[ an au 'fanfiction' of the story above. The art pictured to the left does not belong to me. warning for violence ] The night he died was surprisingly beautiful. The stars shone brightly, a rare sight for the young man who dwelled in a town heavy with factory smoke. Desperate for a chance to meet his idol for dinner, the young man had ridden across the increasingly barren plains to the foreboding castle looming over the valley. As the youth rode, he noticed crows increasing along his path. Despite his intuition, he counted them. One for sorrow, he whispered to himself as it gave a distant cry. Two for mirth, three for a wedding. He continued, a slow superstitious dread growing with every crow counted. Four for a birth, five for silver, six for gold. The horse galloped at a steady pace as the sun slowly faded behind the hill. Seven a secret ne’er told, eight for a wish, nine for a kiss. As each crow stared at him, despite him being an atheist, a self-proclaimed logical man, he could not help but pray for an end to the crows. Ten a bird you must not miss, eleven for hope, twelve for health. He pulled on the reins, coming to a stop as a brief trickle of sweat fell from his face. There on the castle door, the thirteenth crow perched. Thirteen, beware of the devil himself. It seemed to mock him as it held his stare, before giving a final caw and flying off. It was pointless superstition, he chided himself. He wasn’t a child any longer, and he was above old wives' tales. This young man was none other than Lord Dmitri Matteovich Adoratsky, handsome with a lithe, confident demeanor, sharp gray eyes, and tawny hair. He was held in high regard, yet remained a mystery to many. Despite this, he was rather outgoing and persistent when it came to his goals. Hurriedly dismounting his horse, he surveyed the imposing beauty of the castle and the grim landscape surrounding it. The castle was ornate, with several gargoyles peering down at him, but bore such a distinct age that Dmitry supposed it must have been from an age of knights and feudal kings. Gathering what to say when he met his prince (granted, he had only run into this man several times at the opera, but he had managed to weasel a dinner invitation and had admittedly created a lofty image of this prince), he knocked thrice.
With a creak, the door opened, revealing the prince himself, by the name of Leonid Romanovich Kuznetsov. Kuznetsov was rather tall compared to Adoratsky, with pallid skin, long black hair, and equally void-like eyes, which he stared uneasily at his guest with. They both stood there for a moment, Kuznetsov holding open the door and Adoratsky holding his hat, before they both attempted to speak at the same time. “May I take your hat and coat?” Kuznetsov asked as the same time as Adoratsky opened his mouth, remarking, “What a pleasure to meet you!” They both stood in silence for a brief second before the other sought to respond to the question or remark in a desperate attempt at graceful pleasantries. Truthfully, in the coming days they would find themselves much more at ease, before the coming tragedy, but social conventions was not something that Kuznetsov was well versed in. Handing the taller man his coat, Dmitry Adoratsky followed him inside the castle, marveling at the opulence. Despite the striking decor and the full spread of food Leonid had prepared, there was no maid or butler to be found in the entire house. If Dmitry was not so starstruck by the prince, he would have paid more attention to this oddity. The conversation warmed significantly as they dined, turning to fascinating if not slightly odd topics such as the human soul, Dmitry’s encounter with the crows (which he laughed off as a joke), and the vitality that blood brings. Dmitry found the last topic rather odd, but Leonid explained that he was an avid scientist, and perhaps if he was more accustomed with social interaction, he would become a surgeon. “Are you religious?” Dmitry asked, curious. Leonid had the air of a religious man in how he spoke of the soul, yet there was no crosses to be found in the castle, odd for any Russian Orthodox. Leonid looked up from his steak, momentarily surprised at the rather personal question. “Yes, I would say so.” He remarked thoughtfully and returned to mutilating his steak in a manner that, to a more sensitive man than Dmitry, would have been cause for horror. “How about you?” he questioned in return. Dmitry gave a slight smile, shaking his head. They continued to eat in a comfortable silence before Dmitry spoke up again. “Do you happen to have any roasted garlic on hand? I hope not to inconvenience you, but I am rather fond of it with my steak.” Leonid stared at Dmitry with a brief glance of revulsion, horror, and concern, before composing himself and solemnly replying that no, he did not, as he was horrifically allergic to it since a child. As the two men talked at length, Leonid was filled with an increasing sense of dread at every word. He understood his duty, yet went to it just as unwillingly. Standing up abruptly, he showed Adoratsky his quarters, telling him that he would be free to leave at sunrise. “Vincere aut mori,” he whispered, and stood at the balcony for a good time, realizing his foolish mistake but accepting his fate. His only chance at making a true friend, and yet for his own survival, he had to throw it away. The clock in the parlor chimed 2, as he quietly made his way to Adoratsky’s quarters like a man possessed. There he stood over the latter, before, with shaking hands, grabbing him and restraining him with an inhuman ease. Dmitry let out a gasp in surprise, a choked scream, waking up to a living nightmare, similar to Caesar witnessing Brutus betray him with that fated dagger. Leonid’s face was contorted in both anger and despair, tears running down his face as he plunged his fangs into the side of Dmitry’s throat, watching the man futilely struggle for survival, slowly growing more lethargic from blood loss before falling still, no sign of life remaining. Like a man sleepwalking, Leonid numbly dragged Adoratsky’s drained body to the crypt of the castle, laying him to rest in the coffin, and closing the lid. However, this was not the last to be seen of the determined Adoratsky, who at that moment was clawing himself out of the afterlife to enact his own petty revenge. He was livid at the gall of Leonid, and not even death could prevent him from gaining vengeance after losing such a battle. There was nothing Dmitry hated more than losing. Three days had passed since Dmitry Matteovich Adoratsky’s death, and at the bell toll of midnight, Kuznetsov’s castle was Dmitry’s haunting grounds. [ End of part one ]
