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mx-lamour · 3 months

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4 - Bloodstain

Strahd von Zarovich sat before the hearth. Despite its blazing warmth, he felt cold. He was slumped heavily in his chair, long legs stretched out in front of him lackadaisically; his steepled fingers barely touched his chin as he stared through the dancing flames. There was nothing to be seen within them—not that he possessed that particular ability.

It had been nearly a year since that fateful night, when he had plunged the Ba’al Verzi dagger into Sergei’s chest. When he’d sucked the blood from his brother’s wound, and washed it from his hands. Nearly a year since Leo Dilisnya had enacted his treasonous plot to execute Ravenloft’s mass of guests. When Strahd himself had been struck through with enough arrows to kill him several times over, and still had not died.

It had been nearly a full year since Tatyana had fled from his embrace and flung herself from the overlook. His heart ached to think of it.

One more night.

He still had not found her body.

A fervent rap at the window excised Strahd from his reverie. His frown deepened. There should be nothing there to make such a noise. No trees handy to brush their limbs against the glass. A bat would have the faculties to avoid collision with a solid surface, and not many other creatures had occasion—nay, nor the desire—to venture this high up on castle grounds.

. . .

The place was devoid of movement; devoid of life.

Janath should be here at his post. But, even as the thought occurred to him, it seemed unlikely. A thick layer of dust coated the floor. The remains of delicate spiderwebs draped from the walls.

A chill ran along Alek’s spine. He listened hard within the stairwell, but could hear neither the rustling of his men in the barracks below, nor any sign of the hundreds of guests who should be inhabiting the rooms above. The stairwell itself was unfathomably dark.

Alek ducked his head back out of it, fear welling up past his initial shock, and strode into the chapel. What he saw there did little to reassure him. Several of the gorgeous windows were smashed. Whole pews were overturned. The trappings of the altar were strewn about the floor, among fragments of colorful glass. Alek carefully rifled through the mess in the moonlight, until he discovered a means to light the torch he plucked from its iron mount on the wall.

The rapid clapping of his boots against the stone floors echoed in the halls through which he ran. He checked a few of the guest rooms, just to be thorough, but their desolate interiors only added to his growing dread. They would all look the same, all smell of the same stale air. He climbed another flight of stairs, taking them now two at a time, racing toward Strahd’s quarters.

Alek hesitated, heart in his throat. What if he found only more of the same? Only cobwebs and dust and broken things, and… had there really been bloodstains on the floor beneath his feet?

A dozen possibilities flashed through his mind, of what might be waiting for him if he crashed through the door of Strahd’s study. But worst of all was the empty room.

He went a longer way, to stall the inevitable. From the outer walk, he reasoned, he would be able to look in through the windows, to see into both the study and Strahd’s bedroom. Outside, there was no dust nor blood—although a passing rain could have washed it all away.

Alek peered into the first window, Strahd’s bedroom. The darkness inside was too thick to peer into. Holding his torch up to the glass only showed him the reflection of his own desperate face.

But there was a light ahead, he realized. The flickering glow from the next window mimicked that of his own torch. The hearth must be lit. New hope seized Alek like a breath of fresh air. His chest ached with it. How long had he been holding his breath?

He hurried to the lighted window and looked inside. And there was Strahd, slouched in front of the fire, hands steepled, deep in thought. Alek couldn’t remember the last time he felt such palpable relief. He rapped his knuckles on the glass.

. . .

Strahd turned his head. And froze.

“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”

Strahd’s elbows slid from the arms of the chair. He braced himself to stand, but found himself reluctant to do so. Was this a ghost? Had Alek’s ghost come to haunt him? Or…

His eyes darted toward his bedroom, and the closet within, where Strahd had stashed the body of his chief of security, and the corpse had… disappeared.

“Strahd!” Alek called again, now slapping his palm against the window.

Perhaps he had survived, after all. And now he had come back… to do what? Why had he not appeared before? Where had he been, then, when Dilisnya and his men had massacred the castle’s inhabitants?

Hope and anger both roiled within Strahd, and together they propelled him to his feet. The anger flattened when Alek finally climbed into the room, and immediately tugged Strahd into a strong embrace. Just as quickly, Alek drew back, but his hands retained a firm grip on Strahd’s shoulders. “What happened?” he gasped.

Didn’t he know?

Strahd grasped Alek’s arms. “What do you remember?”

The full force of his gaze wiped all expression from Alek’s face. “The wedding is tomorrow.”

Strahd blinked against the stab of pain that pierced his chest.

“I was doing the rounds,” Alek explained, regaining his momentum. “The keep should be full to the brim with people! But between one step and the next, everyone was gone. My men, the servants, all the guests…” He let out a shaky breath. Strahd finally noticed, with astounding clarity, the man’s racing pulse. Alek squeezed Strahd’s shoulders tighter and whispered, “We’re the only ones left.”

Strahd gently extricated himself from Alek’s grasp, turning back toward the hearth to think.

He didn’t remember, then. Alek didn’t remember coming here, to Strahd’s study. He remembered nothing about the deal Strahd had made with Death, nor the fight which ensued between them. He didn’t remember Strahd running him through, slitting his throat, drinking his life’s blood…

It was impossible. How had he survived, unless he had become like Strahd himself? But his lungs still drew air. His heart still pumped warm blood through his veins. Alek was well and truly alive.

An abrupt choking sound behind him.

Strahd whipped around. Alek staggered back, clutching his stomach, brow furrowed with pain and sudden confusion. They both looked down. A vibrant splash of red seeped into Alek’s shirt beneath his hand.

Strahd watched in horror as Alek sank to his knees, defiantly swallowing the urge to vomit up the blood undoubtedly pooling inside his gut. He even tried to stand again. Couldn’t yet fathom he was dying. Where had the wound come from? Even as he thought it, Strahd already knew the answer.

Unable to right himself, Alek settled himself onto the floor instead, a bloody pantomime of lying down for a nap. His eyes were barely slits as he struggled to remain conscious, but he kept them fixed on Strahd’s face.

“It’s… all right,” Alek whispered, despite the scent of fear on him. He coughed with the effort, and the blood pooling in his cheek dribbled onto the floor. “...found you.”

Strahd flinched outright as a torrent of hunger rolled through him. A thin red line drew itself across Alek’s throat.

His own throat burning, Strahd dropped to his knees. His eyes were burning, too, stung by the sight of Alek’s precious blood—so much of it—pooling around his head like a dark halo, staining his blond hair. Strahd crawled toward him weakly.

From the open window, a delicate fog crept in. It crawled along the floor, too, slowly enveloping Alek’s body like a shroud. Strahd reached for Alek through the unusual cloud. He thought, for a moment, that his hand touched cloth and flesh… but then only the cold, hard floor.

When the fog dissipated, Alek’s body was gone.

. . .

Strahd drowned the rest of the night in books, though he didn’t dare open the accursed tome with the Heart’s Desire spell swimming in its pages. Instead, he sought other ghosts—any information he could find on hauntings and their infinite peculiarities.

What he found failed to be of any use. The writings nearly always described the spirits as transparent or wisp-like, except for the erroneous mentions of skeletal undead. There were accounts of spirits who seemed to be stuck in a particular moment in time, like an image of the past impressed faintly upon the present, ever doomed to repeat itself. But even this was incongruent with the events he had just witnessed.

Alek was alive, or had been for those fleeting minutes. He was no hazy specter, but as solid and real as Strahd himself. He was intelligent; he acted on new information, rather than simply going through the motions of a past event.

The one detail that did align were Alek’s wounds. The fatal wounds of his death a year prior had blossomed on his body again this night without warning. Strahd wondered: Had it been the same hour, the same moment that Alek had first suffered them? Strahd had not the proper knowledge to mend such wounds, but if he had…? What then? Would Alek still be here, whole again, by his side?

Strahd slammed the book shut and shoved it across the table. It did not quite fall off the edge.

Had he been given a second chance, only to squander it?

Then another thought occurred to him: Tomorrow.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

. . .

Strahd waited on the overlook, a thick black cape draped over his shoulders.

It was tempting to wait within the desecrated chapel, where he and Tatyana had finally shared their first—and last—kiss. Perhaps it would no longer be their last, but that would depend entirely on the success of his actions now. He could not know when or where she would appear, so he would prepare himself for only the worst possibility. Alek had apparently run through most of the castle before he had found Strahd in his study, but to rely on that same variable of time in Tatyana’s case might be foolish. He might linger in the chapel only to watch through the windows as she appeared in the garden beyond, already in full sprint toward the balcony.

Would she think to stop in time? Strahd couldn’t be certain.

So he waited, in the space that should be her intended path, with his back to the sheer drop of the cliff face below, ready to catch her in his arms and hold on tightly to her forever after.

He waited.

And waited.

Until the predicted hour had passed, and prickling apprehension began to crawl under his skin.

And still, he waited. Because he could not be sure when or where Tatyana would appear. He only knew that, if she did appear, he could not allow her to die a second time.

Strahd waited, stock still, eyes searching, until the peaky light of dawn crept in over his shoulders. Let it, he thought. He could not bear to leave this opportunity behind.

But the early rays of the morning sun grew swiftly hotter, until Strahd could no more endure their radiant light than he could the overwhelming ache of grief. He dissolved himself into mist to escape both, and reconstituted himself within the shadows of Ravenloft’s desolate halls. Grimly, with his incredible hearing, he listened for any other sign of life. Perhaps Tatyana had materialized within the chapel after all, and had come inside to look for…

But he heard nothing.

Strahd retreated numbly to his crypt, to welcome deathlike slumber.

. . .

Another year passed. Almost.

A rapping at his study window provided Strahd an uncanny feeling of deja vu.

“Strahd!” Alek’s muffled voice called through the glass. “Open up.”

This time Strahd wasted no time. He unlatched the window and Alek climbed through, just as he had before, tugging Strahd into a swift embrace. “Everyone is gone!” he said, as though Strahd couldn’t have known. Alek drew back, though his hands still clasped Strahd’s shoulders. “My men, the guests, the servants—all of them. We’re the only ones left.”

“I know,” Strahd replied, grasping Alek’s arms. He gazed at Alek’s alarmed face, looking into his pale eyes.

Alek’s racing heart slowed, and he sighed. But a light crease formed between his brows, mirroring Strahd’s deeper concern. “I’m going to die,” he whispered.

Strahd glanced down at Alek’s throat. Swallowed the hunger rising in his own. “No,” he said firmly.

“What happened?” Alek urged.

Where to begin?

“There’s no time to explain.” Strahd turned, pulling himself halfheartedly from Alek’s grasp to run his hand across a shelf of books. Alek followed close behind him, curious.

“What—”

“Alek!” Strahd clenched his fist. “...hush,” he said, deliberately gentle, releasing the tension in his fingers to pull forth one of the tomes. He flipped it open on his arm and rifled through the pages.

“What are you looking for?” Alek whispered, unable to contain himself.

“A spell,” Strahd said impatiently.

Suitably cowed for the moment, Alek pursed his lips. He glanced back at the window briefly.

Strahd shook his head angrily as he flipped through the symbols and incantations. A spell to mend a small tear in an object. A spell to reduce an object or whole person in size. A spell to acquire for oneself a temporary boost in stamina. None of them were quite right.

“Damn it all!” he cursed aloud.

Alek coughed and staggered. One hand flew out to catch himself on the book case; the other clutched at his stomach.

Strahd reached out to grasp the front of Alek’s shirt, keeping him upright. He skimmed through another page before dropping the open book to the floor. He would have to improvise.

“Stay with me,” he commanded.

Alek nodded, defiantly swallowing back the blood and bile that rose in his throat. His knuckles were white on the bookshelf.

Strahd pushed Alek’s hand away from the wound, and shuddered when a sudden wave of intense blood-thirst threatened to blind him. He lost the strength to hold up both himself and Alek; together, the men fell to their knees.

Strahd muttered a string of words that Alek couldn’t recognize and that Strahd had half made-up as he spoke. A sickly glowing swirl of muted colors hovered in the space between Strahd’s fingers and the wound.

“It’s all right,” Alek rasped, clenching his jaw against the racking cough that followed.

“I’m afraid it’s not,” Strahd whispered. He abandoned the wavering, half-baked spell, knowing it would do no good. Knowing what would happen next.

Strahd pulled Alek into his arms—Alek held him weakly in turn—and when the thin red line appeared in his throat—

Strahd drank.

Mouth open and pressed to Alek’s throat, Strahd drank from the well of his life a second time.

It sickened him. Not in the way that the blood of animals seemed to. Strahd had experimented with that after assisting a pack of wolves in their own wild hunt one night. Not only had he found no sustenance in it, but he had been subjected to the cramped roiling of a poisoned gut and could not keep the stuff down.

This was not the same kind of sickness, for the taste of Alek’s blood was satiating almost to the point of ecstasy. No, the sickness he felt now had nothing to do with his body.

Alek’s heart had stopped beating, but still Strahd held the man in his arms, his face buried against the curve of Alek’s shoulder. He didn’t notice the tendrils of mist spilling in through the open window. He didn’t notice when it swirled around himself and the man who had truly been his closest and most trusted friend, covering them up like a shroud.

He didn’t notice, until the body in his arms began to fade from his grasp, gradually slipping away, until there was nothing left to hold onto.

Strahd sat there for what could have been minutes or hours, staring at the empty floor. His lip quivered, his shoulders lurched. He grit his teeth.

Then he rose. As he always would; as he always must…

And closed the window.

. . .

The following years were much the same. Again, Strahd hoped that Alek’s coming would precede Tatyana’s, and he waited for her, in the chapel, or in the garden, or there on the overlook again, all to no avail. Until he had satisfied himself that she would never grace him with the beauty of her presence again, no matter how long he waited. Only then did Strahd turn his attention back on Alek Gwilym with the full force of his convictions.

He scoured the contents of his library many times over, forcefully entreating his boyars to turn up any other magical book or artifact they could find. Unfortunately, as Barovia had been barred from any exit or entry by its dense misty borders, there was very little to be found.

Strahd attempted to learn healing magic, so that he might try again to seal Alek’s wounds and prevent his ultimate demise. However, his fears were realized when he discovered himself wholly antithesis to it. Any attempt to repair a tear or cut, either human or animal, was met with disastrous results. Instead of the soft knitting of flesh he remembered from the work of Ilona’s wizened hands, the wound would fester and grow.

He practiced necromancy, then, and found that he could create a semblance of life within the dead. But only a semblance of life. The corpses became mindless, shambling things, beholden to simple commands. Try as he might, Strahd could not master a true resurrection.

There were a string of years thereafter, in which Strahd couldn’t bear to let Alek inside. Instead, he held Alek’s gaze through the window, attempting to hold him steady. But, though his body calmed itself under Strahd’s thrall, Alek continued to look worried.

One year, Alek raised his hand and pressed his palm against the leaded glass.

Trembling, Strahd’s hand rose to meet it.

“It’s all right,” Strahd murmured, before Alek could say it himself.

Alek died. Strahd’s claws left deep grooves in the window pane.

It was not all right.

. . .

Rather than waiting in his study again for the inevitable, Strahd set out to track down the exact point of Alek’s return.

He found him closing the door on an empty guest room. “Alek,” Strahd whispered, and Alek startled. Then his face lit up. He bounded toward the end of the hall where Strahd stood, partly obscured by shadow, and sighed heavily in relief.

Then he noticed Strahd’s face in the torchlight, and backpedaled. “What happened?” he gasped. “I heard—”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Strahd said smoothly.

Alek glanced around anyway. “Everyone is gone. Ravenloft is in ruins…” He gestured to Strahd, shifting his eyes most notably to Strahd’s lightly pointed ears. “What happened to you? Where have I been?”

So the passage of time had become obvious to him.

“I do not have all the answers,” Strahd said. “Tell me—You were patrolling the grounds—Where?”

Alek led him back through the castle, down a flight of stairs, to a landing near the chapel. “I’d stationed Jarath here,” he explained. Strahd could not put a face to the name, but it had obviously been one of the guards. “I thought he’d left his post, and that’s when I noticed… everything else.”

Rather than the frantic worry he’d built up by the time it took him to reach Strahd’s quarters in previous years, Alek now looked deflated. He had failed, he knew, and the weight of his failure pressed upon his shoulders.

“Alek…”

Strahd swallowed thickly. It would happen any moment now.

“It’s all right,” he said roughly, placing a hand on Alek’s shoulder. Strahd pulled gently, and Alek leaned forward with little resistance, wrapping a firm arm around Strahd.

“At least I found you,” Alek muttered.

Grimacing, Strahd bared his fangs. Alek flinched when they pierced his flesh, but Strahd drank quickly, holding the man fast to his breast, and spared him the rest of his wounds.

He watched the mists envelop Alek and spirit his body away. As the white swirls tumbled through his fingers, like the fine sands of an unfathomable hourglass, Strahd whispered to himself, “Next year.”

. . .

This began a string of years in which, when Alek asked again “What happened?” Strahd tried to explain it to him.

In the first of those years, Strahd sat him down in the ruined chapel and spoke quietly and earnestly about all that had transpired, and all that would happen to him once their time was up. The words tumbled out of him, low and soft, and Strahd had never seen Alek so deeply heartbroken. They gripped each other’s hands while tears flowed down both their faces, Strahd’s tinted a ridiculous orange-pink with the blood that sustained him. He felt that not nearly enough time had passed before the wound in Alek’s abdomen appeared, met with only a pained grunt while his eyes remained locked on Strahd’s face.

Alek removed a long hand from Strahd’s grasp to caress that face, pallid and sharp-eared, yet still the same Strahd that he had known only this morning—or rather, twenty-seven years before this morning—and brushed his thumb across Strahd’s cheek.

“It’s all right,” he said, before Strahd could object.

And then he said something else.

The roar that filled the chapel after Alek disappeared rattled what was left of the chapel windows. It sent scores of bats flapping and screeching into the night. Strahd screamed until his throat was raw, and then he dropped his head into his hands, and sobbed.

. . .

The second of those years… didn’t count. Knowing that the night was upon him, Strahd fled to his aerie in the face of Mount Ghakis, a narrow channel in the rock that even he could only reach in the form of bat or mist, and closed himself off to the possibility. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the wind howling past the mountain’s peak.

But there was no wind.

There was always wind, this high up, in this godforsaken place.

Not tonight.

Whether he truly could or not, Strahd thought he could hear the sound of footsteps running through Castle Ravenloft. He thought he could hear Alek calling his name, his voice echoing through the empty halls. He thought he could hear Alek’s heartbeat growing faster, until the rush of his blood filled Strahd’s ears and his whole body contorted with the pains of his thirst. He hadn’t forgotten to feed, early that evening, but it felt like he hadn’t done so in months, or even years.

Then it was over, and the silence and the absence of physical hurt was even more unbearable.

“Take me,” Strahd demanded, lying in his makeshift crypt deep in the top of Mount Ghakis. “Take me!” But even as he said it, pounding his fists against the top of the stony recess, Strahd knew he had nothing left with which to bargain. Death already held both of the men in its sinister claws. It held everything in Barovia—Strahd, and the land he had bound himself to; it held them prisoner.

That year, Alek could not tell him it was all right.

. . .

It was better, then, to face him head-on.

“Strahd! What—”

“There is nothing left, Captain Gwilym,” Strahd said coldly. Skeletal undead filtered up from the stairwell leading down into the catacombs, from the adjoining hall and the chapel itself, until all of Ravenloft’s previous guests and traitors alike had been exhumed and were crowding around the two men, offering no outlet for escape.

If nothing else, the stench was horrible. Alek recoiled, pressing his back against the wall as the corpses shuffled closer, and drawing his sword from its scabbard. Despite its age and decay, he recognized the one called Jarath.

“A great curse has befallen Ravenloft,” Strahd declared.

There were others Alek knew. Some of their old comrades, Strahd’s boyars. Old Gunther Cosco was among them, and Ivan Buchvold. Victor Wachter’s wife, Oleka, though Victor himself was nowhere to be seen.

“There were few survivors. You, yourself, were not among them.”

“But I’m here,” Alek argued. Then he realized his mistake. “How did this happen?”

“I sold my soul to Death. The Strahd you knew is no more.”

Alek was speechless. His eyes roamed the assembled horde, but now that they had gathered around him, each one stood inert. He looked on Strahd again, heart pounding. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “Why?”

Strahd should have expected him to ask.

“I sought the love of one who would not give it.”

Alek frowned. Hadn’t he always…? “Strahd, I—”

“It had nothing to do with you.”

Alek’s eyes narrowed. The confusion was gone from his face. “You should have let me die on that cliff,” he spat. “Spared me from seeing this.”

“I hadn’t known,” Strahd whispered.

“I would have helped you,” Alek raved. “We could have faced it—whatever happened—together. No matter what.”

“I know that now.”

“Strahd, I—”

Strahd held up a hand. “Please.”

Alek balked. His heart broke with the low fracture in Strahd’s voice. Strahd did not beg.

“Any moment now, you will die, from wounds that I caused thirty years ago.”

Alek’s lips mirrored the words ‘thirty years’ but he gave no voice to them.

“I killed you, Alek.”

“But I came back.”

“Temporarily. You find yourself in this same moment every year, and every year, you die again.”

“Is this where I died?” Even as he said it, Alek winced, and clutched at his stomach. He looked down at the red welt sprouting on his clothing.

“No,” Strahd told him. “That came later.”

Alek looked back up at Strahd accusingly. “You stabbed me.”

“That is not the worst of it.”

Alek choked, and this time he did not try to hold back the spurt of blood that spilled over his chin. He breathed heavily. “I got in a few good scrapes, didn’t I?”

Strahd laughed weakly. “Pierced my heart.”

Alek laughed, too. “Damn right… rat bastard.” He coughed again. “How…?”

Strahd understood his meaning. “I opened your throat, and drank your life’s blood.”

A wide look of bewilderment crossed Alek’s face. He nodded once, cringing through the pain in his gut. “Will you—ugh!” he groaned, sliding down to the floor. “...again?”

“You will have little use for it now.”

Alek huffed. His eyes glistened. “I dare you,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do it.”

Strahd did.

. . .

The more Alek fought, the longer he lived. So, Strahd rallied him, in any way he could think to do so. This often involved a repeat of his stunt with the animated remains of Ravenloft’s guests, to frighten him just enough that his instincts as a warrior would take hold, the adrenaline would override the confusion, and he would cling to his life for all it was worth.

If the wound in his gut were to heal, Strahd wondered, would the wound in his throat never open? He found tentative hope in the idea.

But no matter how hard he struggled against it, the wound Alek suffered year after year could hardly mend itself. It could almost work, and that was more infuriating than if it had been a fast-acting wound, like Alek’s own dagger in Strahd’s chest. But even wounds that could be mended through non-magical means required rest to do so, and rest was not a resource that was available to Alek. As soon as he slipped into unconsciousness, the slit would open on his throat, and his blood would spill. From that point, the only choice left to make was whether or not Strahd would drink from that crimson fountain.

He set about his search again for more books. There were hardly any clerics in Barovia anymore, Strahd realized with dismay. Ilona had been the best he knew, but he had sent her away on that fateful night, almost forty years ago, and had not thought to contact her again. He reasoned that it had been out of respect for the old woman, who had since passed away, but now he wondered if it wasn’t some other force that had kept him at bay. Perhaps Ilona had found a means of shielding herself from the thing he had become.

An exhaustive year passed, in which Strahd had made no progress on his errand. He was no more knowledgeable or effective in the healing art than he had been before. There was no way that he could fathom to use the solstices to his advantage, either—midsummer was also infuriatingly near, but never within reach. Alek’s visits were always weeks ahead of it.

Strahd had suggested to Alek—when he’d thought of it, the year he’d grabbed Alek by the wrist and pulled him up to the library himself, so the man could help research his own antidote—the idea that he might be able to find a means of magically keeping him awake.

Alek had been more terrified of that than the idea of dying again and again. Even without a grievous injury, being forced into wakefulness for days, if not longer, would almost certainly do more harm to his human body than it would do good.

Strahd couldn’t find it in himself to push the matter. Even he needed to sleep.

So, in that year of exhaustion, in which Strahd had again made no further strides, he decided to wait for Alek to find him. There was something else he wanted to try.

Even though Strahd was waiting for it, it seemed his cold heart leapt into his throat when the rap of knuckles on his scarred window finally came.

“Alek!” he gasped, flinging the window open.

Alek climbed through the opening again, and when he threw his arms around Strahd, this time Strahd wouldn’t let him draw back. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured, pressing his cheek against Alek’s. Alek’s face was cold from the blustering wind outside, but his chest was warm and his heart fluttered rapidly against the desolate cage of Strahd’s ribs.

“I’m glad I found you,” Alek replied, after only a moment’s hesitation. “Everyone is gone,” came the echo of years past. “Ravenloft is in ruins! What happened?”

“None of that matters. Not now that you’re here.”

“Strahd…?” There was a vague tone of suspicion in Alek’s voice. He craned his head back to look at Strahd’s face. The pale, pointed ear his own sharp nose brushed against did not escape his notice.

Strahd turned into the movement.

He pressed his lips fervently upon Alek’s.

Alek grunted in surprise. His brow furrowed, breath stuttering as his mind fought to reconcile his recent terror with this new development. Only this morning, he thought, Strahd had been unusually stand-offish with him—even for Strahd. Alek, of course, did not know that the morning he was remembering had happened forty-five years ago.

But who was he, to look a gift horse in the mouth? Alek relaxed into a heady feeling of relief and kissed Strahd back just as passionately, until the need to breathe finally forced him to retreat.

“What happened?” Alek whispered again, stroking long fingers over Strahd’s hair.

“I was a fool,” Strahd whispered back. He grasped Alek’s hand and kissed it, too.

Alek laughed breathlessly. “It’s not often you admit it.” Then he grew serious. Strahd finally allowed Alek to step back, though he made sure that Alek’ hands remained firmly on his shoulders. He took one good look at Strahd’s face and asked, “How long have you been here alone?”

The wound came too fast. Alek buckled, still gripping Strahd’s shoulders.

Strahd pulled Alek back into his arms, holding him close, holding him upright. “Too long,” he admitted, through gritted teeth. “Year after year, I am forced to watch you die. Just like this. I can find no remedy. I have tried everything in my power…”

“I want to stay,” Alek said, swallowing hard.

“I know.” Strahd’s voice was thin. Alek’s body was growing weaker, heavier, in his arms. “Tell me it’s all right.”

“I don’t know… if it will be.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“Can I tell you that I…” Alek coughed, and shuddered. “...that I love you?”

Strahd turned his head, muffling himself through Alek’s hair. “Not if you go.”

“I’m sorry,” Alek whispered.

“So am I.”

“Maybe… I…” But it was too late. Alek slipped into bleak unconsciousness, and the blood he had left to spill pooled between them, soaking into the front of both their shirts.

Strahd wept. He kissed Alek’s jaw, his cheek, the unresponsive corner of his lip and that blasted mustache. Through his tears and his kisses, Strahd scowled at the approaching Mists, with a glint in his eyes like the bright red fire of fresh hell.

Strahd was the Lord of Barovia. He had gotten them both into this diabolical mess, and—one way or another—he would get them out. This was his solemn oath.

The Mists seemed to pause, their wispy white tendrils swirling pensively in the air. But they took Alek anyway. Nothing, not even the bloodstain on Strahd's shirt, remained. And the next year…

They did not give him back.

* * * EDIT - Epilogue: #3 - Sweet [Ao3 Collection] [prompt list by @syrips]

#the dark powers compelled me to write this #i had no choice #bloodstain #stralek #strahd von zarovich #alek gwilym #unfiltered unedited 15 pages ho fuck #this took the terrifying unit of 13 hours to kick out #i skipped a prompt maybe i'll get back to no. 3 #vampentine's 2024 #ravenloft spoilers #i have a love hate relationship with gene dewesse

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its-my-whump · 1 year

Text

Bloodstains

TWs: mentioning of domestic abuse , whipping, exhaustion, pain, blood

Andy was standing behind the fence separating the school premisses from the outside world, to take a smoke. He was old enough, so the teachers wouldn't intervene but smoking on school grounds was still forbidden. Just a few inhales to take the edge off.

The aftermath from the bastard of his stepfather going postal was clouding his mind. The pain was dull and manageable, but it was still regarding most of his attention. He could hardly sit, every inch his back got too near to the backrest of a chair reminded him, that he'd rather lay down on his stomach and let the cruelty of the world pass until he was able to move his body unlimited again. But he hadn't had that kind of luck.

On top of it all Pete was trying to pick a fight the whole day. Normally Andy would have jumped in on the opportunity for they couldn't really stand each other but their picking and nagging was more of a sport than a real harmful vendetta. But today Andy wasn't up to it. So he was absolutely unprepared for Pete to shove him against the brick wall while passing. Pete's big paw found a place directly beside his face while he was leaning casually against the wall. Pete hot breath in Andys face.

Unimaginable pain rushed through Andy's backside and his vision went white for a second. A short expression went through Pete's face as if he wasn't sure if he'd gone too fare. But Andy couldn't see that under his watery eyes.

Pete imagined it may be an act, for so much, what happened between those two just was an act and some harmless trial of strength to pass the time.

The big guy took Andys smoke casually with two fingers out of his mouth, although it looked like it would have fallen out any minute by the expression on his opponents face. The cigarette fell down and Pete stomped on it, inverting even more of Andys personal space. “See you in class, Dydy. Don't be late to get your ass kicked.” Pete blinked and made his way towards the building. The bell had already indicated that P.E. was about to start.

The pain in his back was excruciating. If it hadn't been for Pete's presence alone, that kept him in place pressed against the wall, Andys' knees would have buckled. The day was bad enough, not sitting properly back on a chair was noting in comparison of what would await him in gym class. Not even to think about, how an encounter with Pete in his currant condition would end.

Andy fought his short and shallow breaths down and tried to exchange them with long deep ones. He managed, the pain that had held his whole back hostage was retreating to the more uncomfortable places that stung the most. He pushed himself up from the wall and short strained steps brought him into the direction of the gym. No chance he could shoulder his backpack, so he carried it in his hand, that was shaking from the stress, that fighting down his pain and concentrate on his breathing, had brought.

He was so used to enduring whatever traces his stepfather left, this wasn't something new. He was used to hide bruises and suffer through P.E. after that bastard got drunk and used him as a punching bag the day before. Today was no different, only that he used him as a whipping boy. But he didn't do it with his belt like normally, he organised a cane. Where do you get a damn cane and why? For a belt mostly only produces wales that sting and swell, a cane does more harm. And a cane in this drunken bastards hands can not only produce pain but sheer agony.

By now, Andy was used to it, so he would manage today, like he had managed so many other days.

If his head wouldn't have been so foggy from the pain that the encounter with the brick wall just left, he would have been more cautious with the display of his bruises. The way to the gym was hard, his vision slightly flickering, but he made it into the locker room without incident.

First the rush of hot bruises, stinging from his shoulders down to his lower back and the uneasy rubbing of his shirt on open skin had subsided, but with every step the agony was rising again. His legs felt wobbly, his head was hot and foggy. Andys vision was unfocused and a lump in his throat was slowly climbing up to complicate his breathing additionally.

He hadn't noticed that he was panting by now. The backpack slipped out of his hands and went to the floor. The locker room was still full with more than half of the boys from his class. He was wearing an open button-down shirt over a white undershirt. 'Just get changed and get it over with.' Was the only reasonable thought, that had any kind of space in his cloudy mind. The pain was just too much. The number of white flickering dots dancing over his vision had severely increased since he stepped foot into the hallway towards the lockers.

The static in his ears only reached his attention because word fragments were coming through like different people were talking quietly under a thick blanket. “Oh shit.” “Go get Mister Walker.” “Andy, what happened to you?” “Dear Lord.”

People were looking at him funny, while Andy tried to get rid of his shirt. His shoulders were protesting, more pain went through his back but at some point the urgency of the hot steering flashes that shot through his nerves system to his brain getting dull. Why was everybody looking at him so strange? And why were they trying to talk without using sound?

Finally he got rid of his shirt. The back wasn't that bad anymore. It felt numb and kind of cold. With this he could work, P.E. seemed manageable all of a sudden. His shirt felt sticky, the cool breeze from out of nowhere that brushed over his bare arms let him shiver. Deep drawn hisses from somewhere behind him. What was wrong with all of them?

Pete by his side now. What was about their brightly shown vendetta all of a sudden? He looked so... concerned. Andy was holding his shirt now with both hands. It surely felt sticky and finally the other shoe dropped. “Fuck.” He had forgotten. The pain had clouded his mind. He'd forgotten to hide his bruises. Not that there was any chance of hiding this. His originally blue shirt was covered in bloodstains, a lot of them. He hadn't noticed, it were so many. Oh, his white undershirt must look much worse. No way to talk your way out of this one.

Pete was about a head higher than Andy. “You should sit down, my man.”

What? Why? He was standing perfectly fine on his … the room actually had already been spinning but it was getting worse now. The flickering dots were there the whole time too. Blackness was sweeping in from the lower rim of his vision. “..m okay.” Probably sitting wasn't such a bad idea after all.

It wasn't an active movement, his legs just giving in. His butt touched the bench for a brief second but his limbs were made of jelly all of a sudden and he just slumped down to the floor. His cheek on the cool flagging was a relief. His vision went in and out of focus a few times. His hand desperately holding on to his own bloodstained shirt was the last thing he saw before the all consuming darkness took him.

TBC (Day 27)

#whumpril2023 #whumprilday23 #whump #bloodstain #rules #writing #whump community

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