed.”
Arthur looked at the Count and wondered, for a brief, mad instant, whether he’d bartered away his soul for eloquence and charisma.
For a moment, the Count’s fingers brushed against the inside of Arthur’s wrist as it lay upon the table between them. Arthur felt a jolt of electricity pass through him, sudden and powerful. “Would you like to be immortal, young and handsome forever?”
Arthur felt ashamed of himself for blushing. That hadn’t even been a compliment. “Everyone would, I imagine. But I prefer it if Lucy were immortal with me. Otherwise it would be dreadfully lonely.”
The Count’s smile, wide as a snake’s, showed his teeth. In a trick of the light, his two eyeteeth also looked long and sharp, like a serpent’s. “Immortality is always lonely. It is nearly entirely the domain of the aristocracy, and the true aristocrat always retains some shadow of loneliness. But that’s a small price to pay, isn’t it?”
Arthur wasn’t sure what the Count had just said, but he nodded nonetheless.
~
The night, Arthur dreamt the Count’s lips pressed against his own, a kiss tasting of ancient memories. He dreamed of the pressure of teeth against his neck, his heart beating in his ears. He dreamed of vulnerability and power, of worlds beyond his comprehension.
When he awoke, the servants had a letter waiting for him, that he been delivered during the night. It said, in a hand he could not recognize,
My dear Mr. Holmwood -
Would you and you lovely bride like to come to dinner at my residence at Carfax Abbey on Thursday of this week? The presence of you both would be most welcome.
- D
The web was finished.
Fandom: Dracula (novel)
Character/Pairing: Arthur, Dracula, Dracula/Arthur, implied Arthur/Lucy
Summary: AU. At a party of his father's, Arthur is introduced to a sort of nobleman completely unfamiliar to him.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Slightly dark seduction, classism on the part of the characters, far too many literary references.
A/N: Written for the "rule/ruler" prompt at 50-darkfics.
“Arthur, I’d like you to meet someone.”
Arthur turned, a polite smile already on his face in readiness to be introduced to a typical one of his father’s acquaintances - perhaps an elderly woman with papery skin and an extravagant hat, or the daughter of such a woman, a girl with a gown dripping with bows and an over-loud laugh. Or perhaps a stodgy, rich man, newly come into a fortune in cattle or banking of something like that.
But the man standing beside his father was nothing like anyone he’d seen before, though Arthur couldn’t quite figure out why. He couldn’t be older than forty or younger than thirty five, but he seemed ageless, his dark hair unstreaked with gray but his green eyes seeming to hold more knowledge than Arthur could conceive of. He was dressed simply, in dark clothing, but there was a sort of effortless aristocracy in his bearing that Arthur didn’t think he had ever seen the likes of before.
“This is Count Dracula, just moved to London from Transylvania. Count, this is my oldest son, Arthur.”
The Count gave Arthur a small smile, baring white, straight teeth. “I am glad to meet you, Arthur Holmwood.” There was an accent to his voice, but not so much that it was at all difficult to understand him.
Arthur made sure that his polite smile was still in place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. Welcome to England.”
Arthur’s father rested a hand awkwardly on his son’s shoulder - Arthur knew that the gesture must be for show, for some reason or another. It wasn’t generally the way his father behaved with him. “Arthur, would you tell Count Dracula a bit about the social scene here in London? Unfortunately, I have other guests to greet.” And, before Arthur could give his assent, his father was gone.
He didn’t know what to say, how to begin a conversation with this foreign Count. Luckily, the Count spoke before an awkward silence ensued, barely smiling but the mirth in his eyes disarming Arthur. “Would it possible for us to talk inside? I was told that in your British autumns, days so full of sun as this were a rarity, and so was unprepared for the weather today.”
Arthur had thought the sun that day a blessing, but, now that he looked, it was true that the Count’s skin was remarkably pale, and likely susceptible to burns. Transylvania must have even more foul weather than England. “Oh, of course. There’s a study just inside - we can go there.”
Truth be told, Arthur was glad to get away from the crowds of the party - however used to it he might be, managing a dozen tiresome conversations at once always made him quickly feel exhausted. Talking to the Count might be tiresome as well - he had no idea - but at least he’d be away from everyone else.
The Count said little as they walked to the study, with its bookcases of classics that no one in the house actually read, and its chairs made for the express purpose of being sat in by men as they smoked, drank brandy and discussed politics. The Count sat down in one of them, and Arthur saw that there was something…indefinably odd about his movements, as though he was made of some different substance than the rest of them. He sat up perfectly straight, too. Arthur tried to imitate him, feeling guilty about his own inferior posture, but he didn’t quite manage.
“If it’s not too forward a question, may I ask why it is that you decided to come to England?” Arthur asked, after offering the Count a cigar, an offer which was rejected. Arthur didn’t take one either.
“No, it’s not too forward a question. However, there are many reasons. There is…an age to the world I inhabited in Transylvania. Crumbling castles, old blood. Gold coins that have lain in coffers for centuries. It is a beautiful world, and one that I have longer relished, but it is a world that…dies out easily. We noblemen live alone in our castles, each the last of our family lines, and we do not speak much with one another, or with our subjects. We are all too lost in ancestral memories. The Carpathian Mountains, Transylvania, indeed, all of Romania, is a land of ancient memories.
“England, your glorious country, is, by comparison, a new, living nation. Discoveries are being made here, books are being written, theater is being performed. The bright lights of the future seem to be clearer in no other part of the world. That would perhaps even be enough, but I have also realized that, despite your country’s genius, there seems to be a certain…nobility absent in even those you call noblemen.” - the Count smiled and Arthur wondered if he was referring to his father - “All are of the bourgeois - that is the new phrase, I think - to some degree, concerned with such petty matters as the number of servants they own or what color of fabric is this year suitable for handkerchiefs. They need the sense of ancient wisdom that I have seen in my land, and I need the life that I have seen in theirs.”
Arthur didn’t speak for a moment after the Count had finished. There was something about the other man’s speech that had sounded as though he had not come from a different country, but from a different world altogether. His words seemed to flow together like a sort of archaic poetry, dark and red and rich as old wine. Arthur had never thought about his status as part of the aristocracy before, not really, not other than bemoaning it to Jack in his school days when he wished that he could be someone reassuringly middle-class, like Jack himself. In fact, aristocracy had never seemed to be a specific quality to him before - it was more like a tiresome place in a complicated web of etiquette and social connections, a responsibility to go to a certain number of parties a year and own a certain number of formal outfits. But the Count talked about these things as no one else he had ever met had, and, moreover, he seemed somehow to embody these ideas of nobility and aristocracy, though in a way that Arthur could never manage to articulate or even really understand.
Finally, after a long pause during which the Count regarded him calmly, seeming completely untroubled by Arthur’s lack for words, Arthur asked, “What do you think makes someone a nobleman, then, if it’s not…all those petty things you mentioned?”
The Count steepled his long, pale fingers, regarding Arthur seriously. “The noblemen, Mr. Holmwood, are those forever ready to lead their countrymen against any enemies who might show themselves. They are the intelligent of a nation, looking at the state of things objectively and seeing what the masses of peasants, moved by emotion and instincts of morality, cannot.” Again, he smiled, as though confiding in Arthur some secret. “In my nation, the aristocracy fought against the Turks. In yours, they fight against sodomy. Hardly the same.”
The Count’s candor was unnerving, and Arthur found himself stuttering. This wasn’t the sort of conversation one was supposed to have at these parties. “But don’t you think…don’t you think that immorality is a plague too, invading our country as surely as any army? All of us are…the soldiers of Christendom, aren’t we, bound to set an example for all our fellow Christians?”
Again, that smile. “No.” There was a pause, and the Count glanced at the clock hanging on the wall. “I fear that I’ve stayed here rather longer than I intended to. I shall have to be leaving now. Thank for this conversation, Mr. Holmwood, it was a pleasure. I hope that I shall have the opportunity soon to continue it. Please bid your father farewell for me, and thank him for the invitation in the first place.” He was almost out the door, moving in that strange, disconcerting way he had, when he turned back to suddenly, “You may want to read some of the writing of Niccolo Machiavelli. It could prove quite interesting to you.”
~
“You’re a bit like one of those aesthetes, I think.”
It was Saturday, and Arthur had invited the Count over for tea - not that the other man seemed to have drunk any of that beverage yet, but that was immaterial. Arthur didn’t know quite why he’d invited the Count, not precisely. It was true that, outside of Jack and Quincey, he didn’t have many real friends, but he didn’t want the Count as a friend, not exactly…he was just too interesting, too charismatic, too unusual for Arthur not to want to talk to him more.
“Am I? I wasn’t aware. In my country, there is no such movement, at least not that I am aware of, and so I fear that I never looked all that closely into their philosophies.”
Arthur frowned, suddenly feeling quite awkward and stupid. “It’s just…the way you talk about morality and religion and things like that…they talk about things like ‘art for art’s sake’, and all that sounds a little like the things you say.”
“Ah, I see. Oscar Wilde is an aesthete, is he not? The author of The Picture of Dorian Grey? I found that book delightful, though I would hardly say that it exemplifies my personal ideology.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, I think so. I haven’t read that book you mentioned, though. I heard that it was…very scandalous. Not at suitable to by read by anyone in…polite society, I suppose.”
There was an unidentifiable expression on the Count’s face. “You should read it. It’s about a young, handsome man who is thoroughly corrupted by an older aristocrat who teaches him the uselessness of morality. The young man then goes on a personal quest for immortality and preservation of his youth and beauty, utterly losing his morals in the process.”
Somehow, Arthur felt like blushing. “I…I see.”
The Count’s tone didn’t shift at all, and that fact seemed odd. “Are you married, Mr. Holmwood?”
Arthur smiled. This, he knew how to discuss. “Not yet. I’m engaged - to Lucy Westenra. She’s…the most wonderful woman I’ve ever met, I think. We’ll be married next month.”
For the first time in either of their conversations, the Count seemed surprised. “Would this be the same Lucy Westenra who is the close friend of Miss Mina Murray?”
This seemed random, and Arthur had to take a moment to consider the question. “I think so. Why do you ask?”
But the Count didn’t answer the question, saying instead, “I would like to meet Miss Westenra at some point.”
~
“I read The Picture of Dorian Grey.”
This time, Arthur didn’t have the excuse of a meal to invite the Count over - more reasonable, perhaps, as neither of them had really eaten anything at tea that Saturday. And, Oscar Wilde’s florid words filling his mind, there almost seemed to be a…danger to speaking to the Count again, though Arthur couldn’t imagine what it might be.
“What did you think of it?”
Truly, Arthur had no idea. He didn’t read much, now that he was out of school, and a book like that one was completely alien to him. “I’m not sure, not yet. It was odd, though, the idea of someone staying young forever like that. It made me wonder what the world would be like…if things like that could actually happen. I suppose that’s the purpose of fiction - to make you imagine the world differently.”
There was amusement in the Count’s green eyes, though none in the set of his mouth. “Can you truly be sure that such things do not happen? I think it entirely possible that all the events of Wilde’s novel could occur in your London. Criminals, as a character in one of Wilkie Collins’ books said, are only caught when they’re stupid. Would it not be likewise with practitioners of such dark arts as the bartering of one’s soul for immortality? Especially when the perpetrators are true members of the aristocracy, like Lord Wotton and Dorian. Anything can be concealed.”
Arthur looked at the Count and wondered, for a brief, mad instant, whether he’d bartered away his soul for eloquence and charisma.
For a moment, the Count’s fingers brushed against the inside of Arthur’s wrist as it lay upon the table between them. Arthur felt a jolt of electricity pass through him, sudden and powerful. “Would you like to be immortal, young and handsome forever?”
Arthur felt ashamed of himself for blushing. That hadn’t even been a compliment. “Everyone would, I imagine. But I prefer it if Lucy were immortal with me. Otherwise it would be dreadfully lonely.”
The Count’s smile, wide as a snake’s, showed his teeth. In a trick of the light, his two eyeteeth also looked long and sharp, like a serpent’s. “Immortality is always lonely. It is nearly entirely the domain of the aristocracy, and the true aristocrat always retains some shadow of loneliness. But that’s a small price to pay, isn’t it?”
Arthur wasn’t sure what the Count had just said, but he nodded nonetheless.
~
The night, Arthur dreamt the Count’s lips pressed against his own, a kiss tasting of ancient memories. He dreamed of the pressure of teeth against his neck, his heart beating in his ears. He dreamed of vulnerability and power, of worlds beyond his comprehension.
When he awoke, the servants had a letter waiting for him, that he been delivered during the night. It said, in a hand he could not recognize,
My dear Mr. Holmwood -
Would you and you lovely bride like to come to dinner at my residence at Carfax Abbey on Thursday of this week? The presence of you both would be most welcome.
- D
The web was finished.