Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1921 anno domini, late autumn
Wallachia, the Kingdom of Romania

Two weeks’ worth of preparation for a wedding unlike any Wallachia has ever seen is, by all means, an exhausting period, but Vlad compares the presence of his wife to be an unending, unfaltering stimulant, and the days pass by quickly.

Perhaps it is joy—or relief—or exhaustion—that allows Vlad to focus so singularly on the commission of cooks and tailors and artisans. Elisabeta is, of course, more concerned with the logistics, and she takes up the finances with ease. It is not for nothing, it seems, that she is highly educated just in this life, not even considering the wealth of knowledge she carries from each of her prior existences.

Of course, it is not a real wedding, and they both agree on the matter—if they were not to host this spectacle, it would not affect their status as husband and wife. Deep down, however, Vlad becomes giddy at the idea of his bride clad in white like a paragon of splendor, as though it is once more their first time married.

The problem arises, however, when Vlad endeavors to locate Mr. Harker to ask for advice on the fashion of the British, and the Englishman is nowhere to be found. Even Maria, ever-present and all-knowing as she is, averts her eyes and shrugs uneasily.

Oh, Vlad thinks, sadness and irritation mixing in his chest. I should have liked to say good-bye. But it is no matter—this leaves me only more time to focus on preparations for my Goddess.

The preparations in question are endless—flowers, food, furniture, and other flagrant finery that illustrates the vast culture of Wallachia. By the fifth proposed flavor of korovai—wedding bread—Vlad is ready to delegate it all to servants, just to scrape together a moment of peace.

Although Vlad has never been afraid of hard work, the business of weddings is little more than labyrinthine. Maria assists as much as she can, but for whatever reason, she is always stealing herself away with a plate of food or flagon of wine and an excuse of being famished. At least the stealing-away ceases after only a few days, which is good news: whatever ailment from which Maria suffers has finally passed.

It is hardly an emergent matter, though, especially since she has not yet come asking to be bitten, to be transformed, which is a hell against which Vlad has no energy to argue.

With only a week left before All Saints Day, one of Vlad’s servants approaches Elisabeta's citadel with confusing news: correspondence between Elisabeta and her parents—in this life, at least—has revealed a series of bizarre truths.

“I made copies of the letters she sent,” admits the servant, a young man named Nikola, whose family have been castle groundskeepers and errandsmen for several generations. “I understand it was wrong of me, my Lord, but I felt it prudent to examine international communication in the case of whisperings of the upírov. In my examination, I came across a name I did not recognize: Mina Murray. Once I began the copying, it became clear—Mina is a name used by the Goddess Elisabeta. Perhaps it is her name in this life, or possibly it is a moniker. But the name of her is minor news—and I recommend you read the letters yourself, my Lord, for I do not understand the half of them. The responses, however, are particularly harsh. These are the originals, since there is no need to copy them.”

The exertion of wedding-planning combined with the feverish delirium that comes with being in Elisabeta’s presence once more has turned Vlad’s former irritability into some kind of placid calmness, and he does not immediately snap at Nikola to leave him be.

As it is, however, he plucks the stack of papers from Nikola’s trembling hand and nods toward the servant, who bows his head in waiting.

Mina Murray, thinks Vlad uneasily before his eyes focus on the ink of the pages. Where do I know that name? Do I know it at all? Surely it cannot be anything unfortunate, since it is, after all, just my wife’s name in this life. Of course she has parents—and of course she has an existence in her twenty-five years before we are reunited.

Mina Murray.

It is a delicate, pretty name. I suppose that must be the source of the acronym MM, which is fitting—perhaps she did not mean to omit it from me. Perhaps it simply has faded out of importance, or maybe she knew it was not her true name.

In either case, I am not hurt by it. I shall read, and make a decision from there.

He squints slightly, raises the first letter to eye level, and begins to read. His spoken English is good, but reading it is another beast entirely, especially given Elisabeta’s formal, elegant penmanship.

Dear Mama and Papa,

I am delighted to inform you of my upcoming wedding, which will be held on All Saints Day. It is all rather short-notice, given that you may not receive this letter until the latter days of October. I understand you will be displeased, but I think you will have no choice but to acquiesce when you learn of the nature of the match.

While traveling Europe to visit the hometown of a friend, I have stumbled upon a truly remarkable gentleman, and I decided, as it has long been clear to me, that I will not proceed with the marriage to Mr. Jonathan Harker. I hope you shall not think ill of him, since my disagreeable disposition is not a result of his actions. Furthermore, I hope you shall not think ill of his family, for they surely will assume he has done something to provoke me.

As for my new fiancé, it may interest you to learn that he is in fact a prince of Romania, so there is no cause for concern over the financial or political wisdom of the match. It may also interest you to learn that from the moment we first met, my propensity for languages has done nothing but impress him. In return, his unflappable chivalry continues to surprise me, for I had not known there to be men in this world who yet desired proximity to a woman for any reasons except selfishness.

That is all I have to say on the matter, since I cannot in good conscience expect you to show face at the wedding, not without much embarrassment. I hope that

You should not worry about me. I will return to St. Albans as soon as the wedding has finished, and once the paperwork is officiated in the custom of my fiancé’s nation. I shall need to collect some of my research, assist in any cleaning-up that must be done to prepare my old rooms for new usage, and introduce you to my husband, as he will be by that time.

Again, you mustn’t worry—meeting this man has been perhaps the first stroke of genuine clarity I have for the future, as my mind has always been somewhat consumed by the past.

I do not have it in my heart to feel any disgruntlement toward you, either of you, for if I were in your position, I would not have believed me when I claim to know the past. Just know that it is true—my unanswerable questions have been answered, and I am at peace, knowing who I am.

Although it may be a shock, especially considering that I left St. Albans merely to visit London to purchase a wedding dress, I hope that you shall forgive me my lie of omission. I am consumed by relief that I shall not have to endure a marriage of convenience, and perhaps that relief spills over into my letter to you.

I have immense respect for you. I know you have done what must be done, and I cannot fault you for it. I am no longer your responsibility, and it would bring me great joy to see you pleased with your daughter’s success.

As Vlad absorbs the last of the letter, the blood seems to drain from his face, as it did as soon as the name Jonathan Harker appeared in Elisabeta’s own handwriting.

But it is not just Elisabeta, he remembers with a frown. It is Mina, too. Oh, what a Gordian knot this is—and I still have three letters to read.

I cannot fault her—and I will not fault her—for I am sure she did not mean to omit Harker from me, either. Perhaps it is a happy coincidence that I met him independently from her, for had I known he was the fiancé of my wife, I may have behaved irrationally.

No matter. The engagement is dissolved—and it was never viable in the first place.

My Elisabeta would never have married him.

Now I shall read the next—hopefully it illuminates the situation.

Off to the side, Nikola shifts uncomfortably, and Vlad offers him what he intends to be a calming gesture with one hand.

Mister Harker,

It is with a cautious hand that I write to you to firmly dissolve our engagement. I understand you may have questions, and it may yet insult your feelings, and I accept the blame for that unhappy result.

I am in Wallachia at present, and I have found the person to whom my soul has always belonged. Although you are not a bad man, or even an unlikable man, you are not my man. It is of no importance how I have arrived in Wallachia, since it is by chance that it is both the home of my friend and the place where you briefly studied law. Since I have seen neither hide nor hair of you (as the Americans say), I have endeavored to write out my thoughts on the matter in a letter.

You shall not receive this until you reach England, I am sure, at which point I anticipate you will become quite disappointed that part of your plans for the future have been disrupted. I apologize for that disruption, and I bear you no ill will.

Thank you for your expressions of conscientiousness toward me. I appreciate that you are not as much of a brute as you could have been. May you find a woman who makes you happy, and you her.

“I suppose this is reasonable,” says Vlad, although his teeth are gritted. His hands tingle strangely, as though they are not quite sure what to do in the absence of an enemy. “This is a perfectly professional, cordial letter. My Elisabeta has never been one to inflict unnecessary harm.”

“That is what I believe, too, sir,” offers Nikola. He steps forward and gestures toward the next two letters. “The latter are from her mother and father, respectively. They were delivered to the post-room only today for me to distribute, and they have not yet reached her hands. I felt it might be better to bring them to you, since their contents are…somewhat unfortunate.”

The idea that he should chastise the servant for reading the correspondence of his Lady does not enter Vlad’s mind, for as soon as he reads the first line of the letter, all emotion vanishes from his body except for dogged, loyal rage.

Mina Euphemia Murray,

Your father and I write this letter carefully so as to avoid permanently inking an unfair sentiment to our only child. That being established, however, I am unfathomably disappointed in you, and from that disappointment comes a fair amount of anger.

Mr. Harker is an admirable match. He is related to the royal family, for heaven’s sake, and he is always working on his studies or projects anyway, so there is very little time for him to bore you. He is the best I could secure for you, be you unwilling to endure the basic conditions required of a good British wife.

As for your new fiancé, I have no doubt he is a liar, a scoundrel, and philanderer. As for a prince—I laugh at that. A man will say anything to secure a woman. Mina, you are intelligent, albeit prone to delusions, so perhaps it is little wonder you have fallen for the first man to admit you impress him.

You are right about the one thing, however, that being your father and I will not “show face” at your concoction of a wedding. You should not worry about coming back—unless you return with the last name “Harker,” we do not want you. It is already bad enough that you have lied to us about going to London—foolish girl—but now it is fully unacceptable that you should throw away your opportunity at a comfortable life.

Perhaps you do not realize that this affects your parents as well. What is to happen to us when your father can no longer work? It is the duty of a child—be she a woman, or be he a man—to look after its parents, who provide life, safety, and opportunity. And you flagrantly throw away your duty for the sake of a man you do not know? It is pitiful.

Do not come crawling back to us when you are left with nothing.

“It is a damned good thing that that witch will not journey to my country,” Vlad all but spits. His fingers grip the crisp paper hard enough to leave wrinkles. “Insult me—perhaps I have earned it. Insult my wife—there is no possible reason. What insolence—what bravery—I surely hope I never meet that woman, Nikola, for I fear I might make my wife an orphan, and that will not do.”

Nikola wrings his fingers together, glancing from side to side as though worried about eavesdroppers. “The next isn’t so bad, my Lord. It’s from her father.”

“We shall see.”

My little Mina,

I apologize for the letter your mother wrote. I had very little part in it, and I thought it was better for her to write out her anger, that way I could rip up the letter before she sent it. But yesterday morning she nipped out to the letter-box before I was fully awake, and I’ve posted my own letter this morning. Of course, you won’t get it for at least a week, by which point your wedding will only be a few days away.

Part of me is proud of you—my girl, my daughter, my young woman—you have done it! I knew you would never be happy with Harker, or a man like Harker, or even hardly any man at all. I think it’s no fault of yours, it is simply how God made you. Truthfully, I’m happy you won’t have to marry a man you don’t love.

The other part of me, however, is concerned, not unlike your mother. I don’t make a habit of arguing with the women in my life, but it must be said: how do you know that the man is a prince? Is he notable? Can we look him up on genealogies or history texts? Is his line established? You would trade the cousin of King George for a proper prince of Romania—on paper it sounds reasonable—but you cannot expect your parents to be whole-hearted on the issue without knowledge of our daughter’s suitor.

Please, take care of yourself. Be safe, and make the best of the cards that have been dealt to you. For what it is worth, I have always believed you, about those things you knew even as a young girl. Maybe that one language you could never fully figure out—that Slavic-sounding one—might help you to get along in Romania.

I would very much like to see you again. It’s no easy thing for a parent to throw away its child, and that’s why I am confident your mother will regret her letter as soon as she realizes what it is she has done. You should come back to St. Albans with your husband—I would like to meet the bloke. Give him my best, if he deserves it, since it must be a spectacular man to catch your interest, and beyond that, your affection.

Vlad sucks in a long breath through his nostrils and exhales slowly. If he were slightly more dramatic, he would imagine the air to swirl like smoke from his mouth, as though he were in the form of the Dragon as he is known. “So you are right. The father is not as…capricious. You have seen fit to withhold this inappropriate damnation from my wife, Nikola, which is a brave but necessary choice. Be not afraid, my child, for no harm will befall you.”

The servant nearly sags in relief. “Thank you, my Lord. I shall—I shall return to my work, and you shall handle the letters as you see fit. I hope this does not change the wedding, since the woman I love is nearly comatose with excitement that we should live to see the union of our Lord and Goddess.”

“It will not,” Vlad assures him, and it is the truth, even though somehow the truth is uncertain. “Go in peace. I will speak to my wife, and we will determine how to proceed. Then I must figure out where in hell Mister Harker has gone, for surely he has caught word of the situation before I did, and he has rightfully fled for his life.”

Gulping, Nikola bows once more and vanishes into one of the hallways leading away from Elisabeta’s citadel.

It is a room of religion, Vlad thinks numbly, stumbling backward to sit upon the foot of their well-used bed. And now it is a room of questions.

There is no room in my soul for doubting my wife, but there is much I have to know.

But I cannot begrudge her this—there is much I have not shared, and even were she a veritable Judas, I still would be more damned than she.

No, the Goddess has her ways, and it is little wonder that a creature of curses does not understand.

My Elisabeta, I do not understand.

You must help me—you must ease my suffering—take away the fever from my heart.