Eternal Night

(II) Chapter 1: Longing

Part 2 Summary: Previously banished from the alliance at the behest of his intended, Dracula is relieved when he's invited to engage with the little band of revolutionaries once again. But an impromptu trip to France puts both his and Francesca's sense of discipline to the test. One drop of her blood could be his undoing, but his growing hunger for her is proving without limit.

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Part 2 – Claimed

"I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we."

– Nikita Gill, The Dance

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Early June, 2138 AD

It's just a dream, his subconscious reminded him. This is only a dream.

But Vladislaus Drăculea refused to listen to reason as he willed that more relentlessly logical part of his brain to be silent so he could enjoy the fantasy. It was a beautiful lie, one he beheld often. He would close his eyes at the end of a long evening to rest and the reality of the day would then slip away as he entered the realm of reveries.

It had been the same setting for the last handful of weeks, his imagination placing him in a dimly lit chamber of stone and ice within the very heart of the Carpathian Mountains, a dull aching homesickness settling in the center of his chest every time recognition overcame him. The room within the frozen fortress was littered with lit candles and stalactites of ivory wax, the flames still and bright as they illuminated the space, revealing a large bed lined in dark linens in the center. The sumptuous sheets concealed the nudity of his own body, along with that of the woman at his side.

Seeing that luxurious mass of dark mahogany hair always made that homesick feeling worse, a painful longing tightening behind his ribs, forcing a lump to catch in his throat.

It had been eight long months since he had seen her face in person, but nearly every morning when he closed his eyes to slumber, the vision of her always awaited him – her hair open and spread across the pillow in a mass of waves and delicate curls. They would lay side by side facing each other, silent and still for several long moments until he finally breathed her name. The syllables were often softly delivered in a single flow of uncharacteristic yearning, the utterance giving the nocturnal visions new life.

"Francesca."

She always smiled at the sound of her name in these imaginings of his, always reached for him to move closer, nestling her head against his naked chest so he could hold her. Usually the dreams took a more erotic turn right away, but as of late he found himself merely content in holding her – or at least dreaming that he was doing so.

"I miss you," he whispered into her hair, the confession having grown easier to utter as time had progressed. He bestowed a gentle kiss on the crown of her head and he felt her snuggle closer to him.

"I know," she said. "But it's not safe."

"It will never be safe for us," he answered. "That does not change what I feel."

"And what do you feel?" the dream-Frankie inquired, moving up a little so her face could be level with his.

"I feel stilted, as if the hands of time have ceased altogether, and though I am living, I am not alive."

"It's called being undead," she answered cheekily. "And when did you get so poetic?"

"If I am, it is you who has made me so," he said, his expression pensive as he studied the movement of her lips.