Chapter Text
Strahd von Zarovich stands upon the balcony of Castle Ravenloft for what must have been the third night in a row, his gaze fixed on Barovia Village.
The balcony is where he hides away when he needs to think. Up here, there is very little to bother him. His consorts know from experience not to disturb him, and for one blissful moment, he's free of the little reminders of daily life. There are no stacks of paperwork sitting upon his desk, or taxes to review, or paintings depicting his mortal life, or crumbling stonework to remind him of how urgently he needs to tend to the castle's infrastructure before it eventually crushes its inhabitants. Up here, it is just him and his valley—and those damned mists continuously obscuring his borders.
Strahd leans forward onto his elbows upon the stone railing. The sting of rough stone biting into his skin through his thin dress shirt is hardly noticeable. A dense cover of clouds obscures the moon. Unlike under the light of a full moon, it is difficult to distinguish Barovia Village from the sprawling forests. The only indication that there is civilization there at all is a faint pinpoint of orange light in the distance.
Barovia Village. Such a ramshackle little place, hardly deserving to be considered a part of Barovia. The only good thing to ever come from the village was Tatyana; through cruel fate, she, a rose growing amidst weeds, had lived amongst the scum of society before meeting him. She hadn't come to him with the manners of a noblewoman, but she had learned them in time. His Tatyana was—is—a quick learner. So much talent hidden behind the circumstances of her birth. During the short time they had spent together during her first life, he had recognized much promise in her: in music, in gardening, in homemaking. All wifely skills that had only contributed to her loveliness. Even now, he can see the promise of a fighter in Ireena. Were she to take his hand, she could truly flourish. He has both resources and centuries of experience to see to her growth.
And yet repeatedly does she spurn him, too ignorant to appreciate the full extent of these freely offered gifts.
Tatyana and Rahadin are very much the same in that regard, Strahd thinks. Both have the tendency to flinch away from him, reject his advances. Whether in the heat of the moment or not, both had proclaimed their hatred for him. Both far too obtuse for their own good, not knowing what is in their best interests. Both fools, but both captivating in their own right.
Tatyana’s resistance he can perhaps understand. She is young, and naivety comes with youth. They do not think about the future, just what they want at any given moment. A pretty suitor with bright eyes, unspoiled by the touch of war, is more appealing than an experienced one. They think with their eyes rather than their head.
While Strahd is rather agreeable in appearance if the remarks of those he's bedded are to be believed, being courted by a nobleman can be an intimidating, as well as flattering, process. That he can understand. Tatyana merely needs time to learn that he is not the monster that the townspeople make him out to be. That he can love deeply just as a man does. In time, she will learn that only he can keep her safe in a land poisoned by the wicked.
Rahadin, on the other hand, still perplexes him. The elf has lived on this mortal plane for longer than he has. He is no stranger to the ways of the world. And after having served him for over four centuries, he is certainly no stranger to his lord’s nature. While Strahd prefers to keep his thoughts and personal life to himself, Rahadin knows him better than anyone else. It was him that first professed his love and took his hand in marriage.
Yet now he spurns him at any given chance. He's sullen. Spiteful. Their relationship has become a confusing one, to say the least. Rahadin will say that he hates him one day only to weep that he loves him the next. He will want nothing to do with him one moment and then throw himself at him the next. He longs for the days of predictability, although he supposes that it does make his life more eventful, if not aggravating. Really, he wishes Rahadin would make up his mind on how he feels about him; he doesn't have the time or patience to tolerate such games.
In an ideal world, Rahadin would see his vampirism as the gift that it is and they could go back to the way things were not six moons ago. They would be intimate on a regular basis and there would be a blissful absence of petty arguments—all of this with the added benefit of Rahadin’s immortality. Knowing his chamberlain, however, things would never go back to the way they were. The man has a way of holding onto petty grudges for centuries if his attitude surrounding the dusk elves is anything to go off of.
The thought of it all pains his still heart. An interesting thing of note. There is already enough that he must concern himself with in his day-to-day; the last thing he wants is his dearest friend-turned-consort moping about on top of it.
He wants things to be as they were. Desperately. He wants Rahadin to be happy—as much as one can be in such a land.
Despite him being blameless in all of this, perhaps he can be the bigger man and attempt to make amends in some fashion. He's tried several things—romance, sex, enabling Rahadin’s bloodlust—but it may be that the elf needs something more.
Rahadin had expressed distaste with his vampirism several times; perhaps this is coming from a place of misunderstanding, of not knowing. There are many intricacies to vampirism, things that cannot be learned through simple observation. They are things that must be experienced in order to understand the extent of one's powers. A power addict in his own right, perhaps the dusk elf feels weak, as if he is not living up to his full potential.
It would explain so many things. Perhaps, then, some of the blame can be cast upon him for not providing enough tutelage to the newly turned spawn. He merely needs an opportunity to spread his wings outside of the typical paperwork duties of a chamberlain.
A flush of furor rises in his chest. The undead count of Barovia is a determined man; one did not win wars without perseverance.
Strahd returns inside and goes to his chambers to dress in his black waistcoat and cloak. He sends a mental beckoning to his chamberlain, pulling upon the connection between them that had been strengthened by his enthrallment, as he descends down multiple flights of stairs towards the larders.
——
The clouds have cleared, leaving behind a bright moon-lit sky. A faint breeze rustles the trees in the distance. Beside Strahd, Maxwell, the captured tiefling from the last band of adventures—no, thieves —that had entered his land, trembles. It is not a result of fear; Strahd’s influence extended over him had sought to that. Rather, it is from the chill. The tiefling had been left in his undergarments when imprisoned in the larders, and the cooler weather is ostensibly not conducive to their heat-favoring biology.
His discomfort matters little to Strahd.
“What are we doing out here? When can we return indoors?” Maxwell whines, his pointed teeth chattering. He rubs at his forearms.
“In time.”
The two of them stand outside of Castle Ravenloft just before the drawbridge, waiting. Ever punctual, he hears the soft telltale patter of Rahadin's footsteps coming from the main entrance. He pushes through the double doors, and Strahd does not miss the way Rahadin's body immediately tenses just as the doors shut behind him, his gaze landing on Maxwell first.
“The prisoner. Why is he out here?” Rahadin intones. There is an edge of concern to his voice, and his black eyes never tear away from the tiefling.
Mirroring Rahadin's posture, Maxwell's body visibly tenses. Strahd's can feel his anxiety even through their connection. He places a hand on a bare red arm. “You're fine,” he murmurs.
Like clay in his hands, the tiefling sighs and drops his shoulders.
“He's here on my accord,” Strahd says.
“I see…”
Keeping a wide berth around the tiefling, Rahadin cautiously approaches Strahd, coming to a standstill just to his side. He's fully dressed in his armor, his white-furred cloak clasped at his shoulders, and armed with his usual arsenal. Perhaps expecting some sort of excursion. Strahd's eyes are drawn to the thick wedding ring dangling from his neck from a silver chain. It's not as securely fashioned or as prominent as he would like, Strahd thinks with a narrowing of his eyes, but he supposes that it will do until the dusk elf’s ring finger fully grows back.
“You requested my presence, my lord?” says Rahadin, his voice soft with caution.
“Indeed.” Again, that flush of furor. “I’ve been thinking, Rahadin, about your predicament.” He takes a deep breath. “You’ve been rather reclusive as of late. I do not believe I’ve seen you outside of these castle walls more than thrice since being turned. With that, perhaps I have been somewhat unfair to you. I know from experience that vampirism is a... circumstance unlike any other. It can be hard to adjust to the multitude of changes it brings about. As such, I typically take care in tutoring my consorts regarding these changes—giving them my attention and whatnot.
“Like a child whose mother never consoled them in the crib, perhaps I did not give you as much personal attention following your transformation as I should have. And perhaps that is why you have been so belligerent as of late despite my best efforts.”
He doesn't miss the way Rahadin's fists ball at his sides. He chooses to ignore it and continues. “My hope is that by giving you space to, hypothetically, stretch your wings, perhaps you shall begin to understand the benefits of the gift I have bestowed upon you.”
Rahadin blinks at him, speechless for several moments. “...You are unbelievable. Truly. The sort of mental hoops you must be jumping through to reach the conclusion that I am unhappy simply because I did not receive your ‘tutelage’ following my transformation. All of this despite me having indicated several times the actual reason why… I know perfectly well what this gift does—that is why I did not want it in the first place!”
The dusk elf grinds his heel into the ground before beginning to pace. “Yet seeing as how I, in all likelihood, do not have a choice in whether or not I go along with whatever tone-deaf game you are planning at the moment, fine!” He throws his arms in the air. “What shall you have me do, Master?” He hisses the word.
Strahd pulls his shoulders back and sets the elf with an icy glare. Such belligerence! He has half a mind to backhand him for his impudence. “Firstly, you shall address me with the respect I deserve. Secondly, you shall be mindful of your tone, particularly when I am going out of my way to aid you. Understood?” He had expected excitement from the dusk elf at the opportunity to spend time together, not react with such hostility. It is not often that he offers his mentorship, after all.
Rahadin’s brow furrows. He lifts a hand and opens his mouth as if he is about to argue, but reconsiders. He gives an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, Master. Apologies.” It doesn’t sound the slightest bit sincere.
“Good.” Strahd shoots him one last withering look before continuing. “I’ve brought my good man Maxwell out here,” the tiefling beams up at him at the mention of his name, “to serve as your quarry. You shall hunt him. Should you catch him, he's yours to do with as you please.”
Rahadin's eyes flick between Strahd and the prisoner. “Forgive me, my lord, but this hardly seems like a challenge. The prisoner is malnourished and would assuredly not make it far. As such, I fail to see how this would serve as a means to ‘stretch my wings.’”
“A mutt in the throes of death can still bite. Every creature's natural state is one of survival. When there is nothing left to lose, that primal ferocity is at its peak. You may be surprised at what our weave-touched friend here is capable of.”
“I suppose so.”
Strahd hums and turns to face Maxwell. The tiefling looks up at him, his violet eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. The lamb placing its trust in the wolf. Vampiric charm is such an interesting phenomenon. Seeing the amount of trust in his eyes almost makes Strahd feel guilty about what it is he is about to do. Almost.
Thieves deserve none of his pity.
The nobleman locks eyes with Maxwell and snaps his fingers. The faint mental tendrils connecting them sever. The dull, wide eyes are overtaken by a look of clarity, followed by confusion. He glances around, brow furrowed. When his eyes land on Rahadin, he lets out a loud yelp and flinches.
Strahd doesn't miss the way the corners of the dusk elf's lips quirk up at his reaction.
“Wh-wh-what are you doing here? What am I doing here?” Maxwell stammers out. He takes a step back, and Strahd places a hand on his shoulder. Nails dig into his skin just enough to draw blood.
“Maxwell, I need you to listen well: I am going to give you until the moon crests above that tree.” He raises a finger and points to a fir in the distance. “You can use this time to flee, to hide, to get as close to Barovia Village as possible, whatever you deem to be the most tactically sound strategy. After that time, Rahadin here will begin pursuing you. Should you evade him until dawn, you will be a free man.”
His body tenses beneath his hold. Maxwell doesn't blink the entire time Strahd is explaining the rules to him. Sweat beads up along his brow.
“Nod if you understand.”
His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows heavily. Maxwell nods.
His whole being reeks of fear. Beyond the sweat, Strahd can pick out the heavy coppery stench soaking his skin. He can hear the way his heart pounds against his ribcage, the ambrosial scent of blood beneath it all. It's the perfect picture of a man who knows, whether he consciously wants to admit it or not, that he's been sentenced to death.
“Good. Now… run.”
Not needing to be told twice, Maxwell takes off. Given his emaciated state, his speed is particularly impressive. He makes it across the drawbridge that had been laid down just for this and begins the slow descent towards Barovia Village. Strahd watches his heavily scarred back until he is out of sight.
“I suppose we wait now.”
“Indeed.” Rahadin's voice is flat.
Strahd raises an eyebrow. “Speak your mind.”
“It will take some time before the moon crests above that tree. Approximately ten minutes, if I had to estimate. That is quite the advantage you've given the prisoner.”
“Perhaps.” Strahd takes a moment to look over the dusk elf. Rather than his usual pin-straight posture, he stands slightly slouched. The fingers of one hand tap along his thigh, and his eyes keep darting off to the side. “You're not confident in your abilities,” he observes.
Such a contrast to his chamberlain's typical presentation. Bravado had practically been coursing through his veins when fighting that paladin. This thieving wretch is neither armored nor armed; it makes little sense to him. If anything, Rahadin should be even more cocksure with a slew of new talents at his disposal. His gift is tailor-made for hunting at night.
Rahadin says nothing. Those fingers keep tapping at his thigh.
“This exercise is good timing, then, as clearly you are underestimating yourself. Consider this akin to running drills; the more you practice the techniques, the more confident you shall become. And more deadly.”
Once more, Rahadin does not respond. He allows it; the dusk elf does have a habit of falling into these little bouts of silence when he is either deep in thought or brooding. Knowing him, it could be either at the moment. Instead, the two of them sit in silence, both of their gazes fixed on the distant treeline.
The night sky is bright with the light of the moon. A smattering of clouds cover some of the stars, but the night is otherwise clear—much to the benefit of the tiefling. Not to the tiefling's benefit, however, is the slight wind blowing from the west. Enough to carry a scent for approximately a mile, Strahd expects. The slightly damp ground and foliage would hold a scent.
A thought comes to him. “Leave your weapons.”
Rahadin's hand goes for the hilt of his scimitar. He can see him bristle at the order.
Reading his protectiveness, Strahd adds, “Does a wolf utilize the tools of man to hunt?”
Rahadin hesitates. ”I suppose not.”
“You are a predator. You have all of your tools already at your disposal. Your claws. Your teeth. Your wits. You'll learn soon enough that a vampire's claws are stronger than any steel.”
Rahadin shifts from foot to foot, his brow furrowed, before unfastening his baldric and the scabbard at his hip. Gingerly, his blade and dart quiver are placed on the ground beside his feet. The white-furred cloak is folded up and placed atop the items. Left in his studded leather armor, the man looks considerably smaller without his usual weapons; it is as if his confidence is tied to that cursed scimitar. That confidence would grow soon enough; they would water that seed together.
To the sound of a slow exhale from Rahadin, the full moon crests. Strahd’s chest swells with anticipation; he's always loved the thrill preceding a hunt. The energy in the air. The way everything stills. Few things rival that thrill.
“Begin.”
Rahadin side eyes him. His fingers have stopped tapping at his thigh.
“What do you smell?” Strahd asks. Not that he thinks his consort needs such a nudge; his perception is exceptional and had been even as a mortal. His wisdom surrounding the ways of the forest rivals even his own. Yet such skills shift rapidly upon undeath to the point where it may become overwhelming if one is unable to filter out the extraneous stimuli. Besides, he's interested in knowing what's going through that stubborn head of his.
Rahadin closes his eyes and lifts his head, scenting the air. “...Cedar trees. An elk a fair distance away. Some sort of rodent nearby. Sweat. ...Blood.”
“Belonging to what?”
“I am unsure.”
“You will learn to differentiate the blood of man from animal in time. A man's blood smells sweeter, hotter. It is usually with fewer of the bitter notes of fear than an animal’s, even from the most terrified of humans.” Centuries of experience have taught him that it is very much the scent of tiefling blood in the distance. Faint, yet still enough to have him feeling slightly lightheaded with need.
He nods. Without a word, Rahadin takes off, sprinting across the drawbridge in the tiefling's wake. His chamberlain had been fast in life, but he is even more dextrous now. He dodges the rocks and debris that litter the pathway with ease until he, too, disappears towards Barovia Village.
Closing his eyes, Strahd breathes in until it feels as if his lungs are going to burst. He wills his fingers to elongate into wings, his form to become smaller. Through much practice, it takes little time before he feels that telltale shift of transformation into the form of a bat, and he beats his wings hard before landing to take air.
Taking to the sky is freeing. The headwind proves to be an annoyance, but nonetheless, he ascends until he can see the monochromatic form of Rahadin running down the path. He glides just behind him but still high enough to keep out of his way.
They carry on this way for quite some time, until the moon begins its descent in the sky. Following the tiefling's scent, Strahd would assume, Rahadin has since taken to the forest. The dense concentration of cedar trees he must dodge and weave around prove to be a more difficult flight for him versus the clear path from earlier.
Suddenly, Rahadin comes to a halt. Strahd comes to rest upon a nearby tree branch and watches as Rahadin scans his surroundings, head tilted sideways. His gaze falls to a patch of flattened grasses. He drops to a knee and, almost reverently, rubs his forefinger and thumb along one of the blades. Once more, the dusk elf tips his head back to scent his surroundings. A look of recognition dawns on his face.
He whips around and stares at a cluster of juniper shrubs. Their pale green branches tremble just the slightest, and Strahd doesn't miss the way the corners of his lips quirk up. He takes a low position and waits.
Strahd can't help but enjoy the view, how his position accentuates his consort’s backside. There's always been something infinitely pleasing about watching the elf work, particularly when in his element. Like a cat stalking its prey, there's purpose behind each movement. His knack for strategizing had made him an excellent general in both his and his father's armies. There's a look of determination in his unblinking eyes, his face otherwise a blank slate. His whole body is deathly still save for the wind blowing loose strands of his hair.
He creeps forward toward the bush. Silent until like a snake, a hand shoots forward. Just as his fingers graze the leather of the tiefling's boot, however, there's the sound of rustling and an incantation being shouted in a panicked voice.
Strahd recognizes those words: fire bolt.
The air becomes heavy with static and grows hot—telltale signs of the bending of the weave. It all happens in a split second, far too fast for anyone unfamiliar with the art to process. The moment the tiefling is yanked free of the shrub, a flash of fire shoots out from his palm. It connects with Rahadin's chest with enough force to send the dusk elf stumbling backward.
The high collar of his doublet catches fire, and Rahadin has to release his hold on the tiefling's ankle to try and pat it out. He lets out a sound somewhere between a hiss and a yelp. The pungent stench of burning flesh fills the air. Even from this distance, Strahd can see how the skin beneath Rahadin's jaw sizzles and warps from the intense heat.
The tiefling takes advantage of the distraction to desperately scramble up onto his feet and make a run for it, his chest heaving with panicked breaths all the while.
His face twisted in pain, Rahadin curses in Elvish and chases after the man. His doublet continues to smoke, leaving a trail of gray in his wake.
Maxwell turns around just enough to throw another fire bolt, and then another. Very much the one-trick pony, it would seem. Rahadin dodges the attacks. Another fire bolt. Before this bolt can hit his shoulder, Rahadin mutters an incantation of his own in Elvish. The fire instead hits the ground, setting a small patch of grass ablaze.
Strahd sends out a series of chips, trying to discover where it is he had vanished to with his bat forms’s echolocation. The pings return with no new information outside of the location of a few insects and the tiefling's continued movement. His eyes, however, pick up on the swirl of mist coalescing before Maxwell.
Rahadin's smiling form appears. Maxwell lets out a yelp, and he slams head-on into the dusk elf. The two of them stumble. Before the tiefling can fall to his knees, Rahadin wraps his arms around his chest and follows him to the ground. Strahd watches as the two grapple with one another, the sounds of grunting and shouting filling the night air. One of the tiefling’s fists connects with Rahadin’s cheekbone, and the dusk elf takes the opportunity to grab his arm and, judging by the sickening pop, wrench it out of its socket.
Rahadin scrambles on top of the struggling man, pushing aside his remaining arm each time he goes to scratch at his face with sharp claws. The dusk elf manages to tangle his hands in his shaggy brown hair and, with a matching roar of his own, slams the back of his head into the ground once, twice. The tiefling lets out a noise between a gasp and a gurgle, and his violet eyes roll lazily in their sockets. His arms raise as if wanting to grab at his head before falling limp at his sides.
Slowly, as if not wanting to release his hold, Rahadin lets go of Maxwell’s head. It falls to the grass with a soft thud. “My lord,” he calls out with a huff, “it is done.”
Strahd softly descends from his branch onto the ground before sucking in deep lungfuls of air. His wings elongate into the thick arms of a man once more, his furry torso taking a humanoid shape and rising to his full height of 6’4”. Like an afterthought, his cloak flutters back down behind him on the breeze.
“So it would seem,” Strahd replies while approaching his chamberlain.
Startled, Rahadin whips his head around towards the sudden noise, the charred flesh of his neck almost fully healed. Still crouched on top of the tiefling, he pushes himself to stand, landing a kick to Maxwell's ribs for good measure. He extends the fingers of one hand towards his quarry. An invitation.
It strikes Strahd as particularly amusing. Like a wolf offering the first bite of a fresh kill to its alpha. No matter how much he puts up a front of fighting him, he ultimately knows his place—beneath him. A good pet, all things considered.
Strahd puts up a hand of his own. “You are the victor. As stated, that's your prey to do with as you please.” He can be generous when the mood strikes him. As much as he wants to be the first to sink his fangs into that warm body, glutton himself on blood, he wants to send the message that obedience is rewarded. Just as it has been for centuries. Just as it will continue to be.
Rahadin's eyes widen slightly as if surprised by his generosity. His mouth opens, but he soon closes it, wordless. He bows his head in gratitude. Rahadin reaches down to hoist up Maxwell by his underarms into some semblance of standing. When his limp legs refuse to hold up his weight, Rahadin presses his back to a tree and holds him up with his own bodyweight pressed against him.
With another look over his shoulder at him and a nod from Strahd, Rahadin sinks his fangs into Maxwell’s throat with a slight pop. The sudden scent of blood, flooded with so much fear, washes over Strahd, and he can feel his stomach twist with want. His eyes are glued to the sight before him. The look of calmness on Rahadin's face, far more content than he's used to seeing him. The streak of blood trickling down his chin. The way the tiefling’s hands loosely grasp at Rahadin’s body in the mockery of an embrace, his eyes rolling in his skull until they eventually close in a look of peacefulness.
Rahadin breathes heavily all the while, his nose crushed against Maxwell's neck. His Adam's apple bobs with each swallow. When Strahd approaches, Rahadin musters the strength to tear his face away. A heavy stream of blood pours out from several bite wounds in the tiefling's neck. “Did you,” he pants, “want to turn this one?” There’s an animalistic edge, low and gravelly, to his voice when he speaks. His eyes glow red in the darkness. Despite his words, he wraps a possessive hand around Maxwell's arm.
“Yes. You may, however, drink your share.”
Not needing to be told twice, his lips clamp around the tiefling's throat once more. Memories of the night of his awakening come flooding back to Strahd. That insatiable hunger. His first taste of blood, fresh from the source. A beautiful sight to behold, to be certain—both then and now. Were he perhaps more conscientious, he'd tell Rahadin to slow down. Even a vampire is still susceptible to overindulging, and even, an ancient vampire, has experienced his fair share of stomach aches on nights when he couldn't rein in that bestial hunger.
Yet it's an arousing sight, one that he's not certain that he wants to put an end to just yet. This is a learning exercise, is it not? And experience is the best teacher.
Strahd steps up to Maxwell, and Rahadin lets out an animalistic growl, his scarlet eyes shooting up to fix upon him.
“Hush, you.” Strahd ignores the pitiful warning and lifts Maxwell’s arm. His fangs sink into his brachial artery. Warmth gushes onto his waiting tongue, and he voraciously swallows it down. No use in limiting himself with this one; it wasn't as if the undead needed their blood, and he would have to kill the tiefling anyway to make him a spawn. He's been resisting the urge to feed since spilling Maxwell's blood at Ravenloft, and he's rather tired of it.
Rahadin never does stop growling. The deep sound hitches with each swallow. His hand tightens around Maxwell's arm and he only drinks faster.
Strahd feels Maxwell's pulse rapidly weaken beneath his lips until it is no more than the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings. His blood pressure drops, and it gets to the point where Strahd has to suck out that nectar.
His heart stops beating. No longer can he hear the sound of Maxwell’s lungs drawing breath.
Only then does Strahd pull away, feeling satisfied for the moment with a belly full of hot blood. When Rahadin pulls away, he gives a small gasp past heaving breaths. His lips and chin are stained crimson. He draws his tongue over red-tipped fangs, his lips pulled back in a pleased smile.
“That was, hah…” Rahadin starts. He gives a breathy laugh. ”That was divine.”
“Enjoy yourself, did you?” Strahd hums. He reaches out to swipe up a drop of blood threatening to drip from Rahadin's chin before licking it off of his thumb. “Good.”
Rahadin's eyes flick to the finger in his mouth before immediately dropping his gaze and clearing his throat. Yet that same smile is still plastered on his face. Bashfulness aside, it's the most elated Strahd has seen him in some time when he’s not being flogged.
At that moment, Strahd feels closer to his consort than he has in such a long time. As the dusk elf stares at the ground, he can see his Rahadin clearly. The fire in his eye, the pin-straight posture with arms crossed behind his back, the way his long ears droop slightly when embarrassed.
He'd grown used to seeing misery etched into his features. A man who lacked confidence in himself. Prior to his turning, Strahd had only seen such an expression on the dusk elf during especially dark moments for him. Upon learning of the death of his father, King Barov. Upon learning of the death of his mother, Queen Ravenovia. Upon Strahd saying that they should cease their intimacy. And only when he thought Strahd wasn't paying attention. To Rahadin, showing one's emotions, including displeasure, was a sign of weakness, and he followed this ideal closely. Until recently, when showing his displeasure seemed to be his constant state.
Rahadin had made it known on numerous occasions just how unhappy he was to be amongst the undead. Although Strahd could neither sympathize nor empathize with the elf despite his best efforts, it didn’t change the way it ate away at him, deep in his subconscious, to see his consort and closest friend so outwardly miserable.
But there are times, like now, when Strahd can still see that fire in his eyes. No bigger than an ember at times, but still present. It's reverence. It's affection. It's love. It's the look of warmth in otherwise flat eyes that Strahd had begun to recognize long before they'd shared their first kiss. It's the roaring blaze that had been present throughout their wedding.
It’s the last thread connecting Strahd to the man in front of him.
Strahd feels himself soften, holding out for that last little bit of his lover, his Rahadin, ardent and austere, that he knows is left somewhere. If only the elf could see what he saw when he looked upon him...
It's only then that Strahd realizes he's staring. He clears his throat.
With a huff, Strahd wraps his arms around the dusk elf and pulls him into an embrace, causing the now lifeless body to fall to the ground; he would concern himself with burying it later. Rahadin's body stiffens for a moment, but he soon relaxes into the embrace and wraps his arms around Strahd’s waist before resting his head on his shoulder.
“My lord…?”
He can hear air passing through undead lungs, the sound of Rahadin swallowing.
“Rahadin…” Despite no longer needing to breathe, Strahd sucks in a deep breath. “Are you still interested in being turned further?”
“Strahd?” Rahadin's eyebrows jump to his hairline and he lifts his head from his shoulder enough to look up at him. “What are you implying?”
Strahd doesn't respond. It's a ridiculous question, one that doesn't warrant an answer.
“You said that that you wouldn't—”
“Do not assume to tell me what I have and have not said .” Strahd averts his gaze, pretending to take interest in his nails past Rahadin’s shoulder instead. His stomach is in the process of tying itself into knots. “Are you or are you not still interested?”
The Adam's apple in Rahadin's throat bobs heavily when he swallows. “Yes.”
“Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want? There is no going back should you change your mind. The only means out is through death, and we are not so easily slain.”
A nod of his head.
A voice in the back of his mind screams at him to rescind the offer. He is lord of this domain; by no means must he share his power. “Would this… make you happy?” With that, Strahd dares to meet Rahadin's gaze. There's a look of anticipation and excitement that he has not seen in such a long time behind those dull eyes. Strahd’s head begins to ache.
“It would.”
“...Then it shall be done. Give me a day’s time to prepare. When I am ready, we shall go to my quarters. It's where death first took you; it only seems appropriate that we return to the very spot. Per the ritual, I shall drink your blood,” he inhales sharply, stalling, ”...and then you shall drink mine.”
Rahadin says nothing, but the contented look on his face speaks volumes.