The Face of the Forsaken

Expressions truly are remarkable; they can say a thousand words without ever opening one’s mouth.

For example, the one that Vlad Țepeș held toward his youthful bride, who lay naked and bleeding to death upon their marital bed with naught but ivory sheets for modesty, told of his absolute rage toward her pathetically weak institution. She no longer had the strength to scream, yet with her rasping voice, she tried to apologize to him for some perceived wrong. He was coated in her blood, reeked of it, his mouth stained with the crimson mark. His fangs still throbbed as they ached for more, yet he knew what would happen if he took of her last remnants. She was not the one who should apologize, and he hated that she was not angry with him for what he’d done.

He needed a headstrong wife for powerful sons, not a weakling sold to him out of pity and the greediness for coin.

“Get this wretch out of my sight. I care not what you do with her,” the voivode barked toward an intruding guard, who had only rushed in to see the reason for the screams that had echoed in the castle walls a few mere moments prior. He had received much more than he had bargained for when he’d found his way into the room; the level of cruelty that Vlad delivered toward this poor woman made the general-in-training want to vomit.

Vlad’s vexation with his failed bride, combined with the borderline maddening craving for her essence, made him more than unwilling to speak with any modicum of respect toward his lesser. This was unusual for him, as normally he was a composed and calculating individual with the diplomacy and tact that allowed him to be proficient at leadership. However, there was something about the taste of her…something he’d not yet savored before. It was not too sweet, not very metallic, and held a sort of energy within its flavor that thrilled him far more than he cared to admit. This, above all else that he’d felt she’d done wrong, was what angered him the most. She or someone else had lied to him about who, or what, she was. Either that or she was blissfully ignorant to it, which would again be a certain someone else’s fault…

For now, all he wanted was this girl’s near-corpse out of his bed - yet the guard, who was too busy staring at the carnage before him with horror in his eyes, hadn’t budged from his spot since entering the lord’s chambers. “I said to remove her!” He snarled with a ferocity that caused the young man to startle, immediately lift the body from the bed, and take her out of the room while somehow managing to shut the door behind himself.

Meanwhile, Vlad was perplexed, for what he had tasted within that woman could only mean one thing; he had been lied to. The people who had sold her were fools for that and would pay dearly if he were able to locate them again. It infuriated him further thinking about it and he drew a dagger from his belt, slamming the blade into the mattress, intending to cut out the portion of his sheets and bed which carried her scent. He wanted no more of her, lest she poisoned him of all sense right before the battle against the Ottomans would be waged in Târgoviște…not a long way away at all. Mere hours.

As he finished his task, it was as though a great fire struck his veins; it burned viciously throughout his body and he could not control its blaze. It was a hunger unlike anything he’d ever experienced, his attempt to quell it stoking the flames even more. He turned to his armor, which had been set out on the dummy for use tonight, deciding that his enemy would sate his thirst instead.

The sounds of battle rung in Tzephira’s ears as she felt her body floating in a rush across the air, her vision unfocused and blighted with a crimson splotch centered across her left eye. She couldn’t close them, either; she had not the strength. The presence of strong flesh gripping her by the flank and under her thigh was faintly registered, along with the hard coolness of steel against the rest of her body. Something warm was bumping her bare feet now and then, soft and fur-like. She was being carried on horseback, but by whom?

Her voice croaked as she attempted to speak to the stranger, only for a dribble of her essence to leak from the great wound inflicted upon her throat. This did not deter her, however, and she tried repeatedly to call the fuzzy outline of a man that she could see.

Where am I?

Why does it hurt so much?

Am I dead?

So thirsty…

He seemed to notice she was trying to move. He felt the movement through the air stopped as the sounds of war grew more distant. They had been moving at a hurried pace, so for it to come to such a sudden halt created a jolt through her weakened figure that all but slammed her into this being. A cry of pain escaped her, raspy and thin, and the masculine tone of the man who held the bride cooed in comfort against her ear. He seemed bothered that he’d hurt her further. The language was familiar but she could not make out the words he used, as if her very eardrums were damaged. The sensation of falling was brief as the soldier hopped down from the steed he’d ridden to the Argeș River, and the slightly sharp sensation of grass poked against her back as he laid her down on the bank.

“You will be fine. Just stay still for a moment, da? No moving.” There was a warm breath that grazed against Tzephira’s outer ear; the man must have moved his lips closer so that she could hear him this time. She tried to nod but he rested his palm against her forehead, reminding her of his command. The river water, cold as ice in the nighttime, felt like fire against her neck when a soaked cloth was pressed there. A vibrating yell resounded from the woman’s chest, and once again he seemed to hush her with an unintelligible comfort. She stared at the blurred colors of the sky as he tended her wounds, which were apparently numerous due to the multitude of times that she flinched at his touch.

Perhaps, though, it was merely fear that caused her reaction. The lad had no idea what had happened to her, after all, and could not ask. Were he to be found trying to save this woman’s life, God knows what Lord Vlad’s reaction would be…and at that thought alone a chill rippled through his spine. The stories of his cruelty were plenty, and he knew they’d be child’s play for what awaited him if he were discovered.

He hastily tossed the soiled strip into the water, then retrieved a soldier’s issued dagger from his boot. The emblem of a dragon was stamped on the handle, and every time he saw it his skin would crawl. Too many times, he had used this blade to end a life for the sake of his country and for a ruler who he considered the most despicable ‘man’ in Wallachia. He was worse than his father by far…a true monster. The razor’s edge bit deeply into the man’s left wrist, severing the artery and causing blood to profusely drain from him. He lay on his side, intent on suicide at first before he looked to the woman nearby. The look in her eyes was one of pleading, an expression he pitied and could not ignore. He’d recognized her injury and knew of a way he could help her. However, were he to be wrong…

Before he’d realized what he’d done and without sense or care for the consequences, the guard pushed his wrist to her parted mouth. Losing strength in haste, he spoke quickly with a mournful smile.

“Drink, woman. I need not this life, but you deserve another chance.”

Tzephira was confused and appalled at his action, wanting to object, but with his last remaining ability he forced his way past and the fountain from his veins spilled onto her cold tongue. If she did not swallow she would choke to death, but what was the point if she were to die anyway? A morbid thought graced her fading consciousness as she realized exactly what Lord Țepeș had done, now understanding what this man wanted her to do as well as why.

She took the chance and swallowed, granting the man who’d saved her life his final wish.