Darkness Becomes Her

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Disclaimer: Own the ideas, but didn't make money for it.

Any comments, just e-mail me at "kfong60@hotmail.com"

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Since he began his quest of conquest, he knew that he would one day accomplish his goals. But even with victory already certain, he would only rest once he had conquered it all. He had all the time in the world, but he grew impatient with every failure. . . A change of plans was in order. . .

He was thinking. In his type of business, one must treat everything as one would a game of chess: Always planning three or four moves ahead of time and plan for the future. Planning on what his next move should be, he finally decided on the course of action he should take. . . Why not? Sometimes, he even amazes himself. . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

All That I Am. . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

(The story goes on. . .)

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

How long she had remained unconscious, dreaming in the dark void she had fallen into. As deep and infinite as if bottomless. Where there she was offered blissful ignorance to the world. For there she did not understand, for there she did not remember. A dreamlike plain where she could forget about who she was. But yet she felt she should remember, but she feared for what she would remember. . . Though there her mind drifted, drowned in the creation of its own selfish wish, such paradise cannot last forever. . .

The return of awareness was not pleasant. The moment she regained consciousness, everything came flooding back into her.

"Why am I alive?" the words lingered.

For all rights she should have been dead. She was not meant to live, not meant to leave that cursed place that reeked of death before her. She had foreseen it, imagined it, and embraced the fact that it would be an impeccably considerate parting gift from her to him to unravel. . .

It wasn't supposed to be this way!

As the memories cleared, and organized themselves, she traced the soft skin of her neck. She felt the raw agony of the gapping holes where he impaled her. She knew she was alive, and she knew who had taken her. The eternal sleep was denied to her. Its enforcer had forsaken her.

He who was Death. The destroyer of all who live, the harbinger of destruction. Life is but a passing dream in his wake. Where there is, he leaves nothing. Where there was, it is no longer. . . It was his fate. . . his raison d'être. . . The reason behind his mantle. To grant to all the peace that is oblivion. To bring calm to a wild existence. . .

It mattered not where he stood, be he your friend or not, for wherever it was, desired his touch, his gift to them. The wanderer that plods for eternity, till only peace remained, only him. . .

It was his punishment to grant these pitiful beings the peace he may never possess. But she had been exempted from his gift. Left to endure a greater suffering in the hands of a tyrant.

A tyrant didn't feel, it existed. They didn't have deep emotions or feelings, only the necessary to survive; pain, hate and the desire to kill, the hate carried it out, and the physical pain to know when to start running. Emotions were for the weak, the inferiors that needed them, as a tyrant had power, emotions became obsolete. Something she tried to attain, but always beyond her grasp.

She became aware that she was lying on a soft surface. How it was that she found it repelling, she didn't know. She opened her eyes tentatively, fearfully. They focused on what appeared to be a wooden ceiling. From it hanged a small chandelier full of burning sticks. It was light enough to describe the patterns on the wood. She could tell her new room was far more exuberant, opulence in the very décor.

Holding her breath, she very carefully eased to a sitting position. Every muscle protested vehemently, as she gritted her teeth and looked at her surroundings.

She was in a room with one bed, which she occupied, a table and chair to the right, and a wooden door to her left.

She released the breath she had been holding, relieved. She was the only one in the room. She had time to gather her resolve, before facing the devil again.

Her attention was drawn to the door, as nothing else was of concern. She had no plan of action per say, but she felt she would know what to do next, once she made her entrance. With slow, deliberate movements she managed to slid off the bed and rise. The hard wood floor creaked beneath her shifting weight. Standing demanded the wave of vertigo that was to be exchanged for what she desired.

Caught by its feedback, she spread her arms to right herself on anything she could find within distance of reach. A dance of clumsiness, and she found what she sought. She let the walls guide her towards her destination, until is passed, vanishing into a haze of fog, leaving its latest victim to ponder whether it really happened at all.

She took the opportunity to check herself over. It was as she feared, but expectantly that her hands were paler than normal. Her pulse she was happy to find was still there, although it was noticeable that it was slower compared to the more normal celestial cadence. All as she had surmised. She was still in her dress, the only dress she owned, and though it was in tatters, with much reluctance to admit, was relatively in one peace. She ran her fingers to fix the wrinkles in her dress although it undeniably wouldn't make a world of difference. Where there should have been wounds, she found them obsolete.

With some difficulty, she forced her mind pass all the implications, though impossible a task to accomplish. The enormity of the situation was too grand to be suppressed. But at the very least optimistically eyed, she could still change the way things flow, for she was her physical embodiment was still on the mortal plain, though tainted it was. Life as everyone appreciated for granted, would be eradicated, destroyed unless she could somehow kill Count Dracula. As ridiculous as it sounded, she knew it wasn't impeccably going to be easy, she had seen to that. He read her like a book, while he was still shrouded in mystery to her. He would be suspicious now, and rightly so for she had not played her cards right. She played the Joker, and it laughed right back at her.

Dracula could be considered an undead. One who could talk and one would be foolish to overlook it for what danger it symbolized. For if it could talk, it can think, and if it can think, it could learn. Then it would be among the most dangerous of all. The mind is a powerful, and dangerous tool, much deadlier than any fangs, thorns, or claws could ever match. It outclassed them all. He was more intelligent than any humans not so unlike herself, had given him credit for. It was an oversight she had dearly paid for. Upon reaching the vertex point of escape, the sound of rasp emitted from behind.

"Ah, I see you've awaken." Came in the direction originating from her right.

She couldn't help a yelp and stagger to fall half turned, the door frame cold at her back. Only when the eyes that met hers were those of strangers, did she regain some semblance of composure. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

"We meet again, milady. I hope all has been well during my leave?"

"Who are you?" she asked while she pushed herself up and straightened. Unable to fathom how he was disclosed in assessment while she had already meticulously to check the foundation the she had, now two had occupied. Now that she was provided a moment of reminiscence, she was assured by the looming knowledge that he was never there to begin with.

"You wound me," he chuckled, still smiling, "But since you seem to have forgotten, let me refresh your memories. I am the demon Renon." He tipped his hat to her, an insignia that she felt relatively, if vaguely familiar unconsciously. The man before her had a kind of charm, charisma that spoke monuments of the uniqueness for an individual. He exuded an aura of peace but contradicted by the cloak of unsettling unease that followed in its wake. She was brought out of her reverie as he continued reintroducing himself.

"Do not take that as incentive to strike me down mind you, I sell things to wandering travelers within the mists of the dark castle. . ."

Somehow she knew the yet unspoken words that would manifest.

"And it's pathetic, but one needs gold even in hell these days." They spoke in mirrored synch, ending with a slightly more cheerful demon.

Renon smiled at that. The girl still had some semblance about him. It would have been awkward if she had remained impeccably ignorant.

"Ah, I see you recall of me. Excellent." The thin line of his visage curved in ascension.

"Do we still have a contract?" she asked more of a statement than a question, for inspiration materialized after she remembered about the British looking man sitting enjoying a cup of coffee.

"Yes," he grinned, "Very much so. . ." he chuckled. Though a demon, he held no amnesty towards humans. He had strong business sense. The money be it from a fellow cohort, or that which he was suppose to hate, made no difference.

She barely contained her mirth, as it seemed plausible that there was yet away to rid the tainted blood from her life stream.

"But might I warn you not to buy too much?" he added as an after thought.

Although he was rarely swayed from persuading likely customers to buy more of his wares, he did find himself liking this one. For she seemed like a decent fellow, and had always enjoyed her company where available be it in the Villa, Dungeons, or the Tower of Clocks. He'd find it amusing for she always had the most interesting things to say, and her mad crusade was filled with one chronicle after another. To collect her debt, would be a somber matter, for all the fun she stirred.

Carrie gave him a weird look, before discarding it for her cold façade. Inside though, it was her alternative to escape emotions such as embarrassment. But nonetheless, she meticulously peered in great consideration upon his words thoughtfully, for what they were. Maybe it was her naivety which allowed his words sink deeper than usual, for usually she would dismiss such travesty for empty words, empty threats, possessing no merit whatsoever. Renon's personality was controversial, but whatever he told you, were honest if a bit twisted half truths. But the demon before her not once scraped the albeit small amount of trust she had offered him. For a contract without trust, could not be fulfilled.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says swirling with a tone of skepticism, "But I need a cure for this curse." She finished reluctantly, seeking his eyes from beyond his shade glasses.

"It's too late for that." He spoke, "You are beyond the capabilities of a mere purify."

Her eyes glazed, as what he implied was a cushioning of what he meant. Her body trembled as her hands limped akimbo. Head descended, her hair covered half the face it framed.

"Since when?" quizzically she humbled him as her voice no longer held the fiery idealism it once possessed, overshadowed by the dismaying dehiscence of knowing what may very well be the compromise of the cells within her blood, and the deterioration.

"You have been infected far too long," he sighed, "Though a purify crystal would drain the vampire's blood from your veins, it cannot purged it at this stage." Matter of fact mannered.

Her shoulders slumped as she began to take reticent steps back against the far wall. She dearly wished she would awaken from this nightmare. The vividness that came with the knowledge of what she would become replenished the fears she had imprisoned. They were denied, but persistent. Like the symphony of the night they chorused their haunting tune, maddening all its listeners, except the one victim that muted it. Refusing to give into the seductive flow of thoughts, she remained vigilant. That is until she heard the line that anchored those voices. Her mind raced, her heart quickened.

"You are becoming a vampire," he stopped sipping his coffee he so enjoyed, as he replied plaintively.

Sagging, she descended down the slope behind her back. Along with its inertia, the rest of her came to a sliding halt upon the overshadowed hard wood floor.

The twin trail of liquid flowed unheeded, splattering upon her dress where it gave ripples upon her dress. The precious ruby color was the curse that sent her into more fits of inner turmoil.

She leaned against the cool surface and wept, pressing herself as close to it as possible. Trying to hide behind the shadows to dispel the darkness in her eyes. With it, she wept back into the restless sleep from which she had awaken.

On the other side of the wall, Dracula was leaning directly behind her, his forehead resting against the nape of her neck. He tried to breath her scent. He feared he was forgetting the scent of her skin, longed to bury himself in her neck for the second time and so burn the fragrance into his memory. All that separated them was a mere six inches of solid concrete shrouded with dark ebony.

He ran his fingers along the surface, mapping, tracing her curled form pressed against the barricade: shoulder, arms, curled fingers, waist, thigh, bended knees, calve, ankle, foot. . . He watched her pale face in all her misery through the wall, his cheeks pressed to hers, his lips so close to her own. He traced his own, where her exquisite taste still lingered.

Six inches. . . It was no distance at all.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

Nights came and go, as the girl obstinately remained never changing, mulishness, edging away at Dracula's patience. Why did the girl have to be so damn difficult? She should not be defiant, cursing upon her misfortune, but thanking him for offering her the dark gift. Instead, she obstinately defied his wishes, approaches, and returned his affections with new found charisma. She had starved herself through lack of nutrition, refusing the perfectly good blood before her as if it were poison. Too pure was she, too full of the milk of human kindness to see the windows of opportunity laid before her. Probably her naivety had led her to believe those half honest words in this world of lies. It had corrupted her, converted her into a deist, and she gained nothing having faith in the light. She would be better off being an infidel, a freethinker, which would have aided her much more than any idealism, half cracked philosophy.

"Clear all doubts that I possess," he smirked, "And guide my path unto success." The very seductive words that had succeeded in clouding her judgment.

That was all it was, a philosophy; a figment of hope, a belief that brings hope and brings miracles in the darkest hours. A set of rules defining right and wrong and nothing more. Instead, she should be a firm believer in fate. The catalyst, which determines ones own destiny. He could foresee it by his side, why could she not as well? If she did not show signs of improvement tonight, he would have to go to much greater ramifications to convince her otherwise.

"I'm losing my happy thoughts," he murmured in a low, controlled voice. "Oh yes I am very, very, unhappy indeed. . ."

But no. . . She had to be sullen, morose, standoffish, and too willful for her own good. But all that will change soon. . .

If any were to catch the maniacal look he adorned, it would have unsettled them. The way he spoke complimented and compensated all the details necessary, to foretell his current state of mind, more than mere words could describe. There would be hell to pay.

Reaching the door around the next corner, it creaked open before his eerie presence, the cold air outside replacing the solitary echoes inside. What lurked, was but a kindred spirit, lost was its enchantment of flight.

Stealing a glance at the occupant inside in anticipation, he let his compassionate words drift freely, in barely a whisper. Though it was, he knew she'd heard it, as she tensed.

"Very unhappy. . ." were the words plaintively, unyielding, he had whispered, as the door slipped shut.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

The bloodlust was suppressed thus far, attention elsewhere on the priority of devising a plan to set in motion. The pencil tight in her grasp refused to stop trembling like a leaf in the wind. The smell of blood staining the carpets was strong, and diverting her attention away from the task at hand. She could almost hear the wheels turn in her mind. It all begun on that fateful day, relishing the taste of life in a glass wine. Sickened by her flippant behavior, she quickly discarded her meal, and every meal hence forth. Though it maddened him of her defiance and neglecting the needs of her anatomy, it was a small price to pay to keep her sanity. For if she lost that as well, she was beyond salvation.

Then she heard something, faintly. A sound? Footsteps perhaps? Surely, it could be nothing else.

She shuffled tentatively towards the door, plans forgotten. Reluctantly, she approached forward in small shambling steps. Reluctant, for the insecurity she felt, but outweighed by the curiosity if nothing more than to be prepared. Feeling the cold wood beneath her hands, meticulously she leaned forward to better catch the echoes on the other side.

She paused listening, the walls were thick, the door even thicker, but it wasn't sound proof. The soft echoes outside the door were fast approaching, rhythm timed from sound to sound marginally increasing in perfection. She heard the phantom voice beyond the door with crystal clarity, then shrieked as it halted and jumped back impetuously seconds before the door shot open, the dust unsettling the air, shadows complimented him as hellfire complimented the devil.

Hearing his whispered notation, she unashamedly trembled, before it too abated. In the resulting silence, she cursed under her breath, no weapon, no means to defend herself.

'I suppose I could always throw the chair at him, or stab him with the pencil. . .' her thoughts creative, quite the imagination.

"You," she hissed.

"Me," he answered, as formidable as her own.

"Why don't you just let me die?" her hands curled into claws, "You know as well as I that I cannot, will not join you in your dark ambitions." She continued with an angry scowl.

He smiled mirthlessly, "Well, I wouldn't put it that way. . . There are those complications that lead to your current state of residence. . . and soon you too will think my way." He ran his fingers through his locks pass his shoulders pulchritude-like.

Still she refused to be deterred, "Why?"

"You ask too many questions. Your a perceptive girl, you seem to know everything else." He turned, pleased with his answer. Though he knew otherwise, he couldn't resist messing with her head.

"Tell me how you knew." a slight pause, before she asked deceptively calm. "Tell me why I must endure this humiliation."

For the first time, he looked away from her as if thinking. "An excellent question my dear, but one I do not deign to answer you. You will come around, you will acknowledge your place, by my side." He finished, glancing at the girl. "Do not doubt my words."

Looking back at the girl, she was for better words agitated. Not in the least did she look like a happy camper. But yet she had the negative smile adorning her features, and the half glazed mischievous eyes to compliment it. He knew that smile well.

"Will I? It looks as though I don't have the motivation anymore, do I?" she replied sardonically.

He stood imperious, studying her, shark-like. 'Motivation,' He chuckled. "Your motivation is that I will send you to a world of torment, impetuously. You will suffer for your obstinate behavior." He tilted his head, regarding her with maddening amusement. No need to doubt his words, as his words were too impeccable, to be nothing but true. It fit his image, as he had demonstrated through the passage of time.

They stood, frozen for the moment, eyeing each other in a battle of wills.

Angered beyond comprehension, Carrie shot out blindly with her hands, igniting a dark embezzled orb of negative energy. Caught surprised, Dracula tilted in free fall before dissipating and fluctuated behind the girl. Surprised by her new found discovery, she was motionless and susceptible to all forms of intrusions. With a roar, Dracula paced behind the girl that amused him so laughing all the way.

Grasping the girl within one hand around the nape, he dug his fingers in hearing a yelp before he shoved her down into the wooden boards exploding with negative energy. The fire danced, singeing her back in all its blazing glory. As soon as it had started, it vanished. He was still laughing, damn him, laughing!

She hoisted herself onto her feet and lunged at the laughing man half hoping he would continue to hurt her, hoping he'd kill her, so she wouldn't have to endure this hell anymore and it would all be over.

He intercepted her indolently, alighting a tremor as he caught her negligible attempt of attack on his visage with a back hand eliciting blood from her face, before covering it with his other hand and hurtling her semi circle at the far wall. Her spine squealed in remonstration from the collusion forming an indention.

No longer able to stand on her own two feet, she collapsed under her own feeble weight. What she could see was the motionless wall, lacking in detail and originality. What she could hear was the vibration of plodding. Denied the chance to nurse her wounds, she screamed as she found her stomach grinding under pressure. Then a moment of awkward hold, before she was kicked, sending her half sliding, rolling to the next wall. The wood splintered under the savage acrobatics. As she came to a sliding halt, she coughed a mouthful of blood before her eyes pronounced the trail of the very liquid that keeps her alive ajar, sacrilegiously spread.

Then she couldn't see, blinded somehow. She ascended her arms up to her eyes, feeling something iron like upon her scalp. Could be no other than the doing of Dracula. Now, too weak to fight, she hung there back against the wall, her eyes glossed. Her arms spread against the wall in their own accord, pinning herself against the cold surface. The force holding her back far surpassed any she had encountered before. With a wave of his hand, he had manipulated, or lighter for words forced her body as if it were crucified to the wall. His will was his power.

Pleased with his work, the count let go, and paced a few steps back admiring his work. His voice authoritative and severe, and face animated and alight with sadistic pleasure was the center of attention.

'He's enjoying this. . .' she realized.

She wanted to curse him, scream at him, voice her frustration at him, but there were no words powerful enough to ignite the fury she felt. And underneath it all, was a small sad voice, mourning 'Wisp me away far from here. . . I'm dieing now. . .'

She tried to speak, but it came out as inaudible moaning.

Leisurely, Dracula strolled over to the artistic life-like craft of his own masterpiece, brushing her hair away revealing the quite visible scrape on her forehead, already replenishing the damaged tissue with new at an accelerated rate.

"Ah, how I admire your eyes. They seem to accent a promise of death. You and I are not so different. . ." he commented with much sarcasm, while tracing her scalp with the back of his hand, stroking it affectionately.

Her rage was red mist before her eyes, if she'd had access to that power again, she'd have gladly cast him away to oblivion.

He saw she had not been listening, too deep in her own agenda for retribution. He propelled his hand claw-like into her ribcage punctuating it, alighting another heart warming scream.

"Please listen when I'm speaking. . ." he spoke softly voiced a bit louder than he meant to, as he absentmindedly stroking her clavicle straightening out the wrinkles of her dress before yanking out his arm from her stomach, toweling it off with the hem of it. Every pain streaked expression that crossed her features was so exciting! It didn't matter that he painted her cloths with the color of red, as a considerable puddle was forming a foundation of its own. Panting, sweat brewing from her brows, she nodded wretchedly. Whether it be from acknowledgement, or simply to humor him, was of no consolation to him. After all, who was at who's mercy?

Releasing her from her prison with a snap of his fingers, she dropped to the welcoming floor exhausted, on all four staring at the boards. Free from the restraints, yet not the strength to pull her through to satisfy her hatred, and see it through to relinquish its hold plaguing her mind.

A pale arm came into vision and she feared it, before she was confused as all it menstruated was a slight shift of her chin, to face its owner. Being courageous, she clumsily managed a half decent glare that shifted with that of fear and vice versa.

"You know," he whispered to no one in particular, but only to the audience of one, "You have nothing to gain from this. . . Your not a hero, your not. . . a martyr. Your only human. By being brave. . . courageous. . . defiant. . . all your doing is making this harder on yourself, seeing how I do so enjoy your petty attempts on my life." He laughed softly for her sake. "In the real world, there are no heroes. . . There are just. . . people, who make the sensible choices. Choosing the lesser of two evils. . ." he continued, with a tone of a teacher trying to teach a stupid pupil to understand some fundamental concept.

Carrie growled breathlessly in objection.

"I admire your persistence, really. . . I really do. In some ways, you remind me of myself. . ." Then his eyes glinted, mischievously before facts made themselves clear. They were in ways so alike after all.

"But, no one will blame you for making the sensible choice. The only choice! I very much doubt your mother would have wanted you to throw away your life." Persuading with seductive half honest words synthesizing with her. That did the trick; she seemed to be contemplating what he spoke. He smiled at that, while curling his fingers in strands of her fringe playfully.

"You've been very, very brave! But it's time to stop now, for your sake, not mine. Playtime is over. . ." He stopped his menstruations on her hair, and let his finger trail lightly down her forehead, the bridge of her nose, her pleasant lips, and the hallow of her throat, before tracing his mark delicately meticulously around the exotic skin. How he wanted to ravage her neck and consume her life, but he held back his bloodlust. It wouldn't do to give her another reason to accept her offer rationally. He tipped her head, breaking her out of her reverie.

His expression was almost absentminded, eyes narrowed regarding as he turned and disappeared in a pillar of light after he let sink, the lingering words that foretold of their next untimely meeting.

"Do give me the answer I'm longing to hear the next we meet. . ."

Left to wander her own thoughts, a conflict of rational ensued. Fact and fiction mixed to one as they could hardly be discerned in a tortured mind. What was real? And what was fiction? The answer lied not within the grasps of the troubled.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

The events unfolding beyond the castle walls. . .

The burning ores of fire danced upon the death littered battlefield. The cries of mother Earth rumbled beneath the mass grave of fallen soldiers. The blades of the virtue lay in symphony with those of the wicked, embedded within the crimson soaked dirt or rested in the embodiments of warriors. The final resting place where a weapons crave for blood is satisfied, it lay at peace. Towers of black fog and fumes transcending the air to the heavens impeding the evening skies that desired to shed some light upon this dark and gloomy field. Two hands full of pockets lay waste to the once fertile grassland, now taunted with death and decay. Times of war are never glorious, where heroes arise from the bowels of despair. It is not for those of the fainted hearted, for it is a foul stench filling atmosphere, the chaos which brings order. . .

A slaughter would be a mockery of those who had witnessed its birth, to its adolescence. A massacre would be befitting to what transpired here, the eyes of the dead once blazing with the fires of bravery and pride, reduced to the cowering fear that consumes all who partake in this tragedy of tragedies.

Who was responsible for this? Dare they think it be the face of evil, the absence of empathy knocking at yonder door? A needless bloodshed, exampling them of a predetermined destiny of a demon king. There was no other than he.

The soulless crossed through the field of their fallen brethren, swords drawn stepping over the warriors of the earlier stages of battle. The devil's flames soaring high whipped against the onslaughts of the howling black wind. A field of red lay baron, in its lack of light. Small flares intermittently over the horizon, from the coals which had once stood purged, now desecrated.

Those servants of holy that remained shifting the scales of war, dirtied by the trampled mud, covered in ash by the licking fires. As the outcome was swayed once more by renewed vigor, the gusts of wind blew bringing silence, only peace in its wake. The price was staked too high, but in return it exiled the darkness back to their caverns and dens from whence they came.

In the midst of chaos, the will driven survivors slowly dropped to their knees and heaves a heavy sigh as they gaze over the destruction. The sweet melody of victory chorused in crescendo around these men. But though they see it with their own eyes, their ears are blinded, hearing only the silence. With one final silent prayer, they too parted with their swords to the ashes and cinders finished with their purpose, as they too soon joined their fallen to the soil they so fought for. They left their flesh back to its mother from whence it belonged naturally, and logically.

And yet. . . it was only the beginning. . . of things to come. For tonight, let them mourn in silence as the spirits of their friends find peace with themselves in another plain of existence. Let them forever remember this day forever within their labyrinthine halls.

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

To reconcile oneself is what one practices when one is caught in a dilemma, neither agreeing nor disagreeing the facts that lay yet to be unraveled. Its influence now lay on a fellow practitioner, to share its warmth. The traveling lantern seeped away and returned impeding the corruption of her thoughts all the quicker, as it stopped for no one. Finding the faith she so believed in fall prey to that of conflicting belief of another dimmed the resistance of a once self assured individual of the credibility of her own actions. The different point of view unintentionally partaking, carried the questioning of her own existence, to that of what she believed. What she wanted to believe. . .

And yet. . . all good things must come to an end, to make way for a destined future, gloomy and shrouded as it may be. For no future is assured, by faulty prophecy or witchcraft. It is manifested from the actions of the worms that slither, creep, and crawl. Determined by the categorized underhanded, deceitful, greedy, and the ambitious. It births as a single river that divides to smaller streams where each leads to a new destiny.

She could stare only numbly at him now, how had this happen? Whatever joy she had felt remaining alive rapidly diminished to non-existence at what a monster her captor was. Dying, was nothing compared to what he could, and would do. Standing motionless, her thoughts an enigma of whirling chaos. The harsh discord of assent to a proposition was clamoring at her consciousness, as she closed her eyes to clear her mind.

The evil in her heart brewing, its voice grew as her resolve shattered.

'You wanted life.' A part of her said. 'You wanted it, and now you have it!' it dripped with sarcasm.

'Not like this,' the other half replied, 'Not at his mercy. Not at the expense of all life!'

Her selfish wish had been granted, and yet she felt empty. Self loathing was her comfort as she sank wallowing in self pity. She was like a criminal feeling the guilt of her actions, but not a criminal. Felt like a thief stealing a favor, but not a thief. Rekindled, they sank deeper into the recesses from whence they came. For, there was no answer that required to be heard. For that was exactly how she was living, at his mercy.

And as much as she dreaded it, denied it, the fact that she had survived was going to bring about the history of an unholy war.

Walking back to the bed with a rending sob, she awaited his arrival, as dreaded as it may be. For he was waiting for the honest reply from one who had lost their own innocence. It must have been his influence, which shaped her to this pathetic being that now stood. But how odd this was. . . That she should still retain some grace even in a change of heart. The tears wouldn't stop. She wept, they seeped though she had accepted this second life. Why was it no matter how she brushed the glistening sparkles from her eyes, they oddly wouldn't go away?

She slept very little that night as was the previous night. She could not bring herself to flicker off the light and confine herself to the dark shadows that she knew were lurking. Outside, she heard the howling winds shrieking fiercely, and huddled beneath the blankets on the bed. She could only imagine how bitterly cold it was out there, beyond these warm walls. Apprehensively she realized that all time to herself had come to an end. From this point onwards she would have to force herself in his captivity. Though she suffered heavy lethargy, she did not sleep well this night. . . Not at all. . .

'How ironic. . .' she thought bitterly, finally understanding what it all meant. Somberly, she smiled.

'How ironic that I wish I was dead. . .'

~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~

He was as good as his word. The next crack of dawn the door opened quietly, admitting him. He leaned against the frame, arms folded. His eyes peered into the room roaming the very décor of any new additions, before locking gaze at Carrie standing awkwardly. She awaited him to voice his thoughts, her own in abject turmoil to voice it in any understandable form other than gibberish.

"Good morning." He greeted her thick with sarcasm. He opened his eyes then, adjusting to the sparks of fire dancing in within these four walls. She didn't bother to reply, just nodding resolutely acknowledging him. He took his time stepping pass the floor boards towering over her, before he sighed and hugged the girl, lacking the warmth the gesture should have provided. Burning the fragrance of his fruits of labor, he held her shoulders arms length grinning, ceasing the moment.

"I'm glad. . ." he spoke sighing, accented with a sardonic smile. Tossing a bundle into her awaiting arms, Carrie looked at what she handled. She found it to be made of pink fabric. She held it up and let it hang free. It was a sundress, which made her question if the vampire before her if he really was Dracula.

'I guess I'm suppose to wear this. . .' she thought. Even though it was a nice dress, she found herself mirthlessly finding no joy in her own predicament.

As if reading her mind, he spoke "I want you ready," he stressed the word, "And clean when I call upon you."

She swallowed. There were so many implications to what he said, and she didn't want to dwell on anyone of them. Whatever it may be was perhaps better off ignored. Beginning to slip out of her tattered clothing, she eyed him once more. He took the hint and turned. Removing her current wear thick with her marks, she lacked the modesty to cover herself as she eased the dress on one sleeve at a time. It was easy to move in, and she instantly felt its warmth. Twirling before a mirror, she found herself liking what she saw. That is till the magic was ruined catching Dracula regarding her skeptically for a long moment, as if attempting to discern whether she was worth the efforts to serve him, and apparently finding her lacking.

She was after all, nothing more than a slave, and peasant. But when he dwelled upon it, did it not take peasants to build a kingdom?

He said nothing however, and beckoned her to follow as he lead the way. She followed as there was nothing else she could do, that would make a difference. . . his words still lingered within the recesses of her mind. . .

~Flashback. . .~

"You have nothing to gain from this. . . Your not a hero, your not. . . a martyr. Your only human. By being brave. . . courageous. . . defiant. . . all your doing is making this harder on yourself. . ."

~End Flashback. . .~

She was caught as effectively as a spider's web catching a fly. Once you visit, there was no way back, no where else to go. From the room, they walked through a long hall passing identical doors like the one she had been captive under, with a lack of indifference till they traveled down a winding staircase. These rampant parts she had not ventured, as there was no need to be here. Reaching the end of the steps, there stood a huge gate with two stone gargoyles.

She knew that they were not what they appeared to be, creepy motionless pieces of stone decorations. Oh no, they were much more than that. She had witnessed these fiends with her own eyes, how they would creep as inconspicuously as a cat, ready to pounce at a moments notice of unaware. But for now, they remained indifferent and remained what they were, a pair of stone sculptures and nothing more, just like what they were suppose to be. For now, they obviously recognized their master, and understood that she was under his dark protection.

He gave another look of unfeigned interest in her. Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, she took a hesitant step back before following him through the gates as the hinges screeched open welcomingly.

As she had expected, the outside air was thick, and harshly cold. As she breathed deep it wasn't as smooth as it should have been. As she exhaled, a thick cloud rose up disappearing into the night sky. She watched in numb despair as the air slowly darkened, second by second, as the intricate shape of light in the darkened sky slowly reached its peak. Tapping her shoulder, breaking her out of her reverie, Dracula glanced at her before motioning her ahead through the garden maze. For another moment she hesitated, and considered his reaction if she should suddenly start running from him, screaming wildly.

But then counseling her stupid idea, who would assist her? Roused from her frightened cries? The dead most likely, but still there was a chance small as it may be that another would answer her. Or if there was, recognize the evil before her, Dracula Vlad Tepes, and merely close their minds to her plight and pretend they had seen nothing? He watched scathing at her every move, silently daring her to attempt escape. Unwilling to test her limits, she lowered her head and continued the way he indicated.

It appeared that winter was setting in. The drifts were inch or two high, breaking a path through it was indifferent than walking on the dirt beneath. But it was enough to cover a natural danger, and she stumbled and fell on a covered step. Not wanting to irritate the man further, she quickly got back on her feet and limped on. The pace she set was excruciatingly painful as it agitated the injury. But showing weakness was never a good idea, so she continued with a mask of indifference. She had no idea how long they traveled, as she paid very little attention to the scenery and concentrated more meticulously on putting one foot in front of the other. Her extremities slowly grew numb and taxing, the temperature before only a minor nuisance caused the wound on her leg to ache sharply. She was able to lose herself in her thoughts, as her companion said nothing, and that was fine with her. And so she mulled over every event, fear, and concern she had multiple times, until her head pounded in rhythm to match her slow, faltering steps.

Not paying the crucial attention required on where she was going, she tripped and fell over another snow layered elevation. Recovering her bearings, she shook the cobwebs out of her head and tried to hoist herself to her feet for the second time, she collapsed under her own weight. She didn't have to ask to know they needed time to recuperate. She heard an exasperated sigh behind her, before she was hoisted upright onto the soles of her feet. He had turned her so that she was directly facing him, but she did not want to see the disdainful condescension in that luminous gaze. So instead she focused on the golden clasps of his coat which lined the front.

"Look at me." He ordered, his words falling on deaf ears in the blanketed silence around them. Mulishly she didn't want to, but reluctantly she raised her redder than normal crimson eyes from the chilling wind, to his. He frowned. . . and unrepentantly lowered himself to her level inspecting her injury with greater care than an artist on a masterpiece.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he positioned his arms roughly underneath her, lifting the girl from the ground. He carried her with ease, holding her securely underneath her knees and back.

She couldn't help but stare wide eyed at the man. They were captured, and glinting with curiosity as it suddenly felt a bit warm. Never in her wildest imagination would she have pictured him doing such close gestures himself. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? From a short glimpse, she thought she had seen concern within those depths, and his actions she couldn't logically explain either. If she had known that he too was thinking along the same lines, the answers would have been clearer, instead of the misty haze of confusion it presented.

Glancing down at where she laid bundled against his chest and meeting her gaze, he asked with some disgust.

"Are all mortals this feeble?"

Breaking the magic, she replied sarcastically. She wondered at times where she still had the strength to retain her resolve.

"Compared to you, yes."

He snorted, and returned to his pacing as they had wasted enough time already. He was not a very patient man after all. She moved her eyes to the golden fastenings on his dark trench coat, finding them fascinating in her current state of mind. That was until her attention was drawn to his long ocean hair drifting behind his rugged lengthy strides under the gentle breeze. They were thin and deadly looking, comparable to copper wires.

She had no inclination of what to do or where they were going, as he walked the remainder of the way to their destination in silence. She hadn't been paying much attention to the scenery anyways, so that was moot.

"Where are we going?" she regarded him with open curiosity. He didn't refrain a step answering to her question nonchalantly.

"That doesn't matter." He replied, smirking. "Will you come peacefully?