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Chapter Text

Drip.

Drip.

Fat droplets of water drip down through the cracks in a stone pillar onto the waxed wood of a coffin lid before puddling at its marble base. The constant dripping, one of the few sounds in the crypts, echoes all the louder from within the coffin. It's difficult to focus on anything else besides that irritating, incessant sound.

For his own sanity’s sake, he would have to look into getting that sealed; Correlon help him if he is going to be forced to endure this every time the slightest drizzle washes over Barovia—which is, much to his annoyance, quite often as of late.

Rahadin idly twists the thick platinum band around his ring finger. With each twist, a sharp jolt of pain shoots through his hand and up into the bones of his arm. At least he hadn't been robbed of the ability to feel pain; it’s pain that makes men feel alive, after all. He gives a wry smile at the thought.

No light reaches inside the coffin. Even with his darkvision, he struggles to see his own hands before him or to make out the wooden striations of the coffin lid. All he can do is wait idly until rest comes to him. 

He despises this aspect of undeath almost more than any other. The undead equivalent of sleep—a mockery of the word, really—is such a foreign feeling. Rahadin can count the number of times that he has ever slept, much less for eight hours, on one hand, and it's never been on his own accord. Sleep is a waste of time, and dreaming has always been such an uncomfortable experience for him. No, he much prefers elven trances. During a trance, he has control; he is able to be semi-aware of his surroundings.

But this. This is something else entirely. This is neither sleep nor trance—more akin to what he imagines a comatose state feels like. In a blink, he would wake up to find that exactly eight hours had passed. There were no dreams and certainly no reflections. Just the void.

Having to lie in a coffin for it certainly doesn't help matters. He utterly despises this tomb. It’s cramped. The air is stagnant. The whole area reeks of bat guano. Rahadin much prefers meditating in the openness of his office or under the stars. He prefers meditating anywhere that isn't here. 

Past the coffin lid, Rahadin can hear the sound of a cloud of bats preparing for their nightly hunt along the ceiling of the crypt. Such nasty, vile things... He hates that he has to share a space with them; his master would hear nothing on the subject of sealing them out. For some reason, Strahd has an unnatural fondness for the things not unlike the fondness man has for tamed dogs. Strahd’s pets , however, were in the thousands and left a mess wherever they settled. 

Beyond the chittering and the flapping of wings, Rahadin makes out the sounds of footsteps, slow and deliberate, coming his way. The overwhelming scent of perfume—his senses are far stronger than they were but a year ago, he's finding—fills his nostrils.

He recognizes the scent as belonging to his master's other consort, Anastrasya. Rahadin curses under his breath and silently begs for sleep to hurry up and take him.

The footsteps stop just outside of the tomb. Long fingernails tap along its stone door.

“Rahadin? Are you still awake, dear?” Her voice is muffled, yet he can still hear her as if she were beside him.

Rahadin doesn't respond. For the past three moons, the wretch had been visiting him nightly. Taunting him for his current state. He'd learned long ago to ignore her and not give her the pleasure of reacting. After a time, she always went away, yet every night she would visit him, long hails tap, tap, tapping against the stone. 

He supposes she doesn’t have much else to do after having been banished to the catacombs for six moons  by Strahd after she had attempted to kill him in a fit of jealousy. While her banishment was by no means Rahadin's fault, it wouldn't surprise him if such a vicious creature held a grudge against him nonetheless. Why else would she waste her time poking at him? 

The sound of nails scraping on stone trails across the door as if she's pacing around the tomb. “I'm only down here for two more moons, dear, and I'm oh so looking forward to spending the rest of eternity with you. Perhaps I can ask my husband if we can move our beds next to one another... Wouldn't that be an absolute delight, Rahadin?” She cackles, and the sound reverberates through the stone and into Rahadin's bones.

“In any case… I shall let you get back to pretending to sleep. Have a restful night, dear. I'll see you on the morrow.”

Sleep finally comes to him on the hour.

Chapter Text

Strahd von Zarovich is not in the habit of seeking out others unless he needs something of them. Seeing as how he is quite a self-sufficient man, rarely does he ever need something of someone. When he does, typically it is due to him not having enough time in the day or having more important things to do than some mundane task; he is a rather busy man, after all. It's not that he's necessarily opposed to seeking out others for the sake of socializing, but rather that seeking out others for idle chatter is typically below him.

Yet for some inexplicable reason, Strahd finds himself stalking through the halls of Ravenloft in search of his chamberlain and consort, Rahadin.

Consort. The word seems so odd given who it is referring to. He's known the dusk elf for over four centuries, ever since he was a young man preparing to go to war for the first time. Rahadin has been many things to him throughout the years: general, friend, chamberlain, teacher. Lover. And now husband and spawn, two titles that had been earned in the span of a night.

A mere year ago, he never would have suspected that their relationship would take such turns, much less that the prudish dusk elf would ever be so bold as to accept a marriage proposal from him. These developments, along with him being reunited with his beloved Tatyana once more, had certainly made the past year one of the more interesting ones in recent memory. 

Strahd throws open a set of double doors leading outside of Castle Ravenloft. It's not that he does not know Rahadin's whereabouts; he can pinpoint the general location of any one of his spawn through the dark ritual that binds them. It's more so the fact that he shouldn't have to be doing this in the first place that brings him ire. 

It has been a full moon since he has last seen the man. There had been a time not long ago in which they had practically been seeing one another on the daily. A part of Strahd longs to return to that; Rahadin never failed to serve as an interesting distraction from his typically mundane days. And, while he would never be so upfront about it, he knows some foreign part of him longs for his company.

He finds Rahadin in the chapel garden kneeling beside a shrub, a pair of shears in hand. Strahd smiles; it's nice seeing Rahadin back to his hobbies—as trifling as they may be—after his mood had significantly spiraled following his turning. 

For several moments, Strahd stands a good distance away idly watching him snip away at stray branches. While the nobleman has never had an appreciation for gardening himself, the elves’ natural affinity for it has always been an interesting topic to him. Something about their fey ancestry allowing them to be sensitive to the flow of nature; Rahadin had tried to explain it to him once, but he had only been half paying attention to his prattling on the subject. 

It strikes Strahd just how little the dusk elf is wearing despite the spring chill carried by the wind. He's traded his typical wool doublets and fur cloak for a simple undershirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and trousers. It's especially surprising considering the man’s distaste for the cold.

“Were you still mortal, I would be chastising you for wearing so little in these temperatures,” Strahd comments while stepping through the garden gate. His eyes are momentarily drawn to the large pile of plucked plant matter before the other man.

Rahadin gives a quick nod of acknowledgement over his shoulder before returning his concentration to the shrub. “I feel fine.”

“You despise the cold.”

Rahadin doesn't turn, but Strahd can see the corners of his mouth quirk into a wry smile. “I no longer have to worry about freezing to death. I'm fine.”

“Certainly. Vampirism has its perks at times—a resistance to cold and sickness being among them.” Strahd sweeps his long cloak aside and sits upon a stone bench. “And yet the preferences we held in life simply do not fade away with undeath. I will have the help stoke the hearth in my study for you. Perhaps we can—”

“They’re dying,” Rahadin comments seemingly apropos of nothing.

Strahd frowns deeply at having been interrupted. “What is? That plant?”

“Not just this one, but…” He sweeps his hands behind him, gesturing to a long row of similarly wilted shrubs. “These are all perennials. They should be growing with the start of the season. I've pruned them, fertilized them, done everything I've done past years, yet still they stagnate.”

“Plants often find it difficult to grow in this climate,” Strahd offers. “The soil is not fertile enough for practically anything except root vegetables, and the lack of sunlight hardly helps.” 

“They should be fine!” Rahadin snaps. His icy gaze holds Strahd's for a moment before he sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Apologies, my lord. I am just…” he pauses, ”especially frustrated at the moment. I specifically selected these plants—ghost blossoms—for their hardy nature. They require little sunlight and instead thrive off of fallen duff—compost and whatnot. This climate is suitable for them and has been since I planted this crop nearly a decade ago.”

“I didn't know you still so actively partook in gardening.”

“Indeed. I took it up again about four decades ago.” A look flashes across Rahadin's face, but it is gone in an instant. “I use the flowers of these plants to concoct the poison I coat my weapons in. Very potent. Stronger than the poisons crafted by the dark elves, even. I have enough saved to last me through the season, but I will have to go into town to purchase their watered-down ingredients,” he sneers at that, “sometime soon.”

“Mm.” Strahd kicks at a stone with the toe of his boot and watches as it settles beside Rahadin's knee. Really, he doesn’t understand why this seems to be so pressing for the dusk elf. Gardening, in his opinion, is a task better left to unemployed homemakers with nothing better to do. Barovia has far better resources to offer than its agriculture. Growing plants in such a cruel climate is like starting a fire in a rainstorm. Yet the current predicament seems important to Rahadin. Perhaps he can feign interest. 

“Well, that all sounds rather... unfortunate.”

Rahadin runs a bare branch between his thumb and forefinger. “Indeed.” He gives the shrub one last wistful look before brushing off his knees and standing. “Yes, well… Did you require something of me, my lord?”

“Nothing pressing. I hadn't seen you in almost a moon, and I wanted to make sure you weren't dead.”

Rahadin presses his lips together and gives a bitter smile, yet he does not say anything.

“That, and I wished to see you. It’s a rather odd feeling, having gone from seeing you almost on the daily to once a moon.” Strahd toes at another rock before suddenly looking up. “How are you?”

That same irritating smile. ”I am fine, my lord. Thank you for asking.”

Fine. Such a nondescript word. He doesn’t press it. “That is good to hear. Let us carry this conversation to my study. Get you indoors.”

“I appreciate your concern, my lord, but I still have some work to do out here. There's a particularly stubborn patch of brambles—”

“I didn't ask, Rahadin. That was a command.”

He blinks. “Ah. Yes. Apologies.” Without another word, he adjusts his shirt and follows behind the master of Ravenloft back into the castle and up the various staircases towards the study. A looming silence hangs between them.

When they arrive, Strahd closes the double doors behind them with a flick of his hand and hangs up his cloak before settling onto one of the red chaise lounges.

“Join me.”

Much to his frustration, Rahadin takes the chair across from him. His posture is rigid, more so than usual, with his legs pressed together and his hands in his lap. In a word, he looks uncomfortable. Strahd can't help but frown.

“You are my husband first and foremost, Rahadin. You are allowed to sit beside me.”

He smiles. “Of course. However, I have been gardening for the past half hour. I fear I may dirty your clothes.”

“I don't mind. They will wash.”

A fleeting look of discomfort crosses his face, but his features are soon impassive once more. As if requiring great effort on his part, the dusk elf sits up and moves to join Strahd on the chaise lounge instead, his posture still pin straight.

He wraps an arm around Rahadin's shoulders and pulls him close. The other man doesn't resist and allows his head to rest on Strahd's chest. 

He smells overwhelmingly like upturned soil and pine needles. It's an earthy smell, though not unpleasant. There's the unmistakable stench of death as well—a new addition—beneath it all. It's not uncommon with spawn, he’s found, and other scents do little to mask it against his heightened senses. Ah, well; it comes with the territory, he supposes.

“You've been rather busy this past moon, it would seem,” says Strahd, attempting to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice. It wouldn't do him well to put the man on alert just yet.

“Indeed. Between preparing for the start of the growing season and keeping up with my responsibilities as chamberlain, I have been rather busy.”

“I trust that your love of playing in the dirt has not interfered with said responsibilities?”

“Of course not, my lord.” Rahadin lifts his head enough to give him an earnest look. “My work takes priority above all else.”

“Including me?”

His eyes shoot wide and his jaw drops as if caught off guard. He pauses for a moment, no doubt thinking of what to say as to not offend him. “Of course not.”

The repeated words stir something in him, Strahd realizes. Frustration. “You are a terrible liar, Rahadin. You always have been.” The muscles in his jaw tighten. “Were I of higher importance to you, I would not have to come searching for you just to see your face for the first time in forever.”

How the circumstances have changed. There was a time four moons ago—before he had turned the dusk elf, conveniently—in which their paths crossed almost on the daily. As if his company had been sought out under the guise of some task or another. But now, it was as if he was purposefully avoiding him. And to what end?

“I… apologize. I will be better about checking in with you more regularly.”

“You are my partner. I shouldn't have to go out of my way just to spend time with you. I shouldn't have to ask you to show some damn affection.”

He feels Rahadin flinch slightly when his voice raises, hears the sharp intake of breath. His reaction stirs something unnameable within Strahd. With his free hand, the nobleman pinches at the bridge of his nose. He grabs Rahadin by the shoulders and pushes him away enough to look at him, really look at him, for the first time in moons.

His ebony hair, seemingly unwashed, hangs down past his shoulders in tangled strands. The man looks gaunt, more so than usual, and the light of the fireplace only emphasizes the dark bags under his eyes. 

With a thumb, he pushes up Rahadin's upper lip into a mockery of a snarl to better examine his teeth. His thumb traces over the elongated canines, sharper than those of any predatory animal. If the dusk elf hadn’t been intimidating before, he certainly is now. The fangs and blackened irises suit him, Strahd thinks. While his green eyes had been appealing before, there’s something particularly charming about this new dark allure. 

Throughout, Rahadin keeps his gaze focused ahead, allowing the man to scrutinize his fangs and move his jaw this way and that like a hostler examining his animals. 

His gums are receded slightly, indicating a lack of feeding.

With a sigh, Strahd lets his hands drop to Rahadin’s chest. “You haven’t been taking care of yourself, have you?”

A moroseness falls over Rahadin. The corners of his lips twitch up into a mockery of a smile. “I’ve been eating twice a week, just as you demanded of me.”

“Not enough, apparently. There’s more to caring for yourself than feeding. You of all people should know this.” 

He thinks back to the times in which he had spiraled into a pit of despair following the death of Tatyana’s reincarnations. His behavior had not been dissimilar to Rahadin’s: no desire to eat, refusing to bathe, no desire to interact with anyone at all. When he didn’t fall into a years-long slumber, the dusk elf would care for him not unlike a doting mother, his concern apparent. While it was unnecessary and rather annoying, the sentiment behind it had to be appreciated. 

Perhaps Rahadin is still bitter about having been turned, and that is what is leading to this bothersome behavior. 

“Remember that you represent my affairs. I need my chamberlain to not only be in fighting condition but to be presentable as well.”

Rahadin bows his head.

The master of Ravenloft sends a mental command to one of the servants of the castle; a returned mental jolt confirms its receiving. “Come,” Strahd demands, standing up, “to the batting chamber with you.” 

Rahadin doesn’t move, not immediately. He sniffs indignantly before sitting up and heading towards the king’s bedchamber. Strahd begins to follow, and Rahadin pauses, his hand on the door. “I… appreciate your concern, my lord, but I can find my own way. No need to inconvenience yourself.”

“I want to make sure.”

“You do not trust me to follow through?”

“When it comes to caring for yourself? No. Move.”

The dusk elf huffs but heads towards the bathing chamber. Helga, one of Strahd’s spawn, quickly shuffles out of the room upon their arrival. She gives a courteous bow to the two of them before slipping out and closing the doors of the king’s bedchamber behind her. 

Despite several lit candles placed throughout, the room is still basked in relative darkness. The shadows of steam dance along the walls, filling the small room with their heat. 

Strahd extends an arm towards the full tub at the center of the room. He doesn’t miss the way Rahadin stiffens.

“If you would prefer, I can turn my back,” Strahd murmurs. He removes his vest and sets it upon a nearby table. 

“It is fine. I just… hadn’t expected you to accompany me this far. Master.” With that, Rahadin goes to undress. 

Strahd averts his gaze; while he certainly wouldn’t mind watching the man undress, he can read a room. He only turns back around when he hears the sound of water sloshing.

The dusk elf is slumped in such a way that only his head and the tops of his shoulders stick out above the water, as if Strahd hadn’t seen him bare numerous times before and the concept of protecting modesty is still necessary. Strahd pulls up a stool beside the tub and goes to roll up the sleeves of his white dress shirt.

“Are you not joining me?” Rahadin sounds genuinely surprised.

“No, not this time.” He almost adds unless you want me to, but the nobleman is almost certain that the answer would be a firm ‘no’ tonight.

Silence stretches between them. Strahd has never been one for small talk for the sake of filling the silence; conversations without depth are not worth having, in his opinion. One of the things that he appreciates about the other man is that they both welcome silence. Yet in that moment, he wishes Rahadin would say something—small talk about the weather, whatever dull biology book he is reading, anything. Gods know his own brain is struggling to think of words in that moment. 

Rahadin is practically motionless, his gaze fixed on the far wall and silently observing the flickering of shadows. It bothers him that he doesn’t even move to clean himself. In that moment, Strahd wants nothing more than to extend his influence over him, to know what’s on his mind. What he’s feeling. Yet he resists. 

When no words come to either of them, Strahd sighs and reaches for a comb sitting upon the side table.

“Lean up.”

That is enough to grab the elf’s attention. The suspicion is more than evident in the side eye he shoots him, yet he obeys. “Why?”

Because he said so. Because he is lord of this domain. Strahd chooses to keep his thoughts to himself and instead pulls Rahadin’s hair away from his shoulders and over the edge of the tub. 

The other man freezes the moment he begins to comb through his hair, starting with the damp and tangled strands at the bottom. 

“What are you doing?”

“Your hair is a mess. Seeing as how you apparently will not comb it yourself, I am combing it for you.”

“Why?”

An excellent question. “So many questions today…” Strahd clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Why do you put my hair in braids for me? I’m certain the reasons are fairly similar.”

“Because you cannot see your reflection, and thus your attempts at styling your own hair come out lopsided. My lord.”

He can’t help but snort at that. “Fair. Yet that is the duty of a manservant, not a chamberlain.” He brushes at a particularly stubborn knot. Rahadin leans into the touch slightly.

“Talk to me, Rahadin. Something is the matter, and do not try and pretend otherwise.”

“Is that why you were so eager to get me in this damned bathtub? So that I would not have a convenient means of escaping this conversation?”

Strahd smirks. “I won’t deny that that is a part of it, but primarily because you were filthy.”

Rahadin sighs. He pauses, gathering his words.“My feelings are… complicated. What is done is done, and me prattling on like a woman will do little to change anything—“

“We’ve been over this. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care, and I will not hesitate to sit here all night if need be.” He pulls the front pieces of Rahadin’s hair into his hand and begins to comb through them. “We’re wed. This is what partners do—or so I’m told.”

“You would not like my thoughts on the matter.”

“I don’t care. Speak.” If he commands the word, then so be it; this game is growing rather irksome.

He hears the sound of Rahadin swallowing heavily. Strahd wishes he could observe his face in that moment rather than the back of his head. “I am feeling rather… betrayed. Yes, I suppose that would be a good word for it,” he starts slowly. 

“Explain.”

“You gave me your word on numerous occasions that you would not bite me, much less turn me into one of your spawn,” he spits the word. “I trusted you. I have always trusted you. Even after having watched you drain the blood of your own men four centuries ago following the death of Master Sergei, after having learned of the deal you had taken with dark forces, after learning what you’d become, I trusted you.” His voice wavers with unseen emotion. 

“I stood by your side even as your own men turned against you. When you gave me your word that you wouldn’t give in to those base desires and take away that which mattered most to me…” His voice breaks, and he quickly clears his throat. 

“When your own consorts spoke of you turning me, I brushed their comments aside. I said, ‘No, certainly my master and closest friend would never do that to me. I trust him…’ And look where that trust has gotten me. Forgive me if I am not quick to forgive—” 

“Indeed. Look where that has gotten you. No longer must you worry about old age. About sickness. You may remain in your prime for the rest of time. Time—you have so much of it now to use as you see fit.” Strahd’s hand stills. 

Time will no longer take you from me.

“I do regret having done so by going against my word, but I do not regret having turned you. You should see this as the gift it is.”

Rahadin actually laughs at that. “A gift? Strahd, the thing about gifts is that you can turn them away when they are unwanted. I had no such option. My humanity was taken from me. My choice to die on my own terms was taken from me. My choice to sire a family—“

“It was more than apparent you had no such desire—”

“Do not interrupt me again, Strahd von Zarovich!” Rahadin snarls, whipping around to bare his fangs at him.

Strahd’s grip on the comb tightens threateningly. This conversation is quickly escalating. Already he can feel his patience slipping. In few circumstances would such a reaction be permissible, much less with demands being made of him. 

Patience.

There is the sound of sloshing water as Rahadin brings his hands to his face. “Forgive me, Master. I’m just… There’s much that I must come to terms with. So much that I don’t understand. It’s… it’s difficult , to put it lightly. Please, let us forget this conversation.”

“Yes. I feel that may be for the best.” Like a molten ball of metal in his gut, Strahd can feel the unmistakable heat of rage quickly growing. 

Patience...

He sets the comb back upon the side table before standing up. Rahadin does not bother to look in his direction even as he rounds the tub towards the curtained entrance, claws scratching along its rim as he walks.

“You can trust me, Rahadin. Don’t let a single blunder tarnish centuries of certitude.” The nobleman leaves without another word.

Chapter Text

He no longer trusts him.

The words fester in his mind over the next two days, echoing over and over until they're all he can think about.

He no longer trusts him.

How dare he! After all that he has done for Rahadin, after all his father had done for him, he has the audacity to claim that he is not trustworthy. If it weren't for his family, he would no doubt still be begging on the streets of whichever ramshackle town his father found him in. Strahd had given him a home in Ravenloft, had honored him with the distinguished title of chamberlain. Yet still Rahadin spits upon his munificence. 

Had he given into temptation in a moment of unthinking bliss? Yes, and for that he is guilty. But who hasn't? He is gifted in many areas, more intelligent than most, but even he is but a man at his core. Even Rahadin, who prides himself in his propriety, has given in to temptation. It wasn't but five, six moons ago when the dusk elf had risked tarnishing the von Zarovich name by fucking some back alley whore. Yet in the end, Strahd had forgiven him because that's what those who care about one another do.

It had been at Rahadin's insistence that they began being intimate in the first place. It was him that had first looked upon him with desire, who hadn't been at all secretive with his wayward glances. He'd accepted his marriage proposal. Yet now why is it so hard to let bygones be bygones? His other consorts had gotten over it in the span of a few weeks. There are innumerable advantages to being a creature of the night, yet Rahadin is being too stubborn to even try and look at them! If he would just sit down and think, then he would see the situation as it is—an opportunity to spend eternity by his side as his consort.

Perhaps he's been far too lenient with him as of late. Were it anyone else, he would have them beaten within an inch of their lives for having exhibited such disrespect towards the count of Barovia. He could imprison him, yes. Give Rahadin a few years to think over his actions in the catacombs. He could utilize their bond to demand that he grovel before his feet, properly humiliate him. Make an example of him in Barovia Village.

There is something that continually stays his hand. Strahd pushes that feeling, whatever it may be, deeper below the water before it can try and surface. 

Yet still that emotion keeps trying to push itself up. Strahd finds that he can’t even concentrate on his studies without revisiting that scene in his head. It’s aggravating. Feeling nothing is better than this—at least he can concentrate when there’s that damned void in his chest—and he regrets having initiated the conversation in the first place. 

Something needs to be done about it. For once, however, he has no idea what. What did one do when the usual person they seek for counsel is at the root of the problem? 

It’s after having read the same passage approximately ten times over in an otherwise simple tome on astrology that Strahd makes up his mind.

He finds Ludmilla, his oldest bride, reading in the small library beside the guest quarters. She is dressed in a simple white nightgown. The pale light filtering in through the above window highlights the top of her stretched-out form. She looks up in surprise when Strahd gently knocks on the wall. 

“Oh! Hello, darling.” Ludmila smiles and sets the leather-bound book down on her lap. “What can I do for you?”

Having been acknowledged, Strahd steps forward and presses a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’ve come to seek your counsel.”

Her dark eyes widen. “My counsel? I do not know what input I can provide to one that already knows so much, but I will try.” She extends a hand towards the seat beside her, and Strahd joins her. “Go on, then.”

“It’s regarding Rahadin.”

“Mm, I see.” She tucks one bare foot under her leg and turns to face Strahd, her interest clearly piqued. “And what about Rahadin?”

Strahd pauses. While Ludmilla is wise far beyond her years, he’s not in the habit of discussing affairs with other consorts. Relationship concerns, when possible, are best kept private. His consorts are jealous things after all. Still, Ludmilla has never led him astray before. She is the most open-minded of the bunch, one of the key traits that has kept her by his side for so long. Unlike certain dusk elves, she knows her place.  

His eyes fall upon the bookshelf on the opposite wall. He begins reading the various titles, most of which are romance novels that had been bought by Escher, he's sure, as he gathers his thoughts.

He inhales sharply and turns his attention back to her. “What do I do with him, Ludmilla? He’s clearly unhappy, and I want to make things right between us lest this inconveniences me further.”

“I’m afraid I am going to need a bit more context, darling. I prefer keeping my nose out of your private affairs, and I am not as informed on where things lie as the others may be.” She gives a small smile at that. 

“Yes. Right.” Strahd clears his throat. “You are no doubt aware that Rahadin is now of your,” he gestures vaguely, ”ilk, yes?”

“A creature of the night, as it were? Yes, I had heard.”

“I believe he is upset because I turned him against his will, which I did despite giving him my word otherwise. Yet it has been four moons, and he still has not forgiven me. He's neither eating as much as he should nor taking care of himself. He's avoiding me. I know he is.” Strahd begins to tap his fingers along his knee. “What do I do with this? How do I make him stop sulking like a child? What would you do in this scenario?”

Ludmilla laughs, and Strahd can't help but frown. He has no idea what could be so funny about the situation, and he's not in the habit of being laughed at. 

“He's in pain, darling. You've hurt his feelings. I don't know the man all that well and even I can see that! I also don't need to know him well to see what a high opinion he holds of you. If I had to guess, he's trying to make sense of everything—his sudden new identity included—and it's difficult for him. Conflicting beliefs and whatnot.”

Strahd chews on that. It makes sense, he supposes. Rahadin's been upset with him before but seemingly never to this extent. “He needs to get over it. Languishing on such things is a waste of time. What is done is done.”

“Perhaps. But these things take time, dear. Be patient with him, and he will come back around in time.”

“I don't have time to wait for him to finish his sulking.” 

Ludmilla makes a thoughtful noise. She wraps an arm around Strahd's shoulders and gently pulls his head to rest on her chest. Strahd allows himself the small comfort and lets his eyes close, relishing in the feeling of fingers running through his long hair.

“You love him, yes?”

“ Care for would be the more appropriate term, but yes, I do look upon him rather fondly.”

“Then show him. Let him adjust on his own time. Care for him in the meanwhile: give him gifts, remind him that you love him, read poetry together or whatever it is he enjoys doing. Be his rock amidst a sea of turmoil.”

Strahd scoffs. Such are the fancies of women. “This sounds as if you are projecting more than anything, Ludmilla. Rahadin has no interest in such sentimentality.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” He's known the man for over four centuries now. He'd certainly hope he would be knowledgeable about his preferences. Rahadin needs little out of life but a sense of pride in his work.

Another thoughtful noise. “Since none of my ideas are adequate enough, perhaps you should simply seal him away in the catacombs—the classic von Zarovich solution.”

Strahd would have admonished the spawn for her teasing had her suggestion not already crossed his mind once or twice. Instead, his frown only deepens. “If I am hearing you right, you are suggesting that the blunt of this is my fault and that I should coddle him until he comes to his senses.”

“Yes. If you truly love him, then that is what I would do in this situation.”

While blunt, her honesty is to be appreciated, he supposes. And while not his preference in regard to problem-solving—the idea of coddling the weak makes his skin crawl—it can be refreshing to have a gentler soul's perspective on things from time to time.

Strahd takes her hand in his and presses his lips to her fingers before sitting up. “Thank you for your input, Ludmilla. I shall… consider some of that which you have suggested.”

“My pleasure, dearest. I am happy to be of assistance.” The vampire spawn gives him a warm smile.

Ludmilla... She is a good woman, though far too soft for a life such as this. It is that softness that had drawn him to her in the first place. It reminded him of Tatyana; she had been kind-hearted as well, always looking out for those less fortunate than her, much to Strahd’s chagrin. 

It had been infinitely pleasing to rip that goodness away from her all those years ago. Her blood had been especially satisfying. 

With a nod of finality and much to think over, Strahd rises and goes to leave the small library.

It's an interesting idea that Ludmilla had suggested, though not one that he's especially fond of: to show Rahadin that he cares about him. It should already be blatantly obvious that he does. It's not a spur-of-the-moment decision for a lord to ask someone to marry him. Seeing as how he neither needs to nor has interest in marrying for political gain, it should be clear that he seeks the company of those that intrigue him, those that he deems worthy to remain by his side. Yet Rahadin is too blind to see this, apparently, and would rather sulk under the impression that he matters little.

That ring around Rahadin's finger that he is always toying with should serve as enough of a reminder. 

Though Strahd supposes that he can humble himself this once to remind the dusk elf. As reparation for having gone against his word. If all goes well, perhaps things can go back to the way they were, that that somber look in his eyes can be replaced with a look of affection once more. 

More importantly, Strahd wants to be able to think clearly without this damned rumination breaking his concentration. 

The next question, then, is how does he convey his endearment to the dusk elf in a way that doesn't have him laughing in his face? Ludmilla’s ideas would have been fine for someone that appreciated sentimentality. Rahadin, however, has never been that kind of person. It was one thing for him to lavish his other consorts with fine clothes and jewelry; it was another thing to try and impress the dusk elf. It had taken until their consummation—and only when his mind had been clouded by pleasure and a lack of oxygen—for Rahadin to speak of his love for him.

He could give him another gift, he supposes. Something from his father's collection. He’d been especially touched by the wedding ring that had been in said collection. Perhaps he could have one of his father's gemstones fashioned into a pair of earrings to complement those lovely elf ears. Some sort of choker to denote him as his to all who dared look upon him. 

It will take time to procure and fit such gifts, however, and Strahd cannot handle these damned intrusive thoughts for even another hour. He needs to make things right between them now. 

A tryst it is, then.

Strahd hears Rahadin long before he sees him. He can hear screams clear from the second floor of Ravenloft—the particularly obnoxious caterwaul of a young man, by the sound of it. 

Strahd von Zarovich, dread lord of Barovia and undead master of Ravenloft, is no stranger to screams. Throughout his four centuries of existence, he's spent countless hours in battlefields, had orchestrated the slaughtering of entire villages, and had witnessed—and experienced— more than his share of heartbreak. With time, he has developed an uncanny ability to differentiate screams; a scream of despair sounds entirely different from a scream of pain. A scream of frustration sounds very different from a scream of determination. The current shouting assaulting his ears is clearly the result of immense pain—a common enough sound within the halls of Ravenloft.

The sound is no doubt coming from the dungeons. Having tread this path a thousand times before, Strahd descends down the multiple flights of stairs in little time. 

The screaming has stopped by the time he reaches the torture chamber. The room is silent save for the sloshing of his leather boots through the knee-high standing water. The room is pitch black, and with his darkvision, he can make out the unsaturated form of Rahadin standing out against the various rusted torture instruments. He's dressed down in a black threadbare undershirt. His hands are crossed behind his back and his attention is focused on another figure.

Strahd's eyes narrow. There is a man—a tiefling—bound to a table by his wrists before him, writhing in pain. The skin of his arms has been flayed down to the wrist, and there is a steadily growing pool of blood beneath him. 

Rahadin has one hand wrapped around the tiefling’s throat, the other pressing a dagger to the roof of his mouth. Rahadin looks over his shoulder and nods his head in greeting. “My lord.”

“What... are you doing?” Strahd asks through gritted teeth. 

“Torture.” It's so blunt and on the nose that it almost sounds like a joke, yet Rahadin rarely jests.

“I can see that. Yet didn't you torture this one yesterday, and the day prior? Gods know I could barely concentrate on reading past the sound of his shrieking.”

“And the day prior to that as well. My apologies if the noise has disturbed your studies; I will be sure to gag him going forward. I had cut out his tongue,” Rahadin grits his teeth and jerks the blade deeper into the tiefling's hard palate, bringing forth a fresh wave of screams, “but that has done little to reduce the noise.”

The tiefling coughs out a mouthful of blood.

Strahd sloshes through the water to get a better look at the man. His violet eyes are glazed over with a fog that only comes to those on the precipice of death; he's no stranger to the sight. As is consistent with Rahadin's particular style of torment, it is difficult to make out a tiefling past all of the gore coating his face and chest. His breathing is ragged, and he gives another weak cough past the blade in his mouth.

This man—Maxwell—had come from the most recent band of adventurers to enter his land. His least favorite member of the group. It is a shame, really; it’s been almost a moon and still none of his companions have come to rescue him. Strahd had been looking forward to confronting them, maybe taking another of them as a prisoner. While not his typical style of handling things, he supposes he could still use this one as a bargaining piece if need be.

A sudden jerking movement from Rahadin pulls Strahd from his thoughts. The dusk elf has pulled the blade away, and Strahd watches as he licks it clean of the tiefling's blood. The nobleman smiles at that—a classic, if not cliché, intimidation tactic.

“It’s a bit wasteful not keeping this one in the larders solely for feeding purposes, don't you think? In my experience, adventurers are always the most resilient. He could survive for quite some time.”

“Perhaps. Yet this is bringing me far more joy. And I have no interest in consuming his demonic blood. It's bitter.” With that, Rahadin slams the blade through the tiefling's shoulder, who jolts up in pain and howls. “I need you to stay with me, Maxwell!” Rahadin growls, his words thick with malice, and he slaps at his red-toned face.

“I'm not used to seeing you torture my prisoners solely for petty revenge.” It's not an unwelcome sight—it's entertaining more than anything to see this need for vengeance overpowering everything else—but different. It fills Strahd with a sick sense of pleasure watching his consort revel in the suffering of others. And it is always a pleasure watching him, an artist in his own sense, at work.

Rahadin ignores him and goes for a glass bottle sitting upon a nearby table. Strahd immediately recognizes the concoction as a potion of regeneration. He unstoppers it and forces the red viscous liquid down the tiefling's throat. Maxwell sputters at first, but the fight in him quickly dies until he's swallowing down the bottle's contents. 

Strahd watches with intrigue as the flesh along the tiefling's flayed arms begins to regrow over the exposed muscle. The arcane never ceases to amaze him; only through the powers of the weave could someone go from mutilated corpse to living and intact in a matter of minutes. It wouldn't surprise him if Rahadin had done this process several times prior; the man does so love his flaying, after all, and there is only so much flesh on the mortal body. 

Yet as interesting as this all his, he came here with a purpose. Grudgingly, Strahd tears his eyes away from the tiefling and addresses Rahadin. “What are you doing tomorrow evening?”

“If I can help it, my lord? More of this.” The tiefling resumes his wailing, this time with actual pleas for mercy thrown in, and Rahadin backhands him hard across the face. “Shut up! I am speaking!” He clears his throat. “Did you require something of me?”

“If you have nothing better going on than torturing the same man ad infinitum, then you will join in my study tomorrow evening for dinner.”

“Dinner.”

“Drinks. Dinner. Blood. Whatever you wish to call it. I figured this could be a chance for us to chat as we used to over our meals. You enjoyed those mornings, yes?”

A sudden look of what Strahd could only describe as melancholy washes over Rahadin. It makes little sense to him. “I did. Yes.” The muscles of Rahadin's jaw tighten. “But I have no interest in resuming our… previous conversation.”

“Neither do I.”

Rahadin inhales sharply through his nose, and once again his face is a blank slate. He gives a slight smile. “I can't help but notice that you only invite me to these little engagements when I am knee-deep in water and covered in gore.”

“My sense of timing is, as always, excellent. I assume that I can expect you tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” Strahd side-eyes the man bound to the table. “I trust that you can clean up here on your own when you are finished?”

“Yes. Though I believe this one still has at least another hour in him.” 

A wicked grin splits the dusk elf's face, and the tiefling begins to whimper. Such a pathetic thing he is; the least he can do is ensure his punishment, as cruel as it may be, with his dignity intact. He'd been so audacious—obnoxiously so—not a moon ago. It fills Strahd with dark pleasure to see him so thoroughly humbled.

Strahd nods, and without another word, he turns and leaves the flooded room. He has much to attend to before he can see to planning for this little tryst.

More screams accompany his footsteps back up the staircase. 

He's just finishing a chapter on grasses found in marshlands—some book that he had snatched off of Rahadin's desk when he wasn't looking—when there is knocking at the double doors of his study. 15 minutes early, as to be expected.

“Enter.”

Rahadin enters, his arms crossed behind his back, and bows. He's dressed in a gray doublet—not one of the ones he had gifted him, Strahd notes with slight indignation—and black trousers. His hair is half up and pulled away from his face. At least he had dressed up for the occasion; his appearance is a stark contrast to how Strahd has seen him the past few times. Thinking back on it, he cannot recall having seen Rahadin dressed in anything more than simple undershirts since their wedding night. It’s nice seeing him give a damn about his presentation for the first time in moons; when he actually puts the effort into cleaning up, his consort is darkly beguiling in the way that only those with elven blood can be. His turning only added to his charm.

Strahd places the book face down on the table before gesturing the dusk elf further into the room. He does his best to keep his expression pleasant. This is to be an enjoyable evening after all, and he has been told that his neutral expression can unintentionally come off as rather cold.

Unlike before, Rahadin sits beside him on the chaise lounge, albeit as far away from him on the chair as possible. He supposes that this is okay for the time being. He would undoubtedly become more comfortable as the night progressed as Strahd demonstrates that he had nothing to fear around him. It’s such a ridiculous notion; he shouldn’t need to walk on eggshells around the man, especially considering that they had been exceptionally comfortable around one another not half a year ago. For four centuries Rahadin trusted him, and now it was as if they were starting from the very beginning. And all over one slight mishap!

The nobleman does his best to clear his mind of the thought. Pleasant. He can be pleasant. This is to be a pleasant night with bygones having been bygones. In Ludmilla’s words, tonight is about showing his appreciation for the dusk elf. 

One of Rahadin’s legs is crossed over at the knee with his fingers laced atop his thigh—a barrier between them. He smiles when he catches Strahd’s eyes, yet it looks unabashedly insincere. Such disingenuous looks are growing rather tiresome, Strahd mulls to himself.

“You look ravishing tonight,” Strahd begins, breaking the silence between them. 

Rahadin merely nods his head in acknowledgment. 

“I was thinking the other night, and it had struck me just how long it has been since we have shared a proper meal together. One in which we’re not, ah, preoccupied with other matters, anyway.” Feasting upon the same body was hardly suitable for conversation. “I thought back to when we would share our morning meals together: first in the commander’s tent, then in my dining hall. While the circumstances may be different now, it is the company and conversation that made those moments enjoyable, no?”

“Certainly.” 

His brusqueness does little to deter him. “And while I no longer have the appetite for solid food as I once did, I am delighted that we are able to share the same meal once more. The help should be arriving sometime soon. In any manner,” Strahd claps his hands together in finality, “I’ve been leading this conversation for far too long. Please, the floor is all yours, darling.”

Rahadin blinks, dazed, before his eyes drop to the bottom left. Thinking. “I noticed that you were reading a copy of On the Nature of Grasses when I first entered. How have you been finding it so far?”

“Ah! Perceptive as always.” Strahd smiles. “Yes, I am about a fifth of the way through the book. It is… informative, one could say.” Dull would be a more suitable word.

“I must admit, I was surprised to see it sitting upon your table. I hadn't thought you had an interest in botany.”

“I’m of the opinion that one should never limit their knowledge to a handful of areas, and botany is, admittedly, an area in which I do not have much expertise.”

“If you ever have any questions on the topic, I am always happy to be of assistance. I've read that particular book a handful of times.” Rahadin’s eyes light up. “Did you know that, unlike most plants, grass grows from the bottom rather than the tip? This allows it to grow back rather quickly after having been grazed upon by animals.”

“I… did not know that.”

“Indeed! Grasses can be found in almost all biomes, including arctic tundras. Quite the interesting subject. As you get further into the book, I would look forward to discussing the topic with you further.”

“Mm.” A knife to the gut sounds more appealing than sitting down to discuss grass. He regrets having picked up the book in the first place. There are other topics that he would be far more interested in talking about with the dusk elf, other areas of Rahadin’s expertise: history, warfare, interrogation tactics, hippology. Why can’t he ever be this ecstatic about their common interests?

“Tatyana had a passing interest in botany. Flowers and the like—the typical fancies of women. I remember how she would spend hours just sitting in the chapel’s rose garden drawing or taking in the sounds of nature. The way her face would light up when gifted a bouquet from the garden… Gods, she was beautiful when she smiled. There was a time in which I had feigned interest in plants just to hear how her voice would pitch with excitement!”

The half-smile that had crept up Rahadin’s face immediately drops into a scowl. “As you are now?”

Strahd blinks. “What are you implying, Rahadin?”

“I am implying that you had picked up that book, the very same copy that had been sitting upon my desk, in the hopes that I would notice it sitting on your table. That I would look favorably upon you for it and that we would have something to discuss.”

“While you are astute, I suggest you mind your tongue. It is not wise to make assumptions of your lord and master.” His voice is flat, yet there is malice around its edges. Strahd is not especially fond of being analyzed, much less by those beneath him.

The corner of Rahadin’s mouth twitches. “I would dare say I have known you longer than anyone else on this mortal coil; I am entitled to infer from time to time.”

“You are entitled to nothing.”

“I suppose you are right, however. No matter how much I think I may know about you, I do not know you as well as I may have thought. A thousand pardons for my audacity, Master.”

Strahd holds Rahadin’s gaze, challenging him, for several moments, more so than should be appropriate, before the other man finally drops his eyes. Strahd’s claws tap along the top of his thigh, The dusk elf has been especially belligerent this past moon. He’s not particularly fond of this development. 

Rahadin clears his throat and adjusts in his seat. He pretends to focus on the flames flickering in the fireplace. “Speaking of Lady Tatyana, how is Ireena?”

A wise ide to change the subject. “She is well. She has been staying in Krezk these past few moons with Baron Krezkov and his family. I have not visited her in some time, yet I have been keeping an eye on her. Keeping her safe. There is the saying that distance makes the heart grow fonder. When she realizes just what she is missing, she will come to me of her own free will. Of this I am certain.”

“I am happy to hear that she is doing well.”

There is a light rapping at the door. Strahd flicks his hand and the double doors open. Helga enters holding a silver tray, a ceramic pitcher and two glasses balanced on top. She places the tray down upon the round table at the center of the room before curtsying and leaving just as quickly as she had entered.

Strahd doesn’t miss the way Rahadin’s eyes immediately snap to the pitcher. His chin lifts as if he is scenting the room, pupils constricted. It’s clear that he knows all too well its contents.

The nobleman leans forward to pour himself a glass. No need to adhere to the formalities of someone, in this case Rahadin, serving him given the current setting. “I don’t trust the cattle to not make a mess of my study, so I hope that this is still a suitable arrangement. If the help was following orders correctly, this should be fresh. Not as good as directly from the source, of course, but still rather palatable.”

He sits back, satisfied, and takes a sip from the glass, savoring its thickness on his tongue. Much to his delight, it’s still warm—there are few things worse than cold blood. It tastes full-bodied with a long finish. 

Strahd watches with interest as Rahadin's gaze flickers from the vase to the glass in his hand to his lips, nostrils flaring. His body stiffens, and Strahd doesn’t miss how his hands tremble in his lap despite his rather poor attempt at hiding it. Like a disobedient dog begging at the dinner table. It wouldn’t surprise him if he started drooling given his current state. The thought alone makes his lips pull up into a smirk.

“Is everything alright, Rahadin?”

“Yes.” The single word sounds incredibly strained.

Seeing his normally austere chamberlain struggling with restraint is quite the sight. Rahadin's resolve is like steel, he knows, but can these dark urges overcome them? It's an interesting question, one that he would like to test.

It’s a mystery to him why the man simply hasn’t asked for a glass of his own or gone to pour one for himself. This is why he had invited him here, after all. To partake with him. Yet there is something holding him back. Propriety, perhaps?

Strahd motions Rahadin forward with a crook of his fingers. The dusk elf obeys, scooting closer on the chaise lounge until their thighs are touching. His breathing is heavy, a habit he has not yet grown out of, Strahd supposes.

Strahd gives a pat to Rahadin's cheek and pulls his hand away, only to dip his first two fingers up to the second knuckle in his glass. The viscous liquid drips down to his knuckles when he pulls them out.

“Open. Do not bite me.” He draws upon the bond between them with the last words, making it an undeniable command. Better to be safe than sorry.

Tentatively, Rahadin opens his mouth, and Strahd presses two blood-coated fingers to the middle of his tongue. The dusk elf's breathing immediately becomes ragged, and his eyelids flutter. Oh, how he yearns for that blood, Strahd knows. To push him aside and gulp down that entire pitcher. To drain Strahd of what little blood he has and sever the bond that connects them. He knows because he's struggled with that same yearning for the past four centuries. While his ability to restrain himself has grown, that yearning is ever present as a gnawing pain in his gut. While he's had time to grow accustomed to it, his newly-turned spawn has had but moons. He couldn't fault him for giving in to that budding impulse. 

Yet Rahadin's gaze remains fixed. He doesn't dare take more than he's been given despite the trembling of his entire body. 

Strahd smiles. Such a loyal thing, even in death. He trails those fingers down his tongue and chin, wipes them on the wool of his doublet. His own hunger grows, is always growing, but he hides it behind a mask of subtle amusement. 

“Strahd,” Rahadin pants. There is the slightest flash of teeth. Though no other words follow—he wouldn't dare question his lord—Strahd can read the unspoken question on his chamberlain's face clear as day: why are you doing this to me?

Simply because he can. Rahadin is his in every way—first in body, now in soul. His. Nobody else can push the dusk elf to his limits the way he can. Nobody else has domain over that brilliant mind, that bloodthirsty anger. He adores seeing the man in such a desperate state, the growing hunger in those ebony eyes. He wants to see him break. To find to just what extent that restraint stretches.

Rather far, he's finding.

Strahd takes another deep drink, not missing how Rahadin's eyes, dark and ever so needy, are honed in on him like a hawk “Would you like some?” he asks finally.

Rahadin nods his head. His breathing is still labored. “Please.”

“Very well.” Rather than reach for the pitcher on the table, the nobleman takes another deep drink from his own glass before tipping Rahadin's chin up with a thumb and pressing their lips together. The elf is a fast learner, and he is quick to deepen the kiss and swallow down the thick liquid Strahd tongues into his mouth. A noise somewhere between a growl and a moan rumbles in the other man's throat, and it sends a rush of arousal straight to Strahd's core. 

Sallow fingers wrap around the back of Strahd's head and hold him in place; he allows it—this time. Strahd takes advantage of his distractedness to pull the spawn onto his lap, being mindful as to not spill his glass. Rahadin's tongue entwines with his own, catching every last taste of blood lingering in his mouth, and gives a needy little whine. He’s more than happy to give him what he needs. Strahd’s mouth dips from his lips down to his throat, savoring the way the dusk elf squirms with impatience in his lap.

“Do you want more?” Strahd murmurs against the point where a pulse had once been.

More eager nodding.

“Then you'll earn it. On your knees.”

Rahadin obeys with an eagerness rarely seen in him and drops down to settle between Strahd's knees. Dextrous fingers make quick work of the fastenings of his trousers and pull them down enough to free his erection. He wastes little time before wrapping cold lips around him.

A fang lightly grazes the sensitive skin, and Strahd almost jumps out of the chair. “Easy!” he snarls, balling his fists to keep himself from instinctively punching the man before him.

Rahadin is quick to pull off. “Apologies,” he mutters, yet the expression on his face is one of annoyance rather than sincerity. Rather than taking him into his mouth, he instead wraps a shaking hand around his cock and, with caution, gives it a few dry strokes. “Better?”

Hardly. He'd almost rather the teeth. “Use your mouth, but… take it slow. No need to be so eager.”

“Of course.” Once more, lips press to the pale skin of his sex. A pink tongue darts out to lap up the bead of wetness gathering at the tip before licking a long line down the length.

One of the things that he misses about his chamberlain being mortal and having a steady flow of blood pumping through his veins, Strahd thinks, is the deep blush that no doubt would have been coloring his face right now at such a lewd act. It was ever so charming watching him become flustered while trying to maintain his stoic appearance. The tips of those ridiculous pointed ears coloring was always the first sign that something—anger, embarrassment, arousal—was affecting him. Rahadin is difficult to read, and he's found it even more difficult to read him now without such apparent clues.

Even without the flush, he still makes for such a pretty sight with those sharp features and haunting eyes. The way drivel is smeared across his lips and chin, serving as such a sharp contrast to his typical put-together appearance. Even the uncertainty behind each lap of his tongue despite almost a year of practice stokes the flames in Strahd's belly all the higher.

He has so much time now—eternity when he may have only had a century before—and so much that he wants to teach the spawn. So much euphoric bliss he can give him. He wants to shape that uncertainty into a man that fits his needs and knows just how to pleasure his master. 

A shiver runs down Strahd's spine at the mere thought. Gods, what would he teach him first? He'd learned much from drunken nights spent with his men at the brothels of Amn back when he was a mere mortal. 

As far as he's concerned, Rahadin is still very much a blank slate for him to shape as he pleases. He could show him the array of pleasures available through the arcane, or see just how far his sadistic tendencies go. The thought of his elf bound in chains, vulnerable and begging to be used on the stone floor… Gagged. Or maybe in something finer, some lace underclothes that he could tear off him. Gods, he'd be so pretty, and all his… 

His hips buck involuntarily. “Damn it all… Quit your teasing and do something!” He's dangerously close, and teasing or not, the vampire is not convinced that he could last much longer if left with his thoughts.

“Shut up, or you’ll get nothing at all,” Rahadin mumbles against the head of his cock, his lips wet and shiny with drool.

The brat.

Rahadin readjusts his position and sits on his shins. His brow furrows. He pauses, and Strahd can see that he is running his tongue over his canines. Thinking, then. Hesitantly, the dusk elf takes him into his mouth, being far slower and more mindful of his new features this time. 

Strahd sucks in a breath, as much from the wet feeling of a mouth around him as from the sight itself: Rahadin on his knees, lips stretched wide. His mouth is cold as he licks at him, preferring to lavish his cock with his tongue than risk hurting him by bobbing his head. It's gentle at first, unsure, but his confidence quickly grows. 

Even better than the feel, the sight, the smell of him berating his senses, is the idea of it all. Knowing that it is Rahadin, so stoic and indomitable in everything he did, of all people making him feel this way makes the pleasure searing up his spine feel all the more intense. Yes, they had been intimate countless times before, but the idea of breaking—is it really breaking if Rahadin loves him, though?—such a proud creature never fails to light that fire in him. 

Gods, he's missed this… He misses him. 

Rahadin tongues at the sensitive ridge just beneath the head of his cock, soft yet ruthless in his teasing, causing that telltale warmth to steadily grow in his core until he is left just on the precipice. Strahd's head lolls back onto the chair, that mind-numbing warmth bordering on overwhelming, and his mouth falls open.

Strahd finishes with little warning, filling the other man's mouth with his seed as he mindlessly ruts through his orgasm, savoring the feeling of Rahadin eagerly swallowing down everything he gives him. He ruts into that wetness until he's certain every drop has been milked out of him, and only then does he pull away.

With great effort, Strahd lifts his head to look over the man still between his knees. “Are you, ah, are you alright? Darling?” He sounds surprisingly winded even to his own ears.

Rahadin sniffles, his eyes watering, and composes himself once more. “Yes.”

“Good.” Fingers run through his ebony hair, pulling loose strands back away from his face. Not bothering to clean himself up just yet, Strahd lifts Rahadin's gaze up to his own with a thumb beneath his chin. “Now that I am satisfied… How might I satisfy you, dear husband?” Strahd supposes he can return the favor. He is gracious if anything, and it has been quite some time since the two of them have been intimate.

Rahadin's eyes flicker over to the vase of blood sitting atop the side table. “You do not need to worry about me, my lord.”

“Strahd,” he corrects.

“Strahd. I am fine.”

Strahd frowns. He isn't used to being turned down. Really, he is being rather generous, and it's being thrown back in his face. Someone of his standing isn't inclined to lower himself in such a fashion, and yet… This would bother him more if he were able to think clearer.

“You would rather feed than have sex? Really?”

Rahadin shifts his position, looking clearly uncomfortable. His hands move from Strahd's thighs to his sides. Though he says nothing, his expression speaks volumes.

“...Interesting.” It's not interesting. It's infuriating. He has half a mind to down the contents of the vase himself or drop it on the floor. Yet still he motions to the containers before him.

The dusk elf's face immediately lights up and he snatches the pitcher with few reservations. He doesn't reach for the remaining glass sitting on the table but instead tips his head back and drinks straight from the container.

Strahd watches in a mix of revulsion and intrigue. There was enough in there for at least four servings, yet the spawn finishes it in a matter of moments. When he finally lowers the pitcher, the trembling of his hands has stopped. Blood coats the bottom of his jaw and drips onto his shirt, leaving him looking not unlike some carnivore that had torn its prey asunder—although an absolute mess would certainly be a better descriptor of his appearance at that moment. 

His eyes frantically scan the room as if searching for more before his eyes widen almost comically in realization. 

“Feeling better?” Strahd asks, not bothering to hide his amusement. In time, he would learn restraint, and Strahd knows that he is a rather fast learner. It's a marked improvement from him refusing to feed.

“Quite…” Rahadin pulls at the front of his doublet to scrutinize the red stains and frowns deeply. “Please, forgive me. That was rather… unbecoming of me. To say the least.”

“I disagree.”

The dusk elf wipes at his face with his sleeve and curses when it comes back red.

A part of him, that feral side gated away in his mind, longs to lap up the rest of the blood dripping down his chamberlain's face. To taste it on his lips. Judging by the bewildered expression still painting his face, though, Rahadin is not in a state of mind for such things. Strahd pushes down that longing. For another time, perhaps.

“I'll have the help start you a bath. Clean yourself up.” Strahd flips a hand in dismissal before going to tuck himself back into his pants. ”And toss that doublet. It's ruined, not to mention unflattering. I will order you a new one.”

“I, ah… Yes. I will do that.” Rahadin nods for far longer than is necessary before shuffling off towards the bathing room.

Strahd finds himself smiling fondly after the man. What an absolute mess of a creature. But he's his mess, he supposes. There is much that he has to teach him in regards to his undeath, but the prospect is exciting. 

He has all the time in the world now to lead him.

Chapter Text

A strong breeze whips his hair around his face. The wind shrieks as it blows over cracks in the glass panes. The ever-present dense fog swirls around his ankles like a great storm. Only the light of an obscured crescent moon lights the area, but it does not bother Rahadin; he can see just fine.

His gaze is focused on the dark stone wall of Castle Ravenloft before him. Steeling himself, he sprints towards it with purpose. Clawed hands scrabble at the crumbling exterior and he shoves a boot into the wall, searching for a foothold. The surface slips from beneath the soles of his boots, and he's sent barreling into the wall hard enough to make his chest hurt.

An owl hoots in the distance as if laughing at him. Rahadin frowns deeply. How in the Nine Hells were the other spawn able to climb on walls so effortlessly? They could go from full sprint to scrambling up vertical surfaces like a spider as if it were nothing. It couldn't be too complicated of a process if even the most dimwitted of the spawn could do it. Yet why can't he?!

Rahadin tries two more times, only to fail two more times. When his fingers brush the stone, he can't feel even the slightest pull as if he is beginning to do it right. With a huff, the dusk elf slams the side of his fist into the wall.

Another breeze stirs up the fog beneath him, and Rahadin's nostrils flare. The air smells fresh with the burgeoning of leaves. The sweet, musty tang of an oncoming storm. Yet beneath the natural scents lies something else, something living—or not quite. Woody and heavy, an attempt at masking the stench of death.

A wave of dawning mortification washes over him.

Rahadin whips his head around to find Escher, yet another one of Strahd's consorts, sitting in a tree behind him, one leg pulled up and the other dangling from a branch. He smiles, teeth bared, when their eyes meet.

“Ah! Hello, Rahadin!”

“Get down here. Now.”

The blonde-haired vampire spawn hops down from the tree with cat-like grace and saunters over to him, that same infuriating smile plastered on his face.

“My friend! It has been ages since I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you.”

“How long have you been spying on me?”

Escher places a flat hand to his chest looking honestly taken aback. “ Spying ? To what end would I be spying on you? Watching would be a more appropriate word.”

“How long?!”

His smile falters. “I don't know. An hour, perhaps? I had heard this incessant thumping sound against the wall and I came to investigate only to find you out here—much to my pleasant surprise.”

Corellon take him now… Rahadin scrubs at his eyes with the heel of his palms. “Now that you've had your entertainment, you may leave now.” He doesn’t bother to hide the contempt in his voice.

Escher ignores him. “What are you doing? Attempting to walk up the wall?” He places his hands on his hips. “I could help you.”

“Bold of you to assume that I would need your help.”

Escher shoots him a look. “I watched you collide face-first with that wall at least twenty times. No assuming needs to be done here, friend.”

That plummy voice is growing more and more irritating by the second.

“What you're attempting to do is rather difficult, especially without instruction. It took me a good two weeks or so to be able to do it with confidence, and I had been practicing under my master's tutelage. Unless you enjoy being quite the spectacle to behold, let me give you some pointers.”

Rahadin narrows his eyes at the spawn, searching for the slightest hint of judgement on his fine features. The spawn bounces slightly on his toes. There's a pleasant look on his face as if he's eager to help.

He sighs and nods his head slightly. Better to bear this embarrassment now than flounder about longer than necessary.

Escher’s dark eyes light up, and he clasps his hand together. “Excellent! Okay, where to begin… Hm… Ah! Form. Yes. So, when I want to climb up a wall, I will typically run towards it and then jump at it with arms and legs splayed out. The more contact you can have with the surface, the better—especially as you're just starting out. From there, once you feel grounded, you can go onto your hands and knees or whatever feels most comfortable for you. I believe my master is able to do it just by walking, but even I am not at that point yet.”

“You want me to throw myself at a wall.”

“You can, though I would recommend taking it slow and doing it without jumping at first.”

Great.

With that, Escher takes off running towards the castle’s exterior, his violet robes billowing behind him. When he is but a few feet away, he jumps. His shins and arms, outstretched like the wings of a bat, collide into the stone with a meaty thud. Yet he does not slide down, instead sticking to the wall in a rather ridiculous manner not unlike a bug. He scrambles on hands and knees to face downward to address Rahadin.

“It's a bit… painful if you don't do it right, but you do get used to it. Your turn!”

Rahadin eyes the wall, hesitant, before approaching it once more. Heeding Escher’s advice, he presses his forearms and the inside of a thigh to it. He lifts up slightly on his other leg but quickly sets it back down when he feels himself start to slide down. “It’s not working.”

“Try closing your eyes and focusing on that magical feeling inside you. Let that be what holds you to the wall.”

Rahadin quirks an eyebrow at that. “ That magical feeling. Quaint.”

“Yes! You know, that feeling of darkness. That pull in the back of your mind when you catch the scent of blood or the voice that calls you to rest by morning. It’s hard to describe, but you’ve felt it, yes?” 

He thinks back on his past experiences. Yes, he supposes that he’s felt something similar, but he had never equated it to anything more than the needs of his new body—the same way his body would call for solid food back before having been turned. Like a craving but stronger. More irresistible. Perhaps it is somewhat similar to the pull of the arcane from his fey ancestry that he feels when misty stepping or enchanting his blade. It’s not entirely impossible that there could be two competing sources within him now.

The dusk elf allows his eyes to close and tries to focus on that feeling. Through his mind’s eye, he hones in on that ever present bloodlust and its accompanying hunger. He tries to push past it, to find something deeper than those surface emotions. There’s something there, just the tip of something so far out of his reach. He grabs for it anyway and attempts to bring it to surface, to have it yield its secrets to him. It’s enough to stir up the beginnings of a slight headache.

Once more, Rahadin presses his body to the wall—and sticks. His eyes fly open. For the briefest of moments, both of his legs are suspended… before plummeting to the ground once more. He lands straight onto his knees and winces in pain.

“Well done!” Escher beams down at him, his full lips pulled back into a genuine smile. 

It’s a start, he supposes. More progress than he had made earlier. It would be a skill that would require much more practice, more practice than he is willing to do in front of the other man. “I believe I am done for now,” Rahadin mumbles, rubbing at his knees while standing. “I… appreciate the advice, Escher.”

“Of course! Happy to help.”

With a silent nod towards the blonde and a slightly bruised ego, Rahadin turns to begin the trek back inside the castle. There is the sound of feet skidding on stone and then dirt as Escher tries to catch up. Rahadin doesn’t slow and pretends not to have heard him even when he finally does fall in beside him. 

From the corner of his eye, he can see that there is an obnoxiously jovial smile plastered onto his face. Again. Rahadin almost prefers the spawn when he’s moping in the library—at least then he’s not bothering him with his needless peppiness. Rahadin is in no mood to deal with him. The fifteen minutes together had been long enough. Rahadin's pace quickens as he steps foot through a door into Castle Ravenloft.

“By the by, Rahadin, how are you? How are you feeling?” Escher asks.

“Fine.”

“Fine. What a boring word. So much has happened since I last saw you: the start of spring; the wedding, which was beautiful, by the way; ...the consummation of said marriage…” His voice lowers suggestively and Escher elbows him. 

Rahadin stops and whips around to face him. “Do not touch me!” he snarls, jabbing at his chest with a clawed finger. He has half a mind to rip off that arm and beat him with it.

Escher throws his hands up in a mock show of surrender. “Of course! My apologies. I did not mean to offend. Just trying to have a little fun is all.” 

“Keep your idea of fun away from me.”

His voice softens. “Sensitive topic. I understand.”

Rahadin glares at him for another moment before sighing and continuing walking. His balled fists tremble at his sides. Sharp claws dig into the palms of his hands hard enough to draw blood, yet he hardly notices the pain. The two descend down two more sets of stairs in absolute silence, the only sound their soft footfalls on the stone floor. Escher gives him some space, but Rahadin can still sense him right behind him.

Apparently unable to tolerate the silence any longer, Escher gives a small cough. “Are you heading to the catacombs as well?”

“So it would seem.”

“Ah! How lovely that we share a bedtime now.” 

“Mm.” Lovely is not the word he would choose. Annoying. Inconveniencing. Unnecessary. There is so much more that he could be doing with his time rather than dedicating an extra four hours to laying in a tomb. He can only hope that Escher doesn’t get the idea to make a habit of accompanying him down to the catacombs each morning.

Escher's eyes keep darting over to him. He clearly wants to say more on the subject, Rahadin notes with a frown. “...Yes, Escher?”

“How have you been faring with the, um...” He raises two bent fingers before his mouth and bares his teeth.

“The vampirism.”

“Yes!”

“As I said before, I am fine.”

“Ah. Well. I am happy to hear it, I suppose.” His voice is monotone, sounding not at all convinced by his words. “If there’s anything I can do to make this… transition easier for you, friend, do not hesitate to reach out to me. It wasn’t all that long ago when I was in your shoes. Quite the terrible time, what with learning to cope with the, ah, blood drinking and whatnot. I wouldn’t endure it again even if you paid me.” 

Escher gives a tight-lipped smile, one that reeks of pity. “It gets easier with time. I promise.”

Just because he had a rough time with it, Escher is now assuming that he’s miserable. Unlike this pampered boy, Rahadin has experienced enough hardship in his life to where this feels like child’s play. He’s suffered through worse, and he will suffer through this.

While normally Rahadin would never tolerate such an insufferable sentiment as pity directed towards him, he doesn’t have the energy in that moment to do anything about it.

With a sharp exhale, Rahadin suddenly turns on his heels to face the other man. “When you went through this, did you notice any changes in yourself outside of what is to be expected?”

Escher’s eyes go wide, as if he hadn’t been expecting an actual conversation out of him. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps changes to your personality. Your habits.”

He makes a thoughtful noise. “...It’s been enough time to where I don’t, ah, fully remember what I was like before having been turned. You may remember better than I, what with you being an elf and all.” He draws his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “I don’t suppose it is out of the question that I would have, but I cannot say for certain. I have just been, you know… me.”

Very helpful. Rahadin scowls but does not press the matter further. The two descend down another staircase.

“Why? I take it you have been noticing some noteworthy changes in yourself?” Escher's voice echoes off of the stone walls and throughout the stairwell before it opens up to the arched ceiling of the catacombs.

“Yes.”

Thick fogs swirls about their ankles as Rahadin trudges past rows and rows of hollow columns. Escher, thank the gods, does not follow him to his crypt, but he can hear him call out in farewell. 

Rahadin’s crypt is at the far corner of the catacombs. He could tell by the freshly swept floor and the unfaded epitaph on the stone door that his bed had been a very recent addition. That, and Rahadin could not recall ever having seen a crypt set aside for him despite his lifetime of servitude to the von Zarovich family, a fact that he has always found odd but never questioned. Perhaps Strahd had never expected him to die. Less likely, perhaps he never wanted to consider the idea, even as he began approaching the final leg of a typical dusk elf’s lifespan. 

As he rounds the corner towards his crypt, he is greeted by the sight of Anastrasya leaning against the stone door. Her arms are crossed before her, an infuriating smirk plastered on her face. Her painted lips stretch wider when Rahadin comes to a sudden halt before her.

“Ah, Rahadin! Just the elf I was hoping to see. I’m so glad that I was finally able to catch you before you retired for the day.”

His upper lip curls in distaste. He just wants ten minutes to himself without having to talk to anyone. “Hello, Anastrasya.” Silence stretches between them. “...Did you actually need something of me, or are you here simply to be a nuisance?”

“You’re ever so droll, Rahadin. Has anyone ever told you that before?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “No, I don’t need anything in particular. I just wanted to see your handsome face.” Her eyes look him over from toe to tip before suddenly her brow furrows in a look of mock concern. “Your complexion looks a little off, dear. Are you ill?”

Gods, why did Strahd insist on marrying the most obnoxious individuals? He has no patience for the spawn’s games. “Step aside.”

“Chat with me for a little bit, you bore! It’s ever so lonely down here, and it is your fault that I am here in the first place.”

Rahadin snorts. “Yes, how dare I grow those poisonous flowers without having had the foresight that you would attempt to poison me with them. Truly reprehensible. Again, I ask you to step aside.”

She doesn’t budge and instead continues looking him over. “No. Not until you at least put in the effort of having a decent conversation with me. We’re basically family, after all”

“Being married to the same man does not make us family.” He bares his fangs at her, venom practically dripping from the articulated words. “Step. Aside.”

Anastrasya places a flat hand against her chest and her dark eyes widen. “My! How frightful! I am quaking in my boots!”

“Anastrasya.”

She makes a thoughtful hum. “I must admit, I am a tad jealous that your fangs grew to be longer than mine. Tell me, do they get in the way when my husband pressures you into sucking his cock, or—”

Rahadin throws himself at the shorter woman. His own teeth rattle in his skull as he slams Anastrasya against the stone door of the crypt, and she lets out a pained grunt. The toe of a boot wedges between them, and she kicks the dusk elf away with surprising strength to swipe at his face. Two of Anastrasya’s claws nic his cheek in a spray of blood before she takes a wide step to the side away from the crypt’s door.

Rahadin wipes at his face with the back of his hand and snarls at the woman. Her smile only widens, her pupils pinpoints despite the darkness. She draws her tongue along pointed canines and widens her stance. A direct challenge. 

This time, Anastrasya pounces at him, every muscle in her body tensed. Rahadin steps aside but not before claws pierce his arm and scrape against bone, sending searing pain shooting throughout his right side. He whips around to bring his elbow down between her shoulder blades, enough to have her stagger.

Having gone through the motions thousands of times before, Rahadin draws his scimitar from its scabbard with his left hand in one swift motion and spits out a chant in Elvish. The steel of the blade begins to radiate with a red aura, the only source of life in the catacombs. Several bats roosting along the ceiling chirp in irritation at the intrusive light.

“Fight me like the monster you are, coward!” says Anastrasya. Rahadin is able to dodge three more swipes.

There is the sound of rapid footsteps in the distance until Rahadin sees Escher slide into view from the corner of his eye. He never takes his gaze off of the woman before him; underestimating her had been his mistake the last time they fought. But not this time.

“Stop it! The both of you!” Escher calls out, his voice pitched with concern.

Anastrasya does not even spare the blonde a glance before going into another series of swipes. He dodges them again and again until she mutters something under her breath. A fine mist shoots out from the outstretched fingers of her right hand, coating the side of the dusk elf’s neck and jaw. It burns and fills Rahadin's ears with the sound of sizzling.

Frantic, he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his undershirt. The stench of burning flesh fills his nostrils, yet he can hardly feel it past the coursing adrenaline.

“Anastrasya! Rahadin! Stop it, you… you animals!”

“Shut up, Escher!” 

Anastrasya takes advantage of Rahadin's lapse in attention to punch him in the gut hard enough to send him doubling over and follows through with another elbow to the base of his skull that’s hard enough to have him seeing stars. Rahadin is able to drop to his knees fast enough to avoid another blow, and he shoves the shoulder of his left arm forward enough to send her off balance.

The scimitar feels foreign in his non-dominant hand; he’s used to the blade feeling like an extension of himself, yet now he’s so consciously aware of its heft. Balancing its weight, he points the blade upward and rises rapidly from beneath her.

His scimitar sizzles as it pierces her stomach, smoke billowing from the entrance wound. Had his thinking been clearer, he would have tilted his blade up just the slightest and pierced her wretched heart, end this in one quick motion. Yet all he can feel in that moment, all he can think about, is hate. He hates this woman. He hates her and her shrill voice and her shrew-like face and her braggadocious, snide nature. He hates her for thinking that she, a mere insect in comparison, was superior to him. He’s lived centuries longer than her, had led legions of soldiers to war and killed hundreds—no, thousands— of men. He is the esteemed chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft while she is but a pretty bed warmer! 

He hates her for being right about his predicament most of all.

With a snarl, Rahadin tears his scimitar from Anastrasya’s gut and throws it to the ground. He follows the spawn to the floor and straddles her waist. Before she can protest, his left hand tangles in brunette locks and slams her head into the stone floor with as much strength as he can muster. Her skull splits with a sickening crack , and a howl loud enough to reverberate throughout the castle escapes past painted lips. 

She bucks wildly in an attempt to throw the dusk elf off, but Rahadin holds fast. He can feel sharp claws digging into muscle and tearing the flesh of his arms to ribbons. It’s excruciating, yet he is too blinded by his rage in that moment to care. 

This is exciting. This makes him feel and he chases that high again and again, crushing her head into the stone repeatedly until he can barely make out that once pretty face through all the blood. His own laughter joins her screams in a cacophonous chorus until eventually those screams fade into a soft gurgle. 

Her wild bucking and attacks had ceased some time ago, yet Rahadin cannot bring himself to stop. The blood spreading between the stones like an overfed lake is a mesmerizing sight. 

A different shriek from behind finally pulls the dusk elf from his morbid reverie. Rahadin whips his head around towards the source of the noise to find Strahd's consort Volenta screaming, her arms pulled up protectively to her chest. Escher is nowhere to be found.

“Anastrasya!” Her expression is unreadable past the skull-like mask obscuring her face. “What are you doing?!”

Rahadin blinks. He looks between Anastrasya—the remains of her, anyway—to Volenta and back to Anastrasya before slowly picking himself up. He grabs his scimitar from the floor, its red aura fading, and gingerly wipes it on the front of his tattered shirt before placing it back into its scabbard. His arms pulse with pain.

“Hello, my lady.” His voice is calm despite the thick streaks of blood covering the front of chest and neck.

“What did you do, you miserable knife-eared rat?”

More blinking. This time, Rahadin gestures with a trembling hand towards Anastrasya’s corpse as if it is clearly obvious. 

“Why? What is wrong with you?!”

Rather than reply, Rahadin turns his attention towards his right arm, his damned sword arm, and cradles it to his chest. Dark blood steadily oozes from deep puncture wounds along his forearm, yet already he can see the ribbons of his flesh beginning to weave themselves back together past the tears in his sleeve. He watches the process with fascination, the pain steadily fading.

“Answer me!” Volenta steps right up to him and, despite her short height, effortlessly picks him up by the waist to slam him against the wall of a tomb. From this distance, he can see flashes of red irises behind the eye holes of the mask. 

“She was irritating me,” Rahadin answers slowly.

“Irritating?” Volenta pulls her head back slightly and bares her fangs. “You’re a child! That is no reason to kill one of us, you steaming pile of horse shit!” She laughs, a high-pitched sound not unlike a bell. “God, how I can only hope that Strahd tears you limb from limb for this! If he doesn't, then I certainly will!”

As if on cue, there is the sound of two sets of footsteps to their side. The two spawn turn their heads to find Escher and Strahd standing there. Escher’s eyes shoot wide as he lays eyes on the carnage before him, and he looks between the corpse and his fellow spawn for several moments. Strahd’s expression is unreadable, yet his steely gaze cuts into Rahadin like a knife.

“Rahadin.” His name is spoken slowly and methodically by the ancient vampire. “Explain.”

The dusk elf swallows. His head feels too foggy, still high on the adrenaline rush, to even begin to think clearly. “Anastrasya and I fought. I won.”

“Did the wretch attack you again?”

“No. I struck first.”

Rahadin doesn’t miss the way Strahd flinches slightly at his words. His face is quick to become a stone mask once more. “Explain.”

“She had been bothering me nonstop these past four moons. I lashed out.”

“Like fucking children...” Exasperated, Strahd sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He waves a dismissive hand. “Handle this amongst yourselves. I have neither the time nor the desire to mediate petty squabbling. Rahadin, clean up your mess.”

Volenta suddenly releases her hold on Rahadin’s waist—he is barely able to catch himself—and turns to fully face the nobleman. “He killed Anastrasya! She was your wife, remember?”

“I can make a new one.” Strahd goes to turn away, but not before Volenta’s hand on his shoulder jerks him back around. Escher takes a large step behind.

“ He killed your wife! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t we mean anything to you?!”

Strahd slowly turns his gaze towards the hand on his shoulder. “If you value that hand, I suggest you move it.”

Volenta pulls her hand away but does not move.“You’re pathetic. This is not the man I fell in love with.” She smiles mockingly up at him, her voice twisting with barely restrained anger. “What happened to the man who dealt punishments with an iron fist? Who would line up the guilty and rip their throats out with his very teeth? Who had a torture chamber full of screaming souls? You’ve never spared the rod before, why are you starting now?

“Anastrasya got six moons in the catacombs just for fighting with him, and you plan to walk away after this one literally murdered her?!” She spits on the nobleman’s boots. “You are hardly a man at all!”

“Fine!” Strahd roars, his eyes flashing crimson. “I will handle this. But unless you wish to join Anastrasya, you will NOT speak to me in such a fashion again.”

Steadfast, Volenta doesn’t back down. “I want to hurt him. I want to make him suffer for what he did to Anastrasya! Please, let me—”

“You are not to touch him!” Strahd snarls, menace dripping from each booming word. “He is mine, and I will be the one to punish him accordingly!”

“But—”

Strahd leans over until his face is mere inches from Volenta’s. His voice lowers into a throaty growl.“I am the lord of this land. My will is law, and my word is not to be questioned.” He straightens, but his glare remains fixed on the woman until she eventually shrinks away. He shoulders past her. “Come, Rahadin. I would not have my ancestors look upon this.”

The gravity of the situation had not fully struck Rahadin until Strahd beckons him to follow. The surge of adrenaline quickly dies into a dropping of his stomach.

Dread.

While he does not regret having murdered the waif—he regrets not killing her earlier, if anything—he does regret there being consequences for his actions. It is one thing for the other spawn to be irritated at him; they could rot for all he cares. Yet it is an entirely different feeling to be punished by the lord of Barovia. To think shame would have been weighing unbearably heavy on his shoulders not a year ago for having inconvenienced his master. Now all he feels is apprehension.

Nodding mutely, Rahadin joins Strahd at his side, stepping gingerly over Anastrasya’s corpse. He would take his punishment with dignity and without regret.

From his periphery, he sees Escher shoot him one last pitying look before Strahd practically shoves the dusk elf out of the catacombs. 

Chapter Text

Strahd walks him to the torture chamber. It's to be expected, but for some inexplicable reason, Rahadin had been expecting something more lenient. Verbal berating, perhaps. A backhand. Menial labor. Something more appropriate for his status and offense. Yet the son of the good King Barov has never been known for his leniency. Strahd rules through fear, and it is always a certainty that whoever violates his laws never repeats the offense. He so loves making public spectacles of his punishments.

Rahadin supposes that he should be grateful that his punishment would not be particularly public—save for Volenta, who has been following them in silence since the catacombs.

The air feels particularly stale in the torture chamber. Their movements send ripples through the standing water as the two of them step around half-obscured and rusted torture instruments; the dusk elf has navigated this room in the dark enough times to know where each and every piece lays. The murky water laps at the bottoms of Rahadin’s knees and fills his boots. Volenta had taken to crawling on the ceiling before they had even entered the room to avoid trudging through its waters. 

“To think that I valued you for your restraint,” Strahd says softly.

“You can, my lord.”

“Your behavior says otherwise.” He pushes Rahadin between the shoulder blades hard enough to send him staggering towards one of several columns in the room. “Shirt off.”

Rahadin swallows heavily and bows his head in resignation before going to remove his undershirt. His arms sting when he goes to lift it up and over his head, but they are in far better condition than they had been not five minutes ago. Being undead has some, albeit very few, advantages, he supposes. At that moment, he’s particularly grateful for his dulled sense of temperature. He knows from experience how cold the lower floors of Castle Ravenloft are, and the frigid waters certainly don’t help matters. Instead, he is left with a feeling of vulnerability and the humiliation of being exposed.

With long strides, Strahd closes the distance between them, effectively trapping his chamberlain against the column with his broad frame. He lowers his voice to a fierce whisper, glancing up occasionally at Volenta. “What has been wrong with you lately? I don’t expect much from my consorts, but I expect more from you.” There is something else behind that simmering fury in his eyes. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

His words hit Rahadin in the gut like a ton of rocks. They hurt. He knows what’s wrong: he’s not himself. He feels lost. He feels betrayed. He’s trapped in a body he no longer recognizes with these strange impulses for the rest of eternity—all things that his supposed husband cannot seem to comprehend. Yet it doesn’t detract from the sudden guilt that swallows him whole.

He should apologize and save face. He knows this. Yet for some damned reason, he feels his lips pull up into a shit-eating grin. “What a curious way of showing your concern.”

Strahd’s upper lip curls and he pushes him back against the column. “Turn around. Arms above your head.”

At least he can obey; he can face his punishment like a man. Those are things that he has control over. As instructed, Rahadin reaches overhead, one hand atop the other, and steps up to the imposing structure. The column feels damp against his bare chest. Water drips nearby, yet still a foreboding silence hangs over the room even as he hears Strahd moving things behind him. His eyes glance up to find Volenta peering down at him, invoking images of a spider above its web of trapped prey. She grins.

The position invokes memories of having shoved men into similar positions before. During those times, the prisoners had never gotten into position with as much acceptance as he had. Typically, Rahadin had to resort to utilizing the manacles that hung from the column just to keep them still; it was all too common for his prisoners to try and escape before the torture had even started. A strong sense of discipline was quite hard to come by. 

He won't be like them. He won't need to be shackled—unless it is Strahd's will.

“I remember you saying once that the cat o’ nine tails was one of your favorite implements due to it being more entertaining than a simple whip. More painful. While I don’t have as much practice with the cat as I would like, I cannot help but feel that it would be a suitable punishment,” says Strahd, his voice clear. It’s the same commanding voice that he uses when intimidating the masses, Rahadin notes. “What do you think, Volenta? 150 lashes?”

“200,” a voice hisses from above.

“200 it is, then.”

He’s no stranger to this room and its devices, yet never has Rahadin been on the receiving end of any of them. He’s never felt the sting of neither leather nor cord against his back. Experience, however, has taught him that it is an extremely unpleasant experience. There could be worse methods, though—the rack, the iron maiden, the pear of anguish. In retrospect, a nine-pronged flail is child’s play.

There is the sound of more sloshing water. Rahadin can sense Strahd standing behind him. The muscles of his jaw tighten.

“Count.”

The cat comes down hard against his upper back, its leather tendrils biting hard against his sensitive skin. It stings like the Nine Hells.

Rahadin obeys—of course he obeys. As much as it humiliates him, he obeys. This is his punishment, and he will take it with dignity.

“One.” 

Another lash over the same stretch of skin.

“Two.”

Five more lashes, five more words spoken clearly into the open room. Strahd’s hand is skilled, landing each strike on the same spot until that stinging turns into intense burning. It feels as if his skin is threatening to peel off. Despite his words, the nobleman clearly has more experience than Rahadin was led to believe—not that he is surprised. 

By the tenth lash, his back is throbbing. By the twentieth, he can feel welts, red and sore from the incessant attention, beginning to form. Each strike across raised skin makes the elf's toes curl in his boots, the muscles of his back tense in anticipation. He counts through gritted teeth, but he does not falter.

His skin splits somewhere around the fortieth strike; it's hard to tell whether the liquid oozing down his back is sweat or blood, but the pain is immense to the point that it almost becomes cathartic. There's a pattern to it, each blow coming three seconds after the other, enough time to think on them, to really feel the impact settling into his spine. Each strike sends a fresh rush of endorphins to his brain, enough to begin masking the pain. It gets to the point where he can't think, much less feel, past the cloud fogging his mind. It's a desperate clash between feeling and unfeeling, and it's such a new sensation for the dusk elf. It's invigorating.

“You’re holding up well,” Strahd finally says, his voice sharp and clear, and a lash lands harsh against Rahadin's middle back this time. New territory.

It’s enough to make Rahadin's knees buckle, his shoulders screaming against their sockets as he slumps against the wall. Every inch of his body protests as he musters the strength to push himself up on trembling legs and raise his arms back above his head. Just as Strahd had asked. Always as Strahd had asked.

“Count.”

“Fffnnn…” His lips refuse to form words. It feels as if his mouth has been stuffed with cotton. Drool dribbles down his chin.

“I didn't catch that.”

Volenta cackles.

“Fif-fif-fifffty, hah… nn-nine…” 

Despite the lashes being pure agony, it’s that agony that burns away at the humiliation of being disciplined. It’s enough to tantalize and stir those primal cravings, to feed the darkness crawling inside him. In those moments, he forgets everything: the past few moons, Anastrasya’s blood on his hands, why he had been upset with his master, that hunger that always, always gnaws in the pit of his stomach. It’s just him and Strahd in that room. All of his master’s attention focused on him.

He detests Strahd and his damned sense of entitlement over his free will more than he has detested anything else in his life. He should, anyway. Yet at that moment, all he wants is to be so thoroughly debauched, so thoroughly his . He doesn’t want to think. He’s tired of thinking. For once, he wants to give up that control.

Strahd can give him that. Whether the nobleman is aware of it or not, he is giving him that. Rahadin would let him flog him a thousand times over if it always brought with it such a sense of overwhelming relief.

The pattern breaks, and the sound of leather meeting flesh does not fill Rahadin’s ears for once. His muscles tense, but no strike comes. Instead, he hears the sound of air rushing through Strahd’s lungs, a sharp intake of breath behind him. Rahadin forces his lungs to breathe in deeper than his current ragged panting allows to see what could possibly have distracted the ancient vampire enough to still his hand. There’s nothing remarkable save for the metallic stench of his own blood and sweat filling the stale air.

Strahd’s voice is soft as he speaks. “You’re enjoying this.”

Rahadin can't answer with how dry his mouth is.

Strahd swallows and curses under his breath. “Volenta. Leave.”

“But why?” Volenta asks somewhere above him. “There's still—”

“Leave!” 

Volenta huffs but does not say another word. From his periphery, Rahadin watches as the spawn, still crawling on the ceiling, disappears from sight. 

There is the sound of sloshing footsteps. A sudden wave of fresh pain shoots through his body as Strahd digs a claw deep into one of the open welts along his back. Rahadin throws his head back and yelps at the heat that flares up beneath his skin, all of his nerves suddenly alight. It should hurt more than it does, and yet... 

“Look at me," Strahd growls, a seething, power-drunk command. Unable to disobey, Rahadin turns around on trembling legs to meet Strahd’s gaze. The nobleman’s pupils are dilated, dark orbs against dark irises. He swallows before gripping Rahadin’s jaw. The veins and prominent muscles under Strahd’s pale skin flex lightly as he tilts his head, scrutinizing him. He moves his hand, turning Rahadin’s head this way and that. Through it all, Rahadin continues to stare at him through half-lidded eyes. The dusk elf’s eyes struggle to focus on the face before him.

Apparently satisfied, he lets go of his jaw. Rahadin’s legs give out beneath him, and he all but collapses onto Strahd’s chest, fingers desperately scrabbling to find purchase in the folds of his sleeves. Strahd hoists him back up by his collar. Rahadin doesn’t have the energy to writhe and push away. Even as the skin on his back begins to heal over, he feels lightheaded, his whole body numb with endorphins.

Strahd smashes their lips together hard enough for their teeth to clatter. His kisses are hungry, devouring the whimpers that spill from Rahadin's lungs. His tongue slides into his mouth, demanding access and claiming his territory, and the dusk elf cannot help but shiver in response. 

“Str-Straaahd...” His name comes as something weak and wanton. He wants to look away and let his eyes flutter shut, but something compels him to hold Strahd's gaze.

The vampire snarls in response and he bites Rahadin’s lower lip with enough reckless abandon for his fangs to scrape painfully against his gums. It’s a hard kiss, wanting and taking.

It's a jumbled mess of sensations: the pleasure of Strahd sucking at his lip to the point of bruising versus the agony of his lacerated back being repeatedly shoved against the column. It's too much to process, and Rahadin cannot even begin to think straight. Searing arousal spreads through him.

Strahd pulls back enough to murmur against his throat. “You have two options: I will finish your punishment, administer the remaining 141 lashes… Or, with your consent, I will bind you and use your body for my pleasure. Your choice.”

His words are enough to pull him from his fever-like reverie for a moment. A choice, one that seems blatantly obvious to the elf. “Bind me.”

“You are certain?”

Rahadin nods.

“Then so be it. Bare yourself and turn around.”

He obeys, reaching down into the dark water to unfasten his boots. The skin of his back, angry and inflamed, sears in protest as he pulls them off. His trousers and underclothes soon follow until there are no barriers between him and his lord.

Rahadin raises his arms above his head once more. Chains clatter and harsh metal meets skin as Strahd reaches around to clamp manacles around his wrists. Rahadin's arms are stretched to either side of the column as if raised in worship. He stands on his toes to lessen the pressure on his wrists

“If you say the word red, I will stop.” The nobleman jerks on the chains, testing their strength. “I will not stop otherwise until I have finished. Am I understood?”

“Y-yes…”

“Yes, Master,” Strahd corrects.

“Yes… Yes, Master.”

“And what do you say if you need me to stop?”

He swallows. “Red.”

“Good pet.”

A fingernail, blackened and thick, traces down the column of the dusk elf's neck and between his shoulder blades, evoking a slight shiver from him. Strahd begins to circle around the column, every part the predator encircling his prey before striking. His eyes, dark with hunger, drink in the sight of the elf exposed before.

The fingers of one hand explore the planes of Rahadin’s back, ghosting over his shoulder blades, the curve of his spine. Each touch only irritates the healing scars further and sends a dull throbbing across his back, until claws rake across his back hard enough to break skin. Rahadin arches his back and gasps. Blood slowly wells up from the fresh wounds, and Strahd is quick to lap it up, his motions slow and teasing.

There’s more shuffling behind him. The sound of a belt being undone and the shifting of fabric. A heady mix of apprehension and anticipation coils in Rahadin's stomach like a snake.

Suddenly, a boot forcefully sweeps at Rahadin's inner ankle and his legs buckle beneath him. His shoulders strain at the weight of holding him suspended, and the metal cuffs bite into his wrists. Strahd's ankle holds his own legs apart to where he can no longer comfortably stand.

Rough hands run down the dusk elf's sides and settle on his hips before yanking them towards him. Something slick grinds against the curve of his backside before pressing at his entrance. 

With no preparation, the nobleman bullies the head of his cock inside him, tearing a sharp gasp from Rahadin's lips. There is little time to adjust to the pain before Strahd starts to rock his hips, gradually nudging him open and easing himself deeper.

Rahadin's nails claw at the stone pillar before him. The rough surface bites into his palms. It's a different sort of pain than the sting of a cat against his back. This pain is harsh and hot and all-consuming. His legs shake, both from the strain of the position and the desire rolling through him.

Strahd groans, a deep and throaty sound, and Rahadin can feel the ghost of a breath against the back of his neck. The dusk elf shudders when Strahd's hips settle against his backside, bottomed out. Breathing heavily past gritted teeth, Rahadin's head lolls forward until his forehead rests against the damp column. His eyes flutter shut.

There's little patience in Strahd's movements. Unlike the last time he had taken him, the vampire doesn't wait for him to adjust to the thickness that feels like it's splitting him apart, doesn't pay any mind at all to his pleasure. There's no pause, just hands on his hips that pull him into each harsh thrust. The clatter of chains is drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin.

One hand moves from his hip up to wrap around his throat and tightens slightly, claws threatening. “I should have known someone so depraved would take pleasure in this…” Strahd growls and nips at the pointed tip of the elf's ear. “Degenerate.” The word would have been an insult had it come from anyone else, yet his master speaks it almost affectionately.

Rahadin gives a weak whimper, unwilling to deny him. The pain soon turns to pleasure as he adjusts to Strahd's size and the feeling of his cock touching everything inside him and that spot that makes him arch his back and gasp. 

Arousal burns hot behind his stomach, and his own sex aches from the lack of attention. Gods, how he wishes he could touch himself… For a brief moment, he considers asking the other man to do it for him—his own hands are tied, after all—yet he knows he would deny him. This is his punishment. He's here solely for Strahd's pleasure, and he would never go so far as to call the lord of Barovia generous.

“Look at you, a once-proud man reduced to a trembling mess. You're an embarrassment.”

“Master, pl-please,” Rahadin swallows, sounding especially breathless. He can't stand it anymore. ”Touch me.”

“No.” 

“Please—”

“Ask me again and I will gag you. Be grateful that I'm even fucking you.” He squeezes his throat, although not tight enough to be painful. Strahd swallows down a groan. “I'm close.”

His movements become more frantic, less restrained. Claws dig into his hip hard enough for Rahadin to feel thick blood beginning to slowly run down his outer thigh. The pain, coupled with the pleasure of being so thoroughly debauched, is intoxicating to the point of being overwhelming. He sobs, and Rahadin doesn't even realize when Strahd's name starts to spill from his lips over and over like a prayer.

His master lets out a feral sounding growl with one last thrust, and suddenly he's finishing inside him, cock twitching while he spills his seed. Rahadin can't help but moan and clench over him, thighs trembling.

Strahd rests his forehead between Rahadin's shoulder blades for several moments, simply standing behind him and savoring the high from his orgasm, Rahadin assumes. Much to his surprise, Strahd begins to gently trail his fingers along his sides, his touch almost loving. Yet even his touch is overwhelming, and Rahadin shifts slightly, still very much unsatisfied.

The fingers of one hand trail down Rahadin's chest, over the lean muscle of his stomach, and finally, finally wrap around his length—he could've wept with relief. It doesn't take much of Strahd stroking him, languid yet firm, for his own orgasm to take him in a dizzying moment of bliss. Warm waves of pleasure pulse through him, throbbing behind his stomach and settling into his core while Strahd milks him to completion. From behind, he hears Strahd give a small satisfied hum, and he pulls out soon after.

Rahadin knows he should be mortified—both from his previous actions and his lechery. He should be more concerned about his lord’s perception of him. Yet he feels overwhelmingly tired to the point where he's struggling to even think, much less form cognizant sentences. Every inch of his body aches.

Strahd says a word Rahadin cannot understand and snaps his fingers. A loud knocking sound echoes throughout the chamber, and the manacles open. The nobleman takes a step forward and is quick to catch him beneath the underarms before the elf's legs can crumple beneath him.

“What am I going to do with you…” Strahd mutters. He holds Rahadin up until he can properly get his legs beneath him before taking one of his arms into his hands, scrutinizing it. His wrists had been rubbed raw some time ago, leaving behind angry reddened skin and sores that had only recently begun to heal over. 

Strahd clicks his tongue. “You should have told me to stop.”

Rahadin babbles out an incoherent attempt at the word sorry.

Strahd sighs and presses his forehead to his… before sharply pulling back as if remembering that he's supposed to be angry with his chamberlain. He clears his throat. “Yes. Well. I can only hope that you learned your lesson from this and that you will not be disappointing me further from here on. If there is a next time, I shall not spare you from the full brunt of your punishment.”

Rahadin nods mutely.

“Good.” He gives him an awkward pat to the shoulder. “The sun is about to rise. Let's get you back to your coffin, and you shall deal with the absolute mess you made first thing upon waking.”

Once more, Rahadin nods.

Chapter Text

It’s a clear night. The light of the half-moon and the twinkling of thousands of stars, unobscured by clouds, allow the count of Barovia to see miles upon miles of his valley, its snow-peaked mountains and dense forests. A slight breeze gently rustles the trees in the distance. 

Just below, he can see a burst of soft orange light, a concentrated mass of candlelit homes and shops. For over 400 years this sight has greeted him, seemingly stuck in eternity—just like him. In but an hour's time, the torches illuminating Barovia Village would be snuffed, and its inhabitants would prepare for their nightmare-fueled slumber. In another 12, the church bells would chime their somber melody for morning mass. The townspeople would go about their mundane tasks as usual only to retire by the light of the first star shining in the sky. 

Repeat ad infinitum.

Before, he could take solace in knowing that his beloved was but an hour’s flight from him. He could gaze out at the village and imagine what she was doing at any given moment: combing that stunning red hair, reading by candlelight, chatting with her adopted brother on particularly restless nights. It brought him peace to know that she was safe—as safe as she could be when not by his side, anyway—under his watch.

But now she is out of sight, hidden away in some dilapidated excuse of a manor in Krezk. Yes, he can always scry on her, but such a spell is taxing even for a skilled caster such as himself. He can use the brazier room and be by her side at a moment’s notice, but it feels far different than always having her close to him.

Strahd leans forward and crosses his arms on the stone ledge before him.

His darling Tatyana… Much to his frustration, she always did have a penchant for doing things not in her best interest.

Ah, well. That wanderlust will be crushed eventually. All things in time, he supposes.

He hears him, the cautious footsteps of heeled boots on stone that stop a few feet behind him, long before he ever sees him. A breeze stirs up the scent of woodsy oils and death and the slightest metallic tang of blood on Escher's breath when the spawn softly calls out for his attention.

Strahd doesn't turn around—not immediately, anyway. He enjoys making Escher uncomfortable, and being ignored never fails to make him squirm. Such a gentle boy. When the nobleman finally does look over his shoulder at him several minutes later, he's met with the sight of a man who is absolutely wracked with emotion: guilt, anxiety, fear. None of which are particularly desirable things to be seeing on your spawn.

Strahd quirks an eyebrow. “Yes, Escher?”

Escher's eyes are glued to his boots. He shifts slightly from foot to foot. “Good evening, Master. How are you—”

“To the point.”

“...Ah. Yes, of course.” He gives a weak smile, and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments before they’re back on his shoes. “I wanted you to hear this from my mouth first before any… misinformation spreads. And it may be nothing, but in case it is, I wanted you to know anyway...”

He’s stalling, Strahd notes with a frown. Practicing his words in his head. His interest is definitely piqued, and his patience for such rambling has diminished significantly. Yet he lets Escher continue. For a moment longer, anyway. 

“It’s involving Raha—” he catches himself, “your chamberlain.”

His interest is definitely piqued. “What about him?”

“Yes, well…” Escher clears his throat. “This happened about, I don’t know, 25 minutes or so ago. I was reading in the library as I often do—keeping to my own, mind you—when Rahadin approached me. I asked if he needed anything, and he said that he wanted to talk. I found this a little strange. The man typically avoids me like the plague for God knows what reason, but we’ve been chatting recently. About a week ago, I started teaching him how to spider climb—”

“The point, Escher.”

“Of course. Yes, so I invited him to take a seat so that we could talk properly. He asked me about the book I was reading—a lovely romance novel by D.Z. Lazarus that I would highly recommend—and I explained the plot to him. This is where I became particularly confused because he was actually nodding along, asking questions and whatnot; rarely have I ever gotten that level of engagement out of him. We went back and forth for a while discussing various books that we had read recently. It was a delightful conversation.

“After a time, the conversation comes to a natural pause, and Rahadin sets me with this strange look. Seemingly out of nowhere, he kisses me! Needless to say, I was scandalized! It was only a quick peck, but still! With the both of us being married men, particularly given who it is we are married to, you would think he would know better!”

The pit of Strahd’s stomach drops through the floor. It’s that same feeling he’d felt all those years ago when he’d learned that Tatyana and Sergei were to be wed. That same feeling of his heart being torn out of his chest and stomped on, the insufferable mounting sense of vulnerability and abandonment and other emotions he refuses to put a name to. Emotions that he thought he had crushed and conquered centuries ago. He is better than such needless constructs! And yet his chest still hurts.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he!

The rest of Escher’s babbling is lost on him. Strahd takes a deep breath in an attempt to tether down the tenuous shreds of his remaining composure. His hands tremble by his sides. “Escher.”

The spawn winces and stops mid-sentence. “Yes, Master?”

“Be truthful with me: did you like it when he kissed you?” He can’t keep the sense of immediacy out of his voice.

With sudden composure, Escher raises his eyes to meet Strahd’s once more. They’re hollow. “I did enjoy it.”

“And did you kiss him back?”

“Yes, but I quickly caught myself and put an end to it.”

Strahd snorts and releases his influence over the man. Typical. Escher shakes his head as if brushing away the last traces of fog in his mind. His eyes widen. He blinks and shakes his head once more.

“Allow me to clarify, Master, that although I briefly returned the kiss, it was not the way that one enjoys the embrace of a lover. It was more akin to that primal, touch-starved craving that has plagued man since the beginning of time. Never would I assume—”

Strahd holds up a silencing hand. There are few things that he detests more than attempts at justifying one's wrongdoing. “Allow me to clarify, Escher.” He leans over until his face is mere inches from the spawn’s. “ Should you even think about touching him again, I will wring that pretty neck of yours. Am I clear?”

His Adam’s apple bobs heavily when he swallows. “Crystal.”

“Good.” Strahd sighs and leans back against the stone half-wall. He pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Get out of my sight.”

He stalls for a moment, mouth agape. “Master, you aren’t… upset with me, are you? Please believe me when I say—”

“GO!”

Escher gives a curt bow of his head before skittering off with his tail between his legs. He gives one last glance over his shoulder at him, dark eyes huge, before disappearing back inside the castle.

The spawn is lucky. Seeking him out to confess his wrongdoings was all that was keeping Strahd from pushing him off of that balcony. He has no doubt that Escher will give a wide berth to Rahadin going forward. He's attention-seeking, yes. Almost disgustingly so. But he values his master's perception of him and his freedom above all else. That alone is typically enough to keep him in line.

But Rahadin—he has no idea what to do with him. There is very little that Strahd expects from Escher; he would believe that he would kiss his other consorts through sheer carelessness. His chamberlain is never careless. A meticulous planner, there's a rhyme and reason to everything he does. For the life of him, Strahd cannot fathom what that reason would be. The paranoia implanting itself in his mind, the ever-growing fury inside him, is enough to obscure the moon with thick cloud cover. A sudden gust whips his hair around his face.

With a roar of displeasure, Strahd brings the palm of his hand down onto the ledge hard enough to send hairline cracks sprawling throughout the stone. Pain shoots up through his wrist and into his arm.

He cannot fathom what that reason would be! What childish game is Rahadin playing here? Did he think him a fool, that he wouldn't find out about this? He knows everything that goes on in the valley! He is the very land and soil and stone he treads upon! If his goal was to purposefully provoke him, then he has very much succeeded!

It does him no good to stand here and speculate. He needs answers. 

Strahd takes a step onto the balcony. Without slowing, he continues walking, his feet clinging to the balcony’s underside and then the outer walls of Castle Ravenloft. Swirling mists obscure the gorge below, a drop that would certainly kill any lesser man. Strong winds send his cloak billowing around him.

He needs a why.

He descends until he reaches the first windowless sublevel of the castle. Closing his eyes, Strahd wills himself to become one with the stone… and passes through the wall.

“Rahadin!” Strahd roars as he emerges inside his chamberlain's office. He's greeted by the sight of Rahadin sitting at his desk, quill in hand. The dusk elf jumps at the sound of his name and whips around, almost knocking his chair and inkpot over in the process.

“My lord! You startled me—”

Strahd shouts the words to an incantation and, with his palm facing outward, gestures towards the side of the room. The mahogany desk goes flying into the wall, the side of it splintering upon impact. With that same hand, he gestures towards Rahadin and pantomimes sharply pulling him forward. The elf flies towards him as if pushed by some unseen force, feet lifted from the ground, and Strahd catches him by the throat hard. Rahadin gags when Strahd’s palm crushes against his Adam’s apple.

“Why?” Strahd snarls in his face, fangs bared. His fingers tighten around that slender elven neck. It would be so easy to just… break it.

Rahadin opens his mouth as if to speak, only for his words to come out as a wheeze. He gags again, his legs kicking to touch the floor. Strahd lessens his grip somewhat, enough for him to speak his damned piece. No words come, though, and his arms and legs eventually fall limp in a show of surrender, his dark eyes trained on Strahd’s. 

He could escape if he wanted to, Strahd knows. He knows that the elf can misty step at will with his fey ancestry. All it would take is a murmured word and he could be anywhere else in that room. He’d praise him for his fidelity were he not such a lecherous harlot.

“Why?!” Strahd repeats the phrase and shakes him.

There is no fear in those dark eyes. Not a hint of remorse outside of his visible discomfort. Rahadin, may he be forever damned, instead has the audacity to smile at him, a wide, teeth-baring grin that makes Strahd see red. Unable to stomach looking at him any longer, he throws Rahadin against the wall. His thin frame smacks against the stone with a satisfying thud. 

“Escher told me about your little escapades. How long have you had feelings for him? When were you going to tell me—if you were at all?”

Rahadin winces and pushes himself up into some semblance of a sitting position. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. “Believe me when I say I have no feelings for the whelp.” He tilts his head slightly. “The all-powerful Count Strahd von Zarovich isn't jealous , is he?”

His mocking words make the stagnant blood in his veins boil all the hotter. Gods, he could kill him in that moment! He should! Strahd’s hands grip at the heavy fabric of his cloak. “Am I to believe, then, that you kissed him by accident? That perhaps you mistook him for me?”

“No. It was intentional.”

“Then why? If not for love then help me understand. What am I missing here, Rahadin?” Strahd begins to pace the length of the office. His path takes him over scattered paperwork, but he cares little. “What, were you blinded by lust, hoping that he would suck your cock? Have I not been paying you enough attention? Is this some… some sort of pitiful cry for my attention? If so, I am not fond of it!”

With little patience, Strahd stomps over to where his consort is sitting and kneels down before him. Strong fingers grip his jaw. “Escher is mine. You are mine. You swore yourself to me—or have you forgotten your vows so easily?”

Rahadin doesn't flinch, even when Strahd tightens his grip hard enough to bruise. Just keeps staring up at him with black eyes, the ghost of a smile tugging at his thin lips. He says nothing, and Strahd's lip curls.

He must show restraint lest that bloodthirsty urge gnawing in the pit of his stomach get the better of him.

“I cannot fix this if you don't talk to me, Rahadin.” 

Silence.

“Answer me, damn you!” Strahd snarls the words, his eyes flashing crimson. If he wants to be a petulant child and not answer him, then fine. He has ways of forcing his hand, and the mind is apt at speaking the unspoken.

Attempting to calm himself, Strahd draws upon that connection between them and focuses on that mental link. Pushes against the heavy white fog that resists him every step of the way, brambles scraping at his own mind all the while.

The fog clears. His mind’s eye is met with images of himself. It startles Strahd at first; it always startles him when he sees himself. Unable to see his reflection, this is one of the few ways that he himself can view his appearance—the sharp cheekbones, the pale skin, the ebony hair of his father—without going off of mere verbal description. This man is almost unrecognizable compared to the portrait of him as a mortal hanging within Ravenloft.

He's upset. What is he waiting for? It speaks in Rahadin’s voice.

Emotions of anxious anticipation and of self-loathing wash over Strahd. No longer is there the overwhelming feeling of love that had been so present the last time he had extended his influence over the dusk elf. It's the faintest of embers, barely detectable over the wall of lust that hits him like a whirlwind. 

With a sharp inhale, Strahd pulls away and reacquaints himself with his surroundings. For once, Rahadin doesn't seem any the wiser to his intruding.

Were circumstances different, the idea of him being so present in Rahadin's lustful thoughts would have been particularly arousing. His dusk elf is typically so austere—albeit less so as of late—and any response he can get from him is always a pleasant surprise. 

Yet his mind lingers on that fading love. There's still something there tucked away in the recesses of Rahadin’s mind, but it's so small that the slightest breeze could extinguish it. It doesn’t matter what feelings Rahadin may have for him—he's his, and there's little that can be done about it—and yet it still feels like a dagger twisting in his gut. 

For the life of him, Strahd cannot fathom what might have caused this. Despite everything Rahadin has put him through these past five months, including his infidelity, Strahd still cares deeply for him. The growing darkness inside his consort intrigues him. His newfound strength and ferocity make him a deadly warrior, and his growing curiosity makes him an even more desirable lover. If anything, his affection for the elf has only grown. Yet why is it seemingly the inverse for Rahadin?

Strahd allows his eyes to close for a brief moment. He tries to empathize with Rahadin, to remember what it had been like for him when he had first become a vampire. His experiences had been so different. The death of his beloved had been and still is the worst experience of his life, but he does not recall his transformation as a whole as having been a particularly unbearable time. The sudden lust for blood was jarring, but he had gained such strength, such power! Ripping apart the traitors at Sergei's wedding with fang and claw had been a euphoria unlike any other.  

He wants to empathize with Rahadin—the effort is there—though it feels as if there is some psychological block pushing against him every step of the way.

His eyes open, and Strahd allows his voice to soften despite speaking past gritted teeth. “I am trying to… Talk to me, Rahadin. What is it you need?”

Rahadin flinches slightly, imperceptible to anyone who hasn't spent the better part of their life around the man. Another smile, though this one less certain than before. “Are we almost done here? Really, I should be getting back to my work.”

Unable to restrain his frustration any longer, Strahd uses his hold on Rahadin's jaw to shove the man back against the wall. “I have been more than patient with you, yet still you defy me. I spare the rod, and you have the tenacity to mock me! I've beaten men within an inch of their lives for lesser transgressions!”

The smile drops. Strahd doesn't miss the way Rahadin's eyelids flutter slightly at the suggestion. Or the hot butter smell of arousal that begins to flood his senses.

Interesting.

The nobleman's voice deepens into a gruff whisper. “If you are going to consistently act like a fucking child, then perhaps I will treat you like one. Lay you over my knee and take my hand to your arse.” The scent is overwhelming at this point, and Strahd finds his own body reacting in turn. Between his own arousal and anger, it's becoming increasingly difficult to keep a clear mind. 

As expected, that gets his attention. Rahadin clears his throat. “If… If that is your wish, then I shall accept it humbly, my lord.”

Strahd pushes himself onto hands and knees and slinks his way forward until he's hovering just over Rahadin's slumped form. His mouth presses against a pointed ear. “The thing about punishments, however, is that the recipient is not supposed to want them.” With that, Strahd pulls away and goes to stand up. “As you were.”

“I-I beg your pardon? My lord?” His voice practically goes up an octave. “No. No, I acted out of line. There must be consequences for my actions.”

The vampire raises a dismissive hand. “I am pleased to hear that you recognize your mishaps. Continue to think on them, then, as I will not abate whatever urge may be rearing its ugly head by giving you what you want. As you were.” As much as he wants to take his anger out on him, this denial is a far better punishment.

Much to his surprise, Rahadin quickly stands up and steps towards him. “No. You are the lord of this domain. Act like it and hurt me, damn you!”

“And encourage this behavior? No.” He must be feeling especially desirous—or guilty—if he would dare go against his orders. It's particularly unlike the dusk elf.

“Strahd,” his name falls like a warning, and Rahadin licks his lips nervously, “you’d asked what I needed. This is what I need.” Another step.

“I will not repeat myself again. If you are so desperate to fulfill these masochistic fantasies of yours, come find me once you’re capable of going a week without being an utter disappointment.”

Rahadin’s eyes go wide for a moment, pausing, before laughing. “Certainly you are one to speak of disappointments! You’ve made me what I am, and suddenly you’re surprised when I act accordingly. You’ve made this grave, Strahd von Zarovich. I encourage you to take some responsibility for once in your damned life and lie in it!” 

Strahd's eyes flicker up. “Careful.”

“Perhaps Volenta was right in calling you weak. What happened to your promise of ‘not sparing me from the full brunt of my punishment?’ All bark and no bite. You have no qualms with turning hordes of these…” Rahadin gestures vaguely to himself, “undead things, yet clearly you haven't the slightest idea of what to do with them afterward. You don't take responsibility for your creations.” 

Another step. Papers crumple underfoot, and he stops when his chest barely brushes against Strahd’s. ”So they rot away in some coffin maker’s shop. Fill your catacombs. Warm your bed and get tossed to the wayside shortly after. Toys robbed of their humanity for you to do with as you please—”

The sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh rings out through the room as Strahd backhands Rahadin. 

“You will NOT speak to me with such disrespect!”

The man flinches and brings a hand to his cheek, eyes wide and mouth agape. He looks between Strahd and his hand for several moments of stunned silence. The depths of Rahadin’s eyes flash red, mirroring those of his master, as his gaze meets Strahd's, unflinching like a wolf staring down its alpha. His muscles tense.

With an inhuman snarl, Rahadin launches himself at Strahd, claws outstretched and fangs bared. He's quick, and it catches the ancient vampire off guard enough for claws to shred his red doublet and tear into his chest. Strahd lets out a grunt of pain and punches Rahadin in the gut hard enough to send him stumbling backward. 

For a brief moment, Rahadin doubles over. The feral rage simmering behind crimson eyes slips into wide-eyed shock once more. Were this the old Rahadin, that would have been enough to send him into a slurry of apologies. This is not his old friend, however, and the hit is no longer enough to deter him. With a shake of his head, Rahadin hisses and lunges forward again.

Strahd is just barely able to sidestep another swipe of claws followed by two more. He can feel his own blood slowly oozing down the front of his chest, and a flash of red against exposed skin in his periphery only confirms it.

“Rahadin!” Strahd snarls the name and goes for a swipe of his own. He could stop this, sure. It would be incredibly easy; all he’d have to do is pull upon that mental bond that connects master to spawn with the order of cease, and the dusk elf would fall to the floor like a sack of flour. He could order the elf to grovel at his feet, to kill himself, even. Yet such a beautiful opportunity has presented itself. It's so rare to see an unbridled Rahadin, particularly when he is involved. Even during their sword practice, Strahd could tell that he pulled his strikes out of fear of harming him.

But this. This is interesting. This is Rahadin at his full potential. This is him blinded by rage with the full intent to kill. This has the potential to be fun.

Another swipe, this one aimed at Strahd's face. The blackened claw of one finger knicks his cheek. Strahd takes the opportunity to grab his arm and sink his fangs into the meat of his forearm. With a jerk of his head, a long strip of flesh and muscle tears away from the bone in a spray of crimson. Rahadin howls in pain. Despite its bitterness, Strahd savors the blood that floods his mouth and eagerly swallows it down before spitting the carnage onto the floor.

Rahadin's limp arm hangs at his side, though it does little to deter him from throwing his full body weight at Strahd. Despite him being the stronger of the two, the nobleman's head smashes against the stone wall, leaving him seeing stars for a few moments. The razor-sharp claws of one hand rake across Strahd’s chest and make ribbons of his pectorals, sending dizzying pain radiating throughout his torso.

“I despise you! I hate you for what you've done to me!” Rahadin snarls with an unnatural quality to his voice, his upper lip curled and spittle dripping from pointed teeth. The expression on his face can only be described as animalistic; any fat that had been on his face has seemingly melted away, emphasizing harsh bone structure and twisted muscle beneath sallow skin. “Traitor!”

Teeth snap at Strahd's throat, and he's able to wedge his arm in front of him just enough to keep them from clamping down. Even through the haze of the pain, he knows better than to let the spawn anywhere near his blood—an insight gained through centuries of vampirism. The nobleman brings his forehead down hard onto Rahadin's and, with a foot behind his ankle, shoves the smaller man to the floor

Rahadin trips hard enough that Strahd hears the sound of his skull cracking against the stone. Strahd takes the opportunity to follow him down and straddle his hips. Leaning over him, he takes a few moments to just observe. The way his pupils quickly flood his irises, the shine of dark blood coating his right side, the rapid rise and fall of his chest with each shallow breath. How tangled his hair already is and the way it's fanned beneath him like a halo. Even in a brutalized state, even when defeated, he's such a pretty thing.

Strahd brings his fingers together and, with little effort on his part, shoves his hand through the dusk elf’s stomach. 

For a moment, everything stills. Rahadin's eyes go wide. His chest convulses, and he coughs a mouthful of blood onto Strahd's face.

The nobleman ignores the splatter of blood on his skin. He doesn't remove his hand. Not yet, anyway. He enjoys seeing the look of panic settling over Rahadin's features, the way he gasps in pain each time Strahd wiggles his fingers in his intestines. The mesmerizing way blood pools around the entrance wound and the feeling of cold viscera around his hand. It would be so easy to tear out his heart, finish this—just up and below the ribcage. Take his heart in hand and squeeze until it bursts.

A whimper escapes Rahadin's lips that evolves into a blood-curdling scream when Strahd plunges his hand deeper.

“That's a good boy. Sing for me!” The nobleman laughs—a cruel, mocking sound. The resulting scream, louder this time, fills Strahd with a sick sense of pleasure. Oh, how he's dreamed of this moment. Of hurting his chamberlain. Of watching that typical dauntless veneer fall away into a look of sheer agony. The feral look has long since faded, leaving a pleading look in Rahadin's eyes that sends a sadistic shiver through Strahd's spine. 

Gods, how he's beautiful like this. More beautiful than on their wedding night. Even more beautiful than when he’d taken his last breath as a mortal. If he could, he would preserve this look forever. Frame it in gold and hang it in his study. 

Unfortunately, even his undead spawn have a limit of how much they can regenerate, and he has no intention of letting his chamberlain die. With a sigh, Strahd pulls his hand from his guts and wipes it on Rahadin's shirt.

A trembling hand clasps around the elder vampire's wrist. Rahadin’s face twists with pain. “St-Strahd…!”

How lovely his name sounds on blood-stained lips. The ancient vampire brings a hand up to push strands of hair away from the elf’s face.

“Shh… Hush. You're alright, darling. You're alright.”

Both of their healing factors have already begun to take effect, with his own being much faster due to the crystalline heart residing within the walls of Ravenloft. Strahd watches with fascination as their blood mingles together along the cracks of the stone floor. Strips of flesh and muscle begin to stitch over the open wounds of Rahadin's stomach and arm. A pity, really.

Strahd leans down to brush his lips against Rahadin's, savoring each whimper like a fine wine. His lips taste metallic with his blood. He kisses him until he's all but certain the majority of his wounds have healed over and until Rahadin can muster the strength to weakly push at Strahd's shoulder. He obliges.

“How are you feeling, dear one?”

Rather than obliging him with an answer, Rahadin sits up and pushes himself into a seated position, legs tucked beneath him. He raises his hands, and his eyes focus as if there is something written upon them. “Strahd… I-I-I…” His tremulous words are barely audible. Strahd doesn't miss the way his hands shake or the way his bottom lip quivers just the slightest.

Interesting.

“I’m so sorry. Gods, I’m so, so sorry.” He coughs into the crook of his undamaged arm. “I-I-I don't know, I don't what came over me. This isn't me.” His wide-eyed gaze lifts and searches Strahd’s. There is the unmistakable look of pain there, deeper than the nobleman has ever seen in the dusk elf. “This isn’t me. You know that I would never...”

His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. “I could have… I-I could have killed you. And for a time, I wanted—” His voice catches. Rahadin holds his gaze, yet Strahd can tell that he's seeing past him instead.

It's a pathetic display. The lord of Barovia has never looked fondly upon displays of weakness, particularly in his men. Yet there's something so uncharacteristic about the events unfolding before him that it gives him pause. His chamberlain hates weakness more than even he does; back when they had dined together as mortals, he never failed to mock Barovia’s nobility for their lax decision-making and punishments. He spat upon those that dared grovel before him. He would rather drive his scimitar through his own heart before ever begging for things such as mercy and forgiveness.

And here he is. Apologizing and begging for forgiveness, looking not unlike a child caught stealing sweets. He should slay the spawn for his impudence or sentence him to a few centuries in the catacombs to think upon his mistakes. Yet something about seeing Rahadin of all people on the verge of tears fills him with such an incomprehensible emotion. Pity, perhaps? Is this what it had felt like to pity someone? Sympathy? Even the words feel foreign to him, yet still a pang settles in his non-beating heart. 

Interesting. 

For several moments, Strahd stands there, uncharacteristically unsure of what to do. Logic tells him to punish him and mock such a display, beat that damned sentimentality out of him, but it is only a murmur compared to these emotions—only a flicker but so foreign that they feel incredibly overwhelming.

Before he can think, Strahd sweeps his half-cape aside and sits beside the man. Rahadin looks up at him, his blood-shot eyes painted with surprise. At the slightest raising of Strahd's hand, he flinches away... before steeling himself enough to accept whatever deserved punishment is coming his way. Instead, the nobleman wraps an arm around Rahadin's back and pulls him, a fragile shadow of the creature snapping at his throat earlier, close to his body.

“Don't let it happen again, or I will kill you,” Strahd murmurs against ebony hair.

Unable to restrain himself any longer, Rahadin's fist clenches around the remaining shreds of his husband’s shirt, and he hides his face into the crook of his shoulder. There’s the distinct feeling of wetness along Strahd’s neck accompanied by the soft sound of stifled weeping.

“Gods, I’m-I’m so sorry. Strahd, I love you,” Rahadin sobs the words. “I love you. Please forgive me!”

In the four centuries that he's known him, it's the first time Strahd has ever seen the man cry.

Chapter Text

Rahadin doesn't leave his coffin for five nights. Even when his stomach is empty and every fiber of his being screams out for blood, he doesn't move. The thought of facing the day, facing him, makes him yearn for oblivion. It's enough to overpower any insatiable cravings gnawing at his gut.

Throughout those five days, Rahadin slips in and out of consciousness. He would open his eyes to hear the flapping of wings as hundreds of bats left the catacombs for their nightly hunt, only to fade back out of consciousness as they nestled along the ceiling to rest. His waking hours are filled with thinking, always thinking. It is at times such as these that Rahadin wishes he could just not think for once. Pull a lever and have his brain fall into a numb silence. Continue sleeping. 

His fight with Strahd plays over and over in his head. During the fight itself, he had felt nothing. There was no pain, no regret. Just an all-encompassing and blinding fury that directed him when his mind could not. There was the strong desire to have Strahd's blood on his hands. But now... Now he feels it all acutely. His heart, no longer beating, aches when he remembers his claws raking across Strahd's chest. Remorse turns his limbs to lead when he remembers the look on Strahd’s face when he had wept on the floor like a child. If he concentrates, he can still feel the throbbing pain in his gut from when Strahd had plunged his hand into his stomach—so sharp it makes him nauseous. 

Over and over and over the memory plays in his head. Like a trance, but so much worse. At least he has—had—a sense of control over his trances... 

It's been five moons since he's even been able to have a proper trance—a maddening fact.

Sleep provides him with the blissful silence that he craves, but it's always far too brief. The memories are back the moment he opens his eyes.

He has no motivation to move, so he doesn't. What would even be the purpose? There is none that he can think of. 

It is some mental compulsion, the command issued by Strahd forcing him to feed twice a week, no doubt, that finally gives him enough of a push to move. His back is incredibly sore from the lack of movement. 

His body is weak, so much so that Rahadin finds that he can barely move the lid to his coffin. What had been such an effortless task before requires several tries and the rest of his energy to even budge it just enough for him to squeeze his body past.

Rahadin almost falls onto his face when his feet meet the floor. It’s by barely catching himself on the lip of the slab that he’s able to pull himself up into some semblance of standing. The joints of his arms and legs crack as he does so.

Slowly, he drags himself to the larders. It’s only a short distance from the catacombs, yet Rahadin feels as if it takes him another five days of travel for the cloying scent of warm blood and fear to reach his nostrils. He feeds upon an older man, one who cannot put up much of a fight. The man is a citizen of Vallaki that had been captured a week ago along the Wolf’s Road, he recalls. His blood is so bracing that Rahadin barely notes just how bitter it tastes on his tongue. Like an addict feeding their craving, it makes him feel lightheaded with euphoric bliss after having gone so long without. Yet he only drinks enough to dull the headache ravaging his mind. His belly yearns for more, but he resists.

As a whole, the idea of drinking any amount of blood at that moment is… unappealing, to say the least. As invigorating as it is. He always has been particularly apt at living a restrained lifestyle—even when he had been amongst the living. 

Once he’s done feeding, Rahadin strongly contemplates crawling back into his coffin and sleeping off another week or so. Those moments of unconsciousness, as brief as they are, are a welcome distraction from his thoughts. But sleep only delays the inevitable, he knows; those same thoughts always returned, always repeating. If he wants them gone, then he has to actually commit himself to doing something about them. Abate his guilt in some form or another. 

He knows what he has to do. The very thought of it makes his stomach churn and his chest ache. His master has been disappointed with him before—recently, too. Everything he has done up until this point, however, has been insignificant in comparison to this. His more recent acting out had brought with it a certain sense of smug satisfaction in inconveniencing Strahd after everything he had done to him. It’s mere children’s play in comparison.  

But this time, he has gone too far. He committed treason. He attempted to actually kill his master in a flash of blind fury. It was as if he had no control over his body in those harrowing moments; he would never hurt the man on his own volition, no matter how often he crushed his soul into a fine dust beneath his boot.

He has to own up to his mistake and welcome whatever punishment his master may deem appropriate. Whether that be the taking of his life or being stripped of his title, Rahadin would accept it with dignity. Perhaps then his conscience would be at ease. 

It is with that in mind that Rahadin finds himself trudging through Ravenloft in search of Strahd.

While traversing the second floor, he runs across Escher. The vampire spawn is slinking off somewhere with an entire bottle of unopened wine held close to his chest. Even the sight of him is enough to make Rahadin’s skin crawl; he doesn't need any reminders of his own childish desperation.

Escher must have had similar thoughts, as his eyes go wide when he whips around to find Rahadin staring back at him. Without a word, Escher quickly turns back around and continues walking, his pace quickening, as if they hadn't just made eye contact.

Good.

He finds Strahd in his quarters standing before his wardrobe. The ancient vampire doesn't look up from the various garments he's sorting through even when Rahadin gently knocks on the door frame.

“My lord?”

“Ah, Rahadin. How good it is to see you. I hadn't expected to look upon you for at least another three moons.” Finally, he turns towards the dusk elf and gives a brief yet surprisingly sincere smile. Strahd holds two black cloaks out towards him. “Which of these would better complement this cotte: left or right?"

Rahadin cocks his head slightly. “...The cloak on your left.”

“Just as I was thinking.” With that, Strahd drapes the other atop the wardrobe and goes to fashion the cloak around his shoulders with a flourish.

“Are you going out this evening?”

“Indeed. I was planning on making a brief visit to Krezk.”

“I see.”

“I'd invite you along, but I was planning on traveling via Bucephalus, and I know how you despise planar travel. It's been far too long since I've taken the old boy out for a stroll.”

Strahd's good humor sets Rahadin on edge. He crosses his arms behind his back. “Before you leave, I was hoping to speak with you briefly. If that would be acceptable.”

“Certainly. What is on your mind?”

Rahadin takes a deep breath and allows his gaze to drop to his boots, pretending to scrutinize the polished leather. “I was hoping to discuss my, ah, my behavior. From the other day.”

“Mm.” Nimble and pale fingers make quick work of pinning the cloak around his shoulders with his usual ruby brooch.

Rahadin steels himself. “I committed a great act of betrayal. I must be punished accordingly.”

That catches Strahd's attention. He turns to fully face Rahadin and quirks an eyebrow. “So rarely do people wish to be punished, much less come to me with such requests.”

“I committed a great act of betrayal. I must be punished accordingly.” His words sound far less confident this time.

“I heard you. What did you have in mind?”

Rahadin inhales deeply. “As per your law, the punishment for attempted murder, particularly of a noble, is death by beheading.”

“Out of the question.”

“My lord, per your law—”

“I am the law. I am not beheading you, Rahadin.”

The dusk elf shifts from foot to foot. “Then perhaps the severing of a limb may be in order.”

“What, so that you can merely grow it back in a fortnight?” Strahd scoffs at the very notion. “You'd be a poor chamberlain with only one arm in the meanwhile.”

“I have disgraced both my title and the von Zarovich name. I have committed the ultimate act of treason in attempting to kill my sovereign lord and master. Attempted mariticide, even. I deserve no leniency.” He takes a shaky breath. “If you will not turn to corporal punishment, then there are certainly alternatives. Banishment to the crypts for however long you deem necessary could be an option.”

“Indeed you did. Yet were I to have truly feared for my life, I would have quickly ended your little act of rebellion. You couldn’t kill me even if you wanted to.”

His words confuse Rahadin. They certainly would have bothered him more were his mind not so preoccupied.

His face a stone mask, Strahd closes the distance between them and stops mere inches away from him. For several moments, he looks him over from head to toe, his brow furrowed. He brings a hand up to Rahadin's head and runs a strand of matted hair between forefinger and thumb. His voice is soft when he speaks. “What did I say before about taking care of yourself? You used to be so concerned about your appearance—like a proper elf. If you're not careful, you'll have to cut these knots out, and I quite enjoy your hair long and loose.”

Upon getting no reply—Rahadin cannot even think of a response—Strahd sighs. “You are to change your clothes and comb your hair daily, and bathe at least thrice a week.” He pauses. “When you feed, you are to drink at least two pints of blood.”

Psychic tendrils tangle in his mind. Rahadin blinks dumbly at the man before him. He’s changing the subject, he notes. Prioritizing his well being over his misdoings in a fashion very unlike Strahd.

“Nod if you understand me.”

Rahadin nods.

“Good pet.” Strahd pats the side of his cheek almost mockingly before turning around and walking towards the king-sized bed. He sits and begins to pull on his boots.

“...My lord,” Rahadin swallows, ”I feel as if you are not taking this matter seriously. I have committed a great—”

“Act of betrayal and must be punished accordingly. Yes, I heard you the third time.” His voice raises slightly. “What would be the purpose of me punishing you? For you to stroke your cock to the thought of it?” He scoffs. ”Knowing you, your conscience will serve as a more effective punishment than anything I could administer.”

“The purpose,” Rahadin starts, his temper beginning to rise, “is to beat out of me whatever dark impulse drove me to commit such an act in the first place. To serve as a learning opportunity. There is nothing... sexual about this.”

The corner of Strahd’s mouth quirks slightly. “‘To serve as a learning opportunity’… Have you learned your lesson since then?”

“Of course, but—”

“Then nothing needs to be taught. Bringing you to the brink of death was punishment enough.” 

Rahadin watches mutely, a frown plastered on his face, as Strahd adjusts his cuffs. There is no look of anger on his face, no frustration. Just dark eyes focusing on the buttons of his sleeve. He stands, and, much to Rahadin's surprise, approaches him to press a kiss to his forehead. 

Rahadin grabs at his wrist before he can continue walking past him. It needs to be addressed. “What I, um, what I said. The other day. I didn't mean a word of it. I hope that you’ve known me for long enough to know how sincere I am at this moment.”

“Which part?” Strahd murmurs, his lips still pressed to his forehead. “The part where you said you loved me or the part where you said you hated me?”

An unmistakable feeling of distress washes over Rahadin. “I don't hate you. I care about you, and—”

“Then why did you say it?”

Rahadin swallows. ”Heat of the moment. It was a childish thing to say. I don't hate you.”

“Liar.”

His stagnant blood seemingly freezes in his veins. “I beg your pardon?”

Strahd's voice remains even. “While you may tell yourself that, you and I both know that you are lying to yourself. To me. Vampirism doesn't change what is in our hearts. It only amplifies it.

“You hate me. You hate that I turned you against your will. You hate me for going against my word when you had placed so much trust in me. You hate me for not reviving you when I had every means at my disposal to do so.” Strahd pulls away and meets Rahadin's eyes. “Good. Let that anger fuel you. You'll be all the more stronger a fighter for it.” 

Rahadin blinks, dumbfounded, before he pretends to scrutinize something on Strahd's collar. This is not the reaction he would have expected, and it concerns him. “...While I will not deny that these are things that have troubled my mind, I hardly deem hate to be the most appropriate word here.”

“I peered into your conscience, Rahadin. What I saw there was hate. There's no confusing it with anything else.”

Strahd jerks his wrist away with surprising strength and brushes past Rahadin without another word. Before he has even taken two steps, the dusk elf grabs his shoulder. “You are my lord and my, ah, my-my husband. I could never... I care about you.”

Strahd whips around. The mask of composure shatters, leaving behind wild eyes that flash with crimson when he speaks. His voice is low and occasionally dips into a growl. “Look me in the eye and tell me you love me, Rahadin. Tell me you love me despite all I have done to you.” 

The dusk elf meets his gaze. “I care about you—”

“No. Love.”

“My lord—”

“Try again.”

Rahadin exhales through his nose and shifts from foot to foot. “You know I am uncomfortable using such words in the first place, and even you don't say—”

“You had no reservations about babbling it after having attacked me. Say it.”

“Strahd—”

“Say it!” His voice is a deafening boom loud enough to make Rahadin's ears ache. The very pillarstone of the castle rumbles and rains dust upon them. Thunder rumbles in the distance and shakes the window panes hidden behind thick curtains.

Rahadin opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come to him. His gaze redirects to the floor.

“I knew it,” Strahd sneers. He sounds breathless. ”Hollow words from a hollow man. If you despise being in my company so much, why are you still here?” 

“Strahd?”

“Nothing is stopping you from relinquishing your title and leaving this castle. I certainly wouldn't stop you.”

Rahadin’s attention snaps to the nobleman, and he stares at him wide-eyed. He cannot believe the words coming out of his mouth. “...And go where?” he asks, his voice cracking. “What, do you expect me to just up and leave Barovia’s borders? I've lived in this castle for centuries. I have no other family to turn to as they are all dead by my hand! A-And no town in their right mind would take me! You know as well as I do that I have nowhere to go. You’re all that I have, Strahd.”

Strahd thinks for a moment. “Should my company be so undesirable, certainly anywhere else would be preferable to here. The dusk elves, perhaps.”

Rahadin snorts. He'd sooner become a hermit than return to them with his tail between his legs. “Why are you saying this?”

“If I make you so miserable, then leave. Or better yet, if you cannot possibly fathom spending eternity by my side, then end it all. Put your money where your mouth is. One thrust,” he growls past gritted teeth, “of a stake through the heart while in your coffin is all it takes. A romp through fire. Throwing yourself into the Luna River. Really, the options are endless.” His right eye twitches just the slightest. “It wouldn't be the first time someone dear to me had taken their life rather than look upon me a moment longer.”

The muscles in Rahadin's jaw tighten. Surely he doesn't mean the words coming out of his mouth… The thought plays over and over in his mind. “I won't lie and say that I haven't considered it. Taking my life. It'd be a means of regaining control over some aspect of my existence. I find myself often wondering if you would truly miss me—or rather the idea of me.” He shakes his head. 

”My honor is stronger than any such fleeting ideas. I swore a vow to your father to serve this family. I swore a vow to you to remain by your side. As much as I despise this body,” the dusk elf gestures to himself with his free hand, “and, admittedly, you at times, I am the chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft first and foremost. And your partner. I don't… I don't have to be happy to perform my duties.” He sniffs, a sudden wave of determination hitting him past the grief eating him alive. “I won't leave you unless it is truly your will.”

Strahd tips Rahadin’s chin up and holds his gaze for several minutes, his eyes darting back and forth as if looking for some ounce of dishonesty hidden on his face. As excruciating as it is, Rahadin doesn’t pull away. He lets him read him for as long as necessary to prove his sincerity. 

In that moment, the man looks every part his mortal age. When no longer hidden behind the confident visage, he can see that look of deep weariness in his eyes, the frown lines and crow’s feet that punctuate an otherwise flawless complexion. That brief moment of vulnerability, more powerful than almost any other emotion Rahadin has seen in the man, doesn’t last long before Strahd grunts and shoulders out of his grip.

“Do as you want.”

This time, Rahadin doesn't go to stop him when the nobleman turns to leave. He can't muster the strength to even raise his arms. Every part of his body suddenly feels numb, as if his body is no longer his own and he's watching Strahd storm off through an outsider's perspective. 

It is as Strahd’s hand brushes the door that Rahadin finally finds his voice. “Strahd, please…” It comes out no louder than a whisper.

It is as if his husband doesn't hear him. He leaves the room without even looking over his shoulder. The sound of the double doors closing, done with a flick of Strahd's hand, is deceptively loud in Rahadin's ears.

He stares after him as if expecting his master to come back through those wooden doors and either embrace him or hit him—preferably the latter. Something to show that he's taking all of this seriously and not merely ignoring his transgressions. Something to show that he cares. It's not uncommon for Strahd's mood to shift whenever that woman is involved, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

As expected, those doors remain closed.

That despair is snuffed and swallowed by a rage so intense Rahadin’s balled fists shake at his sides.

Why is he like this?! 

He’s unsure just who it is he’s referring to.

With a roar, Rahadin draws his scimitar and, in one fell motion, throws it at the bedside table. The blade clatters against the stone wall and knocks over a golden candelabra sitting atop it. The flames atop the tall white candles are snuffed out when they fall onto the floor. The sole of his boot meets the front of the mahogany table and smashes it into several pieces, sending various trinkets spilling out of the drawer. Pain shoots up his ankle each time he crushes another piece of wood, but he hardly pays it any mind. Two candlesticks find themselves split into two when dashed against the far wall. 

Rahadin throws himself face-first onto the bed, another roar muffled by the satin sheets. His fists ball into the sheets, and for a moment he considers ripping them, drawing his scimitar across blanket and mattress alike. The barest threads of restraint tether him, however, and he flips onto his back, calves hanging off the edge of the bed. After a moment, his heavy breathing slows, and Rahadin is able to regain some of his composure. He watches the flicker of shadows dance along an orange-hued ceiling until his eyes burn from the strain.

He sighs in an attempt to force the rest of the tension from his shoulders. The room smells overwhelmingly like him, like musk oil and iron. It smells of Volenta and Escher and other bodies he can't put a name to—he's, unfortunately, aware of the sole thing that happens on this bed—but it's Strahd’s that overpowers the rest. While his scent had been one of comfort before, it only amplifies the confusing twister of emotions wreaking havoc in his chest. 

Rahadin lays there, staring up at the ceiling, until the faint morning light begins to filter in past the window’s curtains.

Chapter Text

Strahd stares down at the parchment before him. He's been staring at it for so long that he can feel his eyes losing focus. The symbols etched in an expensive black ink before him are beginning to conglomerate into one dark smudge.

For the past six—ten? He can't keep track of time well when he's focused—hours, the dark lord of Barovia has been copying symbols and arcane words from his spellbook onto a scroll. This particular spell, Cloudkill, is an especially difficult one. Not that it's difficult for him to cast, per se, but in how complex the markings are. Were he to misread even a single symbol, it could invalidate the entire casting or, worse yet, backfire in his face. It's something that he would very much like to avoid, and so he has been being painstakingly careful in copying it.

His fingers, having been clenched around a quill for gods know how long now, are beginning to cramp. Strahd sets the quill in its holder to stretch out his right wrist and sighs. Gods, he's only halfway done with the thing... Were there more actually competent wielders of the arcane in Barovia, he would have them copy these damned spells for him. Perhaps if a decent enough spellcaster were to ever cross his borders, he would enthrall them simply to create scrolls for him.

He needs to take a break lest he accidentally spill ink all over his hard work in a moment of bleary-eyed clumsiness.

As if on cue, Strahd picks up on the faint scent of his favorite distraction. Aromatic leaves and pine; he's been digging in the dirt—no surprises there. But also the scent of wine—and that is a surprise. The distinct sound of Rahadin's footsteps, steadily growing louder, meets Strahd's ears. 

Wait for it.

Knocking. “My lord?”

There it is.

With a flick of Strahd's hand, the double doors to his study fly open. His chamberlain jumps slightly and stands there for a few moments in a stupor before composing himself. He clears his throat.

“You have excellent timing.”

“Oh! Well, I, um… Yes. Good evening, Master.”

For once, the dusk elf has made himself presentable. He's dressed in a green doublet—the one he had gifted him, Strahd notes—and black trousers. His long hair falls loose behind his shoulders, free of the knots that had been so obvious the last time they saw one another. It is gratifying to see him obeying his orders; the spawn doesn’t particularly have a choice in these matters, but still.

“I didn't know you drank on your own accord,” says Strahd.

Rahadin blinks. “I abstain an overwhelming majority of the time, but I have been known to indulge on the occasion.”

“And what's the occasion for your drunkenness this evening?”

“Believe me when I say that I am far from inebriated. There aren't enough casks of wine in this entire castle for me to truly be of an unfit state of mind.”

Strahd chuckles slightly at that. “Poor thing.” He dismisses the question and waves his hand, inviting his chamberlain in. He does so, stopping a few feet away from Strahd's writing desk rather than taking a seat. As ever, his posture is rigid. The nobleman raises an eyebrow, waiting.

Rahadin's gaze falls everywhere but on him. After a moment, as if suddenly remembering that his master is in the room, his attention jerks to him. He gives a smile that looks so overwhelmingly insincere that Strahd wonders if it’s intentional. “My indulgence aside, I hope I am not intruding. How are you, Master?”

“Fine.” He narrows his eyes. ”And you?”

“I am fine as well.” There's a distinct nervous energy to him. “If I may be so bold, what is it you are working on?”

“Spell scrolls.”

“Ah, I see. How interesting.”

Strahd pushes his chair out enough to better face the elf and places his hands on his knees. It's unlike his chamberlain to seek him out purely for idle chit chat. They share a mutual dislike for small talk, and the both of them are more than aware of it. There's something else that he wants. Once more, he raises an eyebrow. Expectant.

With his arms still crossed behind his back, Rahadin boldly steps right up to him, stopping when the toes of their boots almost touch, and bends at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek.

“How bold of you to assume to kiss me,” Strahd muses, though he can't help but smirk in subtle amusement. He can count on one hand the number of times his consort was the first to display affection.

Another kiss, this time to his forehead. When the ancient vampire doesn't immediately push him away, Rahadin actually has the boldness to push Strahd's hands away and straddle him. There's little time to protest before he's kissing him on the lips, quick pecks that soon evolve into open-mouthed kisses. His mouth tastes faintly of sweet wine.

Rahadin pulls away just enough to speak. “I'd like to assume more than just kissing you, if you would be willing.”

Strahd's voice pitches into a breathy laugh. “Rahadin! What has gotten into you today?” Not that he's complaining… It's just very unexpected.

Black eyes search his. “Shall I stop?”

“No. Keep going.”

“Very well, then. Would you rather my mouth, my body, or my, ah,” he clears his throat, “my cock?”

Strahd swallows. Already he can feel his erection straining against the confines of his pants. Something about his chamberlain being so eager to please lights a fire inside him. “Your body.”

“Then you shall have it.”

The elf pushes himself off of his lap and begins unfastening his baldric and belt, undressing below the waist. In turn, Strahd undoes his own belt and unfastens his trousers just enough to free his sex; if Rahadin won't fully undress then neither shall he.

From the corner of his eye, Strahd notices him holding out a small container of oil towards him, the very same one Strahd keeps in his chambers. Rahadin’s eyes are downcast, even when he takes the container from him. Better to not question him on it lest he embarrass his demure chamberlain to death, the nobleman thinks with a small smile. His gaze stays diverted even as Strahd slicks up his erection with the oil.

Just as Strahd stands up, Rahadin pushes him with surprising force back down onto the desk chair and quickly follows up with retaking his spot on the nobleman's lap, his calves resting on either side of the seat besides Strahd's thighs. While normally he would not be open to such disrespect—he's not in the habit of literally being pushed around—he lets it go this time. Rahadin's mouth at his jaw allows little time to think, anyway.

With one hand, Strahd pushes up the hem of the elf's doublet and undershirt while lining himself up with his entrance. Before he can push himself in, Rahadin sinks down until the head of his cock is fully nestled inside him. The noise that he makes, a mix of a gasp and a breathy groan past gritted teeth, along with the way he throws his head back sends a scorching jolt of pleasure straight to Strahd's core.

Were it anyone else, he would think that they were merely putting on a show. Were it anyone else, he would think the way that their legs tremble as they slowly sink deeper, the way they bring their bottom lip between sharp teeth, was disingenuous. But he knows his consort better than anyone else. He knows that the austere mask Rahadin typically wears drops the moment he has a cock inside him, and it's that thought that draws out a matching groan of his own.

The sex is different than Strahd is used to. Typically, he is the one leading throughout, chasing his own pleasure how he wishes. Even the most callous of his partners, including Rahadin, tend to fall into a state of submissiveness around him. But this time, the dusk elf is very much in control, sinking down onto him at his own pace and pushing Strahd's hands away whenever he grabs at his hips. While unexpected, Strahd lets it go this time; he's far too entranced watching his cock slide in and out of that lithe body to particularly care at that moment. Knowing Rahadin and his recent moodiness, it may even do him some good to have even an ounce of (perceived) control over him.

Rahadin rests his forehead against his and murmurs something in Elvish. It has been some time since Strahd has practiced the elven language, but he understands enough of his words.

Moon of my life. 

It's oddly sentimental coming from him of all people. And either he's getting soft as the years go on or he's truly out of it, because Strahd finds himself smiling. He replies back in Elvish:

My heart.

It's rather hackneyed, but Rahadin returns the smile nonetheless before a slight shift in position has his mouth falling open once more.

As Strahd is about to finish, Rahadin pulls up off of him—much to his infinite frustration—and instead begins to stroke his length, dark eyes holding his and fiercely whispering what must have been words of encouragement in Elvish all the while. His pleasure finally reaches its peak and spills over, and Strahd finishes hard onto the front of Rahadin's doublet.

Once he's certain that the vampire is finished, Rahadin hums and buries his face in the crook of Strahd's neck. “Was that, ah, okay? My lord?”

Strahd huffs—both from making his frustration known and the sudden tiredness washing over him. “It would have been better if I had finished inside you.”

“Apologies. I was not wanting to clean up any, ah, messes this evening.”

Strahd grunts. Should he be so lucky. With that in mind, the nobleman calls out a single word and snaps his fingers. In a flash of blue light, the front of Rahadin's clothes are spotless once more. As much as he enjoys leaving his mark, there's no need to ruin a perfectly good gift.

Strahd goes to paw at Rahadin’s length—he’s feeling generous despite everything—but the elf gently pushes his hand away.

“Do not worry about me.”

Strahd frowns. “If I’m understanding you correctly, I can now only pleasure my husband if it’s following a flogging. How quaint.”

“I wish you would forget about…” As if catching himself, Rahadin sucks in a sudden breath. The insincere smile from before returns to his face. “I appreciate your offer, but I am fine.”

He brings a hand up and begins to run his fingers through the dusk elf’s hair. “Again, I ask: what brought on this sudden bout of lechery? I wouldn’t be so bold as to say this is particularly like you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Nothing in particular. Merely wanting to please my husband and master, I suppose.”

Strahd hums. It sounds like bullshit.

“Actually, Master, there was something I was hoping to speak to you about…”

There it is.

Another deep breath. “Do you remember our visit to the Blue Water Inn a little over a year ago? And our, ah, second time being intimate?”

“Your first time sucking cock, rather? Yes, I remember it rather fondly.”

The choked noise that comes out of his consort’s mouth almost does something to abate his growing annoyance. Almost.

“I-I, um, I believe they were one and the same. Yes.” He clears his throat. “In the midst of our, ah, coupling, you had mentioned feeling a tad insulted that I would assume that you would turn me into a mere vampire spawn. I was curious if you had given that any further thought since then… about perhaps turning me into a full-fledged vampire.”

The very idea hits Strahd in the gut like a pound of bricks. His fingers stop running through Rahadin's hair. “I knew you were acting odd. Is that what all of this,” he gestures at the elf, “is about?” The sex, the offhanded smiling, the feigned interest… It all makes sense now.

“You of all people should know how much I despise insincerity. Clearly you knew what my answer would be if you went to such lengths in a desperate attempt to sway me.” Upon getting no immediate response—just a wide-eyed stare—Strahd sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Why would you want a thing such as that?”

As if he had already given the question great thought, Rahadin is quick to answer. “Becoming a full-fledged vampire would give me some sense of my autonomy back. I'm sure you're aware of just how much it bothers me—”

“Why is being under my thrall such a terrible thing? You follow my orders without question already. Every mental compulsion I have pushed has been with your best interest in mind, has it not?”

Rahadin swallows. “You have been most kind to me, Master.” Another flash of that irritating smile. “Yet it is the principle of it all. This would make me a far stronger fighter. It would give me a new set of skills. I could better serve you as both a chamberlain and a sword—”

“No. Out of the question.”

He stares at him for a moment, the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown. The muscles in Rahadin's jaw tighten. “Would you care to explain why, Master?”

He owes him no explanation; spiders do not meddle in the affairs of flies. Yet perhaps being offered one would keep him from broaching the topic again.

“I've turned two individuals into full-fledged vampires, and it's brought nothing but suffering for me. I attempted to turn Tatyana—Marina at the time. She was murdered two days into her transformation by those closest to her. I successfully turned Vladimir Strokov, a previous lover of mine. He fled to Darkon after I had sent him to gather intel. I have not turned anyone since or do I plan to.”

Rahadin shifts in his lap and turns his gaze down. His expression is difficult to read. “You have concerns about me betraying you were I to be turned.”

“Among others. That merely scrapes the surface.” 

“I have sworn my allegiance to this family. I gave you my word that I would not leave you, and my word is my bond.”

“Vladimir said the same thing.”

“ I am not Vladimir,” Rahadin grits out past clenched teeth. “Vladimir was a traitorous dog with no honor. A stain on this family's noble name. I am not.”

Strahd scoffs. “You've already assaulted me once as a mere spawn. And to my knowledge, only one of you was guilty of adultery. The assumption is not that far fetched. I shudder to think how even more obnoxious you'd become were you to be turned.”

For a brief moment, Rahadin’s eyes flash crimson. He forcefully pushes himself off of Strahd's lap and stands a few feet before him. “How dare you! I have been nothing but loyal to this family and, against my better judgement at times, you . Yet now you have the audacity to say such things of me? And to what aim? To insult me? Wasn't it you that urged me to not let a few errors tarnish centuries of certitude?”

The nobleman raises an eyebrow, unaffected. Were Strahd anyone else, he perhaps would have been intimidated by such an uncharacteristic display of anger. It's hard to take the other man seriously when he's bare from the waist down. He waves a dismissive hand and turns back to his work. “We will speak of this no longer. If you have grievances, come air them once you can address me with the respect I deserve.”

Once more, Strahd picks up his quill. Not writing yet, as it requires far more concentration than he can afford at the moment. Just reading. The room is still save for the crackling of the fireplace. Suddenly, there's the sound of bare feet on carpeted floor. Rahadin is in his periphery, eyes glowing bright red.

“Don't you dare turn your back to me, Strahd von Zarovich! We shall address this now!” Rahadin snarls, an unnatural timbre to his voice.

A hand lashes out before Strahd can even think to stop him. His ink pot spills over, oozing black ink across the spell scroll.

In a flash of unthinking rage, Strahd wheels around and backhands his chamberlain hard enough for him to hear the telltale crack of a dislocated jaw. The ancient vampire quickly stands, knocking the wooden chair over in the process. “You knife-eared lowlife! Do you have the slightest idea how much work went into that?!”

With a hand on his cheek, Rahadin smirks at him before immediately wincing. “Yes.” The single word comes out slurred and strained. Another pop, and his jaw resets itself on its own—a jarring sight for anyone. “But now that I have your attention…”

A blood-curdling rage, more intense than he has felt in a long while, fills him. Something about that damned smug smirk on his face sets him off. Without thinking and with frantic thoughts of his own, he draws upon the connection between master and spawn. Rahadin lets out a pained gasp and winces, his hands squeezing at his head.

“Apologize, you wretch!”

Another gasp. “‘m sorry!”

“For what?”

His voice pitches. “For knocking your ink over! For being rash and angry—Strahd, stop!”

The dusk elf’s words fall on deaf ears. “ Grovel and beg for my forgiveness!”

As if compelled by some unseen force, Rahadin falls to his knees and bows his head until it almost touches Strahd's leather boots. “I'm sorry, Master! I acted out of line, please forgive me! I am unworthy to be in your presence!”

The sight before him fills Strahd with mixed emotions. Instances in which his chamberlain has ever begged—intimacy included—much less groveled are few and far between. On one hand, it does fill him with a sick sense of pleasure, of having so much power over such a proud creature. Had it been willing, it almost would have been an erotic sight. 

Yet on the other hand, it stirs up uncomfortable feelings not dissimilar to those he had felt in the aftermath of Rahadin attacking him. In a word, it feels wrong. 

Those feelings of pleasure and wrongness conflicting with one another create a disorienting cyclone of emotions within him that the ancient vampire, despite his experience, doesn't have the slightest idea what to do with. It takes the entertainment value out of the events unfolding before him and leaves him feeling more confused than anything.

When Rahadin lifts his eyes to meet his, Strahd is hit with a wave of sadness and pain and humiliation and confusion that rivals his own. Any traces of that initial anger are completely gone. Memories of Tatyana come to mind; she had looked upon him with a similar look of moroseness before, after he had scolded her for giving away family jewelry he’d gifted her to some beggar in Barovia Village. While he detested that kindness, he loved her for her kind heart.

With Rahadin, he detests this sudden bout of insolence, but loves him for…

Really, he should execute him for this. He should have executed him a long while ago.

Strahd breaks his influence over the elf. Bolting up onto his knees, Rahadin sucks heaving lungfuls of air before shaking his head as if brushing away any last tangles of control Strahd may have over him. His whole body trembles, and there is a lost look in his eyes. He scrutinizes his hands for several long moments.

Strahd rubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. That wave of tiredness returns. “Why is it that you try and start something every time we're together now? I thought having fewer arguments was one of the appeals of pursuing men…”

Rahadin's eyes remain fixed on his hands.

“We weren't always like this. I used to look forward to our time spent together… Now I find myself dreading it.”

No response, just more vacant staring.

Strahd sighs. “Up with you. You're pitiful looking, sitting on the floor like a dog.”

Rahadin obeys, but his posture is significantly more slouched. Rather than being crossed behind his back, his arms are wrapped around himself. He still refuses to make eye contact.

First he looked like a dog, now he’s acting like a kicked dog. Strahd frowns. He has neither the time nor the patience to deal with this right now. With another sight, he leans forward to kiss Rahadin in a show of forgiveness, but the elf flinches away before his lips can even brush against his brow.

Another punch to the gut. He doesn't push it—the last thing he wants right now is another blow to his ego. His voice softens. “Finish dressing yourself, Rahadin. You are dismissed.”

His consort nods mutely and shuffles over to his discarded trousers and boots. He puts them on with little fanfare. As he's about to leave the study, his hand lingers on the doorknob.

“...Apologies,” Rahadin croaks out, his voice so soft that Strahd is not even certain if he heard him right. He gently closes the double doors behind him.

Chapter Text

The scent of wet earth fills Rahadin's lungs. It brings about memories of spring and of mornings spent foraging during his youth. In the distance, he can hear the snorting of startled horses. 

With a heavy blanket of gray covering the sky, the dusk elf encampment looks all the grimmer. Water floods down from the center mound, surrounding the lower-set encampment with deep puddles and trenches of water. Some of the trenches run up against the hovels, no doubt inconveniencing the dusk elf occupants inside.

Good.

Rahadin hopes that they're miserable. Every single one of their disgusting hovels can flood for all he cares. Have the spineless leaf eaters shelter with the horses where they belong. They already reek of them anyway.

The glow of lantern light above each door, orange smears against the rain, guides his way along the footpath. From beneath gray cowls, Rahadin can make out green eyes following his every move. Despite their rapidly dwindling numbers, the dusk elves can apparently still afford enough men to keep guard. Whenever he passes in front of one, he can make out the word traitor being muttered in Elvish. Had this been but a moon ago, their insults would have been lost in the steady patter of rain.

Rahadin makes sure to give each elf a half-smile and a nod of acknowledgment as he passes. 

Even with the rain, Rahadin could have navigated to Kasimir's hovel blindfolded. It's a place of fond memories for him. It's where he had felt the slide of steel through flesh and cartilage, where he had heard the dusk elf leader cry out in agony. Where his blade had dripped with his coward blood after having cut off both of his ears. Pointed ears are akin to status symbols amongst elves, a means of showing their alliance with the Seldarine. Without his ears, Rahadin liked to think that he had stripped an already broken man even further of his pride. 

It still fills him with sick pleasure to think about.

Kasimir's hovel is slightly larger than the rest but still just as simplistic on the outside. Two lanterns hang from its front, illuminating the two guards standing beneath in warm light. One of the men inhales sharply when Rahadin stops before them.

He doesn't wait for them to acknowledge him first; as much as Rahadin takes pleasure in terrorizing the elves with his mere presence, he does have other matters to attend to.

“Kaastco. Farouk.” He nods with each name. Familiar faces from his youth. “I have come to speak with Kasimir. Is he available?” 

Of course he is; it isn't as if the dusk elves can just leave on a whim, and Arrigal had stated that he would find him in his home.

The two guards glance at one another. Rahadin doesn't miss the way the taller of the two, Farouk, rests his hand on the hilt of his scimitar. Not brandishing it—even he would never be so foolish. “Hail. What business have you with Kasimir?”

“Business that is to be kept between him and me. I am here on behalf of your lord, Count Strahd von Zarovich.”

More glances. The corners of Farouk’s mouth turn down into a frown. “Kasimir is preoccupied at the moment.”

Rahadin hums. Somehow, he doubts it. “I shall be quick, then.” With that, he pushes his way past them and into the hovel. The two do little to try and stop him; von Zarovich business is not to be interfered with. 

Kasimir’s home is dimly lit with small candles placed around the room. Various drying herbs and grasses hang from the ceiling and fill the vestibule with an earthy scent. Tarragon, feverfew, valerian… He immediately recognizes them as medicinal in nature. Components that are difficult to come by in Barovia, but the dusk elves have always been skilled at foraging even in the most inhospitable climates.

His parents’ home had been similarly decorated—simplistic yet quaint—with plants, hand-carved wooden drawers passed down through centuries, and religious iconography of the Seldarine.

For a moment, decades of engrained elven tradition and customs come back to him. Rahadin briefly considers removing his muddied boots and placing them beside the two pairs already sitting upon a straw mat by the door, but he catches himself.

No need.

He is not their ilk. No longer does he have to follow their traditions. They're hardly worth his respect at all. He pushes past the curtain dividing the vestibule from the sitting room.

He finds Kasimir and Carrical sitting on their calves upon cushions. Carrical’s gaze hones in on him like a hawk the moment the curtain closes behind him. Kasimir’s eyes remain fixed on the dusk elf across from him, a slight tilt of his head the only acknowledgment of Rahadin's presence. His ears—or what remains of them—are obscured by a heavy gray hood and long strands of knotted black hair.

“Good evening, Kasimir.”

“Rahadin.” Slowly, he turns his head towards him. There are heavy bags beneath Kasimir's dull gray eyes as if he has not rested in a fortnight. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” His words are slow and deliberate.

“I have come on behalf of Count Strahd von Zarovich.”

Despite the impassive mask on Kasimir's face, Rahadin doesn't miss the way his right eye twitches slightly at the mention of his master. “Ah. I see.” A sharp intake of breath. “May I get you something to drink? Carrical has just begun brewing a fresh pot of tea.” He nods towards the fireplace where there is a kettle held above the flames. 

“No, thank you. I expect my business here to be brief.”

“Certainly. May I offer you a seat, then? There's a spare cushion beside—”

Rahadin holds up a silencing hand. He has neither the time nor the patience for such insincere courtesies. He remains standing. “My master has been made aware that the dusk elves are aiding in the hiding of one Ireena Kolyana, His Lordship’s bride-to-be. Additionally, he’s heard that the dusk elves have been aiding newcomers to his land in acts that would endanger the wellbeing of Lady Kolyana.”

Kasimir holds his gaze steady. “Yes. A group of adventurers did take tea in my home. They came with questions regarding the various features of Barovia, and I answered them. We allowed them to stay until morn’ when the roads would be safer for travel. However, I was unaware of Lord Strahd's proclivities towards the girl.” He gives a slight smile, the corners of his lips still twitching. “I shall be mindful of this in the future. The dusk elves are friends of the throne and desire no conflict.”

Carrical grunts, and Kasimir shoots him a look before returning his attention back to Rahadin with that same flat expression.

“The most recent band of adventurers that have wandered into Barovia are dangerous and are not to be trusted. They have kidnapped Lady Kolyana and have killed several Barovian commoners during their time here. If any of the dusk elves spot them, they are to report the sighting to the Vistani immediately. Failure to do so will result in punishment. From henceforth, harboring any of these individuals shall result in death.” Rahadin pauses. ”Am I understood?”

Kasimir bows his head slightly. “Certainly.”

“Excellent. Additionally,” Rahadin narrows his eyes at him, “the Vistani tell me that you've had an interest in the Amber Temple as of late. Certainly I don't need to remind you that leaving this encampment without a proper escort is a punishable offense.”

“Of course not.”

“I'm glad we have an understanding, then. There is still so much that I could take from you, Kasimir. An eye. A hand. Certain reproductive organs. It is in both of our best interests for me to not make a return trip here for a long, long while.”

While Rahadin would certainly not protest to having his scimitar run red with elven blood once more, it is his duty to protect the Amber Temple. The ancient structure, by his understanding, holds millenniums worth of arcane secrets. Most importantly, it's where his master had gained his immortality through some dark bargain with the faceless god of the temple. The last thing he needs is a spell caster such as Kasimir poking his nose in business not his own.

Kasimir offers him a fake smile, his thin lips stretched even thinner. “Certainly. The dusk elves are friends of the throne and desire no conflict.”

Rahadin snorts. He had been hoping for something more in terms of reactions from the dusk elf leader. Something to make his long trek here worthwhile and not these attempts at honeyed words solely for peacekeeping. 

He walks over to cubby holes filled with small wooden statues of elven deities lining the east wall. Like miniature shrines, each statue is surrounded with offerings of dried flower petals and strips of scented bark. The cubby hole for Corellon contains a handful of platinum pieces, and Rahadin cannot help but wonder where Kasimir had even come across such relative wealth.

Gently brushing aside dried petals from its base with his little finger, Rahadin picks up a statue of Fenmarel Mestarine wielding a spear. It's well-crafted and detailed despite its small size. Such pieces must have been expensive to have carved, and he knows fully well that Kasimir does not have the artistic skills required to create them himself.

Kasimir’s voice, more confident than before, draws his attention. “That ring on your fourth finger. That is the finger humans typically wear their tokens of marriage on, correct?” When he gets no response, Kasimir continues, “To whom?”

Rahadin sets the statue down in its cubby hole before turning back towards the other dusk elf. Kasimir has perked up slightly, his gaze focused on Rahadin's left hand. “I do not believe that is any of your business,” he says slowly.

“As you are blood of my blood, certainly I would be amiss if I did not inquire about your espousal.”

“While I may be blood of your blood, do not make the mistake of considering me family in any sense of the word,” Rahadin bites. His gaze drifts to the ornate tapestry depicting a dense forest hung on the wooden wall behind Kasimir. He inhales sharply through his nose. “I am a von Zarovich now.”

“Of course you are.” Kasimir pauses. “Him, then?”

His voice is soft when he speaks. “Yes.”

“Were I a liar, I would say that I am surprised. I suppose he does have a certain proclivity for dusk elves, doesn't he…” He sighs and adjusts his sitting position. “Well then. Congratulations to the both of you, I suppose. May Lady Hanali bless your days with warmth and understanding.”

“Thank you.”

“Lady Hanali would never give her blessing to such a union, much less to those that brought about the decimation of her people,” Carrical murmurs. He tips his head back and downs the rest of his cup as if it were alcohol. He sets it down beside him and pulls his long black braid over his shoulder. “Next we’re going to thank Lolth for her service to the Seldarine…”

Kasimir whips around to glare at Carrical and admonishes him under his breath. Despite this, Carrical continues. “Tell me, traitor, are you still pious, or have you abandoned that aspect of your heritage as well?”

“Carrical! Do not kick the hornet’s nest!”

Unintentional or not, at least he's managed to get under someone's skin. There's a sense of satisfaction that comes along with it. “I believe that is between the Seldarine and me.” Without thinking, he gives a disdainful teeth-baring grin to Carrical.

The other elf’s green eyes go wide, and his pupils constrict. “Your teeth! Fangs!” he gasps and turns to Kasimir. “He's turned him. The fangs, his skin, the-the-the black irises… The Devil has turned him, Kasimir!”

“Correlon’s grace…” The dusk elf leader exhales loudly and lifts his gaze skyward. “Is this true, Rahadin?”

He swallows. For some inexplicable reason, his stomach is in the process of tying itself into knots. He tries not to let it show on his face. “Yes.”

Kasimir winces. “I am… sorry to hear that. Even the most wicked of Correlon’s chosen deserve the chance to be better in their next life. Yet your soul—”

“Do not preach to me, Kasimir!” Rahadin snarls down at him and bares his fangs, no longer able to restrain himself. His fists clench at his sides. 

Carrical stands and takes a step back, a tremor in his voice when he speaks. “The Devil’s made him his múl!”

Something snaps inside him. Drawing the dagger at his belt, Rahadin rushes towards Carrical and pushes him into the wall. Their noses almost touch, and he drives the blade into his chest, just up and to the right of his heart. Carrical screams.

“I. Am. Nobody’s. Property,” Rahadin intones. The blade twists in his shoulder, and Carrical howls louder. It would have been music to his ears were it not drowned out by the chaos brewing in his mind. The scent of iron, hot and ambrosial, fills his lungs. For a moment, his eyes are drawn to the way the elf’s blood drips from the wound and stains his otherwise immaculate green tunic. With each frantic beat of his heart, Rahadin can feel the hilt of his blade pulse just slightly—and gods is it mesmerizing.

He can indulge. Just a little bit. Just once.

Rahadin rips the blade away in a spray of blood that coats the front of his studded leather armor. With trembling hands, he draws his tongue along the steel until it's clean, lapping up that rapidly cooling ambrosia. His eyelids flutter at its saccharine taste on his tongue that sends a wave of strength to flood his body. With his forearm still pressed to Carrical’s torso, he can feel the elf tremble beneath him. His lips move silently as if praying.

Weak.

Rahadin dips his head to drink from the wound on Carrical’s shoulder. Before his lips can press to his skin, Kasimir shouts something behind him. A sudden gust of wind barrels into the chamberlain's side, sending him hurtling into the far wall. A nearby relief clatters to the floor.

As quick as it had started, the wind stops.

Rahadin whirls around, his lips pulled wide in a snarl, and he finds Kasimir standing before him, spellbook in hand. There is a grim look in his gray eyes. He snaps the leather tome shut with finality, paying little heed to the dried leaves and wisps of smoke from the fireplace fluttering about him.

“Your message has been received, Rahadin. You should go while there is a break in the storm.”

His attention jumps from Kasimir to Carrical, who has fallen to his knees, a hand applying pressure to his shoulder.

Enemies, both of them. He could no doubt take both of them. Even a second-rate spellcaster like Kasimir wouldn't stand a chance against him after he rips out his tongue and makes him choke on it! Cut off his hands and throw them in the fire, let the stench of charred flesh serve as a reminder for days to come! Bring his spellbook back as a gift for his lord!

Strahd.

Rahadin pushes himself to standing, wincing at the slight pain in his tailbone. “Be grateful that I have more important matters to tend to than some earless sororicider and his impotent friend!” Rahadin spits. ”Should there be a next time, and I have no doubt that there will be, I will have no qualms with reducing the dusk elf population by another half!”

Without another word, he pushes past the curtains with enough to send them falling to the floor before stomping out the front door. The two dusk elf guards whip around, wide eyed, when he leaves and are quick to scuttle into Kasimir's hovel, no doubt checking to make sure that their leader is still alive.

It's still raining by the time he takes to the dirt trail once more. His mind is too preoccupied to care about the water flooding his boots with each errant step into a puddle.

Múl. How dare he! He is no múl. He is the esteemed chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, a title earned through untold amounts of spilled blood and dedication! He was chosen to take the Von Zarovich name and graciously accepted! Unlike Carrical, he has a proper name—one that demands respect.

He pushes long strands of wet hair away from his face.

If he really wanted to, he could leave at a moment's notice. He could leave right now. Continue following this trail southward and make a life for himself in the mountains.

But Strahd would no doubt wonder where he had gone. How far could one even go when trapped within the borders of an already small stretch of land? And no matter where he went, Strahd would know his location, whether through scrying or whatever dark magic he has at his disposal via their bond. His wedding ring—he knows there's something more to it than an inability to remove it. He's not a fool.

Without thinking, Rahadin goes to try and rip the platinum band from his finger. Searing pain shoots up into his hand. Yet he persists, pulling at it past gritted teeth despite the fire settling into his bones.

It doesn't budge. Not even a little bit.

Damn it all! Damned magic! Damned Strahd for even putting the cursed thing on his finger in the first place!

He wants, no, needs it off. He needs a reprieve from it all.

Once more, Rahadin pulls the dagger from his belt. Certainly there are other ways of removing the thing. If not through pulling, then… Well, he has always prided himself in his creativity. He was a soldier; there are very few things that he can't endure. 

It's worth a try.

Raising both of his hands, the dusk elf extends the fourth finger of his left hand and presses the blade to the skin just beneath the ring. He murmurs an incantation in Elvish, and the steel begins to glow red. The stench of sizzling flesh—his flesh—fills the air.

He cuts. When the bone doesn't give on the fourth or fifth go, he presses harder. The pain is excruciating and makes the burning from trying to remove the ring feel like child's play. Whether it be his own or that inflicted upon others, pain has been his constant companion throughout life. He's no stranger to the feeling of an arrow piercing his thigh, the burn of a blade slicing through his shoulder, a firebolt straight to the chest. Yet there's something so different about the anxiety of cutting off your own finger coupled with the rage eating him alive that has him screaming at the ground.

If not anything, he's determined. Others be damned.

His finger finally gives with a wet pop and falls into the mud. Dark blood streaks down his forearm when met with rain. Panting uneven breaths, Rahadin falls to his knees to inspect the damage. It's not the cleanest cut he's ever made, but it's cauterized enough for the moment. Not that he could bleed out from such a wound even if he wanted to anymore. Old habits, he supposes. 

The idea of the finger growing back in a mere week’s time does little to ease the mounting regret clouding his thoughts when his eyes land on the appendage now half-buried in the mud. 

With his right hand, he goes to pluck the ring from it. It easily slips off, and he places it in a pouch on his belt before standing once more. His whole left arm aches, and he cradles his hand close to his chest. 

He trudges up the hillside towards the Vistani camp, ignoring the stares of onlookers from their windows and wagons. He searches for the distinctive barrel-topped wagon of Arrigal, one of the Vistani leaders. He can hear both Arrigal’s loud laughter and the softer, though just as commanding, tone of his master coming from within.

Rahadin doesn't bother announcing his presence, instead pushing himself inside. The inside is cramped but agreeably decorated with fine yellow curtains and rugs. He finds the two seated at a small table talking. The men look at him, their conversation coming to a standstill. 

A small smile spreads across Strahd's face and he turns on his seat to face him. “Ah, Rahadin! Finished with your business, I assume?”

“Yes, Your Lordship. I have spoken with the dusk elf leader and your message has been conveyed.”

“Excellent. As always, your work is appreciated. Arrigal and I were just wrapping up our business. Come, join us.” Strahd pats at his lap, and Rahadin doesn't miss the slight smirk on his face.

Arrigal, dressed in a green vest and white linen shirt, slaps his hand on the table. “Yes, join us, friend! Come, let me get you a drink. I know how stubborn those elves can be, eh?” The man pauses as if catching himself. “I mean no disrespect to you, of course. Just that lot.”

Rahadin blinks. He's only half-listening to the words coming out of the boisterous man's mouth. His attention is instead focused on Strahd… and the way he is inviting him to sit on his lap like some dog. In the company of the Vistani, no less. 

It feels like a slap to the face.

A wave of indignation only adds to the simmering frustration from before, and Rahadin finds that there's a slight tremor in his hands. He balls his fists.

“I will be waiting in the carriage, Your Lordship.”

“Rahadin—” 

The rest of Strahd's words are cut off when he backs away and closes the door behind him. Thankfully, the black carriage is parked not far from the colorful ring of Vistani wagons. Two children with their hands covering their heads dash past him while he hitches the horses back to the carriage and waits inside.

His clothes are soaked and leaving wet puddles on the black leather seat of the carriage, he realizes, but he cannot muster the will to care at that moment. Inspecting his hand, he can see that the clotted skin along the incision has cleanly sealed over, leaving a small stub in its wake. No longer can he see the white of bone sticking out past mottled flesh, but smooth skin. The pain, for the most part, has faded away as well.

A sudden weariness overtakes him and settles into his bones. Rahadin sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back.

His rest doesn't last long. Past the patter of rain on the carriage’s roof, he hears the sound of footsteps approaching. Rahadin doesn't open his eyes when he hears the door opposite of him opening and closing. Strahd's clean and familiar scent fills the air. He sits down on the same bench as him, a foot or so of distance between them.

Without a word, the carriage sets off towards Ravenloft.

His eyes don't need to be open for him to know that Strahd is staring at him. Judging his mood, no doubt. Perhaps thinking about how he would chastise him for recent events.

“Is something the matter?” Strahd asks—surprisingly out of character for the typically standoffish vampire. “I had figured that you’d be happy to speak with the dusk elves; that is why I gave you that task, after all.”

“The elves. They know about my… condition. Called me your múl.”

“And? I've never understood you as the type to be bothered by petty name-calling—not that they’re incorrect.”

Rahadin sighs. His agreeance only stokes the flames. “It's complicated.” It’s the best he can do to not curse out the man.

“I understand many complicated things. Try me.”

“I’d rather not.” He waves a dismissive hand. In particular, he doesn't want to speak of it to him. It's already taking everything that he has to restrain his anger.

“Do not brush me off, Rahadin,” Strahd warns, but he does not push the matter further. 

They sit it in silence.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of the ancient vampire breathing deeply. The dusk elf cracks his eyes just enough to see Strahd staring at Rahadin’s hands. It strikes him how the count’s clothes are entirely dry. “Your wedding ring,” he states flatly after a moment. Without waiting for him to respond, the nobleman grabs his arm and jerks his hand from his lap. The corner of his mouth twitches on an otherwise impassive face. “Explain.”

There’s no point in keeping the truth from him; Rahadin knows better. “I cut it off.”

He's silent for a moment. “...The whole finger?”

“Yes.”

“On purpose?”

“Yes.”

Strahd huffs and drops Rahadin’s hand. His gaze pierces his own. “Why? Why that one?” His voice is soft.

“Wanted to take the ring off. That was the only way I could think to do it.”

“But why? Did we not mutually pledge ourselves to one another? I am still wearing the ring you gave me.” His voice steadily becomes louder, more frantic. “Did I somehow miss the marriage annulment paperwork?”

A lump forms in Rahadin's throat, and he's quick to swallow it down. “I am nobody's property,” he intones, but his words sound shaky even to his own ears. “The vampirism, the-the ring—”

“That ring was from my father's collection!” Strahd roars, finding his confidence once more. ”And here I was expecting you to value the sentimentality behind it!”

“I highly doubt King Barov had it cursed before placing it in his treasury! I doubt your late father had any sort of scrying or-or teleportation enchantment placed upon it!”

“What in the Nine Hells are you talking about? As I do with all of my consorts, I only placed the single enchantment on it, you ungrateful paranoid! I told you this!”

“And you have the audacity to call me paranoid when you don’t trust your own spouses to remain loyal? You shouldn't be cursing our rings in the first place, Strahd! That is decidedly abnormal!”

“I am abnormal!” Strahd hisses, and his eyes flash crimson. The carriage comes to a sudden halt, sending Rahadin lurching forward. The nobleman turns to fully face him, one leg outstretched in the aisle. His upper lip curls, revealing ivory teeth. “My heart no longer beats. I feed upon the blood of thinking creatures. This land is tied to me through means I cannot even fathom. 

“You knew very well what you were getting yourself into—better than anyone else. Yet still you remained by my side when I took that dark pact. When I asked for your hand in marriage. By now, abnormality should be the least of your concerns. Don't you dare try and take the moral high ground with me, kinslayer!”

“To the hells with you, Strahd von Zarovich! You are a bitter, cynical, jealous man and you've made my life unbearable!” Rahadin all but kicks the carriage door open and storms out into the pouring rain.

“Where are you going?!”

“Elsewhere!”

A flash of lightning splits the sky overhead. The rain is now coming down hard enough to sting Rahadin's skin. He turns his back to the carriage and begins walking off towards the forest—anywhere where he doesn't have to look upon Strahd's smug face. He could summon his phantom steed, put as many miles between them as possible, but he needs the time to think. Walking has always had a way of clearing his mind.

A sudden weight barrels into his back. Rahadin’s chest slams into the trunk of a tree hard enough to almost crack his ribs. “Do not. Walk away from me.” It's Strahd's voice, and he growls right against his ear. “You will get back in that carriage, and we shall discuss this like adults. Am I understood?”

“No.”

The weight against his back gives enough for Rahadin to be spun around to face the ancient vampire. His eyes give off a faint red glow in the darkness. “Inside. Now.”

Rahadin responds with a curl of his lip. A peal of thunder reverberates in his bones. With a foot against the tree’s trunk, Rahadin pushes off hard enough to slip past Strahd, stumbling slightly on the wet earth. The nobleman quickly turns and begins lumbering towards him, his imposing figure silhouetted against another flash of lightning. In that moment, rain-drenched and eyes glowing, he looks every part The Devil Strahd.

The dusk elf turns on his heels and sprints, boots kicking up mud behind him. Before he has made it even ten feet, that same heavy weight barrels into him and follows him to the ground. Rahadin is spun around to face the vampire before that weight settles onto his hips and legs. He’s able to rip his right arm away from Strahd's grasp and push at the man, but Strahd hardly budges even with his newfound strength. Rahadin bares his fangs up at him.

“You are mine in both body and spirit. Mine to do with as I please. Cutting off that ring does nothing but piss me off!” Strahd returns the gesture and bares his own ivory fangs. “Be grateful that I haven't tossed you to the wayside like all my other toys when they test me!”

“I deplore you, Strahd von Zarovich!”

Strahd laughs and lowers himself until his face is mere inches from the dusk elf’s. His voice is husky when he speaks. “Then why haven't you left? Why haven't you used your little misty step to get away from me? You're a cunning man, Rahadin. I know you could evade me if you really wanted to—for a time, anyway.”

Rahadin mutters a word in Elvish under his breath, and suddenly Strahd's weight is no longer on top of him. Through the silvery mists, it's satisfying watching the nobleman fall flat onto his stomach in a spray of muddy water. His form reshapes above him, and Strahd is able to flip onto his back just fast enough to avoid being put in a chokehold.

His elbows on either side of the man’s head, Rahadin crushes his lips against Strahd's. He savors the resulting noise of surprise that rumbles in his throat. Black-clawed fingers delve into his soaked hair, gripping at the roots and tangling the thickness around his fist. Their teeth clatter together in a desperate fight for dominance.

Strahd turns his head away just enough to speak, those sharp teeth glinting menacingly. “Degenerate.” 

Rahadin sneers down at him. “As if you're one to talk. Did Tatyana ever know the extent of your depravity, or—”

His head is jerked back by his hair hard, baring the dark expanse of his throat to the man before him. There are no gentle kisses this time, just the delicious pain of fangs sinking deep into his neck, far deeper than what would be safe for a mortal. Rahadin howls and jams his knee into Strahd's gut over and over until his mouth finally unclamps from his throat. 

The blood on Strahd’s lips streaks down his chin with the rain. “You are not worthy to even speak her name, you cur!” The hand not buried in the elf's hair trails down and grips his backside, pulling him down until their hips meet. Rahadin can feel the hardness in Strahd's trousers against his inner thigh. He repositions himself until his own hardness brushes against Strahd's and bears down, eliciting a grunt from the man below him. 

“What I'd give to cut out that brash tongue of yours and have you choke on it,” says Rahadin past gritted teeth. “Draw my blade across your throat to keep you quiet!”

“You tried once. You failed miserably and then proceeded to weep on the floor like a child.”

“You don't think I could kill you if I truly wanted to? I know that castle just as well as you do. I know where, when, and how long you sleep. I know where each and every one of your little protective wards is placed!” 

He hovers above him, just barely touching his lips with each shallow breath. His pants cling to his skin, uncomfortable, and Rahadin lifts himself up just enough to unfasten them and pull out his aching erection. Strahd mirrors him with the speed of a desperate man. The nobleman's typical dark eyes have shifted into endlessly deep crimson pools of lust and anger.

When Rahadin grinds his cock against Strahd's, bare and thick and wet from the rain, Rahadin cannot help but groan this time. It's a heady mix of both pleasure and painful friction, but it's enough to have his toes curling in his boots. He wouldn't want it any other way at that moment; it only adds to the adrenaline high of so flagrantly insulting such a powerful figure.

“I suppose I should move all of my little protective wards then, hm? I suggest,” he grunts, “you don't make light of that which your simple mind cannot even begin to comprehend.” Despite having no need for oxygen, Strahd sounds surprisingly out of breath. 

A leg hooks around the back of Rahadin's knee, and Strahd throws him off onto his back with hands wedged under his chest. “On your knees.”

Rahadin leers up at him through narrowed eyes. Rain drips down on him from the curve of Strahd's nose and chin. “Make me.”

“This again…” Strahd huffs and bends down to grab the dusk elf by the high collar of his doublet. He can feel the scratch of nails against his nape when he's dragged up and off the ground as if he weighs no more than a child's toy. He uses the toe of his boot to kick Rahadin's legs out from beneath him until his knees are sinking into the mud.

Strahd releases his hold on Rahadin's collar and instead cups the back of his head. His other hand wraps around the base of his cock, and he slaps it against the dusk elf's cheek. “Make yourself useful, múl.”

His eyes go wide for a brief moment. The bastard. He's quick to shake the thought away. He should know better at this point than to bring up delicate topics with the ancient vampire. In some form or another, he always finds a way to use them as ammunition for his own gain.

Shooting a look of disdain at the man above him, Rahadin takes Strahd's length into his mouth. If he's not as careful in keeping his fangs tucked away as he could be, then so be it; watching Strahd squirm, hearing that sharp intake of breath, when they just barely graze his sensitive skin, the most reactivity he ever gets from him outside of orgasm, brings him a smug sense of satisfaction. 

Once Rahadin has gotten enough of him into his mouth, the nobleman abruptly pulls him forward, burying his nose in dark curls and his cock inside Rahadin's throat. It takes everything the elf has not to gag; it's too much, too quick. If he were to just be more patient with him, give him time to figure out where to lay his tongue and how to relax his throat, then he could match his pace far better.

Yet Strahd’s patience is especially limited that night, apparently. He begins to thrust his hips, shoving himself deep as if he wants him to swallow him whole. His firm hand at the back of Rahadin's head, the other cupping the underside of his jaw, keeps him still.

Out of sheer stubbornness, Rahadin takes it. His throat burns and pain begins to radiate throughout his jaw, but he takes it. No longer needing to breathe certainly helps. He closes his eyes, already streaming with tears, and instead tries to focus on his own pleasure. It's not hard; he's farther along than pride would allow him to admit just from the debauchery of it all. His hand strokes his own length in time with each of Strahd's thrusts.

“Look at me.”

Rahadin obeys—he's far too gone to even care about his earlier bitterness—and he's met with the sight of poorly veiled ecstasy on Strahd's face. The crimson of his eyes has all but faded, leaving pupil-flooded dark irises once more. Long, thin strands of his hair cling to his face.

Strahd swallows. “Good pet. Take it all…” Each word is punctuated with a snap of his hips.

Rahadin hums, and the noise comes out higher pitched than he had intended. Molten heat curls in his core like a snake; he’s close. He could finish like this, touching himself to the feeling of Strahd using his mouth like some back-alley harlot, but gods he doesn't want to. Not yet. He doesn't want to give him the satisfaction after the way he's acted. Yet he doesn't know if his body will listen, and his rain-slicked fist doesn't slow. 

His sex is a mass of aching nerves, throbbing and leaking. The bite of pain from nails at his scalp and the burn of gagging around a cock far too thick for someone of his experience brings him to the edge—much to his shame. Desperate, he taps at Strahd’s hips with one hand, his right still stroking himself, and shoots him a pleading look. That hand at the back of his head doesn’t move; if anything, his fingers only curl tighter in his hair.

Strahd attempts to look down at him with an expression of disregard, but Rahadin attempting to swallow around him makes his voice crack when he speaks. “No.”

He can't help it; there's no energy, no will to fight left in his body to do anything besides groan and let Strahd continue using his mouth. Heat rises in his abdomen; he feels himself slipping ever closer. 

A hum turns into a series of whimpers when his orgasm takes him like a tidal wave. His claws bury into Strahd's hip hard enough to break skin. An explosion of warmth, concentrated in his core, radiates outward. His muscles spasm, and he spills his seed onto the ground—and onto Strahd's leather boots just to spite him. Strahd slows his hips just for a moment while he comes down from the high, but it isn't long before he's chasing his own pleasure again.

Strahd stares down at him past dark lashes, only slight movements of his hands controlling the dusk elf’s motions at this point. A quick thrust of his hips, and Rahadin’s eyes go wide when his cock starts to twitch and throb. Thick liquid hits the back of his throat. He desperately tries to swallow it down despite the burn. He can barely hear Strahd, his head thrown back, cursing above the pounding of the rain.

The ancient vampire finally lets go, and Rahadin pulls off to cough into the crook of his arm. His throat feels raw. He wipes at the drool coating his chin with his cloak and grimaces at the feeling of wet fur against his face.

Rahadin has to pause for a moment before he can even find the energy to stand. He feels spent and weak. Exhausted. Both he and Strahd's clothes, pristine not two hours ago, are caked with mud. His own cling uncomfortably to his thin frame.

More than anything, he would kill someone for a hot bath. To completely submerge himself and stare up at the water's surface for a good eight hours or so.

Strahd reaches a hand down, and he takes it. The both of them are too filthy and bruised and tired, and satisfied, to argue. Instead, he allows himself to stumble into Strahd's chest and merely rest for a moment. Strong arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him in tight.

The rain begins to let up. The last drops of rain drip from the leaves overhead.

A silence wraps around them, haunting the air beneath the heavy cover of trees.

“Sorry,” says Rahadin, quiet and sincere.

He hears the sound of air leaving Strahd's lungs as he sighs. “One of these days, sorry will no longer suffice. I'm not in the habit of giving second chances, yet I appear to be on my fourth or fifth with you.”

“I know.”

“Somehow I doubt that.” He gives him an awkward pat to the back, the sound of wet wool slapping against leather, before gently stepping away to refasten his trousers. “Back in the carriage. We shall discuss the issue of your wedding ring later.”

Feeling mute, Rahadin nods. He's still upset, yes, but it has dulled into a steady ache in his chest. Something for him to address later, he supposes. 

Or perhaps not. 

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.

Chapter Text

Just after sunset, Strahd had said. That was when the ritual would commence.

Rahadin had been pacing ever since the sun had begun its cloud-covered descent. It was far too early to be waiting, he was aware, yet his nerves would not allow him a moment’s rest. He knew that he would find neither fulfillment in his work nor enjoyment in leisure. All of the preparation needed on his end for the ritual had been completed hours ago. He'd fed more than usual. His clothing, a new black doublet that he didn't mind possibly becoming stained with blood, had been pressed and he himself properly groomed. He'd completed the time-sensitive paperwork in the never-ending stack sitting upon his desk in anticipation of the three days he would be practically comatose.

With nothing else to do, he waited, wearing circles into the rug of his office until the sun had all but vanished.

It's still far too early by the time he sets off towards his lord’s chambers; better to be too early than too late. It's a motto he's lived by the entirety of his life. Being early, in his experience, is a show of eagerness, of industriousness. Strahd, after having known him for quite some time, had become accustomed to what some may call a quirk of his and typically accommodated him as to not waste either of their time.

He passes several half-rotten zombies mindlessly patrolling the castle along the way, their numbers increasing the closer he gets to his destination. Rahadin notes their unusual presence with curiosity but pays them little mind, choosing instead to slip past them as quickly as possible; the sooner he can get away from their stench, the better.

With each step forward, it feels as if his intestines are tying themselves tighter and tighter into knots. He recognizes this feeling as one of nervous apprehension. It's one that he does not experience often, and it catches him off guard whenever it does rear its ugly head. Deep breaths do nothing to relieve it. More than anything, Rahadin wishes he still had the ability to enter a trance to help abate his nerves.

The feeling derives from a sense of unknowing, he's certain. Yes, he knows what to expect during the ritual itself; Strahd had informed him beforehand, and he had, unfortunately, been ordered to remain by his master's bedside when his previous associate-turned-traitor had been fully turned.

Once more, Strahd would feed upon his blood, and, in turn, he would feed upon Strahd's. From there, he would be comatose for three days, where he would then rise as a full vampire—no longer Strahd's thrall.

There are, as he understands it, risks that come along with such an act. Should something go wrong, either he, Strahd, or the both of them could perish—permanently this time.

There is also the uncertainty of how he would change following the ritual. As a mere spawn, he has already noticed a distressing number of changes in both his physicality and personality. How much more would he change going forward? He'd witnessed Strahd's metamorphosis, how he had changed from a callous yet reasonable leader into what the townspeople colloquially referred to as The Devil. Bitter. Cruel. Jealous to a fault. Yet so, so powerful. So intelligent. It had been distressing to see such changes unfold in a matter of days in his closest friend, and yes, he does, admittedly, miss his humanity. Yet so much time has passed since that this is his Strahd now.

His Strahd. Rahadin smiles wryly at the very notion.

All of the risks will be worth it in the end, he’s convinced himself, and he has weighed the pros and cons extensively. He'd have more tools at his disposal. He could create an undead army of his own. Most importantly, no longer would he be under Strahd's thrall; he could have some semblance of his autonomy back. It's making the best out of an unwanted situation. If he's going to be some soulless, undead husk of his former self, then he might as well be the strongest undead husk he can be.

The doors to Strahd's chambers are already ajar by the time he arrives. There are two zombies stationed outside that do not even turn to look at him with their pale eyes as he approaches. Seeing it as an invitation, Rahadin steps through, only to note that the master of Ravenloft is nowhere to be found. Instead, he notices Ludmilla, one of Strahd's consorts, sitting in a chair in the corner, a book resting on her lap. Dressed in a white gown with a golden tiara pinned in her dark hair, she looks up at him and smiles warmly.

“Ah, Rahadin! You are particularly early.”

“My lady.” Rahadin nods his head and bows—more out of habit than anything. 

Ludmilla scoffs and flips her hand. “None of that, now. We’re beyond such formalities.”

“I disagree, but nevertheless…” Rahadin straightens his posture and crosses his arms behind his back. “I was led to believe that I would find Lord Strahd here, but instead I found you, my lady. Explain.”

“I am here at Strahd’s request. Precautionary measures for tonight's ritual.”

Ludmilla smiles, and Rahadin studies her face carefully; it's genuine. He can't help but wonder what she means by precautionary measures. For Strahd... or for him? Somehow he doubts the latter.

“I take it the copious amount of… guards cluttering up the halls are here for similar reasons?”

“Indeed.” She continues, “Strahd will be here soon. He's preparing.”

“...I see. I shall wait here, then.” Rather than sit upon the bed and intrude upon his lord’s space without permission, Rahadin chooses to stand beside the large drape-covered window instead, his arms still crossed behind his back. Ludmilla resumes reading her book. 

The two of them sit in comfortable silence for what feels like ages to Rahadin. In that quiet, Rahadin is left to only his thoughts while he waits.

“My lady, I am curious: how much do you know about what is to transpire this night?”

Ludmilla hums. “As much as I need to. I know that Strahd will be turning you into a full-fledged vampire, and I know that the ritual can be dangerous. I am here to be on hand and protect all involved parties should something go wrong.”

“I see. And you are aware of the… intimate nature of these proceedings? A lady—”

Ludmilla tips her head back and laughs. “My dear Rahadin, there is little that I could witness that would perturb me. Having lived in this castle for a little over a century now, two men romping about is tame.”

Rahadin frowns. Even if she’s not, he's uncomfortable with the idea of being watched, particularly by a woman, during such an intimate act. While his memories surrounding his turning are fuzzy at best, he does remember it being pleasurable after a moment. Yet if this is Strahd's will, he knows there is little use in trying to talk either of them out of it.

Clearing his throat, Rahadin pulls aside the heavy red drapes to peer through the window, rain battering against its panes. The sky is black and obscured with heavy cloud cover. On the horizon, he can barely see the half-moon beginning its slow ascent. A bolt of lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the clouds and trees below for the briefest moment. Interesting.

As he is admiring the night sky, a sudden blue ripple not unlike a sheet of undulating static catches his eye. It's barely perceptible yet now he cannot unsee it. Rahadin narrows his eyes. It appears to be some sort of ward placed just before the window. An arcane barrier, perhaps. He'd rather not touch it and find out. It all feels a tad excessive to him, but his master has been particularly paranoid these past few centuries. The drapes fall closed once more. 

With the moon rising, Strahd must be no fewer than 30 minutes late. It's unlike him. A soldier at his core, the man is always early and views tardiness as an infraction. 

And yet now he is late.

His mind searches for possible explanations. Something came up. There was official business to attend to. Possible difficulties. He lost track of time. A prisoner was being particularly unruly. Setting up wards took more energy out of him than expected.

All reasonable. Yet his mind keeps drifting to one idea in particular: he's toying with him, raising his hopes only to crush him.

It would make sense all things considered. His lord had been vehemently opposed to the idea of him being fully turned in the first place. It's uncharacteristic of him to suddenly change his mind on such matters once it is made. He'd been furious when Rahadin had even suggested the idea. Perhaps this is a cruel lesson of sorts, a means of discouraging him from ever asking again. He'd never intended to show up in the first place.

Yet why would he go through the hassle of fortifying defenses only to punish him for his believed impudence? Unless it is to only enhance the illusion and raise his hopes further… Such pettiness on Strahd's part is not unheard of.

Rahadin's fists clench at his sides.

He thinks him a fool. A toy for his amusement.

Lord of Barovia or not, it's unacceptable behavior. He would not be made a fool of!

With a huff of contempt, Rahadin whips around and storms towards the double doors.

There's the sound of a chair scooting on stone. “Rahadin? Where are you going?”

“To find Strahd.”

“I'm certain he will be here shortly.”

Rahadin ignores Ludmilla even as she begins to follow him with a slurry of questions— if he's okay, if he is concerned about Strahd’s welfare, why he is in such a hurry...

The dusk elf sucks in a deep breath and allows his mind to focus. Pulling on the mental bond between spawn and master, he can pick up on the slight pull of where the vampire is located. It leads him through Strahd’s study and up to the slightly ajar door leading to the count’s dining hall. From just outside, he can feel the mental warmth indicating Strahd’s presence.

Rahadin roars his name with much less composure than he had intended. The door slams shut with a loud bang in response, confirming his assumption. Having a door slammed in his face only causes his rage to boil all the hotter.

He goes for the door handle and thankfully finds it unlocked—he's not above kicking in doors if necessary. The door is thrown open, and Rahadin’s lungs are assaulted with dust and the sweet yet pungent smell of decay. He finds Strahd seated about three feet away from the long oak dining table, his elbows resting on his knees. His fingers are buried in his dark hair. It strikes Rahadin when he does not raise his gaze even at the sound of the door being flung open. Despite the anger radiating through him, his heart drops.

Something’s wrong.

“Is everything all right?” Ludmilla’s soft voice asks from behind.

Rahadin whirls around. “Leave. Now.”

Her tone grows more urgent, her dark eyes wide. “Strahd—is he well?”

“I don't know. Leave.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I remind you that I am his wife, Rahadin. I have a right to check on the wellbeing of my husband.”

Rahadin shoots her a long, level glare. His voice lowers to a harsh whisper. “I have not forgotten, Ludmilla. Even still, I am of a higher station and have known him long before you were even a thought in your mother’s empty skull!” He snarls the word, “Leave!” 

Ludmilla bares her fangs. “Fine! I shall be waiting in his chambers, then. Come retrieve me when you are finished.” Without another word, she turns and retreats back towards Strahd’s bed chamber. Once she is out of sight, Rahadin steps inside the dining hall and pulls the door shut behind him. 

Strahd hasn't moved an inch. Rahadin watches him for a moment, studying the minute details of his appearance. His hair, usually well-kept without a single strand out of place, is tousled. The room reeks of alcohol.

“My lord?” No response. Rahadin takes a step forward. “Strahd? It’s only me.” Another step, and Strahd's head whips towards him. Wide-eyed and with dilated pupils, he stares at him for several moments before burying his head in his hands once more.

“I’d rather you not see me like this,” Strahd murmurs, his voice tight. He sucks in a long breath before swallowing. “I’m aware that I’m late. I will be there shortly. I just… I need a moment.”

In four centuries of having known the man before him, he’s been one of the privileged few to see him at his most vulnerable. Something is clearly wrong and while he detests seeing his lord in such a state, very few things would be disagreeable enough to turn him away.

“There are clearly more pressing matters at hand. Forgive me, my lord, but you seem… troubled.”

“Troubled.” Strahd attempts to give a wry laugh, but there is no energy behind it. “Your way of saying that I look like horse shit.”

They're not his words. ”What troubles you?”

“I don't know.” A pause. “I awoke like this. I don't feel… well. There is much burdening my mind, and I am having difficulties silencing my thoughts.”

“I see.” Rahadin takes a deeper breath himself in an attempt to ease the tension in his shoulders. He treads carefully towards Strahd and stops at his side beside the table—close enough to be a comforting presence, he hopes, but not close enough to infringe upon his space should he need it. “If there's anything that you would like to talk about, I will listen.”

Strahd does not say anything. Instead, he sits up straight, almost exaggeratedly so, and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes briefly before allowing them to rest upon his crossed legs.

Rahadin takes a moment to examine the room while Strahd attempts to compose himself. The last time he had been in this dining room was the day before Lord Sergei’s planned wedding—centuries ago. The room looks exactly as it did then when it had been ready to host the newly married couple and their family, practically untouched since.

A blanket of dust covers the long oak table and its fine china and silverware. Even the multi-tiered cake, albeit leaning heavily to one side and green with age, still sits in the center of the table, cobwebs draped across it like lace; his lip curls slightly at the sight of it. Two glasses and a bottle of wine sitting before Strahd stand out as the only things not caked in grime. The full glass smells of blood and the empty one smells of wine. He forces his eyes away from the glass of blood. 

“These… these dark powers,” Strahd begins after some time, his voice tense, “their sole purpose is to torment me, Rahadin. They are cruel—malevolent, incomprehensible forces that feed upon the suffering of those destined for greatness.”

It takes a moment for Rahadin to realize just what it is he's referring to.

“Whether it be through the destruction of my family name, entrapping me in this dying land, or,” he swallows, “killing those I love. They swallow my misery whole and glutton themselves like swine.”

Strahd goes silent for a moment, deep in thought. His leg bounces, causing some of the long-dead floral decorations upon the table to sway.

He suddenly slams a fist down on the table, sending silverware and glasses clattering. “They will try and kill you, Rahadin. Or they will find some way to tear us apart. Just as they do with Tatyana time,” he slams his fist down, “and time,” again, “and time again!” Once more, this time with enough force to send the empty wine glass toppling over. It rolls off of the table’s edge, shattering upon the floor. 

Rahadin hardly pays it any mind.

“Murder. Suicide. Sickness. Betrayal. It may be tonight. It may be tomorrow. It may be a year from now. I don't know how they will do it, and that's what fucking— ” Strahd sucks in a ragged breath through clenched teeth and ducks his head. Pale trembling fingers tangle into ebony hair and tug to the point that Rahadin is concerned that he would pull out his own hair. “I don't know, Rahadin! I don't fucking know!” 

For once, Rahadin is speechless. Outside of the deaths of Lady Tatyana and her reincarnations, he's never seen his master like this before. Such a proud, powerful man reduced to this… It pains his very soul to see him in such a state. And because of him. He wants to reach out, to comfort him as he has his entire life, but he hasn't the slightest idea what to say or do. He's uncertain if there's anything he even can say to comfort him. 

In a word, he feels just as lost as Strahd looks.

Despite this, a small part of him revels in Strahd’s pain. He’s inflicted so much suffering upon him, why shouldn’t he be miserable as a result? 

The dusk elf is quick to take that thought and drown it before it can grow.

Tentatively, Rahadin places his hand on his master's shoulder. “My lord, I—”

His hands strike out like a cobra to grip Rahadin’s forearm. Strahd’s grip is far too tight, almost to the point where he worries that his bones will break. The vampire looks up at him with wild red eyes, his sclera tinted pink. 

“The dark powers. They can't have you. I-I-I won't let them.” His face contorts into an animalistic snarl. “ I WON'T LET THEM!” Strahd shouts the words, his voice a guttural inhuman roar, and the pillar stone of the castle shakes violently, sending more glasses and goblets rolling to the floor. A flash of lightning and a peal of thunder causes the window panes to rattle loudly in their frame.

“I swear upon all that is unholy that I will cast every ward known to man, root out every enemy that would dare oppose me, put up a five-mile perimeter if I must! I will trek back to that damned temple with an army the likes this land has never seen and kill every last one of their pathetic vestiges! I will...” His sentence trails off as a wave of staggered, labored breathing comes over him. His hands release from Rahadin's forearm and instead cover his face, claws digging into the pale skin of his forehead hard enough to draw blood. 

“Strahd! I—”

Before he can finish his sentence, Strahd suddenly jolts up from his seat. He throws his hands up and sends the arched window along the south wall rattling open, the blue shimmering barrier outside fizzling away, before dashing towards it. He throws the drapes aside and sticks his head out the window. Past the sound of pouring rain, Rahadin can make out the sound of frantic gasps for air.

As Rahadin is about to approach him, the sound of retching meets his ears followed by wet splattering. It gives him pause, and Rahadin does his best to not pull away in revulsion. He pushes himself forward to pull Strahd's hair away from his face while he spills the contents of his stomach onto the balcony. His eyes drop to the steadily growing pool of rainwater at the nobleman's feet.

After a few minutes, Strahd pulls his head from the window and closes it with a shaking flick of his wrist. He wipes at his mouth with the sleeve of his black undershirt but does not bother drying his face of rain. His bloodshot eyes are back to their usual black. With dripping hair, he stumbles back towards the dining table and takes a long drink from his glass of blood, swishing it in his mouth before swallowing. He takes his seat once more, his whole body trembling.

Rahadin sighs and goes to stand next to the nobleman. He’s never been particularly good with… delicacy. Words often escape him when emotions are high. Yet he feels he needs to say something. He desperately wants to find those magical words that would make everything better and ease Strahd’s worries. Although he knows it not to be true, this all somehow feels as if it is his fault.

As Rahadin is thinking of what to say, Strahd clears his throat.

“You will leave me. Just like Vladimir. Just like Tatyana,” he croaks with finality. His voice is heavy with emotion. Strahd looks over at him with such sorrow in his eyes, and Rahadin feels his own heart drop. It takes all of his will to keep himself together. For the sake of his master. 

This won’t do. Dropping all formalities, Rahadin leans over and grabs both sides of Strahd’s face, jerking his attention back to him when he tries to turn away.

“Listen to—no, listen to me, Strahd von Zarovich!” The words come out far harsher than he had intended. “I am fine. You will be fine. Even without me, you would be fine.” He tries not to linger on that. “While I, too, cannot ascertain whether the dark powers at play would attempt to interfere with our… unique circumstances, know this: I will not die without a fight.” He takes a deep breath. “You are a selfish, hedonistic man who ultimately does not have my best interests in mind. And yet against my better judgment… I do love you.” More to convince himself than anything, he repeats, “I love you.”

Strahd blinks up at him. A weak, almost imperceptible smile colors his features. “And I you.”

Rahadin’s eyes shoot wide. The words catch him off guard. They’re not the three words he’d prefer to hear, but the sentiment is the same nonetheless. The first time his feelings had been reciprocated. A lightness washes over him, and before he can stop himself a grin splits his face in two, his ears tilting downward.

He must look absolutely ridiculous. This is neither the time nor place for such emotionality and yet… Rahadin buries his face in the nobleman’s shoulder rather than be seen like this, and he hears a low chuckle rumble in Strahd’s chest. 

“Charming little elf.” Strahd sniffs and, hesitantly, wraps an arm over Rahadin’s shoulders. He stands up from his seat on still trembling legs and pulls the dusk elf in for a proper embrace. His grip is far too tight around his ribcage, but Rahadin does not pull away, instead placing his hands on Strahd’s hips.

He lets his forehead rest on Strahd's shoulder. “If the very idea of turning me brings you this much discomfort, then,” Rahadin exhales loudly through his nose, ”perhaps we should forgo the ritual.” A feeling of emptiness sweeps over him. 

He can hardly believe the words that came out of his mouth. Strahd owes him this. Considering everything he has put him through, Rahadin should feel little guilt regarding the vampire's current predicament. He broke his promise and turned him into a spawn against his will; apprehensive or not, the least he can do is allow him to have some scrap of his dignity back! And if the dark powers did decide to intervene and kill him, well… At least he would no longer be a spawn. 

And yet seeing his master, his husband, so morose at the idea of losing him—albeit for entirely selfish reasons, he's sure—affected him more than he expected. Despite him no longer deserving none of the dusk elf's respect given everything he's put him through, he admittedly has no desire to see him miserable. Strahd's been a constant in his life—friend and heart’s desire alike. How could he possibly stomach seeing him suffer after all they've been through?

There's a war of confusing emotions raging in his heart. He detests it. He's always detested that which he cannot understand. 

Rahadin swallows. “For your well-being. I… I can learn to be content the way I am. In time.” His voice trembles as he speaks.

Strahd grabs his shoulders and pushes him an arm’s length away. His dark eyes dart around as he takes the time to really take him, eyebrows knitted slightly. Rahadin stands his ground and allows his face to be scrutinized. He gives a tight-lipped smile. The empty feeling in the pit of his stomach only grows.

After a moment, Strahd nods slowly, their eyes meeting, before wordlessly pulling him in for another suffocating embrace.

Chapter Text

There are no stars out on this night. On a typical night, he can see a few constellations past the cloud cover, yet recently the fog has been so dense that it has obscured even the smallest specks of light in the sky. Without the glow of the moon to guide his path, Rahadin is especially grateful for his improved night vision.

A steady wind whips his ebony hair around his face, and a sudden gust is enough to blow flecks of dirt from his hands up into his face. Squeezing his eyes shut, the dusk elf wipes at his nose and cheek with his sleeve before getting back to work.

Running his fingers through damp earth has always had a way of calming even the most tumultuous of emotions cycling through his mind. Out here, it is only him and the unseen stars above, the thrum of life in every tree, the sweet scent of grasses carried on the breeze. Out here, he is not the chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft. He is not some undead husk under the thrall of a vampire lord. Out here, he is nothing in the grand scheme of things—merely a small presence upon Corellon’s timeline. 

The trees surrounding him have stood tall since long before he was born, giants that had witnessed the changing of the land for centuries. Unfettered by the passing of time, they would stand tall even after his inevitable demise by the point of a sword. It’s a humbling experience. 

Rahadin digs his spade into the soil with enough force to break up the thin tendrils holding the root ball in place. After the fourth strike, the tip digs cleanly into the loose dirt below. He tosses the spade aside to shove his hands into the narrow space he’d created and pulls out a dead shrub from its base, sending clods of dirt and rock falling onto his arms as he tosses it off to the side with the clacking sound of bare branches. Shaking the dirt from his undershirt, he gets to work refiling the hole left in the plant’s wake. 

It all fills him with a bitter feeling. He shouldn’t need to be doing this. This particular batch of ghost blossom shrubs should have lived for at least another five years. They should be blooming in the summer and going dormant in the winter, only to repeat the cycle again. With summer quickly approaching, the shrub should be budding by now and producing delicate violet blooms. Instead, its branches are bare and brittle with pale fungus—the mark of death—already beginning to grow along the woody limbs.

He’d held onto hope that the weather had just been particularly unfavorable this year. That perhaps the shrubs merely had not received enough rainwater or that winter’s frost had lasted longer than usual. Even then, his scrutinizing eye should have been able to identify such symptoms long before the plants had begun to decline. A seasoned horticulturist, Rahadin would have been able to bring them back from the brink. But there’s something off this season, a suspicion that has wormed its way into the back of his mind and one that he very much hopes is merely his paranoia talking.

“Somehow I am not surprised to find you out here of all places at such an hour,” a deep voice calls out from behind him. Rahadin glances over his shoulder to find Strahd standing along the cobblestone path a few feet away, one hand on his hip and an amused half-smirk on his face.    

He must have been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even heard the nobleman approach. “Working under moonlight is calming,” says Rahadin, setting the spade down before brushing the dirt from his hands.

“Fair enough.” Strahd quirks an eyebrow and nods his head towards the uprooted shrub. “I’ve never claimed to be skilled at horticulture, but to my knowledge plants typically belong in the ground.”

The attempt at humor leaves him unaffected, if not slightly embittered. “Hilarious,” Rahadin replies flatly. He’s in no mood for pointless frivolity.

“I thought it was amusing.” Strahd gives an exaggerated sigh and leans back against the garden wall. “Finally given up on this lot, have you?”

His words strike an unidentifiable chord within the dusk elf. “Hardly. Rather, this lot has given up on any sort of burgeoning despite my best efforts and have become a leech on the soil’s resources.”

“Mm. Effectively dead, then.”

“Indeed. I do not have high hopes for these shrubs to recover, and thus I’ve elected to remove them before they become a mere fungal feeding ground.”

“I see. Well, there is always next year to try again, I suppose. As long as your duties are being fulfilled in a timely manner, I have no qualms with your continued,” the nobleman flips his hand, searching for a word, “gardening.”

Rahadin can’t help but scowl. Well-intentioned or not, Strahd is speaking to him as if he is a child planting his very first seed. He seems to underestimate just how strong the dusk elf connection to the land is; his ilk typically sowed entire plots of crops and flowers on their own by their tenth year! This is no lapse in his technique; in over three centuries, he has yet to kill a plant under his care. No, this is something else.

Rahadin swallows. “I am... concerned that I may have lost my innate ties to nature.” He is aware that the subject matter is probably of little interest to his master, yet he cannot bring himself to stop his wild speculation. “It is our fey ancestry, our connection to the Seldarine, that grants us our natural proficiencies with horticulture. My concern is that by effectively severing my soul’s connection via undeath, perhaps…” His words drop off as he stares down at his dirt-covered hands. “But that does not explain why I cannot get a single thing to prosper even in the slightest now!”

Strahd hums. “A former acquaintance of mine—you remember Jander Sunstar, yes?—had had similar experiences to yours. Albeit a different subset of elf if I recall, plants under his care withered beneath his touch. Although he was a full-fledged vampire cut from a different cloth than myself, perhaps your experiences are not so dissimilar.”

His frown deepens. Jander Sunstar. How he’d hated that miserable elf! Strahd’s words do little to ease his concerns, only amplifying them if anything. If it is true that his vampirism is what is killing his plants, then his existence would be a miserable one, indeed. 

Rahadin sighs and drops the spade. He pulls his legs up to his chest and drapes an arm across a knee. It's only fitting that this damned curse would deprive him of the few things that bring him joy anymore. The Seldarine must truly be displeased with him if they would go to such lengths…

He can feel Strahd's scrutinizing gaze on him. Rahadin finds that he doesn't have the energy to meet his eyes.

“If this bothers you so greatly, then perhaps the estate could hire a gardener in your stead to tend to the gardens. Another dusk elf, even, if that would please you. One that shares your fey ancestry.” There’s a lightness to Strahd’s tone, a rare occurrence that Rahadin had understood over the years to be his attempt at encouragement.

“You are most kind, Master, but I have no desire to work with my kin.” The word rolls off of his tongue like poison. “I'd be dedicating the majority of my time wondering when I'd find a dagger in my back. And I certainly could not ask you to spend the estate's resources on my behalf.”

The cordial expression on Strahd's face drops into one of impassivity. “Perhaps this is for the better, then. You may devote your time and resources to more productive pastimes.”

At that, Rahadin shoots Strahd the iciest glare he can muster. His claws dig into the skin of his palms to still his tongue. Of course he wouldn't understand; Strahd’s vampirism only benefited his hobbies of death and sulking!

“I've offended you,” Strahd comments, his voice toneless. Yet no apology follows, Rahadin notes with a slight curl of his lip. The nobleman pushes up off the wall and goes to straighten his black waistcoat. “Come, walk with me. I have matters I wish to discuss with you.” 

Knowing that the dusk elf wouldn’t disobey his order, Strahd begins following the stone path winding around the castle with nary a look over his shoulder. And he’s right; while Rahadin has neither the energy to hold a conversation nor the desire for his work to be interrupted—he still has another four shrubs to remove—his legs propel him up and forward until he’s walking just behind the master of Ravenloft.

“I’ve been thinking,” Strahd begins, his pace never slowing, “about hosting another dinner.”

The words grab Rahadin’s attention. “For whom?”

“That band of adventurers that entered my land some moons ago.”

Rahadin grimaces at the very idea. He hadn’t thought about that lot since he’d hunted down that crimson-skinned tiefling—one of their original companions. His previous encounters with them had left a bitter taste in his mouth; the last thing he wants to do is play steward and keep up appearances under false pretenses. “May I speak freely?”

Strahd nods.

“Why them? Having turned their noses up to your previous invitation, they are clearly ungrateful vagabonds undeserving of your hospitality.”

Rahadin catches the corners of the nobleman’s mouth turning up slightly. “I am aware of your… distaste surrounding this lot. And you are correct in that they have been rather poor guests since arriving in my land. However, they do intrigue me, and I would be interested in learning more about them, especially as they have been attracting my attention as of late. In addition, my hope is that they will heed the invitation and bring Tatyana with them.”

His arms clasp behind his back. “I feel that an invitation to the castle and a proper dinner will serve as a means of Tatyana getting to know me better. To see me for the gentleman I am and not the devil I suspect she believes me to be.”

Rahadin forces himself to keep an impassive expression. “If I may be so blunt, my lord, what makes you so certain that they would accept your invitation this time around?”

His voice lowers slightly. “This time, I have something they want. Two somethings, even. I suspect that they will be eager to learn what has become of their dear friends. If they become too curious and decide to explore my castle uninvited, well… I would be eager to add to the larders.”

“I see…” That would be the preferred outcome. It has been some time since his blade has tasted blood, and it would please him greatly to see them disposed of. One less annoyance in the world. Judging from his words, however, it sounds as if the lord of Barovia is only planning to confront them should they breach the agreement between guest and host. Damn his honor sometimes… “When would this dinner be occurring?”

“Two days from now. As usual, I trust that I can rely on you to prepare our guests for a proper dinner with nobility?”

Correlon help him. “Of course, my lord.”

“Excellent. As there will be a formal ball to follow, I've taken the liberty of ordering clothing befitting the occasion for you.”

Rahadin's jaw tightens. He’s apprehensive about what exactly ‘clothing befitting the occasion’ entails, particularly in that they had been ordered before he had even been informed. The last formal apparel Strahd had had tailored for him, his wedding robes, had been lovely, yet he was far more comfortable in his typical doublets and trousers than anything so elaborate. 

There's no use in arguing, however; the order had already been placed, and Rahadin is more than aware of his master's delight in clothing him as of late. It is for that reason that six green doublets and tunics, all in differing styles and tailored to his measurements, had found their way into his wardrobe within the past moon alone. 

He can only hope that Strahd does not expect him to participate in the festivities outside of his duties as chamberlain. 

Strahd continues, “They will be delivered to your office on the morrow.”

“Your gift is much appreciated, my lord.”

“It is as much a gift for you as it is for me.”

“Oh! Well, ah,” he clears his throat, ”certainly. I am happy to oblige.”

He hears Strahd chuckle softly up ahead, and the nobleman bends his arm out to the side as if offering it to him. Rahadin glances between the back of Strahd’s head and his arm. It's a gesture typically done with a woman, yet he doesn't know what else it could possibly mean in this context.

Feeling rather awkward, the dusk elf steps up and loosely wraps his hands around his forearm. Having never done such a gesture before—and he's only offered his own arm a handful of times to the noblewomen of Barovia—it takes him a few moments of his hands fumbling about until he finds a position that feels right. Upon receiving no glares that would have him fearing for his life, he can only assume that it is appropriate. 

Their steps fall in line.

“Of course, I will be expecting you to wear your wedding ring.” He shoots Rahadin a sidelong glare. “On the proper finger. I want my guests knowing just who it is you belong to with little room for guesswork.”

Rahadin glances down at his left hand atop Strahd’s arm. Although slightly shorter than the others and with a blunted nail, his fourth finger has almost fully healed. The idea of having that damned ring, now dangling from a chain around his neck, back on it makes his stomach lurch slightly. He’s not fond of the idea of not being able to take it off should he put it back on, much less the idea of having to cut off the finger again when Strahd inevitably denies his request to remove the curse placed upon it. Something to discuss at a later time; he doesn’t have the energy to argue with the man at the moment.

Past the carriage house, they turn at the corner of the castle and are met by the large rusted gate. Strahd rumbles out a command word, and the iron rattles open before them.

“Will you be returning indoors with me?” Strahd asks. “We are approaching the morning hours.”

“Not yet. I have work to finish in the garden.”

“Mm.” Unless his ears are deceiving him, there is a note of disappointment in Strahd's voice. “Let the dead bushes remain. The wildlife will find some use of them.”

“They are an eyesore. My primary concern is the chance that they shall sap nutrients from the surrounding soil.”

Strahd scoffs. ”Wouldn't it be more prudent of you to begin making preparations for the dinner instead of playing the part of earthworm all night?” He pauses, and Rahadin can feel the muscles of his forearm tense. His dark eyes dart to the side to look at him. “...That is fine, I suppose. I trust that you shall get to work as soon as you are finished.”

His words cause the dusk elf to bristle slightly. “Of course,” he replies, his voice flat.

Another pause, and then, “Do you need assistance? With your pruning?”

His eyebrows raise. “I couldn't ask you to lower yourself to such filthy work, my lord!”

“You forget that I am a soldier at my core, Rahadin. My hands have been covered in worse things than dirt and insects before.” There's a note of amusement in his voice. “Besides, you are not asking; I am offering.”

Rahadin's eyebrows never leave his hairline. He raises a fair point. And it's not as if his master can cause additional damage to the plants with his lack of expertise. Rahadin’s mouth opens and closes, searching for the proper words and weighing the pros and cons, before he settles on nodding his head. “...Yes, I would appreciate the assistance should you wish to help. But please, do not feel obligated to—”

“Excellent!” He places his left hand atop Rahadin's right. “We shall make a lap around the castle back to the gardens, then. I’ll be interested to hear what sagely advice you have for me regarding digging in the dirt.”

Chapter Text

Rahadin's eyes scan over the scene before him, ever vigilant for any suspicious activity.

His master sits at the end of the long dining room table, the setting before him empty save for a fine crystal glass filled with deep red liquid. He’s in the midst of chatting with a young woman of raven-colored hair about the intricacies of the weave: where she had acquired her arcane abilities, which patron or deity it was she served… Things that Rahadin admittedly had neither interest in nor understanding of. 

Two others sit at the table. He recognizes the hulking brute currently tearing into a cut of pork sitting to Strahd’s right. The half-elf sitting across from him, however, is a new face—a new face in that he has never seen this man with the current party before. A self-proclaimed bard by the name of Rictavio, Rahadin has previously seen him ambling about the tavern of Vallaki, loudly spinning his tales of intrigue to any so unfortunate to listen. Apparently the flamboyantly dressed man had chosen to accompany his newfound friends to dinner despite not having been invited. It's a small wonder that his master didn't eject him from his castle for such presumptuousness.

Rahadin really wishes he had. Rictavio is currently regaling the man across from him with a story about how he once met a man with a panther for a pet, and Rahadin can hear his conversation as if he were beside him despite standing at the far end of the room. What annoys him the most, however, is how he will frequently catch the bard shooting wayward glances at both him and Strahd. He has half a mind to speak out about the rudeness of staring the next time he catches him doing it.

With an annoyed huff, Rahadin adjusts the sleeves of his robes before crossing his arms behind his back once more.

The outfit Strahd had tailored for him is another set of sage robes, these ones slightly less complex in the filigree work than his wedding robes. A silken dark green doublet, cinched at the waist with a ribbon-like belt, reaches down to just below his hips. Worn beneath are an ankle-length white gown and a sheer slip. The only piece that Rahadin finds agreeable is the black over-the-shoulder cape, its inside lined with matching sage fabric.

While elegant, the outfit is rather uncomfortable, and he does not enjoy the constricting feeling of lace at the bottom of the slip upon his bare body. Were someone to act out of line, he's not confident in his ability to take the offensive properly with his limited mobility. He can only hope that Strahd's guests behave themselves for once in their lives.

All things considered, the party is relatively small—what with two of its former occupants no doubt prowling about the outskirts of Barovia Village in search of blood. He smiles slightly at the idea.

His lord had noticed with poorly masked irritation—and disappointment—that Lady Ireena had been absent. It was not surprising to Rahadin; the burgomaster’s daughter was known for rescinding Strahd’s invitations at any given opportunity. And yet he continued to hold his expectations high. It would have been permissible had the master of Ravenloft not continued this pattern for centuries. While he would never let his annoyance be known, it is rather irritating to continue being witness to.

Rahadin doesn’t pay much attention to the conversations happening around him. Instead, he's focused on body language—cues that someone is reaching for a knife, preparing a spell, stealing the fine dishware. At the first sign of a threat, nothing would please him more than to drive his sword through one of their ungrateful hearts.

He casts a glance at Strahd; the vampire is far too caught up in his conversation to notice him. For a moment, he allows his eyes to wander. The man at the head of the table is dressed in all black, the ruby clasped at his throat the only splash of color amongst his form-fitting outfit. He’s never seen this one in particular; it must have been tailored specifically for this event. His hair is pulled back neatly behind his shoulders, not a single lock out of place. The light from the crystal chandeliers basks his profile in a warm glow, making the rest of his skin appear all the paler. He watches the muscles of his jaw flex as he talks, the way his fingers tap along the thigh otherwise hidden beneath the table. Restless, then.

Rahadin’s feeling particularly keyed up himself, he realizes. He needs something to do besides standing in the corner and playing butler at Strahd's request, refilling drinks and delivering food. Such menial tasks should be done by Cyrus if anyone, yet here he is at Strahd's request. Wishing that the master of Ravenloft would dismiss him so that he could attend to more important matters.

A part of him wishes that one of the guests would start a fight.

After what feels like hours of idle chit-chat and the brute of a man—Baldrich—requesting far more than his fair share of wine, Strahd stands up with an air of finality. He claps his hands together and gives a small smile. The clattering of dishware comes to a stop. “My respected guests, I do believe dinner is at its end. However, the night need not end now. I invite you all to join me in the great entry for entertainment as we continue getting to know one another.” Without another word, he pushes open the double doors and exits the dining hall.

The dinner guests look between one another, wordless. Rahadin hears Baldric murmur something about how he hadn't been done eating before finishing his glass of Champagne du le Stomp in one gulp. One by one, the guests rise from their seats and begin to trickle out of the dining room, the air of confusion still heavy amongst them. Rahadin takes it upon himself to herd out the stragglers with a glare before following them out.

The area is lit by torches sitting in iron sconces upon the walls, their light casting eerie shadows across the room. He finds Strahd already out in the foyer waiting, his arms crossed before him. Behind him stand Ludmilla, Escher, and, much to Rahadin's surprise, Volenta. The dark-haired spawn is typically absent from such events, her expertise being in other areas besides entertaining guests. He supposes that she had to fill the void left in Anastrasya’s absence.

The dusk elf smirks slightly at the idea.

The spawn are dressed in regal-looking dresses and robes not so different in style than Rahadin's own. For a moment, Rahadin considers joining them in line but soon snaps out of it; while he is Strahd's consort, he is first and foremost the chamberlain of Ravenloft. Although his wardrobe is different, he is still afforded the corresponding privileges. Instead, he stands far off to Strahd's left, his back pressed to one of the pillars dividing the foyer.

As he surveys the surroundings, Rahadin briefly catches Escher’s eye, who immediately snaps his attention to his own feet. The dusk elf rolls his eyes.

Once the guests are fully assembled, Strahd claps his hands together. Organ music begins to pour out from the dining hall, its somber melody swelling throughout the great entry. Strahd raises his voice enough to be heard above the music. “My late mother, Queen Ravenovia van Roeyen—may her soul be at peace—often said that no social gathering was complete without dancing. As this very castle was named in her honor, I try to carry on her tradition where I can.”

He spreads his hands out. “Before you are several of my consorts, all elegant dancers in their own right. I invite you to mingle as you please. Let us fill these stone halls with merriment and joy!”

Rahadin has to put in considerable effort to keep from rolling his eyes. He's heard this same practiced speech more times than he can fathom, and each time it never sounds less hackneyed. It's incredibly disingenuous; he knows for a fact Strahd hates socializing at his core almost as much as he does. Why he insists on putting the both of them through these rigors time and time again is beyond him.

The guests do not immediately jump at the call to action. Rahadin hears Baldrich whisper to no one in particular, “This is awkward, right?” and the dusk elf glares daggers into his skull.

The tiresome bard is the first to act, stepping up to ask Ludmilla to dance. She accepts with a bow of her head, and the two move to the center of the foyer. Gradually, the others mirror Rictavio and choose a partner until only the raven-haired woman and Escher remain. The poor man; it's obvious that the spawn lives for such gatherings, and Rahadin can't help but imagine how much it must burn him to be chosen last.

The woman—Minerva—is staring at him, Rahadin finally notices. When he turns his attention towards her, she begins walking brusquely in his direction before coming to a stop a foot away. Closer than he is comfortable with. Even when wearing such an elegant navy-colored gown, she still resembles a water-logged rat. It’s a pity that some simply do not clean up well despite even the best of efforts.

Rahadin raises an eyebrow, stone-faced. “May I help you?”

There's a determined look behind her dark eyes when she looks up at him. “Would you like to dance?”

Rahadin shoots back an irritated glare. “Certainly not.” He would rather take a knife to the gut than dance with such a gremlin. Thankfully, he is not a part of the festivities or was he introduced as such. Clearly, the girl’s comprehension skills are lacking. “Though I assure you that Escher over there would be more than happy to accompany you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why? You're standing here doing nothing.”

The audacity of this welp! 

The dusk elf gives a teeth-baring smile, not at all attempting to hide his fangs. “There are plenty of others available.”

She pulls her braid up and over her left shoulder and sniffs. “Maybe. But I want to dance with the fucker that killed my friend.”

Ah. Now this makes sense. A spiteful gremlin, then. How quaint. “Alas, I am not on today's menu.”

Her eyes narrow. ”Strahd said—”

“You shall address him properly or not at all!” Rahadin snaps on instinct. ”You will refer to him as His Lordship.” 

Her upper lip curls, and she scoffs. “ The Devil said that we were free to mingle—”

Before he can reach for his scimitar, a hand falls on Rahadin's right shoulder. “Unfortunately, my dear, Rahadin is to be my dance partner for the evening.”

The dusk elf whips his head around to find Strahd, who had apparently snuck up on him. He’s grateful for the interruption; his blood was beginning to boil, and he was mere seconds away from backhanding the petulant child before him. His eyes briefly flicker over to the Minerva, and the corners of his mouth curl upwards just the slightest. “It would be my honor, Your Lordship.”

Without a word, Strahd takes him by the elbow and leads him towards the center of the foyer where the other couples have gathered—much to Minerva’s slack-jawed anger, he's certain.

“Do you have any idea how long it's been since I have danced, Strahd von Zarovich?!” Rahadin whispers fiercely under his breath. “Even then, I was instructed on how to lead in the male’s role!” When he was much younger, Queen Ravenovia had attempted to instruct him on the art of ballroom dancing. Despite his dexterity, it had not gone particularly well.

Strahd gives a small smile. “What was the alternative? Allowing you to murder my guest in a fit of rage?”

“Ideally, yes.”

“Tempting. But no.”

Strahd takes his right hand in his and raises them to eye level, his other resting just below Rahadin's left shoulder blade. With an indignant huff, the dusk elf places his remaining hand atop Strahd's right shoulder.

"Centuries. Never once have you forced me to dance.” They haven't even started, yet already does Rahadin feel like a fool. He can feel several pairs of eyes boring into the back of his head. For a moment, he has the urge to grip the scimitar at his hip, fill the room with the screams of the dead. Anything to get their attention off him or, even more preferable, to get him out of this whole encounter. Strahd would certainly not be pleased with him acting out and, should he be so lucky, lock him in the catacombs until the event’s conclusion. Punish him, maybe.

The thought is quickly pushed away. An idea to savor later.

Strahd raises a dark brow at him. He takes a step forward with his left foot, and Rahadin stumbles to follow his lead. “It is imperative that nobility and those of the court know how to fit into polite society. How to behave with etiquette. How you've evaded this skill for so long is beyond me.”

“I am fortunate in that my master tends to avoid polite society like the plague.” Strahd slides his foot to the right, and Rahadin does his best to mirror his movement. “I am living proof that one can behave with etiquette without knowing how to dance. It's a waste of energy, and there are far more productive things I could be doing with my time than pretending to enjoy the company of some pompous noblewoman!”

“Fair enough.” Strahd chuckles and turns them. “I've seen how dextrous you are in combat; your footwork is impeccable. And yet… a simple waltz is beyond you.”

“I enjoy combat. I do not enjoy being touched by people—present company excluded.”

He smiles. “Present company excluded.”

Strahd continues to lead him through the dance, his motions slow and rhythmic as his cape swishes along the floor. Unlike him, the nobleman had practiced numerous styles of ballroom dancing since a young age. It had only been after Queen Ravenovia had taught her son all she could about the skill that she attempted to take Rahadin on as a student. His studies had come to an abrupt end after stepping upon her feet one too many times.

The dusk elf is so engrossed in not repeating the same mistakes that he barely pays any mind to the background chatter or the swelling of the organ music. In those moments, it's just him and Strahd in the room. His eyes are glued to his partner's freshly polished boots, the confident grace behind each footstep that Rahadin could only dream of matching.

A knee juts out between his legs, the grip on his hand tightening. Rahadin is caught off guard when Strahd leans forward and dips him, the hold on his back sturdy. It takes all his willpower not to reach up and claw desperately at the nobleman's shoulders lest he fall on his back like a fool. 

To his surprise, Strahd does not pull him back up immediately. Their eyes meet, and there is a warm glint behind Strahd's gaze. His mouth curves into a subtle smile. His head lowers, and his lips brush teasingly along the sensitive skin of his throat.

“You look ravishing tonight,” Strahd murmurs. He pressed a kiss to his Adam's apple before burying his nose into the dip between his clavicle, inhaling sharply.

A sudden wave of self-consciousness washes over the dusk elf. His eyes dart to the side, and Rahadin notices far more eyes on them than he is comfortable with—mixed reactions. Only Ludmilla’s expression is one of teasing playfulness as she winks at him; the others are of judgment, jealousy, or disgust.

“Stop,” Rahadin hisses to Strahd under his breath.

Strahd obeys and pulls him back up, grinding his thigh between his legs harder than necessary in the same motion. He spins him out and, with their hands still connected, gives a small bow at the hip. 

He jerks his hand away. Rahadin's lips press into a tight line, and he glares at the man before him. Even with the organ music still playing, it's suddenly far too quiet in the foyer. Two of the couples had ceased dancing and have chosen to watch them instead.

With an embarrassed huff, Rahadin goes to straighten his robes. Ridiculous! All of this! “With your permission, Master, I should go see to it that dinner is properly cleaned up before the guests retire.”

Strahd's expression is an unreadable one. He goes to straighten his own clothes. “Permission granted. Thank you for the dance, Rahadin.”

Without another word, the dusk elf hurries off towards the dining room, attempting to keep his steps as even as possible. His gaze remains pointed straight ahead as he tries to ignore the several pairs of eyes that follow him.

Volenta gives a sharp catcall before he can manage to close the doors behind him.

Chapter Text

20 steps. Pause. Turn. 20 steps. Pause. Turn.

He's pacing. He knows he's pacing and that it’s wearing down the centuries-old rug spread across the floor, but it's a centuries-old habit of his.

20 steps. Pause. Turn.

Rahadin had fled to the dining room with every intention of cleaning, but the moment his eyes fell upon the work before him—how a single group of people managed to make such a mess is beyond him—it felt as if something had snapped inside him. Bowls and plates stacked upon one another. Meats long gone cold. Pieces of fruit that had fallen to the floor and been crushed underfoot into said centuries-old rug.

Needless to say, he does not have the mental capacity to deal with such things at the moment. This is the work of a servant, not a chamberlain, he reminds himself to abate some of his growing anxiety. This is not his responsibility.

And yet…

20 steps. Pause. Turn. 20 steps. Pause. Turn.

He's a rather clean individual. He recognizes that. His own office is always spotless; that’s how he works best. He is an elf, not a pig. A proud one at that. He cannot work in filth. (How he's been able to put up with the state of the castle for so long is beyond him.) Whenever his office is in a state of disarray, he takes comfort in that it's of his own doing. He knows where everything has been and where it goes, and he never allows a mess to sit for longer than an hour.

The mess before him is an entirely different beast.

20 steps. Pause. Turn. The muffled sounds of his footsteps are barely heard over the organ music playing against the far wall.

Rahadin exhales sharply and shakes out his wrists. There is no point in moping about. There is work to be done, work that he is more than capable of doing. If he can't socialize at his master's request then he can at least do this to keep away from the squalor.

He steps up to the dining room table and allows his eyes to wander along it. Where to even start…

There are dishes to be cleaned and put away. There is (wasted) food to be thrown out. Stains to scrub at. Napkins to be washed.

None of it sounds particularly appealing.

He could start with the hardest part, he supposes: tossing away the food and scraping it off of plates. It would be downhill from there; few things are more disgusting than handling that which has been in the mouths of the flea-bitten.

Again, he sighs.

A roasted pig, its limbs torn off and with vegetables spilling from its insides, sits at the center of the table with several cuts already removed. It's a grisly sight, and Rahadin cannot help but grimace at it. Despite having lived with the Von Zarovich family for centuries, he never did become accustomed to the idea of eating the flesh of animals. He'd been raised on the fruits of the land, and it is one aspect of his culture he never has been able to shake.

How ironic that he would come to crave the blood of thinking creatures when the sight of their cooked flesh makes him sick.

He could clean this later...

A crystal bowl of various fruits sits beside the roast. It's one of the more colorful pieces atop the table. Fruit—much to his disdain—is one of the harder things to come by in Barovia. The cold climate and constantly overcast skies did little to nurture the growth of fruiting trees and vines. The growth of even a simple crop like grapes required magic to provide the resources that they simply could not obtain from the lack of sunshine. 

In Barovia, fruit is a luxury item that the vast majority would never be able to afford in their lifetime; it's partially due to the fact that Strahd has most produce sent directly to the castle. While Rahadin has very few vices, the nobleman knows of his taste for fresh fruit. Strahd is many things, but Rahadin has always appreciated that he respects his diet and sees to him being well fed.

Had respected his diet, anyway. He hasn't craved anything besides blood since his turning.

With a scowl, Rahadin gingerly picks up a black currant between his forefinger and thumb and pops it into his mouth.

It's unbearably sour—to the point of pain. The juice coats his tongue and the roof of his mouth, and for a moment Rahadin worries he may vomit. Frantic, he grabs the nearest cloth napkin he can find and spits out the pulp before grabbing an unfinished glass of wine—he’s uncertain whose—and swirling it in his mouth to cleanse his palate. The wine, too, tastes absolutely vile, but at least it's slightly better than the fruit.

Once the sour pang has subsided, Rahadin sets the wine and napkin back down with a frown. Either this harvest of currants is bad, or his taste has changed significantly. He's too apprehensive to try another and find out.

The sound of a door closing followed by a low laugh cuts through his thoughts. “Sampled the culinary delights, did you?” 

Rahadin turns his head to find Strahd walking deeper into the room towards him, an amused smirk on his face. Shame begins to gnaw at Rahadin's stomach, and his ears droop slightly; he can only hope that the nobleman had not witnessed him wasting food in such a manner. It wasn't particularly… becoming of him. 

Strahd continues without waiting for a response, “I've found that blood is the only thing in recent memory I can consume that doesn’t make my stomach revolt. Anything solid practically has me curled up in pain.” He gives an exaggerated sigh. “A pity, really. I do so miss a good smoked brisket. Wine is tolerable, thankfully, though hardly palatable. Meat broth is like saltwater on a parched man's tongue, but tolerable. Blood is the only thing that abates that constant gnawing hunger. For a very short time, anyway.” He spreads his arms out. “Welcome to undeath, my friend.”

“Have the guests retired for the evening?” Rahadin asks in an attempt to change the subject. 

“Not yet. I told Ludmilla to give them a brief tour of the castle as they had seemed rather interested.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but aren’t you concerned about them slipping off to explore without a guide? Pillaging the catacombs?”

Strahd stops before the table and picks up an apricot from a bowl. He turns it over in his hand, scrutinizing its pale flesh. “You really must have more faith in my consorts. I don't marry fools, Rahadin. Ludmilla is more than capable of taking care of herself, and should something go awry, I will be the first to know.”

“Certainly. My apologies.” Rahadin turns to continue clearing dishes to hide the look of faint humiliation on his face.

A moment passes, and the dusk elf does not hear Strahd ever leave the room. It feels as if there are eyes burning into him, but he does his best to ignore his suspicion. He stacks one plate, hardly touched, upon an empty one.

The nobleman's deep voice cuts through the silence. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“Why? That is the work of a servant, not my chamberlain.”

“I do not mind, my lord.” He gives a wry smile. “Believe me when I say I would rather be doing such menial tasks than socializing with that lot.”

“Leave it. I will see that it is taken care of.”

Rahadin knows better than to argue with the man. Not that he's particularly upset at the prospect of not having to clean up hours-old food… Rahadin huffs and throws his hands up in a mock show of surrender before stepping back from the table. “As you wish.”

“I do wish.” Strahd fixes him with a stern look. It's difficult to discern the emotion beneath. “On a different subject, I was not particularly fond of you skirting away from our dance as if it was such a terrible thing to be my partner.” The muscles of his jaw tense. “I'm more than aware that affection is new territory for you—”

Rahadin's black eyes narrow.

“—but being wed to nobility comes with expectations. Namely that you don't shy away from public attention and that you at least pretend to enjoy my company.”

Rahadin doesn't have the energy to explain himself. Strahd knew upon asking him to dance that he was not fond of the idea in the first place; it'd been a priority of his to make his discomfort known. Being his lord’s partner had not been the terrible part. Rather, it was the dance itself. Strahd is not ignorant; after years and years of knowing one another, knowing his hobbies, his values, his shortcomings, Rahadin is certain that he's more than aware of this fact. What he's doing here is a poor attempt at putting him on edge. To have him apologize. It's manipulation in its purest form. This awareness is still not enough to break a centuries-old habit, however.

“Apologies.” The dusk elf catches himself before he can wince, and he silently curses himself. Foolish.

“You are forgiven.” Strahd's words are quick to follow, and his tone is one of feigned benevolence before it becomes tinged with venom once more. “Do not let it happen again.”

“As you wish.”

Strahd sighs through his nose, and his shoulders drop. He sets the apricot, far smaller than those that had grown in the orchards Rahadin's childhood, back into the bowl and brushes off his hands. Black eyes fall upon the dusk elf, seemingly soaking him in. A stillness falls over Strahd, and for several moments his gaze lingers in his face.

Rahadin shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He's never been particularly comfortable with being scrutinized, even by Strahd. Were it anyone else, they'd find a dart in their chest for such boorish behavior. His fingers tap along the table.

After a few more long, appraising looks, Strahd approaches him and does not stop until there is but an arm’s length between them. The nobleman smiles, a one-sided quirk of his lips, and moves until he’s caging Rahadin with his body. In the barely-there light of half-melted candles, his eyes appear as infinite pools of darkness.

His hand reaches out. Strahd brushes his fingers against the sliver of dark skin peeking out from the sleeve of Rahadin's robes, his rough fingertips dipping under the silk and skimming over the delicate flesh of his inner wrist. Thick fingers close around that same wrist, his thumb pressed against the gossamer webbing of collapsed veins, against where the soft echo of a pulse once was. 

There's another wistful sigh. “I do not praise you as often as I should.” 

“Strahd?” Rahadin clears his throat. ”What is the, ah… What is the meaning of all of this?” Such a sudden change in mood! To go from admonishing him to saying that he deserves more praise? It's uncommon for Strahd's touch to be tender and not demanding. Self-serving.

Those hands trail up Rahadin's arms, to his shoulders, and down his chest. “I appreciate all that you have done for my family over the years. For me. One could not ask for a better companion.” His voice is like honey to Rahadin's ears.

“Str-Strahd…!” His gaze drops to his feet, his ears drooping slightly. Praise from his master is rare, and it's always overwhelming when it does occur. To outright state that he should praise him more often is uncomfortably out of character for the nobleman. It sets him on edge. Rahadin chews at the inside of his cheek. “You, ah, you honor me with your kind words. But I don't understand—”

“I'm sure.” Strahd leans forward and presses his lips to the spawn's jaw, peppering kisses up to the dip beneath a pointed ear. “My loyal, sadistic little dusk elf. Even when you utterly despise me, you remain by my side.”

Rahadin doesn't deny his words. How could he? It is strange, he admits, that he would remain loyal despite everything his master has done to him. Thankfully, he is far too distracted by Strahd's attention to read much deeper into his words.

With his mouth still pressed to his jaw, Strahd unfastens the clasp at Rahadin's throat to his cloak. The heavy fabric falls to the floor with the sound of shifting silk. The belt soon follows, and deft fingers begin to go to work undoing the series of hooks holding the green doublet closed.

When that piece slides to the floor and he's left solely in the sheer slip that reaches down to the middle of his calves, he feels particularly vulnerable, as if that silk had been his armor. With lace practically clinging to his form, he’s especially cognizant of just how meager he must look. Undeath did nothing for his already svelte body, somehow making him look more gaunt than before. While he can no longer see his own reflection as a result of his turning—a blessing, honestly—he can see ribs jutting beneath sallow skin when he looks down.

Strahd does not seem to mind, however. If he does, he remains silent, and his hands trail down the textured fabric, fingers tracing the subtle curves of his body, almost reverently. They come to a rest upon his hips. His thumbs rub slow circles into the dips just beside his hip bones.

Strahd dips his head down, locks of hair brushing against the dusk elf's chest, and presses cold lips to his neck. Rahadin's muscles tense reflexively.

“My biggest regret in turning you is that I can no longer leave my mark on you. No longer can my teeth leave fresh scars along your throat. No longer can dark bruises blossom above your collarbone. Such a shame; they always looked so pretty on you…” Strahd murmurs against his throat. His tongue traces languid circles around the tender skin of where he had been turned, two scarred-over puncture wounds that had never quite healed over as his other bites had. Two marks amongst a forest of old scars.

The dusk inhales sharply. He’s been touched by the man many times before, but never has it felt filled with such adoration. It makes him feel uneasy; he's unused to this tenderness. His mind begins to wander to possible explanations—his lord would never do such a thing without an ulterior motive—but the thoughts fizzle out when Strahd drops to his knees before him. 

The hem of the slip is hooked over Strahd’s thumbs, and wandering hands, noticeably gentle as to not scratch him, Rahadin assumes, slide up his legs. As the gown reaches his thighs, Strahd presses a kiss to the inside of the spawn's knee. 

“You kneel…” Rahadin murmurs, voice hoarse. It comes out almost a whisper. “It’s improper for nobility. You shouldn’t—not before me. My lord,” he averts his eyes, bashful.

Strahd hums. “I never hear such objections when I kneel to take you in my mouth. Certainly this is no different.” He glances up at him from beneath dark lashes. It’s a quick, demure little flutter, but it would have been hard for Rahadin to miss.

His throat is painfully dry. “It is different.”

“You cannot deny me, ruler of Barovia and master of Ravenloft, the allowance to praise my husband for his efforts. Whether you deem it to be improper or not, I do as I wish.” 

Rahadin clears his throat. “Cer-certainly. I am merely curious as to why—”

Strahd interrupts, “Stop thinking for once in your dull life and enjoy the moment. That’s an order.”

The dusk elf’s claws scratch at the lip of the table, and his eyes shoot heavenward. Not thinking is far easier said than done when the man before him is acting so strangely. Despite his apprehensions, he can feel his cock straining uncomfortably against the lace of the gown, leaving a dark patch where wetness has dribbled against the fabric. 

Strahd clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Look at you, already making a mess of the nice things I've bought you.”

He grabs at his length through the lace, his thumb rubbing through the slickness at the tip with curiosity. The rougher fabric rubbing at the sensitive skin of his arousal is uncomfortable, but the large hand squeezing around him almost makes him forget about it.

As if sensing his unease, Strahd pushes the hem of the slip up and over his hips, allowing his length to spring up towards his belly. A fleeting glance downward reveals that the tip of him is shiny in the torchlight with thick, smeared wetness—much to his embarrassment.

The vampire growls and nuzzles at the side of his length, clearly caring little about the mess his chamberlain has already made or the bead of wetness threatening to drip down onto Strahd's jaw.

He takes his tip into his mouth, sucking gently and swirling his tongue over the slit. Rahadin's hips buck involuntarily at the feeling, but Strahd is having none of it, grabbing them with his free hand and holding him down as he continues his gentle, torturous ministrations. 

The dusk elf dares to glance down. He's met with the sight of Strahd looking up at him, his eyes hooded. There's no impatience in his eyes, no boredom—his usual look when not on the receiving end. Instead, his expression is marked by gentle teasing and something else in his dark eyes that Rahadin cannot read. The sight of smeared wetness along his cheek coupled with the wet sucking sounds coming from his master's mouth sends filthy arousal shooting through Rahadin's veins.

Strahd removes his mouth from him completely, and he whines at the loss of sensation. That whine soon becomes a groan when the nobleman licks a long, hungry stripe from his base to his tip along a vein.

Elvish curses stream from Rahadin's lips and his knuckles flex from the grip he has on the side of the table. A familiar heat begins to settle in his gut.

As if sensing his mounting pleasure, Strahd goes to stand up, and Rahadin lets out a guttural snarl. “Don't you dare!” 

His fingers twitch with the urge to push the man back down. Searing, white-hot pain shoots through his nerves as Strahd digs the claw of his thumb into Rahadin's hip hard enough to break skin. A resulting howl tears from Rahadin's throat, only to be hushed by Strahd.

“Shh. Behave, darling. We have guests. ”

Rahadin's hand shoots up to cover his mouth, and he squeezes his eyes shut. It does little to silence his high-pitched whimpers. A heady mix of pleasure and pain clouds his mind, and he basks in the lecherous warmth.

His eyes shoot open when he feels Strahd in his space again, the vampire being far too brash as he grips his thighs and uses his strength to lift him, easily sitting Rahadin atop the table. It creates a fresh wave of pain along his hip. When he’s exactly where the nobleman wants him, rear hanging slightly off the edge and thighs around his hips, Strahd gives a satisfied hum.

For a split second, Rahadin's thoughts drift to the wrongness of this all. This table, a 600-year old antique made of fine mahogany—a resource not available in Barovia—is a place where food is handled. This is filthy. How easily he could accidentally crush the fine china placed about or tear the silken runner with his claws; it's not as if his master is a gentle lover. 

His thoughts are quickly lost when Strahd splays his hands across his chest and brushes his thumbs over the dark, sensitive skin of his nipples. Strahd rubs his thumbs in a circular motion, slow as ever, prompting Rahadin to let out a hiss. 

The vampire smirks. “You are simply charming. Really. While not traditionally beautiful, there is something ethereally perfect about you—about all elves, I've noticed—that I find hard to resist. Few things are more satisfying than watching your demure front crumple in the throes of passion.”

Rahadin stares for a moment, mouth slightly agape while he thinks about what to say. He's known that he is not as traditionally alluring as the rest of his kin; a nose broken one too many times and scar-mottled skin had seen to that. It's never bothered him. He prides himself in his skills as a warrior far more than such vain things as his appearance. Hearing Strahd accuse him of being pleasing to look at catches him off guard and leaves him speechless.

As if having noted his surprise, Strahd lets out a low chuckle. Rahadin watches as a clawed hand pushes the hem of the slip up over his hips once again, the other trailing up his thigh slowly and deliberately, practically making a show of it. His fingers one by one wrap around the base of his length, and Rahadin can’t help but gasp. Dark eyes are glued to his face, his expression one of hunger hidden behind half-lidded eyes, as he begins to stroke him.

Slowly, as to not overstep his boundaries and with eyes fixed on Strahd's face all the while, Rahadin allows his hand to gently curl around the back of the nobleman's neck. He runs a thumb along the dense cords of muscle he finds there. 

Strahd's motions are painfully slow, pleasurable but not enough to take care of the ache in his core. Rahadin has half a mind to admonish him for his teasing or at least take matters into his own hands and thrust up into that loose fist, but he knows he's been offered a gift in the form of Strahd's attention.

Every touch, every swipe of a thumb over the tip sends just enough dull pleasure to have him shuddering with need. His claws dig into the back of Strahd's neck, urging him on.

The time stretches on—it feels like hours to the dusk elf. Strahd purring uncharacteristic words of praise against his ear, Rahadin responding in turn with breathy gasps while he writhes on the table, thick nails slipping on the wooden surface in a futile pursuit of something to grasp.

After a moment, Strahd's hand leaves his hips and begins to unfasten his own pants methodically slow. As he's about to pull himself out, there’s the sudden creaking of a door being thrown open. 

“Master! I have something I must ask you.”

Escher’s voice. 

Rahadin’s stomach flips, and his eyes go wide; Strahd’s expression mirrors his. Of all damned times! The nobleman is quick to take a side of his cloak in hand and wrap it around the dusk elf’s shoulders, pulling him closer to his chest in the same motion to protect his modesty. He can feel the tension rippling in the dense muscles of his back.

“I’d expect my consorts to have heard of knocking!” Strahd roars, his voice painfully loud in Rahadin's ears. “Leave!”

Escher lets out a pitiful yelp before quickly throwing the door closed behind him.

A beat passes. Strahd lets out a frustrated breath and unwraps his cloak from around the dusk elf’s shoulders. “Deplorable brat… I often wonder why I keep him around.”

Rahadin buries his face in his hands in his mortification. Gods, he can only hope that the wretch didn't see anything. It's one thing to be seen in a state of undress for bathing; it's another to be seen being intimate. Unlike Strahd, he is still getting used to public displays of affection, much less the whole damned castle knowing of their lecherous activities!

Strahd squeezes at his upper thigh suggestively, and Rahadin pushes his hand away. “No. The mood has passed.” Raising his eyes just slightly, he doesn't miss the slight tightening of muscles in Strahd's jaw.

“As you wish.” His voice is tense. Strahd tears his hand away and goes to refasten his pants, his motions forceful. The man is clearly displeased, but Rahadin is not of a mindset to care.

He can't hide his thoughts any longer. “What is the meaning of all this, Strahd?” His voice exasperated, he flips a hand. “I can count on two hands the number of times you've praised me in earnest in the centuries we've known one another.”

“Did I not acknowledge this fact before we began?” Cold eyes dart up from tying the laces of his pants. “I don't understand your insistent concern. Do you not enjoy my praise? From your typical reaction to it in the bedroom, I'd thought it'd be welcome!”

“I… do enjoy it, yes. When it is deserved.” He focuses on pulling the slip back down his hips to avoid eye contact. “I am no fool, Strahd. I know that there is more to this than mere, ah, bedroom talk.”

Strahd sighs loudly through his nose. He stands straight. “I was grateful for your flexibility regarding…” he flips his hand, ” your turning the other night. The consideration you showed. I was hoping to show my honest appreciation, but I see now that doing something as mundane as complimenting or pleasuring my husband is a crime, apparently.” 

His gaze wanders to something upon the table just outside of Rahadin's vision. “I want you to be happy the way you are and with the gifts you have been given. And I just…” his fist meets the table, hard enough to send plates rattling, “ I don't know how to do that! I don't know what you want from me! You say you will learn to be content as a spawn, and yet when I try to make this process easier for you, you believe me to have ulterior motives!” 

His mouth becomes a tight line. “I know what would make you happy—what you believe would make you happy, anyway—but I can't do that.” His voice is quieter when he speaks. He meets Rahadin's eyes. “Know that I am trying. I am trying to make things better between us. If I could take back these last two years, have this relationship be purely platonic to avoid you despising me, Rahadin, I would!”

Rahadin stares at Strahd, mouth agape. A lump forms in his throat, and he can feel his eyes becoming damp. If given the option, would he choose to take back the past two years? Being able to finally put words to the feelings that had been haunting him for far longer than was comfortable had felt like a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Being his in an official capacity, more than just his chamberlain, had brought about some of the happiest moments of his life. Yet the voice in the back of his mind still whispers: 

Was it worth it? 

Are those moments of happiness worth the centuries of living as a mindless husk before him? He's all but certain that undead elven do not reincarnate; Correlon had made their displeasure known. 

It's not something he's comfortable considering at the moment.

“Regret is not a good color on you,” the dusk elf murmurs. He furiously scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Strahd is being particularly uncharacteristic tonight; the number of times he has ever regretted his actions is fewer than the number of times he has genuinely complimented him. 

Rahadin takes a long, shuddering breath, steeling himself once more before raising his head. “If it is all the same to you, my lord, I may delegate the remaining cleaning tasks to Cyrus and retire for the evening.” I’m overwhelmed. I need time to process everything.

Strahd doesn't say anything for a long while, just continues to stare at him with an unreadable expression on his face. His fists clench at his sides. “I wish you would talk to me.” He turns around and begins moving towards the door, cape fluttering around him. His movements are stiff. “Fine. I will tell Volenta to pick up your slack regarding accommodations for our guests, though I suspect she will not be pleased. Go dig in your dirt or whatever it is you do.”

Strahd leaves, slamming the door shut in his wake. An eerie silence fills the room, the only sound the nobleman’s footsteps upon the stone fading into the distance.

Rahadin grimaces and allows his head to loll back, long hair sweeping against the middle of his back. Of all people, why did he have to develop feelings for him? His life would have been far simpler had he just settled down with a simple human woman from Bellemeade. If he had never met the late King Barov.

He knows why. Strahd is powerful, wise. A natural leader with a savage heart. It would be hard for anyone to not fall for him, and even he, wise with a savage heart of his own, was not immune to his charm. 

Pulling his hands away from his lap, he notices that he has unconsciously been digging his claws into the palm of his hand hard enough to draw pinpricks of blood. 

Why did it have to be him?  That belligerent, selfish, cruel human! A dishonorable liar of all things!

In his sudden rage, Rahadin brings his fist down hard upon an empty plate just behind him. The priceless piece shatters into several pieces, some of which become lodged in his skin. It hurts, but it's nothing compared to the storm in his mind. Drawing in a slow breath past gritted teeth and raises his affected hand. Blood is beginning to well from several of the wounds, but what strikes him more is just how little blood there is from such injuries. He's experienced similar wounds before; it should be trailing down his arm and staining the table runner.

The dusk elf allows himself several moments—minutes, hours—to simply observe his hand. The blood never does anything more than well.

Chapter Text

It is fairly easy to sense his chamberlain's presence. Always has been.

Before Rahadin had been turned, Strahd relied upon recognizing the distinct rhythm of his feather-light footsteps coming down the hall. He relied upon the unique scent of pine on his clothes or what remained of the acrid bite of poison upon his scimitar. If all those failed, he could always rely upon the weave. Since Rahadin's turning, he can sense his presence from much further away, like a static in his mind that only grows stronger the less distance there is between them. If Strahd clears his mind and focuses on the sensation, he can pinpoint exactly how far away his elf is to the inch.

Since Rahadin had left for the mountains, Strahd's mind has been mostly void of the distinct static he's grown so accustomed to ever since Rahadin developed a distaste for leaving the castle. There’s the static from his other spawn, certainly, but each one has a specific frequency in his mind that he can tune out when their whereabouts don't interest him. 

When he feels the slightest static of Rahadin's presence several days later, it's like the first draft of fresh air in a stale room. It's a comforting hum, one that informs him that his elf has made it back to Ravenloft in one piece.

A feeling of relief washes over Strahd, and he chides himself when he notices the feeling. Such feelings serve no benefit. Of course Rahadian has made it back; Strahd does not employ fools, much less turn them.

Nevertheless, the count of Barovia catches his spirits lifting when he hears his footsteps followed by his distinct knocking upon his door—three taps, louder than any other dares to knock. He breathes deeply the, admittedly comforting, scent of pine and poison.

“Lord Strahd? It’s me.”

As if he couldn't have guessed before. With a flick of Strahd's hand, the doors to his study creak open. He's greeted by the sight of Rahadin standing tall as ever, arms crossed behind his back. Rather than his usual fur cloak and leather armor, he's dressed in dark sable pelts for the weather. Rather tediously, his chamberlain unfastens his heavy overcoat and carefully drapes it over the wooden coat rack by the door.

“It's rare for such a trip to take you so long. I had begun to wonder about your whereabouts.” Strahd, being mindful as to not crease any pages, closes the book in his lap and sets it upon the side table.

The dusk elf gives a quick bow of his head. “Apologies, my lord. Unforeseen circumstances delayed my travels.”

“If you could simply get over your hatred of traveling through the ethereal plane, you and Beucephalus could have that trip completed in a matter of hours. I'd be more than happy to lend you his assistance for such business.” 

Strahd exhales through his nose and allows his eyes to wander over his chamberlain’s form while he adjusts the doublet beneath his armor. His dark hair has been twisted into a single thick braid that hangs over his shoulder. The elf looks exhausted with heavy bags beneath his eyes but is otherwise unharmed; perhaps Strahd should have arranged to have the spawn travel by carriage. Have his coffin hitched to the back and allow him the opportunity to get some proper rest. Something to remember for the future, he supposes.

“Admittedly, it's… good to see you, Rahadin.” Strahd beckons him over with a crook of his finger. Ever loyal, his chamberlain approaches. Strahd reaches up to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him down into a kiss—one that is met with little enthusiasm on Rahadin's end, Strahd notes with a frown. Before allowing him to step away, Strahd snatches the ribbon holding his braid in place and quickly runs his fingers through it, freeing the strands until they fall loose at Rahadin's shoulders. He's always preferred his hair loose, and he's made this known to the elf on more than one occasion.

As is tradition when either of them returns from a journey, Strahd extends an arm in an invitation towards the armchair opposite him. His chamberlain accepts the offer with another bow of his head and takes the seat with an exhausted sigh. Strahd sends a mental command to Helga to fetch them a pitcher of blood.

“How was your journey?” Strahd asks.

“Significantly less cold than the last time I ventured into the mountains, thankfully.” He pauses. ”Rather, the cold was less bothersome, I suppose..”

Strahd smirks at that. One of the many gifts he'd given him: resistance to the weather.

Rahadin continues, “I believe I will have to travel into town in the coming weeks to purchase new footwear; my riding boots let in far more snow than I was comfortable with.”

“Mm. How are the mountain tribes faring?”

“As well as they can be, it would seem. They bore two new children this spring, and their numbers remain plentiful. Fortunately, your name continues to invoke a combination of awe and terror within them.”

“Good. Let us keep it that way. The last thing I need is spear-wielding savages with no mastery of the Common tongue beating on my door.”

“Indeed.”

Rahadin has yet to sit back in his seat, Strahd notices. Instead, he sits at the edge of the cushion, his back pin-straight; such rigid posture would look uncomfortable on anyone else. His fingers tap incessantly against one another in this lap. With his enhanced hearing, Strahd can hear each tap, tap, tap, tap as skin meets skin. It's rather obnoxious, if he's being honest.

“Rahadin,” Strahd begins, his voice humorless, “you're fidgeting.”

His brows raise. “Am I?” Rahadin brings his hands together and tucks them between his thighs. “Apologies.”

“Speak your mind.” If Strahd puts a little more persuasion in the words than he had originally intended, then so be it.

Rahadin glances off to the side as if considering remaining silent but quickly snaps his attention to Strahd. “How did you come across your abilities?”

Strahd quirks an eyebrow, the rest of his face stone. “What?”

“Your vampirism. From my understanding, one can only be fully turned by the bite of other full-blooded vampires. But who is it that bit you?”

He gives an exasperated sigh. “We've been over this before. Has age finally begun eating away at your mind?”

Rahadin's gaze remains steady, his voice calm and persistent. “No. We have not.” He inhales sharply. “You were… different when you came back from the Amber Temple after your expedition with that she-witch.”

“Patrina. I know of your distaste for her, but you shall address her with proper respect.”

“Patrina. A thousand pardons.” Rahadin smirks before his lips press into a flat line once more. “Following that expedition, I don't believe I saw you eat once. You were sullen. Isolated. For a time, I was worried that you had fallen deathly ill.” His voice grows soft. “I was so, so worried. Especially since you had refused to speak with me about your condition.” He clears his throat. ”After the… incident at your brother’s wedding, you changed yet again. You had become the man I see before me today.”

His patience is quickly wearing thin. Dangerously thin. He's not fond of being reminded of Sergei or the circumstances surrounding his death. “Out with it. What are you getting at?”

Rahadin is silent for a moment. His black eyes dart across Strahd's face as if wanting to commit his features to memory. They land on his mouth. “What exactly took place in that temple, Strahd? Forgive my forwardness, but… What happened to you?”

The muscles of Strahd's jaw flex beneath pale skin. He despises being questioned, particularly when it feels as if he's being accused of something. Were it anyone but Rahadin putting him through such a line of questioning, he'd consider having their tongue removed for insubordination. Yet because it's Rahadin (and the fact that he much prefers his tongue staying where it is,) such questioning makes him all the more suspicious.

Strahd gives a smile—wide, dangerous. He wants him to be afraid. “Why do you ask, dear husband?”

“I feel it is my right—”

“You have no rights when it concerns me.”

Rahadin swallows. He continues, “I feel it is my right to know what happened in that temple. What happened to you. You've hidden it from me for almost four centuries, yet never once have I asked.”

“Until now.”

“Until now,” the dusk elf affirms.

Strahd's grip on the arms of his chair tightens. The wood groans from the pressure. “This line of questioning—which, let it be known, I am not fond of—has not surfaced out of nowhere. Something else has been on your mind. Be candid with me, and perhaps I shall be candid with you in turn.”

For several minutes, Rahadin stares into the fire. While waiting for him to speak up—the nobleman knows he will eventually—Strahd observes the way his chamberlain's inky eyes reflect dancing licks of orange and yellow. It gives them the semblance of life, the illusion of a colored iris.

Rahadin licks his lips. “I visited the Amber Temple.”

Strahd's non-beating hard freezes solid.

Seeing his apparent reaction, Rahadin flinches and adds, “I have been visiting it for decades. Upon each blood moon.”

“Explain,” Strahd grits out.

“Through my own knowledge and observations, I had surmised that whatever it was that had changed you—a curse, perhaps—had originated from the Amber Temple.” He pauses. ”With this in mind, I have been visiting the temple to plead to its god of secrets to break their curse upon you,” his fists clench in his lap, “in-in the hopes of seeing you happy again. Truly happy.”

Strahd would have laughed in his face if it weren't so pathetic coming from Rahadin of all people. Were Strahd of a softer heart, he may have even been touched by such a gesture. Despite his age, it is obvious just how little he knows about the temple and its origins. The powers within. God of secrets… Not that he can blame the elf; information on the temple is scarce. Even he had needed a guide to find the damned thing in the first place, and he'd spent a good fortune gathering information regarding it.

Upon receiving no reaction from Strahd, Rahadin's ears dip slightly. He continues, “Needless to say, my attempts have been… fruitless, it would seem. But I have not given up hope.” 

Strahd hums. “Did you ever stop to think about how, hypothetically speaking, of course, breaking such a curse would impact me? About what would happen if the little prayer circles that you've hidden from me had worked and the curse of vampirism was lifted? What then? What if, in no longer being immortal, I turned to dust and blew away in the wind?” He's aware he's being unfair—cruel, even—but the dawning look of mortification on Rahadin's face is a sight to behold. “Did you wish to see me dead, Rahadin? Is that why you're so desperate to break this hypothetical curse?”

Rahadin's eyes widen, his brow furrowed. “Certainly not! Each sacrifice I make in your name is done with only the best of intentions! If I wanted to kill you, there are far faster means than by degrading myself before strange statues!”

After a few moments of tense silence, Strahd sits back in his chair and lets out a dry laugh. He believes the man. It'd be hard not to with how genuine the hurt in his eyes is. He'd been fully expecting the dusk elf to say that he had gone to the temple to seek out power and information, not that he sought out his happiness.

No harm, no foul, he supposes. Rahadin can pray and sacrifice and beg to made-up gods all he wants; nothing will come of it. Not that he would explicitly tell him that, however. The dark magics at play are far stronger than Rahadin could ever hope to understand.

“Why do you laugh…?” Rahadin mumbles, looking more affected than Strahd is used to seeing with him. His head lowers. Between his bedraggled appearance and sullen eyes, he looks miserable.

“I find the situation to be rather cute, is all.”

“It's not cute,” Rahadin grits out.

“Agree to disagree. However, there is the matter of you keeping secrets from me that must be addressed.” Strahd drapes an arm over the back of his chair and spreads his legs. His voice deepens. “What do you believe is a fitting punishment for keeping secrets from your sovereign lord and husband, Rahadin? 50 lashings with the whip? Bending you over my knee and spanking that pretty elf arse of yours until you can’t walk the next day?”

“A voice called out to me during my latest visit,” says Rahadin, attempting to change the subject.

Neferon. Strahd smirks. He can picture it now: the booming voice coming from the darkness-masked statue within the main hall, demanding secrets and treasure from his chamberlain and scaring him half to death. That damned arcanoloth did so love pestering visitors of the temple. His love of being a general nuisance almost matches his love of arcane treasures. “Yes, yes, and it asked you for objects with magical properties. Don't think I haven't noticed you attempting to dodge my previous question.”

“It was not Neferon, Strahd!” Rahadin almost shouts. He swallows, and his eyes close. His voice is soft when he speaks up again. “Please, just… listen to me for once.”

The nobleman's eyes narrow. He's not fond of such disrespect. “Then speak.”

Rahadin leans closer towards the fire, his shoulders hunched as if fighting against the very cold he can no longer feel. “Typically, I never venture further than the landing of the Amber Temple as I do not trust that temple or its vibes. This time, however, a voice beckoned me further within. I do not know what came over me, but I followed it. I followed the voice into a wing of the temple and past one of its vaulted doors...”

His jaw tightens. Rahadin's story is no longer sounding like the mischief of Neferon.

Rahadin trails off, his gaze fixed to the fire once more. It remains there for what feels like hours to the nobleman. Finally, he can no longer stand it.

“Speak, damn you!”

The dusk elf’s voice is soft. “There were what I could only describe as amber sarcophagi lining the walls of the room. Massive. They radiated an energy that felt overwhelmingly sinister. It made my skin crawl. Although I could not feel the cold, I was shaking.” He vigorously rubs at his arms. “I was scared, Strahd. I don't know why I even followed—”

His veins freeze solid. Unblinking, muscles tensed like a predator ready to pounce, he stares at Rahadin. “What did the voice say? Who? Whose voice was it?!” Strahd knows he's shouting, far louder than he should be in such a small room, but he can hardly spare the energy to care. Rahadin flinches when the nobleman springs up from his chair. “Whose voice was it, Rahadin?!”

“Please stop yelling at me, Strahd…” his voice cracks. While his eyes are dry, Rahadin sounds on the verge of tears. Again, Strahd cannot spare the energy to care. The vampire has to strain to hear him above the roaring in his own ears. The crackling of the fire is impossibly loud.

“TELL ME!”

Rahadin’s eyes squeeze shut. ”Vampyr…”

Something within him snaps, hot and all-consuming. It's a rage he has not felt since taking a volley of arrows to the heart from his own men. It explodes from his core like shrapnel. Before he's even aware of exactly what it is he's doing, he finds Rahadin's throat in his hand. He drags the protesting dusk elf from the armchair and slams him into the ground with as much force as he can muster. He can feel the muscles of his throat convulse beneath his palm as he gags.

Betrayal.

Strahd doesn't need to ask. He's all too familiar with the vestiges' sweet promises of power. Power for the small price of drinking from the fresh corpse of the one you love. 

The hand not squeezing at the elf’s throat finds itself wrapped around Rahadin's right forearm. With no resistance, he drags it above the dusk elf’s head. His grip tightens until he hears the satisfying snap of fracturing bones. His grip never loosens, even as the man beneath him howls in pain.

Crack. The radius shatters.

Betrayal!

Crack. The ulna soon follows. Rahadin's wails are like music to his ears.

“When can I expect the stake in my heart, husband?” Strahd snarls. Spittle drips down onto Rahadin's agony-twisted face. “When can I expect fangs at my throat, draining me of what little blood I have left? My coffin smashed?! Does this make you feel powerful, like you've outsmarted me?!”

“You went behind my back because I refused to turn you, you petty bastard! I trusted you. I trusted you!” With a grip still around his neck, so fragile in his hand, Strahd slams his head against the floor. And again.

“I didn't…” Rahadin chokes up a meager mouthful of blood, painting his mouth red, “didn't take it...”

“You fucking liar!”

“Strahd…!”

“Don't you fucking dare lie to me!” Once more, he slams Rahadin's head down. Even with a rug beneath them, there is still a sickening thud and the sound of the elf's teeth clacking together. A whimper spills out past blood-stained lips, but Strahd hardly hears it.

The vampire draws upon the connection between them and asserts his influence over the trembling body beneath him. There's no gentle prodding this time. It's the force of thunder that pierces its way straight to the center of Rahadin's mind. The resulting scream comes out a wet gargle.

“Tell me the truth! You accepted Vampyr’s offer, didn't you?!”

“No!”

Strahd burrows further. He must still be lying somehow. “You have plans to kill me and drink my blood, don't you?!”

In Elvish this time, “No! Strahd, s-s-stop! I-I beg...” Another bloody cough.

“Fuck!” Once more, more to release his own frustration than anything, he pushes Rahadin's head into the ground before pulling his hand away. It does little to absolve the fury still burning hot in his veins.

That damned vestige! Attempting to sow chaos by sending his own consort to overthrow him. One way or another, it'd have its champion, and wouldn't it just so love to glutton itself upon the resulting turmoil?! He has no doubt that the thrice-damned thing is laughing to itself at this very moment! 

Strahd pushes himself up off of Rahadin's body into standing before beginning to pace.

He had suspected that the dark powers that permeated Barovia would attempt to plunge him deeper into misery, but not like this. This would not do. He'd have to seal off the entrance to the temple, apparently. Perhaps cast some sort of ward. It would take considerable time and effort to create a ward of that size, but time is one thing he does have.

A weak whimper tears the nobleman from his thoughts. He stops pacing and lets his eyes fall upon the body staining his fine rug with spatters of blood; in all honesty, he'd forgotten about him for a moment. 

Rahadin attempts to push himself into some semblance of sitting, a grimace still etched on his face. Strands of his hair, now shiny in the firelight with blood, cling to the contours of his gaunt face. His left hand tentatively touches the back of his head; it comes back red. For several moments, the dusk elf stares past his splayed fingers, his pupils dilating and constricting with no rhyme or reason—Strahd has half a thought to kick him to ensure he's still alive—before that hand goes to cradle his crushed forearm. Rahadin lets out an abrupt sob as he brings it to his chest.

A pitiful sight, really. He'd expect a little more resilience from his chamberlain of all people.

The strategic side of him yearns to continue planning on just how he will improve his defenses, but he catches himself. This is his partner. His partner that, if he is to be believed, had not necessarily plotted against him.

Strahd lets out a huff. “That arm needs to be braced. If not, the bones may heal back crooked and weak.”

No response. Rahadin turns his head towards that damned fire once more. 

“I'm not fond of being ignored, Raha—”

His words slur, “I heard you.”

Strahd's brow furrows. He chooses to ignore the elf’s insolence this time. “Allow me to wrap your arm for you. I don't trust you to do it properly without the use of your dominant hand.”

“No.”

“Don't be stubborn,” Strahd grits out. He's hardly in the mood to tolerate such foolishness. “Unless you're fond of the idea of having to re-break your arm in the near future to set it properly, I strongly suggest you let me tend to you.”

His next works come out more slurred and barely louder than a whisper. “Touch me again… T-Touch me again without my permission and I will kill you, Strahd von Zarovich.”

Strahd’s eyes widen. Such uncharacteristic insolence! “...You're speaking as if you have a death wish. Fine, then. Tend to it yourself. I suppose it'll be entertaining watching you fumble through your duties with a dysfunctional arm. Leave. I have much to attend to.” 

Without sparing him a second glance, Strahd continues pacing. The sounds of a heavy thud, books and shelves rattling, the entrance to his study opening and closing barely register.

There is much to think about.

Rahadin doesn't bother lighting the sconces in his office. There's no point. No longer does he need the light to see, and it's far too much effort. The light would only exacerbate his pounding headache. Besides, he'd rather not look down at his shattered arm, still throbbing with hot pain and mottled with purple bruises, and be reminded.

Instead, he chooses to lay on his back upon the floor and stare up at the ceiling. Rather, he collapses the moment the door shuts behind him and he decides it would be too much effort to get up. Staring at the ceiling is about all he has the energy to do. Even the idea of trying to muster the strength to move the lid of his coffin seems like a mountain despite him desperately needing sleep.

He hasn't slept since leaving the castle five days ago. He had tried to sleep, certainly, but rest always refused to come to him. Even trying to rest in a shallow ditch filled with dirt—just like home, he'd thought bitterly — had been fruitless. His eyes burn. His entire body either burns or aches. It feels as if his skull is stuffed with cotton to the point where he can't even feel whatever it is he is supposed to be feeling about the most recent events. But more than anything at that moment, he just wants to sleep.

He's feeling his age acutely.

There's a light knocking at his door. Of course there is. It's far too light to be Strahd's, and Rahadin gives a grunt of relief at that. He calls out weakly, “Begone.” His throat burns with the single word.

“It's Ludmilla.”

“I don't… I don't care.”

Silence from the other end of the door. Then, the handle rattles, and the damned woman pushes herself into his room anyway. Her footsteps come to a halt what sounds to be mere inches from him. With a pained grimace, Rahadin cracks open his eyes to find the vampire spawn staring down at him with her own scowl. She's dressed in a simple white gown, a large leather tote beneath her arm.

“Good evening, Rahadin.” Her voice is flat.

Mortification keeps him mute.

“Why are you laying on the floor?”

The dusk elf eventually croaks out, “If you are going to enter m-my office,” he grits his teeth in pain, “against my wishes, then you have no right to ask such questions.”

“Fair enough.” Ludmilla sighs and takes a step back to set her bag on Rahadin's desk. She begins to rifle through it.

“Did…” Rahadin pauses, struggling to think of the proper title, “His Count send you?” He can think of no other reason why she would so obtrusively enter his office; the woman is typically the most respectful of Strahd's harlots.

“Indeed he did.”

Rahadin goes to push himself up into some semblance of a cross-legged sitting position, wincing when he almost makes the grave mistake of putting pressure on his broken arm. Instead, he lets it hang limply at his side. “Why?”

“I was sent to brace that arm of yours.”

Rahadin frowns. If Strahd is so fixated on the idea that he can't set his own bones properly then he could come do it himself rather than send his crone! “Unaware you had, ah…” another pause,”m-medical training.”

“I’m a rather multifaceted woman. You would know this if you chose to keep my company more often.”

Rahadin can't help but sneer, but he quickly drops it. It's too much energy. “I’ll tend to myself.”

Ludmilla pulls away from her bag and sets Rahadin with a glare that would have the blood of a lesser man run cold. “Stop this childish behavior.”

He flips a hand. It makes him dizzy. “‘m fine..”

“I was sent here with orders from your husband and sovereign lord. He would—”

“Then you may tell him exactly what I have told you. If he has… has an issue with this, then tell him to come speak to me face-to-face. As men do.”

Ludmilla’s upper lip curls, revealing ivory fangs. “Tell him yourself, stubborn elf!”

Were Rahadin feeling even ten percent of his usual self, he would have offered a scathing retort of his own. But he is feeling more exhausted, both mentally and physically, than he has in a long, long while. Instead, he stares at Ludmilla, cold and unflinching, before letting his head fall limp; he is far too tired to attempt to keep up appearances. “I… appreciate the concern, Ludmilla, but I would much rather be alone right now.”

“I don't know which part of, ‘I was sent here with orders from your husband and sovereign lord,’ says that I myself was concerned, but…” Ludmilla scoffs, before the breath becomes a short sigh. She walks around the side of the desk and leans against the lip to where she is facing Rahadin, and he has half a mind to scold her for her irreverence; that desk is an heirloom and costs more than her life!

The two of them sit in silence for a time, Rahadin's rattling breath and the occasional cough the only sound. It feels as if there are flames beneath the skin of his arm. He can occasionally feel the bones and muscle shift as the appendage—his damned sword arm, of course—gradually begins to heal itself.

“You're going to wash this blood out of your hair at some point, yes?” Ludmilla asks, her claws tapping along the top of his desk.

“...Eventually. When I am feeling up to it.” It's not as if he has two functioning arms in which to do so. It's the last thing on his list of priorities.

“I'm hoping for sooner rather than later.”

Rahadin wishes that the spawn would hurry up and leave his office. Whether it's an act or she's just being particularly thick-headed, he'd told her that he'd much rather be alone. There's nothing keeping her there; he's made it abundantly clear that he needs nothing from her. A part of him—the exhausted side—wants to resume laying on the floor and allowing his thoughts to wash over him like a storm, but pride is holding him back while Ludmilla is still in the room.

He can feel her eyes wandering over him. Rahadin makes a point of ignoring it in the hope that she will go away.

“How did you hurt your arm?” Ludmilla asks quietly.

The audacity of such a question. “I believe you already know the answer to that.”

“Mm.” Another pause. “For what it's worth, I am sorry. On his behalf. He cares about you deeply, and I'm certain that he, in earnest, did not mean to—”

Rahadin raises a silencing hand. He of all people will not be lectured on the intentions of Strahd von Zarovich. “He did, Ludmilla.” 

The man rules through fear, intimidation. Even as a mortal, Strahd had never hesitated to use his power to suppress others. It's the part of him that had been so attractive to the dusk elf in the first place.

“If you will not allow me to tend to your arm, would you at least allow me to help wash your hair? Or comb it? I can smell your stench halfway across the castle, and I don't trust you to do it properly with only one arm” says Ludmilla, but her tone is soft—as if forgetting that her comment is supposed to be an insult.

In another life, Rahadin may have almost been touched by her concern. At her core, however, he knows that she's as selfish and self-serving as the rest of Strahd's harem. They're not to be trusted. That, and he's not particularly fond of the idea of being doted upon by the wife of his partner—or anyone, for that matter. Strahd, when he is uncharacteristically motivated to show kindness, is the rare exception.

He's beginning to think that no one in the castle is deserving of his trust…

“May I bring you a pot of tea? I have an herbal blend that may help with…” Ludmilla taps at her temple.

Rahadin huffs and pinches at the bridge of his nose with his non-injured hand. “Leave me. I, ah… I wish to rest.”

“If you don't—”

“Ludmilla!” Rahadin snaps with a surge of energy that surprises even him. “Please. Go.”

Her mahogany-painted mouth opens and closes as if searching for something to say, but she ultimately closes it. Ludmilla holds his stare in an attempted show of dominance, but he can read the hurt behind her dark eyes clear as day. She stands and snatches the leather bag. “...Fine. Do it all yourself. But don't you dare try and tell him that I didn't offer to help.”

He wouldn't dream of it; his style of confrontation has never been to hide in the shadows of others. No, if Strahd were to for some reason—and he doubts that he would due to his typical careless demeanor—confront him about this, he would be honest. Rahadin says nothing as Ludmilla turns to leave the room, even when she stalls at the door frame, before exiting. The door slams behind her with considerable force. Another attempt at callousness, if anything.

He lets out another long open-mouthed sigh. His motions slow and trembling like those of an old man, he thinks bitterly, Rahadin settles himself onto his back once more. His arms rest at his sides, feeling heavy as lead. Each time he feels the inside of his broken arm shift, another surge of hot agony shoots through the limb. His upper lip twitches, and the dusk elf has to fight back a grunt with each quiet pop. 

Damn that woman... He'd gotten to the point of almost being able to ignore the pain before she’d entered and all but forced him to sit up. While he is grateful for the enhanced healing capability, it feels as if it combines all of the pain that would have been present throughout the healing process in a fraction of the time. It does absolutely nothing for his pain threshold; while his is exceedingly high, it is still nowhere near an enjoyable process.

If he could muster up the energy, he would consider quaffing a potion to help ease the pain and inflammation. He can barely fathom being able to push the lid of his coffin aside, much less engage in any fashion of first aid.

A part of him almost regrets not having asked for help, but he is more than aware his pride would never see him reduced to such a point. 

Perhaps he could channel his innate magic and misty step into his stone prison. Negate the process altogether and simply pray that he can find rest.

It's a better plan than any other he can think of at that moment.

Not bothering to hold back a grunt this time, Rahadin carefully pushes himself up with his good hand, leaning heavily on his desk, until he is able to get his trembling legs beneath him. Wounded arm held close to his torso, Rahadin slowly, frustratingly slow, makes his way towards the catacombs. He says a silent prayer that his path does not cross with any of the spawns—and especially Strahd.

When Rahadin awakens a week later, he finds a new pair of fur-lined riding boots along with a mink-fur cloak sitting outside his office door.

Chapter Text

There's a tugging at the back of his mind. A beckoning.

Rahadin sighs, and his eyes flutter open. He's greeted by the polished wooden underside of his coffin lid. The catacombs are silent save for the occasional chittering of bats and the steady drip, drip, drip of water leaking through the cracks of his tomb’s ceiling. Despite how obnoxious the constant pattering of water is, he's hardly had the time or motivation to fix it since the crypts became his bedchamber.

Another tug.

He's exhausted. He has no desire to leave his coffin, much less see to whatever ridiculous request Strahd has for him now. While it's not in his nature, he has half a mind to simply ignore Strahd's calling. If it were an emergency, he would know. Once more, his eyes close.

Another tug, this time sharp, impatient. Like the dullest of headaches.

Rahadin snarls in frustration before all but throwing the coffin lid off; the bones of his right arm ache slightly from the effort. His lips pressed together in a flat line, he doesn't bother replacing the coffin lid. Instead, he only bothers putting on his boots before storming off towards the catacombs’ stairwell. With each step, he stomps with the hope of releasing some of the pent-up frustration rolling in his veins, probably waking even the dead with how loud his footfalls are upon the stone. By the time he's reached the main floor, he's able to mask any residual traces of anger behind his typical austere front. He crosses his arms behind his back, and he approaches the great entry, his footsteps as light as a cat's.

He's greeted by the sight of Strahd deep in conversation with a young human woman with a loose bun of dark hair atop her head; he faintly remembers having seen her at some point during his excursions to Barovia Village. As the dusk elf comes to a stop before them, their conversation—something pertaining to the faded frescoes high upon the walls—comes to a halt.

While it could be seen as one of impassiveness to outsiders, Rahadin has spent enough time around the lord of Barovia to be able to recognize the nuances of his expression: annoyance, displeasure. The unignorable sentiment of what took you so long? 

For one of the few times in his life, Rahadin hardly has the energy to care about his master's perception of him.

“Your Lordship.” As he's done thousands of times before, Rahadin bows deeply at the waist. “Did you need something of me?”

“I needed something of you ten minutes ago. Your lateness was not due to you putting on proper attire, I see,” Strahd growls lowly and gestures to Rahadin's long-sleeved undershirt. 

“Apologies.”

His eyes flash red, glowering, before his expression quickly brightens, a mockery of a smile tugging at his lips. “Rahadin, I would like you to meet Gertruda.”

Rahadin's eyes narrow, and he appraises the girl at Strahd's side. Young, perhaps in the beginning of her second decade. Dressed in drab colors—the sign of peasantry. The patchwork along her faded dress suggests destitution, the kind of woman that patches for decades the same two dresses reserved solely for the off chance that they may meet nobility. The girl is nobody of note, then. Perhaps yet another infant Strahd is seeking to woo, if anything. Her face, from his understanding of humans, is a traditionally attractive one; the nobleman always has had a soft spot for courting those with a particular aura of innocence about them. 

Despite her lack of status, Rahadin does as is expected of him and bows. “The obligation is mine, my lady.” He doesn’t miss the daggers Strahd glares at him over Gertruda’s shoulder. 

Seemingly oblivious, the girl at Strahd’s side gives a poor attempt at a curtsy. “Sir.” 

Impoverished and lacking any sort of proper etiquette. Grand.

“Gertruda, this is my chamberlain, Rahadin. He has been in my service for quite some time. Should you need anything during your stay, do not hesitate to ask him. He would be honored,” more daggers, “to assist you.” 

Rahadin takes note of Strahd’s choice to exclude the title of consort from his introduction. While it may be due to old habits, a part of him knows that it had probably been intentional. Interestingly enough, it bothers him less than he would have expected. 

Strahd continues, “Gertruda will be my esteemed guest for the foreseeable future. Until she returns to her home in Barovia Village, I’ve decided that she shall be your ward, Rahadin.

The dusk elf almost chokes. Of all the things he had been expecting to come out of his mouth, that certainly hadn’t been one of them. Ward. The single word is enough to make his stomach drop. He has to quickly regain his composure and force an even expression onto his face once more despite feeling as if a lead ball has buried itself in his gut. “I-I-I beg your pardon? My lord?!”

“Your ward, Rahadin. I trust you know the meaning of the word?”

“Of course I do, but this is—Strahd, this is not something that you decide without conferring with an individual first!” he quietly hisses the last few words. 

With one hand on Gertruda’s shoulder, Strahd pretends to inspect the nails of his right hand. “Perhaps. However, I would hate to assume that my chamberlain of all people is questioning my authority.”

Huge blue eyes like that of a doe stare up at Rahadin starry-eyed. He has half a mind to knock the girl unconscious just so that she would cease that thrice-damned staring! He inhales sharply. “Your Lordship, might I have a moment of your time to speak in private?”

“Certainly.” Strahd takes a step forward and gently turns the girl towards him. “Gertruda, my dear, wait for me in the dining hall to your right. I will give you a tour of the castle and escort you to your room after.”

She blinks, shifting from foot to foot. “Is something wrong, sir?” Her voice is like that of a shrill mouse, and it grates on Rahadin’s nerves.

“No. However, I must confer with my chamberlain for a moment.”

Seemingly satisfied, she gives a small smile. “Yessir!” With yet another poor attempt at a curtsy, Gertruda turns to leave the room. The minute Gertruda is out of sight, Rahadin whips around to face Strahd, eyes burning.

“What is the meaning of this? We don't speak for weeks, and then you bring me this human child out of nowhere with the expectation that she is to be my ward of all things?!” 

“The word ‘ward’ is merely a matter of semantics. Apprentice. Underling. Slave. Livestock. You may call her whatever you wish.” Strahd goes to adjust the cuffs of his black shirt. His eyes never do meet his. “A few days ago, I was thinking about your frustration surrounding your plants. Your suspicion that you’d lost your hypothetical green thumb due to no longer being connected to your deities. When we were in the garden together, we'd spoken briefly about the idea of having someone do the work in your stead.

“Conveniently enough, I found Gertruda during my hunt yesterday already making—attempting, rather—her way to Ravenloft in the hopes of seeking employment. The poor whelp was soaked to the bone when I came across her. I'd thought she could prove to be an asset to you.”

Rahadin blinks slowly, dumbfounded. While he supposes that he should be honored by the idea that his master had taken the time of day to think of him, he can’t muster up the mental fortitude to be anything but resentful. “I haven’t the slightest idea what to do with a human child.”

“Woman,” Strahd corrects. “Ideally? Have her assist you in your gardening. You may also force her to clean the castle or use her as a coat rack. Torture her. Bleed her dry. Really, the possibilities are endless. What you do with her ultimately matters little to me, but she is yours. All I ask is that you do not bed her.” He leans forward slightly, and his voice lowers. “A virgin, Rahadin. Virginal blood. This is quite the gift that I am bestowing upon you.”

His lip curls at the implication. Softy, he adds, “I did not ask for this. I didn’t ask for help.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s rare for you ever to ask for anything; that is why I acted in your best interest on your behalf.”

“”In my best interest!’“ This time, Rahadin does not hold back the incredulous laugh that springs forth from his chest. It feels as if a wire that had been pulled dangerously taught has snapped within him. “Forgive me, Your Lordship, but you have not acted with my best interests in mind since you designated me as chamberlain of this pathetic puddle you call a nation!” 

In a blur of speed, the back of Strahd’s hand meets Rahadin’s cheek before he pulls away, fangs bared in a snarl . “Lest you wish to know what my boot tastes like, you will NOT speak to me in such a manner, you absolute embarrassment! It is solely because of my father and I that you are alive to be the chamberlain of my beautiful valley!”

Rahadin ignores the intense burning of his cheek and bares his own fangs. “Your father was twice the man you are and thrice the ruler, Strahd von Zarovich! Were they alive today, King Barov and Queen Ravenovia would be ashamed to see the man you’ve become!”

The irises and sclera of Strahd’s eyes flood crimson. A fierce wind begins to rattle the castle’s windows in their panes, air rushing in through the cracks, and for a moment Rahadin worries that the centuries-old glass will shatter at any moment. Still, he holds the master of Ravenloft’s stare. The torches lining the walls extinguish, and it takes a few moments for Rahadin’s dark vision to adjust. Jaw trembling with rage, Strahd lets out a roar. “On your knees!”

Like a knife to the temple, a sharp pain pierces the dusk elf's skull, and he falls to his knees with a stuttering gasp.

“You are going to sit there and listen!” Strahd orders. He takes a step towards Rahadin. “Firstly, you are forbidden from speaking the names of or alluding to King Barov von Zarovich and Queen Ravenovia van Roeyen ever again. You disgrace their names. Second, you will take this girl. The effort I put into this arrangement will not have been for naught. Am I understood so far?”

“Yes!” Rahadin cries out. A wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he falls forward onto his hands and knees. His eyes squeeze shut in an attempt to fend off the throbbing pain at the base of his skull. The air suddenly smells metallic.

His voice pierces his mind. “I give you so much, Rahadin—a home, power, a title, pleasure—and still you are ungrateful. You mock that which I give freely. You’ve spat upon both your lord and land in a perfect example of treason. Were you still a general in my armies, I'd see your head on a pike. Alas…”

There's the sound of footsteps that come to a stop a few inches away. Opening his eyes, his gaze falls upon black leather boots, shined and pristine. Rahadin glances up to find Strahd staring down at him with crimson-hued eyes. His arms cross before him. “Fortunately, there are other means of punishment that do not require me to go through the effort of seeking out another chamberlain. And since corporal punishment seems to be ineffective...”

Rahadin swallows heavily. His arms tremble. “Strahd. Please.”

“On your stomach,” he demands, extending his influence over the man before him. His expression is impassive. “My boots are filthy. Clean them—with your tongue.”

“Strahd…!” His name comes out a whine. More than anything, he doesn't want to do this. It doesn't matter how well cared for his boots are or who they belong to, it's disgusting. It's humiliating, and he is deserving of far better than this. Yet still his legs slide out from beneath him until he's laying upon his stomach, his face mere inches away from the nobleman's boots. 

With one last pleading look towards the vampire, one that is only met with an expectant raise of an eyebrow, Rahadin’s face crumples and he sticks his tongue out. Unable to resist the mental pull, he licks a long line up along the leather. There's an acrid and slightly smoky taste to the polish that Strahd regularly applies to his boots. He absolutely abhors it.

The only thing worse than the act itself is the nonplussed look on Strahd's face, the way he quirks his head slightly when Rahadin lifts his eyes. Not feeling one way or another about the mental torment he's putting him through.

As he's licking up along the leather of his shin, dragging his tongue alongside the lacing, Strahd drags his foot back and lifts the dusk elf's chin up by the toe of his boot. His lip curls. “Disgusting. You enjoy this, don't you?”

Rahadin stares up at him, malice burning in his eyes. What he'd give to make Strahd choke on his own filthy leather right now…

The toe of his boot slides down to beneath his right shoulder, and Strahd nudges him. “On your back.” 

Having little say in the matter, Rahadin rolls over onto his back. Once more, the nobleman's smug face comes into view. A heavy weight settles upon his chest as Strahd places his boot, now shiny with his spit, atop him. He presses down hard enough to squeeze any remaining breath from his lungs, peering down at him all the while.

“Apologize.”

As if with a knife to his throat, Rahadin splutters out, “Apologies! Master! For my insolence as well as the disparaging remarks directed towards you and the privileges I have so graciously been provided!” The corners of his eyes sting.

Strahd stares at him a moment longer, lip curled, before dragging his boot up to his throat. With the toe of it, he tips Rahadin's chin back, moves his head from one side to the other. “You've been increasingly belligerent these past moons, and I’ve grown tired of it. I've been tired of it for some time, actually.” His boot slides down to his throat, the tread uncomfortable against his Adam's apple, and presses down. Not enough to crush, but to send a warning. “My patience with you has worn dangerously thin; believe me when I say you don't want it to run out.”

More pressure—Rahadin is certain he would be choking were he still mortal—before his boot is quickly pulled away. Instinctually, Rahadin sucks in loud lungfuls of air. The psychic tendrils ensnared around his mind release their grip and wither away.

Strahd lifts his chin and reaches a hand down towards him. “Come. Up with you.”

Unthinking, Rahadin takes the nobleman's hand and is easily pulled up onto his feet. His legs, feeling as brittle as glass, are less inclined to cooperate, however, and he has to grip onto the sleeves of Strahd's doublet to stay standing. To his surprise, Strahd takes advantage of his lapse in strength to pull his trembling body in for an embrace. 

An overwhelming mix of shame and embarrassment claws at his non-beating heart. He doesn't want to be touched—particularly after last time—but he does not have the energy to resist. Perhaps he will be true to his word and kill the nobleman the next time he touches him without permission...

Strahd sighs through his nose.“Where did my obedient elf go? The self-disciplined man that would bend over backward to please his master, no questions asked? The one that had seemed such an obvious choice to be my esteemed chamberlain—and consort?”

Rahadin's bottom lip trembles, the wisps of a headache still clouding his mind. Where did that man go, indeed. He often wonders the same thing. He might not have been happy before—happiness has always been a fleeting acquaintance of his throughout life—but at least he had been ignorant. At least he had felt fulfilled and with purpose.

Things were far easier when his biggest concerns involved controlling the riffraff of the serfs. When his life was predictable and he could spend his days surreptitiously yearning for a man just out of his reach, basking in the intrigue of what it might be like to have such feelings reciprocated. His life was easier when it was a mere question, one that he did not have an answer to. 

His grip on Strahd's arms tightens. Hindsight at its finest.

“Despite my better judgment, I forgive you, Rahadin.” With his chin resting upon the dusk elf's shoulder, he begins to trail thick fingers through his ebony hair. “I know you won't disappoint me again.”

Rahadin relaxes into the touch. It's far more gentle than anything he's used to receiving from Strahd, and the slight tug along his scalp is nice. Being wrapped in Strahd's arms, drowning in his scent, is comforting. He shouldn't be okay with this, he knows, but gods he is tired. It's absolutely pitiful.

Were his past self looking in through a window, he'd be disgusted by the scene and its implications. He'd call him weak.

“I do these things because I care about you, Rahadin. You know that, yes?”

Mute, Rahadin nods his head with the hope that Strahd won't drag the conversation on. More than anything, he just wants to curl up in his office and hide. Hide from his responsibilities. Hide from all this. Hide from him most of all .

“Good.” Strahd grips him by the shoulders and holds him an arms-length away to properly look at him. “You're going to take this girl and do whatever it is you need to. You're going to utilize her service and grow your flowers. Things will be better. Am I understood?”

More nodding of his head.

“Good pet. Now,” Strahd presses a kiss to Rahadin's forehead before letting go, almost sending the dusk elf tumbling to the ground, “I’d promised your ward a tour of the castle before she retires for the night—human sleep cycles and whatnot. Afterward, would you care to join me for a bath? There's a vintage bottle of Champagne du le Stompe down in the cellar that I was planning on opening tonight.”

Rahadin swallows, and his gaze falters. “No. I must feed.” To cleanse his palate of the taste of leather and polish more than anything.

“Ah. If you wait but a moment, I will join you—”

“Strahd,” Rahadin interrupts, his fists balling at his sides. “No.”

The nobleman's eyebrows raise. He stares for what feels like forever as if expecting Rahadin to take back his words before his eyes narrow. “Fine, then.” His cloak flourishes, and he turns on his heel. “You may see to it that the girl has proper attire for her stay in Ravenloft, then. At first light, go to the village and order whatever she may need from the tailor.”

Rahadin mirrors Strahd's actions and sets off towards the stairs leading to his office, his clumsy footsteps far less dignified than those of this master. “Understood.”

The two depart without another word, and the main hall fills with silence once more.

732 Barovian Calendar, Barovia 

As I flip through the pages of this journal, I am surprised by just how little I have written as of late. It seems as if the span between entries grows larger and larger as the years stretch on. My last entry was shortly following the turning of my chamberlain and consort Rahadin—almost seven moons ago. I, Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia, decided that it was perhaps time to brush off these dusty pages and update any unfortunate soul who should come across my journal someday on what has transpired these past few moons. There is much to reflect upon. By doing so, perhaps I can relieve this great weight that is burdening my mind. 

Rahadin has been occupying much of my time as of late—more than he should be. While I was able to leave him to his own devices before his turning with the understanding that he would come to me if he required my input, he is now not unlike a pesky child requiring much of my supervision. Before, it often fell on me to ensure that he was eating and caring for himself properly, an issue I have yet to have with any other of my spawn. Typically, the voracious things are eager to sink their fangs into anything with a pulse. Whether through his own stubbornness or moroseness, Rahadin only ate enough to stay alive—if that some weeks. 

Intense anger and resentment followed that. Pettiness, even. Whenever Rahadin did find himself in my company, I was often met with accusatory remarks about how all of his suffering was somehow my fault. Such bitterness is not uncharacteristic of him but it was never towards me. Never would he dare be so blatantly disrespectful to his lord, and I believe that to be the most obvious and disappointing change I've noticed in the dusk elf following his turning. Not to say that this doesn't bring a certain excitement to my days wondering when he is going to snap next, but it does prove to be rather irksome at times.

He's made his displeasure with me more than apparent. No longer does he wish to spend time with me and outright refuses my advances. During an encounter with the dusk elves—something that I had hoped would be a fulfilling experience for him—he even went so far as to cut off his finger and wedding ring, the very same one from my father's treasury. While he undoubtedly feels that he is being clever, his actions are more tiring than anything.

This anger has not only been directed at me, but at the world as a whole it would seem. He killed one of my brides, Anastrasya. While she was a refined thing with a knack for social grace, I cannot say that I will particularly miss her. I grew tired of her decades ago and had only kept her around for her tactical usefulness. Beyond all that, she had gotten what she deserved. Typically, individuals learn after their first misdeed that my chamberlain is not one to toy with. Anastrasya had teased Rahadin one too many times, and ultimately, he proved himself to be the superior spawn.

While I was unaffected by such an ordeal save for a heavy wave of exasperation at their childlike behavior, I could not let such an act go unpunished. My word is law, and not even my consorts are spared from my justice.

I flogged him until his back was in tatters. To put it tactfully, it was a cathartic experience for the both of us.

Such an act must have woken some dormant urge inside him, and he began seeking out pain—perhaps to help abate whatever feelings he was dealing with. On more than one occasion, he's attempted to coerce me into punishing him, including via adultery of all things. I've held fast; I refuse to reward such childish behavior. Little else outside of hunting and flogging seems to appease him, however. While intimacy had once been something that brought us together, he now acts as if my very touch burns him. 

There was a point in which he lashed out at me with the full intent to kill. Being far more experienced, I was able to put him back in his place and send him walking with his tail between his legs, but not before savoring the thrill of battle and the joys of watching him squirm on the brink of death. While my chamberlain is, of course, one of the most skilled swordsmen I've had the pleasure of knowing, I am still his superior in every way. I've had centuries to refine the skills that had come with undeath while he's merely an infant.

Understandably, this attack brought with it intense feelings of guilt from him. While I saw it as little more than an entertaining distraction, he saw it as uncharacteristic and a blow to his honor. Whether he likes to admit it or not as of late, the elf cares deeply about me. How could he not? The heart does not forget that which it has spent centuries longing for. This became more than apparent when he broke down and began sobbing on the floor like an infant shortly after the incident. Were I still human, my heart may have been wrought with pity, yet I could only look upon him with unease.

Since then, Rahadin has become convinced that the only thing that will bring about his happiness is being turned into a full-blooded vampire such as myself; where he got such a foolish idea is beyond me. While I spent moons contemplating such an idea—he would lose so much while only gaining a semblance of autonomy—I ultimately gave in with the hope that my own life would become easier if I could finally appease him. 

I couldn't do it. There was too much at stake.

I was relieved to find that he was quick to give up on the idea. Creating full-blooded vampires has been nothing but an inconvenience for me, and I am certain that the dark powers would find some means of intervening. 

Those damned dark powers! Unlike Rahadin, they were not so quick to cave. They attempted to unseat me through the vestiges of the Amber Temple. The very same vestige that had called to me, Vampyr, had called to him as well. Fortunately, my chamberlain is far wiser than he seems and had, allegedly, refused their offer.

It is still to be seen whether he goes back to that temple or not and accepts the dark bargain. Should that day arise, I will have no qualms with slaying the elf before he can even consider killing me. I can only hope that that day does not come and that his bond to me is stronger than the call to power.

Were it but two years ago, I'd have the utmost confidence in his loyalty. But now… It has been brought into question on numerous occasions. My greatest concern is that if I do not give him the autonomy he desires, he will seek it out through other avenues—chiefly that dark bargain. Having been a thrall to its influence before, I know how strong that promise of power can be. If not love, if not loyalty, then what would be his barrier?

By no means do I want to kill him. Rahadin has been my closest companion for centuries now—the last living remnant from a bygone, mortal era. While my ways may be untraditional at times as is befitting a ruler, I would be lying if I said I did not care deeply about him. I want his happiness if only to lessen the weight upon my own shoulders.

The consideration of turning him still haunts me. It would be so easy, but it is that damned what if that plagues my mind. What if the ritual fails and death takes him for good? What if his ambitions grow and he seeks to dethrone me? What if, in deciding he no longer desires my company, leaves me to a life of isolation while I wait for Tatyana? 

I've weighed the pros and cons of such a decision more times than I care to count, and the addition of the Amber Temple fiasco has only complicated matters further. 

Ultimately, it seems he may leave me through death… or by his own choice. 

I do not trust myself to handle either outcome with grace.

 

-SvZ

He moves his hand, turning the girl's head back and forth with lithe fingers. As she peers up at him past dark lashes, there's a certain dream-like, glassy look to her eyes. Charmed, then. Of course. From first inspection, there do not appear to be any bite marks along her neck—at least that he can see past the high collar of her lilac-colored dress. 

He sighs loudly through his nose. “From where do you hail, girl?” Rahadin intones.

“Barovia Village, sir.”

“You're Mary's child, are you not? The seamstress?”

“Indeed, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“21 years.”

“Has Lord Strahd touched you sexually?”

Gertruda’s eyes shoot wide, her cheeks coloring a deep red. “I-I-I beg your pardon?! Sir?”

“Answer the question.”

“What? No! Sir Strahd has been nothing but kind to me!”

He'll count his blessings where he can. “I see a lesson in etiquette is in order if you are to be a citizen of Barovia, much less an occupant of Castle Ravenloft. You shall refer to Count Strahd von Zarovich as His Lordship. You shall refer to me, chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft and consort of His Lordship, as Your Excellency. Master may be permissible in some contexts. In no circumstance shall you refer to either of us as ‘sir’ or by our first names lest you wish to be punished.” His hold on her chin tightens slightly. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, si—Your Excellency.”

“Good.” With no more questions for the brat, Rahadin pulls his hand away from her face and dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “I was informed that you've come to Castle Ravenloft seeking work and that His Lordship has promised you accommodations in the meanwhile. Is this true?”

Gertruda nods her head. Despite his previous threat, that same naïve smile is plastered on her face. “Indeed! My family has fallen on hard times, and good-paying jobs are hard to come by in Barovia Village. I've always dreamed of seeing a castle—the fairy tales involving them always sound so wonderful—and so I thought maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.” She gives a sheepish chuckle. “I was very fortunate that… His Lordship found me when he did. The castle was much further than I had thought!”

Rahadin hums. The girl is either exceedingly foolish, or exceedingly brave. He's more than aware of the reputation surrounding Castle Ravenloft and the murmurings of the unwashed masses. That fairytale illusion would be shattered soon enough. “Tell me: what is it you do, child?”

“Oh!” Her eyes light up. ”Well, I love reading and thinking up stories. I cook, and I help my mother with her needlework when I can. Sometimes, I—”

“Do you have any experience with horticulture?”

“Horticulture…” Her thin brows furrow. ”Oh! You mean gardening! Our home isn't big enough for a garden, but I used to help Greggor—he's one of the village farmers—dig up potatoes for a copper when I was younger.”

Great. From his understanding, then, he's basically been handed a child with no skills outside of homemaking and spawning brats.

Once more, Rahadin sighs. He turns and approaches the large bookshelf behind the desk of his office. “The work I will have you do, child, is intricate. It requires a delicate hand and a vast knowledge of the intricacies of the natural world.”

“Gardening?”

“Yes. Gardening.”

Rahadin begins to scan over the titles among his bookcase, fingers carefully trailing over their spines. He can only hope that Strahd had not borrowed one of his books without his permission again…

“Your Excellency, are you an elf?”

The question is enough to stop him in his tracks. “What?”

“An elf. You know…” Her voice softens. “Pointy ears—”

“I know what a bloody elf is!” Correlon give him patience…  Rahadin pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Why do you ask?”

“I've read stories about elves, but I've never seen one in person. My mother says that there are a whole bunch of elves living beside a hill in Barovia. I was wondering because you fit the description. I think it’s delightful if you are.”

The dusk elves, reduced to mere rumors amongst the commoners. The thought brings him a wicked sense of pleasure. “I am an elf only by blood. I align more closely with humans.”

There's the sound of Gertruda clapping her hands together behind him. “Marvelous! My first elf!”

Rahadin rolls his eyes. After a moment, he finds what he had been looking for and pulls out two thick tomes.

“You can read, yes?”

“Yes! Quite well.”

“Good. At least your parents taught you something.” He places the two-book stack in Gertruda’s hands, and her arms sink from the weight. “There are two titles there. One is an informational book on best gardening practices within taiga climates, while the other is my personal botanical notes on the cultivation of a shrub known colloquially as ghost blossom. You are expected to have read both of these by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Her eyes go wide. “Sir, I won't be able to get through one of these, much less two!”

Rahadin glowers down at her. “Then I suppose you should get started then, hm?”

She meets his gaze with a pleading look behind her blue eyes. Were he of a gentler heart, perhaps he could have been persuaded to give her more time. However, empathy has never been one of his strong suites.

Gertruda sniffs before tucking the books under one arm, balancing their weight upon her hip. “Yessir.”

“Excellent. Our work begins tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

“Won't this kill the plant?”

“No. Ghost blossoms are relatively hardy when it comes to pruning. It would take quite a bit of careless cutting to kill them.”

With a look of uncertainty still upon her face, Gertruda leans in closer towards the bush and narrows her eyes. “Which branches do I cut?”

“If the cane is thinner than your small finger, cut it. Continue cutting it down until you begin to see green on the inside of the cane; that is healthy growth.”

Leaning back in the armchair, Strahd chuckles to himself. Such an entertaining dynamic... From within his study, he has a clear view of both Rahadin and Gertruda via a scrying spell. Rahadin, with his arms crossed and an irritated scowl plastered on his face—his chamberlain has always preferred doing rather than merely observing—has been instructing the young woman for at least the past hour on how to properly care for his silly bushes. 

Gertruda, despite her best efforts, has been having difficulties pleasing him, it seems. Not that Strahd is surprised; Rahadin is a hard man to please, his standards exacting. Even when Castle Ravenloft was in the process of being constructed centuries ago, the stonemasons and bricklayers could never work hard enough to satisfy him. Entire troupes of men had come out of that project with scars along their back from the bite of his whip. Were he a different man, Strahd's heart might have gone out to the girl in pity.

Gertruda at least has the privilege of being a young woman—a mere child by elven standards. Not that such a concept would sway Rahadin's heart much. Fortunately, the girl has thus far been open to feedback and eager to please. Much of her attitude is due to his charm over her, he's certain, but it's a boon nonetheless. 

With shears in hand, Gertruda sucks in a deep breath and, brow furrowed in concentration, snips a branch. Still holding her breath, she lifts her eyes to Rahadin for approval. Receiving neither praise nor scorn, she releases her breath and moves on hands and knees in search of another branch. 

“Let me see the piece you cut,” Rahadin demands.

Gertruda goes to pick the branch up and scrambles over to place it in Rahadin's gloved hand. The dusk elf takes it between forefinger and thumb and silently scrutinizes it. “...Good. Search for others similar to this and cut them until none remain. This will ensure there are as many blooms as possible when the time comes.”

Gertruda beams, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. With a pep in her step, she falls back down onto hands and knees in a rather unladylike fashion and continues inspecting the adolescent bush.

Some time passes with little comment from either of them outside of Rahadin requesting to inspect more branches or chiding the girl for trimming too much. Never once does he touch any of the plants himself save for the pieces that have already been cut. Instead, he remains leaning against the garden fence with his arms crossed when he's not pointing at bushes or prattling on about plant diseases.

His claws idly tap along the wooden table. Strahd is mere moments from dispelling the scrying spell when Gertruda’s voice rings out from the crystal ball before him.

“If you don't mind me asking, how did you and His Lordship meet, Master?”

Finally, something interesting. Strahd leans closer towards the crystal ball, fingers stopping mid-tap. His interest piqued, he instead steeples them upon the table. Even through the spell, he doesn't miss the way Rahadin's body stiffens at the question.

“...That is a rather personal question,” Rahadin intones. ”Why do you ask, girl?”

“Oh, I do not mean to pry, of course! I just love romance; it's one of my favorite genres to read! Tales of knights saving princesses from dragons, kings and queens dancing together in sprawling ballrooms, mermaids falling for sailors…” Gertruda gives an exaggerated sigh, her eyelids fluttering. She snips off another branch. “You two are from very different walks of life, yet the two of you live in this big beautiful castle together. Your love story must be an interesting one!”

A look of discomfort washes over Rahadin's face, Strahd notes with a slight frown. He's more than aware that the elf detests discussing his personal life, but he cannot help but feel a tinge slighted by his hesitance at the same time. Rahadin's eyes narrow. “You assume that because Lord Strahd and I are of different ancestry that he and I are ‘from very different walks of life?’ You underestimate just how long I have served this family...”

After a moment of silent simmering, Rahadin sighs and acquiesces, “I served Lord Strahd’s father, the late King Barov von Zarovich, many years ago. While serving in his army, I was awarded the privilege of meeting His Majesty’s family, including his son. When Lord Strahd inherited his father's armies, he granted me the title of general, followed by chamberlain.”

Gertruda hums, her pursed lips indicating that she is not at all satisfied by his answer. “I want the exciting details! Did he ask for your hand, or did you ask for his? When did you realize you had feelings for him? What is it like being courted by—”

Rahadin silences the girl by loudly clearing his throat. “You'd asked how we met. That is how we met. No more questions.” He points to the base of a plant and sets her with an icy glare. “Bring me that cutting.”

The young woman does as asked, once again scrabbling over on hands and knees to place her most recent cutting in Rahadin's gloved hand. As he has seemingly 80 times before, the dusk elf scrutinizes it with a furrowed brow. Gertruda remains at his feet and sits, knees pulled up to her chest. Despite the elf’s previous brusqueness, she gazes up at him starry-eyed.

Strahd feels his jaw tighten.

“I wish to marry someone with a title someday. Baron, burgomaster, lord—it matters very little to me. Someone whom my heart yearns for and who loves me back unequivocally. Someone that would care for my family. I don't need much in the ways of wealth to be happy, but I do wish to never go hungry again.” Her lips stretch into a smile, and she gives a dreamy sigh. “The burgomaster of Barovia Village is a very nice man. People say that he is lesser than his late father, but I disagree.”

She wipes her dirt-covered hands off onto her pants. “Master, if I do a good enough job in serving you, do you think you could introduce me to him? Or perhaps another nobleman in Barovia? I don't—”

For the briefest of seconds, the irises of Rahadin's eyes flood red. He pushes himself off of the fence and leans down, hands planted on his thighs. His upper lip curls, showing a flash of fangs. “You will stay away from Burgomaster Kolyanovich and his sister.” The slow-spoken words drip with venom. “Do you hear me, girl?”

Eyes wide as if taken aback, Gertruda gives a slight nod. “Yes, but—”

“You forget yourself. You are a low born. A mere flea-bitten peasant. Any nobleman would be disgracing their family name by marrying one such as yourself!”

Tears pool at the corners of Gertruda's eyes. She sniffles and wraps her arms around her torso, withdrawing into herself. For a moment, Strahd worries that his charm over her had broken. He finds himself smirking despite himself.

After a moment of enduring the woman's sniffling, Rahadin sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. He turns his back to her, draping his arms over the stone fence. “I have been alive for centuries, Gertruda. I am no stranger to the ways of the world. Life is not like your fairytales. Marriage is rarely about love, but status—whose surname carries the most weight. Some couples learn to love one another, others never do. Even marriages that are initially built upon love inevitably wither with time. Even if you were of noble birth, I would not wish an aristocratic arrangement upon you.”

A muscle in Strahd's jaw twitches.

The sky begins to darken with heavy rolling rain clouds, causing Gertruda to look up with concern. A sudden gust of wind whips Rahadin's hair around him. He hardly seems to care.

“You are young, Gertruda, and you have a comely face for a human. You will have no issues in finding a partner of the same social standing. Your mother will arrange your marriage and, with luck, your partner will be kind to you. Unless you die of disease or during childbirth, you will have your family. That is how the world works—”

He's heard enough. He's heard more than enough. With a silent snarl, Strahd pushes the crystal ball off of its stand, dispelling the image before him. It rolls off the table and lands upon the carpeted floor with a thump. 

There's the sound of shifting behind him, and Escher raises his head from the divan, blonde hair mussed. He yawns. “Is something the matter, Master?”

“No.” He has no desire to look upon the spawn. “Leave.”

More shuffling. Escher sits up on the divan and tilts his head, brows furrowed with concern. “It certainly doesn't sound as if nothing is the matter. Talk to me, Strahd.”

Strahd whips around and sets the man with an icy glare, his grip upon the arms of the armchair tightening. “I will not ask twice.”

Escher throws his hands up in a mock show of surrender. “As you wish.” Scrabbling to quickly pick up his discarded clothes, Escher gives one last look of concern over his shoulder at him before leaving his study. 

Strahd huffs and lightly presses at his closed eyes with the heel of his hands. Deplorable, the entire lot of them. Sometimes, he catches himself wondering if he would be better off discarding all of them and living in true solitude. They hold no responsibilities, have no unique skill sets, that he would not be able to do on his own. 

Let the entire damned land crumble for all he cares. Let the wolves and undead run rampant, devouring its miserable inhabitants and watering the scorched earth with their blood until no one remains but him. 

Alone.

His ribcage aches. Slamming his hand down upon the table with enough force to almost splinter the wood, Strahd stands and drags himself towards the double doors of his study. He'd only woken a handful of hours ago, but still he feels an all-encompassing weariness in his bones. He's confident his blood-sucking parasites can tend to matters for the next moon or so while he rests. 

Or not. 

He cannot find the will to care at this point.

A steady patter of rain hammers against the stones of Ravenloft.

There was a market, a rather bustling one that assembled on the last day of each week. This market was attended by individuals from all walks of life: humans, tabaxi, tieflings, dwarves. Elves. Some of the elves had golden skin, while others had shades of blue or violet. While they may have looked different from the dusk elves, they all, from his understanding, were believers in the same pantheon. It didn't make him like them any more.

While it has been some time (Centuries? Has it been that long?) since he's attended that market, he can still remember bits and pieces of it vividly. He can remember the scent of freshly baked bread on the air when the local bakers brought out their pastries for the morning crowds. He can remember how his stomach would growl fiercely, clawing and gnawing, as it remembered it had not had anything nourishing inside it for days. Having had little to no coin of his own, he can remember the pain of a boot meeting his ribs over and over after he had attempted to steal a roll.

But that's neither a happy nor entertaining memory.

He remembers the strange wares the merchants from distant lands would try to peddle: potions that allowed you to breathe fire, figurines that could turn into animals, armor that allowed one to meld with the shadows. One of his favorite pastimes on those days was to inquire with the shopkeepers about how they had come across such rare and interesting finds and learning the origin of each item.

He remembers the sound of his boots upon the sandstone path as he would push and shove past hordes of shoppers, walking the same path he'd walked countless times before. That market was one of the few times he could enter the city of Bellemeade without worrying about the glares of humans or having to clean spit from his boots.

Again. That's neither a happy nor entertaining memory.

On a handful of occasions, he'd been able to find work with a florist arranging and wrapping bouquets. He's always had a natural talent for such things, and the elderly woman—Hazel, long since dead—had recognized that. It wasn't much in the way of coin, but he enjoyed conversing with the woman about horticulture and her cat that often slinked about the market. He enjoyed being surrounded by the smell of flowers and the bright colors of their petals. Discovering flower arrangements that were pleasing to the eye in both shape and color.

He imagines himself tending to his ghost blossom bushes, full and healthy, and the feeling of warm sun upon his skin. A spring breeze at his back. A lunch of radish soup and warm bread waiting for him after he completes his work.

His thoughts begin to wander, worry creeping into his mind. He doesn't trust the girl to properly maintain his plants in his absence—not yet, and probably not ever. A lot can happen in a week, much less three moons. The bushes could become diseased. An unexpected frost could kill them. They could become infested with insects. They could be given too much water and have their roots rot, or not enough and shrivel.

He's the one that needs to be tending to them! He's the only one with the proper knowledge on how to care for such a plant in this climate—knowledge gained through countless years of experience! The bushes had begun to grow leaves, and he had been hopeful. Hopeful that he'd somehow found a solution to his predicament. No longer could he spend hours pruning and fertilizing away—his favorite pastime—but at least he had something. A piece from his past that couldn't fully be taken from him. He could still revel in their splendor when they flowered and concoct his poisons from their blossoms. He could enjoy being surrounded by the smell of flowers and the bright colors of their petals.

And yet like everything else, that is being stolen from him.

And all he can do is lie in his coffin.

And wait.

And wait.

Until his ghost blossoms have withered and died. And there's nothing that he can do to help them.

It's that idea that hurts the most. He's a patient man; he's never been one to shy away from a punishment when it is deserved, preferring to endure them with dignity and poise. Three months is a mere slap on the wrist.

But his flowers, on the other hand … They’re not nearly as patient. 

Despite being certain he would neither hear nor care about the request, he mouths a small prayer to Elebrin Liothiel to watch over his garden in his stead.

Rahadin sighs and smacks his head against the cushioned back of his coffin. While he is a patient man, even he is not immune to the effects of boredom. His memories and imagination can only do so much for him before he tires of their company. It's only been two weeks, but he's already walked through that marketplace more times than he cares to count.

A pang of hunger claws at his stomach. Rahadin does his best to ignore it, but it's a craving unlike anything else. One that's impossible to ignore. His mouth feels painfully dry.

Rahadin gives a shaky inhale and begins to hum an Elvish hymn—what he remembers of it, anyway—that his mother had been particularly fond of when he was young. Or perhaps it's a song he'd heard Strahd play on the organ once. Both? He can't remember. His voice sounds impossibly loud amidst the silence of his coffin. 

By somewhere near the second verse, his thoughts are too clouded by hunger to remember where he'd left off in the song.

He starts over.

Two weeks down, ten more to go.

A mere slap on the wrist as far as punishments go.

Rahadin's eyes snap open.

The soft patter of footsteps catches his attention. It's been some time—he cannot fathom exactly how long—since he's heard anything besides his own voice whispering stories into the void and the dripping of water upon his coffin. 

Company!

Strahd, perhaps? Has it been three moons? Is it time for him to be released, for Strahd to break whatever mental compulsion holds him here? He'd lost track of time a while ago; his sleep cycle had become an unreliable measure of time after he'd begun experiencing difficulties finding rest.

Escher, maybe? The spawn, once upon a time, had seemed to enjoy his company for some inexplicable reason.

There’s the distinct scent of perfume—a noxious imitation of the scent of roses—masking the scent of death.

“Volenta?” Rahadin weakly calls.

No response.

Once more, he calls out, only to receive no response yet again. He inhales deeply. “I know you're there. I can smell your perfume.” 

No response.

While such a thing would typically be below him, he's feeling desperate. Starving men sometimes do uncharacteristic things to survive, he reminds himself. “My lady, could you please bring His Lordship here? I wish to speak to him.” If he could just break whatever damned mental compulsion it is holding him in place...

More silence, before he's able to make out a soft, “No.”

“Perhaps, then, you could remove the lid of my coffin? We could have a proper conversation.”

“I can't do that.”

Rahadin licks his lips and fights back a sneer. “Why? To both questions?”

“Because.”

The dusk elf sighs once more, his lips pressed into a flat line. Miserable wretch. Leave it to Strahd to marry someone with such childlike behavior…

There's a long stretch of silence before Volenta’s voice, louder this time, rings out, “What did you do to piss Strahd off so badly? At least Anastrasya—you remember Anastrasya, yes? The one you murdered?—had been allowed to walk about the catacombs. And hunt, to some extent.”

“That is none of your business.”

She does not respond, though he can hear the tinkling of her jewelry. Suddenly, the overwhelming scent of hot iron engulfs him, completely flooding his senses to the point where he can almost taste it. His nostrils flare on instinct. It's an easily recognizable scent, one that has his eyes rolling back with need. The gums surrounding his fangs ache, the desire to sink them into something living impossible to ignore. It's as if every fiber of his being is screaming the word blood. It's a craving he's never experienced with such intensity before, one that's followed by dull pain as his stomach lurches. It smells slightly floral, animal blood, but it has been so long since he has fed that he would eat even a rat if he had to.

“Volentaaa…” Rahadin whines. He can't spare the mental energy to care how he must sound. Pleading, desperate. Weak. “Please?” His claws scratch at the underside of the coffin lid. “I beg of you, just… get Strahd. Give me even an animal to eat. Anything!” He clears his throat in an attempt to regain composure. “As the, ah, the-the chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, I demand that you obey!”

Volenta cackles, a harsh, cruel sound. “Mm, I love hearing you of all people beg.” There's a loud thud as if something has landed atop his wooden coffin, and the scent of blood grows stronger. “Goodbye, Rahadin.”

Her footsteps echo away, growing quieter by the second.

“You fucking bitch! Don't walk away from me, you miserable second-grade leech!” Rahadin snarls, his cracked voice bordering on a scream. “I will kill you and fuck your corpse’s skull the moment I get out of here! I will murder everyone still living on your pathetic family tree, so help me!” He thrashes about in his coffin, causing the heavy wood to thump against the stone dais. “RELEASE ME!”

Just past the sound of her footsteps, Rahadin can make out the sounds of her cackling down the catacombs. He doesn't stop screaming, threatening every violent action that comes to mind, until his voice grows hoarse and his throat bleeds. Until starvation-fueled sleep takes him once more.

He pushes the wooden coffin lid aside, sending it falling to the ground with a clatter.

Strahd von Zarovich stares down at the man within with a critical eye. His chamberlain's eyes, sunken deep within his skull, remain closed, the thin skin around them darkened and heavily lined with blue capillaries. His mouth has fallen open, exposing the painfully elongated fangs jutting from receded gums. His face is gaunt, and his skin clings tightly to his skull. He does not breathe.

The nobleman reaches down to stroke Rahadin's face with the back of his left hand and spends several moments simply observing him. The dusk elf still does not stir.

Beautiful, even when on the brink of true death. Seeing Rahadin, prideful and eternal, his lifelong companion that should have rightfully outlived him tenfold, reduced to such a vulnerable state by his hand stirs up some unidentifiable emotion in the pit of his stomach.

Cupping the dusk elf’s chin, he gently turns his head to the side, revealing the two scarred-over marks upon his neck.

Beautiful. His.

Were he not a man of his word, he would consider preserving him like this forever. Alas...

Strahd leans over to press a kiss to Rahadin's brow before straightening. Closing his eyes, he sends out a mental call, pulling upon his connection to the land. A moment later, the sound of chittering meets his ears. 

A gray rat scuttles into the crypt and sits near Strahd's boot. Oblivious of the danger of such a place, it licks a paw and goes to clean an ear. The nobleman reaches down to scoop up the critter. With his little finger, he pets the rat along its shaggy back, observing it with a gentle fondness reserved only for his children of the land, before plunging the claws of his index and middle finger into its side. The rat screeches and wiggles in pain, but does not move to leave his hand. Warmth begins to pool in his palm.

Rahadin's eyelids flutter.

Strahd bends over and places two bloodied fingers upon Rahadin's tongue. The dusk elf’s frigid lips close around them, and he begins to suck and lap up the blood with his tongue. A pleasured hum leaves his throat, and Rahadin's eyes, the sclera and irises both flooded deep crimson, snap open.

With a resulting whine from Rahadin, Strahd soon pulls his hand away. Despite feeling a tinge of pity for the animal, Strahd tosses the rat into Rahadin's coffin.

Before the rat can recover from its daze, a withered hand shoots forward in a blur of motion and snatches it up. He brings the animal to his mouth and feeds, making soft pleasured noises all the while, until it is no more than a shriveled husk.

“Good morning,” Strahd quips.

Rahadin's eyes snap open again and settle upon Strahd, a feral look behind them. He tosses the rat’s body aside. “More,” he rasps in Elvish. His voice comes out hoarse and weak.

“A pleasure to see you, too. Was three moons sufficient time for you to learn your lesson?”

Rahadin repeats, “More.”

Strahd sighs. One of the downsides of such a punishment is that, in his experience, it tends to leave a spawn in a feral, unreasonable state; there's no use in trying to hold a coherent conversation with one until they're able to sate their hunger. It seems as if his chamberlain is no exception.

“ You are free to leave your coffin.”

Needing no further encouragement, Rahadin springs forth from his coffin and scrambles onto the floor, his posture hunched like that of the stone gargoyles lining the grand hall of his castle. His red eyes dart around frantically. “Where is the girl?” he rasps out in Elvish.

“Away; I didn't want you killing her in a moment of mindlessness and regretting it later.” Strahd brushes off his hands. “I took the liberty of leaving you a gift in your office. They were unconscious when I left them, but I suggest you hurry lest you want them waking and making a mess of your space.”

He'd been very intentional in his choice of locations. Were he to give Rahadin free rein of the larders in his current state, there would be no prisoners left and the spawn would overindulge, harming himself in the process. And he would not have his ancestors look upon such a depraved act within the sanctity of the catacombs. No, he would feed in his office or not at all.

Without another word, Rahadin scampers out of the crypt with a speed Strahd rarely has the privilege of witnessing in the dusk elf. There's the sound of rapid footsteps ascending the stairs of the catacombs. Strahd chuckles to himself and follows after, though with only half the speed. 

He's been looking forward to this; he'd grown bored and was needing a source of entertainment. A starved and feral Rahadin certainly fits that bill. And beneath his subtle resentment towards the elf for his previous words and actions, a part of him—the sliver of him that is still human—had missed his company as well. But that's nothing to neither linger on nor own up to.

By the time he's made it to his chamberlain's office, Rahadin has already started his meal. He finds the dusk elf drinking deeply from the throat of a disheveled bandit that would be missed by no one. Rahadin has pinned him against the wall by his lapel and, if appearances are to be believed, had done so with enough force to send several of the von Zarovich-crested shields previously adorning the wall clattering to the floor. 

Rahadin groans noisily around the man's throat, his lips wrapped flush against his skin. His Adam's apple bobs with each frantic swallow of blood. The bandit is complacent throughout it all—not an uncommon sight during such circumstances. His fists curl and uncurl at his sides, eyelids fluttering, but it's all he has the energy to do. It's not long until his eyes, long since sunken into his skull, fall shut, and his arms fall limp. It's not enough to deter Rahadin, however, and the spawn continues to drink, even following the bandit's body to the floor to continue his feast.

After several minutes—Strahd is certain the man had been bled dry some time ago—Rahadin whimpers, a noise that soon turns into a feral snarl. With his teeth clamped around his throat, the dusk elf yanks his head back, tearing away pieces of his trachea and severing arteries. He buries his face in the carnage, lapping up every last drop of blood he can find with little regard towards the bloody mess he's making upon the rug of his study.

Rahadin pulls away from his throat after some time, panting. His lips and jaw are stained crimson, and rivulets of blood drip from his chin onto his once-white undershirt. While his features are no longer sunken and veined, the feral look behind his red eyes remains.

“More,” Rahadin growls lowly, his typical adenoidal voice sounding more beastlike than man. He licks at the smears of blood upon his upper lip.

Strahd clicks his tongue. “No. That's plenty for now given your current state.” He wouldn't have his chamberlain hurt himself after having not eaten in three moons. He should have stopped him sooner, but watching him rip out that bandit’s throat had been a sight to behold. One of them must be the bigger man and show restraint.

In something akin to a child's temper tantrum, Rahadin slams a fist into the ground and shoves the bandit's corpse over. 

Unamused, Strahd quirks a single eyebrow. Graciously deciding to let his childish behavior pass for now, Strahd takes a few steps forward from his spot against the wall and extends a hand down towards him. “Up with you.”

Taking his blood-slicked hand, Strahd pulls Rahadin up onto unstable legs. He does his best to ignore the heavy scent of iron in the room and the resulting craving that begins to coil in his stomach. Rather than pull away, Rahadin uses his grasp on Strahd's hand to step closer—until there's only a hair’s breadth between them. His face hovers near the nobleman's throat, and Strahd can tell that the man is scenting him. Never one to be intimidated by those lesser than him and confident that his orders will keep the spawn from biting him, Strahd stands up straighter; if he tilts his head, exposes his throat a little more, then so be it.

“Rahadin,” Strahd growls, a low warning.

Undeterred, Rahadin responds with a growl of his own.

The nobleman does not move. “Clean yourself up; you're filthy. We will reconvene to discuss what it is you have missed and the repercussions of your actions after you have made yourself presentable.”

Still, the dusk elf does not move. He pulls his head away enough to lock eyes with Strahd. Challenging him like a wolf staring down its alpha.

How quaint.

“You may check on your plants after.”

He blinks. “My plants?” That is enough to catch his attention. His shoulders drop, and the red of his eyes begins to dissipate. “Oh. How are they?” Rahadin asks, this time in Common.

“Fine. The leaves are still green, and the bushes appear to be budding.”

His voice hitches with unseen emotion. “They're budding?” 

“So it would seem.”

Rahadin gives a sigh of obvious relief and takes a step back. His posture straightens. “Good. That's… That's good. Liothiel be praised.” 

Strahd brings a hand up and looks down at his nails. “Liothiel was not the one bringing forth rain clouds each night to ensure your plants were watered...”

“Yes. Well. I, um, I appreciate it.” Rahadin clears his throat. He goes to brush a stray strand of hair away from his face and grimaces when he realizes that his hands are still coated in drying blood. With a distant look in his eyes, he appears to scan the room. “Yes. I will, um,” he stutters, ”go wash up and change clothes. And meet with you after. In the study, I presume?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, well...” His hand raises, hesitating, before patting Strahd on the shoulder rather awkwardly. “I shall see you soon, then.”

“Indeed.”

“Good.” With one last nod towards Strahd, the spawn goes to leave his study.

The nobleman stares after him for some time, even after he has left and closed the door behind him. What was he going to do with him? At this point, it's more than evident that he has become a liability. The dusk elf has stopped caring. About his title. About laws. About what is expected of him. About him.

He'd lashed out at him again with the full intent to maim. But this time, his actions were not followed by tears or apologies, only the justification that Strahd had laid hands on him first. No matter the inciting action, it never justifies attacking one’s lord. Such an act is treasonous, plain and simple.

Like a faithful dog that's contracted rabies, he's concerned he's losing—or has already lost—control over his long-time companion. It's baffling. To have gone from blind loyalty that had withstood centuries to treason. He'd expect something of the sort from any of his other men, but not him. Not Rahadin.

And for what reason? For what reason has his love for him faltered? Because he's stricken him? Compared to the other nobles his father often kept as company, his hand is a gentle one. Firm, as is needed of a ruler, but gentle. And only when deserved.

Because he lacks autonomy? A soldier should care little about such a concept. It's that damned autonomy bullshit that continues to haunt him like a thorn in his mind…

He needs to clear his mind. If he continues down this rabbit hole, his emotions will get the better of him and he will not be able to remain civil during his upcoming confrontation with the man plaguing his thoughts. No, he must remain calm. Thankfully, it's a skill that he has mastered over the years.

Feed. He needs to feed. The stench of blood in this room alone is enough to drive any lesser vampire insane; it's no wonder he can't think straight. Yes, he will feed, clean himself up, and then meet with his chamberlain. Perhaps write in his journal before retiring for the evening; he's been meaning to do that more often.

It's all business as usual. 

He leaves to hunt.

Chapter Text

By the time he's made it to his chamberlain's office, Rahadin has already started his meal. He finds the dusk elf drinking deeply from the throat of a disheveled bandit that would be missed by no one. Rahadin has pinned him against the wall by his lapel and, if appearances are to be believed, had done so with enough force to send several of the von Zarovich-crested shields previously adorning the wall clattering to the floor. 

Rahadin groans noisily around the man's throat, his lips pressed flush against his skin. His Adam's apple bobs with each frantic swallow of blood. The bandit is complacent throughout it all—not an uncommon sight during such circumstances; his fists curl and uncurl at his sides, eyelids fluttering, but it's all he has the energy to do. It's not long until his eyes, long since sunken into his skull, close, and his arms fall limp. It's not enough to deter Rahadin, however, and the spawn continues to drink, even following the bandit's body to the floor to continue his feast.

After several minutes—Strahd is certain the man had been bled dry some time ago—Rahadinl ets out a grunt of displeasure, a noise that soon turns into a feral snarl. With his teeth clamped around his throat, the dusk elf yanks his head back, tearing away pieces of his trachea and severing arteries. He buries his face in the carnage, lapping up every last drop of blood he can find with little regard towards the bloody mess he's making upon the rug of his study.

Rahadin pulls away from his throat after some time, panting. His lips and jaw are stained crimson, and rivulets of blood drip from his chin onto his once-white undershirt. While his features are no longer sunken and veined, the feral look behind his red eyes remains.

“More,” Rahadin growls lowly, his typical adenoidal voice sounding more beastlike than man. He licks at the smears of blood upon his upper lip.

Strahd clicks his tongue. “No. That's plenty for now given your current state.” He wouldn't have his chamberlain hurt himself after having not eaten in three moons. He should have stopped him sooner, but watching him rip out that bandit’s throat had been a sight to behold. One of them must be the bigger man and show restraint.

In something akin to a child's temper tantrum, Rahadin slams a fist into the ground and shoves the bandit's corpse over. 

Unamused, Strahd quirks a single eyebrow. Graciously deciding to let his childish behavior pass for now, Strahd takes a few steps forward from his spot against the wall and extends a hand down towards him. “Up with you. There is much to talk about m, including what you have missed these past three moons and the severity of your previous actions.”

Taking his blood-slicked hand, Strahd pulls Rahadin up onto unstable legs. He does his best to ignore the heavy scent of iron in the room and the resulting craving that begins to coil in his stomach. Rather than pull away, Rahadin uses his grasp on Strahd's hand to step closer—until there's only a hair’s breadth between them. His face hovers near the nobleman's throat, and Strahd can tell that the man is scenting him. Never one to be intimidated by those lesser than him and confident that his orders will keep the spawn from biting him, Strahd stands up straighter; if he tilts his head, exposes his throat a little more, then so be it.

“Rahadin,” Strahd growls, a low warning. “Behave.”

Undeterred, Rahadin responds with a growl of his own. His nose presses into the dip just below Strahd's right ear and he licks a line along where a pulse would have been were he still a mortal man. “Talk, then.” Trembling, nimble fingers begin to undo the buttons of Strahd's black dress shirt.

Strahd's eyes widen. Of all the things he had been expecting, this had not been one of them. It's not wholly unwelcome (he's been wanting to ravage him for moons now, and Escher makes a poor substitute), just unexpected. However, he doesn't want to push the dusk elf past his limits. He lightly wraps a hand around Rahadin's wrist. “Rahadin. Are you certain that you're—”

“Shut up!” Rahadin snarls up at him. There's the scent of iron upon his breath. “Talk.”

Strahd swallows. “Very well, then.” He keeps his chin tilted high but does not go to stop the dusk elf from unbuttoning his shirt. “I suppose, then, we shall start by discussing your misdeeds.”

Rahadin doesn't respond. His hand splays over the dark hair peppering Strahd's chest before traveling down the hardened planes of his stomach. With one quick motion, a claw slashes down across the lacing of his breeches, effectively severing the leather cords. 

Strahd frowns down at the damage to his clothes; he'd liked those pants, and he is not looking forward to the ordeal of having them re-laced. But he presses on. “Your behavior three moons ago—and recently as a whole—was unacceptable. It seems you’ve forgotten just who it is you serve. Attacking nobility is, as you've said previously, a crime punishable by death under my law. It's treasonous, Rahadin, no matter the surrounding circumstances; it is my right as ruler of this land to punish you as I see fit.”

Seemingly ignoring him, Rahadin steps away enough to pull his undershirt over his head before going to unfasten his own pants.

The nobleman resists the urge to admire the sight before him, instead maintaining eye contact. After centuries of temperance, his resolve is like steel. “Am I not fair to you? Am I not just? My laws are plainly written, and my expectations of you have not changed in some time.” A pause with no response, then, “That was not rhetorical. Am I not fair in my governance and expectations?”

Rather than answer the question, Rahadin sneers and, with two hands at his chest, pushes him with surprising strength. His motions are lightning quick, and Strahd must have been too distracted by the elf's impudence to notice the leg hooking around the back of his knee. He stumbles, and Rahadin takes advantage of his temporary lapse in balance to throw his weight at him, following him to the ground. Strahd is able to catch himself enough to land gracefully, effectively keeping his head from colliding with the carpeted ground. 

His consort sits over his hips, fingers hovering just about the waist of his pants. His red eyes flicker up to his—an unspoken question.

Strahd swallows and gives a curt nod.

With thumbs hooked beneath the fabric, Rahadin pushes Strahd's pants and braies down his hips, exposing his half-hard length. He does the same for himself. The elf’s arousal, already leaking against his abdomen, looks painfully hard in comparison.

The thought crosses Strahd's mind of whether the elf had pleasured himself at all during his confinement; it wouldn't seem that way from appearances. He's quick to push it aside to focus on more important matters.

Rahadin lowers himself forward onto his hands atop the nobleman's chest and positions his hips over Strahd's. Pressed between their hips and abdomen, the elf's cock slides against his, eliciting a breathy sound akin to a hiss from Rahadin. The man wastes little time in beginning to grind their hips together, his motions frantic with carnal desperation. His expression changes from one of enraged intensity to dripping with gratification, his open mouth twisted somewhere between a content smile and a sneer, fangs proudly on display.

While the act itself is pleasurable, it's his consort’s sudden lust that stokes the flames in his core all the hotter. Timing be damned, he adores the rare occasions when the elf practically throws himself into his lap. It's for that reason alone that he lets him have such perceived control. For now. There's no harm in letting him rut against him like a dog in heat, he supposes, and this animalistic side is deeply appealing. He shifts so that Rahadin's legs slot better with his own.

“You disappointed me,” Strahd murmurs. The friction from the rug against the backs of his thighs burns slightly. 

“Mhm...” he breathes.

“I'd given you your second chance, and you spat in my face. Be grateful I didn't have you killed.” The elf is no threat to him. Had he actually been worried for his life, he would have been dead a long time ago. It's more about sending a message.

“Mhm...” Rahadin ruts his hips down, dragging his cock along the dip where Strahd's thigh connects to his pelvis, and lets out a gasp. His head lolls forward.

With a grip on his backside, Strahd positions his chamberlain to his liking, making small adjustments of his hands until his own cock is dragging against his the way he likes. The edge catches on the tip of Rahadin's arousal, and the nobleman has to fight back a groan of his own. He's trying his best to maintain some semblance of composure—they're discussing business, after all, or trying to—but gods if he hasn't been craving this for moons. Wanting him and that lithe body despite everything. To break him. He uses the position to continue grinding against his frenulum because damn it all if it doesn't feel good… Dangerously good.

“And here I'd thought,” Strahd bites his tongue to fight back a moan, “you'd learned your lesson after the last time you needlessly attacked me.”

“I had warned you not to, ah… Not to, ah, touch me without my—”

“Without your permission. I know. It still does not excuse you lashing out at me with the intent to maim yet again .”

“Apologies.”

“Damn your apologies.” Strahd brings a hand down hard upon Rahadin's backside, eliciting another stuttering gasp from the elf. His ebony hair hangs down, tickling the nobleman's shoulder.

The air is filled with squelching sounds from their combined slick, of skin against skin and Rahadin's desperate panting. His skin is smooth against his, one of the benefits of laying with a race that, from his experience, is unable to grow body hair. 

“Strahd,” Rahadin breathes into his ear, sending a pleasurable shiver down his spine. A curse in Elvish accompanied by the quickening of his pace informs Strahd that the man is close to finishing—thank the gods...

“Rahadin...” Strahd wraps an arm around Rahadin's thin shoulders and holds him close, his fingers tangled in locks of black hair. The scent of death in his skin, coupled with the acrid tang of iron, is stronger than usual, but the nobleman is far too occupied chasing his orgasm to care.

With renewed energy, Strahd grinds his hips up rabbit-quick, determined to have the dusk elf finish before him. It’s not hard, as Rahadin finishes onto both of their stomachs soon after, a string of moans spilling from his mouth that turn into a snarl. He's met with the sensation of cold, frantic breaths and teeth at his throat. However, there is not the pain of his skin being pierced, a psychological pull holding him back. A good little spawn. 

Feeling his consorts cock twitch against his own with each pulse of his seed sends Strahd over the edge. He gives an animalistic snarl of his own and his pleasure explodes behind his stomach with enough force to have him seeing stars. His own climax adds to the mess painting their stomachs.

Giving a few more languid thrusts and savoring the erotic depravity of how easily his cock slides between them now, Strahd cranes his head to capture Rahadin's lips in a kiss. The ingrate, seemingly ignoring him, pushes away and instead goes to sit up.

The elf is a proper mess—streaks of pale white painting his abdomen, pooling in his navel, and droplets of smeared crimson along his jaw. It would be a captivating sight were the nobleman not feeling so slighted. Rahadin drags himself off of his hips with a tired sigh and goes to sit upon his calves.

Strahd does the same. Looking down at his torso, he can see that he is not in much better shape as far as cleanliness goes. With a huff and a muttered word, Strahd snaps his fingers to bend the weave to his will—a simple trick he's done thousands of times before. The mess along his skin and hands disappears in a flash of blue light.

He purposefully chooses not to do the same for Rahadin; it's best that his consort and everyone fortunate enough to look upon him remembers just who it is he belongs to.  His. His disobedient, aggressive, impudent elf. One that he can only hope he does not have to strike down one day.

Chapter Text

It's a quick hunt, but it fulfills its purpose. Since his turning, Strahd has never had difficulties finding prey. He can cover a lot of land in his wolf form, and even more when he takes to the sky as a bat. Despite the well-known danger of his land, he never fails to find someone that dared to venture out at night: a merchant that has strayed too far from the Wolf's Road, a traveler setting up camp for the night, a brigand with pockets full of stolen coin. And if the roads prove fruitless, then he can always meander into Barovia Village for a bite.

When he returns from his hunt less than two hours later with a belly full of warm blood, his chamberlain has not yet situated himself in his study as Strahd had requested. A quick tour of the castle finds Rahadin still sitting in a bath, the red-tinted water having long since turned cold. After a stern admonishment for his dawdling, a wet-haired Rahadin finally arrives at his study smelling far nicer than he had after being released from his coffin earlier that evening. He's dressed in a gold-trimmed black doublet and trousers, a contrast to the simple white undershirts he’s been fond of wearing as of late. There's an obvious weariness behind his black eyes when he enters Strahd’s study with a stiff bow.

“My apologies for my lateness, Your Lordship.” His voice still sounds hoarse.

Strahd waves a dismissive hand and goes to uncross his legs. He gestures towards the armchair opposite of him beside the roaring hearth. Neither of them has any need for the fire’s warmth, but it’s a mortal comfort Strahd has not yet abandoned. “Sit.”

Rahadin does as instructed and takes a seat, sitting at the very edge of the red velvet cushion, his posture pin-straight as ever. His lips are pressed together in a tight line.

The nobleman leans back, expectant. With an arm propped up on the arm of the chair, he rests his chin between forefinger and thumb. Waiting. As he was not the one that erred, he would not be the first to break the silence.

Time stretches on, the only sound in the room the crackling of the hearth. Firelight dances along the contours of Rahadin's face, washing his skin in orange and making him appear all the more gaunt. The light glints off of his teeth when he finally opens his mouth to speak.

“...Your Lordship, I wish to apologize for my previous actions. My… treasonous actions.”

“It was less than a year ago that you offered a similar apology, albeit with more tears and groveling.”

“I know.”

The room falls silent again. Strahd takes a moment to scrutinize the dusk elf before him who refuses to maintain eye contact. As if seeing something that's not there, there's a distant look in Rahadin's eyes. Lost in thought, then. It's an expression that he's grown used to seeing on his face. Despite the youthfulness that undeath is supposed to bring, the elf looks noticeably older. The firelight seemingly deepens the fine lines along his brow and framing his mouth.

Rahadin begins to rake his fingers through his long hair, separating the damp strands.“I had difficulties restraining myself. Yet that is no excuse for my actions. As chamberlain, there are things expected of me, and I have failed you. Repeatedly.”

“Indeed, you have.” Strahd inhales. “Am I not fair to you? Am I not just? My laws are plainly written, and my expectations of you have not changed in some time.” A pause with no response, then, “That was not rhetorical. Am I not fair in my governance and expectations?”

The pace of his fingers quickens. “You are.” His words sound hollow to Strahd's ears.

“I'd given you your second chance, and you spat in my face. Be grateful I didn't have you killed.” The elf is no threat to him. Had he actually been worried for his life, he would have been dead a long time ago. It's more about sending a message.

“It certainly would have been within your right to do so. It still is.” With those words, Rahadin finally dares to meet his eyes. The sincerity behind them is startling. “If I might be so forward, my lord, I am honestly surprised that you haven't. I know you've threatened to take my life on more than one occasion, including if I were to commit treason again. In the four centuries I've been in your company, I've never known you to be the type to make hollow threats.” He pauses. “Or promises.”

Strahd blinks. A wave of some sort of unidentifiable emotion, one that makes his chest tighten, washes over him. Easily ignorable, but no less annoying.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks. He's changed . He, Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia, has changed. In the short span of two years, nonetheless. It's something that’s been sitting on the very edge of his consciousness for some time, yet confronting such traitorous emotions, coming to terms with them, has never appealed to him.

He's grown soft.

Oh, he's still steadfast in his dealings with the common folk—his word is law, after all, and there are plainly stated consequences for breaking his law. But when matters concern Rahadin, it feels entirely different. The idea of punishing him in earnest—true, unyielding punishment—makes his stagnant heart twist in his chest. Even banishing him to the catacombs for three moons had been difficult, and he was tempted to release the elf early on several occasions just to quiet his overactive mind.

Rahadin has gotten away with so much. Insubordination. Disrespect. Attempted murder. Strahd has killed men for far lesser crimes. Yet why is it so hard for him to properly put his chamberlain in his place? In all his four centuries of life, he's never been one to tolerate disrespect. The idea of sparing the rod rarely crosses his mind. 

But here he is: a hypocrite. A liar. Exposing his soft underbelly to a man that alleges to hate him.

His father would laugh in his face if he knew of the exceptions he was making for a second-class elf without an ounce of aristocratic blood in his veins.

And what does he gain from this? No matter what Strahd does, Rahadin only seems to despise him more with each passing day. Punishing Rahadin brings up discomfort in him, yes, but pain—mental or physical—has never deterred Strahd from pursuing his goals before. From leading—both as a leader and a soldier.

It's ridiculous. It makes absolutely no sense to him. He hates weakness more than anything, and to see such an abhorrent trait in himself makes him want to crawl into his coffin and never leave.

He can only pray that his father is unable to see him through Barovia’s fog.

His mother, were she still alive, would understand. Ever the empathetic soul, a trait that he had discarded long ago with the aim of being a stronger soldier, she could explain with far more wisdom than him what it is he's experiencing. 

Love.

It's not unlike the love he feels for Tatyana: carnal, the desire to own and ruin. To protect. To so thoroughly be his—a trophy. Proof that he has conquered even the unconquerable, broken the wildest of stallions. Unlike with Tatyana, however, this is currently staring him in the face. It’s not just a phantom he's been grasping at for centuries. It’s live and wriggling and irksome.

It's contemptible.

He could put an end to all of this rather easily. A quick, painless severing of Rahadin's head from his body. A stake through the heart while he slumbers. It would be so, so easy and solve so many of his problems. No more traitorous elves stalking his halls. No more traitorous emotions. It would prove that he is, in fact, a man of his word and that his law makes no exceptions. It's a brutality that would make his father proud and disappoint his mother. It's justice. He is a von Zarovich, and he makes no exceptions, especially when his rule is in question.

But at his core, he doesn't want to. He at least knows this about himself. Isn't he, a man who had spent his best years protecting his people and then countless more leading them, deserving of happiness? Of a proper distraction? He is ruler, and his word is the law. If anyone can make exceptions, certainly it is him. 

He's exhausted. He's been exhausted for the past 300 or so years, and yet it's been hitting him like a wall as of late. One can only handle so much monotony, following the same cycle over and over and over, before they grow weary. Bored. The new adventurer wandering into his land provides some entertainment, but it is always a mere pinpoint upon his timeline. More than anything right now, he craves simplicity. He craves comfort. He wants both Tatyana and his chamberlain by his side while he rules over a conflict-free Barovia, a gaggle of consorts at his heel to tend to his more unsavory desires. He wants power, yes, but at this point he feels there are more important matters to tend to. 

He's exhausted.

Strahd sighs slowly through his nose and places his hands upon his knees. Damn it all. Damn everything, including the elf currently staring at him like a kicked puppy. “Rahadin. Some moons ago, I had offered you your autonomy back. Are you still interested?”

Rahadin's eyes shoot wide and his hands, still buried in his hair, come to a stop. “...What?”

“Autonomy. Are you still interested in becoming a full—”

“No, no, I understood that part. But it’s the, the-the-the turning. We had agreed to forsake it in light of—”

“I am allowed to change my mind. Answer the question, Rahadin.”

His Adam's apple bobs in his throat. “I mean certainly, but—”

“Good. Then let's do this now. Before I have time to reconsider.”

For several moments, Rahadin remains wide-eyed. Unblinking. Before his pupils become pinpoints and a sneer of suspicion twists his lips. “You are toying with me.”

“I am not one to toy.”

His expression doesn't change. “Then why? Explain yourself.”

Strahd huffs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. As always, his chamberlain is being difficult. “I do not owe you an explanation. Do you want this or not?”

“If it is out of pity—”

“Rahadin!” Strahd snaps, baring his teeth at the ornery elf. “Yes or no?!”

“Yes, but—”

“Good.” Strahd goes to unfasten his doublet, taking his frustration out on its buttons as he yanks them through the buttonholes, and drapes it over the back of the armchair, leaving him in his white undershirt. No use in possibly running such an expensive garment. With nimble fingers, he begins to roll up the sleeves of his undershirt up to his elbows. “On the divan, then.”

Rahadin blinks. ”Now?”

The nobleman’s eyes flick upward for the briefest of seconds. “Did I stutter?” He knows very well that his callousness is a poor attempt at masking the sudden surge of apprehension eating away at his insides. 

“Forgive me, my lord, but I am just being cognizant of your previously expressed hesitance. The last time we attempted this, there was a ward upon every door and window, and you couldn't walk five feet without—”

“Get on the damn couch, Rahadin!” Strahd snarls.

Apparently stunned into silence, Rahadin does as told and briskly walks towards the divan. With a huff of frustration through his nose, Strahd pushes himself up from the armchair, his limbs feeling heavy. Were he still among the living, he has no doubt that his heart would be pounding, his clothes damp with perspiration. Yet the ball of lead in the pit of his stomach is the only true tell of his feelings. Pushing those feelings aside—he's better than such human things—the nobleman goes to sit on the divan while still trying to keep his motions as calm as possible, especially after the last time he had attempted such a thing. He sits with his legs together and pats his thigh. 

“Come. Now.”

Being careful to keep the soles of his boots off of the couch, Rahadin goes to straddle Strahd's thighs while facing him. His hands falter with certainty before the dusk elf finally decides to place them on Strahd's chest for support. There's a nervous energy about him that does nothing to help with the lead ball in his own stomach.

“Well then,” Strahd begins and clears his throat. He places his hands on Rahadin's narrow hips. “If I am to turn you into a full-fledged vampire, then there are rules. Particularly if you hope to retain your positions as both chamberlain to Castle Ravenloft and my consort. Should you break any of them, there will be severe consequences, including possible death.” For his own sake more than anything, Strahd repeats, “I will not hesitate to kill you, Rahadin.”

The dusk elf does not flinch, just gives the slightest nod of his head.

The nobleman pauses for several long moments, thinking. He's never had to give a talk such as this before. “First,” Strahd holds up his index finger, “you shall not create any spawn or covens unless you have obtained my permission to do so. Should I come across any spawn that is not of my own making, I or my followers will kill them on sight, their entrails to be spread about your office.

“Second, under no circumstances are you to charm anyone under my employ unless, for some reason, I have given you permission. Before you even try it, my spawn listen to my commands only.”

“Third, you are not to harm any of the wolves or bats of this land. You will learn quickly that they are attracted to creatures such as us and will be quick to trust. You may call upon my children as needed, but there shall be consequences if I hear of undue harm befalling them.

“Fourth, as you are in my domain, you shall continue to report to be as your lord, master, and spouse. Your responsibilities shall not change, and you will be expected to fulfill them in a timely manner. You shall take no additional titles unless I bequeath them to you, and you shall take no other lovers. 

“If you can follow those basic rules, then we shall get along fine. Ultimately, this changes nothing regarding the dynamics at play.” He adds as an afterthought, “My hope is that it shall quell your incessant nagging and bring me peace. With all of this in mind… Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Rahadin shifts upon his lap. He hesitates. “...What are the chances of this going awry?”

Strahd's eyes narrow. ”I have never taken you as one that fears death. Again, I have only performed such an act twice before. On both occasions, there were no casualties as a result of the ritual. The only concerns would be outside interference,” he's quick to push the thought away, “or if you cannot contain yourself and overindulge.”

“What should I expect?” There’s a breathless quality to his voice.

Strahd hums and thinks back, both to his own turning and the turning of previous lovers. The circumstances were different, but there may be some similarities. “As we have previously discussed, you will feed upon my blood. You will fall unconscious for several days. When you awaken, you will have been turned into a full-fledged vampire with your own free will.”

Rahadin's gaze drifts off to something behind Strahd's head. “What of my psyche? My personality, aspirations, and the like?”

Strahd cannot fight back his sneer. “Surely you aren't reconsidering, are you?”

His void-colored eyes meet his, the resolve behind them strong. “No.”

“Good. Let's get this over with, then.”

“...Indeed.”

Something internal causes Strahd to pause. Rather than begin the ritual, he allows himself a moment to take in his lover as he is now. Perhaps for the last time, a voice whispers in his mind, gently falling over his thoughts like a cobweb. The hooked nose, the sharp cheekbones highlighting an otherwise gaunt face, the way his eyebrows knit slightly when he's thinking. The scar along his brow from a shrapnel wound several decades ago. There's a look of vulnerability, of disquiet, in Rahadin’s eyes; Strahd wonders if his own feelings are contagious.

His longtime friend, his companion that has fought by both his and his father's side in countless battles whom he had trusted to keep order when he was predisposed. The man who had not batted an eye when he laid himself bare before him, jaw dripping with rubies, following his own turning. The man who, 400 years later, has remained by his side—even begrudgingly as of late. 

Their relationship is one whose roots have burrowed deep into the ground. The dusk elf is more than a mere companion or consort; this he knows somewhere in the back of his mind—whether he would ever admit it or not. Rahadin is one of the very few people that has ever seen him at his most vulnerable, his soul laid bare, and vice versa.

Strahd cranes his neck to capture Rahadin's lips in a slow kiss, hoping that the gesture can convey that which his words cannot. For once, his consort does not pull away immediately, but neither does he lean into it. After a moment, Strahd begrudgingly pulls away, his eyes locked with Rahadin's. He tilts his head, exposing the pale swath of his neck to the man above him.

For every second that Rahadin stalls, the lead ball in Strahd's stomach only grows larger. His eyes close. A cacophony of voices scream in his mind, telling him to stop, that this is unwise. They scream of danger. They’re the same voices that berated him the last time, though they are so much louder this time around. After what feels like an eternity, Strahd finally feels a thumb tracing the outline of a carotid artery as if searching for a pulse, ghosting over his skin. That hand slides back to lightly wrap around the back of his neck. He shifts, and Rahadin presses a light kiss beneath Strahd's ear.

“...Thank you. Strahd.” His voice catches with some unseen emotion.

Fangs suddenly sink into the nobleman's neck, and Strahd has to force himself with every ounce of his willpower to remain seated. It feels like shards of ice freeze his veins, painful enough to cause his lungs to seize, before that ice melts, leaving an all-encompassing warmth to wash over him. It’s like a thunderbolt impacting the ground, the white-hot feeling of being struck by something so powerful he's left breathless and simple. His thigh twitches.

Rahadin is a voracious feeder. Soft pleasured hums escape his throat as Strahd’s stagnant blood slowly wells. His tongue laps at his skin, greedily drinking all that is given. When he begins to suck at the puncture wounds in earnest, Strahd can’t help but give a pleasured noise of his own. 

It feels good, far better than anything of this nature should, like an ocean of heat cresting at the back of his mind. More pleasurable than any climax. His entire body feels unnaturally hot, a sensation he hasn’t felt in centuries. His hand tangles in Rahadin’s hair, urging him to continue. No doubt that this feels just as good for him—if not better… It’s that same feeling of intimacy that he had felt when draining him that first time, a sense of closeness so intense it’s as if they’re one in the same body. At that moment, there’s no mistaking the distinctive sensation of love, pure and whole and lively, swelling in his still heart. Why else would he be putting himself in such a vulnerable position if not for that…? It must be an effect of the blood loss.

Beyond that warmth, he’s beginning to feel the telltale sign of lightheadedness. Unfortunately, he’s already lost more than enough blood for the ritual.

“Rahadin… Stop,” he pants. His tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. “Stop.”

Yet the vampire spawn doesn’t obey. Instead, the grip around the back of his neck only tightens like a vice. Desperate, hungry whimpers flow from Rahadin's throat.

Strahd doesn’t want this to end; it feels far too good, mind-numbingly so. Yet if he is not the one to show restraint, then the both of them would perish. As the more experienced of the two, it’s his obligation to put an end to this.

Strahd searches his mind and attempts to find the connection between them, even the slightest thread to pull on, but it all feels the same—a dense fog clouding his thinking. He raises an arm in an attempt to push him away, but Rahadin's hand clamps around his wrist like a vice, pinning it to the wooden frame of the chair.

An intense wave of pleasure has Strahd’s toes curling in his boots. His fingers feel numb. Strahd gasps, a fresh wave of ecstasy rolling through him. “Gods! Rahadin...”

Once more, his name, muttered almost like a moan to Strahd's horror, falls on deaf ears, answered only with another whimper. 

It takes every ounce of quickly depleting strength that Strahd can muster to push at the body atop him. The dusk elf does not budge at one or even two pushes. On the third, and not without a fight, the body finally gives, falling over onto the divan.

A gasp accompanied by several seconds of his chest spasming and then… nothing. Rahadin's eyes flutter closed.

For what must have been hours, Strahd sits in the same position, attempting to find enough energy to move. For a long while, he feels paralyzed; even wiggling his fingers is an effort, much less forcing his legs to move. It's as if his blood has been replaced with liquid stone, freezing his limbs like a statue. He falls in and out of consciousness, an effect of the blood loss. While he is immortal, the ritual is still a dangerous one. It's a miracle that he had survived the first attempt; he would have let Tatyana’s reincarnation empty his veins had some divine intervention not knocked some sense into him.

Mustering up the energy, Strahd allows his head to loll to the side, his gaze falling upon the still body of his consort. Thin rivulets of blood drip from the corner of Rahadin’s mouth, staining the velvet cushions of the chair, Strahd notes with distaste. One of the more challenging parts of the ritual is sitting with the unknown of whether it had worked or not. For three days, it would be impossible to differentiate the elf from a typical lifeless corpse. For three days Strahd would have to wait before knowing whether or not he had truly him.

He is a patient man, but even he despises sitting without answers.

For the next part of the ritual, Rahadin would have to be placed in his coffin. Given Strahd's current energy level, however, he's uncertain if he could even lift the elf to carry him to the catacombs. Carrying another body, he would not be able to move through the walls or climb along the ceiling as he might in any other circumstance. No, he would have to take the long way. He could ask one of his consorts, he supposes—any of them would have enough strength to carry Rahadin—but Strahd refuses to let them see him like this. It's a matter of pride. Besides, more hands involved would mean more opportunities for something to go awry. He wouldn't put it past one of his ever-jealous consorts to kill the elf when he is at his weakest. Less competition, in their eyes.

Bolstering himself, Strahd pushes Rahadin's legs off of his laps and goes to push himself up into standing. Even such a simple act saps him of his energy, and his legs tremble beneath him. If only he could think straight enough to tap into the weave, this could all be so much easier… However, he's never been one to shy away from the hard path.

Bending at the waist, Strahd goes to scoop up Rahadin's lifeless body from the couch. Not that he was particularly weighty as a mortal, but it feels as if Rahadin has lost significant weight since his turning; he has carried the man enough times—usually against the elf’s will—to know that this is abnormal for him. Despite this, Strahd’s arms strain to hold up his weight. Like wading through deep snow, Strahd begins taking labored steps towards the exit of his study.

Several times along the way to the catacombs, Strahd has to take a knee lest he drop his consort’s body, taking several minutes to rest before trudging on. With every passing minute, he curses both Khazan and Ravenloft’s architects for creating such an innavigable fortress. The several flights of stairs prove to be particularly difficult, going down them taking ten times longer than it should. To make it easier on himself, Strahd ultimately decides to carry Rahadin draped across his shoulders, his arms hooked around the elf's knees and arm. His path crosses with Volenta’s, but the woman, her expression hidden behind the skull mask, knows better than to try and offer her assistance when he is in such a foul mood. 

After what feels like days, Strahd makes it to the catacombs. He's barely able to push aside the heavy stone door to Rahadin's crypt, much less the lid to his coffin. His energy officially depleted, he unceremoniously dumps the limp body into the wooden box with a painful sounding thud before collapsing onto its lip. It has been decades since Strahd has felt so weak, and it's an unfamiliar feeling he is not fond of. Such a feeling, he hoped, had been left behind along with his mortality. And yet there are still circumstances that leech him of his strength.

Kneeling beside the coffin, his head resting upon his propped-up arm, Strahd dozes in and out of consciousness. It's not true rest—that he can only obtain when laying in his own coffin—but he is only half-aware when the bats that call the crypts their home both leave and return for the day.

A hand gently shaking his shoulder stirs him from his daze. Sluggish, Strahd opens his eyes—he would normally lash out at the intruder had he only the energy—to find Escher's pinched face peering down at him.

“Are you alright, Master?” the spawn asks, his voice heavy with concern.

“Mhm.” It's the only sound Strahd can muster up. He makes an attempt at waving a dismissive hand; he doesn't want to be seen in such a state, even by his consorts.

Escher hums, not sounding the least bit convinced. His eyes wander over to Rahadin's body crumpled in a rather uncomfortable-looking position. His thin eyebrows raise. “Is he alright?”

“Blood,” Strahd grits out. His mouth feels as if it is filled with cotton. “Bring.”

“Certainly! Be back momentarily.” Needing no more instruction, Escher scampers off towards the larders lest he incur his master's wrath. 

Strahd raises a trembling hand to push loose strands of hair away from his face. His gaze falls upon Rahadin's body, who, to the untrained eye, would appear to be sleeping—albeit in a rather awkward position. The nobleman reaches in to at least move his arms to his sides rather than have them hang overhead. He would worry about situating him further once he's fed.

For three days, Strahd sits in that crypt. Vigilant.

Chapter Text

Collecting blood is…  messy work,  to say the least. Work that requires a delicate hand and an iron stomach. There are so, so many veins and arteries in the human body. If the right vessel is severed, it creates a steady stream of blood that is relatively easy to collect. If the wrong one is cut, though… Well, that is one of many reasons Escher refuses to do these little  fetch quests  while wearing anything that he wouldn't want stained beyond recognition.

Being his master's go-to errand boy, he's grown quite skilled at collecting blood without getting a drop of crimson on him. All of Strahd's consorts have; it's just one additional way they can prove their usefulness to him and postpone their interment that much longer. The nobleman does so love his dramatics, he's learned, including drinking blood from a wine glass when he doesn't have the time to visit the aptly named  larders of ill omen  himself.

However, Escher is not so lucky today, as this captive is particularly antsy even with his hands and feet bound. The man must have jerked when the knife met his skin because, despite Escher's years of experience in locating the proper veins (you never want to nic an artery), a thin spray of blood shoots out from the incision along his wrist. It sprays across Escher's white undershirt, effectively running it, and the vampire spawn is able to snap his eyes shut just before it sprays his face. Despite his limited vision, Escher eventually and messily collects enough blood to fill the glass before he slinks back out of that godforsaken cell. 

His master has never been a particularly patient man where he is involved, so, despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to go take a bath and change clothes, Escher makes his way back to the catacombs for what feels like the sixtieth time in a matter of days.

Upon entering Rahadin's tomb ,  Escher finds Strahd sitting upon the edge of his chamberlain-turned-consort’s open coffin. The man doesn't look up from the corpse's body when he takes a few hesitant steps inside. 

Escher clears his throat. “Breakfast, Master. As requested.”

Still not tearing his gaze away, Strahd reaches out an arm and crooks two fingers. Never one to disobey his orders, Escher is quick to place the glass in the outstretched hand. He notices that there's a slight tremor in Strahd's hand as his thick fingers wrap around the stem of the glass. Wisely, he makes no comment. 

“You'll have to forgive my current state of disarray, Master. This prisoner gave me quite a hard time! Had I known better, I would have donned my finest red clothes before entering that cell. At least then I would not have to burn  yet another  shirt,” Escher gestures towards his blood-drenched torso.

Strahd hums, distracted. “You may purchase yourself new clothing the next time you are in town,” he says, sounding anything but interested. 

“Thank you, Master.” Escher gives a slight bow of his head before fixing his eyes on Strahd. Simply observing him. The vampire is still wearing the same black clothes, now thoroughly crinkled, he was wearing a little over two days ago. Dark circles have formed beneath his eyes, and thin blue veins can be seen beneath. He looks especially gaunt, his cheekbones all the more prominent. Worry, a rather loathsome beast, gnaws at Escher's heart.

“Master,” the spawn begins, cautious. ”When was the last time you slept?”

“I'm fine.” His voice sounds enervated.

“Of course you are. Even so, I would be more than happy to keep watch while you get some rest.”

For the first time that day, Strahd's attention snaps to him, a feral look behind his black eyes. “You  would  like that, wouldn’t you?”

The vampire's hackles are raised; he needs to choose his next few words  very  carefully. “I mean no ill will towards you or your spouse.”

“My  spouse.”

“I know. I know, Master.” Escher sucks in a deep breath despite the slight ache in his lungs. “On the off chance that something were to go wrong—”

“Nothing will go wrong.”

“Certainly not. But  if  it did, I merely want you to be well-rested and in tip-top shape to deal with any threats.”

Strahd gives a mockery of a smile, pulling his upper lip back to expose his fangs. “And what if that threat so happens to be you?”

“Then you could deal with me in a manner that you deem proper.”

“Like I would allow you the chance to stake him in his sleep…” Strahd diverts his gaze back to Rahadin's still form within the coffin, his face a blank slate once more. “Go. You reek of blood, and it's beginning to give me a headache.”

Escher gives an appraising look down at his heavily stained shirt. “...Certainly. Of course, Master.” He lets his shoulders slump. “I shall return in a few hours’ time with lunch?”

“Do whatever.”

The spawn swallows down the lump in his throat and gives a slight bow at the waist before turning on his heel. The only feeling worse than his master's anger is his indifference towards him. It makes him feel like a nuisance, one whose existence is only validated by the menial tasks he can do for the man. The only difference in Strahd's eyes between him and the lifeless zombie servants that shamble about the castle is that his body is more fuckable than theirs. More delicate. Escher knows this.

Escher does his best to push the thought aside, though he knows it will eat at him again in a mere hour’s time. This isn't the first time this week he's had such a thought, and it won't be the last. 

Without another word, Escher leaves the catacombs to go take up his usual spot in the guest bedroom library.

There's the sudden sound of air being sucked into lifeless lungs, a pained, ragged sound that is ripped from Rahadin as his chest seizes. It borders on painful, like inhaling the icy air of the Balinok Mountains into collapsed lungs. Once his airways stop their seizing, Rahadin willfully chooses to stop taking breaths once more to prevent any further pain. Groggy, he opens his eyes, only to find the bleary face of Strahd peering down at him. The nobleman's lips stretch into a smile when they lock eyes. 

“Good morning, darling.”

Rahadin replies by violently coughing into the crook of his sleeve, his lungs wracked with pain once more. His head slumps back against the velvet lining of his coffin, and he lets his eyes fall shut once more. “Hi,” he manages to wheeze out. His mouth feels dry.

Blood.  An animalistic craving gnaws at his stomach, blankets over his mind. The gums surrounding his fangs feel sore, and he’s suddenly aware of just how they sit in his mouth. The animalistic urge pushes him again: blood. 

“How do you feel?” Strahd asks. His voice sounds strained to Rahadin’s ears.

“Like death.” Not trusting his own strength at that moment, the dusk elf sticks a trembling arm out. Strahd clasps it and pulls him up into a sitting position.

“I am…  pleased  to have you back,” says Strahd. There is a subtle look of warmth behind his eyes. Before he releases his grip, the nobleman presses a gentle, lingering kiss to his forehead. It’s a surprisingly tender gesture coming from him of all people, Rahadin notes. Uncharacteristic. Still, the dusk elf does not pull away; he couldn't even if he wanted to with how weak he feels.  

When Strahd takes a step back, Rahadin picks up on the scent of iron in the air. His attention immediately snaps to the almost full wine glass sitting beside his coffin atop the stone dais. His fists clench atop his knees, and the ache in his gums increases tenfold. Were he still mortal, his stomach would no doubt be growling.

Noticing Rahadin's lapse in attention, Strahd gives a small smirk, his eyebrows raised slightly. “Hungry?” 

Rahadin swallows, his throat burning from disuse, and nods his head slightly. Thankfully, he still has the slightest tendrils of self-restraint this time tethering him down and keeping him from throwing himself at that blood—or, worse yet, Strahd's throat.

With that, Strahd gingerly picks up the glass of blood and holds it out towards him. Before the dusk elf can snatch it from his hand, Strahd pulls it back just enough to have it be out of reach. “Certainly your transition did not deprive you of basic manners, Rahadin.”

The telltale wisps of anger curl around his mind, but still he finds it in himself to show restraint.  “Please.”

“Good boy.” The nobleman hands him the glass, and Rahadin eagerly takes it. It feels uncharacteristically heavy, and it saps much of his energy just to raise it to his lips. Despite it being room temperature, its taste is simply ambrosial. Like an addict feeding their addiction, Rahadin eagerly gulps it down until he's tipping the glass upside-down to catch every last drop of crimson.

With slight disappointment, he hands the glass back to Strahd, who takes it from him. While it's enough to take the edge off, animalistic hunger still gnaws at every fiber of his being. He could drain a healthy human dry right now and it still wouldn't be enough to satiate the beast, he feels.

Taking Strahd's offered arm, Rahadin pushes himself out of his coffin and goes to stand on trembling legs. He leans heavily against the side of the stone slab. “How long was I…  away  for?” he asks.

“Three days. As expected.”

“I see.” Rahadin pushes stray strands of long hair away from his face, tucking them behind a pointed ear. “Did the, ah… Did the ritual work? Fatigue aside, I do not feel any different.” Hopeful, he glances up to meet Strahd's gaze.

“As neither I nor anyone else within this land has experienced the transition from spawn to vampire, I cannot say with certainty what is normal and what is not. However…” Strahd clears his throat. His voice takes on a commanding edge,  “Sit on the floor, Rahadin.”

The elf’s eyes narrow in confusion at the man before him. “Is that an order, my lord?” The floor of his tomb—all of the tombs—is filthy with bat guano. Sitting down in such a mess does not sound particularly desirable. Rather, it almost sounds as if Strahd is mocking his current mobility concerns.

“Hop on one foot, Rahadin.”

“My lord—”  The slight inclination of Strahd's head is enough to tip him off. His words were orders, and he had not felt the mental compulsion to obey. His limbs did not move on their own accord, and his mind did not ache. A smile splits Rahadin's face in two. A feeling of lightness fills his chest. “It worked!” He lets out an airy, incredulous laugh. “It worked, Strahd!”

As if his own mirth is contagious, Strahd gives a small smile of his own. “So it would seem, darling.” That smile soon falters into a look of impassivity once more. “While I may no longer be  forcing  you—I rarely forced you even when you were a mere spawn, mind you—to obey my commands, this does not change the expectation that you obey the orders of your sovereign lord.”

The lightness in his chest dulls. “Of course, Your Lordship.”  

“Good. Do not forget the oath you swore to me. To my father.” Strahd raises a hand and lightly wraps it around the back of Rahadin's neck. “This is quite the gift I have given you, dear husband. And I do expect the favor to be returned.”

Rahadin does not flinch. If his words are meant to intimidate, he’s unfazed. “What did you have in mind,  dear husband?” 

“It is nothing that is owed today or even tomorrow. Rather, it is something to be mindful of when I deem the moment to be right.”

He's never been a fan of having things held above him. Owing debts. Where he was raised, gifts were meant to be just that: gifts. Nothing was expected in return. Though he supposes such generosity would be above the count of Barovia in the first place. His full turning is something that was owed to him as compensation for broken promises; he does not  owe  anything. Nonetheless, Rahadin nods his head; he's too weary to argue.

Strahd pulls his hand away from the back of Rahadin's neck and stands up straight. “I'm glad we have an understanding, then,” he intones. ”While I would love nothing more than to test your new body,” the slight quirk of an eyebrow does not go unnoticed by Rahadin, “I must rest. You are welcome to peruse the larders to your heart's content as long as you are not culling too many of the livestock. And be mindful of not…  overindulging  lest you wish to be wracked with stomach pains.” He smiles. “But you already know all of that, I am certain.”

Strahd's voice lowers into a deep rumble, as if wary of being overheard. “I imagine I will be out of commission for some time. I trust you to keep things in order in my absence. When I awaken, we shall test the new abilities afforded to you.”

If he is lucky, the man will be asleep for several moons,  Rahadin thinks to himself. It would give him time to catch up on his gardening and reading before Strahd solicits him for intimacy the minute he's conscious. Give him time to reassess his goals and priorities now that the playing field has been altered.

“Of course. As always, I shall remain ever vigilant and wake you if your intervention is required.” His gaze trails over Strahd's body; the vampire looks more fatigued than he's seen him in a long time.

Something hovers on dark wings at the edge of his mind:  if he were to ever want revenge, now would be the time.

Rahadin's eyes widen slightly at the intrusive thought. He chooses to vehemently ignore it and stoke that flame no further. Rather than focusing on Strahd's tired face, he instead drops his gaze down to his neck. The skin there is smooth and unblemished as if Rahadin had not sunk his fangs deep—deep enough to have killed a mortal, no doubt—into his throat not three days prior. Unthinking, he raises a hand to his own neck and trails a thumb along the two crater-like scars he finds there.

Strahd's voice tears Rahadin from his thoughts. “I know you will.” Once more, Strahd leans forward to press a kiss to his brow. With that, he turns to leave Rahadin's tomb, his cloak, deep wrinkles creasing the heavy fabric, fluttering behind him.

“That there,” he points to a gray she-wolf amongst the group, “is the leading female. I've taken to calling her Kira.” As if understanding her given name, the wolf walks up to Strahd, leaving a few inches between them. The nobleman reaches a hand down to stroke the coarse fur of her nape, and the wolf does not flinch at his touch. His eyes crease slightly at the corners. “I've known Kira since she was a pup. I’ve had the privilege of knowing many of her ancestors as well.” 

Once more, he raises a finger to point at another gray wolf, this one slightly larger than Kira, back with the rest of the pack. “And that is her mate, Korol.”

Rahadin makes a feigned noise of interest. Unlike other dusk elves, he's never been particularly fond of most animals—canines included. Filthy, disease-ridden things. While he is a skilled equestrian, he's always preferred tapping into his ancestral abilities and calling upon his spirit steed instead. No, he's far more comfortable in the company of plants; they're much less of a nuisance. 

Strahd continues, “As I'm certain you've noticed, creatures of the night are drawn to our ilk like moths to a flame. Wolves, bats, spiders, vermin… While inexplicable, I believe they feel a certain kinship with us as if we are one of their own. Their masters, even. As such, they are inclined to obey our orders.” Demonstrating his point, Strahd gestures towards the dusk elf and raises his voice.  “Kira, to Rahadin's side.”

Without hesitation, the wolf leaves Strahd's side to close the distance between them. Kira slinks up to Rahadin before sitting at his feet, her attention glued to his face as if awaiting orders. Nonplussed, Rahadin jerks his boot back away from the animal lest she slobbers on it.

Strahd lets out a huff of a laugh. “Not a dog person, I take it?”

“In all of this time you've known me, have you ever known me to be particularly fond of greeting your  children?” 

The corners of the nobleman's lips turn down. “It's merely banter, Rahadin. You really must learn to not be so serious all of the time.” 

His thin lips press together in a tight line. “Do not assume to tell me what it is I should learn.”

Strahd sighs loudly, his eyes searching skyward. He mutters something in a guttural language Rahadin does not understand—intentionally, no doubt. “Whether you enjoy their presence or not, having an animal companion at your command is a useful tool to have.”

With an indignant sniff, Rahadin brushes past Strahd's previous remark and raises his own arm out towards the other man. His black eyes meet the she-wolf’s blue, and, feeling more than a bit ridiculous talking to an animal, orders, “Return to Strahd's side.”

Much to the dusk elf's intrigue, the wolf pushes herself up into standing and goes to lie down at Strahd's feet once more. 

“Not only can vampires summon creatures of the night, but we can take their form as well. It is an excellent ability for mobility or to garner less attention.” Strahd pauses for a moment, thinking. “As I have never taught its execution before, it is admittedly difficult to put into words something that feels so natural to me at this point. However, if I had to best describe its execution, it's akin to imagery—picturing the beast in your mind and imagining your limbs distorting into theirs. This is done whilst drawing upon the same energy one does while spider climbing.”

With that, Rahadin watches Strahd's chest expand as he sucks in a deep breath. As he has observed countless times before, the nobleman falls onto all fours, his hands and feet taking the form of paws. Coarse hair sprouts out along his skin, his clothes seemingly dissolving, until, in a matter of seconds, he's greeted by the sight of a black-furred wolf. Strahd's wolf form is significantly larger than the rest of the pack surrounding him, his eyes a shocking red color. An impressive beast, to be certain. The other wolves hiding amongst the brush begin to yip with excitement.

Strahd sits beside the she-wolf, watching him expectantly through intelligent eyes.

Correlon help him.  Visions of him trying to spider climb in front of Escher—and how mortifying the whole situation had been—flash through Rahadin's mind, but he's quick to dismiss them. Strahd is not Escher, and shape-shifting is not spider climbing. There have been very few things he's been incapable of doing in his lifetime.

Uncrossing his arms from behind his back and shaking out his wrists, Rahadin mentally prepares himself.  Visualize, then execute.  In his mind’s eye, he envisions a wolf not unlike Strahd's and searches for the pull of darkness, of insatiable hunger, within him. Drawing upon that sensation with all of his might, Rahadin sucks in lungfuls of air while willing his form to change.

Nothing.

He tries once more, imagining his body contorting into a quadrupedal form, until his lungs ache.

Nothing.

Three more times he tries, with no results. Strahd cocks his head slightly, before, in a blur of motion, his humanoid form is appraising him with the same cocked head. Rahadin prays that the nobleman doesn't have any  words of advice  for him; he's not confident he could keep from exploding at him were he to open his mouth.

Exasperated, Rahadin throws his arms up in the air. Embarrassment—he's neither particularly fond of nor experienced with  failure— sits in the pit of his stomach like a ball of lead. 

“Perhaps,” Strahd begins, and Rahadin can already feel his blood beginning to boil, “you should try starting with something a tad smaller.”

Giving him little time to interject, Strahd inhales sharply before his arms become wings and his body twists into the form of a large, black, snub-nosed bat. His wings flap furiously for a moment before he glides over to the castle wall, sharp nails digging into the stone. 

While he despises bats especially—his time in the catacombs has only added to this hatred—the dusk elf can see the usefulness in being able to transform into something with wings. Willing to give transformation one last shot, Rahadin glances at the bat hanging along the wall and envisions the same for himself: his body shrinking, fine fur along his skin, fingers stretching into wings. With a deep breath, he lets that hunger consume him.

There's a blur of motion, nauseating, and everything suddenly becomes overwhelmingly loud. His senses are not his own, his bones feeling foreign in his own body. He's  aware  of his bones, and it brings with it a new surge of horror. 

His vision shifts in and out of focus.

Before he can adjust to the onslaught of stimulation, he crashes painfully into what he can only assume to be the ground, white pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes.

Rahadin sucks in another haggard breath, and his normal vision is returned to him—if not a little bleary. The world around him quiets into the gentle blowing of wind and the shuffling of wolves once more. His ribcage aches from having collided square with the ground, and he winces as he goes to lift his head from the dirt. Black leather boots fill his vision, and the elf raises his eyes to find Strahd smirking down at him.

“Certainly neither a graceful nor long transformation, but a bat transformation nonetheless.” Strahd reaches a hand down, and Rahadin begrudgingly takes it to be pulled back to his feet. “Again.”

“No.” Rahadin swallows down a wave of nausea. “That is enough for tonight.”

Strahd's eyes narrow. ”One does not improve without practice. You're a soldier. You of all people should know this.  Again.”

The dusk elf plucks a stray blade of grass from his hair and wipes at a smear of dirt along his cheek with the edge of his cloak. “No. Not tonight.” He sucks in gulps of air in an attempt to quell the rioting of his stomach.

Strahd's icy gaze bores into him. “I'm not in the habit of being told  no.”

“I'm certain you're not in the habit of having your shoes painted with vomit, either!” Rahadin snaps. Soldier or not, he's not in the mood to deal with the man's stubbornness. “Now enough! I will practice more tomorrow when I have not recently woken from death for a  second  time!” 

Strahd tips his chin up slightly. “Perhaps, then, you can remember your former self’s discipline by finally completing the stacks of reports that have been amassing upon your desk. Tomorrow, you'll be running drills from dusk ‘til dawn. You will be forbidden from entering the catacombs until you can prove to me you have mastered the art of transformation.”

Not wanting to give Strahd the dignity of a reaction, Rahadin wills his face to remain neutral. “Yes,  sir.”

“One of the advantages, you had said, of you becoming a full-fledged vampire was increased defensive capabilities. I have yet to see anything indicating that this may be the case; if anything, it appears to have lessened your resolve.”

Rahadin stares, incredulous. It burns him to his core that Strahd would dare call his ambition, his loyalty, into question. “...I suggest you watch your next words carefully.”

“Or what?” Unfazed, Strahd takes long strides forward until he's chest to chest with the dusk elf, looking down at him past a straight-edged nose. A hand delves into Rahadin's dark locks, gripping at the roots and tangling the thickness around his fist. He leans in close, those sharp teeth glinting menacingly. “Vampire or not, you do not intimidate me. I am ancient, the very land you walk upon; you are but a mewling pup in comparison. I suggest   you remember that.”

He should have killed him when he had the chance. Staked Strahd in the heart while he was unconscious. 

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

Nothing has changed between them, nor would it ever.

Rahadin digs his claws hard enough into the meat of his palms hard enough to draw blood until his tendons begin to spasm. Thick, dark beads drip onto the waterlogged soil.  Pain can be a liberating distraction from burdensome thoughts.  If Strahd notices, he says nothing, just continues staring down at him, unflinching.

Another moment, and he releases his hold on Rahadin's hair, sending the dusk elf stumbling to regain his balance in the process. “Go, then. Finish your damned paperwork and rest well, for there will be little rest tomorrow. I look forward to you proving your usefulness.”

The muscles in Rahadin's hands tense. “As do I.”

Chapter Text

Watching Rahadin train is entertaining, to say the least. True to his word, the dusk elf has been running drills of all sorts for the better part of six hours with no signs of stopping anytime soon. His chamberlain may be a stubborn, hotheaded man with a penchant for disappointing him, but at least he is not one to take half measures on anything. With everything he does, he does it until it reaches his exacting standards—standards which have been lower as of late, but still noteworthy.

Even without orders from Strahd, Rahadin has been practicing a number of skills, primarily those related to his newfound vampirism: spider climbing, summoning various creatures of the night, agility, shapeshifting. Over and over and over, he had practiced that damned shapeshifting. That in particular had been entertaining to watch; on more than one occasion, he’d watched the elf collapse onto hands and knees after particularly rough transformations, and Strahd was certain he was going to witness him be sick in the grass.

He’d started off small, transforming into a brown-colored bat until it looked as if it were second nature to him. Interestingly enough, during the extended hours he observed his chamberlain, he only saw him transform into a bat. Whether this was intentional on Rahadin’s part or simply because he lacked the necessary skill to turn into larger creatures was still to be determined.

With each attempt, Rahadin was able to hold the form for longer, fly farther. There was a time in which he, in the shape of a bat, had been gone for a little over an hour, and Strahd had been convinced he had fled to another town. 

Watching his consort’s growth allowed for a small pocket of pride to well in Strahd’s chest. It brought back memories of observing his soldiers while they trained in the ways of sword and bow on the outskirts of camp many centuries ago. His army was strong, and it had always brought him much joy to be ascertained of this whilst mingling with his men.

Centuries later, a thousand men had been reduced to a few men and a paltry handful of undead, yet Strahd finds that he is not worried; Rahadin had once been worth a hundred men in combat, and now—he hopes, anyway—he is worth even more. It’s fewer mouths to feed and far fewer opportunities for betrayal. Between himself, Rahadin, and the army of undead he could raise at a moment’s notice, he is not concerned about any threat, foreign or otherwise, to his land. 

Not only does observing Rahadin’s progress from afar—the dusk elf might change his behavior if he knows he's being watched—bring Strahd pride, but a certain level of cupidity as well. Through scrying, he can see the way his spouse’s brow furrows when he’s lost in  concentration, or the way his hair falls in front of his face without fail each time he stops shapeshifting, or the gentle curve of his lower back. Something in his chest, long since dead, swells upon seeing him at work. He values Rahadin as his chamberlain, yes, but there’d been a reason he had appointed him general all of those years ago. 

Despite having been raised by his soft, grass-eating kin before joining his service, the dusk elf is a force of nature. That ruthlessness, that aptitude, is Strahd’s. He’d locked it down centuries ago in the form of a servant, and now it is his to possess carnally. It’s his words that are capable of caging that beast, his hands that can bring Rahadin to his knees. It’s pride of a different kind to think that he is the sole person to have seen these sides of the man: the strategist with a soft spot for plants; the torturer who seeks a violent hand; the soldier who, despite everything, loves unequivocally. 

Despite no longer being his thrall, his. His to protect. To punish. To shape into something that best serves his needs. 

To kill, should the time ever come.

He prays that it doesn’t.

Even with his limitless patience, Strahd does begin to grow a tad bored upon entering the dusk elf’s second hour of walking—it had been crawling on the walls not long ago—laps around Ravenloft. Without much else to do that night, the nobleman dons his cloak and steps out into the night. He finds Rahadin standing sideways upon the wall just outside of the carriage house. 

“My lord,” Rahadin calls out in acknowledgment, but he does not stop his slow and deliberate steps. A beckoning motion with two fingers is enough to have his chamberlain scrabbling down the wall towards him, coming to a rest a few feet away on the ground.

Strahd gives Rahadin a long, appraising look. He’s back to wearing those damned long-sleeved undershirts again, this time with two of the buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows; Strahd gives it a pass only because he has spent the day training. “How are you faring with the drills?”

Rahadin goes to adjust one of his sleeves. “Fine. I believe I am making progress in many areas, transformation most notably, but there is always room for improvement as they say.”

“Indeed. And practice with combat?” He already knows the answer to his question; since he has been observing him, Rahadin has not picked up his sword once.

“Not yet, my lord. I have been working on refining some of the more noteworthy skills of vampirism that I have observed from you. However, the night is still young, and this body does not tire easily.”

“I see.” His posture straightens. “As it so happens, I’ve found myself with some free time this evening. Let us practice together.”

Strahd doesn’t miss the way Rahadin’s left eye twitches slightly. “I would not wish to burden you with such a task nor would I want to risk the possibility of injuring you.”

“Nonsense. You couldn’t injure me even if you tried. Besides, I wish to witness firsthand how your skills have changed since our last sparring match. Now, would you prefer to practice with blades first or hand-to-hand?”

Rahadin blinks. “Blades."

“Excellent choice. Allow me but a moment to retrieve my sword, and I shall meet you in the courtyard shortly.”

Strahd turns to leave for the castle before he can notice any other signs of resistance from his chamberlain.

“I believe the last time I wielded this sword was the previous time you and I sparred,” says Strahd. Testing the weight of his longsword, he passes it between his left and right hands before his right-hand slips into its practiced position upon the hilt.

Rahadin hums in acknowledgment. “I suppose that is something to be grateful for.”

“These days, I much prefer using my natural weapons, but it’s ever important that a soldier does not fall out of practice.”

“Indeed.” Rahadin’s scimitar remains firmly gripped in his hand. 

Strahd notes that, during his brief absence to retrieve his sword, Rahadin had not donned his armor—a contrast to the last time they had sparred. 

Overconfidence at its finest. Or foolishness.

Similarly, Strahd is clad in only his house clothes as well, but he reasons that he is the more experienced fighter of the two, particularly in an undead body. Even after his transformation, it had taken Strahd several years to grow comfortable shedding the layers that had protected him in war during his several decades of mortal life. 

Strahd makes no mention of his chamberlain’s lack of armor. If he is to be overconfident, let him learn the hard way what not taking precautions against him does to a man; he can have a fresh assortment of wounds to lick when the night is over. 

He spares a glance towards the three women sitting off to the side. Having run across her in the halls, Strahd had originally only invited Ludmilla to come observe—women and their fancies for entertainment and whatnot. The spawn must have taken it upon herself to rouse Gertruda from her slumber to bring her along. 

Knowing her, Volenta had certainly invited herself.

Gertruda, currently flanked by both Ludmilla and Volenta, sits upon the grass with her legs bent beneath the skirt of her nightgown. The moon basks the field in a soft glow, providing just enough light for a human to see. Unlike Gertruda who is practically vibrating with excited energy, Volenta looks bored more than anything. Her right hand idly runs through Gertruda's hair, but Rahadin's ward hardly seems to notice.

Knowing him, Rahadin is no doubt displeased with his open invitation—he’s never been particularly fond of being observed—but there is not too much that does please him nowadays. 

Regardless, Strahd turns his focus from them back to the man in front of him. The nobleman takes up his stance, legs spread with one foot ahead of the other. “Well then. Shall we?”

As is customary, Rahadin raises his scimitar in acknowledgment and gives a nod of his head. Strahd mirrors the gesture while the dusk elf takes his own defensive stance. 

While Rahadin is still inexperienced in the ways of vampirism, Strahd knows well enough that he is not one to be underestimated. Even when he was mortal, Rahadin had managed to land a few good hits on him. A worthy opponent, to be certain; their play requires his full attention.

Strahd crooks two fingers towards him. Beckoning.

At that, Rahadin dashes forward, scimitar in hand. When he is but a foot away, Rahadin slashes horizontally with his curved blade; Strahd is easily able to take a large step back to avoid the attack, but Rahadin quickly follows up with three more cuts in rapid succession. Two more steps back and a parry against the third swing is enough to stop him in his tracks; Rahadin responds by hopping back himself, freeing his blade, before rushing in again. Once more he swings, and once more Strahd parries the blow, redirecting the attack by pushing the blade away with his own before moving in with a slash of his own. The steel grazes Rahadin's torso, cutting the fabric of the dusk elf’s shirt rather than flesh. 

“You can do it, Rah-Your Excellency!” Gertruda’s voice, brimming with excitement, calls out from the sidelines. Strahd is wise enough to not spare a glance in her direction. 

Strahd grips his sword with both hands and lifts it above his head as if preparing for a swing that would overpower Rahadin's one-handed hold on his scimitar. An open invitation, one that the dusk elf falls for; he steps forward to attack, but Strahd intercepts by quickly bringing his arms down and catching the blade on the crossguard of his sword. 

Taking advantage of the break in his defenses, Strahd raises his leg and slams his boot into Rahadin's stomach, pushing him off balance. A pained wheeze leaves Rahadin's mouth, and he stumbles backward, eyes squeezed shut. 

Before Strahd can follow through with his own attack—cleave clean through his torso were this actual combat—Rahadin mutters something under his breath and disappears in a burst of silvery mist.

Searing pain shoots through Strahd's right arm, and the tang of sickly iron meets his nostrils; Rahadin had cut a wide gash into the crook of his sword arm. Deep enough to cut an inch into the muscle, if he had to estimate, but not deep enough to sever. Strahd lets out a snarl as his sword clatters to the ground, arm hanging limp at his side. Thick blood begins to drip from the wound and soak into the dark fabric of his doublet.

“We are utilizing magics in our fights now, are we?” Strahd bites out while pressing a hand to his injured arm.

To Strahd’s surprise, the only tell of emotion on Rahadin’s face are his brows furrowed in concentration; he does not go to apologize, nor does he seem the least bit bothered in having injured—though temporary—his master's sword arm. It’s a stark comparison to the last time they had sparred in which his chamberlain had, rather cutely, been almost overbearing with his concern.

No, these attacks are followed through. There is much less hesitation in his strikes as if caring little if his attacks strike true. Not that Strahd is particularly worried; he had told Rahadin to come at him full-force, and any injury would only be a temporary setback. In a few hours' time, even the deep wound on his arm would be no more than a memory. And yet something deeply unsettles Strahd. Something fills him with a simmering rage that rolls just beneath his skin.

Perhaps it is the lack of acknowledgment or the notable lack of assessing his well-being. Perhaps it is the way Rahadin continues to throw himself at him shortly after. In either case, Strahd finds himself dropping to all fours and taking the shape of a large wolf. The pain he'd been feeling in his arm instantly dissolves as his limbs contort into a quadrupedal form. He charges forward on four legs, nimbly dodging out of the way of any downward strikes with renewed energy.

Gertruda cheers.

When he is close enough, Strahd digs his paws into the ground, steadying himself, before tackling Rahadin, claws outstretched to rake across his chest in a spatter of crimson. His heavy weight barrels into the dusk elf, sending the both of them toppling to the ground—but not before Strahd feels another searing pain radiating from his stomach, white-hot enough that his vision becomes blurry. 

Rahadin’s back slams into the ground, and he grunts.

Strahd pushes himself up to stand over Rahadin’s body, red-tinted drool beginning to spill from his muzzle onto Rahadin’s face. The dusk elf jerks the dagger free from his gut and lets his hand fall open by his side. The cloying scent of both of their blood mingling together overwhelms his sense of smell like a suffocating perfume. Were he a typical wolf—a mortal man, even—such a wound, one that has certainly pierced his intestines and quite possibly his stomach, would be a death sentence. However, he is not typical in any meaning of the word. 

The energy begins to leave his body, his vision darkening. With a ragged breath, Strahd is thrust back into his own senses and he falls to his knees above Rahadin, bipedal once more. Looking down at his body, there is no evidence that he had ever been stabbed save for the ache in his abdomen. His right arm still burns, but he can feel the strength returning to it while threads of flesh and muscle begin to stitch themselves together once more.

Satisfied that he won’t be dying anytime soon—not that that was ever in question—Strahd lifts his eyes just enough to meet Rahadin’s. There is no emotion behind them, only black pools that reflect the void. There is no more fight in him either; the man lays still beneath him, not appearing to be in any rush to stand up or push him off. 

There's a clear understanding that an unspoken line had been crossed and that their practice has come to an end.

A stillness falls over the field. Despite his best efforts, Strahd finds that he cannot tear his gaze away from Rahadin’s. He’s waiting, he realizes, for the elf to say something. Anything. 

A beat passes, and he remains silent. Rahadin remains still, not even bothering to tend to the, albeit rapidly healing, gashes along his chest.

A biting wind begins to blow from the south, bringing with it dense cloud cover that blots out the moon’s light.

Finding no comfort in the stillness, Strahd reaches a hand down to caress Rahadin’s face, strokes a cheekbone with his thumb. The dusk elf does not flinch, just continues meeting his gaze with that same deadpan expression. His thumb trails down to wind-chapped lips, gently pulling down on his lower jaw. Rahadin relents and opens his mouth just wide enough for Strahd to see his elongated canines.

The thought crosses Strahd’s mind to prick his thumb on one of those fangs just to finally get a reaction out of his fellow vampire. 

His left hand trails downwards still, down to his throat to run a thumb along the velvety expanse of his neck, along the artery that lies still beneath his touch. One by one, his fingers wrap around that slender throat. Not squeezing—not yet. Merely observing.

Rahadin’s eyes flutter shut, and Strahd can feel his Adam’s apple jump beneath his palm when he swallows. Like a good boy, he does not fight, not even when the grip around his throat begins to tighten. Tightens to the point where Strahd can feel capillaries bursting beneath his fingers and Rahadin’s face begins to twist in pain. 

“Strahd,” Rahadin rasps out in a weak voice, the faintest traces of panic seeping in at the edges. Egging him on.

He wants to consume the man in a way he’s never wanted anything, wants to sink his fangs deep into the marrow of his bones, to hold his wicked heart in his hands and feast upon its life force. It’s a feeling akin to the frenzy of bloodlust but softer somehow. Less violent but not less intense. Strahd attempts to push away the wave of arousal that blankets his mind at the sight of seeing his consort, both powerful and so, so powerless in that moment, beneath him. Vulnerable.

He doesn’t know what comes over him. Really, he doesn't. Yet Strahd finds his grip continuing to tighten until his claws pierce the delicate skin of Rahadin's neck, blood running over dark fingernails, and deeper still. Bone scrapes against his claws. He brings his right hand up to clamp over the dusk elf’s mouth. It wouldn’t do to have him misty stepping away from their game again.

Rahadin begins to writhe beneath his weight, his claws frantically raking across Strahd’s forearms in a desperate attempt to free himself. His typical look of impassivity is replaced with one of wide-eyed panic when Strahd's grip doesn’t falter. Muffled, high pitched noises, some that even sound like his name, escape from beneath his hand.

Vulnerable.

With a furious roar, Strahd jerks his left arm back with enough force to rip out Rahadin's throat, muscle and cartilage alike, in a beautiful spray of bubbling crimson. Rahadin’s arms fall to his side, his eyes rolling back in his skull. His legs begin to seize.

Gertruda shrieks, but her voice barely registers. 

Throughout his years, Strahd von Zarovich has slit his fair share of throats; it comes with the territory of being a ruler, after all. Justice, war. Two blood-soaked concepts that are necessary to ensure the proper ruling of a land. Despite the number of times he has ripped out the throats of the undead as well, it always surprises him to witness not the fountain of blood, pulsing with each weakening beat of their heart, that he’s grown accustomed to, but a steady stream of viscous life instead. 

Rahadin bleeds no different. It is only a matter of seconds until his chamberlain's undershirt, once white, becomes dyed a fine red color. The handful of viscera drips between Strahd’s fingers, pattering upon his pants and doublet like a gentle rain.

Another beat passes, and Rahadin’s body, even the carnage in his hand, begins to dissipate into mist. A small smile tugs at the corners of Strahd’s mouth. Just as he had been hoping. The mist collects into a cloud before, as if being pushed by a strong wind, it begins to drift towards Castle Ravenloft. Strahd watches with interest as it slips into the building through a crack in the crumbling infrastructure.

Exhaling loudly through his nose, Strahd stands up. He wipes at the streaks of blood across his face with the back of his hand, no doubt smearing it more than anything. He turns towards his spectators and begins slowly approaching them.

Gertruda stares at him wide-eyed from across the field, fear more than evident in her blue eyes. She’s seated next to Volenta and Ludmilla, who are still standing. The girl’s fingers tremble, the gold fabric of Volenta’s dress bunched up in her hands while the spawn keeps a comforting hand atop her head. 

Ludmilla gives him a simple nod when he approaches, knowing better from her decades of experience than to make any offhand remarks at that moment. He knows she'll have more than enough to say to him later. Strahd takes a knee before Gertruda, noting the way she clings tighter to Volenta’s legs. Her eyes brim with tears.

The nobleman sighs and searches in his mind for the mental bond between them. Meeting her gaze, he extends his influence over the girl and tugs upon that bond. As if a lever had been pulled, her shoulders immediately drop, the look of dismay in her eyes replaced with one of glassy nonchalance. 

“You are safe, and Rahadin is fine. Now, up with you,” Strahd intones. He reaches a hand out towards her.

Without hesitation, Gertruda takes his outstretched hand and allows herself to be pulled away from Volenta’s side into a standing position. She wipes at her nose with the sleeve of her nightgown before setting Strahd with a small smile. “Of course.”

After returning the smile in what he hopes is a reassuring gesture, he turns his attention towards Volenta with an icy stare, the smile immediately dropping into a tight-lipped frown. “I know well enough your unsavory intentions, Volenta; save them for a different small-town bumpkin. This girl is for Rahadin.” 

Sighing through his nose, he says offhandedly to Ludmilla, “Make sure my most disposable consort behaves herself, would you?”

He doesn’t miss the way Volenta flinches and takes a wide step away from Gertruda. 

“Yes, Your Lordship,” Ludmilla replies flatly. 

“Good. Ludmilla, ensure that Gertruda makes it back to her chambers safely.”

“Yes, Your Lordship.”

Without another word, Strahd walks past the trio to return to the castle. Retracing steps he’d taken thousands of times before, his feet carry him towards the bathing chamber of his quarters. 

The soft sound of fingernails drawing across velvet pulls Strahd away from his thoughts. He turns his attention to the coffin beside him; within, he sees that Rahadin, after five hours of waiting, has finally come to. The dusk elf stares blankly up toward the ceiling with heavy half-lidded eyes for several moments before allowing his head to loll to the side in Strahd’s direction. Save for his blood-soaked outfit and the wet-looking skin along his neck that continues to slowly weave itself together, his chamberlain looks no different than he had at the start of their sparring match. More than anything, he looks exhausted.

“Good morning,” Strahd says, crossing one leg over the other at the knee. No smile graces his features this time.

“Sod off, Strahd—” Rahadin's words trail off into a weak coughing fit, his chest heaving. His eyes clamp shut.

“That’s no way to greet your husband and lord,” Strahd says. His claws tap along the stone dais.

“You… killed me.” There’s an attempt at sounding indignant in his voice, but another coughing fit takes the venom out of his words; he can practically feel the malice burning off of the elf.

Strahd allows him the time to recover before replying, “Since you are laying there speaking to me, I very clearly did not. Your path is one that I have, unfortunately, walked before. I was confident that, as a full-fledged vampire, you would become a cloud of mist and return to your coffin to regenerate. And clearly, I was right.”

“You killed me!”

“And you ran a dagger through my gut, my darling husband. I suppose this makes us even, hm?” Strahd goes to adjust the cuff of his sleeve. “I had to confirm my suspicions. Likewise, it is better that you harbor this understanding now than when confronting an actual opponent. I like my men to be practical in their dealings, but to also utilize all of the tools within their arsenal.”

“I am… I am not some-some thrice-damned experiment, Strahd von Zarovich!”

“I beg to differ; in a lot of ways, you are. You are, after all, the first loyal vampire that I have fully turned.” Strahd pauses, a thought suddenly crossing his mind, and he redirects his attention from his shirt cuff to Rahadin. “...You’re upset with me. Despite this being a learning opportunity to both of our benefits, you are upset with me.”

“I currently feel as if I am in the terminal stages of sewer plague; yes, I am upset!” Rahadin hisses.

“The feeling will pass.” Strahd waves a dismissive hand. It’s a weariness that the newly-turned vampire would have to become intimately familiar with. “However, unjustified or not, I do not enjoy feeling as if you are upset with me.” His gaze trails off, thinking. “...Once you are well-rested, perhaps you could show me those flowers of yours you prattle on about incessantly. Or,” Strahd inches closer to the coffin and rests his hand upon its lip, his voice deepening, “I could make it up to you in other ways, husband. You seemed to derive great pleasure from the last time I bound your wrists and—”

“Stop. Just stop, Strahd.” Rahadin grimaces, his upper lip pulled back enough to reveal the tips of fangs. “I just… I need time. I’m, I’m sor—my apologies, my lord, but more than anything I would like to regain my strength before considering any possible plans. Give me some time, and I will find you when I am ready. My lord.” 

“Ah.” His lip curls slightly. Strahd’s not in the habit of being told no, even if it is for understandable reasons; being told no by his chamberlain of all people is no exception. However, he can be patient. He can show that he listens, that he’s a reasonable man. Give Rahadin the space he desires while he regains his strength.

He is reasonable, after all. 

“Yes. Well, then.” Strahd slaps his knees with finality before standing up from the dais, being careful to avoid looking at the disheveled man in the coffin lest his temper get the better of him. “Come find me later, I suppose. I’ll be waiting.”

“Strahd.”

As the nobleman is about to turn around, he catches Rahadin from the corner of his eye raising a trembling arm towards him. Hisgaunt face twists as if the gesture pains him greatly.  His mouth opens and closes, searching for words, before he exhales through his nose. “Apologies. For not being what you, ah… For not being…” His arm flops down to the side of the coffin before he clears his throat.

The nobleman raises an eyebrow, eager to hear where such a sentence is going. For what the dusk elf regrets not being. Only silence follows, however—much to his frustration.

“...Take care, my lord.”

Strahd stares, unsatisfied. His fists ball at his sides. “...You perplex me, Rahadin.” His patience wearing thin, Strahd goes to leave the catacombs, fully intending to spend the rest of his evening taking out his frustrations on a certain blonde-haired and far more submissive consort instead. 

Chapter Text

Rahadin takes the cutting in hand and gently begins to peel away the surrounding sepals from the stem. The green leaves are placed in a pile upon the table. “These blossoms are particularly dark in coloration; I am hopeful that they shall be all the more potent because of it,” he mumbles more to himself than anything. Once he is satisfied, he places the entirety of the flower, a sickly sweet smelling thing, into a mortar and begins to crush it with a pestle.

The dim light filtering into the room through the steel lattice squares of two leaded glass windows, coupled with the candle His Excellency had lit, gives Gertruda a good enough view of her surroundings. She glances about the room, wary of any bats or insects that may fly out at her from the heavy beams supporting the ceiling. This room in particular within the tower is absolutely filthy, and she feels guilty wearing such a pretty dress in here, but His Lordship had been firm on her wearing nice clothes while outside of her quarters. She would offer to clean it—cleaning is part of her responsibilities, after all—but she feels she would faint if left in such a room alone. 

On their way here, Rahadin had explained that they were to be working in an alchemical lab of sorts. A lab that was typically used for the brewing of potions and magical concoctions, but one that would suit their needs as well. 

Sudden shrill cackling from the adjacent room, muted by the stone walls, causes every muscle in her body to tense. Shoulders raised, she casts a side-eye towards the offending door.

Seemingly sensing her unease despite not turning around, Rahadin raises a dismissive hand. “Self-proclaimed witches. Why His Lordship continues to allow them to reside here is beyond me; their infernal potion brewing has made an absolute mess of the floors. Regardless, they are mostly harmless.”

Gertruda isn’t convinced; despite only being here for about 20 minutes, she has heard all sorts of strange noises coming from within; growling, hissing, explosions. She’s never seen a witch before, and at this rate she would like to keep it that way. Her stories never had anything nice to say about them, anyway.

Not tearing her eyes from the door, she sidles up to Rahadin's side, the fingers of one hand subconsciously grabbing at the hem of Rahadin's shirt. Not because she’s scared —of course not! Merely to get a better view of his handiwork. The man side eyes her but otherwise does not pause his work or say anything.

Once the flower is thoroughly ground up into a purplish-hued mash, Gertruda watches as he syringes up some sort of clear liquid and places a few drops of it into the mortar before continuing to mix it.

“Alcohol,” Rahadin clarifies, never lifting his eyes from his work. “From your readings: how many drops of alcohol are instilled?”

Gertruda’s brow furrows. She’d been brought along to learn about how His Excellency crafted his poisons, yes, but she had not anticipated being quizzed. She would have reviewed her notes beforehand had she did! She thinks back to the massive tome of notes that Rahadin had given her to study. “Um… F-Five?”

“Ten. Ten drops, girl, gradually stirred in. No more, no less lest you wish to compromise the integrity of the poison.”

“Ah.” Her voice comes out hardly louder than a whisper. Gertruda clears her throat before continuing, making a purposeful effort to raise her voice. The last thing she wants is to be seen as incapable by her master—he might send her home—and she's quick to change the subject. 

“What, um, what exactly are we making, Your Excellency? I know that this will become a poison of some sort, but are there multiple kinds? Do all of the poisons you make go on your, um, your swords and the like?” Gertruda fiddles with a loose thread sticking out from the edge of her gown’s sleeve. “I’ve often read about poisons being slipped into the dinners of unsuspecting people.”

Rahadin sets her with another glare that has Gertruda wondering if she’s said something wrong. “Poison ingestion is the coward’s way of incapacitating someone. My poisons are solely used to coat my weapons.”

“Ah. I-I see.”

He continues, “Poisons concocted from death blossom are very potent. They work,” he squeezes three more drops of alcohol into the mortar, “by paralyzing the nervous system, particularly the nerveways of the lungs. This results in the rapid weakening and paralysis of the respiratory tract. 

“As stated before, it is typically administered via wounds. Contact with the bloodstream. It can be ingested as well, but it loses much of its potency. That, and its distinct taste is hard to mask. It is much faster-acting via the former route. In my experience, victims can go from injured to suffocating on the ground in a matter of moments. 

“No more breathing…” he glances up to meet Gertruda's eyes, “no more threat.”

Gertruda’s eyes widen, and her hand flies to her mouth. ”That sounds terrible!”

“Indeed. Its administration is not a sight befitting those soft of heart.” 

The comment sounds directed towards her in particular. Not that he would be wrong, of course; Gertruda has always considered herself far more of a lover than a fighter. War, cutthroat politics, vengeance… Things that she would prefer to read about rather than witness herself. As far as she is concerned, her master can keep his poisons to himself. She’ll stick to gardening, thank you. 

Despite everything, Gertruda does find the whole process rather interesting. It fascinates her that a plant so beautiful can be turned into something so deadly with the addition of a few simple ingredients. Watching Rahadin work is a spectacle to behold; he works with the speed and expertise of a man who has done this countless times before. Given what she knows about elves, it would not surprise her if he had practiced his craft for centuries now. 

Gertruda watches with curiosity while Rahadin introduces two other liquids into the mix, explaining what each one is along the way, before transferring them into a separate vessel that he hangs over a small, contained fire upon the worktable. 

“Now we simply allow that to simmer and cool before straining and transferring the poison to vials,” Rahadin explains. He straightens his posture, brushing dust from his thighs where they had touched the dirty table. Gertruda catches the word boors being muttered under his breath. 

Gertruda scans the shelves lining the room with their various stacks of glass jars and bottles. If the faded labels are to be believed, their contents are quite curious: eye of newt, eyelashes, bat guano. For the life of her, Gertruda cannot think of why anybody would need such seemingly random (and vile) ingredients. She’s read stories about witches mixing strange things in their cauldrons, but she had assumed that that was purely fictional. She has been wrong before though, she supposes. 

Feeling rather bold, Gertruda takes advantage of her master’s distractedness to observe him. As usual, his arms are crossed behind his back, his attention directed towards some sort of star chart adorning the far wall. Save for the dark vein-lined circles beneath his eyes, he looks relatively well, which confuses Gertruda all the more. She is certain that she watched him die not four days earlier; one does not survive having their throat ripped out so savagely. And yet here he is standing before her, flesh and blood and very much alive. A part of her knows that there is something abnormal about His Lordship and his consort, but for some reason, she cannot find it in herself to care. Why would she be afraid of them when they, particularly His Lordship, have been so kind to her? 

She is left with more questions than answers, but she has been in Rahadin’s company for long enough now to know that he would not welcome such direct questions.

Despite this, her curiosity ultimately gets the better of her, Gertruda asks after a moment, “Your Excellency, how are you?”

Rahadin whips his head around to set her with a steely glare. “Waiting patiently.”

“No, but…” She shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. “How are you? Really?”

There is a pause, her master continuing to stare her down as if trying to read into her very soul. “Why do you ask?”

Gertruda slaps a hand to her chest in mock offense in an attempt to lighten the otherwise awkward situation. “Is a lady not allowed to ask someone about their wellbeing?” Noticing that the elf does not even crack a smile, her hand falls back to her side. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I do genuinely wish to know. After the other night… When you… When you…” Her voice falters.

“When I perished?”

“...Yes.”

“Mm.” Rahadin sighs. He turns his back to Gertruda, uncrossing his arms from behind his back and leaning against the wide table instead. His voice takes on an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “I am fine and am obviously not dead. Do not concern yourself with my wellbeing, girl.”

Gertruda blinks up at him with upturned brows, unconvinced. She doesn’t know why she even asked; it’s not as if Rahadin would tell her even if things weren’t okay. The elf is a closed book at all times, much to her disappointment. She does genuinely hope he is okay. More than anything, she is grateful that the two of them—His Lordship and His Excellency—are alive. 

There is a lot to be grateful for. She is grateful to have work and opportunities to learn. She is grateful to have been afforded such an opportunity to support her poor, sickly mother. She is grateful to have a place to sleep where insects don’t crawl over her legs at night—and a castle, nonetheless! Like something straight out of the fairytales. 

Even though her master may be cruel at times and yell at her and backhand her when she does something wrong, he certainly means well. Men with dark hearts do not care deeply about gardens or fall in love. Gertruda reminds herself of this often, especially when his words bring her to tears. Besides, His Lordship had said that Rahadin would take care of her. That she could trust the both of them. She trusts that His Lordship would not lie to her about such things.

The dynamic between the two men is an interesting one. In the many moons she has been a guest at Castle Ravenloft, she can count on one hand the number of times she had seen His Lordship and his consort in the same space together, and one of those times Strahd had seemingly killed Rahadin. His Excellency had said that they were married, and yet they do not hug and hold hands as her mother and late father had once upon a time. When they’re not being loud in their lovemaking—Morninglord help her for forgetting to refill her water pitcher earlier in the day—their interactions seem to be characterized by hostility more than anything; the two of them try their best not to show it in her presence, she’s deduced, yet she can see the coldness in Rahadin’s eyes when he looks upon His Excellency. 

Rahadin’s adenoidal voice tears Gertruda from her thoughts. “From your readings: how long should the poultice simmer for?”

She knows this one! Her voice comes out louder than intended, “Until enough water is evaporated that it thickens into a syrup-like consistency!”

“And how many drops of alcohol are initially instilled?”

“Ten drops—no more, no less!”

Rahadin nods his head. “Well done.”

Gertruda’s chest swells with pride at the rare praise from her master of all people. She thinks she’s starting to garner an understanding of this whole poison business! A part of her wishes that His Excellency would allow her more hands-on experience with this process, but she understands that it is a dangerous process as well. All things in time, she supposes. 

A loud clang! followed by several voices cackling from the adjacent room has Gertruda almost jumping out of her skin. Arms crossed over her chest, she casts a glance between her master and the door separating them from the witches. 

Rahadin merely sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let us strain and bottle this so that we may get out of here. Ideally, those crones will be done with their infernal racket by tomorrow. If not, well…” Rahadin lifts his eyes towards Gertruda from behind his hand, “I suppose they will serve as an opportunity to test the potency of the poison, hm?”

If that’s his idea of a joke, it’s not a very good one, Gertruda thinks, being mindful to keep the frown off of her face lest His Excellency take offense. Despite herself, a shiver runs down her spine at the idea of twisted old women asphyxiating on the floor from their poisoned wounds. She’ll leave the testing to him. She gives a small smile anyway. “Certainly!”

“Your enthusiasm is… peculiar. Go retrieve the tongs from the back shelf. We must remove this from the flame before it scalds.”

“Yes, sir!”

Rahadin needing time takes the form of the dusk elf avoiding him for a little over a moon. 

It's not the first time his consort has resorted to such measures; in fact, he's become rather accustomed to it. Strahd hardly bats an eye anymore when the days stretch on without him having seen hide nor hair of the man. Rahadin knows the ins and outs and secret passages of the castle as well as he does. Much like a misanthropic cat, if he does not want to be seen, then he is well-equipped to make it so.

Strahd bides his time in the meanwhile, filling his days with other activities that don't involve the elf: reading, hunting, copying spell scrolls, bedding his other consorts. Activities that, after having centuries of time to dedicate to them, have become rather boring. Mundane.

When Rahadin finally does knock upon his door, Strahd practically gives a sigh of relief; while Rahadin's company always brings with it a slew of headaches as of late, at least he's entertaining. The intrusion comes while Strahd is dressing in his quarters. The dusk elf knows well enough the sole two activities that take place in there since Strahd’s turning, and Strahd finds it odd that he would choose to approach him here of all places. 

He doesn’t bother looking up from tying his cravat. “Enter.”

As instructed, Rahadin pushes open the door and steps inside with a slight bow. He looks far livelier than the last few times Strahd had seen him. Well-rested—as much as one can be whilst undead. There’s a certain spark in his dark eyes that has been missing for some time. 

“My lord. My apologies for interrupting at such an unfavorable time.”

He fully doubts that the elf had not been aware that it would be an unfavorable time. At least he hadn't decided to knock when he was in the midst of intimacy. “Morninglord above, Rahadin, you might have seen me nude of all things. Think of how the townspeople would talk. Scandalous, truly.” Strahd rolls his eyes, but a playful smirk toys at the corners of his lips. “As long as you do not hear the sounds of passion coming from within, I truly do not mind you entering my quarters.”

Rahadin's expression remains impassive, unaffected by Strahd's attempt at humor. If anything, he only stands up straighter. “Familiarity is not a reason to excuse propriety—as you remind me frequently. You are my lord first and foremost.”

A part of him wonders if all dusk elves are stodgy to a fault or simply if the sole one with no sense of humor was drawn to him. Strahd waves a dismissive hand to change the topic. This one is certainly not going anywhere. “It Is good to see you, Rahadin. Feeling better, I trust?”

There is a pause, one that does not go unnoticed, before Rahadin answers, “Yes.” The inflection of the word leads Strahd to believe that there had been more to follow, but his chamberlain wisely decides to leave it at that.

“Good. In that case, you may be of service to me for a brief moment.” Strahd tugs the final loop of his cravat snug against his throat before going to sit upon the four poster bed occupying the middle of the room. He gestures to the spot before him. “I wish for my hair to be braided this evening. I could certainly do it myself, but not being able to view my own reflection makes it difficult to ascertain whether the braids are even.”

Another pause, then, “Certainly.” After retrieving two pieces of ribbon from the dressing table,  Rahadin approaches him and settles into the space between Strahd’s bent legs. It’s an exceedingly intimate position, one that neither of them would have dared to initiate just a handful of years ago even as brothers in arms. Without a word but with the efficiency of someone who has done this countless times before, he begins to section off pieces of Strahd‘s hair, pulling the hair at his temples over his shoulders.

With his face at the level of Rahadin’s chest, Strahd can smell the scent of turned earth that clings to his skin and the perfume of death beneath that. He observes the look of concentration on the man’s face as he sets to work, carefully dividing the left section of hair into three pieces before beginning to braid them.

“You seem to be in high spirits. Will you be going somewhere this evening, my lord?” Rahadin asks after a moment.

“Indeed. I am meeting with an acquaintance in Vallaki.”

“Lady Wachter?”

“No. I don’t believe you’ve met this individual before.”

“I see.” He does not pry further.

A long silence follows. Strahd contemplates bringing up their most recent sparring match, clearing the air on any points of contention, but ultimately decides against it—no use in getting the dusk elf riled up all over again. Instead, he allows his eyes to close in a rare moment of vulnerability, finding comfort in the feeling of lithe fingers running through his hair. With practiced motions, Rahadin ties off one braid with ribbon, and then the other.

“There,” Rahadin says with finality.

Curious, Strahd picks up one thick braid and observes it before observing the other. As usual, the braids are even and neat—admittedly far better than he could do on his own even with a mirror. He nods his head in appreciation before unceremoniously dropping the braids back over his shoulders.

Rahadin does not move, instead continuing to share his space even after having been acknowledged.

“...My thanks.”

“You are quite welcome, my lord.”

Still the dusk elf remains between his legs. He shifts from foot to foot, his fingers tapping at his thighs. Strahd places his hands upon his knees and quirks an eyebrow at his consort. Growing impatient, he curtly prompts, “Yes?”

After a moment, Rahadin tilts his chin. Without a word, he squares himself and brings a hand up to cup Strahd's jaw. Suspicion mounting, Strahd does not tear his gaze away from Rahadin's face—until that same hand pushes forcefully at his chest. It catches Strahd off guard enough that his back meets the bed. He hardly has enough time to make sense of just what is happening before Rahadin is crawling on top of him, his pointed features blocking the view of the ceiling. Despite being a fully grown man, his weight is negligible.

Both his eyebrows raise, particularly when the dusk elf crushes his lips into his. It's a harsh kiss, all teeth and tongue and devoid of any passion or nuance, but it's the first kiss Rahadin has initiated in moons. It's that fact alone that has Strahd leaning into the embrace, dormant heat unfurling behind his stomach. His fingers curl into the fabric of Rahadin's doublet.

Lips trail down his jaw, his Adam's apple, nipping and licking all the while. Strahd cranes his neck, giving him access to as much skin as possible despite the cravat. He's not particularly worried about being bitten; from his experience, vampire blood is undesirable—bitter and not at all plentiful. His chamberlain would not be so unwise as to try and bite out his throat here and now. 

He allows it. For now.

With his forearms framing Strahd's head, Rahadin murmurs against his throat, “Strahd… I wish to take you…”

Taken aback, Strahd almost bucks off the smaller vampire. He's able to rein in his shock, however, his knees jerking only slightly. His mouth suddenly feels incredibly dry. 

“...Ah,” Strahd manages to rasp out, putting in effort to keep his voice steady. “...Well this is rather sudden. I'm used to at least some foreplay before such things are suggested.”

A dry laugh is torn from the dusk elf's throat. It rumbles against Strahd's chest. “Foreplay. I know that Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia, the master of spontaneity, did not just suggest a preference for foreplay.”

His nose crinkles. “On the rare occasions I care about the individual and see them as more than a vessel for my pleasure? Yes. Count yourself honored.”

Another bark of forced laughter. “Yes, yes, of course, my lord. Forgive me for assuming otherwise.”

Having had enough of his disrespect, Strahd reaches up to flip their positions. Before he can get a grip on the elf's narrow hips, his own wrists are pinned down above his head with lightning-like reflexes. Stunned once more by such impropriety, all he can do is blink up at Rahadin.

His typical adenoidal voice drops into an attempted purr. Coming from him, it sounds more menacing than alluring. He repeats, “I wish to take you.”

Strahd swallows. ”Where has this sudden fixation come from?” His voice comes out softer than he had intended.

“It's hardly a sudden fixation. I feel it would be enjoyable—for the both of us.” He pauses. “Something for us to try.”

He flexes his forearms beneath Rahadin's grip. “Try? If memory serves, I've already allowed you to fuck me.”

“And each time, it is something that you have sought out on your own accord. It was you that wished to be in the midst of three other men, you that wished to pleasure yourself on my—” he clears his throat, allowing his words to trail off. “Allow me to take care of you, Strahd.”

He's not a fool; he's more than aware that there must be something else to this, an ulterior motive perhaps, besides simply wanting ‘to take care’ of him. Yet for the life of him, he cannot think of what it may be. He's lain with the elf enough times to know that while he does enjoy being the dominant one on the rare occasion, he prefers a stern hand. That, and he knows better than to frequently assume dominance lest Strahd interpret it as a challenge. It is him that is his lord, his master. Him that commands this valley. Not the other way around.

It's not that he particularly dislikes being entered. Riding. Just the opposite; after centuries of existence, it is a nice change to the monotony that the prim and proper — dull— sex expected of nobility can be. When it is on his terms.

Allowing Rahadin the honor to direct him is a treat. Nothing else. If a pet is allowed to indulge too frequently, then they become bold. Assumptuous. They develop an air of entitlement. He does not want his elf to become spoiled.

Interrupting his thoughts, Rahadin says, “You trust me, yes?”

Strahd pauses, then, “The Rahadin I knew a year ago? With my life.” He carefully observes the dusk elf’s face, not missing the way he visibly flinches at his words—their intended effect. The grip on his wrists lessens slightly until Rahadin apparently shakes himself from his thoughts. 

“Then trust me now. Let me take care of you, Strahd.” Another pause, catching himself, then, “I will not push you to oblige, of course.”

If he’s not trying to sway him, then he’s doing a poor job at it, Strahd thinks with an audible exhale from his nose. “Again, I hardly think this is about wanting to see to my needs over your own—whatever those may be. But… Fine.” He adds as an afterthought, “Do not expect this to become a regular thing.”

His thin lips widen into the suggestion of a smile. “Of course, my lord.”

“Get on with it, then.”

“Of course.” With that, Rahadin sits up, still straddling his hips. Strahd flexes his forearms—they no doubt would have fallen asleep if blood still ran through his veins—before resting his hands on the elf’s knees. When Rahadin goes to undo the cravat at his throat, he swats his hands away.

Strahd lifts his chin. “I just tied the damned thing. Leave it be.” More than anything, he does not have the patience to deal with mundane things such as clothes at that moment, no motivation to unfasten the copious amounts of buttons and ties between them. 

A pause, then, “As you wish. On your knees.”

Not without his fair share of grumbling, Strahd obliges— reluctantly. He pushes Rahadin off of his hips, sending him toppling upon the bed, and positions himself on hands and knees. As the son of a king, he has never been well acquainted with following orders. Following orders is for the common man. Soldiers. 

Never in his life did he think he would be following the orders of his own men. 

His head hangs between his shoulders. He feels the bed shift and a hand running along his lower back, resulting in him raising his head and squaring his shoulders; if he’s going to be embarrassed, then he might as well not look like a milk-drinking craven while being fucked into the mattress. 

The bed dips behind him, and legs nestle up beside his own. That hand continues to run along his back, bunching up the fabric of his undershirt in its wake, before it trails to his hips and settles at his navel. His little finger dips beneath the waistband of his pants before he begins to graze his palm across the, honestly humiliating, hardness in his trousers. Strahd tries his hardest not to react, even when the elf loosely grabs him through the fabric. Despite Strahd’s intentional passivity, Rahadin lets out a satisfied hum. 

“I've given you quite a bit of freedom where intimacy is involved—arguably more than I have given anyone else,” Strahd grumbles. “Again, count yourself honored.”

Much to his frustration, Rahadin does not respond. Instead, he begins to unfasten Strahd's trousers, slowly, languidly. His pants and braies are shucked down to the bend of his knees, leaving him feeling rather exposed. Cold hands begin to explore newly bared expanses of skin peppered with dark hair, paying special attention to the dense cords of muscle of his thighs. 

The bed continues to shift, and Strahd feels Rahadin's calves bracing his own. The sound of rustling fabric and of leather cord being pulled, and— fuck , a hand wrapped around his bare length, firmly but languidly stroking him at the base. Strahd curses his body for reacting so strongly to the attention.

Rahadin leans over him as if he is no more than a bitch in heat and hisses in his ear, “Why don't you use one of your little magic tricks and retrieve your oil from the bedside table, hm?” His manhood settles against Strahd's tailbone.

“Careful.”

Strahd takes strong offense to his manipulation of the weave being referred to as magic tricks. Magic tricks are falsities performed at carnivals; he, on the other hand, has spent his life perfecting his arcane craft. Rahadin knows this; It's blatant disrespect. He has half a mind to ignore him until he's addressed with the proper respect he deserves, but he also knows this will be far more enjoyable if he just retrieves the damned thing.

His motions curt, Strahd mutters under his breath and snaps the fingers of his right hand, drawing upon his intangible connection to the weave just as easily as he once breathed. A brief static causes the hair along his arms to raise, and in a flash of blue light a shimmering, detached hand appears before the two of them. Strahd mentally orders the mage hand to open the drawer of the bedside table and retrieve the vial of lubricant he had created for intentions other than this. With more force than necessary, the spectral hand throws it at Rahadin before fizzling out.

Having caught the bottle with quickened reflexes, Rahadin tsks before uncorking the bottle. Strahd’s ears are met with the wet shlicking sound of the dusk elf assumedly greasing up his own length.

A heavy ball of lead settles into the pit of Strahd's stomach. He swallows. “It's odd, having you in a position such as this. I'm so used to seeing you in a state of submission, groveling at my boots and begging for my cock like a—” 

With one hand, Rahadin pulls Strahd's arm out from beneath him, sending his torso crashing into the bed. The nobleman lets out a surprised noise that borders on a yelp. “My state of being is neither one of groveling nor begging. Behave.”

“To the Nine Hells with you!” Strahd hisses, baring his fangs.

Like a misbehaving welp being forced to own up to its messes, Rahadin presses Strahd's head into the comforter with his other hand. “Behave,” he repeats again, voice dropping into a low growl. 

Something wet presses against his entrance, and the muscles of Strahd's legs instinctively tense. The bed shifts, and the head of Rahadin's cock bullies its way inside him. Despite himself, Strahd sucks in air through clenched teeth. This isn't the first time he's done this, but each time that initial push catches him off guard. Coupled with regenerative abilities, his pain tolerance is especially high. But this discomfort is something else, something intimate and heady and tight . Having no preparation—not that he would allow it even if asked—only adds to it. 

The dusk elf rocks his hips, gradually nudging him open and easing himself deeper

without hardly giving him any time to adjust. A growl that borders on a whine is torn from Strahd's throat. Deeper still, until Rahadin's hips are flush against his backside, and only then does the elf give him a break. Rahadin lets out a groan of his own, far less reticent than his master in such a position.

The hand holding his arm against the mattress lets up, but the one against his head remains. It's embarrassing, and Strahd absolutely despises it, he convinces himself.

He thinks of all manner of things he's going to do to the dusk elf once this is over. How he will seek retribution. He could return the gesture, but he knows that Rahadin subconsciously craves being made to submit. Perhaps he will take him and have one of his consorts watch. Or, with his consent, utilize some sort of magic to pin him in place. Unseen Servant could prove entertaining, or Black Tentacles—

He's torn from his thoughts when Rahadin begins to move his hips, pulling out enough to where it's just the head of his cock inside before sinking all the way back in. Strahd grunts, his body bracing, the muscles of his neck tensing beneath Rahadin's palm. He glares angrily at the ruffled comforter, pretending that it's his chamberlain he's channeling all of his distaste at instead.

The dusk elf thrusts into him in earnest, his hips finding a steady, even pace. With his cock dragging across the concentrated bundle of pleasure within him that has Strahd's claws instinctively curling into the comforter, no doubt tearing holes into the thick fabric, the discomfort soon becomes mixed with a heady buzz.

For a brief moment, he can feel the weight of his responsibility, the pressure of his position, fade to a hum in the background as he loses himself in the fog of intimacy, his thoughts drowned out by the sound of skin meeting skin. Rahadin's cock hard and heavy inside him, and the cloying scent of arousal all around, feeling his fingers wrap around him like a vice as he holds his hips down and refuses to let him move. With a stuttering exhale, Strahd's eyes flutter shut.

“See how good this feels when you, ah… When you actually cooperate?”

It's a brief moment. Strahd's eyes snap open, and he's back to staring down the comforter. “Shut the fuck up, Rahadin. Your voice…” His words trail off when a particularly hot wave of ecstasy curls behind his stomach. “Ngh, fuck … Gives me a headache.”

Rahadin doesn't initially respond, instead giving a breathy groan of his own. Long strands of his hair drape across Strahd's shoulder blades. “Be-Behave, Strahd…”

The elf is quickly becoming unwound. Strahd can hear the desperation in his voice, feel the way his motions are becoming more frantic. If he wanted to—and he does—he could so easily pin Rahadin onto his back right now, flip their roles and ride him until his orgasm takes him. Knowing him, his weak-willed consort would finish the moment he pinned his wrists to the bed. But he's come this far; if perceived control pacifies the savage elf, then he can make do.

A smirk spreads across Strahd's face. Just because he’s pacifying his consort does not mean that he can't have a little fun with it. “Or else what, Rahadin?”

He's far too gone to retaliate if the string of breathy pants that border on whines that leave his mouth is any indication. The grip on his hip tightens, the hand between his shoulder blades pressing down harder. Before Strahd can threaten the elf with violence if he finishes inside him—there's only so much that he's willing to put up with—Rahadin's hips stutter, and Strahd is suddenly aware of his seed being pumped inside him, his hips pressed firmly against his backside. Panting turns into a drawn-out groan that almost resembles Strahd's name. 

It might have been erotic, the feeling of cock pulsing inside him, had circumstances been different. Had propriety been followed and  Strahd reached his orgasm first. Instead, the nobleman is filled with only smug distaste and spite.

The moment Rahadin stops lazily thrusting into him, Strahd growls, “Get off.”

With a stuttering exhale through his nose, Rahadin obliges, removing his hand from between Strahd's shoulders and pulling out. Strahd can't help but wince at not only the feeling of wetness that begins to run down his inner thigh, but the sudden feeling of emptiness he's left with as well. He pushes himself up onto his calves, using his right hand to push stray strands of hair away from his face. 

His manhood twitches up against the smooth fabric of his shirt. “What are you going to do to remedy this?” Strahd growls, meeting Rahadin's eyes. “I explicitly recall having spent countless hours of my time with you to ensure that you didn't finish before me. Utter disappointment...” It's hard maintaining a stern face, his front of rancor, while his manhood twitches against his abdomen.

Propped up on his knees as well, Rahadin presses the heel of his hands to his eyes before trailing his hands down his face. The look on his face is one of bedraggled agitation. “What is it you want?” he asks pointedly.

“That question enters dangerous territory.”

A bark of laughter, one that sounds more tired than mocking. “As if that bothers me at this point.”

Strahd pauses for a moment. He's growing especially tired of Rahadin's lack of decorum. Given his chamberlain's current impudence, he debates whether he wants to hurt or seduce—such a thin line dividing the two at that moment. Whether he'd rather safeguard his honor or take care of his aching needs. He supposes he could oblige both by fulfilling one of Rahadin's masochistic fantasies, but it would hardly teach him a lesson at that point. Just the opposite, if he knows him well enough.

“Ideally?” Strahd shifts on his knees, closing the distance between them. He brings a thumb up to Rahadin's chin and tilts his head, his voice stern. “To restrain you to this bed and use you for my pleasure whenever the mood strikes me. Your mouth. Your body. Perhaps for only the evening… Perhaps for the week.” To return the favor.

Despite the irritated look on his face, Strahd feels the elf's manhood twitch between their bodies. It's enough to have the corners of Strahd's mouth curve up. His own irritation begins to lift. “Mm. Interested?”

Rahadin's brow creases as if conflicted, before he gives his answer in the form of pushing at Strahd's chest with enough strength to send him onto his back upon the bed. “Fine. But you get one evening, Strahd. One. I have things to do, after all.”

Strahd lets out an airy chuckle, even as Rahadin positions himself over his hips and begins to unfasten his cravat. He lets him, knowing fully well the intended use for the expensive crimson fabric. A belt or spell may be better suited to their needs—he wants it to hurt, pay back for demeaning him—but goes along with it for now. “One evening is all I need, darling. But know that I do fully intend to make the best of it.”

Once the cravat is pulled free from his neck, Strahd takes it upon himself to switch their positions, none-too-gently shoving the dusk elf towards the bed’s headboard.

Chapter Text

Rahadin pulls his wool cowl up over his head. While he may no longer feel the cold, Strahd had made a point of mentioning that his appendages were still susceptible to freezing; if his lord is to be believed, he'd much rather not have to deal with the pain of frostbitten ears.

Squinting against the ice pelting his face, he trudges on. The snow is almost up to the knee of his phantom steed. Thankfully, the spectral horse does not seem to be deterred by its icy journey, its hooves ghosting through the snow as if it were nonexistent. 

A hand taps at Rahadin's shoulder. “Are we almost there yet?” Maxwell shouts from behind him over the roar of the wind. 

Rahadin rolls his eyes. The red-skinned tiefling, the braggadocious, pathetic worm-turned-vampire-spawn, is the last person he wants riding with him. Just as in life, the man has a way of grating on his nerves like no other. Despite his intense dislike of him, Rahadin could not look past the usefulness of having the adventurers’ former peer joining him on a confrontation mission. So he bites his tongue.

“Soon,” replies Rahadin, offering no further explanation. 

After what feels like hours of trekking, Rahadin pulls their horse to a stop. A smile spreads across his face.

Footprints. Fresh, about three or four pairs. Whatever spell they had been using to cover their tracks must have worn off. Rahadin tilts his head up and scents the air. Beyond the crisp scent of pine and ice, he can make out the warm, buttery smell of thinking creatures. The sweat and faint soap on their skin. They must have been through here about two hours ago by his estimate. 

“What do you see? Are those footprints?” Maxwell shouts. 

As usual, Rahadin ignores him. With a fresh wave of determination, the vampire digs his heels into the horse, urging it into a gallop.

The prints quickly become filled with snow, but Rahadin's keen eyes are able to pick them out through the storm. Mount Ghakis is cruel, but it's far crueler to those that have not spent half a millennium navigating its overgrown switchbacks.

Upon the horizon, Rahadin makes out four slow-moving forms against the blanket of white.

Wonderful.

“We are fast approaching your friends.” Rahadin glances over his shoulder. “Do you remember your role, tiefling?”

Maxwell gives a mock salute. 

“Good. Impress me, and I may give you your pick from the larders when we return to Ravenloft.”

“Aye aye, Cap’n!”

Once more, Rahadin kicks the spectral steed. The distance between the two groups is quickly closed. A male voice shouts a warning call into the wind, and the four travelers stop dead in their tracks. Rahadin brings his horse to a stop twenty feet away.

From atop the animal, the dusk elf gives a slow look over the group. He recognizes three of its members from Strahd’s unnecessary dinner party: the bald brute, the rude child, and the loud-mouthed bard. The fourth face amongst the group is intimately familiar, and it causes Rahadin’s blood to boil in his veins.

Kasimir.

He’s quick to push his resentment aside for the moment. He is on a mission, after all, and his work will always take priority. Rahadin clears his throat. “Greetings. Balderich, Minerva, Rictavio…” his gaze pans along the group, “Kasimir.” It fills him with sick delight watching their eyes go wide, the tremble that settles into Kasimir’s hands. 

A shrill voice cuts through the blizzard. “Maxwell!” Minerva, the feisty child, goes to step towards them, but a large hand on her shoulder pulls her back. 

From the corner of his eye, Rahadin notices Maxwell wave at her.

“What do you want, villain?” Balderich growls, his hand still on the girl’s shoulder.

Ignoring the question for a moment, Rahadin’s gaze settles on the opposing dusk elf. He speaks slowly, “Kasimir… You know you are not to leave the Vistani encampment. Does Luvash know that you have ventured out this far?” He clicks his tongue in mocking disappointment.

Kasimir says nothing, just continues to stare up at him like a bird caught beneath a cat’s paw. He can hear his frail little heart hammering away in his chest. The foul stench of salt and sweat, of stress, meets his nostrils.   

Shaking his head, Rahadin returns his attention to the rest of the group. “I come as chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft and on behalf of Count Strahd von Zarovich, ruler of Barovia. It was brought to His Lordship’s attention that a very important item of his was stolen. As this item holds some significance, His Lordship would like it returned.” His fingers tap along the leather reins of his horse. “A silver statuette depicting a kneeling figure, approximately 12-inches tall. It had previously resided in Ravenloft’s chapel before it was rudely stolen from its resting place. Does this sound familiar?”

Recognition flashes in Minerva’s eyes, and Rahadin can’t help but smile. “Ah, I believe you do know what it is I’m referring to. I can promise you that this item holds no importance to you, but does hold much historical significance to the people of this valley. Return the statuette post-haste, and His Lordship has promised to forgive and forget.”

Balderich’s eyes narrow. “And if we don’t?”

Rahadin sighs loudly through his nose. He had really hoped that this would be a quick endeavor, but he also does not mind spilling blood if it comes down to it. “Then you would be branded as thieves and enemies of the valley. His Lordship shows little mercy to thieves as I’m sure you know, and I can assure you that you do not want to anger him more than you already have.”

Balderich lets out a bark of a laugh. “And what will he do? Threaten to dance with us? Feed us until we fall into a food coma? Send more of his little puppies and bats after us?” His hand goes to rest upon the hilt of the ax at his hip. “Please. The Devil does not frighten us.”  

Rahadin reaches behind himself to grab something from his steed’s saddle bags. He places a burlap sack into Maxwell’s outstretched hands and shoots him a knowing look. “This does not have to end in bloodshed. Place the statuette in the bag, and I will be on my way. I will even let you hold onto your friend Maxwell here if you so desire.”

At that, Maxwell slides off of the horse, bag in hand, and makes a disgruntled noise when he falls almost up to his knees in the snow. Slowly, he approaches the group with the bag held out, a small smile of reassurance on his face. 

Minerva looks from Maxwell to Rahadin and back to Maxwell, a look of dawning horror upon her pallid face. She jerks her head towards the dusk elf, snarling. “What did you do to him?!”

“Minerva, please,” Maxwell takes another step forward, “I want to go home. Just… just give him the statue. Please.”

His words cause Minerva to falter. She looks over her shoulder at Balderich, searching for reassurance, before turning back to Maxwell. Her lips press into a thin line, and she spends several moments staring at him, contemplating.

Rahadin finds himself staring at Kasimir, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow the miserable, disobedient wretch whole. The other dusk elf is hardly dressed for the weather, wearing only ill-fitting robes that drag behind him in the snow; it has been some time since he has seen him wear the robes of a spellcaster and not some tattered excuse of a tunic. A hood is pulled up over his head—an attempt at disguising his maimed ears rather than protecting himself from the wind, no doubt. The idea of his lowered self-worth does bring Rahadin some small shred of joy.     

Another moment of contemplation, and Minerva, never tearing her eyes away from the tiefling, goes to rummage through her bag. She produces a silver statuette, and Rahadin doesn’t miss the way Maxwell’s bearded face lights up, the dour expression turning into one of genuine joy. Her grip holds fast on the statue at first. “...Am I hearing you right that if I give you this dumb statue, you’ll release my friend?”

Rahadin spreads his hands out before him in a sweeping gesture. “You have my word.”

“I better.” With one hand gripping the base of the statue, Minerva holds the statue out towards Maxwell.

The tiefling smiles. “Thank you, friend.” He takes a step forward and reaches out to take the statue from her. The moment his palm brushes against the silver, Maxwell lets out a yelp of pain and quickly jerks his hand away. Smoke billows from the bubbling skin of his hand, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air. The statue falls into the snow bank.

“Maxwell?” says Minerva, her tone one of concern.

“Pick it up!” Rahadin hisses. His patience is quickly wearing thin. 

Holding his hand close to his chest, Maxwell looks from Rahadin to the statue wide-eyed. Once more, he reaches down to pick up the relic.

“Not with your bare hands, you idiot!”

It’s too late; the tiefling grabs it with both hands, only to let out another pained whimper. He leaps backward. “I can’t!” 

“Do it!”

Before Maxwell can attempt again, Minerva steps forward to pick the statue up herself. For a moment, she holds it out towards him again before reconsidering, her arms trembling. Her knuckles blanche as her grip on the icon tightens. Finally, she thrusts the statue out, mumbling something under her breath, and a blinding light radiates out from the icon.

A sensation akin to suffocation engulfs Rahadin, his lungs spasming. The air suddenly feels far too thick, sweltering, and the dusk elf grips at his throat. Every inch of his skin itches and burns as if it had suddenly become far too small for his frame. Both he and Maxwell let out a choked noise, and from the corner of his eye, Rahadin notices Maxwell falling onto his back in the snow, his own claws scrabbling at his throat. The strength leaves his thighs, and a moment later Rahadin finds himself sliding from his horse onto his knees. 

A series of garbled words barely cut through the fog encompassing his mind. “What the fuck did you do? What did you do to him?!” Rahadin attempts to suck in a ragged breath into his shriveled lungs, and it feels as if he’s inhaling embers. There’s movement, and the hilt of an ax slams into his forehead, causing his teeth to rattle in his skull. Sharp pain followed by a splitting headache consumes him. With trembling hands, Rahadin attempts to grab the scimitar at his waist, but his right shoulder is then cleaved apart, the head of an ax burying itself several inches deep before being ripped out in a spray of viscous blood. The dusk elf throws his head back in agony, biting his tongue so as to not yell out. 

He needs to think. He needs to act. Something—anything. Fight? Flee? Even sitting here is agony. 

A male voice screams somewhere beside him. Squeezing his eyes shut, Rahadin sucks in as much air as he can into his spasming lungs and envisions his limbs shrinking and contorting. Like two threads being tied together, he connects to that infernal hunger at the very core of his being. His vision blurs, colors become blindingly bright, and a feeling of weightlessness caresses his aching body. He has no idea if the transformation has even worked— Corellon help him, he prays it has— but still he envisions the flapping of wings. A fresh wave of energy surges through him, and he’s flying.

Something—an ax, maybe? He can’t see it clearly—swings at him, but Rahadin is able to get enough lift to dodge it. He hasn’t the slightest idea what’s going on behind him, but every fiber of his being urges him to flee, run, hide. Even as a bat, his lightly-furred skin still burns like nothing else. Something is shouted—maybe it’s being yelled at him, he’s not certain—but it barely registers in his pain-addled mind. 

Rahadin doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back, until he’s crossed the drawbridge of Castle Ravenloft. 

He catches up to Rahadin just as the dusk elf is pushing the lid off of his coffin in the catacombs. 

Even from just that initial glance, Strahd can tell that something is off. That something’s wrong. There’s the stale tang of iron in the air, but it’s not cloying like the blood of humanoids is. There’s the dragging sound of a boot against stone, his gait abnormal and not its typical even paces. His long black hair, usually well-kept when he’s not in one of his sulking phases, hangs in a state of disarray over his face. 

Yet most notably, he had not reported to him first about his victory before going to rest. He can infer that he’s been injured in some capacity. 

Strahd’s grip upon the door frame tightens. “Rahadin.”

His consort’s body stiffens. The face that turns towards him is caked in crimson, bloodshot eyes peering at him from behind tangled hair. Through the strands of his hair, Strahd can make out an actively shrinking blossom of a bruise across his forehead. His right arm hangs limply at his side, a large wound bisecting his shoulder. One leg in the coffin, Rahadin whispers, “Yes?”

A number of thoughts cross through his mind. You look like horse shit chief among them, followed by a whisper of concern. “Full-fledged vampire or not, I am still your lord, and you are to report to me first—lest you’ve forgotten.”

Rahadin doesn’t move. If anything, his body only tenses further. “…You didn’t tell me the nature of the icon.”

“Why would I? It’s sat in my chapel for centuries now. You were there when it was given to me by the late Ciril Romulich. You were there when it was used to initially consecrate these grounds. You knew—“

“You know what I mean, Strahd.” He swallows, thick and wet. It sounds painful. “That is no ordinary holy relic. That I could have dealt with. This—”

“You also should have been able to deal with.” Strahd lets out a long sigh through his nose, his suspicions confirmed. His disappointment is immeasurable.

“If my spouse cared the slightest about me, I would have. But instead, I was caught unaware.” He coughs into the crook of his sleeve; the acrid bite of iron in the air grows stronger. He breathes a wet, ragged breath through his mouth. “You purposefully withheld information from me that would have made my task far easier. You knew that that icon was more than a simple symbol, didn't you, Strahd?”

“Just admit that you’ve failed me and we shall move on.”

“Didn’t you?!”

Strahd's brows knit together. He's very much not appreciating the accusatory tone. “I did, but not to what extent. You forget that I have not been able to touch the damned thing for four centuries, Rahadin.”

“Then why didn’t you have one of the servants move it if you had even an inkling that it was dangerous?!” He sucks in another breath through clenched teeth, and his eyes squeeze shut. He grabs at the air with his left hand. “The plan was to be simple. Efficient. I was to approach the brigands and persuade them to wrap the icon in fabric before placing it in my saddle bags. No blood was to be spilled. Simple. Efficient.” He spits the words. “Instead, they-they prayed upon that thrice-damned icon or something, and I found that I could hardly move from my horse. When they drew their blades against me, I found that I couldn’t even maintain my grip on my scimitar. I was able to resist that caustic aura enough to make my escape after suffering several wounds, Strahd, but your other insufferable child was not as lucky.”

Rahadin smiles, baring blood-stained teeth. “Yes. I failed you—but not as much as you have failed your oldest friend.” A coughing fit wracks his slender frame. When he pulls his face away from his sleeve, Strahd notes that it's flecked with fresh crimson. Cursing under his breath in Elvish, Rahadin lowers himself on trembling legs to sit upon the lip of his coffin. 

Strahd's face remains impassive despite the daggers being hurled at him. Were it but a year ago, the idea of having failed his master would have brought his chamberlain much shame. Failure was not a word in his vocabulary. There were numerous occasions in which Rahadin had stayed out for moons in pursuit of fulfilling Strahd's wishes. His own death was never a deterrent as he knew Strahd's wrath would be far worse. A good elf. A good, loyal elf.

This is very clearly not his chamberlain from one year ago. Defeated by a paltry statuette… He’d expect as much from a spawn, perhaps, but a full-fledged vampire? One that he himself had personally turned and tutored? The idea is enough to have Strahd's lip curling subconsciously. “You’ve failed me.” He mutters the words more to himself than anything. 

It gives him a small sense of satisfaction how, after several moments of holding his gaze, challenging him, he finally bows his head. At least he still has some sense of shame beneath that ever-thickening armor of pride. He may challenge him—and frequently, at that—but some small part of the dusk elf ultimately knows whose thumb he is under. 

Sitting there soaked in blood, his face occasionally twisting in pain as his wounds heal, his consort looks small beneath the layers of his winter clothes, dwarfed by the coffin he sits upon. Like a guilty child. 

To say that he is pissed would be an understatement; through Rahadin’s foolishness, he had lost not only the icon, but an exceptionally useful pawn as well. He would have to attempt to reach out to Maxwell later, see if that pack of thieves had killed their former ally or not. It would take time and resources—two things he’s not particularly eager to spend at the moment. Yet despite his anger and disappointment, something in his heart twists. Sitting with whatever damned emotion it may be attempting to crest, it strikes Strahd that it may be relief that the dusk elf is, relatively speaking, unharmed. 

To have his chamberlain taken from him… That would be an inconvenience. That would no doubt cause him to strike down upon the valley with the thunderous rage of the Nine Hells.

Rahadin is an utter disappointment, yes. One who can anger him like nobody else. But at least he returned home to him. 

His feet carry him towards Rahadin's coffin before he's even cognizant of it; the way the dusk elf's body stiffens at his approach does not go unnoticed. He steps onto the stone dais and past Rahadin into the coffin, a sigh leaving his parted lips as he kneels down to lay down upon the cushioned velvet drapery. His own coffin is far more comfortable and spacious, he notes. As is appropriate for one of his rank. “Rahadin. Join me.”

Rahadin glances at him from the corner of his eye, his jaw clenched. Strahd is more than aware that his chamberlain is very particular about his space. Always has been, even back to when all he had to his name was a cot in his father’s barracks. His preferences matter little to him, however; this is his land, and he steps where he wishes. 

“...I’d rather not,” Rahadin murmurs. 

When the dusk elf does not immediately move, Strahd sighs, “That was an order, Rahadin.”

Those words alone are enough to put him in motion. Almost like a reflex, Rahadin shambles the rest of the way up the dais and practically drags himself into his coffin. Strahd shifts to make more room beside him, but even then it’s a tight fit when his chamberlain eventually does settle in. 

For the sake of space, Strahd pulls the smaller man onto his chest, allowing his chin to rest upon the crown of Rahadin's head. In such close proximity, he can hear the quiet, gradual crunch of bones realigning, the wet hiss of sinew weaving itself back together beneath the dusk elf's skin. The scent of blood intensifies tenfold; it makes his gums ache. Inhaling deeply, the smell of blood strongly masks the scent of natural oils and pine in Rahadin’s hair. He runs a thumb along Rahadin’s forearm, feeling the softness of the sable-skin coat he had given him moons ago. Allowing himself to enjoy a brief moment of domesticity, Strahd’s eyes close. 

Rahadin shifts frequently under Strahd’s arm, no doubt trying to find a comfortable position that accommodates his wounds. There’s little room to change positions, and ultimately the dusk elf ends up pressed against his chest once more.

“I find your presence comforting. Even if you reek of blood.” Strahd murmurs against Rahadin’s hair. “Once you are healed, we shall discuss how both you and these thieves will be dealt with.” 

“Mm.” Rahadin sighs loudly through his nose. “They don't fear you, Strahd. These adventurers. Your name no longer invokes terror in the hearts of men as it once did.”

“One paltry group of overconfident outsiders does not Barovia make, Rahadin. Did you happen to ask the commoners their thoughts on me as well, or just this lot? The dusk elves? The Vistani?”

“They laughed at the mention of you.”

“Because they are naive.” Strahd adjusts his position, caring little about if he aggravates Rahadin’s wounds, to glare at him. “What is your purpose in telling me this?” If it’s to put him down, he’s doing a poor job at it. He’s more than aware of the weight his name carries. The moniker The Devil is almost a badge of pride for him. 

“If I may be so bold, Strahd, I feel a show of force may be in order. Something that puts fear into the hearts of not only the commoners, but any wanderers that may find themselves in your land as well.”

“And what is it you are suggesting, Chamberlain?”

“I’ve had a few thoughts.” Rahadin’s eyes fall closed. “While I do so enjoy my, ah, torture sessions, something a bit more public may be in order. A public execution, perhaps. If anything, you need to get your face out in the public. Show the commoners just who it is they swore fealty to and the consequences of opposing you.” He gives a wicked smile. “A reminder, if you will. I do so enjoy watching you paint the streets red with the blood of those that disrespect your law.” 

“Of course you do.” With the hand not pinned by Rahadin’s body weight, Strahd pinches at the bridge of his nose. While he understands their merit, he’s always despised excursions for the sole purpose of being seen. It’s one of the least enjoyable parts of being a ruler. “The thieves will be dealt with in a manner I deem appropriate. Your suggestions will be taken into consideration.”

Rahadin frowns; his answer does not seem to satisfy him. 

“...Do I frighten you?” Strahd asks, quirking an eyebrow. He's not certain what motivated him to ask such a question.

Rahadin scoffs. “Very few things frighten me, and you are not one of them. You never have. I knew you in your second decade of life when you were still a bumbling young human. I hold a great deal of respect for you, Strahd, but it's hard to see past that.” He lifts his chin. “I dare say I know you better than anyone. The real you.”

“Mm. I'm unsure if that's more flattering or insulting.”

“Would you rather I fear you?” Rahadin asks.

It's a good question. Fear certainly does bring its fair share of benefits: loyalty, respect, obedience, solitude. But it forces these traits rather than having earned them. Not to say he hasn't worked hard to earn his reputation; conquering a valley, becoming undead, enforcing his law through bloodshed… These are all things that required quite a bit of effort on his end. 

With his followers, he can earnestly say that he wants to be feared. With Rahadin? It's complicated. Perhaps a bit of fear is what the dusk elf needs right now to set him straight. To put him in his place—vampire or not.

“It is natural to fear that which one does not understand. Not to mention the blood drinking, the undeath, the army of undead followers… It's hard to say whether you are a fool or not.”

“I believe that one of the reasons I have lasted as long as I have at your side is because you enjoy our camaraderie.” Rahadin coughs weakly. “Ultimately, you enjoy having one person at your side who does not serve you out of fear, but respect. Someone who has never been deterred by your nature. It may be prudent for you to continue earning my respect, my lord...”

His words ring alarm bells in Strahd's mind. His lip curls. “Would it, now?” It sounds like a thinly veiled threat, and he is not in the habit of being threatened by those beneath him—no matter who they may be. He pauses for several long moments, waiting for Rahadin to elaborate further. “Or else what, Rahadin?”

Silence.

“Tell me why that may be prudent.”

More silence. 

“Rahadin? I asked you a question.” He nudges the dusk elf with his shoulder, only for him to give no response. Strahd's eyes narrow in on his still form and his slightly parted lips. There's a look of resting peacefulness upon his chamberlain’s face, indistinguishable from the mask of death.

…The bastard had fallen asleep on him.

Strahd has half a mind to violently shake him back into consciousness; he does not appreciate being disrespected like this. He does not speak for his health; as ruler, his words carry significance. Were this anyone else, he might consider locking them in the stocks for a good tenday or so for this impudence. 

Instead, Strahd sighs and allows his gaze to trail up to the stone ceiling of the catacombs and the three bats that are leering back at him. 

For some unthinkable reason, he remains in that coffin until the bats leave for their nightly hunt.

Chapter Text

He’s feeling restless. 

Despite his infinite wells of patience and restraint, he finds himself incapable of stopping his leg from bouncing while he writes. Copying a spellbook, particularly his own spellbook, is an intricate process that requires the utmost concentration; if one word or symbol is misread, it can lead to disastrous consequences. Taking ink to page, copying the complicated strokes of detailed runes… It's imperative that he sit still.

And yet whenever he forces himself to still, his foot subconsciously taps not a moment later.

No use in ruining hours of tedious work. With a deep sigh, Strahd throws his head back and drops his quill back into the ink pot; he’ll clean it later once he's gone on a walk to clear his mind. He snatches up his current spellbook and sets it back in its holster at his hip.

The wind is particularly biting that night and stings his eyes. His dark hair whips around his face. Despite not being able to feel the cold, he pulls his cloak tighter to his frame out of habit and smooths his hair only for it to be blown around again. He begins making his way towards the pulled-up drawbridge that leads to the greater valley.

Strahd cocks his head. Something fluttering in the breeze just past the drawbridge catches his eye. With his darkvision, it's difficult to discern its color, but it appears to be some sort of fabric billowing.

Hardly feeling patient enough to wait for the drawbridge to lower, Strahd inhales deeply to the point it feels like his lungs are going to burst and envisions himself melding with the breeze. Becoming one with the air. Weightless. A lightness comes over him, his senses heavily dulled. Having transformed into a cloud of fog, he wills his shapeless form to glide across the gap left by the raised drawbridge.

Once he's certain his feet can brace upon solid ground, he transforms back into his bipedal form and takes five long strides towards the shape. Quickly closing the distance between him and it, he now notices that the fabric appears to be suspended by a sharpened wooden stake in the ground.

It's then that the stench hits him— rot. Pungent and unmistakable, he knows without a doubt in his mind that something had died—and not recently, either. He has a strong guess as to where it is emanating from. Clenching his fists, Strahd strides towards the stake, black cloak billowing behind him.

His rage catches like a barn full of tinder. One cloudy eye stares lifelessly at him, the other having been snatched by some sort of corvid. The humanoid corpse's cloak flutters around its limp body like a flag of surrender, a wooden stake piercing through its pelvis and out just beneath the jaw. Dried blood, having long since attracted the attention of flies, paints the dirt black around him.

Even in death, he'd recognize that bald head anywhere: Balderich Stonefist. One of the adventurers that had entered his land not long ago. His guest.

That fire is all-consuming, and he can’t see clearly through the smoke of his rage. Frenzied, he whips his head around, scents the air, to see if Balderich’s companions had joined him in his fate. There are no other stakes, and only the goliath's curdled blood hangs in the air.

Strahd snarls at no one in particular. Who in the Nine Hells would oppose him? Him?! He is Barovia’s justice. His word is law. No burgomaster or baron would dare place such a gruesome “offering” so close to his domicile. He'd seen this particular band of adventurers in action; very few in Barovia would even be a match for them. 

His clawed fingers tap against his thighs, his mind sorting through all possibilities of who could have done such a thing. The Vistani and werewolves know well enough not to interfere in his business. 

A name clicks in his mind: Rahadin.

The dusk elf had been insistent on a show of force to demand the respect of the vermin encroaching upon his valley. ‘Something that puts fear into the hearts of not only the commoners, but any wanderers that may find themselves in your land as well,’ he had said but two nights ago. Strahd has known Rahadin long enough to know that power is his primary motivator, both for himself and in those he serves. Those he views as weak are no more than insects to him. From his understanding, it had been perceived weakness in a previous dusk elf ruler that had ultimately alienated him from his kin.

If it had been Rahadin that had staked Balderich… There are implications behind such an act. Sedition, namely, but he knows his chamberlain would not act foolishly solely out of spite. Whatever his purpose had been, whether it was because he thought he was acting in Strahd’s best interest or simply to send a message to him, he is not fond of it. Intentional or not, Rahadin has ruined moons of work and planning through one simple act. 

To put it simply, he’s pissed. More pissed than he’s been at the dusk elf in a long time. He can only hope it hadn’t been Rahadin that had done such a thing—for his sake. 

The scent of his own viscid blood meets Strahd’s nostrils. Looking down, he notices that he has dug his claws into his own thighs, the blood beginning to darken his pants. He blinks; the pain had not even registered in his mind. Pushing his cloak behind him with an angry grunt, Strahd makes his way back into Ravenloft in search of his alleged spouse. 

He storms his way to Rahadin’s office, to his own library, the catacombs, his pathetic little garden. He even speaks to Cyrus about the matter. Rahadin is nowhere to be found, and it only intensifies his anger tenfold; his patience had been depleted long ago. Furious, Strahd storms up the adjacent wall and passes through three ceilings. He makes his way to his laboratory, paying little attention to the surprised grunts of the grizzled hags that call this floor their home as he shoulders past them. 

Dim moonlight filters into the room through the steel lattice squares of two leaded glass windows. Caring little about the jars he sends clattering to the floor in his haste, Strahd grabs a purple-hued jar from the back of a shelf and then a crystal ball from a magically hidden alcove in the wall. He takes a seat at one of several tables scattered about the room and not-so-gently sets the two glass objects down. Opening the jar, Strahd retrieves a lock of raven-colored hair and wraps it around his fist before setting a hand upon the crystal ball. 

The nobleman inhales deeply and allows his mind to concentrate on the translucent surface before him. He mutters a string of words beneath his breath.

Things were so much easier when he was a thrall.

The crystal ball flashes, and a scene comes into view within it like a miniature world. 

He sees Rahadin sitting at a thick wooden table. An untouched glass of wine sits before him. The dusk elf’s hands rest in his lap, his posture pin-straight as ever, and his eyes are fixed upon a man sitting across from him. One of the fools that had recently joined the company of his newest adventurers, Rictavio, is prattling on about some story or another about the time he had talked his way out of a fist fight with a half-orc. Rahadin hardly seems interested in the story—he knows the look on his face when his mind is miles away but he wants to keep up appearances—but he nods along. The bard has three empty glasses before him, and his expression is one of half-lidded contentment. Based on their surroundings, the duo appears to be at the Blue Water Inn.

Strahd’s frown deepens. What business could he possibly have with such an insufferable man? He knows well enough Rahadin’s thoughts on the self-proclaimed bard—it’s not as if he hides them well. Is he hoping to stake him outside of the castle as well? If so, it may be Rahadin that ends up skewered. Did he wine and dine Balderich before killing him as well?

Something gnaws in his chest, eating away at his insides until his ribcage feels raw and empty. A ridiculous, insufferable feeling. 

His thoughts run away from him, considering every potential reason Rahadin might have for speaking with Rictavio. Perhaps he knows Strahd would seek him out and is intentionally attempting to make him jealous. But to what end? Perhaps he is seeking affection elsewhere. It’s an irrational thought, he knows, but it’s a barbed beast that refuses to release its hold on his mind. No, it’d be far more logical for Rahadin to be trying to blindside the bard to have an easier time capturing him. Or he’s seeking information about something.

Intel on the time Rictavio had talked his way out of a fist fight with a half-orc.

Strahd finds his lip curling despite himself. Before he is fully cognizant of it, he finds himself sinking through several floors towards the castle’s brazier room. When he arrives, the magical white flame of the brazier is burning as fiercely as ever as if waiting for his arrival. He picks up a green stone from the brazier’s rim and tosses it into the flame before stepping into the burst of verdant light at its center.

His vision goes black. When Strahd opens his eyes, he finds himself hunched over in the darkened shop of Vallaki’s coffin maker. His eyes briefly glance over the wooden crates marked “JUNK” that had once housed several of his spawn. Wasting little time, he storms on. He can hear an elderly man’s voice call out, “Hello?” from behind a door as he descends down the stairs and out the locked door of the shop. 

A peaceful quiet has fallen over the town with the onset of night. The streets are barren save for a few stumbling drunkards, fools that would undoubtedly be punished by Vallakovich’s stringent guards. Despite the town’s empty streets, a moment of clarity washes over him; throwing the town into a tizzy over his appearance, while entertaining, would serve no benefit right now. With a sigh, Strahd retrieves his spellbook from his hip and, flaring his fingers over his face with a muttered word, disguises himself as the nobleman Vasili von Holtz, beloved glassworker of Vallaki. Satisfied with the change, he makes his way toward the Blue Water Inn. Rather than push his way inside—the last thing he wants is to get roped into a conversation with some filthy lowborn right now—he instead leans against a building across the way, arms crossed. 

Time passes. He doesn’t acknowledge the drunkards that stumble out, instead focusing his attention on the front door and willing Rahadin out. Waiting. After a beat, he hears the sound of a cane clacking on wood, and Rictavio saunters out of the inn. The bard tips his hat towards him, an insufferable smile on his face, and it takes every last ounce of Strahd’s willpower to not show him his own entrails. Instead, he simply glowers at him until Rictavio takes the hint and wanders off towards his shit-smelling carnival wagon once more. 

Not long after, the doors of the inn open, and his quarry steps out. Rahadin freezes when his gaze falls upon him, and Strahd doesn’t miss the way his eyes go wide for a fraction of a second before he catches himself.

“Lord Vasili,” Rahadin greets, his voice monotone. 

Vasili doesn’t humor him with a response. Caring little about how the townsfolk would receive the respectable Lord Vasili von Holtz handling Strahd von Zarovich’s chamberlain, the nobleman stomps forward and roughly grabs Rahadin by the front of his doublet. None-too-gently, he slams him against the exterior of the inn and crushes his lips against his.

A high-pitched noise of surprise escapes Rahadin’s throat. “Not here,” he hisses when Vasili goes to bite and suck at the skin of his neck hard enough to leave his mark, if only momentarily.

“Yes, here.” He can smell the faintest trace of the bastard, pipe smoke and foreign perfume, on his clothes. He would fix that.

“Strahd. Stop.”

The command is enough to slightly sober him from his feral rage. A fist still tangled in his shirt, Vasili pulls away from his neck enough to set the dusk elf with a deadpan look. Something metallic at Rahadin’s neck catches the torchlight bleeding out from the window. His nose wrinkling, Vasili snatches the wedding ring from Rahadin’s neck and pulls hard enough for the chain around it to snap. “I thought I made it perfectly clear that this was to go on your fourth finger once it healed,” he seethes, his voice low, “and I am seeing five full fingers upon your left hand.” 

Rahadin’s expression remains neutral. “You are causing a scene,” he says calmly. 

A bark of laughter leaves Vasili’s throat. He’ll show him a scene. “Finger. Now.”

Rahadin reaches for Vasili’s hand clasping the ring and gingerly plucks it from his palm before sliding it onto his own finger. As proof, he wiggles the fingers of his left hand before Vasili’s face. “Happy now, my lord?”

“Not in the slightest.”

Rahadin sighs. “Can this be saved for after we return to Ravenloft?” 

“What were you doing with the bard?”

His eyes narrow. “Talking. Nothing more.”

He can feel his anger rising once more. “You’re lying.”

“I know we have had our… disagreements as of late, but I am not in the habit of lying to you. You know this.”

“There were many things that I believed to have known about you,” Vasili retorts. 

“If what I am seeing is the manifestation of jealousy, know that I am not interested in the bard in any sense of the word.”

Vasili scoffs. “‘Jealousy.’ You flatter yourself, Rahadin. No, I am merely here to ensure you do not make a rash decision that will reflect poorly upon my estate. One you will later regret.”

Rahadin’s lips press into a flat line. “I pride myself in my forward thinking. I do not make rash decisions.“

“Oh? You don’t consider staking a guest of mine outside of my home a rash decision?”

Unflinching, Rahadin replies, “Not in the slightest.”

His fist tightens its hold around the fabric of the dusk elf’s doublet. It’s the coolness in his voice that aggravates him the most. “Explain.”

“I would be more than happy to explain my reasoning to you once we arrive back at—”

He slams his chamberlain against the wooden frame hard enough to send the windows rattling in their panes. “I’d have every right to flay you for such an act, and it’s growing increasingly tempting. Explain.”

Rahadin’s eyes are closed for several moments before he responds, “What I did with that brute was solely for your benefit, Vasili . Those travelers had laughed at you because they did not take you seriously. They underestimated you. I strongly doubt that they will be laughing now.” The corners of his mouth twitch. “This will also serve as a strong deterrent to any wanderers who may try to make their way into the castle.”

The explanation does little to placate him. “If I’d felt that this would benefit me in any way, I would have done it myself. You do not trust my ability to protect my own interests. Is that it?” 

Silence, then, “...With all due respect, Your Lordship, I have been questioning that as of late. Yes.”

His rage finally boiling over, Vasili snarls and throws Rahadin to the ground. “I often find myself wondering if your existence no longer aligns with my best interests.”

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Rahadn rubs at his left shoulder. “And it is your right to resolve that line of thinking however you wish.”

“I’m more than aware.” The bestial side of him longs to wrap his hands around the elf’s slender throat and squeeze until blood wells from his eye sockets. Squeeze until his neck snaps and he becomes one less problem he must concern himself with. The rational side of him is quickly losing its control over that beast that craves bloodshed more than anything.

Vasili’s face falls expressionless. “Do not return to Ravenloft tonight. Do not allow me to lay eyes on you for the next week lest you wish to test whether you’re capable of outrunning me.”

He doesn’t miss the way Rahadin’s left eye twitches slightly. “Where shall I sleep?”

Vasili turns on his heel, invisible cloak fluttering behind him. “Figure it out yourself.” He begins making his way back to the castle to prepare for the arrival of the morning.

Strahd finds that he cannot sleep. Even as the sun, heavily obscured by dense cloud cover, rises over the valley, sleep does not come to him. With an irritated huff, he eventually pushes himself out of his coffin and out of the catacombs after what has felt like hours of attempted rest.

His feet carry him outside to the entrance of Ravenloft. From across the drawbridge, he can still see that damned gray cloak fluttering in the wind. A murder of crows has since gathered at the base of the pike, tearing off long strips of rotting flesh from Balderich’s corpse. Upon crossing the bridge, Strahd notes that the goliath’s body has bloated with death, his once gray-toned skin now a bruised and sickly shade of blue. Even for one that has traversed countless battlefields, the stench of rot overwhelms his honed sense of smell when he makes the mistake of breathing.

For hours, Strahd stares at the corpse. He watches as the crows strip its legs clean of flesh, the white of bone a stark contrast against the viscera. For once, his thoughts are notably empty. He feels notably empty. Tired. He wants to sleep, yes, but it appears as if this is going to be one of those mornings in which he can find no rest. Rather than waste his time laying awake in his coffin, he could attempt to get work done. Do something productive.

The corpse is an eyesore. A stain on these beautiful grounds that he had slain countless men for. That he spent the prime years of his life conquering. This castle—Castle Ravenloft—was dedicated as a tribute to his dear mother. He'd wished to create something awe-inspiring in her honor, something befitting of one such as her. He wouldn't sully something so precious with savagery. 

Inside the castle, perhaps.

But not out here. She'd often frowned upon his father's war-mongering ways; she deserves better than a bloated corpse blemishing her namesake.

With a deep frown, Strahd traipses towards the body and jerks the wooden stake from the frozen ground, sending the surrounding corvids scattering. The corpse slides further down the pike with the jerking motion, and its rotted inner thigh slots itself against the back of Strahd’s hand. It hardly bothers him. Holding the stake an arms-length away lest the body stains his clothes, he carries it back towards Ravenloft, Balderich’s cloak billowing behind him like a banner of war.

Every inch of his body aches. His muscles feel as if they have long since atrophied, and his gums throb where his fangs refuse to recede. 

It’s been a little over a week since Rahadin has slept. Obeying Strahd’s command, he had begrudgingly stayed away from Ravenloft. One of the more irritating aspects of vampirism, he’s found, is that he can only find rest in the very same coffin that he had been buried in. Laying in a bed, a ditch of soil, even other coffins… All things that he had tried, all things that had brought him no reprieve. Being unable to sleep has provided more time in his day to see to other matters, but it has left him feeling completely and utterly exhausted. When he’s as tired as this, it’s all the harder to resist the animalistic craving of blood. While he normally prides himself in his impeachable restraint, he’s been giving in to that urge far more often this week, his willpower just as drained as the rest of him. 

Draining a human dry only abates that exhaustion for an hour; he counted. 

After the seventh moon rises and falls, he finds himself eager to return to Ravenloft; not to its lord—not after how he had acted—but to the catacombs. He longs to return to a feeling of normalcy once more. 

Rahadin does not seek out Strahd; the man is more than capable of waiting a few hours. He instead makes his way to his office to change out of his filthy week-old clothes before retiring for the day.

The dusk elf sighs before reaching out to push open the door. The stench that meets his nostrils with that inhale, not unlike a corpse-laden battlefield left to rot in the sun, is enough to make him gag. Wrinkling up his nose, he places his kerchief over his mouth and nose, and wills himself to stop breathing. 

Opening the door to the office, he’s met by the sight of a half-devoured goliath slumped over his desk, a puddle of putrid fluid beginning to pool beneath him. Any paperwork that had been on his desk has been neatly placed, almost comically so, on the floor beside it.

A name clicks in his mind: Strahd.

Casting his eyes heavenward —Correlon help him— Rahadin moves to carry the body as far away from his office as possible, all the while thinking about how he’s expected to replace such an expensive desk and carpet.

Chapter Text

“Hand me the leg there.”

Gertruda does so, handing Rahadin one of the wooden legs for the desk they'd been assembling for the better part of two hours. Aligning the dowel with the notch, the dusk elf twists and shoves it into place. The muscles of his forearm flex, and the leg shifts into place with a soft click.

Two down, two to go.

Strahd leans back in his chair, thoroughly amused. His chamberlain is skilled in a number of things. Swordsmanship. Archery. Horsemanship. Reconnaissance. Yet despite his many skills, he's laughably inadequate when it comes to utilizing artisan's tools, particularly for woodworking. A proper woodworker could have had a simple project such as this finished in thirty minutes. Even a basic laborer could have done it in an hour.

It's a reminder that despite his impregnable demeanor, he is still very much fallible.

Rahadin reaches his hand out. “Another.”

Gertruda obliges. Sitting upon the new blue-hued rug with her legs crossed at the ankle so as to not show her petticoat, she watches Rahadin work with a slight tilt of her head. “If I might ask, Your Excellency, why not hire a laborer to do this? Surely your time is better spent elsewhere than assembling furniture.”

Strahd lets out a huff of air through his nose.

Rahadin's frown deepens. He begins to twist the third leg into its socket and winces at the dull sound of cracking wood. “Security purposes. My time is better spent elsewhere, yes, but the fewer people that know the layout of this castle, particularly where I spend most of my time, the better.”

“Perhaps they could assemble it outside of the castle and you could bring it in?”

More sounds of splintering wood. “I’d rather not attempt to navigate a desk down these stairwells. Now silence, girl. Let me concentrate.”

Strahd’s fingers tap along the wooden arm of his chair. A silent observer, his gaze is focused on the crystal ball propped up on a small pedestal atop one of the many tables of his study. He crosses a leg over the other at the knee, props his chin up on a hand. He could offer to help the elf, certainly. If he were still not in such a temperamental mood, he might consider it. But he reminds himself that Rahadin had brought this upon himself; had he not acted out of line, he would not have had to replace his desk in the first place. This is a punishment, and him offering his assistance would only send a message of forgiveness. Of softness. Though it is quite the shame; the desk is made of mahogany and had cost him a hefty sum for the Vistani to bring it in from outside the mists. He hates seeing fine craftsmanship assembled with such little expertise.

Rahadin would figure it out. It might take him some time, but he will figure it out. He usually does. Strahd watches with slight boredom as he finishes attaching the fourth legs and goes to stand the desk up himself. It wobbles, eliciting an even more severe frown from him.

“Your Excellency?”

“What?” Rahadin snaps, baring his fangs. Upon seeing the hurt look that flashes across Gertruda’s face, he sighs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “What now, Gertruda?” 

She blinks, looking as if she is trying her hardest to fight back tears. She shifts in her seated position. “I, um… I had a personal question for you. If it would be proper of me to ask. But it can wait.”

“Out with it.”

“Again, I hope it is not too bold of me to ask such a thing. If it is, you do not have to answer, of course. I wanted to ask about how matters between you and His Lordship have been going. I’ve noticed that you two have not been spending as much time together as of late, and, well…”

Oh, this is interesting. Strahd leans forward in his seat. Gertruda seems to have a way of asking the most interesting of questions, absent-minded as she is. Keeping her under his thrall has done little to improve her decorum; perhaps another lesson in modicum would be necessary, as it seems the lessons Rahadin has attempted to instill in her are not taking. He can’t help but wonder what she asks the dusk elf when he’s not scrying. 

Rahadin lifts his dark gaze from the desk. “It was inappropriate of you to ask the first time. Why would it be appropriate now?”

“I’m sorry.” Seemingly forgetting all modesty, Gertruda pulls a knee up to her chest and laces her fingers around it, rocking slightly. “It is not my place to ask, of course, but you’ve seemed very stressed as of late.” There’s a sharp inhale of breath. “If there’s ever anything I can do for you, Your Excellency, you need just say the word. For you or His Lordship.”

Rahadin replies with a noncommittal grunt. It must be taking great restraint on Rahadin’s part to not backhand her, Strahd thinks; he knows how finicky he can be regarding his personal matters. 

The two sit in silence while Rahadin continues to adjust the desk legs until it no longer wobbles. Seemingly satisfied for the moment, Rahadin begins to neatly place his few personal belongings and paperwork back onto the desk. 

Unable to tolerate the quietness any longer, Gertruda blurts out, “Perhaps you could try writing him a sonnet? Or have him sit while you play music? I have a lovely little book of poetry somewhere I’d be happy to lend you!” 

Strahd lets out a single bark of laughter. The dusk elf would be caught dead before he attempted to write prose . The mental image alone amuses him. Creative writing is best left to the poets of yore, not soldiers that crave bloodshed above all else. They were not made for beautiful things; they were made for death. 

Not missing a beat, Rahadin replies, “You are dismissed, child.”

Her wide smile falters. “...Oh. Yes, of course, Your Excellency.” As if snapping out of a stupor, she hastily crosses her legs at the ankle again and smooths down her skirts before standing. “If you, um, if you change your mind, please let me know. I’ll leave the book at your door later if you would like to skim through it.”   

“Not necessary.”

“Of course.” She clears her throat. “But just in case—”

“Gertruda.” 

Needing no further warning, Gertruda gives a clumsy curtsy before bowing out of Rahadin’s office. Once the door closes behind her, in the privacy of his quarters, the dusk elf lets out a long, exasperated breath through his mouth before going to unfasten the hooks of his blue doublet. Rather hastily, he pulls it over his head and tosses it onto his desk. He trudges over to his personal library—nowhere near as grand as the one in Strahd's study—and takes his time looking over the titles within. He picks a black leather-bound book, one whose title Strahd cannot see, and flips it open.

For several minutes, Rahadin stands there with this book. He flips through its pages far too quickly to be reading it in depth. Ultimately, he sets the book back down on its shelf, not even bothering to sort it properly, before trudging back to his desk, his posture particularly stiff.

His chamberlain all but collapses into his chair. For once, his posture is atrocious, long legs fully outstretched and a large gap between his lower back and the chair. His eyes search heavenward for several minutes before closing. He swallows and reaches up to unfasten the first three buttons of his undershirt, revealing the gentle curve of his collarbone. 

For a long while, Strahd observes the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his relaxed expression and the outer calmness of the scene before him. If he didn’t know better, he could have assumed that the elf had fallen asleep in the terribly uncomfortable-looking position. A part of him feels like an unseen intruder, but he quickly reminds himself that it is his right to monitor the going-ons of his men, especially after they had broken his trust. He longs to know what thoughts are running through Rahadin’s mind at that moment.

His chamberlain shifts, catching Strahd’s attention once more. His hand trails down his chest, almost sensual in his reverence , and Strahd’s brow furrows slightly in confusion. He leans closer toward the crystal ball to ascertain just what it is he's doing and watches as Rahadin goes to unfasten the lacing of his pants. 

He definitely has his attention now.

A war plays out inside him of whether he should respect the elf's privacy—he would skin Strahd alive if he knew he was silently observing such a scene—or continue watching for his own selfish reasons. He wants to watch, yes, but also he prides himself in being a gentleman where applicable. Ultimately, the civil side of him wins.

As he's about to dissipate the scrying spell, Rahadin's head lolls to the side and his gaze meets Strahd's as if staring straight into the spell’s invisible sensor. As if, somehow, he knows he is being observed. It wouldn’t be outside of the realm of possibilities; the spell’s secrecy is not infallible, and Rahadin is aware of his fondness for its practicality. 

The corners of Rahadin's mouth twitch in a blink-and-you'll-miss-it smile. Imperceptible to most. But not him.

It's that that keeps his gaze transfixed on the orb. Despite his manners telling him to look away, Strahd watches while Rahadin lifts his hips enough to push his pants down his hips, exposing himself. His length is half-hard, and his chamberlain, bottom lip drawn between his teeth, strokes himself until he's fully erect, his length resting against his abdomen. 

A pleasant warmth spreads between Strahd's thighs. The sight, regrettably, is having an effect on his own body, seeing how positively salacious his consort looks stretched out like this, the head of his cock sliding in and out of his loose fist.

Unable to help himself, Strahd touches himself through his trousers, palming at his arousal. He swallows, observing Rahadin's face, all dark eyes and parted lips, while he unbuckles his belt, the metal buckle clinking in the relative silence. He unfastens his pants carefully, anticipation building inside him, as he slips his hand into his braies. Strahd inhales at the sensation of skin on skin, and exhales shakily as he pulls himself out, wrapping his thick fingers around himself. 

Despite the distance between them—physically and emotionally, he recognizes—there's something deeply intimate about an act such as this. About maintaining that eye contact, even if it is through a crystal ball. As if the two of them are searching into the very depths of the other’s soul, exposed and laid bare while pleasuring themselves.

This would feel far better if it were Rahadin's darker-skinned hand—better yet, his mouth—wrapped around his cock, unsure in his motions but doubly as eager. And him returning the favor because he is a gentleman, after all.

Fruitless wishing. The dusk elf has wanted nothing to do with him these past moons. When he does want him, it's to live out his fantasies of power. Of control. And over him of all people. He stopped obliging the man some time ago to remind him of his place. But gods if missing his body doesn't send him into a spiral of frustration at times…

The muscles of Strahd's stomach tense. Glancing down, he slips a finger over his tip lightly, smearing the wetness that has gathered there before he starts to work himself slowly but firmly, starting a rhythm that’s going to finish him off too quickly if he isn't careful. His eyes flick back up to the sight within the crystal ball.

Rahadin's eyes have fallen half-lidded, his chest heaving. He'd begun massaging himself harder, moving his hand up and down his length. With his other hand, he trails it up his chest, fingers splaying across his collarbone before one by one, they wrap around his throat. He can see the way the pads of his fingers, his claws, indent his skin from the pressure. Mere foreplay—Strahd knows well enough that Rahadin couldn't harm himself via choking even if he tried. In either case, the sinful sight has Strahd's cock twitching in his hand.

He wonders what he's thinking about. The vain side of him hopes that it's him—they had made eye contact, after all, and he knows he's one of the very few that has ever indulged Rahadin’s depraved desires—but the indignant voice in the back of his mind cannot push away the thought that he's thinking of that damned bard.

A growl rumbles in his chest, and his motions quicken. Perhaps he'll pay that insufferable carnival barker a visit when he's done. Rip the true nature of their interactions from him forcibly.

A strangled groan catches in Rahadin's throat. For the first time, Rahadin breaks eye contact; his back arches, mouth falling open, and he finishes into his fist. 

He's beautiful. Scarred and haggard from decades of conflict, yes. But beautiful nonetheless, even more so when that permanent scowl is replaced with that look of ecstasy. That look of peace that's so rare for him.

An uncharacteristic searing heat floods through him. With a grunt, Strahd finishes soon after, spilling his seed into his trembling fist as well—a rare indulgence for him when he has a slew of consorts at his disposal. 

Rahadin spends little time basking in the sensation. There's movement within the crystal ball; through half-lidded eyes, Strahd watches him quickly retrieve his kerchief and cleans himself off, a frown now coloring his face. Quick and to the point as with most things he does.

He supposes he should follow suit. This was meant to be purely business, after all. To gather information that Rahadin has been so guarded with. He looks down at his own hand, disgust beginning to roll through his stomach, and he quickly casts prestidigitation with a snap of the fingers on his non-dirtied hand to clean himself up. Carefully, he inspects his hands, flipping them over to ensure he hadn't missed anything, before tucking himself away.

He doesn't even bother waiting to see what Rahadin does next, instead dissipating the scrying spell. If Rahadin intends to plot against him with the hour, then so be it. A restless energy fills him, and he feels the need to be anywhere but his study at the moment. Perhaps a bath and a walk—just something to clear his mind.

A few hours, and then he could resume his scrying.

Chapter Text

Her footsteps sound thunderous upon the stone floors of Castle Ravenloft. Unlike the other floors, the sub-levels are devoid of any rugs that might dampen her footfalls. Instead, they are barren and, not to speak ill of His Lordship’s decoration decisions, harrowing. As if they had never seen a woman’s touch before, instead littered with rusted armor, broken furniture, and what she has a sneaking suspicion may be bones. It’s not her place to question such sights, as much as they cause a shudder of uneasiness to roll down her spine each time she must step foot down here, and she does her best to simply keep her gaze directed towards the cobweb-covered ceiling.

Gertruda taps lightly upon the wooden door with a knuckle. “Your Excellency?” Her voice comes out far quieter than she had intended. There, waiting outside Rahadin's office in the castle's cellar, she feels small. His Lordship had assured her of her safety, but she still cannot shake the feeling that there are monsters lurking in the shadows just waiting to leap out and swallow her whole.

She steels herself and knocks again, louder this time. “Your Excell—”

“I heard you,” an impatient, adenoidal voice sounds from within. There's the sound of shuffling from behind the door, and then Rahadin is looming before her in the doorway, still fastening the rear cinch of his blue doublet.

When she does not immediately speak up, her voice lost in her throat, he raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Gertruda swallows, her eyes raised up towards him. Behind her back, she rubs her thumb along the smooth glass of the vial. Her palms are damp with sweat. “I, um… May I come in?”

His other eyebrow raises to meet the first, an exasperated expression on his face. “What do you have behind your back, child?”

“It's nothing!” she blurts out before thinking. Her nose scrunches in regret; a stupid thing to say—of course it's something! “Or rather, it's a surprise, Your Excellency. For you.”

“A surprise.” He blinks, staring at her for another moment that feels like an eternity, before sighing and opening the door wider. 

Taking the hint, Gertruda slips past him deeper into the room while being careful to keep the vial concealed. She stands before the large wooden desk in the room, rocking back and forth on her toes while waiting for Rahadin to close the door behind them. Rather than going to sit at the desk as she had been expecting, he leans against the door. She doesn’t miss the subtle blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wince on his face when he crosses his arms across his chest. 

“Speak,” he prompts. “What surprise is so important that you felt the need to impose?” 

“Yes, well…” She inhales deeply through her nose in an attempt to calm her nerves. A part of her longs to turn around and leave Rahadin to his work. He’s clearly very busy, and she doesn’t want to impose. But she reminds herself why she is here in the first place: to help take at least one iron out of his fire. She can tell from the dark circles beneath his eyes and his shortening temper that he's been particularly stressed as of late. He has been—mostly—kind to her, and if there's something else she can do to help out around the castle, she wants to do it. 

She’d rehearsed her words seemingly hundreds of times before coming here, and yet none of them come to her. “Yes, well, Your Excellency… I, um…” She coughs. Deep breath. “I wanted to say…” Deep breath. “I deeply appreciate the kindness you and His Lordship have extended toward me. In taking a chance on hiring a, um, a-a commoner such as I. I appreciate you taking the time to tutor me in the ways of gardening and-and potion brewing and the like.”

She shifts from foot to foot. “I wanted to show you that your tutelage has not been in vain and that I have been learning a lot. Really!” The corners of her lips twitch up into a smile. “I also know how busy you’ve been being the chamberlain of His Lordship and whatnot.” She purposefully does not mention his moons-long absences with no explanation. 

“The point, child.”

“Of course! Well, anyway, I, um, this morning when you were resting, I went out and harvested a fresh batch of flowers from our garden.” The elf’s eye twitches, but Gertruda continues. “I then went up to the alchemy lab that we’ve been working in—the frightening one on the upper floor. I thought I’d surprise you so that you wouldn’t have to take the time out of your day to make it, and well…”

With another deep breath, Gertruda extends the vial of purple-hued poison toward him from behind her back. “Ta-da! One vial of ghost blossom poison! A gift for you, Your Excellency!” Bright-eyed and proud of herself for overseeing the process from start to finish, she beams up at Rahadin. It had taken her some time to concoct it, what with needing to review her notes so as to not make a mistake, but she'd done it nonetheless.

When his expression does not change, when he does not move from his spot against the door and just continues staring at her, her arms lower slightly. A ball of worry begins to knot itself in her stomach. “Is-is this okay? Your Excellency? Did I do it okay—”

Rahadin raises a silencing hand. His eyes close. “Are you telling me that you, an inexperienced child, explicitly went against my wishes and, behind my back, took it upon yourself to craft one of the deadliest, most costly poisons in this realm?” 

Gertruda stares back at him wide-eyed. She can feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble. 

Deep breath.

“I, um, I suppose so. Yes. But I can promise you I meant no ill will! I merely wanted to help—”

“You. A child,” he takes a step towards her, ”purposefully went against my wishes,” another step, “and attempted to create something that has taken me decades to master? From a plant that only blossoms thrice a growing season?”

Gertruda holds the vial close to her chest and takes a step backward, Tears prick at the corner of her eyes. She’d only been trying to help; what’s so hard to understand about that? And she’s confident she had done a good enough job. “If I have upset you, Your Excellency, I am very, very sorry. I only meant—”

“Yes, you have upset me, you impulsive moppet!” Rahadin strides toward her with long steps, fire burning behind his red eyes. Gertruda yelps and goes to take another step back. “Why would you go and do something so foolish as to—”

The muffled sound of breaking glass meets her ears before the pain sets in. Blinking once, Gertruda looks down at her hands; she’s greeted by the sight of small shards of glass jutting out from her fingers, droplets of crimson pooling around them. Poison gathers in the dips and crevasses of her hands, staining her pale skin violet.

“What was that?”

The next few moments feel as if they go by in slow motion. She finds that she cannot stop staring at her hands, the red and violet beads swirling together. She tilts her palm this way and that, observing the way the poison spills out of her hand and onto the floor. A thought goes through her mind: this is certainly not a good thing. Sharp pain radiates throughout her palms, her skin feeling as if it is pulsing around the glass. 

“What was that?!”

Before she can stop it, Rahadin all but tackles her to the ground, carefully laying her head upon his knee before hurriedly grabbing her wrist. She hears him mutter something in a language she doesn’t understand beneath his breath. Wasting little time, using a dagger from his belt he begins ripping off strip after strip of fabric from the bottom hem of her dress—the pretty violet one that His Lordship had given her—until it's torn up beyond repair.

“What are you doing?” Gertruda asks with just a tinge of bitterness. She had liked that dress! 

“Shut up!” Rahadin hisses. “Stupid girl. Stupid, clumsy girl…” He continues grumbling even as nimble fingers begin to hastily wrap the long strips of fabric around her wrists up to her upper arms like a bandage. He roughly tugs her arm this way and that, caring little about the way she winces in pain when the fabric squeezes too tight.

“‘m sorry— ow!— I broke the vial. I feel fine, though.”

“Shut up!” 

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she's hit with a sudden wave of intense nausea that leaves her mouth dry and her knees trembling. Gertruda sucks in a long breath in an attempt to quell her rioting gut; she’s not going to vomit—not today, and especially not in Rahadin’s office. He’d never speak to her again. 

After tucking the end of the cloth into the wrap, Rahadin, still rough in his movements, grabs one of her arms in each hand and yanks them straight over her torso. Like this, wrapped in bandages and her arms jutted out before her, she feels like she's in the midst of one of the embalming rituals she'd read about once. It all feels rather silly. To keep her mind off of the nausea more than anything, Gertruda tries again, “What are you doing?”

Rahadin stares down at her, his eyes narrowed. “Do you wish to die?”

“No?”

“Then shut up and do as I say. And pray to whichever gods you worship that your little alchemical experiment was a failure. ”

That’s enough to seal her lips shut. Instead, Gertruda allows her eyes to close. She continues focusing on her breath, concentrating so as to not ruin the elf’s fancy new rug. The chill emanating off of Rahadin helps cool her heated skin. A moment of silence passes, the only sound the steady flow of air in and out of her lungs and her pulse in her ears. Cracking open an eye, she notices that Rahadin’s gaze is still boring into her, unblinking. Her eyes snap shut again.

Her arms are growing tired, Rahadin’s grip far too tight. It feels as if all of the blood has left them; it wouldn’t surprise her if they look like shriveled plums when she takes these cursed bandages off. 

An itchy feeling begins to spread in her lungs, and Gertruda gives a small cough. It hardly helps. Once more, she attempts to suck in another breath to cough, but it feels as if there is some sort of blockage preventing her from filling her lungs all the way. Like when the flu overtakes her, but with more pressure. She coughs again but then finds that she can no longer inhale. Her eyes widen, a feeling of panic washing over her.

Rahadin tilts his head slightly. “What’s wrong? Do you feel ill?”

Gertruda goes to ask for help, but finds that she cannot get the word out. 

“I need you to talk to me. Describe what is happening.”

Instead, she simply mouths the word help again and again, that panicked feeling mounting. Her lungs begin to burn, a tingling sensation filling her body as she’s unable to breathe. She hears Rahadin curse rather loudly—the first time she’s heard him swear. 

He drops her arms—they flop uselessly to her sides—and instead he grabs her jaw, forcing her focus toward him. The slightest hint of what she could only assume to be concern muddles his pointed features.

“Gertruda, I need you to focus on me . ”

A spasm wracks her chest, and then another. Pain blossoms in her jaw. Subconsciously, her teeth clack together like a vice and her jaw tightens to the point she worries she's going to crack her teeth. Gertruda goes to claw at her throat, to loosen the neckline of her dress, but she cannot lift her arms. Short, strangled breaths are drawn through clenched teeth. 

“Gertruda…!”

Icy fingers push her sweat-soaked bangs away from her face before he abruptly stands, none-too-gently setting her flat on the floor. Through the panic-fueled haze of asphyxiation, she hears him frantically call out to His Lordship several times, his voice growing louder each time as he stares towards the ceiling. It's odd hearing him use His Lordship’s forename, something she's only overheard Rahadin say when he'd assumed he was alone with Strahd.

Hearing the panic only grow in Rahadin's voice causes Gertruda's panic to grow as well. She tries to remember her notes on what Rahadin had said about this poison; the specifics refuse to come to her at that moment, but one word does push to the forefront of her thoughts.

Deadly. 

She doesn't want to die. It was a stupid mistake. An accident. She'd done nothing wrong. She still has so much to do, so many books to read and pretty dresses to sew and balls to dance in. She hasn't had the chance to fall in love yet. 

If she dies here, will her mother even know it? Would she know where she died? Would His Excellency even tell her? Her mother would be so disappointed in her; she'd always told her growing up to stay far, far away from the castle on the summit. To stay away from their terror of a ruler. She'd heard horror stories about how those who went to Castle Ravenloft, especially young girls, did not return.

But the work was promising. Surely no one could fault her for wanting to be able to provide for her mother. Her poor, sickly mother. It'd break her heart to learn her only daughter, her only remaining family, had died in that damned castle she'd so blatantly told her to stay away from.

Maybe it's for the better her mother doesn't know.

If she survives this, she's going to march straight home and hug her mother and never let go.

She’s scared. Terrified, even. 

She doesn’t want to die. 

Silently, she thinks a prayer to The Morninglord, having to restart each time a new spasm wracks her body. Tears begin to stream down her heated cheeks. Gertruda longs to reach out towards Rahadin, to seek some sort of comfort even if it is from him, but her arms refuse to move from her sides. Once more, Rahadin calls for Strahd above the short, pained wheezing of her strangled breaths. Something cracks in her jaw, and it sends a throbbing pain throughout her skull. 

Rahadin looks from the ceiling back to her. There have been very few times she’s ever seen an emotion outside of annoyance on the elf, but at that moment there's an indisputable look of panic on his face. He licks his lips before chewing on his bottom lip, thinking, and kneels beside her cautiously slow. With his right hand, he cups her jaw. For several moments, he stares through her as if lost in thought. 

He sighs, and his eyes squeeze shut. “…I'm so sorry, Gertruda. Truly.”

Before she can even think on his words, there's a flash of movement, a flash of ivory, and a sharp pain in her neck. That pain freezes into ice. Ice far colder than anything she's felt before, even the chilliest of Barovian nights. Ice that fills her veins, wraps around her heart and freezes her blood solid.

Gertruda blinks. The thought he's bitten me crosses her mind, but even in her panicked state, it makes little sense to her. Why would he bite her? It must be the poison making her thoughts foggy.

That ice soon melts, leaving behind an all-encompassing heat that floods her body and makes the tips of her fingers tingle. The warmth reaches every inch of her body, and it’s pleasurable unlike anything else she’s ever experienced. Like being submerged in a warm bath on a wintery day, but infinitely more satisfying. It makes her forget about everything.     

Rahadin's body is on top of her, she notes, his hair tickling her cheek, but it feels like the most normal thing in the world at that moment. She can barely make out the sound of her own whimpers, his content sighs and the wet sounds from his mouth, above the buzzing in her ears.

When everything fades to black, that feeling of panic, the pain from her spasming lungs and shattered teeth, is gone. 

There is nothing to be afraid of, and all is right in the world. 

She welcomes the void with open arms.

…

Chapter Text

She can feel him long before she ever sets eyes on him. It feels like a tingling sensation in the back of her mind, a dull thrum that whispers he approaches. It’s distinct enough that she can feel it through the fog of half-consciousness, a rest that’s not quite sleep but not quite death. She’s now experienced both, regrettably—something that she never thought in her twenty-two years of life she would be saying.

There’s a dull knocking against her wooden crate , and the lid slides off. The apathetic, hood-obscured face of Rahadin greets her. “Sleeping in today?”

Gertruda stretches as much as she can within the cramped space and winces at the sharp pain that flares along her neck. “Forgive me for saying so, Your Excellency, but it is not as if there is much else to do around here.”

“No offense taken. Come, up with you.”

Gertruda obeys and goes to exit her luxurious sleeping quarters, carefully brushing the dirt off of her shoulders and skirts as she steps out into the open. Glancing around, she can see that night has fallen. Despite the lack of light in her dilapidated little building, she can see as clearly as if the light of the full moon were illuminating her path—albeit with her world colored in shades of black and white. 

Her eyes snap to the waterskin in Rahadin’s left hand. Although it is sealed, she can smell its contents clearly: iron and salt and heat. Her gums begin to ache, her breath quickening as a monstrous hunger begins to wash over her.  

Gertruda winces at her unconscious reaction; she knows well enough what’s waiting for her in that waterskin, and it makes her skin crawl. The idea of drinking, well, it is almost enough to make her nauseous. Almost. Those bestial urges override logic and morality, she’s learned, and that thought alone disheartens her beyond belief. 

Begrudgingly, Gertruda holds a hand out toward the dusk elf. She catches the tossed waterskin with newfound reflexes. (She’d never been the most dextrous woman before, and her mother often chided her for her clumsiness.) It’s warm in her hands, and she tries her hardest not to think about it. As if acting on their own, she finds her trembling hands already opening the waterskin before she can stop herself. She brings the container to her lips and drinks deeply; it’s too thick to trick herself into thinking it’s soup, yet it’s the most divine thing she’s ever tasted—better than even the most sumptuous of wines. It makes her dizzy. Over the lip of the waterskin, she doesn’t miss how Rahadin makes a point of not looking at her, going so far as to turn his back. 

Once every last drop has been drained from the container, Gertruda closes it back up and sheepishly hands it back to Rahadin, wiping at her mouth with the back of a dirt-caked hand. He takes it.

By her estimate, it's been about a moon since she had been turned into a thing. (It's hard keeping track of the days without a calendar. Perhaps she will ask His Excellency for one.) One minute, she remembers Rahadin biting her. The next, she is waking up in an abandoned shack inside a crate full of dirt. She's uncertain exactly where she’s been stationed, and Rahadin has refused to tell her. ‘For her safety,’ he had said. She'd also been told to not stray far from the shack. Also for her alleged safety.

Gertruda is unsure of just what she needs to be safe from. Rahadin has been tight-lipped about, well, everything since he had begun his weekly visits, each time bringing with him a fresh container of stuff that she's been too afraid to ask its origins. Rather, he only tells her what he feels she needs to know: how much she needs to drink to function, what she shouldn't eat or drink, how to sleep, what can harm her. It's too much information too fast, but she's hesitant to ask His Excellency to repeat himself lest she draw his ire and he stops visiting.

She misses her quarters in the castle. She misses her mother.

Rahadin's adenoidal voice cuts through her thoughts. “How are the plants?”

“Oh!” Gertruda peps up at the distraction and scurries over to the windowsill. “Yes! Um, so, the plants you gave me, if I'm being honest, Your Excellency, are not doing so well.” One by one, she points to the three pots sitting on the sill. “The grass seeds have not even begun to germinate. The leaves on this sproutling have begun to wither, and this one has lost most of its color.”

Rahadin's eyes narrow. He takes a step towards the sill and, keeping his arms crossed behind him, begins to scrutinize each of the three plants for a long while. Gertruda toes at a pebble on the floor while she waits; she hopes she hasn’t upset him.

“You've been fertilizing them with the compost I provided?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

“And you've been watering them until water begins to drain out of the bottom of the pots?”

“Yes.”

“And you've been waiting for the soil to dry completely between waterings?”

“Yes.”

“And you've been diligent in bringing them outside during—”

“Yes.”

Rahadin shoots her a look over his hooked nose. “And you've been diligent in bringing them outside during the daytime?”

Gertruda sighs. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

The dusk elf diverts his attention to the plants once more, giving each one another long look over before he rights himself, a scowl plastered on his face. “Unfortunate. Continue doing as you were instructed, then. I hope to see progress upon my next visit.” 

Rahadin motions as if to leave, and Gertruda finds herself shooting a hand out toward him. “Wait!” Not waiting for a reply, she continues, “Must you leave so soon?” Taking a deep breath, she tries her hardest to keep her voice steady. “It’s been… lonely here.” She longs for company. For comfort. Left to just her thoughts while making sense of her experiences on her own… It’s overwhelming. “Just a few more minutes, Your Excellency? Please?”

Her words are enough to stall him momentarily. “...You know I cannot. I’m already risking much by being here.” He glances at her briefly over his shoulder. “But I shall return at some point next week.”

“But that’s so far away!” This time, she cannot keep the desperation out of her voice. “And what if I get hungry in the meanwhile? Can you visit sooner?”

“Gertruda.” Rahadin holds up a silencing hand. “I know it is… unpleasant ,” there’s a certain somberness in his voice as he says that, “but you will survive. If it becomes too much, there are plenty of vermin that scuttle along the walls here. You may feed upon them until I return with humanoid blood.”

Gertruda flinches at the word blood. The idea of doing that to any creature, especially rats, fills her with a deep uneasiness. Her hand falls limply to her side, her gaze downcast. “Oh. Okay.” She feels not unlike a petulant child demanding the attention of their parent, but she can't help it. She hadn't asked for this. Any of this. Sure, she hadn't wanted to die via poisoning, but she's beginning to question which may have been the lesser of two evils.

Once more, Rahadin crosses his arms behind his back. He sets Gertruda with an unreadable look. “Before I take my leave: repeat for me the rules we have established.”

Gertruda sighs and resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she briefly curtsies; it’s a good idea to continue staying in His Excellency’s good graces. “To not wander far from this building. To not draw any attention to myself or allow anyone to see me. To reveal myself only to you. To sleep only in the daytime, and only in the,” she swallows, “ crate.” 

The dusk elf nods slowly. “Keep up your diligence, and perhaps during my next visit I shall bring you a gift.”

She can’t help herself; a glimmer of excitement wells in her chest at the mention of a gift. “Could it be a new book? Or two?” Not having her books here has almost been more difficult than the loneliness. 

The corner of Rahadin’s mouth quirks up just the slightest. “We shall see.” Without another word, Rahadin flips the hood of his cloak back over his head and goes to leave the hut. 

The door loudly squeaks shut behind him, and once more Gertruda is left with her thoughts.

In a past life, the changing of the seasons had brought with it a feeling of dread for Count Strahd von Zarovich. It meant life was one season closer to winter. One season closer to when he and his men would be huddled up in their lodgings and waiting for the worst to pass while the commoners froze in their humble homes. It meant they were only one poor harvest from starvation. That sickness could creep up and claim him at any moment. Winter brought him closer to the anniversary of his birth. 

Cold meant death, and he has not always been so amicable towards the concept.

In his current life, it does not bring about that same feeling of dread. No longer can Strahd feel the touch of frost or have his breath stolen by the frigid air. Harvest or no, his people will always be warm-bodied mills for him and his ilk. With winter no longer spelling death, he can enjoy its full splendor: the morning kiss of rime upon leaves, foxes preparing their burrows, the freezing over of Lake Zarovich. Beautiful things that had once gone unappreciated.

Flying over frost-tipped trees during a hunt has become a pleasurable pastime for him. The cold air helps clear his mind, and it gives him an excuse to leave his study which feels more and more cramped by the day. It puts distance between him and the pointy-eared source of most of his problems as of late.

While he is soaring upon the wings of a bat above the Svalich Woods west of Luna Lake, the smell of iron in the air catches his attention.

Death. Blood. But not humanoid. Potent enough to be from a large creature.

His curiosity ultimately gets the better of him. Strahd sucks in lungfuls of air and, descending gently to the ground, wills his body to take on a man’s form once more. Fingers shorten, his torso extends, and wings become fabric as the hem of his cape flutters down to brush along the pine needle-covered forest floor once more.  

Strahd lifts his head and scents the air. There’s a slight breeze, making it all the easier to follow the trail of iron. Trudging through the pine forest, the path leads him on for at least half a mile, the scent growing stronger each step of the way. He hadn’t been planning on traipsing through the forest today—one of the many advantages of being able to take to the skies—but it does add a certain layer of excitement that he has been thoroughly missing as of late. 

The scent grows overwhelmingly strong. In the distance, Strahd makes out two gray forms laying on the floor. There’s another scent, one that he recognizes, beneath the blood. It’s enough to stop him in his tracks momentarily. 

Wolves. His wolves. 

Anger welling in his chest, Strahd rushes forward toward the animals. Korol does not even lift his head at his approach, his whimpers and the submissive flattening of his ears the only indication that he had noticed him. 

Strahd kneels beside the still form of Kira, the leader of his pack. Her thick fur, now matted with blood, blows gently in the breeze. Strahd lays a gentle hand upon her side and notes that her body has long since gone cold. She feels unnaturally thin, her closed eyes sunken into her skull and her features sharp. Drained of blood, then. Yet there's not enough carnage to indicate another beast had supped upon her. 

Acting on suspicion, Strahd carefully parts the fur along her neck and finds two puncture wounds. Anyone else might have missed such a sight, but he’s seen enough similar signs to know what to look for.

If he could still feel such base things as sadness, surely he would be feeling it at that moment. Instead, all he can feel is a deep, unending rage beginning to boil within him. He gives Kira one last pat, expressing his appreciation for her years of service before standing. His other fist clenches at his side until it feels as if the bones of his hand are about to splinter.

“I will find whoever did this to your mate,” Strahd mutters to Korol, sincere and not caring at all what any onlooker might think upon hearing him. His voice shakes with fury.

Based on the scent hidden beneath the blood and death, he has a very strong suspicion as to who might have done such a thing. He can only pray to whichever gods haven’t yet abandoned him that he’s wrong. 

With a snarl, Strahd tears away from the two wolves and sprints through the forest, following the scent that still clings to the ground like dew. A short time passes, and the trail leads him to an abandoned hunter’s shack in the middle of a small clearing. Through the grime-covered windows, he can make out three potted plants sitting upon the sill, their pots looking far newer than their surroundings. Even more noteworthy, however, is the feminine voice he can hear humming from within.

He smells blood. He smells death— undeath. He smells the moppet from Barovia Village and worse yet, the stale scent of his chamberlain. 

The disloyal, conniving bastard…!

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut. It doesn’t bring with it rage, or sadness, or heartbreak. But numbness. An all-consuming cold that wraps around his non-beating heart that he’s not felt in ages. It would be anguish, if he could still feel such a thing, now masked by a feeling of nothingness. Of the void. If his suspicions are correct, and he has the strong feeling that they are, then…

His feet carry him to the door before he can stop himself. His knuckles rap against the shack’s wooden door—gentle, despite every muscle fiber wanting to rip the door off its hinges and break it over his knee. The humming within stops. When the sound of footsteps does not meet his ears, Strahd calls out, “Gertruda? It’s me. Come to the door.” His voice comes out surprisingly steady, yet still his hands tremble.

Another long pause, before the door cracks open. Gertruda’s mousy face, her once blue irises now the color of ink, peers at him through the crack. “Yes, Your Lordship?” She sounds meek.

“May I come in?” 

Another pause. “...His Excellency said to not allow anyone in.”

Oh, did he? His fists clench at his sides, but his tone remains calm. “As Rahadin’s master and lord of this valley, my permittance is always implied.”

Gertruda shuffles in place before eventually acquiescing, holding the door open wider for Strahd to enter.

The shack only looks slightly better on the inside. It’s obvious that Gertruda has been trying her hardest with limited supplies to tidy up the place; the floors are at least swept, with most of the debris from portions of the collapsed roof having been piled up outside. The wooden floor creaks underfoot while Strahd does a slow tour of the space. 

“...Quaint lodgings,” Strahd seethes. His eyes fall upon the wooden crate pressed against the wall that would feasibly be large enough for a young woman to sleep in. Specks of dirt are scattered around it. 

Gertruda gives a clumsy curtsy. “Indeed, Your Lordship.”

Having finished his brief tour, Strahd turns to address Gertruda, who still has not wandered far from the door. He does a slow appraisal of her from head to toe. Her purple dress is streaked with dirt, looking as if she has not had the chance to wash it in some time. Despite the state of her clothing, her hair is still pinned into a neat bun atop her head. Her nails, usually kept short, have since elongated into dark claws. Most striking, however, is the pallor of her complexion and the two scarred-over puncture wounds that peak just above the neck of her gown. 

His dark eyes snap up to meet hers. Strahd smiles, showing off his own fangs. “What brings you to a place such as this, young one? Were your accommodations in Castle Ravenloft not to your liking?”

Gertruda’s eyes shoot wide as if offended by such a question. “No, Your Lordship! They are wonderful, and I could not ask for anything more. You have been most gracious in offering me such a luxurious room!”

“Then why leave?” He knows exactly why.

“I am not here on my own accord. I do not fully understand what is happening, but I have been instructed to remain here for my safety.” She falls silent for a moment. “I suspect that there are people out there who might want to… hurt me for what has happened to me. And that is why His Excellency is hiding me here.”

She is certainly not wrong, though it’s entirely possible she suspects all the wrong people. “Mm. This will certainly not do, not while you are my guest. Tell me about these… people that you suspect wish to harm you, Gertruda.”

Her gaze falls to the floor. “...Well, Your Lordship, many people in Barovia Village do not speak kindly of the,” she swallows, “ monsters of the forest. They whisper rumors about blood-drinking fiends, beasts that parade in the masks of humans. …Some of them whisper rumors about you.” Her gaze snaps up again. “But not me! I know you are kind, and I am forever grateful that you’ve kept me in your service, Your Lordship. But… I worry that my neighbors in the village may wish harm upon me if they learned of what… you know.” She gestures broadly to herself, her gaze falling again.

“You've become an abomination.”

Tears well at the corners of her eyes. “Y-Yeah…”

Slit her whore throat.

“Sweet girl...” Strahd takes a step forward and places a hand upon her cheek. Even the sight of her fills him with rage, serves as a reminder of how no one in this damned valley is to be trusted. “Who did such a thing to you?” Again, he already knows the answer.

Gertruda chews on her bottom lip. “...His Excellency. I think. I had accidentally poisoned myself after I broke a vial in my hand and, well, I think he turned me into… this to save me.” 

Feed her corpse to the vermin. Force the traitor to choke on her remains.

“And did you wish to be turned?”

“I didn’t know what was happening.” Tears stream down her cheeks. “This is all so new. I-I don’t know what to think of what has been happening. What has happened to me. I’m scared and I want to go home…” Her bottom lip trembles. “I want to go home, sir. To the village. I-I-I miss my mother, and my friends, and Farmer Owen and his funny little dog, and I’m sure they miss me, and-and…” No longer able to hold herself together, Gertruda flings her arms around Strahd's chest and sobs loudly into his doublet.

He feels inelegant in that moment, debating on just what to do with his arms. He could attempt to console the woman and embrace her; from what Gertruda has said, it doesn’t sound as if it had been her choice to be turned. The sins of the hypothetical father, rather. And yet each time she sucks in a heaving breath, the idea of her sullying his fine clothes with her tears and snot, his rage only grows.

Strahd swallows. His throat feels painfully dry. Stiffly, he places his hands upon her shoulder blades. “Gertruda.”

She clings to him tighter.

“Cease your tears.”

If anything, her sobs only grow louder. “I don’t—I didn’t… I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this, Strahd… I didn’t—”

“Stop this—”

“—want this! I don’t want to be a monster!” 

“ Stop— ”

“It’s not fair! Strahd, why did, wh-why—” Another ear-splitting wail.

That fury bubbles over and spills onto the floor. Before Strahd can restrain the beast, one hand grabs Gertruda's jaw, the other wrapping around her head to grasp her forehead. With very little effort on his part, he twists, hard, and a muted crunch fills his ears and reverberates up his arms. Her body goes limp, a ragdoll in his hands.

A beat passes.

Strahd releases his hold and lets Gertruda's paralyzed body slump to the ground. Her head now bent at a cruel angle, her unseeing eyes stare up at the ceiling, mouth agape. Strahd looks down at her with cold eyes and curls his lip. Such a young, pretty thing. A waste. What a shame it came to this, all because his chamberlain cannot obey basic fucking rules.

He takes no pleasure in this. Despite her aloofness, Gertruda had served his household well. Yet there’s a certain catharsis that comes with seeing her immobile body. This is to teach the opposing vampire a lesson. His rules are in place for a reason, and they are not to be broken—no matter the excuse. Rahadin must be reminded of his place yet again.  

He is the sole person in this valley that may bring about undeath. In the same breath that he can take life, he can return it. They are to be his progeny, not that of some nursling who hardly knows how to utilize his gifts to their full potential. 

With the toe of his boot, Strahd nudges Gertruda’s cheek. Her eyelids flutter slightly, her gaze fixing on him temporarily before her head lolls to the side. Already her regenerative powers seem to be working, Strahd notes with dull interest. Slowly with such an injury, but surely. There’s little time to waste; Strahd does not wish to chase a bent-neck spawn across the valley.

With a deep sigh through his nose, Strahd goes to leave the hut to retrieve a long, relatively thin branch from a nearby tree. 

There must be order in his land. There must be respect. 

That is how a kingdom is to be run.

Chapter Text

Grasslands are areas where the vegetation is dominated by grasses. However, sedge and rush can also be found along with variable proportions of legumes, like clover, and other herbs.

Strahd von Zarovich licks a finger and turns a page in the book.

There are different types of grasslands: natural grasslands, semi-natural grasslands, and agricultural grasslands.

The dread lord of Ravenloft sighs and flips another page, praying that the next chapter will be a more interesting one. Upon seeing it titled On the Biodiversity of Grasses, he’s not hopeful. Although his eyes see the words, he can’t feign interest enough for any of the material to stay with him. He considers himself a scholar, but even he has his limits. In his four centuries of existence, he has poured over countless tomes on a number of topics most would consider mundane: the history of the first men, the linguistics surrounding the language of the giants, incomprehensible collections of poetry written by devils of the Nine Hells. But of all the topics, horticulture seems to be the one that cannot hold his interest no matter how hard he wills it otherwise .

And yet he finds himself coming back to this damned book time and time again, trying to force himself through it as if he were going to be tested on its contents. His leg bounces with high-strung energy. He rolls out his shoulders and takes a long drink from the glass of blood sitting on the side table. 

Despite its inherent blandness, the text does bring with it an inexplicable feeling of comfort. Unlike parsing through magical tomes in search of magics he has yet to master, It allows his mind to drowse and sit in that hum of disinterest. Beneath that, it brings with it a smug feeling of superiority that such mundane content appeals to certain demographics, bringing about the thought this is truly how you entertain yourself? It's pathetic, really. Why spend so much time and energy on an organism that only lives for three moons?

Footsteps. Not the even, cat-like falling of boots that he has grown so accustomed to these past four centuries, but something impatient. Footsteps that do not try to silence their presence, instead echoing against the stone floor with every loudening stomp. The doors fling open and slam against the walls of his study. A framed portrait clatters against the wall from the force.

Strahd flips another page. “It's common courtesy to knock when a door is closed.”

A fierce adenoidal voice meets his ears. “How dare you!”

Unflinching, Strahd says, ”I take it you discovered my display by the drawbridge. Did you enjoy it?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “I took your previous advice to heart; a proudly displayed show of brutality truly does send a message of deterrence, doesn’t it?”

“You are a vengeful, spiteful creature!”

“I am no more unjust than the executioner punishing a thief. I believe in order. I believe in rules.” Strahd dares to lift his eyes at that, meeting Rahadin's red. The dusk elf looks disheveled, to put it lightly, with his hair tangled from the wind. He clenches a wooden branch in one hand, the carved point on one end dripping with dark, viscous blood. It oozes over his knuckles. The front of his studded leather armor is smeared in crimson.

Rahadin shakes the branch at him, the tendons in his hand flexing. “She was a child, Strahd!”

“A human at 22 years of age? Hardly. She'd had her first blood long ago. Besides, when have you ever made exceptions for children?” He smirks. “When you culled the dusk elves, how many children did you personally put to the sword? How many babes, innocent to the misgivings of the world, died at their mother's breast, Rahadin?”

“That is,” he licks his lips, ”that was different, Strahd, and you know it. I do not feel remorse for actions done in your name several centuries ago, and you will not take the moral high ground here!”

“Agree to disagree. We were both doing our just duty. We punished those that did not respect authority.” He snaps the book closed with one hand. “You were disobedient and were punished accordingly for it.” His tone is slow as if speaking down to a child.

“My lord,” Rahadin licks his lips, ”let me explain my actions. The girl—Gertruda—had accidentally poisoned herself with ghost blossom extract: a very deadly, fast-acting toxin. When I discovered this, I called for you, Strahd. I did. Repeatedly. The first thought that went through my mind was, ‘ My husband can fix this.’ Through magics, or turning her yourself, o-or…” His eyes close, and he inhales deeply. “But my panicked shouts went unheard, and you did not come. But time was of the essence. To save her life, I had no choice but to turn her myself.”

“To save her life…” Strahd takes a moment to chew on the words. Such an ironic statement. “I never took you as the type to make excuses for yourself, Rahadin. The way I see it, you did have a choice. You could have obeyed orders and let the whelp die rather than suddenly developing some savior complex.” His eyes narrow. ”The fact of the matter is that you disobeyed me—one simple rule that you had agreed to upon your turning.”

Rahadin shifts. ”This I will not deny. I did disobey a direct order, yes.”

“And why? Why would the man who's proven his unwavering loyalty to his lord across four centuries suddenly decide to rebel, particularly for a woman he claims no attachment to?” It's a question similar to the one Strahd has been asking himself for the past year.

Rahadin's voice is low when he responds, “I'd invested quite some time into teaching that child the art of gardening. On how to properly cultivate the plants that I could no longer care for that were so dear to me. I was not keen on taking on a new understudy.”

“Did you fuck her?” Strahd asks coolly.

Rahadin's eyes go wide. “Did I— what?”

“Did you fuck her?”

“What sort of a question is that?”

“A genuine one. Few things feel or taste better than a maiden. Why else would one such as yourself go out of their way to commit such an act of disloyalty? I did not think to check if perhaps there was a half-elf parasite swimming in her gut, though perhaps that would have been wise.”

Rahadin stares at him, unblinking. “I am many things, but I am not an adulterer.”

Strahd quirks an eyebrow. He's hit a soft spot it would seem.

“Why is it so hard for you to wrap your head around the fact that I have interests outside of you?” With his free hand, Rahadin gestures wildly down at himself. ”That my hobbies are all that brings this soulless corpse joy anymore?!” he spits, his tone caustic.

His words cause something to snap inside Strahd. He lays his book down on the side table before rising to his full height. “Conspirator.” He begins walking towards the dusk elf, one foot in front of the other. “Adulterer.”

Rahadin plants his feet. A muscle in his jaw tenses. “Stop this.”

“Conspirator.” 

"Strahd."

Another step. “Adul—” 

Before Strahd can finish the word, Rahadin snarls, a feral sound from deep within his chest. He raises his right hand, stake gripped tight in his fist, and hurls it at the nobleman. The makeshift spear pierces through the center of his chest, slightly to the left—and flies straight through the illusion of the dread lord. Its point embeds into the wall just to the right of the hearth with the sound of cracking stone.

The illusion smirks. “I knew it.”

Before the dusk elf can regret his decision, the flesh and blood form of Count Strahd von Zarovich emerges from the wall. He approaches from behind and wraps his arms around Rahadin's torso and head in a vicious mockery of an embrace. The lithe body in his arm writhes and hisses like a rabid thing, kicks at his shins, but Strahd's grip remains firm. With faux tenderness, Strahd leans in and presses his mouth to Rahadin's ear.

“Speaking of hobbies, I left you a gift in your garden, dear husband.”

Like a scruffed tomcat, the body in his arms immediately goes limp. He hears the sound of him swallowing. “Strahd,” Rahadin begins, taking a stuttering breath to speak, “what did you do?”

“Nothing that was not deserved.”

“What did you DO?!” Rahadin breaks free from his grasp and sprints out the door towards Strahd’s personal dining hall. He hears the sound of glass being broken—much to his immense irritation.

When Strahd eventually—in no hurry—makes his way to the dining room, he finds that the nearest window had been smashed. Curtains billow inward upon the nighttime breeze, a heavy rain of dust now falling upon the room. Strahd sighs and makes his way to the open window before walking down the outer wall of the castle.

When he reaches the castle garden, Strahd notes Rahadin has already beaten him there. The dusk elf’s posture is rigid, his arms frozen down at his sides. The wind whips his black hair around his face, giving him a rather dramatic air. The air reeks of pungent salt. He follows Rahadin's gaze to the heaps of upturned soil within the garden beds, half-dead shrubs uprooted and littering the ground. 

As punishment, Strahd had taken it upon himself to salt the gardens to ensure nothing else could grow for a long while. It brought him no joy destroying the very rose gardens he had overseen the creation of in his mother's name, but a lesson had to be taught. A severe one to emphasize just how displeased he was with his chamberlain's actions. If he was spending less time on his weeds, then he could spend time remembering what was actually important: the oaths he had sworn.

Silent, Strahd crosses his arms and chooses to simply observe the scene before him.

The moon has waned enough that the darkness is almost complete, but it’s enough to illuminate the stunned expression on Rahadin’s face, his mouth having fallen open. He lets out a noise akin to choking. After another moment, the elf falls to his knees. Tears gather at the corner of his eyes. 

Rahadin scoops up a handful of dark, salted earth and stares down at it for several minutes, wide-eyed. Finally, his fist clenches around the soil, his fingers trembling. “This… this is all I had left…” His voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. Thick tears of crimson begin to streak down his cheeks. “This is all I had left. Strahd… How-how could you…?”

“You disobeyed orders. First one spawn and then what, Rahadin? An undead army of my own people being raised against me?”

“I wouldn't…” The dirt slips from Rahadin's hand and is caught by the breeze. As if having taken an arrow to the chest, his body keens forward until his forehead rests on the ground. Strahd watches his consort’s shoulders heave as he sobs on hands and knees—loud, pitiful sounds carried on the wind.

Over a few bushes.  

His behavior is rather histrionic.

There's something unsettling about witnessing a grown man cry. It's even more unsettling when it's from a man who has slain entire villages of people, including his own mother, without so much as batting an eye. Even Strahd had shed a tear or two upon learning of the passing of his mother, but at least he'd had the decency to do it in the privacy of his own chambers.

But this. This is pure and unfiltered, a grown man sobbing in the dirt. This is raw. Strahd finds it just as pathetic, if not more so, as the times his chamberlain had dared to break down before him previously.

Strahd clears his throat. He's seen men at their lowest countless times before, but even this is getting out of hand. “Where did you put the girl's corpse?” It doesn't matter all that much: he's merely curious.

Rahadin ignores him, choosing instead to pound the earth with his fist. 

The lord of Ravenloft gives him another moment before his patience is depleted. He's a busy man; he doesn't have the time to let his chamberlain sort through these childish emotions. Strahd clears his throat. “You are to leave Ravenloft,” Strahd says softly. His gaze falls to the ground. ”In appreciation for your years of service, I shall give you one day to collect as many belongings as can be carried by horse and leave.”

Such a decision brings him no joy, had been one that he’d thought long and hard about. But he reminds himself that his closest friend had disobeyed a direct order, had made a direct attempt on his life—on more than one occasion. This is a judgment he should have made moons ago. Despite that, his ribcage aches for inexplicable reasons.

Rahadin looks up at him from the ground, sorrow heavy in his eyes. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks stained with streaks of red. “We are… w-we are married…”

“And we shall remain so. But separated.” Even with distance between them, he's not fond of the idea of letting his possessions go; they are bound for life, whether Rahadin likes it or not. His mark cannot be removed so easily. He's even less fond of the idea of Rahadin remarrying—not that he genuinely thinks the standoffish elf would pursue such a thing again. 

Rahadin sniffs. “Where shall I go?”

Strahd sighs through his nose. “That is for you to decide. It matters little to me.” Before he can ask, Strahd adds, “You do not have my permission to leave the valley.” If he remains in Barovia, Strahd can at least keep an eye on him. He can remain vigilant toward any signs of rebellion 

Rahadin lifts his head, long strands of hair hanging in front of his face. He gives a teeth-baring smile, a certain sadness behind it. “I gave you my life blindly, Strahd. And still you forbid me from leaving this prison.”

Do not go where I cannot follow. “You tried my patience for the last time. Be grateful it wasn't your body I decided to stake outside my castle. This time.” 

The dusk elf swallows before casting his gaze downward once more. He gives another dejected punch to the ground but remains silent.

Strahd continues, “The previous conditions for your turning still remain. You shall not create any further spawn. Further infractions shall be seen as a declaration of war, and I will not hesitate to kill you and said spawn.” He levels him with an even glare. “Do not try to hide them from me. I will know.”

It feels strange directing these words at Rahadin. Five years ago, he’d be the last person he'd ever expect to have such a severe conversation with. This is the type of talk he'd given the generals of opposing armies back in his youth. It was talk saved for enemies, not lovers.

“Nod your head if you understand, Rahadin.”

He nods, his motions labored as if his head is made of stone.

“Good. Get out of my sight.” Rather than wait for the dusk elf to compose himself, Strahd turns on his heel back towards the entrance of Ravenloft. If he were to continue laying eyes on such a pathetic creature, he may be tempted to change his mind. Such softness is unbefitting a ruler; he must continue ruling with an iron fist and bringing justice to an unjust valley.

A cold drizzle begins to wash over the land. As he closes the stone doors of Ravenloft behind him, a flash of lightning briefly illuminates the sky. 

He doesn't watch Rahadin pack his belongings, doesn't offer to help because why would he? This is meant to be a punishment, after all. Rather, Strahd stays near enough to hear the sound of belongings being packed into wooden crates but far away enough to not raise suspicion.

Perhaps he is remaining close enough for Rahadin to conveniently offer him an apology. It would need to be quite the display: groveling, crawling on hands and knees, pleading. A sincere apology.He stands by, waiting for him to apologize so that he may reconsider his decision. 

Waiting for an apology that doesn't come. 

Instead, Rahadin loads two crates, one with belongings and one filled with the soil he had once been buried in, onto a phantom steed without so much saying a word. He leaves Ravenloft without even a look back over his shoulder at the castle he'd called home for four centuries. A blustering storm sees him off.

The chamberlain's office of Castle Ravenloft remains mostly furnished, fit for someone to move in the next day if Strahd truly desired it. The majority of Rahadin’s books—dull tomes that Strahd has no interest in incorporating into his own library—remain neatly tucked into their shelves, only a handful of them missing. His wardrobe has been mostly cleared, with only the green doublets he had gifted his consort remaining. The shoddily assembled desk remains at the center of the room, a lingering testament to Rahadin’s inadequacy. 

What especially catches Strahd's attention is the platinum wedding band sitting atop the desk—and the severed fourth finger within it.

The atmosphere within the castle feels both different and not at the same time. In the most recent months, his chamberlain had been keeping to his office and rarely interacting with the master of Ravenloft. Knowing that the dusk elf was but a stone’s throw away brought with it a certain reassurance, however—especially from a defensive perspective. For the first time in years, the castle’s vacuity truly feels suffocating. Even with a harem of attractive bodies at his disposal, it eats away at him.

Strahd dedicates his time tenfold to finding means of drawing Tatyana to him: how he can make himself more appealing, to have her see things his way, to emphasize that he is the only thing in this valley that can keep her safe. Still, she spurns him—the beautiful, stubborn thing. His brief interactions with her as Vasili von Holtz are the only thing he finds that brings him joy.

As time presses on, his moroseness only grows. Why is it that he can entice anyone to his side but those whose companionship he desires most? The nobleman knows he’s desirable, that he has much to offer—notably affluence and power. He’s not uncomely by any means if the words of those so fortunate as to share his bed are to be believed; the vampirism had seen to that despite his age. It must be a combination of ignorance and those damned dark powers conspiring against him. 

Two moons after Rahadin’s departure, Strahd’s feet take him to the main dining hall of Castle Ravenloft. He can hear organ music playing past its doors. The music is grating, its creator clearly unskilled at the art. Not Escher, then.

Walking through the double doors, Strahd finds his consort Ludmilla poking away at the keys and unintentionally creating a discordant melody. It sounds similar to the piece Waukeen’s Rest, but so very, very off. With his arms crossed, Strahd leans against the wall and observes silently for several moments until he can tolerate it no more. 

He raises his voice over the poor excuse for music. “That F# is out of tune. As is one of the C keys.”

Ludmilla’s head whips around, and she meets his gaze, wide-eyed. “Oh! Your Lordship!” She turns around on the bench to face him fully, giving him a small bow of her head. Her golden tiara glimmers beneath the overhead chandeliers. “Forgive me. I wasn’t aware you were listening.”

“The entire castle can hear you playing, Ludmilla. Poorly, at that.”

Despite the displeasure in his tone, his consort dares to give him a half-smile. “Well. Everyone has to start somewhere when learning a new skill, and not all of us can be so musically inclined as you or dear Escher.” She winks. “You’ve been saying you would tutor me for some time now. After years of waiting, I decided to finally take it upon myself to learn.”

His lips press into a flat line; he’s unamused by the quip. “I’ve been busy.”

“Of course you have, dear. Though for the sake of your ears, we might carve out the time to bring in a tuning assistant to maintain this beautiful organ.”

“I will see to it.”

“Wonderful to hear.” Ludmilla turns back around on the piano bench and goes back to tapping away at the keys. She repeats the same section several times, starting over when she presses the wrong note. “Though I’m certain you did not come here to hear my lovely playing. What’s on your mind, dear?”

Strahd ignores the question, instead walking around the long center table to approach Ludmilla. She doesn’t turn, instead continuing to play. Strahd places his chin atop the crown of her head, inhaling deeply. Her perfume smells of lavender; a gift from the Vistani, no doubt. A flower such as lavender would have a difficult time surviving in the valley. He places his hands upon her bare shoulders and allows them to wander, tracing down the dark skin of her upper arms. His consort hums and leans back against him. Emboldened, he goes to cup one of her breasts through the white satin of her dress.

The music comes to a stop. She gently bats at his hand. “After being married for so long, Strahd, you should know I prefer being wined and dined first. If you are vying for that kind of intimacy, Escher was in the upper lounge when last I saw him.” She pauses. “...Or perhaps Volenta may be more suited to your needs right now. I’ve heard her lovemaking tends to be on the more ruthless side of the spectrum.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. Strahd sneers, but he pulls his hand away. He didn’t know it was a crime to desire intimacy with his wife… “I’m going to choose to not read into that comment, Ludmilla.”

 “It’s not a slight by any means, mind you. I’m merely making an observation.” She hums and moves over on the piano bench, patting the seat next to her. “Come. Join me.”

Strahd has half a mind to decline, to storm off and go bed one of his other consorts as Ludmilla had suggested. To feel something and drown his irascibility in a pliant body—it doesn’t matter whose at this point. Yet he finds himself sitting on the bench beside his dark-haired consort, a scowl plastered on his face. He’s more than aware that his temper is foul at that moment, but he doesn’t care. Ludmila scoots closer to him and loops her arms around his right, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. He allows it—for now. 

“You never answered my question, dearest.”

He goes to adjust the cuff of his white undershirt. “I thought I made it plain enough what was on my mind.”

“A symptom of something else.” She squeezes his arm. “You may talk to me if something is bothering you, Strahd. I will listen without judgment.”  

“Bold of you to assume not only that something is wrong, but that you are entitled to my thoughts.”

“I am not asking anything of you. I’m simply stating I am here if you would like to talk.” Her shoulders slump. “I am no fool. I know… recent events have been difficult—”

“Do not mince words. I am not a child.”

“Very well. I know Rahadin’s departure has been hard on you. I know you two had been close, and his presence—” 

“You know nothing, then. I’m fine.” He is the ancient. He is the land. His emotions do not need to be coddled. More importantly, he is not so easily affected by doing his obligations as count and dismissing unruly servants. He’s slain countless of his own traitorous men—the entire Dilisnya family tree, even. Those that he had been fond of. This is insignificant in comparison.

That is what he tells himself, anyway.

Ludmilla gives an indignant sniff but holds her tongue. A wise decision. “...I must have been mistaken, then.” She huffs and gives his forearm a pat. “Perhaps a change in subject is in order, then.”

“Perhaps.” His tone is barbed.

“Would you play for me, Strahd? It’s been some time since you’ve graced these halls with music. Years, even? I find it hard to keep track of the time.”

He frowns deeply. Playing the organ is only slightly higher than discussing his emotions on the list of things he doesn’t want to do. It’s been several years since he last played. He’s found it hard to find the will to create anything not involving the Weave, particularly since the decades following his transformation. It’s not because he is unskilled; he’s had plenty of years to perfect his craft. Rather, the inspiration simply has not struck him. “And play what?”

“Anything you desire. I’ve personally been practicing with this piece: Waukeen’s Rest. It’s a song I’ve been fond of since I was a young girl.” She points to the sheet music propped up on the organ.

“I’m familiar with it.” He’s familiar with all of the sheet music in the castle, all of the songs having been played at least once. If it has been a long while since he’s played, it’s been even longer since he’s gone out of his way to purchase new music. “...Fine. Consider this part of your tutelage.” Strahd sighs deeply through his nose and adjusts his posture, squaring his shoulders and allowing his fingers to graze the tops of the ivory keys. 

Beginning where Ludmilla had left off, the nobleman begins to play. The melody flows smoothly. It’s a peaceful song despite being slightly off-key. It all comes naturally back to him, decades of practice rising back to the surface. It feels natural, and as his mind begins to wander, his fingers drift to new chords, playing whatever melody comes freely to him. Notes are drawn out into sorrowful affairs, the tempo slowing into an almost elegy-like quality. It's enrapturing for a moment, disguising itself as an act of passion devoid of the cynicism Strahd had brought with him. He can feel Ludmilla swaying gently beside him.

When his playing comes to a natural stop, Strahd finds that more time than he had expected has passed—as if he’d lost himself in a reverie. The nobleman clears his throat, and Ludmilla claps softly.

Strahd mutters, “Does that placate you?”

“That was lovely, dear. I quite enjoy hearing you play. Thank you.” 

“Do not grow accustomed to it.” He huffs and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “This all has given me a headache.”

Ludmila simpers, her golden earrings tinkling when she moves her head. “My playing can have that effect on people.” She wraps an arm around his back, resting her elbow upon his shoulder. Long, dark nails run through his loose hair. Strahd allows his eyes to close, and he leans into the touch, exhaling slowly. His head is pounding. She presses a kiss to his temple. “Take care of yourself, my lord.” 

His eyes snap open. “Do not talk to me as if you were my mother,” Strahd grumbles. That’s the last thing he needs right now. “Again, I am fine. I have taken care of myself for centuries; a minor inconvenience is hardly a setback.” He pushes the spawn’s hand away and goes to stand from the piano bench. Ludmilla holds her arm to her chest as if he had burned it and watches him with a composed expression straighten out his clothing.

Hardly heeding his warning, Ludmilla says, “I’m always here if you need me, my lord.”

“Don’t call me that,” Strahd growls. He pushes past the dining hall’s double doors before Ludmilla can offer another poor attempt at a bleeding-heart comment. 

He pushes Escher's thighs higher, deepening the angle. The spawn’s dark eyes roll back into his skull, thoroughly blissed out. His mouth hangs open in a silent scream while Strahd thrusts roughly into him, uncaring about his wellbeing.

He's pretty. Far too pretty. Sprawled out, golden hair in loose waves fanned out beneath him like a halo… His is the body of a man who’d had the luxury of pursuing the arts over the sword. No scars mar his flesh, his body lithe but soft. He's been pampering him far too much, it would seem.

While he typically does not mind—he tends to prefer his men to be easy on the eyes—it only causes his frustration to grow. He snarls and quickens his pace.

He could give him new scars. Draw his claws across that pale, smooth chest and carve his flesh into ribbons. Though those wounds would quickly heal; it'd hardly be satisfying. At that moment, he needs something hard, a body that tells a story. Escher’s moans are too freely given as if Strahd has hardly torn them from him. 

“Gods… Ah-ah, Master…!”

“Shut up!” Strahd snarls down at the spawn, his patience worn thin. The last thing he wants to hear is that plummy voice breaking the illusion. Escher obeys, letting his head loll to the side. He bites the knuckle on his left index finger. He grips Strahd’s other arm and digs his claws into the muscle, unthinking, as his body contorts, trying his hardest to remain quiet. Thin rivulets of blood drip down Strahd’s forearm, but he hardly notes the pain over the thrum of pleasure dulling everything else 

Escher chokes back a moan that could easily be mistaken for a sob—it's more grating than arousing—then allows the finger in his mouth to fall away when Strahd angles his hips. “So good…!” 

No one else is this loud, this defiant, during intimacy. Only Escher can't follow an order as simple as shutting the fuck up! The padded bench creaks under them with an obscene rhythm, Strahd hardly caring about how it bangs against the neighboring bookcase with each thrust. A leather-bound tome clatters to the floor, and then another. 

When Strahd finishes inside Escher, it's with little fanfare. He simply grunts, using his hands to hold Escher's hips steady, before pulling out with Escher shuddering all the while. There's no affection in the gesture, no consideration for the spawn. It's pleasurable, yes, but it doesn't scratch the itch destroying him from the inside. It feels mundane, as if he is simply fulfilling some damned human urge.

Even as he's tucking himself back into his pants, Escher’s gaze is laced with utter blissed-out fondness, pale lashes upon fluttering eyelids. Such a look would be flattering on some, but it only intensifies Strahd's frustration; much to his chagrin, his orgasm had done little to lessen the feeling. 

Thankfully, Escher knows his place well enough to not demand his master reciprocate the gesture. If he is feeling benevolent, he has no qualms with bringing his partners to completion; this is not one of those moods, however. Instead, Escher sits up on the bench and watches him redress. He doesn't say anything, but Strahd can see the annoyance behind his dark eyes.

“Where are you going?” Escher finally asks, careful to keep any accusatory tone out of his voice. 

Strahd swings his cloak behind him. “To the village.” To find someone who better suits his needs. Someone who can scratch that metaphorical itch. Someone who would not so easily shatter the illusion he paints in his mind. His focus shifts to the nearby window; through the frost gathering upon the cracked glass, he can make out snow beginning to collect upon the former castle gardens.

“I see. Was the, ah, th-the sex okay? Master?” Strahd pauses from fastening his cloak at his shoulders to set Escher with a look. He's not in the mood to feed his ego with shallow praise. Had it been satisfactory enough, he wouldn't need to venture back out into the cold. 

Instead, Strahd answers callously, “Go clean yourself up. The livestock in the dungeon need feeding.”

Rather than wait for his piteous reply, Strahd throws the spawn's white undershirt at him from the floor before storming off towards the spiral staircase.

Chapter Text

Rahadin raises a hand before his eyes against the barrage of blustering snow. Ice crystals gather upon his dark lashes, making blinking an almost painful affair. Past his arm, it's impossible to make out anything but a blanket of white before him. Were his phantom steed to leave hoof prints in the snow, Rahadin has no doubt that they would quickly fill behind them. He's grateful that his mount is spectral; any flesh and blood creature brought to the peak of Mount Ghakis would quickly perish in such frigid temperatures. Back when he was mortal, even he had had difficulties making such a journey.

The dusk elf relies upon the snow-swept gravel roads that climb the mountainside to the north of Tsolenka Pass to guide his march. He's made the journey countless times over the years, but the ever-changing mounds of snow and the storm obscuring his vision make the route feel foreign each time. No signposts dot the path; very few have ever stepped foot where he’s going.

Fierce winds threaten to pull his fur-lined hood down. He squints through the snow; far in the distance, Rahadin can make out the facade of a temple carved into the sheer mountainside ahead. He kicks his steed into a gallop.

Only a week had passed since Rahadin had left Castle Ravenloft—perhaps forever, perhaps not. Strahd’s rulings could be fickle, dictated by his emotions at any given moment more than reasoning. His commitment to keeping him bound to him as his spouse leads Rahadin to believe that perhaps the vampire, after his loneliness continues to build and reaches its breaking point, might invite him back to his service. He can already imagine what the nobleman might say: swear to me that you’ve learned your lesson properly this time, and I shall honor you with the returning of your title. Strahd can be infinitely stubborn, but he has never fared well being deprived of his playthings. (Rahadin knows well enough that that’s all Strahd sees him as despite his centuries of service.)

Rahadin is unsure if he would even take Strahd up on his offer, return to Castle Ravenloft with his tail between his legs; Strahd would expect him to present thoroughly ashamed of his actions. He hasn’t known any other home outside of his parent’s abode—may they rot in whichever afterlife was foolish enough to take them—his first decade of life. He’s lived in his fair share of places, but rarely had they ever felt like a true, welcoming home—until Ravenloft. But he’s a man of honor; he wouldn’t depreciate himself with such debasement at Strahd’s hand. He knows his worth. He knows his boundaries.

If only he had adhered to them far, far sooner.

The structure comes clearer into view. The front of it stretches high into the sky, towering at least 50 feet tall. Six faceless, hooded figures silently welcome his arrival with bowed heads, their hands pressed together as if in prayer. They stand stuck in time, their 20-foot forms carved out of a single piece of amber. There are no features carved upon their faces, yet Rahadin cannot shake the feeling that he is being watched. Despite this, he rides between the two innermost statues and dismounts his steed. Rahadin murmurs a phrase in Elvish and the phantasmal creature disappears into a plume of green smoke. Carefully choosing his steps so as to not trip on the ice-slicked stairs, he begins making his way through the imposing archway and down the staircase leading to the depths of the temple.

The dim light of the outside is quickly swallowed by the sepulchral darkness of the time-ravaged hallway that beckons him further. To stave off the encroaching gloom more than anything, Rahadin retrieves a torch from his bag and lights it. The flame sputters to life, though it feels as if the darkness swallows its light. Icy steps descend ten feet to a time-ravaged hallway with arrow slits in the walls. Rahadin lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he’d been holding, his breath fogging before his face. The cold bites at his undead lungs. He presses further into the void, grateful for his darkvision that helps lead his path. 

Rahadin eventually steps out onto a wide balcony of black marble, its railing long since broken away. The balcony gives view to the domed atrium of the abandoned temple. The walls and ceiling are covered in an amber glaze, lending the room a golden sheen in the firelight. His gaze falls upon a forty-foot-tall statue of a cowled figure in flowing robes surrounded by marble columns at the far end of the chamber. He pauses for a moment, waiting, before creeping forward, hoping to not draw the attention of the temple’s occupants.

A booming, male voice rings throughout the temple, “Halt! Who dares encroach upon this sacred ground?”

Rahadin winces. More stealth could have been warranted. “I do not have time for this, Neferon.”

“Tribute must be offered: an item of great magical import for the faceless god of secrets.”

He pinches at the bridge of his nose; they go through the same song and dance each and every time. He knows well enough that it is not divine intervention (as the “statue” would like him to believe), but Neferon’s greed taking advantage of him. If he had more time, he might admonish the creature. But time is of the essence: the less time he can spend in this temple, the better. 

Begrudgingly, Rahadin pulls a silver ring with feathers engraved upon the band from his left index finger. He holds it out toward the statue. “Fine. Take this ring and allow me passage.”

There's a moment of silence before Rahadin hears the sound of a latch being undone and padded footsteps upon the floor. An orange-furred head clad in rosy spectacles peers out from behind the massive statue before skittering towards him on two legs. The fox-like creature skids to a halt just before Rahadin. He stands only a head shorter than him.

Neferon twitches an ear. “Good to see you, Rahadin,” he says in Common. ”D’you bring the goods?”

Impatient, Rahadin flicks the ring off of his thumb toward the creature. 

Neferon is quick to grab the ring between his paws. With almost child-like glee, he begins to inspect the piece of jewelry. “Ooh, a ring of feather falling! Yes, very nice, very nice…” His lower jaw quivers as he speaks.”Yes, this shall do nicely. Where'd you get it, hmm?”

“Off the corpse of an outsider.” Not having the patience for any more questions, Rahadin shoulders past the arcanaloth and down the black marble staircase. The floor is slick, and he treads carefully.

Apparently unsatisfied, Neferon slinks ahead to walk beside him, the ring still being closely scrutinized. “Someone's moody. What, no sacrificial frogs today, mmm?”

Rahadin grimaces. He doesn't want to think about the feeling of a whole toad sliding down his throat. “Not today.” And never again, thankfully.

Neferon scrunches his nose up into a faux snarl. “Boo! Boring! It pleases the god of secrets watching you eat them, y’know…”

“It pleases you. Begone, Neferon. I gave you your tribute.”

“Fine! Sheesh!” Grumbling all the while, Neferon skitters back towards his makeshift home within the statue’s head, blue robes flowing behind him. Thank the gods; he’s hardly in the mood to tolerate the creature’s antics today.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Rahadin allows his eyes to close and takes a deep, stuttering breath. He rubs at his upper arm with his free hand; while he cannot feel temperature as he once did, something about the Amber Temple has a way of instilling a deep chill into the marrow of his bones. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings, reorienting himself. With its high ceilings, the vacuity of the temple feels all the more pressing, the darkness all the more consuming. Green light seeps out of the numerous arrow slits along the walls as the flame skulls in neighboring halls continue their eternal patrols, basking the temple in an eerie glow.

The voice from before—Vampyr, it had called itself—is notably silent. It does not call to him from the landing as it had done before, yet Rahadin knows his way well enough, the path from before etched into his memory like a brand. Rahadin steels himself and presses deeper into the temple, past vaulted doors and transcending crumbling staircases. The hush of the edifice is deafening in its own right, the only sound meeting the dusk elf’s ears his own footsteps upon marble. 

As Rahadin rounds another corner, he begins hearing whispers: incomprehensible words that grow louder the further he delves. It reaches the point where he can no longer focus on his own thoughts past the cacophony. He doesn’t bother looking for the source of the whispers; he knows he’d find none. His pace quickens, and he instinctively places his hand upon the hilt of his scimitar. It offers little reassurance. 

When he slips past a pair of double doors that had long since been bashed in, the whispers come to a sudden stop. Despite having only been here once before, the room offers a feeling of familiarity that Rahadin wishes he could shake. The amber-covered walls of this chamber are sculpted to look like tentacles that entwine around marble bas-reliefs of nobles being serviced by what he can only assume to be slaves, their heads bowed in supplication. It’s fitting, Rahadin thinks, given the forces that slumber within the room. Within each of the three alcoves along the walls is an imposing, eight-foot-tall sarcophagus made of pure, solid amber. Despite the solidness of each block, Rahadin can make out single wisps of darkness dancing within. 

The wisp of darkness in the west sarcophagus comes to a standstill as Rahadin approaches. For several moments, he stares at it. Thinking. Reconsidering. His bottom jaw trembles for reasons he cannot identify, his head pounding as if something longs to break out of his skull.

Is he really doing this? Has he truly fallen this far that he would resort to such… such malignant debasement? 

It’s not as if he has a soul left to corrupt, he reminds himself. He was damned the moment his traitorous heart took interest in Barov’s eldest. 

He could right this. Right everything. There’s nothing left for him to give, nothing left to be taken. What’s one more sin atop a life of diabolism?

Squeezing his eyes shut, Rahadin places a hand upon the amber sarcophagus. His torch immediately goes cold.

…

The world fades to black.

…

Pinpoints of light dance behind his eyelids. His chest is full, the weight of oceans upon his shoulders. He’s drowning. His lungs burn as if breathing hot coals. Desperate, Rahadin claws his way to the surface, kicking at the riptides that threaten to pull him further under. 

When he crests, he sucks a long, loud breath into his shriveled lungs. Something stings his eyes, and he blindly reaches out for something, anything, he can hold onto. After a moment of desperately flailing about, he manages to pull himself up onto a solid platform. The dusk elf coughs and gags, heaving lungfuls of liquid from his spasming lungs onto the warm stone beneath his trembling form. Once his lungs have ceased their spasming, he wipes the viscid liquid away from his eyes—only to be greeted by an ocean of crimson before him. The air reeks of hot, rotting iron, and even he and his vampiric proclivities retch at the overpowering stench. Blood drips from his hands, mats his hair, covers his body like a warm second skin. 

The thought, ‘ Am I in the hells?’ crosses his mind. Shaking, Rahadin lifts his gaze.

Against the backdrop of a red, clouded sky, a full moon hangs high overhead. Rahadin makes out a tightly woven globe of swarming bats above. The sound of innumerable wings cutting the air is almost deafening. From within the sphere, a large pair of red eyes not belonging to any corporeal form opens.

“You’ve returned,” the voice says simply. It fills Rahadin’s mind, his body. All-encompassing. The voice is grating like metal against metal, yet there’s an alluring quality to it as well. 

For several moments, Rahadin opens and closes his mouth. Fear paralyzes him. He forces out the single word, “Yes.”

“I’m certain you have not forgotten my previous words. What spurs your return?”

“I-I-I’ve reconsidered.” He swallows. His mouth tastes like bile. “Your, ah, y-your offer.”

The voice laughs. For a second, Rahadin worries about his eardrums rupturing. “You have been graced by a fraction of my gift already through… alternative means. I can smell it upon you.”

His eye twitches. “Ye-yes… I was turned by Count Strahd von Zarovich. Into a, ah, into a full-fledged vampire.”

“‘Full-fledged vampire.’ What a mockery. To what end do you seek me out?

“I wish to… wish to free His Lordship from his suffering. To sever that which binds him.”

Another laugh. Rahadin claps his hands over his ears. “A benevolent lie. There is no need to speak falsehoods. I know your desires. Your motivations. They matter little to me. I know it is power you seek—as it is for all who step foot into this temple.”

Rahadin protests, “I do not seek power. Merely—”

“Cease your falsehoods.”

His eyes squeeze shut. The pressure in his head grows. “I wish to sever that which binds Count Strahd von Zarovich,” he repeats.

“I find this to be rather curious. When I peered into my champion’s soul centuries ago, I witnessed you, dusk elf. A place of fondness. In a different timeline, perhaps it might have been your blood he supped upon to fulfill his bond…” An amused rumble. “How do you intend to sever this ‘bond’, blood of my blood?”

An excellent question. He’d hoped that this Vampyr, whatever it may be, would be able to provide insight for him. That it would understand his meaning and the cosmic powers at play. “...I’m uncertain. But there is little I wouldn’t do to see it through—”

“Do you wish to break his pact with me? Deny him of his rightfully earned powers? Kill him? Usurp his throne? Speak. And be specific,” the vestige intones.

How can he be specific when even he doesn’t truly know what he seeks?! “The-the-the first two! Either! I don’t know!” Damn this abyssal creature!

The bats within the sphere screech in unison. “My pact is not so easily broken except through death. True, finite death.”

A muscle in his jaw tightens. “...How do I kill him, then? Kill Strahd?”

“Were it so easy. There is much you do not understand, blood of my blood, regarding the powers that permeate this land…” One at a time, the red eyes blink. “ You may already know the answer to your question. Or… perhaps you do not.”

Rahadin’s eyes widen despite the rivulets of blood threatening to run into them. “That is hardly helpful! What do I need to know? To consider?” He may already know the answer. That could mean anything! He knows from personal experience that running water burns like acid, and Strahd had instructed him to protect his heart at all costs… “I’ve traveled all this way to seek your guidance. You must give me more to work with. Anything!”

“Must I?” There’s a low rumble that could be mistaken for a chuckle. “Consider: my champion serves my goals well. Across these four centuries, he has been the cause of much suffering. Ask yourself what I would gain by aiding you in such a task.”

“If it is suffering you seek, I could—”

“Do not attempt to bargain with me. Forces of far more import than Strahd von Zarovich are at play. You understand nothing.”

“Then help me understand, gods damn you!”

The red eyes blink. A beat passes, and suddenly the bats are moving at only a fraction of their earlier pace. Despite the sluggish batting of their wings, the dark creatures remain aloft. “ Use my gift well. Engorge yourself upon the lesser, and allow my malice to spread. Farewell, full-fledged vampire. ” 

Before Rahadin can ask any more questions—the lack of a definite answer makes him uneasy—the vacant eyes within the sphere of bats flare with a blinding red light, searing Rahadin’s sensitive pupils. Something wraps around his ankle. Just as he’s about to protest and kick, it pulls him backward. The dusk elf’s claws scrabble against the stone platform, but the force gripping him is far stronger.

It pulls him back into that ocean of blood. Deep, deep down into the void bordering on consciousness. Until his vision is filled with darkness. It doesn’t let go until it feels as if his eyes are going to pop out of their sockets from the immense pressure all around. And then… finally… it releases him.

…

…

Rahadin jerks his hand away with a deep, shuddering inhale until it feels as if the scraps of his lungs will burst. Blood does not choke him this time; his lungs are empty once more, his skin clean of blood. His eyes dart around wildly. Alone again. He’s back in darkness, but it’s not the blackness of the void. He’s greeted by the sight of the amber sarcophagus, the black wisp within still dancing about. He imagines it mocking him from within its solid prison. 

Blood of my blood. I know your desires. Your motivations.

His legs give and slide out from beneath him. For several moments—hours, days; he can’t tell—Rahadin lays there, his cheek pressed to the cold marble floor. His gaze remains unfocused. Unblinking. An occasional tremor wracks his body, causing him to curl in tighter on himself. The voices encroach upon his mind once more. Not the whispered promises of power from before, but screams. Hundreds, thousands of screams. Men, women. Children. Children screaming in the Elvish tongue. Cries of anguish, of pain, screaming for mercy. Piercing and intrusive, shrapnel in his mind. Children. One of the voices sounds unnervingly like the desperate pleading of his mother. Like a fish gasping for water, Rahadin’s mouth opens and closes. Quietly in Elvish, he begs for the onslaught to stop.

My pact is not so easily broken except through death. True, finite death.

Amidst the pained sobs, he cries out for Strahd.

Chapter Text

A fierce wind howls outside, seeping in through the cracks of the shoddy wooden infrastructure of the shack. If he could feel temperature, he might have been bothered by the draft. Instead, Rahadin goes about his business as usual.

Since returning from the Amber Temple, he's been relatively idle. It's an odd feeling, having adequate free time in his day. Resting on his laurels back when he was chamberlain usually meant that he had overlooked some task that needed completing—paperwork to be filled out, letters to be written, burgomasters to be threatened. Yet now that he has free time, he's unsure how to spend it. In a previous life, he would have spent it tending to the garden or catching up on reading. But now, he is without both a garden and a library. The seeded pots that had been left behind from Gertruda's stay remain barren, and he's already read through the four books he'd brought with him from Ravenloft. The only things he’s found to reliably occupy his time are cleaning, walks, and thinking. And there’s been so, so much time to think.

He could go into town, buy up a new book or two, but the idea of having to interact with commoners fills him with revulsion. Even more so, he doesn't want to risk the possibility of running into him. It would be extremely unlikely—the only person that dislikes going into town more than him is Strahd—but not impossible. If he saw him prowling about in that gaudy Vasili von Holtz disguise, he might actually try and kill the man. 

Instead, Rahadin continues looking out the window of his abode, silently watching the snow amass. 

The sound of something rattling against the closet door steals him away from his thoughts. It's incessant, the dull thud, thud, thud of someone kicking the wood. Rahadin huffs, more than a little annoyed, and goes to throw open the closet door. 

Just as he’d left him, an elderly man lays curled up on the floor, his bare feet pushing against the frame. He sluggishly lifts his gray-eyed gaze to meet Rahadin's. His eyes are clouded over, only partially lucid. Dark bruises poke out from his simple tunic along the sagging skin of his neck and bound arms. Rahadin had chosen this one in particular with the hope that no one would miss him or, preferably, notice his absence. The fewer Barovians he has poking around in his business, the better.

The dusk elf glowers down at the human. “Kick that door again and I’m feeding your supper to the wolves. Understood?”

The man swallows and closes his eyes, and Rahadin interprets it as understanding enough. “Good.” Without another word, he slams the closet door shut. 

Stepping away, Rahadin pinches at the bridge of his nose. Life was so much simpler when he didn’t need to rely upon others—literally—to feed himself. It was one thing to tend to the larders in Ravenloft; it’s completely different when he has a man strung up in the closet of an already small cabin. A man that he has to keep alive if he wants to eat. It’s not so unsimilar to raising livestock, he supposes, but even an animal living in its own filth is more tolerable than some of the people he’s had the displeasure of knowing.

Just as he turns around to go stare back out the window… Another thud, thud, thud. Rahadin whips around and snarls at the closet door. “What did I just say?!” 

Before his fingers can wrap around the knob of the door to throw it open, there’s another knock, this time coming from the front entry. A man’s muted voice calls out, “Hello?”

Of all the times! He doesn’t have people prying into his business for a solid moon, but the moment he has to deal with vermin in his closet is when suddenly everyone decides to call upon him! He stills, hoping that whoever is at his front door will leave him be.

Another knock. “I heard someone talking inside. Please, I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is important!”

A debate plays out in his mind. No one should know he is here; it can’t be all that important. He would probably be able to suss out his location, but he knows Strahd well enough to assume he wouldn’t send a middleman on his behalf to speak with him. It could be some sort of trap, but anyone in this valley would be a fool to try and ambush him. If it were a trap, there’s room in the closet for one more, he supposes…

His curiosity getting the better of him, Rahadin rolls his eyes and goes to crack open the front door. Against the backdrop of a snowstorm, a man stands before him. Brown eyes upon a bearded face peer out beneath a hood. 

His voice is muffled by the wind when he speaks. “Well met. I’m Aeramir. I apologize for disturbing you this late, but it might have been a matter of life and death for me. Could I trouble you to rest here for a moment—wait out the snowstorm and warm my bones? I have coin.”

Rahadin gives the man a slow once-over. The dark-skinned stranger is hardly attired for the weather, dressed in a plain metal chestplate and padded gambeson. A long cloak whips behind him. His eyes dart to the hand resting upon the hilt of the longsword at the man’s hip. “...It is unwise to knock upon random doors in Barovia. Even if it is a matter of life and death.” His voice feels hoarse from disuse. 

The man’s chapped lips pressed together in a thin line. “Again, my apologies for knocking at such an hour.” 

“Are you alone?”

“Aye.”

Another debate rages in the dusk elf’s mind. On one hand, the man seems well-meaning enough. Offering him temporary shelter from the storm would be amiable, and he’s clearly an outsider—it’s the only reason someone would be so outwardly foolish as to travel at night. On the other hand, he’s had his fair share of men that had appeared to be well-intentioned until they placed a blade at his back. If that were to happen, however, he would have every excuse to make an example of him. Stock his own larders, as it were. If the mood truly struck him, he could do so with or without this stranger having ill intentions. Perhaps that alone could be worth bearing someone’s company.

Rahadin exhales loudly through his nose and steps aside, opening the door wider. “Boots and outerwear off at the door. I’d prefer to avoid you making a sty of my home.”

The man gives a small smile. “Of course. My deepest thanks.” He steps past the dusk elf into the unlit cabin. 

Rahadin pokes his head out into the snowstorm to assess the situation. There are no others that he can see, and there’s only a single path of tracks in the snow. It’s not guaranteed that he’s alone, of course, but at least the rest of his company aren’t outwardly fools. 

As he begins to remove his clothing and armor, Rahadin approaches the hearth—as poorly constructed as the rest of the cabin—along the back wall and tosses a few pieces from the broken wooden furniture that had initially littered the place into it before lighting the kindling. He can only hope there are no birds’ nests clogging the chimney; he hasn’t bothered to light a fire since his occupancy. After a moment, the fire roars to life, illuminating the cabin in warmth.

“That feels nice,” Aeramir murmurs. He shakes out his shaggy, curled hair, sending droplets of water flying. “Is there a, um, place you would like me to set my wet clothes?” He raises his cloak in emphasis. 

Rahadin frowns, noting the puddle beginning to form on the wooden floor. “Outside.”

“...You’re certain? If at all possible, I would like to keep my armor from rusting—”

“Outside,” Rahadin repeats, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Whether this stranger’s clothing freezes solid or not is of little concern to him. 

“...Fine.” Aeramir picks up his armor and clothing and goes to move them just outside the door of the cabin. Barefoot, he makes his way over to the hearth and kneels before it to warm his hands.

Rahadin watches him with narrowed eyes. He inhales deeply. Beneath the scent of damp fabric, the man reeks of strong, floral perfume that almost overpowers his keen sense of smell. The dusk elf crinkles his nose. “You are fortunate. The overwhelming majority of Barovia’s populace would not open their door at night, much less for a stranger.”

“Fortunate, indeed.” Aeramir glances up from the fire towards him. “I don’t believe I caught your name, friend.”

“That is because I did not give it to you.” He crosses his arms, debating if he is feeling courteous enough to share his name or not. His name has a way of inciting terror in certain people, and he’s not feeling keen on this stranger destroying his home in a panic. “...Rahadin.”

He smiles. “Well met, Rahadin.”

Ignoring any formalities, Rahadin asks, “You are new to Barovia, I assume?”

“Very astute. Indeed. I wound up here maybe,” he pauses, thinking, “a week ago, perhaps. A group of people—the Vistani, they called themselves—brought me here on the back of a wagon.”

No doubt Strahd is already aware of this one’s presence. It wouldn’t be unfounded to believe he had told the Vistani to bring in fresh blood to stave off his boredom since exiling his previous plaything. “What brings you to Barovia?”

Aeramir rubs at the back of his neck. “Accident, if I am being honest. They allowed me to shelter in one of their wagons from the rain. When I awoke, I was alone. I’ve been having the damnedest time attempting to retrace my steps.”

Undoubtedly. This man has a propensity of leaning on the charity of others, it would seem. “Tell me about yourself.” Admittedly, he is curious; it’s not often he gets to speak with those with new stories to tell. The lives of the Barovian commoners tended to be rather droll affairs; he’d rather take a knife to the gut than hear them drone on about their failing livelihoods.

“I’m from Redwater. It’s a small village off of the Sword Coast.”

The Sword Coast. That is a location Rahadin has not heard in centuries. 

Aeramir continues, “I’m a mercenary. Goblins, trolls, bandits… I help rid towns of their problems where I can. I was a soldier in another life, but I found the freedom that comes with being a lone sword more enjoyable.”

“How noble of you.” There’s no inflection in his tone. 

“I merely do what I can to get by. If I bring some good into this world while I’m at it, well, all the better.” With a grunt, Aeramir sits on the floor, long legs stretched out before him with his arms behind him. “What about you? What is your story, especially with having a cabin in the middle of, well, in the middle of nowhere?”

Rahadin shifts from foot to foot and leans back against the cabin wall. “I enjoy my solitude.”

“I can respect that. Oh, before you continue…” As soon as he had sat down, Aeramir stands up and goes to rifle through his knapsack. He produces a bottle of wine. The label is immediately recognizable: Red Dragon Crush. “Found this sitting in a basket along the road. Figure it might help warm my bones.” He holds the bottle out towards him. “Want some?”

His lip curls. “No. How can you be certain your conveniently placed bottle of wine has not been poisoned?” He knows well enough that it’s not; Strahd has a propensity for greeting his new guests with such gift baskets. In a previous life, he’d unfortunately been tasked on Strahd’s behalf with leaving them in places where outsiders would find them. It was not one of his more enjoyable responsibilities.

Aeramir gives him an unreadable look before he shrugs his shoulders and goes to take the sole chair in the cabin, scooting it closer to the fire. “If I die, well, you’re welcome to anything on my person.” He uncorks the wine with a dagger produced from his belt before throwing his head back and taking a long swig. It’s a rather barbaric sight. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Continue. Tell me about yourself, Rahadin.”

“...Charming.” The smell of fermented grapes on the man’s breath is almost nauseating. “I’ve served in many capacities. Like you, I was also a soldier in a past life. A general.”

“A general!” Aeramir’s eyebrows raise. He chuckles. “Guess I should be calling you sir, then. What’s the military in Barovia like?”

“Again, it was a past life. I’ve left that chapter behind me.”

“Fair enough. A good army, at least?”

A bubble of pride wells in Rahadin's chest. Despite not wanting to disclose much about himself, he can't help but preen. “Very. It was a privilege leading its men into battle. Our troops overtook the Delmorians—and on their own land in the midst of a bitter winter, nonetheless.” His eyes close, and he loses himself in his memories. “Though our crowning achievement, in my opinion, was slaying a silver dragon. The beast put up quite the fight and killed several hundreds of our men, but it was no match for our commander.” 

“Your commander.” The bottle pauses at Aeramir’s lips. “The Strahd von Zarovich that so kindly left me this gift basket, I presume?”

That is Count Strahd von Zarovich to you!” Rahadin hisses. Upon noticing the startled expression on Aeramir's face, he winces internally. Old habits, ones that he's certain will take years to break. “...The very same.”

“Right, Count. Sorry. Did you ever have the pleasure of knowing him?”

Rahadin crosses his arms in front of his chest and frowns. Pleasure would be too strong of a word. “I was a general. Of course I knew my commander.” He doesn't even know the half of it. “Any leader worth their salt would take the time to get to know those leading their troops into war. Their success depends on it.”

Something doesn't sit right in Rahadin's gut. “These foolish questions... I'm beginning to suspect you weren't a soldier at all, Aeramir of Redwater. That, or a poor one.”

The man lets out a warm chuckle. “Sorry. Sorry. The wine must be hitting a bit quicker than I had anticipated.” He pretends to hit his head with the palm of his hand. “What's he like? The count?”

Rahadin's stomach twists at the question. His upper lip curls up into a harsh smile. If Aeramir notices the ivory fangs flashing in the firelight, he doesn't say anything. “I'm sure you'll meet him yourself soon enough.” 

The bearded man shrugs and takes another drink from the wine bottle. A terse silence fills the room. Looking down at his torso, Rahadin suddenly notes how slovenly dressed he is wearing only a simple dress shirt. Having been alone for some time, he’d grown used to being underdressed in more comfortable clothing. His manners must be beginning to escape him—even if he is only in the presence of an outsider. Clicking his tongue in admonishment towards himself, Rahadin begins to unfasten and roll down his sleeves. 

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Aeramir nods his head in Rahadin’s direction, “what happened to your finger there?”

His gaze drifts down to his left hand. Unthinking, he wiggles his fingers—and the clean nub where his fourth finger had been. His brows furrow. “That’s none of your concern.” He’d rather not give his life story to a stranger, especially regarding that . He knows how it would sound to the uninformed.

“Didn’t mean to pry. Having that finger gone saves you from the whole marriage thing, I s’pose.” As if noticing the scowl that crosses Rahadin’s face, the man holds up a defensive hand. “I’m merely teasing, of course.” Aeramir takes another drink of wine. “You got a partner somewhere?”

The question causes his body to stiffen. It’s one he’s avoided thinking about. Cutting off his ring finger and freeing himself from that damned cursed object was one reminder intentionally out of his life; he doesn’t like to think about how even though he may be physically and literally free from Strahd’s influence, they are still married under the law of Barovia. There’s a damned piece of paper out there still serving as that reminder, one final barrier. 

He’s grown tired of this conversation.

Not answering the question—at his core, he’s not a liar—Rahadin pushes off of the wall with his boot and begins approaching Aermair. The wolf encircling its prey. The man seems none the wiser, instead uncrossing his legs to place them flat on the floor. The dusk elf places a hand on the back of his chair. “...Do you?” Rahadin asks in an unexpected moment of boldness.

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. From beneath dark lashes Aeramir watches Rahadin, his eyes growing dark. Interested, then.

He’s never tried such a thing. Despite being a full-fledged vampire for several moons now, he has yet to try all of the tools in his kit. Something about charming another has never sat well with him; while he can see the tactical advantage to such a skill, it always made him uneasy watching Strahd attempt to assert his influence over an unexpecting person. Despite his cold exterior, the warlord could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be, a skill that lent itself well to the dark allure of vampirism. Perhaps it’s because he’d been on the other end of that influence one too many times that he feels a natural opposition to it.

Rahadin much prefers his quarry to know exactly his intentions. His chosen persuasion is intimidation; have a man fear for his life, and there’s little that they won’t do to assuage you. There are no honeyed words—words that never come easily to him in the first place—involved in fear tactics. Merely allowing one’s true colors to shine. Asserting dominance. 

If he wants to achieve his goals, however, he will have to be proficient in all things at his disposal—no matter how much discomfort they bring.

Pausing briefly to steel himself, Rahadin circles to Aeramir’s front and places a hand on his shoulder. Their eyes meet.

Just as Strahd had done.

Rahadin allows the darkness within him to creep forward, overshadowing his mind. He searches for the tendrils of connection between the two of them, something that he can latch onto and pull, and pull, until he submits. 

There’s nothing there. 

That spark of energy that Rahadin had glimpsed in others, like balls of light in his mind, is not there. 

Perhaps he is doing it wrong. Frowning, Rahadin closes his eyes and tries again. Nothing. Only the darkness of his own mind.

A hand atop his pulls Rahadin from his search. His eyes shoot open. Aeramir looks up at him with a gentleness that does not match his grizzled features. “Either I’ve had too much to drink, or…” says the man, his voice a drawled murmur. He leans forward to set the bottle of wine down on the ground before standing, causing the chair’s legs to screech along the floor. The man is almost two inches taller than him.

He’s Strahd’s height. Rahadin is quick to shake the thought away.

Aeramir begins to walk the dusk elf backward until Rahadin’s back hits the wall. The fire crackles and pops somewhere to his side. Its light basks the human’s face in a warm glow, causing his brown eyes to become pools of copper. 

Rahadin stares at him wide-eyed. Despite his position of power, he feels suffocated. Small. Nothing about this feels right. Everything feels off. Out of instinct, his fingers grasp at the empty air beside his hip; his eyes dart towards his scimitar sitting upon a crate by the front door.

Clearing his throat, Rahadin forces his lips up into the most alluring smile he can muster. It feels unnatural.

The back of thick, cold fingers graze along the side of his cheek, and Rahadin sucks in a ragged breath. “Pretty thing…” the man murmurs, his voice husky and low. 

The smell of wine on his breath coupled with the overpowering stench of perfume causes Rahadin’s stomach to churn. Desperate, he mentally reaches out once more. Nothing. His eyes dart between Aeramir’s face and neck, the open collar of his undershirt emphasizing his exposed throat. If he went along with this, he could feed with very little hassle on his part. A willing, compliant, healthy body for once versus the bedraggled shell of a man barely breathing in the closet. No doubt, this one’s blood would taste far better. Though the less logical and panic-stricken animal fighting to escape would rather tear this thing’s head off and drink from the shreds of his torn-open arteries. 

His mouth opens and closes as he searches for words— pay the idiot a compliment, you prude! —but nothing comes to him. He can’t do this. It’s not in his nature to submit to such fancies. It’s making his skin itch more and more with each second his back is against the wall. 

“May I kiss you, darling?”

As Aeramir begins to trace the elf’s cheekbone with a thumb, Rahadin raises an elbow and slams it into the man’s gut. Aeramir grunts in pain and doubles over. Before Rahadin can sink his fangs into the inviting meat of his throat, tear out muscle and cartilage and sinew, Aeramir, with surprising agility, tucks a leg behind Rahadin’s knee and throws him to the ground. His head lands a mere inch from the wall. 

Aeramir huffs and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He glowers down at the dusk elf. “...I should go. You’re clearly not in control of your emotions—but when have you ever?”

He should stand up. He knows he can easily overpower the man, but his hurt pride keeps him down. Gods willing, maybe he can just sink through the floor and forget all of this ever happened. Time has made him clumsy. Mediocre. His discomfort is weakness. Unwittingly, Rahadin squeezes his eyes shut. “You should.” His voice comes out strained.

After a moment of listening to the man shuffling about, Rahadin finds it in himself to stand, leaning into the corner with the hopes that the shadows would mask the dazed look on his face. 

“I’ll put my gear on outside. Thank you for your hospitality, General.” Aeramir’s voice is even, but he can hear the emotion under it. The slight tremor in his fingers doesn’t go unnoticed. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, the bearded man shoots one last lingering look—it’s hard to read his expression—at him before leaving out the front door. 

Without as much finesse as he would have liked, Rahadin scampers over to the front window and watches Aeramir go to pick up his clothing and armor. He slides on his boots but otherwise flings the rest of his wet clothes over his shoulder, carrying his armor in hand. It strikes Rahadin as interesting, but he cannot fault someone for wanting to get away as fast as possible from someone that had attempted to make a meal of them. He watches the outsider walk away and continues staring out the frosted window for a long while, until the snow has filled his tracks and created an even, white expanse once more. 

Rahadin allows his forehead to rest against the window, desperately hoping to feel the cold. To feel anything, really. The glass feels room temperature to him. He continues watching until the sorry excuse of a sun rises behind the cloud cover once more, washing the sky in a pale gray light. 

Chapter Text

One of the most damnable parts of being undead, in Rahadin's opinion, is the hunger that accompanies it.

It's not like the hunger he'd experienced as a mortal: a growling stomach, weakness, the shaking of his hands. Even long stretches of starvation, something that he was no stranger to, pales in comparison to the unearthly hunger that accompanies undeath. 

These pangs are more akin to withdrawals, and they come on quickly. They bring with them severe headaches, pain along his gumlines. It's both starvation and dehydration all at once. They cloud his thinking until all he can think about is blood to the point where it feels like a compulsion to feed by any means necessary—even through debasing himself like a feral animal.

He remembers with great distaste the hunger strikes he would force himself through in the early stages of his vampirism. Sometimes he would starve because he was unable to find the motivation to move. Sometimes they were a means of protest against Strahd. Those periods had felt like torture—another thing he's been on the unfortunate end of. When starving, it often felt like something was trying to claw its way out of his very skeleton. And with all the mysteries surrounding vampirism, it wouldn't surprise him if that were in some part true. 

It's an experience he would greatly prefer to avoid when possible. He's learned that being proactive with his hunger is the most helpful thing for him. As a result, when Rahadin begins to feel the telltale ache beneath his fangs—not pain just yet, but a nuisance—he's quick to set his book aside and pay his little pantry a visit. 

When Rahadin pulls open the door to the closet, the human within hardly stirs. He raises his clouded gaze up towards the elf, and Rahadin can smell the rancid fear that washes over him. The sound of his quickening heartbeat only causes the vampire’s hunger to grow. His pulse smells warm, fragrant. He’d be disgusted at such a concept but a year ago. 

Rahadin toes his shoulder. “Are you going to cooperate this time?”

The human swallows heavily and squeezes his eyes shut before nodding. Good man. He struggles to sit up, using his restrained elbows to try and push himself. Rahadin kneels beside him and, using the rope around his wrists, helps him into a sitting position. 

His fangs sink into the human’s neck. Blood, ambrosial and thick, floods his mouth, and Rahadin eagerly swallows it down like a man deprived of water. Above the thrum of a pulse, he barely notices the pleasured hums that leave his mouth. His eyelids twitch. While by no means does he enjoy the idea of feeding—barbaric would be an understatement—it brings with it an ecstasy unlike anything else.

He feeds until the chaos in his mind becomes a low buzz. Sated, Rahadin pulls away, two lines of blood briefly connecting his fangs to the new puncture wounds along the man's neck. For several moments he sits there, savoring the fullness of his belly, the sweet taste of iron that lingers in his mouth. Another moment, and he finally decides to release the elderly man from his grasp. The human's body crumples to the floor.

Rahadin wipes at the corner of his mouth with a thumb and reaches down to wipe it off on the man’s tunic. He does not stir. With a frown, Rahadin goes to feel his pulse, being careful to avoid the puncture wounds along his neck lest he wishes to dirty himself again.

It’s nonexistent. 

Even with his enhanced hearing, he cannot hear him breathe. The steady beating of his heart no longer echoes from within his ribcage. Rahadin grabs his shoulder, shakes it, but still there is no reaction from him. His frown only deepens. The man’s passing brings him no sadness—why would it? He’d never bothered learning his name. But it is a great inconvenience for a number of reasons. He could attempt to resuscitate him, sure, but the odds of it being effective would be extremely low if the cause of death could be attributed to his gluttony. Such an old creature wouldn’t even be worth his time to resuscitate in the first place.

He’d have to go out and find a new source of food—and soon if he hoped to keep his energy up enough to hunt. But most concerningly, he’d have to properly take care of his corpse. Having served Strahd since the very beginning of his turning, Rahadin is more than familiar with what happens to bodies that are drained of their blood in such a fashion. It’s how vampire spawn are created. He saw the process unfold before his very eyes when he—temporarily—spared Gertruda from her painful death. No, he is not keen on the idea of being a spawn’s caretaker, and even less so on the idea of Strahd busting his door down in a tizzy.

He’d have to dispose of the body soon. A rather gruesome process that he is not looking forward to. 

With a frustrated sigh, Rahadin puts on his boots before throwing the corpse over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Kicking open the front door, he grabs his scabbard and stomps outside of his cabin, wandering until he finds an acceptable clearing far away from his abode to not invite any unwanted vermin. He throws the body down onto the ground. 

The corpse stares wide-eyed at the night sky, his ragged clothes billowing in the wind. Rahadin kneels down and, with a great heave of his scimitar, manages to separate the human’s head from his neck. The head lolls to the side, its crimson blood mingling with the frozen earth. Such a display hardly affects the dusk elf. He gives a sharp whistle. 

Time passes, and Rahadin wonders if his attempt at communing with the darkness had even worked. Another moment, and the brush begins to rustle. Three gray wolves, two females and one male, approach him, tails held low in submission. Strahd had a natural knack for recognizing the creatures by name, but Rahadin has never cared enough to try and identify them. He’s unsure if he’s ever interacted with this lot before, yet still they sidle up to him as if he were a longtime friend. 

Rahadin reaches out to grab the human’s head by his gray hair. “Take care of the body,” he murmurs to the wolves. He feels ridiculous talking to animals of all things, but the wolves seem to understand his meaning. One by one, they creep up to the decapitated body, sniff it, and begin tearing away long strips of its flesh. While it’s disgusting to watch them feed, red-tinged drool flying out of their mouths with each piece they pull away, Rahadin is grateful that he doesn’t have to try and dig a grave while the ground is so unforgiving.

He leaves the wolves to their noisy work and goes to busy himself with his own tasks, namely searching for the nearest tree with suitable branches. After a moment of looking, he eventually does tear a suitable low-hanging branch from a fir tree. As he’s stepping out from beneath the cover of needles, the sound of footsteps—bipedal footsteps—stops him in his tracks. The branch falls to the ground, and his hand ghosts over the hilt of his scimitar. He pauses, listening intently to his surroundings.

A woman with thick, dark hair steps out from the treeline. Upon seeing Rahadin’s defensive stance, she raises both of her hands in innocence.

A Vistana. Never a good sign.

“Halt,” Rahadin calls out. “State your purpose.”

“Greetings, consort of Count Strahd von Zarovich,” the woman replies with a heavy accent not native to Barovia. While met with distaste, Rahadin does not correct her on the title. “I have come on behalf of your husband. He asked that I deliver this to you.” 

It’s as she says that that Rahadin notices the folded piece of parchment in her hand. Even from this distance, he can make out the raven sigil of the Von Zarovich family stamped into a crimson wax seal. Unconsciously, his mouth twitches with antipathy. “I’d thought him man enough to correspond in person, but it seems I thought wrong if he is sending one of his spies,” he spits the word, “to my domicile.” 

He has no love in his heart for this group of Vistani. He’d tolerated them before simply because they swore fealty to Strahd—and did a good enough job of keeping his elven kin under their thumb. Previous interactions with Arrigal and Luvash had left a poor taste in his mouth; it makes no sense to him why this particular band of Vistani would serve such incompetent leaders. 

The Vistani are wise enough to not attack him, he knows. Rahadin reaches down to pick the branch back up and gets to work attempting to dig an end into the ground.

Hands still held out before her, the woman takes a cautious step forward. Her expression remains calm, even as she holds out the parchment towards him. “He asked I give this directly to you.”

He scoffs. “Then return it unopened. If he wishes to speak with me, he may do so in person.” The old man’s severed head makes a sickening squelching sound when speared onto the other end of the makeshift pike. 

He hears the Vistana woman’s heartbeat quicken. “I believe it is a wedding invitation.”

The words strike him like a punch to the gut. Rahadin has to fight to keep his expression impassive when he finally turns away from the pike to face her. “With whom?” he whispers. He has a decent enough idea, but Strahd can be wildly unpredictable at times.

The woman maintains her icy stare and shakes the parchment in his direction.

Swallowing, Rahadin closes the distance between them and snatches it from her hand. The paper creases when he hastily tears the wax seal away. He immediately recognizes the clean handwriting within. 

My dearest Rahadin,

I hope this letter finds you well, and that your un-life is treating you with the utmost respect it deserves. I am writing to you today with great joy and excitement, as I have wonderful news. At long last, I will be entering into a union with my beloved Tatyana—or as she is known in this life, the lady Ireena Kolyana.

As you have been my closest confidante for countless centuries and my ally throughout this journey to capture Tatyana’s heart, I cannot imagine anyone else standing by my side on this special day. That is why I am humbly asking if you would be my Man of Honor at our upcoming wedding.

The ceremony will be held at Castle Ravenloft in but a week's time. As you know, I am not one for frivolous displays of emotion, but I cannot deny the importance of having you there with me on this occasion.

I am more than aware that we did not part on good terms. But I would ask you to make the journey to Ravenloft one last time for this momentous occasion.

Please let me know your decision at your earliest convenience. I eagerly await your response.

The signature is written in less-than-tidy Elvish script, and Rahadin’s gut twists in recognition. 

The moon of your life,

SvZ

Wind howls through the trees, threatening to tear the letter from his hands. For several moments, Rahadin stares at it, but his eyes no longer see the words. The blood from his fingers soaks into the sides of the parchment.

How dare he.

How dare he!

A blustering fire rages inside him. He cares not who Strahd wants to marry. He can marry some nameless burgomaster’s daughter. He could marry a harlot from the streets for all he cares; while classless, it’s ultimately his right as count of Barovia, and he would not argue with the desires of nobility. But to ask him to be the Man of Honor at his wedding is like a slap to the face. 

Once upon a time, he would have been deeply honored by such a request; he’d been the Man of Honor during Strahd’s nuptials to both Ludmilla and Anastrasya, and he was proud to stand by his side. But given their history, the suffering that the nobleman had purposefully inflicted upon his chamberlain and husband of all people… Such a request is unacceptable.

The letter oozes false sincerity. In the four centuries he’s been in the lord of Barovia’s company, he’s never known him to use such flowery language. And Strahd certainly knows he knows this. ‘Cannot imagine anyone else standing by his side.’ Horse shit! The sole purpose of such a note is for Strahd to kick him while he’s down. 

It’s another mind game. It’s always mind games with him. Strahd only feels whole when he’s belittling someone else. Five years ago, Rahadin would have never suspected that he would be the one on the receiving end.

Rahadin folds the invitation back up to hide the trembling of his fingers. His eyes close, and he sucks in a long breath to steady his voice. “Tell His Lordship that I decline.”

The Vistana woman tilts her head. “Decline what?”

On any other day, he would admonish her for such nosiness. “He’ll know.”

A look of discomfort crosses her face. She kicks a stone aside with the toe of her boot. “He won’t be pleased.”

He gives a fang-baring smile. “That’s not my problem anymore, is it?”

The woman chews on her cheek, thinking, before she lets out an audible sigh. “Are you certain? He—”

“Because of the loyalty you have shown my household previously, I will give you 15 seconds to get out of my sight before I cleave you in half.”

That seems to jolt her to her senses. “As you wish,” she says cooly, but still Rahadin can still hear her heart pounding away. Wisely not dawdling on the matter, the Vistana gives a curt nod of her head before turning on her heel. Rahadin stares after her until her form has disappeared past the treeline and a few minutes even after that. Once he’s certain she’s gone, the dusk elf brings a hand up to push his hair away from his face, allowing his expression to fall into a grimace. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and simply stands there, composing himself.

Strahd is to wed Tatyana. After centuries of pursuit, failed attempt after failed attempt, the date is set. From what he knows of Ireena, he can assume she’s not taking Strahd's hand of her own accord. A part of him wonders through what unsavory means he forced her hand, but honestly, he doesn't care. It's out of his hands and no longer his concern how Strahd occupies his time. Though he does pity the poor girl to some extent. 

He would continue wiping his hands of it. Of Strahd. His mind has been more at peace these past moons than it had been the entire previous year living under Strahd's thumb. It's a mundane existence, certainly, but at least he doesn't need to be wary of when he might be struck again. It's one thing to be vigilant of possible assailants. It's another to feel as if he’s constantly looking over his shoulder for his supposed husband.

If he has his way, he’ll never set foot in that lion’s den again.

Chapter Text

In his experience, there are generally only two types of places that monsters tend to live: dark, hidden-away caverns, or luxurious abodes that bloodthirsty creatures have no right inhabiting. The former is popular amongst the oozes, the skeletons, the owlbears. Like most base animals, they prefer to reside in places far from humanoid interference until the need to hunt arises. The latter is popular amongst the thinking creatures that tend to view themselves as above mankind, that they themselves are deserving of only the finest luxuries whilst everyone else can rot. Notably demons, devils, and vampires—the egotistical, self-centered things. They collect and hoard. Where there’s an abandoned castle, there’s usually a vampire or dragon not far away. 

Count Strahd von Zarovich, the self-proclaimed first vampire, fits the stereotype to a T. Of the vampires he’s had the displeasure of meeting, its so-called home is the most elaborate. It had been constructed to house a royal family—its royal family—after all. Vampires tend to be creatures of habit. They act out mockeries of their previous mortal lives. They often haunt the towns they’d visited in a past life in an attempt to enjoy old hobbies—to no avail. And, if the conditions are suitable for their inflated status, they will not leave these towns. As such, it would make logical sense that von Zarovich has refused to leave its castle for the past few centuries. 

Yet this vampire… This vampire is an enigma. Having once occupied the finest castle in Barovia, it now occupies a run-down shack in the middle of nowhere, aligning more with the base monsters than a mind-bending master of undeath. Rictavio can’t help but eye the wooden structure with scrutiny. The shack looks as if it had once been a hunter’s outpost. No smoke rises from its chimney despite the frigid temperatures. No light illuminates its interior despite night falling upon the valley. No footprints mar the mud leading to the entrance. Were he not confident in his intel that the creature has been inhabiting it, he would assume that it had been abandoned for decades.

Pulling his blue, woolen coat tighter to his thin frame and adjusting his tophat, Rictavio marches up to the front door like a man with confidence. He doesn’t hesitate before rapping his knuckles against the door.

Silence. Rictavio knocks again.

Several minutes pass before he hears shuffling from within. There’s the sound of a latch being undone, and bleary, black eyes stare at him from past the cracked door. The creature looks more irritated than surprised to see him. As to be expected from what he knows about this one.

Rictavio sucks in a deep breath. Despite decades of experience, he’s still plagued by a twinge of anxiety with each new encounter. Though he supposes it’s that apprehension that’s kept him alive. “Rahadin! My old boy!” Rictavio offers a wide smile before, holding his hat snugly to his head, giving a sweeping bow. 

Rahadin does not return his enthusiasm, instead blinking slowly at him. “What business do you have with me, bard?”

“Now now, is that any way to address a friend? I was in the area, and I thought I’d stop by for a chat!” 

The creature pushes open the door slightly wider to poke its head out, no doubt scanning the area for threats. 

“I can promise you I’ve come alone.”

Unsatisfied, Rahadin spends several moments looking around before its gaze settles on Rictavio once more. “How did you find me?” Its voice sounds hoarse.

“I can answer all of these questions and more. But, it is rather cold out here. Do you mind if I come in for a spell?” 

“I do mind. Leave me be.”

Before the creature can slam the door in his face, Rictavio wedges his boot between the door and the frame. He sets it with a serious look. “I have important matters to discuss with you. I strongly encourage you to make time for my company.”

Rahadin’s frown deepens. It chews on its cheek, thinking for several moments, before opening the door and stepping aside. “Shoes off at the door,” it mutters, sounding not at all pleased. 

Rictavio gives a polite nod of his head before stepping inside the lion’s den.

To say that it is freezing within the cabin would be an understatement; Rictavio’s not confident that a fire has been lit in weeks, and the lack of ashes in the fireplace only confirms his suspicions. Despite being dilapidated on the outside, the place is relatively tidy on the inside. It’s obvious that the creature has tried its hardest within its means to make the place as liveable as possible. His attention briefly flickers to the empty terracotta pots sitting atop the windowsill before he goes to remove his boots and sets them beside Rahadin’s near the entrance. He doesn’t owe the bloodthirsty thing such courtesy, but he is ultimately here on a mission. Rictavio takes a moment to stretch his sock-clad feet; hiking in heeled boots is a mistake he makes far too often. 

As if reading his previous thoughts, Rictavio looks over his shoulder to find Rahadin putting wood—broken pieces of furniture from the looks of it—into the fireplace. “It appears I’ve misplaced my tinderbox.” It gestures at the stack of wood. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Reaching into a pocket, Rictavio approaches to light the fire, being wary the entire time of the creature. Having his back to him is enough to cause his fingers to tremble while he strikes the tinderbox. Not soon enough, Rahadin goes to sit at the small table in the corner of the room. Once the fire flares to life and fills the room with its orange heat, he joins Rahadin.

He takes a few moments to look the creature over. Its considerably long black hair is pulled over its shoulder in an intricate braid. Its face is that of a starved man, the structure of its skull prominent beneath sunken, sallow skin. Despite its gauntness, there’s an undeniable charm about the thing—an iconic, repulsive trait of this particular breed of undead. 

“So,” Rictavio stretches out his legs beneath the table, “charming place you have here. If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the story behind it?”

Ignoring him, Rahadin says, “How did you find me? Did you follow me here?” Malice radiates behind its eyes.

“Hardly. Rather, I followed the Vistani. One of them was in Vallaki asking about you, and I, ever the curious sort—seeing Vistani in Vallaki is a rare sight, after all—tracked them. Imagine my surprise when I found you here!” He gives a sharp bark of laughter. “Speaking of, did you know your cabin is being watched, old boy?”

Rahadin looks significantly less amused. It ignores the question. “And what was so important to discuss that you decided to pay me an unwelcome visit?”

“Ah, straight and to the point! That’s what I’ve always liked about you.” Rictavio goes to lightly punch Rahadin on the shoulder, only for it to twist its body out of the way. “Yes, well. While I was doing my tracking, I noticed that the Vistana woman handed you a letter. That wouldn’t happen to have been an invitation to a certain noble’s wedding, would it?” He doesn’t miss the way the creature’s body immediately stiffens. To reduce the likelihood of harm befalling him in a sudden spike of fury, Rictavio raises a hand. “I can see it in your eyes, old boy: how did this ravishing young bard make such a deduction? Well, it’s quite simple. You see, some of my other compatriots—you’ve met them—received similar letters, each one bearing the same wax seal yours had.

“I’ll cut straight to the chase. Are you planning on attending?”

A muscle in Rahadin’s jaw flexes. ”...That is none of your business.”

“Ah, so it was a wedding invitation! Marvelous! It may not be my business, but as a bard, I like knowing who to expect at large gatherings. It helps me prepare appropriate stories and entertainment and whatnot.” He chuckles, and his eyes drift to the dark claws tapping along the table. A predator’s weapon.

Its voice steady, Rahadin says, “Leave.”

“So soon? Why, but I just got here, my boy!” Despite the mirth in his words, Rictavio can feel his heart hammering in his chest. No doubt the vampire can hear it. “I find it interesting that the Devil—”

“You shall refer to him by title or not at all!” Rahadin interrupts with a snarl. Rictavio notes the ivory fangs. Seemingly catching itself, the creature winces before allowing its shoulders to fall once more.

Rictavio continues, “Terribly sorry. Yes, His Lordship. I find it interesting that His Lordship would send you, his trusted chamberlain and, please correct me if I’m incorrect, consort a letter hand-delivered by a Vistana. I find it interesting that you are living in this,” he gestures widely, “ charming abode rather than the castle. That an invitation had to be sent to you in the first place when your presence would be expected under normal circumstances. I believe—”

“Silence!” Rahadin quickly stands and slams its hand down upon the table hard enough for it to crack, wooden legs threatening to buckle. 

Rictavio flinches, but remains seated, trying his hardest to maintain his cool composure. He folds his hands in his lap. “You’re going to want to hear me out. I believe that—”

“I do not care what you believe, half-elf!”

A silencing hand. “I believe that you and the Devil have had a falling out—a rather severe one based on what I know about you—and that is why I have come to you with a proposition, Rahadin.”

The creature’s shoulders heave with furious breaths, its face seemingly stuck in a snarl. “You have five seconds to tell me why I shouldn’t kill you.”

It’s all rather interesting; he knows the former dusk elf was a savage even prior to its turning, but even then he’s known Rahadin to remain collected no matter the hardship. Even during the fiasco with the tiefling spawn on the way to the Amber Temple, it had maintained its composure. It would seem he poked the lion’s soft spot. 

As if speaking down to a child, Rictavio repeats, slower this time, “Because I have a proposition I think you will want to hear.” 

Its eyes narrow. “...What are you?”

“Why, I’m an entertainer, of course!”

“You are no mere bard.”

Rictavio contemplates his next move for a moment. The pros and cons—and there are many on each side—of him revealing his hand. Strahd’s right-hand man is many things, but unlike other creatures he’s faced, it’s no fool. He can only hope it’s not too soon. With a sigh, Rictavio pushes his chair out and stands. Grabbing the brim of his top hat, he removes it and gives a low, sweeping bow. As the Hat of Disguise is removed, Rictavio watches as the tanned skin of his half-elf disguise becomes pale and wrinkled, his fingers no longer the lithe, smooth things of a performer but heavily scarred from decades of hunting monsters. 

No longer is he Rictavio the eclectic roaming bard, but a monster hunter once more. Having hidden his carefully protected identity for so long, he feels bare. Exposed. Rahadin is one of the last creatures he wants to reveal himself to, but circumstances have forced his hand. “Dr. Rudolph van Richten. At your service.”

The only sign that the creature is fazed is the slight widening of its eyelids. Its fists ball at its sides. “...You are a very wanted man in Barovia.”

“Indeed I am.” It’s a welcome change of pace to be able to drop the foppish accent he’d adopted with his persona, though even his natural voice sounds strange to his ears. 

“I’d thought you wiser than to enter someplace under watch, van Richten.”

The older man places the Hat of Disguise down onto the table. “The Devil’s spies have been dealt with. I had no concern walking into here.” 

Rahadin quirks an eyebrow. “No concerns at all?”

Van Richten holds its gaze. “No concerns at all.” Though he very well might regret his decision by the end of their conversation.

“...Given your history, I have no doubt you know what I am.”

“Indeed I do, vampire.”

“Mm.” Posture still tensed as if ready to pounce at a moment’s notice, Rahadin places a hand on the back of its chair. “Your little proposition must be especially interesting if you’ve chosen to reveal yourself after so long.”

“Indeed.” Van Richten takes his seat back. “Do you mind if I smoke?” Not waiting for an answer, he pulls out his pipe and begins stuffing it with tobacco from a pouch. He lights it and inhales deeply—something to help calm his frazzled nerves. Watching Rahadin’s expression twist with disgust when he exhales smoke into its face fills him with amusement. “I’ll be blunt with you. My proposition is to kill Strahd von Zarovich at the upcoming wedding. I’ve had several others agree to assist me with such a task.”

Rahadin lets out a sharp, nasally laugh. “I have served the von Zarovich family for centuries. How can you be so certain that I will not inform His Lordship of your plan?”

“Because I believe that you, just as I do, have your own reasons for wanting him dead. And despite how powerful you are in your current state, even you, just as I do, must realize that you are no threat to him on your own. What I am proposing is a temporary alliance. You get what you want, and I get what I’ve wanted for years now. It’s no secret that I despise your ilk, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth when it presents itself.”

The creature pulls its hand away and begins to pace around the cabin, arms crossed behind its lower back. The wooden floor squeaks underfoot. “ If I were to hypothetically oblige, what would be the plan?”

“Now, it would be unwise of me to reveal all of the details before you’ve agreed. You said it yourself; I cannot be certain that you wouldn’t run off and tattle to your wicked master.” He sucks in another lungful of smoke, the pipe’s end illuminating the corner of the room in an orange glow. 

“So you’ll inform me that you and your conspirators are planning on killing His Lordship at his wedding but not of the details?”

He exhales a ring of smoke. “Precisely.”

“This seems like an odd choice in disclosure from one such as yourself.”

“Perhaps.” But he’s confident in his decision. In his experience, one’s gut feeling is one of the best tools at their disposal. “Are you in, or are you out?”

Rahadin’s voice comes out a low, scratchy growl. “You would ask me to assist you in killing the lord of Barovia.”

“Indeed I would.”

The creature pauses for a moment and sets him with a look as if trying to read his very soul. Its brow is furrowed, and it looks deeply conflicted. It begins pacing again. Were the undead capable of such emotions, van Richten would have read such an expression as melancholic. More likely, it’s thinking of how it can maximize its gain from the situation.  “...I accept.”

Van Richten can’t help but smile; he loves it when a good plan falls into place. “A good decision.” He gestures to the chair beside him. “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable while we discuss next steps. You’re making me uncomfortable pacing about like that.”

Its upper lip twitches, and it sighs through its nose before relenting, taking the offered chair. Plainly put, the thing looks miserable. The layman may be tempted to pity such a creature. Thankfully, he is no novice. Van Richten steeples his fingers upon the table before leaning forward. 

“You are intimately familiar with the layout of Castle Ravenloft, correct?”

Chapter Text

He is a very patient man. 

It’s a virtue that has served him well throughout his many years of life. He has no qualms with waiting the years it may take for his enemies to slip up and reveal themselves. Back when he led armies and sieged cities, one of his preferred tactics was to starve the enemy out. Since his turning, he has all the time in the world to wait—unlike his foes. In that sense, vampirism has only enhanced his natural skills.

But today of all days, he finds himself struggling with the concept of time. He feels restless—and why shouldn’t he? For the first time in centuries, he’s so close to claiming that which is rightfully his.

But fate can be a cruel thing, and the dark powers revel in their torture. They glutton themselves upon his suffering. Every moment he’s kept waiting increases the likelihood that something will go wrong. That the dark powers will find some way to pull the rug from beneath him at the last moment and ruin everything he’s worked for. Right now, he does not have all the time in the world to wait, but exactly the opposite. Time is of the essence.

Sitting in his quarters, his leg bounces. “How much longer?” Strahd demands. He knows he sounds like an impatient brat, but he can hardly spare the mental energy to care. 

“Patience, my prince. Guests are still arriving, and your bride needs time to prepare.” Escher chuckles. “Honestly, I cannot fathom how much time it must take to put on so many layers. And to be expected to walk in such heavy garments? I have nothing but awe and respect for the fairer sex.”

Strahd crosses his arms but does not respond. The amethyst gown he’d had created for Tatyana is not a complicated one. It should not take as much time as she had demanded to put on. And with a gaggle of women waiting on her hand and foot no less… He’d been fully dressed in his wedding finery—a long, red doublet with gold trim, black trousers, and a fine velvet cloak—in less than half of an hour. He understands many things, but women will never be one of them, apparently. 

His current state of being feels far different than it has with previous weddings. The ceremonies with his consorts had been small affairs, a means to an end. A few hours and some paperwork, and they became his. When Sergei was to be wed to Tatyana in a previous life, he was dreading the passage of time rather than eagerly awaiting it; the sooner they were wed, the sooner Tatyana would be out of his grasp. The sooner his brother’s blood would coat his mouth like an unavoidable poison. 

But now… With each moment longer they wait, the chances of something going awry increase tenfold. Even with numerous wards cast upon Ravenloft, there’s no guarantee that the Dark Powers wouldn’t find some means of intervening. 

As much as he yearns to flaunt his bride to the populace, a part of him regrets not opting for a small, intimate, quick gathering. 

Thick claws tap impatiently upon the table. Strahd’s gaze falls upon Ismark Kolyanovich, Tatyana’s adopted brother, sitting across from him with his third glass of wine. The newly appointed burgomaster’s face is buried in his palms, the fingers of his left hand idly clenching his prematurely graying hair. Had he looked so miserable at his own brother’s wedding? Strahd wonders. At least he’d had the decency of keeping his suffering hidden. He can only hope that the man is sober enough to walk a straight line down the aisle. 

Of the three of them currently in the room, Escher seems to be the only one in a chipper mood. He’s sitting in front of the dressing table, chittering away about wedding traditions or something whilst rubbing aromatic oils into his blonde locks. Throughout their years of marriage, Strahd has grown quite practiced at tuning out his prattling, especially when he’s in a sour mood. 

Interrupting some scrutinizing comment about Baroness Vallakovich, Strahd growls, “Where is he?”

“Where’s who, darling?”

“Rahadin. He was supposed to be here an hour ago.”

Escher shifts upon the stool, uneasy. “I’m sure he has his reasons for his late arrival. It’s not in his character to show up late.”

His thoughts begin to run rampant. His nails clack harder against the wood. “And what if he had a sudden change of heart? He’d initially declined my invite, after all.”

Escher clicks his tongue. “It’s your wedding day. Have a glass of wine to soothe your nerves and leave the worrying to everyone else.”

“I don’t have nerves.” His words sound unconvincing even to his own ears. It was a mistake inviting Rahadin in the first place. Despite it taking him several hours to draft, he’d meant the words in his letter. Even with their recent troubles, Strahd was willing to put grievances aside to celebrate such a momentous occasion with him; he was one of the few who’d remained by his side when he’d all but lost hope, after all. But of course the dusk elf would not consider how his actions might impact others. He’s always been a selfish thing, but Strahd had expected better of him on his wedding day of all days. A mistake—one he would not make again. 

It’s as he’s mentally cursing the elf that he hears familiar footsteps past the ruckus of the gathering crowd in the foyer. With all the nimbleness of a cat, but quick with purpose. He’s about to externalize those curses when the door to his quarters is thrown open, the scent of pine and acrid poison curling through the air. Rahadin's presence quickly replaces those thoughts. 

A lightness fills Strahd’s chest. 

On Rahadin’s face is an expression of irritation, thin lips pressed together in a tight line. He’s dressed in one of his typical blue doublets, this time without the leather armor he typically wears to large gatherings. It’s a fine enough garment, but not nearly elegant enough for a grand wedding. A few strands of his hair have broken from their cast, falling over his forehead. Cast by the fireplace, he cuts a lean shadow on the wall.

Before Strahd can greet his best man, Escher hops off of his seat. “Rahadin! So happy you could make it!” He steps forward, arms outstretched as if inviting the elf into a familial hug, but changes his mind when the elf turns to glare daggers at him. Posture slightly slumped, Escher returns to his seat with his tail between his legs. 

Strahd hardly shares Escher’s waggishness. “You’re late,” he remarks, his voice dry. 

Ignoring the comment, Rahadin says, “Was attempting to have me escorted to this room your doing?”

He can’t help himself; the corners of his mouth turn up despite the irritation rolling within him. “Yes. But, stubborn as ever, I assume you declined my escort?”

Rahadin crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I know this castle just as well, if not better, than you. An escort is an insult.”

“It’s not that I don’t trust your navigational abilities. Rather, a precaution.”

He blinks.

“You were exiled, after all, for—”

“I am aware.” 

The air stills. The smile is wiped from Strahd’s face, replaced with a discerning stare. Being interrupted, and by a traitor, no less, merits his claws resuming their tapping upon the table. Escher’s eyes flicker between the two of them. Ismark hardly seems plussed. Not wanting to lose himself in that headspace on such a day of celebration, Strahd quickly inhales and gestures to the room. “Come, make yourself comfortable. I mirror Escher’s sentiment.” He can be the bigger man.

Rahadin does not obey, instead choosing to remain by the door with his back pressed against the wall. 

Strahd lets out a long, frustrated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. Between Rahadin and Ismark, one would think they were attending a funeral in lieu of a wedding. Escher is many things, most of which negative, but at least he can match the mood of a gathering. His mood is already sour; he doesn’t need others feeding into it. Strahd lightly taps his hand upon the table. “I suppose introductions are in order. Rahadin, to my right is the newly appointed burgomaster of Barovia Village, the esteemed Ismark Kolyanovich. Ismark is the adopted brother of Tatyana—“

“Her name is Ireena, you demon…” Ismark grits out. The man sounds on the verge of tears. “And it is only because of you that I’m burgomaster! You and your—“

Strahd raises his voice to talk over him, “Ismark, this is my consort and best man, Rahadin von Zarovich.”

“We’ve met.” Rahadin’s voice is flat. 

Strahd’s eye twitches. He can feel Escher’s gaze burning into the side of his head, saying don’t do something you’ll regret.

The spawn clears his throat and, as if being able to read Strahd’s desire to backhand everyone in the room, wisely interrupts, “Now that we have introductions out of the way… Your Excellency, I’m sure you’re eager to begin getting ready. It won’t be long, after all, until the ceremony starts. And what a beautiful ceremony it will be!” Escher cheerily claps his hands together.

“Indeed.” If Strahd comes off as embittered, then so be it; unlike Escher, he has difficulty faking joviality once spurned. “Rahadin, as I’m sure you’re aware, it is Barovian tradition for the best man to be clad in their traditional armor. As such, I’ve taken the liberty of having your garb retrieved from the armory and oiled.” The nobleman gestures to the suit of red-dyed studded leather adorning the stand along the far wall. 

“As is tradition,” Rahadin agrees. Strahd has spent enough time with the elf to be able to hear the imperceptible irritation in his voice. He uncrosses his arms and finally steps further into the room towards the suit of armor before beginning to pull the pieces from the stand. 

“Escher, take the burgomaster with you to the entry and mingle with our guests until the ceremony,” says Strahd.

“Yes, Your Lordship.” Ever obedient, Escher quickly ties his hair up with ribbon before standing. “Burgomaster Barovia, would you please join me? I will guide you to the guest hall.”

Ismark glares for a long moment at Strahd, resentment burning behind his gray eyes, before he slowly nods, not tearing his gaze away even as he stands.

“Thank you, Escher. I shall join the both of you shortly.”

“Like the Hells you will. Devil,” Ismark mutters under his breath loud enough for the vampire to hear. It must be terribly hard for the young burgomaster to have his only sister, adopted or not, married off; he’s more than aware Ismark has been protective, suffocatingly so, of Tatyana since the unfortunate death of their father. It’s solely for that reason that he, a count, is tolerating such belligerence. 

Escher gives a small bow before turning to leave his quarters, a guiding hand ghosting over Ismark’s shoulder blade. The door closes behind them, and Strahd’s attention redirects to Rahadin. The elf has already begun fastening his leather greaves, nimble fingers making quick work of the fastenings with the confidence of someone who’s done it hundreds of times before. 

His eyes follow the gentle curve of his back. “Might I help?” Strahd offers. Centuries of experience have taught him the process is much faster with two people. 

“No, thank you.”

Strahd frowns. “Time is of the essence, and you arrived late. Allow me.” Disregarding his dismissal, Strahd closes the distance between them and retrieves the raven-embellished cuirass from the stand. He holds it out to him, and Rahadin stares at it for several moments as if contemplating not taking it. Finally, he relents, grabbing it and sliding it over his torso. Feeling impatient, Strahd, rather forcefully, pushes and pulls Rahadin this way and that to tighten the fastenings until it fits snugly against his chest. He repeats the same song and dance with the rest of the armor with Rahadin being begrudgingly malleable in his grip.

Strahd steps back and takes a moment to admire his handiwork. Honestly, he’s unsure why he ever allowed Rahadin to replace the blood-red armor of the Von Zarovich army with that drab leather set he is so fond of. Simply put, he looks striking. Threatening. All sharp angles and intricate leatherwork, his image is one that would strike fear into the hearts of the lesser. Centuries ago, he’d ensured that that armor was of the finest quality; it wouldn’t suit the Von Zarovich army to have his generals looking like mere foot soldiers. 

“Your armor still fits wonderfully. I don’t know why you stopped wearing it.”

Rahadin adjusts the lacing on a bracer. “It’s confining. When dexterity is one of your greatest assets, it’s important to have armor you can move in.” 

“Fair enough, I suppose.” He thinks back to the armies that had once filled his barracks. It had been customary for Von Zarovich soldiers to wear full plate; if they were too weak to carry the weight upon their shoulders whilst marching, then they were undeserving of being a part of the finest army on Toril. Yet they—more specifically, his father—had made an exception for the lanky dusk elf. His father had seen potential in him. Promise. And he hadn't been wrong. While he has many critiques of his father, one couldn’t deny his skill of seemingly looking into one’s very soul and identifying talent from just a cursory look-over.

Strahd had stored his own metallic armor centuries ago. To not wear armor into battle is a mind game in and of itself. That, and he no longer needs it. Nothing can truly kill him—he’s tried—and few even attempt anymore. There are very few supposed heroes in Barovia.

The nobleman adds, “In any case, you look good.” It’s a sincere statement.

He does not acknowledge the compliment. Were this but two years ago, the dusk elf’s ears surely would have flushed at his words. (He misses that little quirk, admittedly.) Rahadin’s eyes flicker to the door. “Yes. Well. Now that I am properly dressed, shouldn’t we be assembling—”

“They won’t start without me. We have time.” Like they’d been punched from his gut, the words leave Strahd’s mouth faster than his brain can process them. They surprise even him; he can’t help but tilt his head slightly, his thoughts directed inward. Just a few moments ago, he’d been wishing for the hastening of the ceremony. Despite this, his legs carry him over to the small table he and Ismark had been sitting at a moment prior. He takes his seat and gestures to the open one across from him. 

A look crosses Rahadin’s face, but it’s gone before he can read it. Like a trapped animal, he looks to the door once more. 

“I insist.” Strahd tilts his chin up. “It would be tasteless to deny me your company on my wedding day.”

Looking rather stiff-jointed, Rahadin trudges towards the table and takes a seat. The gentle curve of his back hovers a few inches from the back of the chair, a product of his straight posture. He reminds Strahd of a frigid maiden meeting her suitor for the first time and not a companion he’s known for eternity. Someone whose body he’s explored time and time again. The thought is quickly brushed away. Strahd reaches for the silver pitcher at the center of the table and fills two cups with wine. He pushes Ismark’s cups aside before placing one in front of the dusk elf.

“Drink,” Strahd demands. Leading by example, he quickly downs his own before pouring himself another one in an act that reminds him of his younger years. 

Rahadin eyes the cup that is shoved at him with skepticism. He lifts his eyes back to Strahd. “I don’t feel it’s proper to imbibe before such an important ceremony.”

“If we all lived by your discerning standards, Rahadin, my own boredom would kill me.” He brushes the statement off—he’s been doing a lot of that today. “You wouldn't dare disappoint me, would you? Drink.” His tone is jesting, but he makes a point of keeping his shoulders squared.

Rahadin lets out a long, obnoxious sigh through his nose before he wraps his fingers around the delicate base of the glass and brings his lips to its rim, Strahd’s eyes glued to him all the while. He takes the smallest of sips before his face scrunches up in a look of disgust. From the way his dark eyes bulge and the revolting noise that churns in his throat, it looks as if the elf is trying his hardest not to gag. Seeing him obey doesn’t fill him with the satisfaction it once had, but it does bring him some delight watching him suffer through the taste. He sets the glass down with one hand while frantically grabbing for his handkerchief with the other to hold over his mouth.

Feeling merciful, Strahd spares his best man from further embarrassment. “Rahadin,” Strahd drawls, “be honest with me: how have you been?”

Rahadin blinks and dabs at the corners of his mouth. “You expect me to truly believe that you care about my well-being?”

“Yes. You know my distaste for smalltalk. I do not waste my time on questions I’m not interested in hearing the answer to.”

“...I’ve been well.”

“That’s good to hear.” He gives a thoughtful hum. “I must admit: I had been… disheartened upon hearing how you’d initially received my invitation.” Disheartened is putting it lightly. Furious is far more accurate—but he wouldn’t let on to its actual impact. “But you are here now, and I suppose that is what truly matters.”

“Of course I responded unfavorably.” Rahadin runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek before his attention snaps to him. “You are the most intelligent man I know, Strahd. I know you don’t do anything unless you’re confident it will place you five steps ahead. You are not sentimental; you’re cold. Calculating. The advantageous traits of a warlord. And I do not say those things to disparage you; in a past life, I found them,” he pauses, thinking of a word, “ enticing.”

His words hardly sound like a compliment with that intonation. “What are you getting at?”

“I took your invitation as wheedling. Antagonizing. Particularly within the context of recent events. But please—correct me if my interpretation was incorrect.”

The tension grows between them. The air feels thin. Finally, Strahd lets out a breathy huff of laughter. “Such a pessimist you are.” He doesn't correct him, however; he's not in the habit of lying. Some unconscious part of him, if he's being honest, had hoped to invoke something akin to jealousy. Reassurance that he was still on the elf's mind. 

Strahd takes a slow, savoring sip of wine this time. It's not a pleasant heat. Rather, it burns his throat like acid. Strongly, unpleasantly sour. Unlike his companion, he doesn't choke. “Look at you, being so emotionally open. It pleases me to see my previous instruction paying off.” Another sip. “I can only hope you're continuing to no longer finish in a matter of seconds as well.”

The annoyed expression on Rahadin's face unravels into a look of pure mortification, eyes wide and ears drooping. He balls the red handkerchief in his fist. “That is inappropriate…!”

Inappropriate. As if the entire nature of their relationship isn't inappropriate. “Oh, lighten up, Rahadin.” He uncrosses and recrosses his legs. “I’m only teasing you.” 

Judging by the way his fist has yet to unfurl from that handkerchief, he's not convinced.

Another approach, then. “I did mean what I wrote. I am happy to have you by my side for such an occasion.”

Something is grumbled under Rahadin's breath. Rather than asking him to repeat himself, Strahd continues, “How long have we known each other?”

Without missing a beat, Rahadin replies, “412 years.”

“That long… And what a history we've shared in that time.” Strahd hums, thoughtful. “From parasite, to general, to chamberlain, to royal consort…“ He smirks. “And now full-fledged vampire. Your success story is a rare one. One that you’ve fought hard for. Myself aside, I cannot think of anyone more deserving.”

His jaw sets. There’s something else that Rahadin wants to say, but he restrains himself. “...Today should be about your victories, not mine.”

Strahd’s eyes narrow. “My praise is a rare thing. Accept the compliment.”

It looks as if the act physically pains him. “...Thank you.”

“You are quite welcome.” Another sip of wine. “Reminisce with me for a moment. Do you remember—I believe it was while we were preparing to siege Argynvostholt—when that thrice-damned bard managed to slip into our ranks?”

“Regrettably.” Rahadin's face scrunches up. “Elric the Eloquent. Why do you ask?”

He snaps his fingers in recognition. “Elric the Eloquent! That rat-faced bastard. I was thinking the other day about Elric the Eloquent and their bright pink lute.”

Rahadin’s next words are slow, hesitant. As if he's attempting to ascertain Strahd's ulterior motives. “What brought this on?”

“One of our guests was dressed in a similar garish fashion, and it reminded me of them. I couldn't get them out of my mind.” Strahd leans back in his chair. “I was remembering how we tried to evict them several times, only to have the troops practically riot. ‘Good for morale,’ they said.” He brushes a stray strand of hair behind his ear and scoffs. “Tumors are easier to get rid of than that worm.”

“...Until you secretly sent me under cover of darkness to sever their lute strings.”

“And even that wasn't enough.” Strahd pitches his voice up in mimicry. “‘My instrument may have been sabotaged, but I still have my voice and a song in my heart!’” Seeing the visible pain on Rahadin's face at the memory is enough to turn up the corners of his lips. “Do you remember that one song they used to sing?”

“Which one? Their repertoire was—regrettably—immense.”

“The one.”

His former chamberlain narrows his eyes. “The earworm that each and every soldier proceeded to sing for a fortnight?”

“Certainly one and the same. What was it? ‘Ragnar the…’” Strahd wracks his brain, trying to recall the melody. He begins to hum out a rough tune, hoping that it'd reveal itself from the recesses of his mind. His fingers tap against the wood in rhythm while he fumbles through it; for all his merits, his baritone struggles to carry a tune. Something apparently clicks, because he hears Rahadin scoff over his humming.

“Stop. If I never have to hear that song again, I'll die a lucky man.”

Undeterred, Strahd continues his humming, fingers tapping all the while. Normally, he’s not the kind to make a fool of himself like this, but he feels comfortable around his companion. Things feel natural.

The elf’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Stop.” Rahadin releases his grip on the handkerchief and begins folding it into a neat triangle. “You're embarrassing yourself.”

“I know you know the words. ‘And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade…’”

“Strahd.”

“You know the words.” He repeats, pausing at the end and drawing out the word, ” ‘And the braggart did swagger and brandish his blade…’”

Rahadin hides his face behind his palm. His spoken words are no more than grumbling, but Strahd's enhanced hearing has blessed him. "‘As he told of bold battles and gold he had made…’”

A warm, genuine laugh bubbles from Strahd's chest. “There you go!” 

Despite himself, Rahadin smiles, his mouth poorly obscured by his hand. “You’re intoxicated.”

“Hardly.”

“In any case, this is a wedding, not a torture session. Spare me from such memories.”

“For now.” Strahd winks. “Until I make my way to the organ.”

“You are a cruel man.”

“And yet you enjoy my company nonetheless, darling.” It hadn’t been intentional for the pet name to slip from his mouth. Truly, he had meant to keep today purely platonic; it’s his wedding day, after all. His long desired, long fantasized about wedding day. The ceremony itself matters little to him outside of propriety and law. Rather, it’s a means to an end of having Tatyana as his wife—as it should have been all those years ago. It is his right as ruler to have as many consorts as befits his station, yet something about acknowledging this on such a day feels odd. It must be the courteous, traditional side of him showing through.  

Rahadin must have noticed as well because for a split second his eyes go wide and their gazes meet. The air grows thick and silent. Rahadin’s throat jumps when he swallows, his pupils darting about while he takes in the features of Strahd’s face. The nobleman is too self-assured to cower from such scrutiny; he does the same. Strahd notes the way orange light flits and curls in the reflection of the elf’s eyes, the shadow of his lashes. It feels exceedingly intimate. Like the two of them are butterflies, their wings crudely pinned to cork for one another’s analysis. 

“Don’t call me that.” Rahadin’s voice comes out strained, barely audible above the murmurs and swells of music echoing from the front hall. Not a muscle in his body moves.

The seconds stretch on. Unthinking, Strahd reaches across the table. His fingers graze against Rahadin’s, wrapped around the delicate stem of the glass, when he gently pushes its base towards him. “Drink. Please.” The burgundy liquid dances within.

The elf’s eyes flicker between him and the glass before ultimately settling on him once more. Silent, Rahadin raises the glass to his lips and drinks deeply. Strahd’s eyes are drawn to the way his Adam’s apple bobs, trails down to the two pockmarks embellishing his slender throat resting above the neck of his tunic. Cupidity burns in his chest. 

The emptied glass is gently placed back on the table, and this time Rahadin’s face does not twist in repulsion at the taste as he holds Strahd’s gaze. A part of him longs to taste the wine on his lips.

Unhelpful. This is a path he does not want to continue down. Strahd shakes himself from his reverie and, louder than he had intended, goes to stand. Louder still, he clears his throat. “The ceremony will be starting soon. I suppose we should take our places.” Rather than wait for Rahadin’s reply or any acknowledgment that he’s following, he begins to make his way toward the door.

A chair screeches against stone. “Strahd. Wait.”

Closing his eyes for a moment— this is a path he does not want to continue down, he reminds himself—Strahd begrudgingly turns around, his curiosity getting the better of him. Rahadin quickly closes the distance between them, and for a moment Strahd thinks from the force of his steps he’s going to punch him in the gut. He comes to a stop a few inches before him. His fellow vampire stares up at him, his inky eyes infinite, unreadable pools. His eyes dart along Strahd’s face, and the seconds stretch on between them. Strahd doesn’t say anything, just quirks an eyebrow at him. 

Until the dusk elf wraps his arms around his waist.

Strahd stands there in stunned silence as Rahadin buries his face in his shoulder. Caught off guard, the nobleman’s arms hang limp at his sides.

“Strahd.” Rahadin’s fist balls into the fabric of his doublet. His voice is soft, almost imperceptible. “Stay.”

If the embrace had taken him by surprise, his words bewilder and leave him speechless. “...Why?” he asks after a long moment.

Stuttered sounds leave Rahadin’s mouth while he tries to find his words. “There’s something…” He swallows. “Once you and I leave this room, I fear there will be no turning back.” His grip tightens. “Stay with me. In here. Please.”

Strahd has never considered himself a sentimental man, but something about the desperation behind his companion’s words stirs something deep within him. Such pleading is pathetic, yes, but hearing it come from Rahadin… To feel wanted for once. After having been plagued by want for moons, had he begged him sooner… The nobleman is not confident he would have had the strength to tell him no. 

Unable to help himself, he presses his lips to the dark crown of Rahadin’s head and inhales deeply. Even then, he craves something more. To carry him to bed and take him, slow and gentle. To crawl inside his ribcage and never leave. A sharp contrast to the tumultuousness that has characterized their relationship. “I’ve waited so, so long for this day, Rahadin. You know that.”

Silence.

“Am I not deserving of this?” The very real curiosity he feels surprises even him.

“...You are.”

“I am pleased to hear that you agree.” He raises an arm to pat Rahadin on the back—like a parent comforting a child, and as if he hadn’t felt the inexplicable desire to devour him whole but a moment ago—before stepping away. Rahadin’s fist remains tangled in his doublet for a moment longer before he acquiesces, arms falling to his sides, dejected. Long strands of hair hang in front of his bowed head before his shoulders raise with a great inhale. 

Once more he stands tall, hands clasped behind his back. His morose expression is replaced with one of stern solemnity. His adenoidal voice rings out, “Very well then. Let us proceed.”

Rahadin follows a respectable distance behind down to the grand halls of Castle Ravenloft—where Strahd’s bride awaits.

Chapter Text

Rahadin despises large gatherings. 

They’re loud, messy, and more often than not consist of people imbibing past their limits and making fools of themselves. He prefers to avoid fools when he can, and thus he tends to dodge ceremonies and the associated peacockery like the plague. He’d been very fortunate in that Strahd typically despises large gatherings almost as much as him, but he’s not above tradition. And in Strahd’s eyes, his union with Ireena Kolyana warrants the grandest affair the valley has ever seen.

Large huddles of people from Vallaki, Krezk, and Barovia Village meander about the great entry, roaring to be heard above one another as they begin filing into the hall leading to the chapel. The organ music ringing from the dining hall, while beautiful by itself, only adds to the discordant cacophony. 

He’s not in the mood to socialize. As soon as Rahadin breaks away from Strahd, casting one last look over his shoulder while descending down the staircase, he begins making his way to his post. He darts past Baron Krezkov, ignores Lady Fiona Wachter and her attempts to hail him down, questions why Strahd had invited the toymaker of Vallaki to such an event, and beelines to the dining hall.

The heavy doors close behind him, effectively muffling the crowd. Rahadin gives a long sigh and closes his eyes for a moment, savoring the stillness once more. His eyes open, and he finds six figures in the room staring at him. Their conversations quickly come to a halt. 

Escher, who had been attempting to converse with Burgomaster Barovia, is the first to greet him with a wide smile. The blonde’s arms spread wide before him. “Rahadin! You made it!”

“And it’s about time!” a shrill voice hisses. Helga, the castle’s designated maid and yet another of Strahd’s blood-sucking parasites, pushes between Volenta and company to stomp up to him. The spawn, dressed in a green gown far simpler than that of the wedding party yet still ornate, stands two heads shorter than him. With surprising ferocity given her height, she bares her fangs up at him. “You were supposed to be here half an hour ago!”

“Apologies.” Rahadin’s voice is even. “I was held back at His Lordship’s request.” It brings him joy seeing that snarl falter; none of the spawn are brave enough to challenge Strahd’s wishes.

“Yes. Well…” Helga’s eyes narrow again as if remembering why she is angry in the first place. “You’re to be at the head of the processional! If this wedding does not go off without a hitch, it’s my head!” 

And what a shame that would be. “Where is Lady Kolyana?”

The spawn’s eyes roll as if the answer is obvious. “In the adjacent room with Ludmilla. It is bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony. Now,” she inhales deeply, “go!” Helga begins gesturing the dusk elf forward with a sweeping motion of her hands. While he’s not fond of being herded by those beneath him, Rahadin eventually acquiesces. 

As he makes his way to join the rest of the groomsmen and pointedly ignores how Volenta bares her fangs at him, he scrutinizes the woman clad in a regal blue gown that hangs loose from her skeletal frame. He recognizes the shell of a woman as Sasha Ivliskova, Strahd's second wife who’d been banished to her crypt once he’d grown bored of her. In the past two centuries, he’s only seen her a handful of times—though her wailing can often, regrettably, be heard echoing throughout the catacombs.

Sasha’s dark eyes dart about in her skull. She's hunched over, her bony fingers twitching. Feral would be an appropriate descriptor. Appropriate—and understandable. If he'd been days away from clawing off his own skin after being imprisoned in the catacombs for three moons, he cannot fathom the madness that would arise from a decade locked away. Why Strahd trusts her to be on her best manners is beyond him; he must be desperate to fill Anastrasya’s spot. A smirk plays at his lips at the idea. 

As he takes his place at the head of the processional, Escher slinks forward to whisper in his ear. “I of course say this with nothing but affection in my heart, but Strahd has been an absolute bear since your departure. Your presence today is a relief.”

Rahadin’s lips press together. His comment fills him with an indescribable feeling; every inch of his body wants to reprimand the spawn for speaking so discourteously of his superior, but also he recognizes Strahd is undeserving of such bulwark. The implications of the nobleman being short-tempered since his banishment will be explored later. Or perhaps not; it really serves him no benefit to think on such things. If anything, it’d be an impairment to his thought processes. 

The organ music transitions from a jaunty ballad to a slow, sweeping song. Helga immediately perks up. “Places, everyone!” she hisses. “The doors will be opening soon. Rahadin, you will be first to walk, with the groomsmen following. Volenta, you will be leading the bridal party’s entrance soon after.”

Escher claps Rahadin on the shoulder before slinking behind. “Don’t trip,” he whispers, a playful tone to his voice. The dusk elf shoots him a quick glare over his shoulder before doing one final adjustment of his armor. 

“Let's go!” says Helga, trotting ahead. She leads the group out of the dining hall, back into the great entry, and through the doors to the torch-lit hall of faith. Life-sized statues of ancient knights poised as if guarding the ceremony ahead flank them on either side. Through the entrance at the end of the hall, Rahadin can hear muted chatter.

The lumbering doors to the chapel creak open, spilling light into their hall. A hundred faces with a hundred different expressions—grins, scowls, grimaces—peer back at him from the pews. The chamber is bathed in a warm glow from the imposing chandeliers swaying overhead, casting faces in long shadows. 

At the end of the aisle stands Strahd in his formal attire, hands clasped in front of him. Expectant.

The music swells into the first movement. Rahadin’s eyes close for a moment, and he sucks a long breath into his shriveled lungs. Unlike Escher, he’s never been fond of having a crowd's attention on him. He prefers remaining unnoticed in the back of a room—the better for observing. The dusk elf's hand rests atop the hilt of the scimitar at his hip. Lifting his chin and pushing his cloak over his shoulders, he begins walking down the aisle with slow, measured steps. Despite being unable to feel temperature, his armor feels oppressively hot, the clattering of hardened leather loud in his ears. 

Hundreds of eyes, familiar eyes, seer into him. He can’t shake the feeling that they're peering through his skin and seeing him for what he truly is: a blood-drinking monster. They know the thoughts that had passed through his mind. They see him as a man wavering on his morals, his values, his intentions—a rare moment to witness. He’d walked into this castle with every intention of killing his master, and they know he’d pleaded with that same man in a frail display not moments prior. 

He ignores them. Instead, Rahadin fixes his eyes on the man standing tall at the end of the aisle. Strahd gives him a small, encouraging smile fleeting enough for only him to witness. The nobleman knows he doesn’t do well with crowds; of course he knows. Memories of his own wedding rise to the surface. While his ceremony had been nowhere near as grandiose, the ball of lead in his stomach is familiar. He holds Strahd’s gaze, borrowing the warlord’s fortitude to march him the rest of the way down the aisle before finally settling at Strahd’s side.

His gaze turns forward in time to see Escher walk down the aisle, the confidence in his steps contrastingly genuine to his own. A sweat-soaked Ismark follows, looking just as miserable as he had while preparing, followed by Volenta and Sasha, and finally Ludmilla taking up the rear a moment later. Rahadin makes out various whispers from the crowd, mentions of monsters and the Devil’s whores being chief among them; were the stakes not high, Rahadin would have gladly slit the throats of the gossipers. The five of them settle into their own places on corresponding sides of the aisle.

The hall doors close once more. The room, the music, grows silent. Rahadin takes a moment to look over the gathered audience. In the front row, he sees the familiar faces of “Rictavio”, Kasimir, and the outsider Minerva.

Strahd shifts.

A nocturne begins to fill the room. The doors push open, revealing a feminine figure clad in a neck-high violet wedding gown: Ireena Kolyana, the daughter of the deceased Kolyan Indirovich and unfortunate item of Strahd’s delusional affection. Her red hair hangs long and loose—Strahd prefers loose hair—over her shoulders. There’s a distant, clouded look behind her brown eyes, her ruby lips resting in a calm smile.

He hears Strahd gasp beside him, the most reactivity he’s heard from him in a long while. Rahadin looks over at the man. A grin, wide for him, graces his face and, for once, meets the eyes that crinkle at the corners with crow’s feet. Fangs jut over his bottom lip. A part of him wishes the lord of Barovia had ever looked upon him in such a way; while his gaze had been colored by fondness, lust, at their wedding, it had never broached giddiness such as this.

It’s a foolish, intrusive thought. The dusk elf pushes it away as he’s so adept at doing.

Yet he finds he cannot tear his eyes from the nobleman. Even as Ireena’s boots begin to patter against the carpeted stone aisle, Rahadin is taking in his reaction. Elation is an appealing look on Strahd; it’s the same impassioned look he holds before a battle, his lust for life returning for but a fleeting moment. A decade ago, he wished such happiness upon him frequently, going so far as to visit the Amber Temple to plead to dark gods on his behalf. 

He doesn’t know what he wishes anymore.

Each press of the organ keys reverberates in his chest as the music swells. Ismark’s face is twisted into a permanent scowl. Tears of pain rather than joy well at the corners of the burgomaster’s eyes. The dusk elf watches as Ireena takes her place at Strahd’s side. Strahd turns to face her, effectively tearing Rahadin from his thoughts. 

“Tatyana,” Strahd says above the music, taking Ireena’s hands in his, “you look beautiful.” There’s a breathless quality to his voice.

Ireena blinks slowly and tilts her head. ‘Thank you.” She sounds a mile away.

“My pleasure.”

The organ music fades out, leaving the chapel in silence once more. An unnaturally tall man of alabaster skin and blindingly white clothes—the Abbott of the abbey in Krezk, Rahadin recognizes—steps up to the altar beside them. A heavy wooden sun hangs from a chain around his neck. A chill runs down his spine when he speaks.

“Good, fair people,” he begins. His voice is as light as the chiming of bells. “I extend my deepest of, ah, thanks to you all for joining us on this most special of days. Where we shall, at long last, be celebrating the union between Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia and the, ah, young Ireena Koly—”

“Tatyana Federovna,” Strahd corrects, his voice flat.

Ireena blinks. The crowd begins to murmur to one another.

“...The, ah, young Tatyana Federovna. A thousand pardons.”

Rahadin momentarily turns his attention to the audience. There’s an air of unease about them. Only Lady Wachter and some of the Vistani appear to be genuinely enjoying themselves, certain individuals even leaning forward for a better view. The adventurers in the front row appear particularly distressed—or anxious. He catches the gaze of the disguised Van Richten who gives a slow nod of his head.

His fingertips dig into the rough hilt of his scimitar.

The Abbott continues, “As I understand it, this union is one that has been destined by fate. A, ah, long time coming, if you will. I think back to my own arrival in Barovia. In its ruler I saw, ah, heartbreak. I saw pain. With the Morninglord’s grace, this marriage may yet bring peace to the valley and quell the tumultuous heart—”

“Get on with it,” Strahd mumbles.

“Very well.” The Abbott straightens and adjusts his robes. If he is frazzled by Strahd’s insistence, it doesn’t affect his flat demeanor. “Count Strahd von Zarovich, did you, ah, wish to make any personal statements or vows?”

“No.”

“And you, Tatyana Federovna?”

Once more, Ireena blinks lazily.

Strahd speaks up, “She does not.”

The Abbott turns to fully face the nobleman. “The question is for the female.”

A muscle in Strahd’s jaw tenses. Rahadin notes the unmistakable look of fire behind his eyes, the current circumstances serving as a dam for his fury. 

Mechanically, Ireena gives a lopsided smile to the Abbott. “No, thank you.”

“Very well.” The Abbott shifts his whole body to face the audience. “We shall now do an exchanging of rings. These rings represent the eternal bond that matrimony provides. May the Morninglord bless these tokens with love everlasting and bathe this couple in His warmth. Do the, ah, respective parties have the rings?”

“Yes,” both Rahadin and Ludmilla say in unison.

“Very good. We shall begin with the groom’s side,” says the holy man.

With the hand not on the hilt of his sword, Rahadin reaches into the pouch tied at his waist and retrieves a delicate gold ring with a ruby as its center stone. Expensive, no doubt. And cursed—just as his was. He steps forward to hand it to Strahd, who takes it from him with a clap to the dusk elf’s shoulder, seemingly forgetting about the Abbott’s earlier transgression.

 “Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia, please repeat after me: I, Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia—”

“I, Count Strahd von Zarovich of Barovia—”

“—under the holy, righteous light of the Morninglord—”

“—the Ancient; the Land—”

The Abbott continues, unfazed, “—take this female to be my wife and, ah, swear to cherish her as long as we both shall live.”

“—take this woman to be my wife and swear to cherish her as long as we both shall live.” With that, Strahd slides the ring onto the fourth finger of Ireena’s left hand with very little resistance. Her head lolls forward as she turns her hand over repeatedly, silently admiring the ring.

“Very good.” The holy man has yet to blink, Rahadin notes.  “And now for the bride’s side.”

Ludmilla mirrors Rahadin in producing a different ring for Ireena and setting it in the palm of her hand. No kind words or gestures are exchanged between them.

“Tatyana Federovna of Barovia Village, please repeat after me: I, Tatyana Federovna of Barovia Village—”

“I…” Ireena pauses, her head drooping. She looks to Strahd, confusion etched across her features.

“Go on, my heart,” Strahd encourages, his voice thick with charm. “Do as the man asks.”

Her eyes soften once more. “...I, Tatyana Federovna of Barovia Village—”

“—under the holy, righteous light of the Morninglord—”

“—under the holy, righteous light of the Morninglord—”

Rahadin’s gaze flickers to the front row of the audience. The ill-mannered child’s torso shifts, barely perceptible. Reaching for something, then. Beside her, Kasimir and Van Richten’s postures have stiffened. The monster hunter’s gaze is transfixed on Strahd as if breaking line of sight would end in disaster.

“—take this male to, ah, be my husband and swear to cherish him as long as we both shall live.”

Rahadin sucks in a long breath. His fingers tremble. He has a decision to make—and soon. One that will alter his life and the future of the valley forever. 

“—take this male to be my husband and swear to cherish him as long as we both shall live.”

He could end this. He could call foul play, justifiably charge into the front row and sever their heads from their torsos before they could interfere. The master of Ravenloft would be grateful, and Strahd would finally have his bride. He’s a man of honor, of duty, and he had agreed to be a  protector for the ceremony. What sort of man is he without duty, the bricks he’s painstakingly built his walls out of for centuries? He may no longer be in Corellon’s graces or chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft but damn it he still has that!  

The Abbott continues, “Very good. Would the, ah, bride and groom please join hands?”

Needing no encouragement, Strahd takes Ireena’s hands in his. Her gaze is still fixed on her ring.

The occasional whispers of the audience and their shifting in the pews is muted. Even the words Strahd whispers to Ireena go unheard. His jaw is clamped tight like a vice. Rahadin wills his body to move, yet all he can do is dig his claws harder into the hilt of his scimitar until he’s pierced through the leather wrapping to the steel beneath.

“If anyone has any objections to this union—”

Move, damn you!

The next moments proceed as if in slow motion. A jerk of Minerva’s arm, Van Richten rising from his seat, the exclamation, “Object this!” His body and brain finally in sync, Rahadin grabs the edge of his cloak and lifts it in front of his body, his eyes clamping shut. 

Then come the screams. Volenta, Ludmilla, Sasha, Escher. Pained, bloodcurdling sounds that reverberate in the dusk elf’s sternum. Inhuman. Beneath their cacophony, he hears the baritone of Strahd’s yell that twists a knife in his still heart. His eyes widen to blurry-visioned slits. The room is painfully bright. And hot. It gives him a headache. Yellow light—gods, how he’s missed sunlight—glints upon the stained glass depiction of the Morninglord, the deity’s visage flanked by long shadows of the undead.

Against the pained cries of his family, he hears movement in the pews. Cries. Cries emboldened by determination. He’d recognize the sounds of war anywhere. Acting on muscle memory and with his cloak still pulled high, Rahadin drags himself to the stairwell hall , taking shuddering, gulping breaths all the while. 

A strained voice that he knows will haunt him for the rest of his days follows him out of the chapel. “Stand and fight for your lord! Rahadin, you—ngh!—damned traitor!”

I’m so sorry. 

Rahadin pushes upon the door.

Chapter Text

In regards to appearance, he’s never been fond of the tacky thing. 

In a past life, he’d held begrudging respect for Strahd’s self-named Heart of Sorrow, a 10-foot glass heart magically held aloft in one of Ravenloft’s spires. (Why Strahd had chosen to place it in a main path rather than a more secretive, less obnoxious spot is beyond him.) Its constant beating often caused the walls to shake, dislodging the intricate stonework and making a mess of the place. But it kept his master safe, and that’s all that mattered. Rahadin still won’t pretend to fully understand the magic involved in its creation, but it served as a sort of protective buffer; injuries meant for Strahd were instead channeled into the heart. 

Looking upon it now, it fills him with a feeling of comfortable familiarity. Like the gentle rocking of a ship, its steady beating helps to calm him, distract him from the chaos running rampant in his skull—if only for a moment.

The crystalline heart fills the narrow tower with red light. Sitting atop it, his form casts a cross-legged shadow onto the wall high above him. His surface-scaling abilities had proven to be quite useful in climbing the shuddering structure. He allows himself a moment to sit and collect himself. To focus when his mind feels like a turbulent mess. The soft ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum that fills the room provides a peaceful backdrop to the turmoil erupting outside of the tower.  

Despite himself, he forces his lungs to draw in slow, even breathes. 

Rahadin remembers when Strahd had presented the Heart of Sorrow to him, all but pushing him into the stairwell to view his creation. A truly divine feat of the arcane, the vampire had called it, his chest puffing with pride. Rahadin hadn’t doubted it for a second; one look at the massive crystalline structure had filled him with deep, reverent awe. Not only that the Weave was capable of creating such a mockery of life, but in awe of his master as well. The man had been shut away in his lab for moons working on it, and that dedication was evident each time the walls thrummed with the pulsing of the stone. On that day, Rahadin truly realized just how entangled with the Weave, how truly powerful, Strahd had grown since he’d first begun tutoring him in Elvish centuries ago.

A god, once mortal, walked amongst them.

Rahadin runs his hand along the cold, smooth exterior of the heart. As if attempting to soothe its master, he thinks before snatching his hand back. A ridiculous thought. The heart is mere magic condensed into a gem. There is no sentience in such a thing. The dusk elf inhales again, slow and deliberate. 

It’s better to not waste time. He has a job to do, after all. After failing his last duty, he should at least be able to do this one adequately enough. Rising onto his knees, Rahadin retrieves his scimitar from its sheath. A bludgeoning weapon would be far better for this task, but he will have to make do. He gives the crystal two taps, testing its durability. 

Don’t waste time.

Rahadin squares his shoulders and takes the hilt of his scimitar in both hands. His grip tightens, and with a roar Rahadin plunges the blade down into the crystal, silently praying the impact doesn’t break his blade. 

The massive heart heaves. In the distance as if carried through the foundation of the castle itself, Rahadin hears a baritone scream. Stones cascade down from the walls, loudly tumbling down the stairwell. Rahadin has to place a hand upon the heart to stay on despite its attempts to buck him off. Again and again, all the while ignoring the pain in his chest, he brings the blade down, chipping off crimson pieces of crystal with each plunge. It feels—and sounds—as if an earthquake has overtaken the spire.

Over the clattering of rolling stone, he hears a feminine voice call out, “Rahadin! Stop this madness!”

Wild-eyed, the dusk elf whips around to find Ludmilla, still clad in her white wedding dress, standing level with him upon the staircase. In each hand, she wields an ornate dagger. The red light of the heart casts an ominous glow across her dark skin. 

“I have no quarrel with you, Ludmilla!” Rahadin shouts above the roar. His hair whips around his face and stings his eyes. “Stand aside!”

“And I you. But a quarrel with Strahd is a quarrel with me!”

“Stand. Aside!” He doesn’t have time to deal with this damnable woman!

“You and I both know I cannot—even if I wanted to!” 

Rahadin knows well enough her meaning. The call of one’s master is irresistible as a spawn. Not having true volition had been one of the more unpleasant perks of being under Strahd’s thrall. Even if her interference was not an order by Strahd, he knows the nobleman would trap her in the catacombs if he learned she had not done everything in her power to stand and fight. He understands her predicament, yes, but it does not make her any less of a nuisance. 

Ludmilla’s upper lip pulls back, revealing sharp fangs. “Join me back in the chapel, protect your lord husband as you swore to do, and perhaps Strahd shall be merciful regarding this transgression!”

Her words have him barking out a laugh. Mercy is not in Strahd’s nature. Both of them know this as well. Going back would be a death sentence. She wishes death upon him, a voice in the back of his mind whispers . Despite this, he ultimately does not wish to harm Ludmilla. The spawn is loyal, level-headed. The wisest of Strahd’s consorts next to himself. Graceful as a cat, Rahadin leaps the ten feet from the heart to the flat landing of the stairwell. 

“Your presence is better served in the chapel than trying to fight me, Ludmilla. You and I both know this is a fight you won’t win.” Ludmilla is a skilled combatant, but even the strongest of spawns is no match for one reborn of an ancient vampire’s blood.

Her posture tenses, yet there’s a rare pleading look behind her dark eyes. “Rahadin, please. Come with me.” 

“...No.” He mutters in Elvish and ghosts his hand over his scimitar, causing the steel to shimmer with red light. When the spawn snarls and lunges forward, Rahadin dashes forward to meet her with scimitar in hand. He leads with a swift strike that Ludmilla sidesteps. She counterattacks with a feint, but Rahadin is faster still, dodging the attack and delivering a blow to Ludmilla’s side with the pommel of his sword. She hardly seems fazed, instead jumping backward to create space between them. They began circling each other, each one looking for an opening. 

“Think about what you’re doing,” says Ludmilla. Her red eyes still burning into him, she dodges a stone that dislodges from the wall and shatters at her feet.

“I’ve had more than enough time to think about this.” Taking the offensive once more, Rahadin sidesteps and swings downward. Ludmilla catches the blade on the crossguard of her dagger. With her other hand, she jabs the second blade forward. Rahadin shifts in time to take the dagger to his armor rather than his underarm. He kicks outward; his boot connects with Ludmilla’s chest and creates more distance between them. With her wielding such short-range weapons, keeping the spawn at range whenever possible is better.

“This is foolish!” Ludmilla snarls. The metallic beads in her braids tinkle with each jerk of her body. “He loves you, Rahadin!”

The audacity to say such a thing to him! The rage he’d felt but a week ago upon receiving Strahd’s letter returns tenfold.“That man is incapable of love! Obsession, yes, but love?” Rahadin snorts. “Even as a mortal, his heart only belonged to war! All that man knows is suffering and brutality!” 

“You cannot see it as you are blinded by your own pride, but he. Loves. You!” Ludmilla’s words are punctuated by swipes of her daggers as she ducks and closes the distance. A blade cleaves deep across his inner thigh.

Rahadin hisses as thick blood begins to soak into his pants. “You do not see how he treats me behind closed doors, Ludmilla.” The pain hardly slows him down. “Love is not destroying everything I’ve ever held dear out of spite. Love is not breaking my bones until I’m left sobbing on the floor. Love is not,” he brings the pommel of his sword down upon her skull, causing her to collapse, “killing me simply for the fun of it!” Were his veins not flooded with adrenaline, he might have wept as he spoke the words.

Dazed, Ludmilla lays vacant-eyed on the landing for several moments. Blood wells from an open wound along her skull and clings to her braids; it catches the red light of the Heart of Sorrow, shining. After another long moment, she drags herself up and shakes her head, sending droplets of blood flying. With vampiric resilience, she slowly begins to push herself to her feet.  “...And what would you know of love? You have been more beast than man since long before your turning.” Dark blood streams down her face.

It’s a question that had once plagued him—the difference between love and service. Centuries ago, he would have died carrying out the orders of the Von Zarovich family—and gladly. He respected King Barov. Admired, even. It was thanks to him that he was able to live that fulfilled life of service, after all. But the pride he felt in his chest upon receiving his praise was nothing compared to the warmth he felt at Strahd’s praise. 

He knows love. He cannot say the same for Strahd. A painful admittance he wishes he’d realized sooner. 

As if realizing the words that have left her mouth, Ludmilla winces. Her posture slumps. “...Those are not actions of love. You are right. And you are not the only consort to have endured such… things. But he is trying with you—and only you.” She coughs a mouthful of blood onto the back of a hand clenched tight around a dagger. “He has sought my counsel on how to appease you. On how to earn back your affection.”

An unnamable emotion fills his ribcage. “And what did you tell him?”

“To give you time to grieve. To let you heal.”

Disarmed by her words, his blade falters—but only for a moment before he shakes himself to his senses. This woman is either blinded by Strahd’s influence or is choosing to remain ignorant, To remain by his side even after having admitted to her own neglect... He repeats his previous sentiment in his mind like a mantra, reminding himself of his reasons. 

He’s destroyed that which he’s loved.

He’s hurt him.

He’s betrayed him.

The memory of Gertruda’s pale, cloudy eyes peering at him from atop a stake flashes through his mind. He remembers the biting humiliation he’d felt being forced to crawl on the floor and lick Strahd’s miserable boots like some lowly animal. Yet it’s the memory of his garden, the once-fertile soil upturned and salted, that wounds him the most. It’s that reminder that sends him barreling forward again, fangs bared. 

Ludmilla is beyond reason at this point. 

The two continue their dance of blades as the tower shakes around them, each one trading blows and parries. His rage sharpens his mind and quickens his reflexes, his vampiric senses heightened with the smell of blood in the air.

As Ludmilla blocks a swing, Rahadin mutters out an incantation. The spawn stumbles forward as his body turns to mist, only for him to reform behind her. Rahadin reaches out to grab her by the hair and, with one hand curling her braids around his fist, he drives his blade through her non-beating heart. She lets out a wet gurgle twisted with surprise, her daggers clattering to the ground. The flesh around his scimitar sizzles with arcane energy, filling the room with the smell of cooked meat. Like a fish caught on the end of a spear, Ludmilla’s body seizes and spasms. Her hands wrap around the tip of his scimitar, attempting to push it loose, but the dusk elf’s grip on her hair remains firm. 

Seeing this woman whose company he’s shared for so long snarling and spitting in agony brings him no pleasure. Yet the dark beast within delights in her suffering. It basks in a job well done. It urges him to plunge his blade deeper, really watch her squirm. Watch how her ichorous blood pools and colors with the glow of the crystalline heart, becomes a sanguine waterfall down the edges of the stairs.

He obliges that urge. His scimitar goes deeper. Ludmilla screams louder. Rahadin shudders.

More.

He pulls the blade free in an arc of blood. Ludmilla falls to her knees, gasping and trembling. Her regenerative abilities are no doubt being pushed to their limits. With a boot between her shoulder blades, he pushes her face down upon the stone. Weakly, the spawn attempts to push herself onto her forearms, but Rahadin is quick to settle atop her, knees pressing into her shoulder blades. The dusk elf drops his scimitar to wrap both of his hands around her slim neck before dragging them up to her jaw. He forces her head back to look at him, to gaze down into those crimson-colored eyes. Much to his disappointment, he sees no fear there. Only defiance. Her bottom lip trembles, and her mouth curls into an audacious ted-tinged smile before she coughs up another mouthful of blood that spills onto Rahadin’s knuckles. 

He has no words for her. The dark beast wishes to inflict more pain until tears flood her eyes and her body reeks of fear, but Rahadin is able to tether that beast with the reminder that time is of the essence. With a sigh through his nose, his grip tightens. He pulls upward—hard. Muscle and ligaments tear, skin peels from skin. There’s a dull pop, the sound of a spinal column separating, just as Ludmilla opens her mouth to scream. Rahadin is sent sprawling backward when her head finally detaches. Also to his disappointment, the arterial spray that he’s so accustomed to is absent. Simply the trickling of blood from severed vessels. 

Her head feels surprisingly light in his hands. He stares into the black, vacant eyes of Strahd’s consort. 

His eyes close. Cool blood drips from his lashes. Rahadin takes a moment to savor the adrenaline that courses through him and the warmth behind his stomach. The crystalline heart, no longer feeling threatened, resumes its steady beating. 

Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum.

The beast is placated for now.

The heart. He’d come here with a purpose, Rahadin remembers with a jolt. He gently lays Ludmilla’s severed head—a good woman deserving of a proper burial later—down upon the landing before wiping his hands upon his pants and picking back up his scimitar. The vampire leaps the distance to the Heart of Sorrow and clambers up its smooth faces. He kneels atop it once more and, with a grunt, wedges his blade into the crystal. 

Four dare, DARE, to oppose him. At his wedding, no less! If his opinion of them was not already abysmal, he’d be swayed by such an adamant and rude act of defiance. He hasn’t felt this offended since those traitorous dusk elves had stoned his dear Patrina to death. 

On a good day, direct challenges amuse him more than anything. The downside of immortality is that everyday life quickly grows stale. Having an excuse to bloody his hands helps break that monotony. But on those good days, he’s not moments away from making Tatyana his.

It’s enough to make Strahd's body shake with a bloodthirsty rage he has not felt in four centuries. 

That sword. That damned sword! Through his dominion over the land, he had worked diligently to ensure he and his creations would have free roam over Barovia no matter the time of day. Yet they have the audacity to bring sunlight into his home of all places! It was his error entrusting the retrieval of that damned blade to that other traitorous dusk elf. He should have been the one seeing to its disposal. 

Because of his error, he’s now leaning against a wall waiting for his skin to cease its incessant burning. On the other side of the wall, he can hear those insects taunting him to come out of hiding whilst their blades collide with those of Escher and Volenta. 

He won’t kill them. That would put an end to things far too quickly. No, he wants their suffering to last. He wants them to reflect upon how poor a decision it was to attack Strahd von Zarovich; the Ancient, the Land; on his wedding day. He’ll bind them. Have them watch as the light fades from Tatyana’s eyes as she finally becomes his in body and spirit. Wholly, perfectly his. Watch as they become one when her blood nourishes his body. Gods, how divine she will taste upon his lips... A meal that he will treasure as long as he roams this earth. And perhaps their blood will, in turn, nourish her body. What a fitting end: being consumed by that which they attempted to steal from him. 

He smiles at the thought before wincing as the last of his burns fade away. As much as he delights in it, this is no time for daydreaming. There’s a battle waging in his chapel, after all. And he intends to finish it quickly so that he may resume his nuptials and complete the ceremony. One well-calculated fireball is all it could take. Scorch anyone foolish enough to be in its path until they are nothing more than screamed masses of seared flesh.

With a grunt, Strahd rights himself. Already he can feel the strength flowing back into his limbs. He needs to stay out of sight as much as possible lest they turn that blade against him. Fortunately, he has mastery of the battlefield. They are strangers upon his turf. 

Strahd shakes out his wrists. As he’s about to scale the wall to gain higher ground, a dull pain radiates through his chest. He clutches at where his heart once was. The vampire’s mind races; the tactical part of him begins searching for every possible explanation. Something is amiss with his Heart of Sorrow; this he knows. It’s a pain similar to earlier. An attack, no doubt. He’d sent Ludmilla to investigate; while his spawn is a skilled warrior, the fact that he’s experiencing these pains again can only mean one of two things: Ludmilla has fallen, or she, too, has betrayed him. Knowing her, the former is, fortunately, more likely. 

The master of Ravenloft growls in frustration. He could see to it himself, but the intruders now have Tatyana. He’d sacrifice everything to have her in his arms again. She is, and has always been, his priority. Without her, his existence is meaningless. 

A ragged scream is torn from his lungs when a fresh wave of pain, a spear driven through his chest and dragged to his shoulder, brings him to his knees. His vision goes white. His claws scrape at his chest, tearing through his doublet in a mindless attempt to ease the pain. In his mind, he can feel something, some magical bond, snap like a cord. Strahd falls to his hands and knees, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. Red-tinged drool drips from his maw with each unproductive heave of his stomach; it collects in the grooves of the floor. 

Like an echo, Volenta’s muted cries fill his ears.

The Heart of Sorrow, his magnum opus, has been destroyed.

Chapter Text

Unlike Strahd, Rahadin was not born to rule.

He knew the valley, its geography, and landmarks, like the back of his hand. He knew its people, their customs. Through decades of observation, he had been able to pick up on the responsibilities and day-to-day routines of a count. The practical knowledge was there, yes, but knowing and acting were two very different things.

Admittedly, he had never excelled at managing matters of a bigger scale such as infrastructure or taxation. He preferred working behind the scenes and ensuring that all of the smaller details, pieces his lord might have forgotten, were taken care of. As a general, he had been skilled at formulating grand-scale battle strategies, but only because Strahd’s hand had been guiding him.

His shortcomings were thrown in his face on the day Strahd went missing.

A day turned into a week. A week turned into a moon that turned into two, three moons.

Those three moons, three moons that he had to make do without his lord’s guidance, had been a living hell for him. As chamberlain, it had fallen upon him to see to the estate’s operation after Strahd had all but disappeared. Not only was he now overseeing his responsibilities as chamberlain, but Strahd’s as well. The other denizens of Castle Ravenloft simply could not be trusted with its operation. It would all be worth it when Strahd did return, he reminded himself frequently, but he would be lying if he said taking on the responsibilities of two men was not draining the life from him; he had not had time to tend to the garden in weeks, and the lack of maintenance was beginning to show.

But his exhaustion would all be worth it when Strahd returned.

By the time winter had swept across the valley, the dusk elf’s optimism began to wane. Strahd had been gone for long stretches of time before—as was the way of a soldier—but never without giving him prior notice. After that first week, he scoured the town Strahd said he was visiting, asking if a Vasili von Holtz had been by. A handful of commoners reported that the young lord had been seen carrying the body of a deceased young woman out of town. After another week, he asked around the other towns. After that first moon with no contact, Rahadin began asking if a Count Strahd von Zarovich had been by—to no avail.

Following that, he expanded his search to encompass the countryside. Scouring the forests and mountains of Barovia proved to be exceedingly exhausting. Mounted upon his spectral steed, he found himself muttering, “Please let him be alive,” with a heavy heart on more than one occasion. The days stretched on, and the sorrow in his heart grew. Pacing the halls of Castle Ravenloft until the soles of his boots wore out, he felt not unlike the shambling corpses that patrolled the lower floors of the castle. The bags beneath his eyes darkened, and he grew increasingly thin. Eating was secondary to finding Barovia’s leader . He could care for himself after Strahd was safe within the castle walls.

When the waning crescent of the fourth moon approached, after he had spent another week scouring Mount Ghakis for any signs of the man and was on the cusp of giving up, Rahadin finally, finally found him.

Seated at a table upon the landing, he found the master of Ravenloft.

Rahadin’s saddlebags fell from his hands with an echoing thud.

Strahd’s hands were folded in his lap, his posture slumped. As if trapped in his own mind, he stared straight ahead, his expression vacant. He wore the same outfit, the same regal-yet-practical coat of Lord Vasili von Holtz, that he’d worn when originally departing for Vallaki. The blue fabric was considerably dirtied. The sight and its implications only caused the knot in the dusk elf’s stomach to grow.

“Strahd!” Rahadin managed to blurt his name past the overwhelming mix of relief and trepidation threatening to close his throat. Unable to restrain himself, Rahadin briskly ran forward to meet him, stopping a few feet away from the table. His fists curled at his sides; he was unsure if propriety dictated that he punch the man for the suffering he’d put him through or pull him into an embrace.

The nobleman did not look up at the mention of his name. He just continued staring at ghosts only he could see.

“Strahd?”

Finally, he glanced up to look at Rahadin. “Hey.”

The dusk elf gave a sigh of relief, but his brows remained furrowed. “M-My lord! Gods, Strahd, it has been four moons! Where… Where have you been?”

He blinked. “Good question.”

Rahadin tilted his head. The nobleman seemed exceedingly off. “Are you well?”

“No.” His gaze fell to the table, and he let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “No, I don’t believe I am, my friend.” His voice croaked from disuse.

Rahadin let the silence grow, giving him space to elaborate if he wished.

“How could I be well when she has been snatched from my arms yet again ?” His voice raised, his irises flashing red. “The damn shadow over this hellhole will not even let me mourn her fucking corpse, Rahadin!”

“Who, my lord? Lady Tatyana?”

“Who else?!”

As he’d feared, the body he’d been seen with had been Tatyana’s. Or rather, the body of the woman Strahd swore up and down contained her reborn soul. It was not the first time these reincarnations had met an untimely end; his pessimism dictated it wouldn’t be the last. Asking for the details might only cause Strahd to spiral further. Past experience had taught him, lest he wished to lose his own life, to be extremely delicate during these times. “I am so terribly sorry to hear that, my lord. If there’s anything I can do—”

“I can’t die.”

The statement, spoken so bluntly, caught him by surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“I can’t die, Rahadin.” Strahd’s hands raised from his lap to grip the edge of the table. “It’s not just… Sleep, or eating, or breathing, or injury anymore. I can’t…” His Adam’s apple bobbed.

A gut-wrenching feeling of apprehension washed over Rahadin. His back straightened. “What do you mean?”

Strahd’s leg bounced beneath the table. There was a frantic edge to his voice. “A fall from 2,000 feet should kill anyone, yes? It should kill.”

“Strahd…” Rahadin took a step forward. “Speak plainly. What do you mean?”

When the nobleman’s eyes met his again, they were red and puffy. “But I woke up. And she…” His voice cracked. “She wasn’t beside me. Gone. Cruel, vengeful fate dictated that I live and she, beautiful, innocent Tatyana, die.”

The realization hit the dusk elf square in the chest like a ton of bricks, powerful enough to almost bring him to his knees. How dare he.

How dare he!

The tips of his fingers trembled with rage. “You had the audacity to do something so foolish? So… So selfish?” Rahadin gestured wildly around himself. “You would leave me with all of this?!”

There was no response.

“Damn you, Strahd von Zarovich! I neither have the skillset nor desire to lead Barovia! Damn you!” His tolerance for bullshit was immense, but even he was at his end. That dam had burst and flooded everything in its path. He wanted to break something . Channel his rage into violence; his violence was something he had control over. If he didn’t, he feared he might break Strahd. Rahadin paced, stomping. Gods, he needed to hurt something.

More than anything, he wanted to cry. But he resisted. His anger was far more acceptable. The blunt fingernails of his left hand dug as hard as they could into his thigh; the pain hardly sobered him.

“You’re mad.” Strahd’s voice was small. Weak. Like that boy in his 18th year so desperately seeking his father’s approval. It clashed with the idea he held of Strahd the ruler. Strahd the indomitable force of nature.

“Yes, I’m mad! Furious, even!” He was shouting. He knew it. Rahadin didn’t care. “You’re a Von Zarovich, for gods’ sake! You persevere in the face of adversity as your ancestors have for millennia, not shrink away when it is convenient for you!”

“Sorry.”

“Damn your apologies!” He needed to do something. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Rahadin stomped over to Strahd’s chair and pulled it from beneath the table. Caught off guard, Strahd stumbled but caught himself by standing. His fingers curled into Strahd’s ridiculous dandy ascot, and he jerked him forward to his height. The nobleman didn’t resist. He just stood there, simple, as if embracing whatever was to come. His skull was prominent beneath the sunken skin and muscle of his face. His black eyes looked past him; it reminded Rahadin of the same defeated expression held by those in the larders.

His other fist clenched at his side. He wanted to break Strahd’s nose. Anger him, get some sort of rise from him even if it cost him his life—just to ensure his friend was still there. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Especially not like this.

Propriety be damned; Rahadin wrapped his arms around Strahd’s shoulders. The nobleman’s body became stiff in his grasp as if his embrace had frozen him solid. For a moment, Rahadin worried if he had overstepped. Then, he returned the embrace, fingers digging into his sleeves like that touch was grounding him in reality. As if his touch was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Don’t you dare ever do that to me again.” As an afterthought, he added, “I am so, so relieved—happy—to see you…”

“...Yeah.”

Time stretched on. The two of them stood in silence, Strahd's grip never faltering. After a time, it became difficult to breathe with the pressure against his chest. The dusk elf's teeth began to chatter from the cold emanating from the taller man’s body. The undead smell of rot and mildewed cloth coming from him was almost overwhelming. Nevertheless, Rahadin didn't falter. It was his duty as chamberlain to be whatever Strahd needed of him. While uncouth, if the vampire needed a shoulder to lean on in a momentary show of weakness, he would happily be that shoulder.

Finally, he heard Strahd sniff. There was a clap against his shoulder blade, and Strahd pulled away. His expression was as calm and collected as ever, his voice even when he spoke, "Yes, well… I am sure you have much to update me on."

Rahadin raised his chin. He was uncertain whether the nobleman was in the right state of mind to discuss business, but he wouldn’t challenge him. He and Strahd were similar in that they found it easier to bury themselves in their work than ruminate.

"Certainly, Your Lordship." Rahadin cleared his throat and, avoiding Strahd’s eyes, took a chair at the small table. The nobleman sat across from him. "While you were away, there was a dispute regarding tax evasion in Krezk..."

Catching Strahd up to speed took until the early morning.

Rahadin knocked upon a humble wooden door in Barovia Village. There was the sound of shuffling within the home.

“Who is it?” a muted voice called out.

“Rahadin, chamberlain of His Lordship, Count Strahd von Zarovich.”

More shuffling. From the corner of his eye, Rahadin noticed a curtain obscuring a window shift. He did his best to straighten his doublet from beneath his leather armor, wiping off his damp hands in the process. The door opened, and a beam of orange light spilled across the ground. A dark-skinned, angular face peered out at him from the opening. Ludmilla Vilisevic smiled widely at him.

“Your Excellency!” Her voice was pitched high as if she was genuinely surprised to see him. “I had not expected to see you so soon! Come in.” Ludmilla opened the door wider and swept an arm inward in invitation. Bowing his head, Rahadin stepped inside.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Ludmilla zoomed off to a separate room. “Give me but a moment. I’ll put some tea on the fire.” He began hearing the clinking of dishes coming from the small kitchen.

Rather than take his riding boots off, Rahadin chose to stand on the hay mat at the threshold. He did not imagine he would be here long, not even long enough for tea, but he hadn’t had the time to stop Ludmilla before she pranced off. With his arms crossed behind his back, he waited, observing the small abode that Ludmilla called home.

The neatly arranged furniture—two chairs, a simple table draped in linen, a set of drawers—was of good quality, but the various nicks and scratches across the wood told its age. Familial hand-me-downs, no doubt. His eyes were drawn to the bouquet of lavender flowers—autumn crocuses—sitting in a simple glass vase atop the table. A poorly-fed hearth cast a weak orange glow throughout the room. His eyes narrowed upon seeing only one log remaining on the firewood rack.

After a moment, Ludmilla returned with a tea kettle in hand. “The flowers you brought me are doing splendidly. I hope to hang them to dry before too long, perhaps make a nice potpourri of their petals,” she said while setting the kettle upon the fire.

Rahadin interrupted, “Do you need more wood for your hearth?”

“Hm?” Her brown eyes flickered to the rack. “Ah. I am doing well enough. I simply haven’t had the time to gather wood from the forest yet. I will make a day of it tomorrow.” She gave a warm smile. “But I appreciate your concern.”

The dusk elf made a mental note to purchase firewood with his master’s coin on his way out.

Ludmilla went to stand, wincing when her knee gave a loud crack. “But please, have a seat. Are you calling on me with a purpose, or are you simply here to keep me company?” Her voice lilted with the second half of the sentence.

How he wished it were the latter. Rahadin straightened and cleared his throat. “I come today on behalf of Count Strahd von Zarovich. He regrets not being here himself, but something came up last minute.” Behind his back, Rahadin fiddled with the cuff of his doublet. “My master bids you dine with him this evening at Castle Ravenloft.”

“Oh.” He didn’t miss the flash of disappointment that crossed her face. As if catching herself, she bowed her head in respect. “Truly, I am honored to be the recipient of such an esteemed invitation. If I may ask, will you be in attendance?”

He grimaced internally. “I shall be at His Lordship’s call should he need something, but I will not be present at the dinner itself.” Strahd had invited him to dine with them, but Rahadin had politely declined; his charisma could not hold a candle to that of the vampire’s, and he would not wish to impose. As much as it might pain him, it was his responsibility to honor Strahd’s wishes— conquests included. It was the only reason he could think of as to why Strahd would ask someone, particularly a lady, to dine with him alone.

“That is disappointing to hear.”

He chose not to read into that. “Should you accept his invitation, His Lordship has arranged for a carriage to pick you up an hour before the sun sets.”

“Noted.” Ludmilla gave a thoughtful hum. She walked over to one of the wooden chairs in the middle of the room and, smoothing her blue skirts, sat. “What do you think of him, Rahadin?”

Again, he chose not to read into the usage of his forename in lieu of his proper title. “Who, my lady?”

“His Lordship.”

Rahadin blinked. “Why do you ask?”

Elbow atop the arm of the chair, she rolled her wrist. “If I may make the assumption, you know him on a more intimate level than what I may hear through rumors or sterilized dinner conversation.”

He chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “I think rather highly of him. Do you imagine I’m someone who would devote my service to anyone I didn’t respect?”

The answer didn’t seem to impress her, her demeanor awash with an always-neutral placidity. “I’m left to imagine quite a bit,” she said. “You stochastic sorts are like that.” She finished a thorough examination of her nails before turning her palm back over and leveling her gaze with his as if to silently beg the question once again.

Oh, how he wished he could tell her what he thought of her.

“...If there is one thing I can say about His Lordship,” he said, his eyes drifting toward the fire, “it is that he inspires loyalty. I have known many to command such a thing, but anyone who must remind the world that they are a king is no king at all. Lord Strahd… One simply doesn’t think of denying his ambitions; only to get out of his way.”

“I see.” The answer still did not seem to impress her.

Such a perplexing thing: easily impressed by worthless gifts but unmoved by the dinner invitation of a powerful count. It added an extra layer of intrigue to the human woman. Other suitors, suitors he had taken great pride in turning away before their honeyed words could reach his master’s ears, had sought out his master solely for his wealth and power. He couldn’t necessarily fault them, but he wished others saw Strahd as he did: the fiercely intelligent man beneath the pomp and circumstance. If he was reading her right, Ludmilla appeared to only be entertaining the idea out of propriety.

Ludmilla tilted her head. “Might I ask you another question?”

“Of course.”

“How do you feel about your master inviting me to dinner, Rahadin? And I beg your honesty.”

It caught him off guard. His mind raced trying to determine the motivation behind such an odd question. “...It is not my place to question His Lordship’s wishes.”

“Of course not.” The young woman placed a finger upon her chin. “Forgive the turn of phrase, dear, but your master has you whipped.”

Those were words he wore like a badge of honor. The dusk elf’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I serve the Von Zarovich family with pride.”

“Of course you do.” She crossed her long legs at the ankle before sighing. “...Please tell His Lordship that I accept his invitation, I suppose.”

“He will be pleased to hear this. If you will excuse me, I can only assume His Lordship will be wanting me to make preparations for your arrival.” It was part truth and part excuse; the cramped quarters were becoming stifling, the fire suddenly far too hot. He was grateful to already be close to the door.

“Are you not staying for tea?”

“I’m afraid not. I shall take my leave.” He gave one last stiff bow before turning to leave. “My lady.”

“Oh. Well… Be well, Your Excellency. Perhaps I shall see you tonight.”

Unlikely. Rahadin left without another word.

A horse's teeth grow continuously throughout its life and can develop uneven wear patterns. Most common are sharp edges on the sides of the molars which may cause problems when eating or being ridden. If there are problems, any points, unevenness, or rough areas can be ground down with a rasp until they are smooth. 

This process is known as "floating". Basic floating can be accomplished by the practitioner—

Basic floating can be accomplished by the practitioner pulling the end of horse's tongue out the side of the mouth, having an assistant hold the tongue while the teeth are rasped.

Strahd shifted his hips, and the words on the page became blurry. Rahadin squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to refocus. A pitiful, frustrated noise somewhere between a grunt and a whine rumbled in his throat. His master, being the bastard he was, gave a soft huff of a laugh through his mouth; his breath felt cold against the back of Rahadin’s neck and gave him goose flesh.

It was already enough of a challenge to read text sideways—a consequence of him laying on his side. Every time the vampire moved, turned a page, did something to have his length shift inside Rahadin, he had to re-read the paragraph again. Strahd was a fast reader and never spared him the courtesy of waiting for him to catch up on a page. Not that he could retain the information in his current state anyway; if anything, his eyes skimming the pages served as a distraction from the dull, frustratingly dull, thrum of pleasure from being filled.

With the hand being used to prop up his head, Strahd turned a page before resting the arm holding his book on Rahadin’s bare waist once more.

Rahadin allowed his head to loll back onto Strahd’s clothed chest, his eyes still closed while he took slow, deep, loud breaths. This was miserable . The nobleman had the patience of a saint—or the cruelty of a devil—and had not bothered to move his hips in what felt like hours. He’d occasionally thrust forward under the guise of adjusting his position but never enough to bring actual relief to the dusk elf. Rahadin was a patient man himself, yes, but even he had his limits.

Seemingly apropos of nothing, Strahd calmly asked, “Have you thought about your death before?”

“What?”

“Your death.” He turned another page. “I don’t believe it’s all that uncommon for soldiers such as you and I to think about how they might die. Or perhaps how they would prefer to die.”

Rahadin swallowed. “Strahd,” the name was punched out, “is now really the time for such questions? A-And what even brought this on when you are reading about horses of all things?” He could hardly think straight, much less ponder such nonsense!

“Now is the time—because I wish it to be.” Strahd closed and set his book down on the bed. His hand ghosted over the dusk elf’s slender hips. “Are we not actively working on your patience? Your restraint?”

To convey his displeasure, Rahadin sighed loudly through his nose. He knew the man was right, but it still only caused his frustration to grow. “...Yes.”

“Good. Then answer the question.”

Rahadin paused to think. “...Ideally? I would like to see myself die on the battlefield. Dying for a cause one believes in is the greatest of honors. If I must, I would die serving you.”

Strahd laughed. His tone was light, causing the dusk elf’s length to twitch. Sarcastic or not, Rahadin appreciated when his voice became deep with warmth. “How romantic.”

His pointed ears drooped slightly. “I merely speak the truth. I would have been honored to die such a death long before I’d even developed…” he gestured vaguely, searching for a word, “particular fondness for you. To die of a needless infection or, Corellon forbid, sickness would be a mockery of all I have worked for. If I do not die with a blade cleaved through my body, my soul will be restless in Arvandor.”

The nobleman hummed. “The poor sod that will inherit your soul… That is what you elves believe in, yes? Reincarnation?”

“Indeed. There are a finite number of elven souls in existence; each soul has experienced countless journeys and will go on to live countless more via reincarnation.”

“Interesting.” Strahd traced small circles along his hip bone. Despite the chill of his skin, the caress traveled and expanded in Rahadin’s veins like crackles of heat. “Do you know how you’ve died in previous lives?”

“Our trances, particularly as children, can be unclear at times. I’m not quite certain, but I believe one of my former selves died by drowning.” It was an unpleasant memory, one that he didn’t like to think about to this very day—the sensation of water filling his lungs, the panic that swept through him. As a child, he’d refused to enter a trance for a whole week after receiving that vision.

As if noticing his erection beginning to soften, Strahd gave an experimental thrust of his hips. Rahadin gasped, his body seizing. He clenched down around the sizable length inside of him, causing the vampire to let out a soft growl of his own.

“Want you,” Rahadin managed to thread between the mix of anticipation and embarrassment closing his throat.

Strahd chuckled, pressing his thumb into a dark bruise along his hip. “I know, darling. Patience.”

His calloused fingers dug into the soft crimson comforter atop the bed. Easier said than done; he felt like a coiled wire ready to snap at any moment. His body practically vibrated with desperation. “What, a-ah, what about you? My lord?”

“What, if I have thought about my death? Seeing as how I’ve already died, I have no need to ponder such things,” Strahd murmured against the back of his head. “Though had you asked me when I was still a young man, my answer would have been similar to yours. I would not have fathomed dying at the hands of my own men, however.” He paused. “...Or perhaps it would have been fathomable; it is not uncommon for the weak to seek power through usurpation.”

“I am… deeply regretful that I was unable to stop such an act of betrayal. Had I—h-hah… Had I known Dilisnya’s intent, I would have personally seen to ending his life myself.”

“I know. Your loyalty is the only constant in this land.”

A terse silence filled the room. Rahadin could tell that the vampire was lost in his thoughts, trapped in the past. In an attempt to pull him from the cusp of brooding, he ground his hips backward, pressing his body tight against his master’s broad frame. “I’ve been patient enough. Take me, Strahd.”

The claws that had been resting on his hip threatened to pierce his sensitive skin. His eyes screwed shut at the sensation of Strahd imprinting his skin to stake his claim. “I will decide when you’ve been patient enough.” Despite his words, Rahadin shivered with goosebumps as rough palms traced his front and jaw, pulling him backward into a messy kiss.

The noise in his throat turned into a slew of garbled vowels. Rahadin gave a silent prayer of thanks when Strahd finally began to fuck into him again and again, his motions harsh and impatient. He whimpered, his eyes rolling into his skull.

He didn’t last long.

Chapter Text

Memories dance in the back of his mind. Trances for his kind are a time to reflect. To grow and commit to not repeating mistakes of the past. Beneath the surface, he’s aware of the stirring of bats and the trickling of water somewhere in the distance. The smell of recently upturned soil clings to his nostrils. It’s coupled with the phantasmal scent of him and the feeling of cold fingers on his skin.

Despite himself, Rahadin shudders. Sitting cross-legged on the ceiling, he shifts his position. Ridiculous, unhelpful trances… It’s as if Corellon himself had peered into his heart and purposefully sent him visions that would be the most distressing at a time like this. 

Rahadin is roused from his trance by the smell of blood in the air—iron, suffocating and bitter. It coats his lungs like sludge almost enough to make him gag. It doesn’t trigger the same primal craving that the scent of blood from other thinking creatures does. Undead, then. Since his turning into a full-fledged vampire, he has wounded Strahd von Zarovich enough times to recognize the distinct notes of his blood. 

His eyes crack open. Past the all-encompassing darkness of Strahd’s tomb, the dusk elf makes out the ever-shifting form of a condensed fog cloud. The cloud slips between the bars that guard the entrance. Once past, it stretches and coalesces into a person. The man is recognizable by his features—broad shoulders, black hair, a strong jaw—but that is where the similarities between him and the Count of Barovia end. The fat of his face has seemingly melted away, leaving a twisted visage that looks more bat-like than man. His eyes have become beads of red filled to the brim with malice. His clothes lie tattered, revealing large swathes of burns across his body. But most notably, Rahadin is keenly aware of the ichorous blood soaking into the remains of his shredded garb.  

Strahd’s posture slumps as he begins shuffling forward, his hand gripping his shoulder. A part of Rahadin, the aspect of him that has been tended to for centuries, feels distressed at witnessing such a sight. His master, the austere, immortal count of Barovia, in such a condition. An untouchable god felled. It feels like a crisis of faith, like learning that the heavens themselves had fallen. His instinctual reaction is to grovel at his boots and beg forgiveness; it's his actions that had led to these injuries, after all.  

But that is no longer him, Rahadin reminds himself. Not anymore. That’s the part of him he’s tried to bury. This is not him. He is Rahadin. Nothing more, nothing less. Once loyal to the Von Zarovich family but no longer. At least not to this mockery of the family name. 

It is not a god who bleeds before him but a pathetic, selfish man. Touchable. Vulnerable. A parasite guarding the throne waiting to be put out of his misery. 

Strahd’s breathing is haggard. It takes the man more time than usual to reach his black coffin and considerable effort to push the lid aside. As his fingers leave the edge, his body stiffens. He pauses. 

“...Rahadin.” 

“Strahd.” 

The nobleman sighs before coughing up a mouthful of blood. With trembling fingers, he pushes the lid fully off the coffin. It falls to the ground with an echoing thud. “The traitor dares to show his face. To what do I owe the pleasure?” Beneath the inhuman, hellish growl in his voice, there’s still Strahd’s unmistakable baritone. He sounds as exhausted as he looks. 

“I’m confident you can ascertain my reason for being here, my lo—” he stops himself before the last letters can leave his mouth. A habit, one he’s trying desperately to break. “Strahd.” 

“Was it you that destroyed my Heart of Sorrow?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’d figured as much.” He chuckles weakly. In his current state, it sounds more akin to a hiss. “I suppose you will not allow me but a moment to rest in my coffin before we continue this conversation?” 

“I’m afraid not.” Rahadin stands and walks down the walls until his feet are planted on the ground once more. He approaches the other man, not fearing his reaction, until the scent of his blood becomes overwhelmingly foul to his vampiric senses. Unfettered, Strahd musters the strength to sit upon the slab holding his coffin aloft, legs dangling over the side as if about to gossip with a longtime friend.  

Strahd coughs. His breathing haggard, he sweeps his hands outward. “Well?” 

The plainness of his words, the gesture, catches Rahadin off guard. Words stick in his throat like dry food. For several moments, he stares at the nobleman, who stares back with those beady red eyes. The palm of Rahadin's hand rests against the top of the stake wedged under his belt, but his limbs refuse to draw it. 

Strahd frowns. “I never mistook you as a coward. Kill me or get out, Rahadin.” 

Rahadin unsheathes his scimitar from its scabbard and points it at the nobleman's throat. He doesn’t enchant it. Not yet. “Fight me.” 

“No.” 

“Fight me, Strahd von Zarovich! I challenge you!” 

Strahd blinks. He leans forward until the tip of the blade digs into his Adam's apple. Once more, calmly, “No.” 

“What are you doing?” Rahadin hisses. 

Conveying his confusion, Strahd tilts his head slightly. “I don’t catch your meaning.” 

“This.” Rahadin gestures vertically at the man. “Whatever this is!” He’d come in here fully prepared for a fight. Strahd von Zarovich, in the four centuries he’s known him, has never backed down from conflict. He savors it. Even the grave could not contain him; like a phoenix, Strahd rose from death with a chest filled with the arrows of his men to enact his revenge. That is the Strahd he knows. He barely recognizes whoever this is sitting on the slab. 

“Fight me!” He lifts his chin. The tips of his fingers tremble. “Strahd! Fight me, damn you!” 

“You’re trembling,” the nobleman observes. His eyes close; it looks almost comical on the monstrous face. “Why?” 

Rahadin utters an incantation in Elvish and swiftly runs his fingers along his blade. The steel sizzles and glows with red light. Even in Strahd's wounded state, he needs every advantage. “Draw. Your. Sword.” 

Strahd is silent for several moments, his eyes still closed. A thin trail of blood trickles down his left boot and drips onto the floor. “Some time ago, you asked me if I had ever thought about my death. Do you remember?” 

“Draw your sword!” 

“I had. Quite a few times before that particular conversation. But never did I entertain the notion that my death might be by your hand.” He coughs up another mouthful of blood into his sleeve. “Not yours. Never was it my chamberlain’s hand wielding the stake.” He nods toward Rahadin’s belt and the piece of wood jutting from it. 

If Rahadin’s heart still beat, he knows it would be pounding in his chest. His blood pumping with the fury of hell-fire in his veins. “...This is a trap. What are you planning?!” 

“What a terrible trap this would be if I told you.” A bone cracks back into place somewhere in his body, and Strahd winces. “No traps.” 

“You’re lying!” 

Wide-eyed, Rahadin begins frantically searching the room. At first glance, everything seems to be in order. Past the stench of earth and blood, he cannot smell any other creature that might be lying in wait. The bars blocking Strahd’s tomb are still securely fastened. 

It’s as he’s checking the bars that Strahd speaks up again, “You know me better than anyone. I’m not in the habit of lying.” 

Rahadin searches every corner of the room, every nook and cranny, drags the tip of his scimitar along each stone in search of runes. Yet nothing happens. He whips back around toward the vampire. A single clawed finger taps against the stone slab. “Kill me or leave me be. The choice is yours. But do not waste my time.” 

Enraged, Rahadin soars forward and jerks Strahd toward him by the high collar of his doublet, leaving mere inches between their faces. Rahadin’s eyes flash, and he snarls in his face. “You are a pathetic, weak man, Strahd von Zarovich! It is a blessing that your father cannot see your sorry state through these mists, or he would disavow you from his heavenly seat!” 

“Yet my hands remain still while yours tremble like those of a child wielding their first blade.” 

Rahadin roars and throws the man to the floor with ease. Strahd gasps when his back collides with stone and the air is stolen from his shriveled lungs. The dusk elf is quick to retrieve the stake from his waist and follow him to the floor. His thighs straddle Strahd’s hips. Fangs bared, he raises the stake high over his head. The nobleman simply looks back at him with an expression of placidity. Exhaustion hangs heavy in his red eyes. In a word, he looks defeated. He looks pathetic . 

Gods, he wants to put him out of his misery. More than anything. He could be the one to finally bring him peace. In the afterlife, the count might have a chance at rest. A part of him knows that there is no rest, even in the afterlife, for men like them, but that single shred of hope hangs bright like a lantern in the void. But most importantly, he could be free. 

Viscous tears gather in his eyes. “Fight me…!” 

With a grunt of pain, Strahd reaches upward. Rahadin is about to leap away, but the hand that wraps around his forearm, slides up to his wrist, is gentle. His mind is incapable of processing all that’s happening. Like it’s overheating. The nobleman pulls his hand down until the point of the stake hovers over his breast. 

“Do it,” Strahd whispers. 

The stake trembles violently even as Strahd’s grip attempts to stabilize him. The wooden tip catches and tears a small hole in his doublet. This could all be over so quickly. One quick thrust, and he would be free. Strahd would be free. All of Barovia would be free from his rule. No longer would he have to live in fear. 

Yet why does his hand tremble so?! Why did he not stake the bastard the moment he had the chance? Rahadin has always been a man of conviction. He’s a doer; give him a task, and it shall be done. When Strahd had entrusted him with the task of purging his own kin, he’d marched to Kasimir’s hovel not an hour after. He had not flinched when he was eye to eye with a silver dragon, its terrible breath crackling in its maw like a thundercloud; Strahd wanted the beast slain, and he would see to it that his master had its head displayed above his hall. 

Perhaps he is weaker than he’d thought. That though alone causes tears to flow freely down his cheeks. They drip down onto the pale, exposed swath of the Count’s collarbone.  

The stake falls from his hand. With a great sob, Rahadin throws himself forward and hides his face in Strahd’s neck. His chest heaves, causing his voice to break. “Damn you…!”  

A heavy arm wraps around his shoulders not unlike a mother comforting their weeping child. Such a thought forces his sobs to spill more readily. He hates this. He hates feeling weak, showing weakness. And in front of the Lord of Barovia in particular. He is so, so tired of shedding tears; he’s done more of it this moon alone than he has since he was a babe at his mother’s breast. His fingers curl into the tatters of Strahd’s wedding apparel. 

Strahd lifts his head to press his mouth to Rahadin’s ear. His lungs crackle when he inhales to speak. “My poor, lost little elf… So miserable at the thought of killing the one he loves most.”  

“I don’t… I-I don’t…!” 

“There’s no need to lie to yourself.” Strahd hushes him, his thumb rubbing small circles along his shoulder blade. When the last of Rahadin’s hiccups die away, stillness and rationality beginning to claim him once more, Strahd pats him on the back before saying, “...I knew you didn’t have the strength to kill me.” 

Before Rahadin can question him, he feels the pang of sharp teeth piercing the inner shell of his left ear. His vision goes white, his brain hot, as Strahd jerks his head back and tears. A scream bubbles from the dusk elf’s chest when his ear is ripped free from his head. Blood streams down his jaw and pools onto the floor. The grip around his shoulders remains firm no matter how hard Rahadin jerks and writhes. Through gritted teeth, he screams the words of an incantation. When he next opens his eyes, he’s coalesced behind the slab of Strahd’s coffin. 

The Count rights himself as if pulled by a puppet’s strings. Blood drips from the hunk of flesh gripped between ivory teeth, coating Strahd’s chin and neck. He spits out the ear; it lands on the floor with a wet squelch. His fangs remain bared. “Weak!” Strahd roars. The red orbs become livid, his eyes seeming to radiate with hellfire. There’s little time for Rahadin to tend to his injury before Strahd is gliding toward him, claws outstretched. “Pathetic!” 

Rahadin draws his scimitar just in time to bat away the hand aimed for his throat. Quick as a blink, Strahd draws the longsword from his hip and raises it before him. 

Rahadin's crimson eyes gleam with malice when he lunges at Strahd in turn, his own fangs bared. Strahd, his dark cape billowing behind him, parries Rahadin's attack with his ornate blade; their swords collide in a symphony of steel. The echo of their clashes reverberates through the crypt, the air thick with tension and the scent of blood. Strahd's eyes narrow as he counters with a swift thrust, aiming for Rahadin's heart. The dusk elf sidesteps, his movements swift and fluid, as he retaliates with a vicious swipe at Strahd's throat.  

The two vampires dance a deadly ballet, their movements a blur as they trade blows and dodges, the crypt's cold stone walls bearing witness to their conflict. Even severely wounded, Strahd is a menace. His injuries hardly seem to slow him, and he strikes with the ferocity of an animal fighting for its life. Rahadin fights on the offensive; he knows he has to fell Strahd before he can regain any more of his strength. It was a foolish mistake to not pierce his heart when he had the chance! A mistake that might be his last.  

Rahadin missteps. Strahd seizes the opportunity, his blade finding its mark when it cleaves into the elf’s side—through the leather of his armor and two inches deep into his abdomen. Rahadin fights back a guttural cry of pain, instead hissing through his teeth when his side grows cold and sticky with blood. He staggers back, clutching his wound, his breath ragged. Strahd advances, his expression cold and unrelenting. 

“‘Kill me?’ And how did you plan to manage that? Do you think me some grass-eating animal for you to ambush? Did you think me another babe for you to smother in its crib? Pathetic! You didn't reach your standing by any merit. You were willing to lower yourself to my dirty work. A butcher of women and children, and now his feudal lord… Hail to the conquering hero!” 

Rahadin raises his scimitar in time to catch Strahd's blade on the crossguard. Both parties’ forearms shake with the effort, equally matched in strength. Fire rolls in his veins.  

“‘To lower myself.’ Is that truly how you value your own aspirations?” asks Rahadin. “There was a time in which it was an honor to serve your family no matter how detestable the work may have been. But now I regretfully serve a shadow of a man who lost himself when his whore threw herself from the balcony,” he grunts, sliding his blade away, “because she couldn't tolerate another moment in your company!” 

“Tatyana loves me! She simply must be reminded of the fact!” 

He barks a laugh. “You are utterly deluded!” 

“What a vicious facade you put up when but a minute ago you were mewling upon my breast like a milk-starved infant!” Strahd returns the laugh. “You’ve killed your own family without reservation, yet when acting without orders you sob at the idea of killing me. And you think you have the fortitude to rule. To do my job better than me!” 

Rahadin and Strahd lock eyes. In those red orbs, Rahadin can only sense hatred. They’re the eyes of a man who wants to see him bleeding out upon the stone. He recognizes it as the same look he’s given Kasimir time and time again. Without another word, they lunge at each other. Rahadin's scimitar dances through the air, its curved blade weaving intricate patterns as he tries to find an opening in Strahd's defenses. Yet the two have practiced their swordplay together for centuries; it’s as if the nobleman can predict his each and every move, and his longsword parries each strike with precision. The crypt's silence is broken only by the clash of their weapons and the patter of practiced feet upon stone.  

Rahadin aims a swift strike, his scimitar whistling through the air when he aims for Strahd's throat. Strahd deftly sidesteps and retaliates with a powerful thrust of his longsword, narrowly missing Rahadin's heart and impaling him beneath the collarbone. Dissatisfied with his aim, he quickly jerks his sword out in an arc of ichorous blood. The dusk elf staggers. Strahd's laughter fills the crypt, echoing off the stone walls. "You've always been too predictable, Rahadin." 

With renewed determination, Rahadin lunges once more, his scimitar striking with lightning speed. Strahd parries and counterattacks, their blades locking in a deadly dance. Another swing, and this time Rahadin ducks to draw his blade across the back of Strahd’s knee. The count hisses and almost stumbles over but catches himself on the pedestal.  

The crypt smells of spoiled iron. The two vampires stare each other down. Looking at Strahd and the arrogant, twisted smirk on his monstrous face fills him with rage. To be standing there looking smug when he’d almost killed him mere minutes ago… It’s absurd. Tenacity is beneficial in a leader, but that same tenacity can also be their downfall when, like anything, taken to an extreme. Rahadin’s left hand clutches his wound to, ideally, speed up the supernatural healing.  

Strahd lets out another roar and lunges toward him, his gait staggered by his own wound. Rahadin is so focused on parrying the approaching blade that he doesn’t notice the blue fog swirling in the count’s other hand. Just as it clicks in his mind, Strahd shouts a string of words that are foreign to his ears; a ray of frost crackles from an outstretched finger. A painful layer of frost covers his knees and thighs. Even through his trousers, Rahadin feels the unmistakable pain of frostbite freezing his skin and stiffening his joints.  

It’s enough of an opening for Strahd to, with his other hand, pierce his chest once more—and once more missing his heart when Rahadin musters the energy to throw his shoulder back. Instead, the steel punctures his lung; Rahadin hears the characteristic wheezing sound when air forcefully escapes the useless organ. Were he mortal, such a wound would have spelled his demise. Yet even as his diaphragm seizes and blood fills his pleural cavity, he endures. Each breath causes his body to spasm. Grimacing, the elf wills himself to stop breathing.  

Like a cat that caught the canary, Strahd’s grin stretches wider. He chooses to leave the sword there, taunting him. His voice is a low growl when he speaks. “You plot to kill me on my wedding day, conspire with traitors behind my back,” he twists the blade, causing Rahadin to cry out in pain, “have the audacity to call me delusional! You are a blemish upon the Von Zarovich name and, oh, how I wish my father had put you out of your misery as he did your ilk when you were but a lowly maggot living on the streets!” Dark blood spills down Rahadin’s chest. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you over and over again.” 

His lips are dry and cracked. In his current state, he can’t hold a breath long enough to respond. Rahadin lurches forward. The blade slips and digs deeper. Its tip threatens to exit out through the skin of his back. Even with his pain tolerance, Rahadin can’t help but howl in agony. Yet his rage overpowers the pain. With a blood-covered hand, he reaches out to grab Strahd’s along the hilt of his longsword—and walks forward, skewering himself on the blade. He won’t give Strahd the opportunity to kill him while he’s down. He won’t give him the satisfaction. Strahd’s sword arm tucks closer to his chest, his thin lips pressed together in a line. Another jerk forward. Rahadin takes advantage of Strahd’s surprise to reach out as if to embrace the nobleman—only to swipe at his throat. His claws cleave through muscle and vessel and cartilage, causing air and blood both to rush from the wound. The elf hopes his eyes send the message that his voice can’t: fury; heartache; hatred.  

Strahd releases his hold on his sword to grip at his throat, mouth agape. A wet gurgle escapes past bloodied lips. His blood does not spray as is common with the severing of an artery, Rahadin notes with morbid interest. Rather, it streams down past his clavicle and paints his torso. With the sword still embedded in his chest, Rahadin puts both hands on the hilt of his scimitar, and, with a scream, plunges his scimitar into Strahd’s heart. 

The world grows still. Even the bats upon the ceiling dare not move. Strahd’s eyes bulge from their sockets. The nobleman stumbles backward. For a moment, Rahadin wonders if he, too, had missed his mark.  

Suddenly, Strahd explodes into a cloud of red-tinted mist. It quickly gathers before billowing into Strahd’s coffin. 

The room falls silent once more. Rahadin coughs into his sleeve before immediately grimacing. His entire torso feels as if it’s on fire, pulsing and radiating pain. Looking down, he notes how the bruised, exposed skin over his collarbone slowly weaves itself back together. He needs time to allow his wounds to heal, yet time is not on his side. He needs to act. Soon. Lest every triumph today be in vain. Mustering the last ounces of his energy, Rahadin drags himself toward the black coffin while panting every laborious step of the way. 

The elf all but collapses atop the lip of the coffin. Peering inside, he’s greeted by the sight of Strahd von Zarovich. Not the monstrosity that had shambled into the crypt minutes ago, but a man. There's a serene expression on his face that contrasts the gaping wound along his throat. His arms are crossed over his chest. If one didn’t know better, they might assume the ruler of Barovia was merely resting. Yet his chest does not rise and fall with sleep. He can hear the squelching sounds of the wound beginning to heal over.  

Looking upon his former master in such a state fills him with a confusing cesspool of emotions. Again, he needs to act. Baring his teeth in pain, Rahadin hobbles over to retrieve the stake from the floor before bringing it back to the coffin. The wood feels impossibly heavy in his hand. Once more, he places the tip to Strahd's breast.  

Suddenly, Strahd's eyes snap open. They're cloudy, yet his gaze centers upon him. Observing. His mouth opens and closes with strained, whispered speech. He wets his lips. “You've only made a terrible enemy. This place is a prison for me and me alone,” Strahd croaks. ”I am bound to this land. May your numbered days be plagued by forever looking over your shoulder, Rahadin. And may your heart forever ache with what could have been—”  The stake pierces his heart. Strahd von Zarovich lurches, his chest fighting to lift skyward and his eyes rolling back into his skull. The last color drains from the count’s face. Cracks crawl up his cheeks, to his nose and brow, like a pot forgotten in the kiln. His body begins to break apart. Like an avalanche, the pieces begin crumbling away faster and faster, one after another, until only a pile of ash amidst a heap of clothing remains. Specks of dust flutter through the air and sting Rahadin's eyes. For what feels like hours, Rahadin looks upon the scene. The ash. The blood-stained wedding attire. The blood red garnet atop a thick golden ring. This pile that had once been a man. This ash that had once conquered nations and felled dragons and ruled the countryside like a furious storm. 

At peace. At last. 

He’s at peace. He's free. Finally free. No longer will he have to endure years of torment by the side of a man—monster—who cared so little about him. Once upon a time, perhaps Strahd truly had cared about him. Perhaps. Or perhaps that is merely wishful, illogical thinking. No, it's certainly wishful. The only thing Strahd von Zarovich cared about was himself. Even those he claimed to care about were merely obsessions. Things to be owned. He did not care about Barovia. He did not care about Tatyana. And he certainly didn't care about him. 

Yet why does his heart still ache? 

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “...Be at peace, my lord.”

The sound of footsteps pulls him from his thoughts. Still slumped against the slab, Rahadin turns toward the crypt’s entrance, but he cannot muster the will to retrieve his scimitar from the floor. 

He waits. 

The light of a torch spills from around the corner of a crypt and colors the walls with orange. The faces of Van Richten, no longer masquerading as the foppish bard, and Ireena Kolyana come into view. Clarity seems to have returned to her once more, though she is still wearing her wedding gown—now dirtied and torn. The body of the petulant child, Minerva, lays in Ireena’s arms. Despite the amount of blood along her right arm, her chest still rises and falls with unsteady breaths. Alive, then. A pity. Kasimir is nowhere in sight. Knowing him, he probably abandoned his companions at the first sign of conflict.  

With the hand not holding up the torch, Van Richten holds a hand up toward Ireena and pauses. His eyes scan the floor. After a moment of contemplation, he holds his ground a few feet away from the bars of Strahd’s tomb. Raising the torch higher, he locks eyes with Rahadin. His left eye has swollen shut, a dark bruise coloring the side of his face. 

The dusk elf sucks in an experimental breath. His ribcage aches, but his lung has healed enough to hold air. “It is done,” Rahadin croaks. “Strahd von Zarovich is dead.” 

A look of palpable relief washes over both Ireena and Van Richten’s faces. His expression does not mirror theirs.  

“You are certain?” asks Van Richten. 

“Yes. I saw to the task myself. His body is ash.” 

“That’s…” A long sigh from Ireena. “That’s good.”  

Rahadin pays special attention to Van Richten’s body language. His posture is rigid. His good eye shines in the torchlight with malice when he looks him over. The monster hunter is still not satisfied. Based on the tales he’s heard of the infamous Rudolph van Richten, he’s not surprised. Rahadin is in no shape to fight, he recognizes. Not yet. But he won't back away from a challenge.  

“A deal is a deal,” says Rahadin. “Strahd von Zarovich is dead by my hand. If you are a man of honor, you would see our business as complete and leave this place.” 

Van Richten replies, “Our agreement has been seen to, yes, but our business is far from done, vampire. One monster is dead, but another—you—will soon fill his place. My work is not finished until these people are free from bloodsucking oppressors such as yourself.” 

His expression remains impassive. “Neither one of us is fit for battle. I will kill you with no remorse if I must, but I ultimately harbor no ill will toward you or Lady Kolyana.” 

“I cannot say the same.” Van Richten pulls his beige coat to the side. Rahadin is treated to the sight of several stakes and a silver flask—holy water, if he had to assume—along his hip. “Let this be a fight to the death, then.” 

“Rudolph,” Ireena cuts in. Her voice is soft. “Minerva. She needs a healer.” 

Van Richten’s mouth presses into a tight line. He looks from the body in Ireena’s arms, to Rahadin, and back to Minerva. His bushy brows furrow together, deepening the creases of his forehead. His attention snaps back to Rahadin. A beat passes. “...Fine. But tread carefully, vampire. Know that this is not over.” 

The elf only tilts his head in response. The threat hardly bothers him; once he’s back to full strength, he can track down and eliminate the monster hunter before he has time to plot his next attack. Not that such an idea even frightens him. Van Richten had to come to him to assist with killing Strahd; he hardly stands a chance on his own. 

Raising the torch higher, Van Richten turns to leave. “Come, Ireena. Let’s get you somewhere safe.” 

Rahadin watches the trio until their light no longer reaches the crypt and their footsteps fall silent. He sighs and drops his head back against the pedestal. His eyes close.  

There’s so much to attend to. So much to think about. But he is so, so tired. The last hour feels like a dream. It doesn’t feel real that he, chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft and servant of the Von Zarovich family for centuries, had effectively put an end to an era. His hand had snuffed out the last of the ancestral tree. It’s a surname that he, by law, can carry on, but even the idea of it feels wrong. 

He, committer of regicide, carrying the name of the lord he slew. It’s laughable, really. Rahadin is no prince. He is no lord. A general? Perhaps. War he knows like the back of his hand. But leading slews of commoners, politics, has never truly interested him. 

So much to think about. Perhaps he will rest first. Let his mind fade into nothingness for a few fleeting hours. Let himself heal. Examining the implications of what he just did can come later. 

More footsteps. With more than a little irritation, Rahadin’s eyes snap open. Had the self-proclaimed monster hunter changed his mind? But the footsteps are softer, and there is only one pair. The pale face of Escher comes into view. Smoke rises from slowly healing burn wounds along his cheek and forehead, large clumps of his blonde hair having been seared away. The vampire spawn approaches, being careful not to trigger any of the traps surrounding the crypt all the while.  

Rahadin’s fists clench in his lap. 

Escher wraps his hands around the bars blockading the crypt. In a soft voice barely louder than a whisper, he asks, “Where is Strahd?” 

“How are you alive?” 

“I suppose the intruders thought I was truly dead and left me. Where is he, Rahadin?” 

“Gone.” 

“What?” Escher lets out a choked sound, his eyes going wide. “What do you mean?” 

“He’s dead. I killed him.” 

“ You killed him?!” 

“Yes. His ashes are in the coffin.” 

His hands leave the bars to tangle in the remains of his blonde hair. Escher takes a few steps, pacing, before gripping the barricade once more. “Let me see him. Please.” 

The plea almost falls on deaf ears. He tired. The last thing he wants is to deal with Escher right now, especially an emotional Escher. Emotionality tends to breed unpredictability. Were he in a better state of mind, Rahadin would kill the spawn. Escher is—was—Strahd's consort, and he wants no loose ends interfering with his future plans. But something about the desperation in his eyes has Rahadin grudgingly reconsidering.  

“Fine. But make it quick.” The elf stands to pull the lever on the far wall. The bars raise with a loud clanging sound, causing the stone walls to shudder. Once the bars have lifted just high enough, Escher scampers up to the black marble coffin and stares inside.  

He inhales sharply. “Gods… There's nothing left of him!” Escher pulls away as if the very sight of his ashes physically pains him. His eyes are closed, his brows drawn together, for several moments. When he opens them again, they're wet.  

Rahadin has nothing to say to the man.  

With a great inhale, Escher draws the rapier from his hip. “I loved that man, Rahadin. I,” He takes a step forward, his voice trembling with emotion, “ loved him.” 

As did I. He keeps the thought to himself.  

“And you took him from me...” Escher’s voice cracks at the last word. The spawn raises the tip of his rapier toward him, but the blade shakes in his hand. His grip is all wrong.  

Rahadin raises an eyebrow but does not move. 

The rapier clatters to the ground. The clinging of metal echoes throughout the hollow catacombs. Escher drops to his knees as if his legs have given out and crosses his arm over his chest. His head bows in supplication. 

“What are you doing?!” the dusk elf demands. 

Inky pools of sadness rise to meet his gaze. “I offer you my sword.” His voice cracks. “My body. Whatever you want—it is yours. Master.” 

He straightens. “Stop this pathetic display. Your master is dead. You are a free man, Escher.” When Escher’s head remains dipped, defeated, his voice raises in pitch. “Do you not have family to return to? Loved ones?” 

“My family would not remember me. Those that did would fear me.” His words are barely louder than a whisper. 

“Do you not wish to leave this infernal hell hole of a castle?!” When the spawn does not respond, he kicks him over. Escher doesn't resist. “Don't you?!” 

“I cannot survive on my own, Rahadin.” 

He leans over, practically spitting in his face. “You are a Von Zarovich! Yes, you can!” 

Escher stares back at him with dark eyes filled with indefinite sadness. It takes him aback. Robs him of his fury.  

He sighs deeply. It feels as if all of the energy leaves his body with that breath. Perhaps it is the connection he feels with Escher in that moment—two widowed, lost souls with the world before them—that causes him to place a hand atop Escher’s head. It's as if his touch opens the dam. His body wracked with sudden sobs, the spawn throws his arms around Rahadin's calves, his forehead pressed against his knee. It catches him off guard, and for once he has no idea what to do. He has no energy to do anything.  

His hand stays on his head. He lets the spawn sob loudly into the night. 

And fights the urge to join him.

Chapter Text

Since its founding over four centuries ago, Barovia has been governed by a count. Had the royal family been aware of what would become of the land they conquered, perhaps it would have been more apt to crown their eldest a king. With the land being barricaded on all sides by the fog, it was not as if Barovia bowed to any kings. Its governorship was its own. Barovia supplied its own military, collected its own taxes, oversaw its own land administration. By every right, they should have been their own kingdom.

It is, perhaps, for the better that Strahd was only titled count; an elevated title such as king would have inflated his already bloated ego.  

But Rahadin is no count. He is no king, and never has he had any desire for such titles. He is—was—perfectly content with chamberlain, a title he already never would have fathomed for himself when he was but a dirty ragamuffin wandering the streets. While he had been bequeathed a position of authority by the late King Barov himself, the assumption had always been, in a past life, that Strahd would sire a child that would inherit his lands. Prior to Tatyana entering the picture, Strahd had never outwardly expressed a desire to rear children, but he was a man who sought his discerning father’s approval more than anything. The eldest was expected to be the soldier. The eldest was expected to rule in their old age. The eldest was expected to start a family to, in turn, have their spawn rule in their old age. So was the cycle that had existed for centuries. This was the life of a noble. And even if Strahd had expressed disdain for this cycle in private to him on drunken nights, Rahadin knew that the only thing he truly feared was disappointing his father. His own wants and desires would be forgotten in the name of family—including siring a child.  

There have been times in which Rahadin has wondered if becoming undead had been a relief for Strahd for a number of reasons, notably that there would no longer be an expectation for him to raise a babe. A child that would be born into the same cycle as him, that would have the same expectations thrust upon them. And would Strahd’s rearing be so different from his father’s despite his intentions to break said cycle? Did Strahd ever wonder about the type of parent he’d be?  

Instead, undeath had brought about the opportunity—or curse—for him to remain crownless and childless upon his throne. While Rahadin would have unerringly, gladly, served any member of the Von Zarovich family, it did bring some relief that he would not have to break the routines he’d formed serving Strahd. Over those first decades, they’d established a comfortable rhythm, after all, and Rahadin has never been especially keen on change. And so that rhythm carried for many, many more decades with each day strengthening the bond between them. Each day strengthening his certainty that yes, his lord and master would rule Barovia even long after Corellon beckoned his soul back to Arvandor. As such, Rahadin had never considered the question but what if that throne did become empty? Certainly, there had been times in which Rahadin had led Barovia during moments of Strahd’s absence, but it had always been a temporary stewardship. No formal arrangements for succession were put in place; history would plainly tell that’s an invitation for assassination no matter how loyal your appointee. He could rest easy knowing that at some point, whether it be in a fortnight or a year, his master would be there to take those terribly daunting reins back from him.  

But now, the throne is empty, and he finds himself without a plan. Not a real one that encompasses all the responsibilities of a count: land administration and military service and judicial authority and tax collection and maintaining order as a whole. But while he is, admittedly, overwhelmed with everything that has fallen into his lap, he is confident that he can lead Barovia in a better direction than Strahd. The fool had become passionless as the centuries went on. Rather, what passion he had lost for conquest and governance he instead placed upon love—a twisted, one-sided romance so devoid of reciprocation that when she died, so too did the fire in his heart. And for that hope to be rekindled and extinguished again and again with each reincarnation... Each devastation took more than the last. And how heartbreaking it had been to witness; Rahadin remembers fondly how proud Strahd had been to claim Barovia as his own. It’d been a hard-fought fight, but at last he had lands to call his own. Something to make his father proud. There’d been an unextinguishable spark in his eyes each time he beheld the progress being made on Castle Ravenloft. Barovian roads destroyed by war were repaired, the economy was fed, and a new era of authority prospered. The country thrived, and Rahadin was pleased to have played a part in its development. 

But as the years pressed on, Strahd could not escape the past. No longer could the Count be bothered to maintain Barovia’s infrastructure. An entire city was flooded, citizens displaced, in a woman’s name. The Barovian population dwindled. Monuments to his conquest were consumed by time and rot. Entire centuries would sometimes pass wherein the only reminder of his rule was his castle's shadow and the fading portrait pressed upon old coins. The name Strahd von Zarovich, while feared, became a ghost story mothers told their children to make them behave. The Count could have been absent for years and the citizens would be none the wiser. They feared the Devil, but did they fear Strahd von Zarovich? The recent increase in emboldened travelers seeking to destroy Barovia’s evil ruler led Rahadin to believe no. If they knew even a fraction of the powers the Dark Lord harnessed, they wouldn’t have dared look upon Ravenloft, let alone traipse about its halls like children playing at war.  

He’d become weak. It’d taken Rahadin’s transformation into a full-blooded vampire to see this. He is no king or count, but with his newfound freedom he can be a better leader than Strahd ever was. He still understands the importance of having a presence. To not only be feared, but respected. That he is not one to be toyed with. While it may take time, he would ensure Barovia’s infrastructure would be repaired. He’d begin amassing an army of not just undead, but of living, breathing soldiers in case the bordering countries dared dream of invading Barovia. Perhaps he'd set about taming the wildling threat in the mountains so that he might seize whatever resources their shamans were no doubt putting to waste. In time, perhaps he would look into establishing trade routes into Barovia. The introduction of new blood— and souls— would be a boon. 

All things in time, and he now has a fathomless amount of that before him. Rahadin promises himself he’ll sit down and make a proper plan when he can think straight again.  

It paints climbs the sky with hues of fire,
A daytime beacon, a world's desire.
A star of life, in the heavens spun,
The heart of our day, the mighty sun. 

With gentle rays, it kisses the land,
Paints the morning in colors shades so grand.
A source of life, in the vast expanse,
The sun's a heavenly, life-giving dance 

 

~EvZ 

 

The sun is such an interesting thing. For most of my life, it was merely a blot of dim light obscured by ever-hanging clouds. Like the moon, it rose and fell with the start and end of the day. It was a rather unimpressive thing that I never gave much thought to. And why would I when the moon, the mistress I lived under, was so much brighter? So much more imposing? When you're used to diamonds, amethyst is a poor man's gem. 

When my master died, the clouds dissipated. What was revealed was a gem brighter than any full moon. Rays of yellow draped across the land like honey. In the blink of an eye, everything was brighter without the aid of a torch. It was a beautiful sight to behold. Unable to resist—I've always been unable to resist beautiful things—I stepped outside the castle for a better view of a sun-drenched Barovia. 

The minute I stepped out, my eyes burned. My skin burned. My skull felt like an egg thrust into an open flame. It brought back terrible memories of the sword that had caused my skin to blister not half a day earlier. The same one that had spelled Volenta’s final demise. Needless to say, I quickly retreated back into the safety of the castle to lick my wounds. But it didn't stop me from spending the next hours watching the sun’s journey across the sky from the shadows. I watched as the sky became a bouquet, from blue to orange to lilac. And gods was it beautiful. 

I eventually worked up the courage to ask Rahadin about it. A wistful look crossed his face for a moment. He curtly indicated that all lands outside of Barovia are blessed by the sun. I remember the old elf mentioning in the past that he, just like Strahd, is not native to Barovia. It must be bittersweet for him to be deprived of the ability to feel the sun a year before its return. He may not say it (he doesn't say a lot of things), but I could read it in his expression.  

Speaking of the old elf, things have certainly felt different since the death (re-death?) of Strahd. I've found myself not missing him as much as I'd expected. Though I suppose the amount of attention he paid me was already next to none. Rahadin, thank the heavens, elected to keep me around. I won't delude myself by assuming he has a soft spot for me, but rather that losing all that made up our quirky little family was a terrifying thought. Old man Leif and that hunchbacked man-animal, however, were not so lucky to escape his wrath. Something about him not wanting any loose ends, he said. I consider myself a loose end from Strahd's reign, but I won't look a gift horse in the mouth.  

One of the more notable changes since Rahadin took charge is his redecorating of the castle. The guests that had died during the attempted betrothal of the Lady Kolyana to my master now ward off intruders in the form of a perimeter of heads on pikes outside the castle walls. It's a truly gruesome sight, not to mention the smell. Gods, the smell! It's like rotten meat times what, 80? 100? There's been a constant flock of scavenging birds picking the skulls clean. I think the eloquently dubbed “Skrull the Maimer” from the history books would feel right at home here. But on the bright side, at least there are no more corpses littering the chapel floor.  

Thankfully, Ludmilla wasn't subjected to a pike. She earned proper entombment in the catacombs. Rahadin said he would hire a mason to carve her an epitaph once things settle down. Poor Volenta, however, didn't have a proper body left to entomb. And truth be told, I don't think Rahadin was particularly keen on sticking her in the catacombs to begin with. I took it upon myself to put what I could of her remains in a fine vase and sat it beside Ludmilla’s coffin. While Volenta was, to put it politely, a brute of a thing, she and the other consorts were the closest thing I've had to a family since my turning. It's the least I could do for them.  

It's been four moons since Ludmilla and Volenta's passing. Four moons since the passing of Strahd. Rahadin has mostly kept to himself since then, becoming somewhat of a cloistered hermit. In the week of Strahd's death, he spoke of his vision for Barovia: something about assembling an army and rebuilding the roads for said army to travel upon. I consider myself more of a lover than a fighter and thus didn't pay much attention to that part. He said that since the borders of Barovia have opened up with the dissipation of the mists, new opportunities would present themselves for conquest and economic development. Again, I didn't pay much attention as I've never been fond of economics, either. 

Despite his talk, he has yet to put any of these plans into action. When he's not in the larders, he's in his office (sulking, I can only assume.) As a result, the larders have grown… spacious. I've taken it upon myself to try and restock them (Rahadin has yet to thank me for my hard, messy work), but this had been Volenta's area of expertise in the past.  

Barovia persists, however. To be honest, I don't think most of the commoners are even aware of Strahd's death. Just based on the brief time I've spent meandering about Barovia Village, they seem to be more preoccupied with this so-called “sun” and the strange new faces that have wandered into Barovia. (Barovians are a suspicious lot, and they rarely take kindly to outsiders.) Why, just the other day I had a lovely chat with a man who said he was from a nation called Amn! For all I know, things might devolve into utter chaos if the commoners knew they were without true leadership. 

Until Rahadin calls on me to actually do something (unlikely as the man does not delegate easily), I plan on enjoying my days to the best of my abilities. Admiring the sunshine from the shade by day, playing music by night. Wining and dining in the larders when I can. I've thought about traveling, seeing what all is outside of Barovia, but the thought of leaving the old elf alone with his sorrow pains this damned sentimental heart. I might take a new partner at some point, but my non-beating heart aches for the man who’d conquered my beating heart. The man who, once upon a time, had swept me off my feet and danced me down the moonlight-speckled halls of Castle Ravenloft like something to be treasured. It’d been some time since I’d seen that side of him, but I’m a hopeful romantic if anything. 

I shall end things here for today, little diary, for I must attend to my duties. I need to be available in case the new Master of Ravenloft doesn’t call upon me. 

Charmed,

Escher 

Rahadin’s eyes narrow. That corpse hadn’t been there yesterday… The emaciated body of a bearded man is sprawled out across the floor, his eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling. The other cattle scurry away from him like roaches when he misty steps into the shared cell and kneels beside the old man. He grabs his chin and turns his head; no signs of injury from what he can tell. How refreshing it is to find a body that hadn’t tried to bite its tongue off or beat its head into a bloody pulp against the wall… Perhaps malnourishment, perhaps simply dying of old age. The head lolls back to the ground. 

Rahadin sighs loudly through his nose. What a waste… It’s too late to turn him. Without a necromancer, the corpse is useless except as fly bait. His fingers tap restlessly against his knee. He stands, and his eyes scan the cell. Three cattle remain. Only one of them young and healthy, the other two looking like they could fall over dead at any minute. There’s been a lot of that particular ilk lately: weak, frail humans. Good for perhaps five feedings, six if they’re fed well enough. If he rations himself to feeding once per week, this lot should last him about five moons.  

His gaze darts about. The cattle, sightless in the dark, cower against the wall and huddle into themselves. The cell reeks of excrement; perhaps he was too hasty in eliminating his cleaning boy Cyrus… He’ll have to shackle these ones. When one goes, in his experience, it’s not uncommon for others to soon follow in the hopes of a better existence in the afterlife—as if the Morninglord even cares about their paltry existence. It’s as he’s planning the most efficient way to go about this that he hears footsteps in the distance. Rahadin closes his eyes and sighs once more. 

The footsteps come to a stop just outside the cell. The presence sniffs exaggeratedly loud. “Ugh, it smells like an ogre’s loins in here!” says Escher, his voice adenoidal as if pinching his nose.  

“Your commentary is, as always, unnecessary.”  

“It’s like a sun-baked corpse rolled in its own waste and had the audacity to die again!” 

“Escher—” 

“Or an otyugh giving birth—” 

“What do you want?!” 

A pause. He can practically hear Escher grinning, no doubt satisfied at having properly annoyed him. “Stench aside… I thought I’d grab a quick bite before retiring for the evening. Or morning, rather.” 

“Your timing is impeccable.” Rahadin steps aside to gesture to the corpse.  

“Oh, hells. I brought that one in, what, three days ago? Four?” 

“The man was practically dead when you brought him here. What were you expecting to happen?” The dusk elf crosses his arms. “Strong, able-bodied individuals are more suitable for the larders. You know this.”  

Escher shifts from foot to foot before placing his hands around the bars. “Not to get all sentimental, but don’t you feel it’s better for us to feed on those at the end of their lives? With less left to live for? I know it certainly eases my conscience.” 

“Does the wolf eat solely the sick, or the falcon only the dead?” 

“That’s a terrible metaphor. We’re not animals, Rahadin! We’re thinking creatures with a gods-damned conscience! If you want bright-eyed babes and hulking warriors, fetch them yourself!” 

The vampire’s gaze bores into Escher. Such insolence! Escher was never this defiant with Strahd. He’s tempted to tear out the spawn’s tongue. Have him slowly, painfully, regrow a new one. “You’re forbidden from feeding for the next moon.” 

“What?” He lets out an incredulous laugh. “Fine. I’ll go out to hunt.” 

“I didn’t specify only from the larders.” 

The metal bars creek as Escher’s grip tightens, his voice orotund. “...You don’t control me, Rahadin. I may be a spawn, but I’m not your spawn. I am here of my own free will.” 

Rahadin steps closer to the bars. The muscles in his neck are tense. “Did you not pledge yourself to me? Fealty in exchange for protection?” 

Escher stares him down. Challenging him. Finally, his gaze drops to the floor. “...You’re right. I apologize. Master. I will, um, be mindful of your wisdom the next time I restock the larders.” 

His words sound hollow. That’s the thing with Escher, always performing. That’s how he gets what he wants. That’s how he manipulated Strahd. Performing, performing, performing as if his life depended on it—which it did. Yet Rahadin has no doubt that Escher will keep his words in mind to placate him and his temper. That, too, is how he manipulated Strahd, after all: people pleasing. Everyone was aware of it, including the Count himself. But Rahadin must be growing soft in his old age, as he finds himself gesturing his head toward the center of the cell. Escher smiles warmly, bowing his head, before pulling out a keyring.  

He unlocks and relocks the cell door behind him. “I will take care of the body later,” says Escher, clearly distracted. He wanders around the stone chamber as if perusing a buffet. He stops before the youngest, healthiest prisoner. His eyes briefly fall upon Rahadin before moving to an older human woman in deference. Good. Rahadin watches the spawn stroke the woman’s withered cheek, who appears to be frozen in place. Her rabbit-quick heartbeat can be heard even above her labored breathing. 

“Pardon me, dear.” 

Fangs sink into the woman’s throat. The scent of iron fills the room, causing Rahadin’s gums to ache. The feral voice in Rahadin’s mind— feed, feed!— screams louder. While he’s grown accustomed to tuning it out when the need arises, his own breathing quickens still. There’s no reason to deny himself, he reasons, particularly if Escher is true to his word and brings back stronger cattle. Rahadin approaches the young man with the panicked look in his eyes. The prisoner attempts to flee, but the vampire is far quicker. He’s not as gentle as Escher and bites into his throat like a wolf starved. 

Exceedingly bitter yet satisfying nonetheless. Rahadin’s eyes close as he drinks his fill. The voice is quiet—for now. The man’s body stills, but Rahadin ensures he pulls away before he can cause lasting harm. A skill that has taken him some discipline to master.  

Escher releases the woman’s throat with a wet slurp. He dabs at the corners of his mouth and goes to suck the blood from his thumb. He gives a content sigh. “May I ask what is perhaps a crass question?” 

Without missing a beat, Rahadin replies, “No.” 

“Do you ever find yourself feeling particularly,” Escher pauses, inhaling loudly through his nose and rolling his hand as if searching for a word, “randy after a meal?” 

Rahadin blinks. Of course he would ask that unprompted. ”No.” 

“Really? I feel orgasms and a belly full of warm blood go together like wine and chocolate. You're telling me you and Strahd never—” 

Rahadin raises a silencing hand. Even if the question had been appropriate, which it very much is not, it's not the kind of thing he wants to be thinking about.  

Catching his faux pas. Escher presses four fingers to his mouth. “Apologies. Sensitive subject. I understand.” He chuckles. “I'm still adjusting to him not being around myself.” 

A muscle in Rahadin's jaw tightens. 

Escher's voice softens. “I’ll simply put the offer out there, Rahadin. If you'd ever want to share a bed, mutually release some stress, I'd be more than happy to oblige.” 

Something in him snaps. Rahadin whips around to face the spawn, his voice a fierce whisper. “I've been gracious enough to allow you to live, Escher, but do not confuse my generosity for fondness.” 

The vampire spawn blinks. “I'm aware you harbor no fondness for me. But sex need not be anything more than sex. Merely two people seeking pleasure.” 

“I'm not Strahd. I don't whore myself out to whatever flesh is heaped before me.” 

“Neither do I, and neither did he. You know that in your heart to be true.” Another pause. “Speaking of Strahd… How are you faring, by the way?” 

His response is immediate. “Fine.” 

“Sure.” His voice is flat, as if unconvinced. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I hope you know I’m, um, here for whatever you may need. Sex, of course, but more notably if you ever want to talk about what happened—” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Sure. Sure.” Escher reaches a hand out as if to place it on the dusk elf’s shoulder but wisely reconsiders. His arm falls limp to his side. “...I know you’re feeling the ripples of his absence. I am, too. Despite his abundant flaws, it’s normal to—” 

“Nothing about our circumstances is normal, Escher.” He has to nip this conversation in the bud. If he doesn’t, it may spiral into territory he no longer feels in control of. Discussing feelings has never come easy to him, but he especially doesn’t want to do so with a servant. “I’m not a child. I do not need comforting.” 

Escher’s lips press into a thin line, lifting his gaze as if searching for patience. When his eyes find his once more, there’s a deep vulnerability behind them. Slower, the spawn says, “Perhaps I would like to talk about what has happened rather than trying to forget Strahd ever existed.” 

“Then go find a prostitute to weep to.”  

A wounded look crosses Escher’s face. It’s gone the next moment, replaced with one of cool aloofness. Perhaps he is being petulant, but Escher should respect the relationship between master and servant. The last thing he wants is to awkwardly stand there while the spawn snivels away. No, he would rather forget Strahd and move on with his life than be trapped in the past. If he were to open that box, he’s not confident he could subdue what comes out. 

Escher says, “Yes, well… I suppose I will go change clothes before disposing of this one’s body. No point in ruining perfectly good clothes with bodily fluids.” With his head, he gestures to the corpse of the old man. Rahadin follows him out, scrutinizing him to ensure that the larders are locked properly. Perhaps he will do the same: change into something less formal before restraining the remaining prisoners. He’s less fussy than Escher, but his wardrobe is quickly dwindling. The longer he can postpone going into town, the better. 

The two walk the halls in silence. It’s a comfortable quiet for Rahadin, but the dusk elf is certain it’s making the overly chatty spawn squirm. Without Strahd, he no longer needs to be mindful of his step and triggering arcane traps. Yet after years and years of walking the same paths, he finds himself stepping over certain stones regardless.  

He no longer hears footsteps behind him. Rahadin looks over his shoulder to find Escher planted in place and wide-eyed. The spawn’s jaw quivers. Rahadin tilts his head in question. 

“I don’t feel well,” Escher says flatly. Before he can get out another word, vomit bursts from his lips, and his knees buckle. The bloody contents of his stomach pool along the floor, running along the cracks of the stone like a network of veins. 

The smell of stomach acid assaults his nostrils. Rahadin sighs loudly. He’s no stranger to people being sick; as a general, he saw more than his fair share of soldiers fall ill from contaminated food. Yet it is an inconvenience, one that he’ll no doubt have to force Escher kicking and screaming to clean up. Were he a kinder man, he might offer to pull the blonde’s hair back to keep it out of the mess. But he’s never claimed to be a kind man, and he certainly doesn’t want to get vomit on his hands. Standing by is support enough. 

“Get up,” says Rahadin, arms crossed. 

In reply, Escher only heaves louder. He holds his stomach, craning forward until his forehead rests on the floor—and in his own sickness, Rahadin notes with disgust. The spawn takes short, sharp breaths occasionally interrupted by gagging. “Some-something’s wrong…” he pants. 

“You’re fine. Get up.” 

When Escher lifts his head, there’s pink-tinged foam at his mouth that bubbles down his chin like a rabid animal. The spawn whispers, “Rahadin, I-I-I’m scared…!” His voice cracks. 

That’s enough to get his attention. Throwing his preferences to the wind, Rahadin squats down beside him and brushes clumps of blonde hair away from his face. With a grip on his jaw, he tilts Escher’s head this way and that, inspecting him. His pupils have since flooded his eyes. A shiver rolls through the spawn’s body. “Escher? What’s wrong?” He searches his brain trying to figure out just what could be ailing him in such a fashion. He’s never seen a spawn act like this before. A part of him longs for Strahd’s guidance and experience, but he quickly pushes it aside.  

A masculine voice from behind answers his question. “He’ll be down for quite some time, I’m afraid.” 

Rahadin whips around to find that thrice-damned monster hunter standing there with a pompous air about him, arms crossed. Van Richten is armed to the teeth, a leather belt equipped with various weapons and vials strapped across his waist and chest.  

“What have you done to him?” Rahadin asks. 

“I did nothing to him. All self-inflicted, I can assure you.” 

The vampire stands despite the weak grip on his ankle urging him to stay. He quirks an eyebrow. “Alone this time, Rictavio?” 

“Perhaps.” He nods toward Escher. “But so are you.” 

“You state your assumption with such confidence.” The man is either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish to challenge even a solitary vampire in his own domain. This castle, these crypts, he knows like the back of his hand. As if sensing his frustration, the bats on the ceiling begin to stir and chitter in protest. The sooner he can get this over with, the better. What a relief—to soon be free of this thorn in his side. 

Rahadin snarls, “It would have been wise of you to remain hidden. What a fatal lapse of judgment” He draws his scimitar and lunges forward with inhuman speed. Van Richten does not move from his spot and only flinches when his sword alights with the anguished choir of the dead. Before the steel can cleave through his throat, a sudden spasm wracks his body. His scimitar falls to the ground, the sound of steel on stone ringing throughout the halls. Rahadin furiously stares at his disobedient hand. Another spasm brings him to his knees and steals the air from his lungs.  

Not now, he silently pleads to whichever god may be listening. A third painful spasm proves that they’ve all but abandoned him. It feels as if his insides have caught on fire, his organs attempting to escape the confines of his body. His stomach lurches, and he vomits more blood than he's certain he even drank. Heave after audible heave, until nothing remains but the burn of something ten times hotter than acid in his throat. He has not sweat in years, yet perspiration beads up along his forehead. If Van Richten cares at all that he’s vomited on his boots, it doesn’t show. The vampire hunter remains in place. 

His voice level, Van Richten says, “One part aqua fortis and two parts aqua regia combined with a dragonbane suspension blessed by a cleric. When injected, it tends to stay suspended in the blood for some time. Eventually lethal in humans, unfortunately, but equally devastating to the undead for different reasons.” 

Rahadin pulls his lips back in a bitter smile. “How noble of you to,” he spits on the ground, “kill innocents...” 

“I asked. They consented. Better they die with purpose than live out the rest of their days feeding monsters.” 

The dusk elf slinks forward to grab his scimitar. The hilt feels like ice against his palm. A boot on his shoulder pushes him over onto his back. There’s no strength left to resist. Van Richten peers down at him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.  

“Are you going to kill me where I stand or simply continue wallowing in your own filth, vampire?” 

Rahadin bears his fangs at the decrepit human. Another wave of vertigo silences the insult on his tongue. All he can smell is iron, hot and nauseating. No longer can he hear Escher’s labored breaths. Summoning the last ounces of his strength, Rahadin attempts to push himself onto his knees. His legs slip from beneath him, sending him falling to his back. Death would be preferable to this embarrassment, he thinks. Though he would not give this filth the honor of killing him like this! He focuses on his own labored breathing, tries to imagine himself becoming one with the air. For the briefest of moments, his body dissipates into a cloud of mist, only to be tethered back into his physical form. 

Van Richten clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “I was expecting you to put up more of a fight, but this is embarrassing.” He cocks his head. “Though perhaps I did overdo it on the dragonbane. Ah, well.” The vampire hunter shrugs his shoulders before pulling his coat aside to retrieve a wooden stake.  

Panic rising like bile, Rahadin tries again and again to change shape—to a cloud of mist, to a bat, to anything— but his concentration is too muddled to focus. His head lolls to the side, his attention falling on Escher. The spawn has since crumpled to his side. His mouth hangs open like that of a walleyed fish, foam continuing to spill from his mouth. Their eyes meet. His are wide and wet. Fingers in Rahadin’s hair jerk his attention away. The wrinkled face of Rudolph van Richten fills his field of view. The man looks neither joyful nor frightened, but impassive. As if he were simply on an afternoon walk and not in the lair of a vampire. For some reason, that impassivity makes his blood boil all the hotter.  

“In case you were curious, I’ve already consecrated your coffin. It would have behooved you to learn a thing or two from your infernal master and install a safeguard. I could have mistaken this place for a city outhouse rather than a vampire’s lair.” A mocking pat to his cheek. “You die here.” 

Van Richten places a hand on Rahadin’s chest to steady himself. The dusk elf struggles, tries to inch away, but the old man is deceptively strong. He raises the stake high above his head. For the first time that night, Van Richten’s expression becomes one of pure malice, decades of hate for his ilk spilling forth. It twists his features into that of a rabid animal. 

As the stake falls, time seems to come to a halt. He’s thought about his death countless times before. With his race’s long life expectancy, it would be difficult not to. He thought he’d see himself die on the battlefield. Dying for a cause he believed in. Dying in service of Strahd. The three once went hand-in-hand. He’d die with a sword lodged in his neck, an artery severed, a spear piercing his heart. He’d die a warrior’s death with a smile on his face. Never did he think he’d die with his opponent never having drawn their sword. His whole life has been spent around poisons; to be felled by such a simple trick, much less to be writhing in his own vomit, is mortifying. If Barov were to look down upon him from the afterlife in that very moment, he would no doubt be shaking his head. That imagined disappointment wounds more than the burn of acid in his throat.  

Rahadin’s eyes fall closed. 

A voice rings out, “Die, monster!” 

… 

… 

Silence. 

Something hot splatters against his face.  

The pain does not follow. 

Chapter Text

When Rahadin pushes him against the wall after they’re finally out of view of the prisoners, it takes him by surprise. When he crushes his thin lips against his, he’s, well… He’s flabbergasted. Not in a disgusted way, but because he had been 200 percent certain that the dusk elf truly wanted nothing to do with him. His words had been exceedingly hurtful, and he’d been sure to rebuke the spawn’s advances not five minutes ago. Though he supposes the former chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft is full of surprises—including the fervor in which he kisses him. 

Escher lets out a startled noise but does not pull away. Rather, he leans into the embrace, even going so far as to wrap his arms around Rahadin’s shoulders. As quickly as it started, however, Rahadin pulls away from the kiss.  

“Is your previous offer still on the table?” he asks quietly. 

Escher grins, the tips of his fangs jutting over his bottom lip. “Certainly. Although I thought your words were, and I quote, ‘I don't whore myself out to whatever flesh is heaped before me.’” 

“Which remains a fact.” Rahadin releases his hold on the spawn’s shirt and gestures toward the staircase with a nod of his head. “Come.” 

“I hope to, darling.” 

Rahadin scrutinizes him for several moments, his eyebrows knitted, before his eyes widen at the realization—and Escher absolutely revels in it. The elf quickly turns around and heads up the stairs without another word. Escher follows close behind, grinning all the while; it’s always a win in his book when he can catch the impenetrable man off guard. 

He’s grateful for no longer needing air, otherwise he’d surely be winded by the fifty sets of stairs it takes to get anywhere in this wretched castle. “Where are we going?” he asks. 

“To a bed.” 

Escher scoffs. “You don’t need to waste all this time on little old me. Believe me, I’m just as happy being taken over a table or—” He stops when Rahadin raises a silencing hand over his shoulder.  

“A bed. We’ll do this properly or not at all.” 

Prude. Escher fights back a sigh as the two of them head up yet another set of stairs and wind through several cobweb-choked hallways. He notes how Rahadin slows just before the entrance to the master bedroom. Oh, what he’d give to peer inside that complicated brain. To have access to a mind-reading spell. Is he considering using Strahd’s bed? That would be… kinky. Depressing as the Nine Hells, but kinky. Regardless, Rahadin continues past it and leads them further down the halls of Castle Ravenloft.  

They finally come to a stop outside the guest bedroom. Rahadin opens the door and pushes inside, Escher close behind. The room is pitch black. With his darkvision, he notes that the space has not been cleaned since, he assumes, Strahd’s (interrupted) wedding to the burgomaster’s sister. The bedspread lays in utter disarray atop the canopied bed, and various vials of perfumes and cosmetics still sit on the bedside table. Escher swears he can still smell the stench of this room’s last occupant, but even with his enhanced senses, he knows it’s improbable considering the wedding was several moons ago. The state of the room hardly seems to bother Rahadin, however. The vampire leaves his boots at the doorway before sitting on the edge of the bed. Escher mirrors him, butterflies flitting about in his stomach. 

The bed dips from their combined weight when he sits beside Rahadin. There’s a certain energy about him—the way he taps his fingers along the tops of his thighs, eyes darting about the room. It reminds Escher of his first time being intimate with someone many, many moons ago. Except he knows for a fact (hello, thin walls) that the vampire is more experienced than his nervous appearance would lead him to believe. Experience or not, though, he wants him to feel at ease. With lithe fingers, Escher tucks a strand of Rahadin’s dark hair behind his ear before cupping his face. Their eyes meet, yet Rahadin’s gaze soon drifts to the space behind his head. 

“What are you so nervous about?” the spawn teases. “I’d say I don’t bite, but we both know that’s not true.” 

His Adam’s apple bobs when he clears his throat. Rather than answer, he goes to busy himself untucking Escher’s white shirt from his trousers. His fingers are cold when he runs them beneath his shirt and up along the smooth expanse of his belly. Escher laughs softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. Romance is very much his battlefield; whereas Rahadin lives to feel the cold caress of steel in his hands, this is where he feels most at home. The spawn leans forward to take Rahadin’s lips. It’s not the passionate kiss that he had intended, but one that’s entirely too much lips and teeth. He goes to deepen it, only for the dusk elf to pull away. Not the passionate type, then. Instead, he kisses Rahadin’s cheek and then the pointed tip of an ear before guiding his scarred hands to his chest. Rahadin trails his thumbs over the lean muscle he finds there, and Escher has to fight back a shudder. 

It’s like bedding a tiger: dangerous but positively thrilling as a result . (Let it be noted, however, that he would never actually bed an animal. Blood-sucking vampire or not, he's not that depraved.) 

Growing impatient, the spawn pulls his white dress shirt up and over his head to be witnessed in his full glory. “Let me see you,” he urges. He’s caught the occasional, rare glance of Rahadin without his shirt on before (and once without anything on, gods help him); despite appearing thin as a string bean, the elf, admittedly, has a nice body. Lean and hairless with a peppering of scars both old and new. Escher yearns to run his hands along him. Would the stern former chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft be ticklish? Sensitive? Would he shudder at the feeling of skin pressed against skin? All things he would catalog in time.  

“There’s no need,” Rahadin asserts. 

His tone comes out sharp. “Why? Are you embarrassed? I can promise you, my friend, your body—” 

“My reasons are my own.” 

Escher scoffs. “Sex is hardly the time for modesty. I have to see some part of you if we're to do this. But fine, have it your way.” He doesn't bother hiding the disappointment in his voice. No cataloging today, it appears. One of them has to get naked, and it doesn’t seem like it’s going to be Rahadin today; he begins to unfasten the lacing to his trousers. “What do you like?” 

“Hm?” 

“In bed. What do you enjoy?” He wiggles out of his trousers and braies. Rahadin’s gaze flickers down for the briefest of moments before he’s focusing behind him again. 

A pregnant pause. “I'm unsure.” 

Those two words provide more insight into Rahadin's psyche and the nature of his relationships than decades of knowing him has. His expression is unflinching, but Escher can feel vulnerability beneath the statement. “We can work with that. You and Strahd had been intimate, yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Was there anything you two did together that felt especially nice?” 

Another pause. ”I'm unsure. I mean, yes, but…” 

Escher scoffs. He knows Strahd has historically not been the most giving lover, but he wasn't that bad. “Are you unsure, or are you embarrassed? Believe me, darling, there's little I haven't seen.” As if to prove his point, he goes to straddle the other man, legs tucked on either side of his thighs. He trails kisses along his jaw, inhaling deeply. The man smells of stale blood and unwashed bodies from having just fed in the larders. It'd be foul on anyone else, but on Rahadin it's a turn on.  

Gods, he wants to do terrible, terrible things to this man… Hear what sort of depraved noises he's capable of making. See what faces he makes when his orgasm takes him. ( Dark eyes rolled back, mouth open, a strangled gasp punched from his gut. He may or may not have pondered it on libidinous nights when Strahd wasn't in the mood.) 

Rahadin turns his head to the side. “I'm not embarrassed. I simply…” His shoulders drop. No words follow.  

There have been an unfortunate number of times that Escher's heard things that were not meant for his ears. And it sounded as if he was enjoying himself enough. He tries to speak the words too difficult for the dusk elf to say. “Do you want to hurt me?” 

“What?” His body stiffens as if genuinely caught off guard. “No.” His breath is cold against his face. It smells of iron. 

“Do you want me to hurt you?” 

More silence. “…No.” 

Escher frowns. A tough nut to crack, to be certain. But he's determined to make this tiger purr. “Here’s an idea: I’ll pleasure you with my mouth, and if that feels good, we can continue. If you don’t like it, we can stop. Sound agreeable?” 

Escher reaches down to undo the lacing of the elf’s pants. A wide-eyed expression not unlike a cornered hare crosses Rahadin’s face. Something about it causes Escher’s non-beating heart to ache. An expression that speaks a thousand words. His hands stop. Instead, he reaches up to take Rahadin's face in his hands again, gentle but firm. He doesn't resist this time. 

“Rahadin,” he drawls, the seductive inflection replaced with sharpness. It's the tone he uses when he means businesses. He needs to be careful with the words he chooses. “This won't be enjoyable for either of us if you're fighting me every step of the way. What’s bothering you?” 

His expression remains wide-eyed. His chin trembles slightly. “I-I…” 

“Would you like me to stop?” 

His voice breaks. It's the final crack in the dam. “I don't know! I-I-I don't know what's wrong!” Tears well in the old elf’s eyes.  

That simply won't do. Escher can ignore a lot of things, but if Rahadin, this stoic, impregnable force of nature, starts crying… Then he'll start crying… It's not the correct answer, he knows, but Escher finds himself feeling awkward enough that he reacts on instinct; he pulls Rahadin into a crushing hug. 

His body stiffens in his embrace. But he does not shout cruel things or pull away. Just sits there. It’s an odd feeling—to be holding this clothed, emotional man still armed to the teeth while he’s fully bare. After a time, Rahadin's chest begins to heave, yet he makes no sound. Escher makes a point of not looking at his face. The fact that Rahadin is allowing himself to be held in such a fashion is a miracle.  

Four moons ago, he'd done the same for him. Let Escher sob into his lap like a child at their mother's knee. Returning the favor is the least he can do.  

There's been more emotion in Castle Ravenloft these past moons than he's seen in the entirety of a decade. 

“Is this about Strahd?” he mumbles.  

The question is met with silence. It’s a dumb question; he knows it’s about Strahd. The question is whether the elf is able to admit it to himself or not. He’s feeling the pain of his husband’s loss, sure, but he cannot begin to fathom what Rahadin must be going through. What it feels like to kill someone you’ve cared about for centuries because it felt like the only rational option. Are his thoughts caught in the past, thinking of a time Strahd held him in a similar embrace? Unlikely, in retrospect; the nobleman’s touch was rarely gentle.  

He should hate this man for upending his entire life. Yet all he can find beyond the depths of his exhaustion is pity. 

Eventually, Rahadin pulls away. The whites of his eyes are red, but his expression is as if you were merely talking to him about the weather. “...I can keep going,” he says with a steady voice.  

“We are absolutely not going to keep going.” 

Rahadin’s lips press into a thin line. He can note the frustration on his features. Frustration at the situation. At himself. At things he doesn’t understand but infinitely wishes he could. With a hand on his chest, the elf attempts to push Escher onto his back. But the spawn is just as strong and resists by locking his fingers behind Rahadin's neck.  

“Are you defying me?” It's an obvious threat, but Rahadin is unable to muster any venom behind the words.  

“Yes.” Escher tilts his chin upward. “You don’t need to prove anything. Not to yourself and certainly not to me. If you decide one day that you wish to share my bed, truly and of your own desires, I will welcome you with open arms. But not today.” It’s rather noble of him, he thinks. 

“I am not proving anything—“ 

“I never took you as a liar, Rahadin.” 

His mouth opens and closes, gobsmacked. The muscles of his neck shift. “…Fine.” 

Escher, feeling not unlike a doting mother (which feels weird given what he was about to do to this man), gives him the most encouraging smile he can muster. “Happy to hear we’re in agreement.” He slides off of Rahadin’s lap and goes to put his clothes back on. 

It’s as he’s relacing his boots that he hears his adenoidal voice call out again. 

“Escher.” 

The spawn stops to look over his shoulder. Rahadin is sitting upright on the edge of the bed, hands folded in his lap. His brow furrows. Judging by the strained expression, it looks as if he’s trying to force words past his lips that refuse to come. Their eyes meet, and there's a rare look of vulnerability behind them.  

Escher smiles.“You're welcome, Rahadin.” No use mortifying the old elf further.   

“Take care of yourself.” With a final wink, he turns to leave. 

Chapter Text

It’s hot. Thick. Accompanied by the sweet, metallic smell that makes the gums around his canines ache. The thought that it’s his blood inciting such cravings disgusts him. 

He should be dead. A stake in his heart and no coffin to flee to. He shouldn’t have time to ponder these thoughts.  

But the pain—the freedom—of death never comes. Only the mind-numbing anticipation. 

Rahadin’s eyes shoot open. He’s greeted by the pale, wide-eyed expression of Rudolph van Richten, the esteemed monster hunter of Barovia. His mouth hangs open, his pupils drawn to the red tip of steel jutting from his breast.The monster hunter stares at Rahadin before trying to glance behind him, but a sudden bubble of blood bursting from his mouth stops him. There’s the sound of steel being pulled from a body—a sound he knows well—and Rahadin is left staring at the gaping, dripping maw of a sword wound. Jaw trembling, his would-be killer tries to speak, but his words come out a wet gurgle. His pale eyes roll back into his skull before his body slumps forward. Dead. 

The adrenaline of combat has robbed him of his last wit, he thinks, as he stares up at the lumbering ghost before him. Not a ghost, though. Flesh and blood. 

Strahd. 

The tremor returns to Rahadin’s body. As if instinctively drawing upon some infantile urge, he curls in tighter to himself and tries to hide his face in his forearm. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. Not now, and especially not by him. Strahd has certainly seen him in more dire straits; between disease, rotten food, and festering wounds, the life of the soldier is not a glamorous one. But there’s a difference between a brother in arms seeing you at your worst versus the man you killed with your own two hands.  

Why, of all things, is he feeling shame right now? 

Strahd wipes the blood from his blade onto his pants before returning it to its scabbard—an insult that he would dare sheath his sword before him! The former Lord of Ravenloft reaches down to retrieve the stake from Van Richten’s limp grip. With heavy footsteps, Strahd steps over the monster hunter’s corpse and stops a few mere inches from Rahadin’s body. With the toe of his boot, he nudges the dusk elf’s face from his forearm and keeps it planted there.  

Strahd looks just as he did the morning of his wedding to Lady Kolyana, every dark hair perfectly aligned. No longer is his the face of a beast, but that of a man. His injuries appear to have healed, most notably the wound from where the stake had pierced his heart. The cuts and punctures of his regal wedding attire are the only indication he’d even seen conflict. 

Rahadin is the first to break the silence. “You… you died,” he pants. 

Strahd cocks his head. A slight smile tugs at the corners of his pale lips. “Did you mourn me?” 

“I killed you…!” 

“Yes, I was there.” Strahd tsks. He pulls his boot away, allowing the other vampire’s head to loll to the side once more. “'I am the Ancient. I am the Land.' No mere words. As surely as the shrouded sun rises in the east, I shall persist. And when the rivers swallow their banks; when the cold winds descend from the mountains; when the birdsong dies and this valley is as silent as the grave... I shall persist.” 

It’s inconceivable. Rahadin knows that Strahd had claimed the Woods Witches’ rites, seized their old magic, but he had not thought it more than a final act of conquest! A humiliating desecration! He watches through bleary eyes as Strahd steps over his body just as he had Van Richten’s. Escher barely stirs when the ancient vampire kneels beside him and moves his chin with forefinger and thumb to look him over. 

“St-Strahd…” Escher’s voice sounds as weak as he looks, cracking and dry. He goes to grab Strahd’s forearm, but his trembling hand falls back to the ground. 

The count of Barovia clicks his tongue in sympathy. Strahd's voice could pass for a whisper in his throat, but it overpowers the mewling spawn dying at his feet. When a lord speaks, he is heard. “Poor, wretched thing. Honestly, I’m surprised you chose to keep this one around, Rahadin. I enjoy Escher’s company on occasion, but I didn’t think you did.” Strahd flips Escher onto his back and places the tip of the stake at his breast. “Loyalty is a rare thing these days, it would seem.” 

“Master, don’t—” 

With an effortless thrust, he guides the stake past the ribs and into the spawn’s non-beating heart. Escher gives a quiet gasp, his body lurching upward. Strahd’s expression remains cold even as his consort’s body begins to blanche. His skin sizzles and peels, giving way to strips of ash beneath. 

Even in life, Rahadin's heart was hardly a bleeding one., but even his gaze flickers away. Perhaps this is better than letting him suffer, though he wishes his demise hadn’t been by Strahd’s hand. 

It’s not long before Strahd is crouched beside a gray pile of ash, all that remains of the spawn save for a few pieces of gold jewelry scattered throughout the heap. “How I long for the days where I could be privy to your thoughts, Rahadin. I find myself wondering what you’re feeling. Is it guilt? Relief? Are you even capable of such feelings?” He stands and turns his gaze to the elf. His eyes bore into him. “You look terrible. It feels almost anticlimactic for you to be in such a state during our grand reunion.” 

Rahadin swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “I have—” he gags, “—I have no need for your mercy .” 

“Nor shall I offer you any.” One foot in front of the other, Strahd slowly walks toward him with purpose. The vampire straddles his hips, but not before placing the wooden stake beside his head. A reminder. “Mercy is for the suffering, of which you know nothing. But I shall soon acquaint you. You will die, but only after I’ve decided you’ve suffered enough for your crimes. A week from now, maybe. A moon. A decade. Perhaps I’ll grow bored of you in an hour.” 

He hums. Strahd strokes his cheek with the back of his claws. “You remember Leo Dilisnya, yes? The traitor? Do you recall his punishment?” 

Yes. Rahadin does not answer. 

“I turned him. And then I sealed him behind a wall for decades. The stone muffled his voice enough for him to not be a nuisance, but I could still take pleasure in his screams as his hunger consumed him. By the end, his pleas were barely a whisper. Once, I could hear the mumbling of words when I pressed my ear to the stone. Eventually, all I could hear was the sweet sob of stone. A misery as permanent as his tomb. You’ve been confined for moons at a time, I remember, but I’m eager to see how feral you’ll become after a year or two.” 

Strahd’s words hang in the air like a suffocating shroud. He remembers Leo Dilisnya well; not only the man, but the shame he felt each time he laid eyes on his tomb for not being there to protect his lord. The memory of Leo Dilisnya's punishment echoes in his mind, a chilling reminder of the depths of Strahd's cruelty. Such brutality never bothered him, not even when the sound of Dilisnya bashing his head against the stone wall echoed throughout the hall. The punishment was better than the traitor deserved. But the man came out changed in the end, a feralness he never quite recovered from. The dusk elf has done enough changing on behalf of others; he doesn’t want his last shreds of humanity torn from him.  

Yet Rahadin remains steadfast, his defiance burning hot despite the overwhelming odds stacked against him. He refuses to cower in fear as Dilisnya did. He shifts and meets Strahd's gaze with unwavering determination. He will not give Strahd the satisfaction of seeing him broken. Straining against Strahd’s weight, he inches his fingers out toward his discarded scimitar. Before he can feel the reassuring steel in his palm, Strahd says an incantation in Elvish and thrusts his hand outward. A strong gust of wind causes the blade to skid away through a pile of bat guano. 

“Stay down, Rahadin. You’ll only embarrass yourself further.” Strahd plucks a vomit-encrusted lock of hair from Rahadin’s cheek and brushes it to the side. “I remember when I first made your acquaintance all those centuries ago. I was a young man then, greener than spring grass. And there you were: a scrappy, emaciated husk of an elf. Standing beside you, my father looked as if he could snap you in two as easily as a twig. You and my father were walking through the courtyard of my ancestral home. Discussing battle plans, no doubt. I’d heard rumors amongst the soldiers about the dusk elf that had turned against his people and was feeding secrets to my father. Peering out the chapel window, I remember hating you. You did not look much older than I, yet there my father was talking to you as if you were an equal. You, a stranger that just as easily could have taken a knife to his throat, were walking my familial grounds. For the life of me, I could not comprehend what my father saw in you. I’m sure you can imagine my utter distaste, then, following the crushing of the dusk elves, when you were assigned as my tutor. 

“I’d had countless tutors before. Wise, long-bearded men triple your age. Yet Father deemed it important that I be instructed in Elvish by a native speaker. ‘To know their tongue so that the elves may more quickly accept their subjugation,’ he’d reasoned. It’s perfectly sensible in retrospect, but at the time I viewed it as a punishment. You, of lowly blood, teaching a prince. Even my father would have scoffed at the idea were it not his golden elf. The linchpin to the war's completion.” 

Strahd chuckles. “And to top it all off, you were a terrible tutor. You spoke too quickly. Your handwriting in Common was practically illegible at the time. Thank the fates that I’d already had a basic comprehension of Elvish prior to being your pupil. When we next marched, I was grateful to have an excuse to be away from my studies for a time. 

“But they say the battlefield is where boys die and men return. I marched beside you. I mourned beside you. I bled beside you. And watching you tear through enemy after enemy, I came to respect you. While other men died or fled or turned their cloaks, you remained. When the time came, I was honored to name you my general. I soon realized that we were not all that different: we both craved my father’s approval like a hound drooling for table scraps.” 

Rahadin's chest tightens with the weight of Strahd's words. 

The nobleman continues, “If you'd have told me in my sixteenth year of life that one day you'd be named my chamberlain, much less that I would one day share a bed with you, I would have laughed in your face.” Strahd shifts so that his knee presses down hard into Rahadin's sternum. His ribs feel on the cusp of cracking.“If you had told me in my fourth century that I'd be drawing out your death, I, too, would have laughed in your face.” 

Is such a thing beyond you? Rahadin thinks. He’d watched Strahd put loyal men down like dogs before for mild inconveniences. Service was all he had known for four long centuries. Unflinching loyalty. The thought never crossed his mind that he'd lay his neck across the same chopping block as those traitors. Strahd shifts slightly. Rahadin takes the opportunity to, with the last wells of his strength, push himself from beneath Strahd’s knee. Claws scraping against the stone, he throws himself forward onto his belly and tries to bear crawl away. Yet Strahd is faster still; a hand twisting into the back of his doublet catches him off balance. Strahd pulls hard. His boots gain little purchase against the combining pools of blood and sick. The elf snarls and spits, bloody spittle running down his chin like a rabid animal, as he’s pulled close enough for Strahd to grab his hair tight enough for roots to be yanked out.  

“Stay down!” Strahd roars. The nobleman punches Rahadin hard enough in the gut to force the remaining air from his lungs and the edges of his vision to blur. He begins dragging his once-chamberlain toward the catacombs. Rahadin does his best to resist every step of the way, praying to the powers that be that he can become mist, calling upon his ancestral powers to warp away, that his shirt, skin, tears away. Anything to keep him out of that damned stone box! But the adrenaline-fueled fire from before is quickly becoming embers and ashes. It leaves behind only the drugged haze from earlier. The blinding pain in his gut. His stomach feels empty and rotten all at once. 

When his eyes fall upon the placard— Rahadin. Consort —a whimper leaves his cracked lips. The sound mortifies him. Like a scruffed cat, Rahadin goes limp in Strahd’s grip. His body trembles, but he doesn’t want to give Strahd the satisfaction of seeing him frightened. Doesn’t want him to know the dread filling every inch of his veins. There is no pleasure for the sadist when his victim does not cry. Watching them squirm and writhe. No, he won’t give that to him. If only his traitorous nervous system could now cooperate. 

The soles of his boots scrape against the stone floor as he’s dragged into the crypt. The air feels suffocatingly heavy. It permeates his skin, seeps into his very bone marrow. Strahd shares the sentiment, his nose crinkling while he trudges forward. The lid to his coffin has already been pried open. Hands roughly glide along his person. The belts at his waist holding his pouches and empty scabbard are jerked free, leaving him bare save for his clothing. Rahadin counts his blessings that the count at least leaves him with the dignity of clothing. He’s tossed into the far corner. Rahadin’s back slams into the wall. The fibers of his doublet snag on the rough wall when he slides down it. 

Strahd’s eyes glow as red beads in the crypt's darkness. His lip curls. For several drawn-out moments, he stares at his slumped form. Without another word, Strahd turns to leave. 

“You are a craven,” Rahadin mutters past cracked lips.  

No response follows save for the receding echo of footsteps on stone. 

Leaving without a word. It feels worse than an insult, he thinks. Why is that worse? Surely some final barb would suit the occasion. To mark the beginning of the end. But his captor offers nothing but silence as he recedes into the stone wall. 

The world becomes silent save for his labored breathing impossibly loud in his ears. The ozone-like stench of consecration masks the sour smell of vomit clinging to him like a second skin. He tries to stall his breaths, but he cannot will himself to stop the natural process of 400 years. His head pounds. Rahadin inches far away enough from the wall to lay down upon the stone. Staring at the ceiling of his crypt—his home for the next decade or so—he can make out the shuffling of two bats that had found their way in. He grimaces. The creatures are going to die without a means of exiting, he thinks . Yet it’s what he knows he’s going to do to them if he cannot sate his animalistic hunger that disgusts him more. Strahd would not hesitate to be cruel to him, but would he wish his ‘children’ to suffer? The man, since his turning, has had an odd proclivity for the dirty creatures. Could it be a chance for escape, or an oversight? His mind races. No proper plan would manifest from this panic. 

His throat burns each time he swallows. He doesn’t want to move, just wants to slip into the void where he is. Yet he knows he cannot sleep, not properly, outside his coffin. The thought of touching the consecrated thing, much less trying to heave his own body weight into it, causes a wave of dread to roll behind his gut. Rahadin attempts to breathe slowly, evenly, through his nose to quell his rioting insides, but even breathing is not without its pains.  

An hour passes. Then two, three. Rahadin loses track of the passage of time as he lies there. The bats begin to flit about the crypt, smacking into the walls on occasion, before tiring. He hears the scratching of their tiny claws on the floor as they crawl about. Something fuzzy brushes against him. His eyes shoot open. A bat huddles against his side. Rahadin attempts to nudge the creature away, but another wave of nausea stops him. His eyes squeeze shut. The second bat joins the first at his side. 

Another hour—a day, perhaps? There has been no noise outside the crypt. Rahadin has not even heard the footsteps of Strahd returning to his coffin. Hunger claws its way through his insides. Soon, he knows, it shall find the panic in his mind, and the two will birth a madness too strong to resist. He must stand, stretch, change his perspective— anything but simply wish himself into oblivion.  

With an audible groan, Rahadin pushes himself into sitting. The bats chirp angrily. His head swims. A moment of rest before, with a hand on the wall to stabilize himself, he tries to stand. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He shuffles along the perimeter of the crypt until he’s at the door.  

He pushes. It doesn’t budge. Another push. Nothing. Mustering all the strength his undeath affords him, he sucks in a burning breath and drives his elbow into the stone door. The walls shimmer a wave of blue out from the point of contact before he’s pushed away with a force strong enough to send him sprawling. Undeterred, he picks himself up and tries again on a separate piece of wall. He’s sent sprawling. A third, fourth time, each time putting him on his backside. 

Rahadin roars in frustration. In anger. In grief. His head thunks back against the wall. 

He can’t be here. He shouldn’t be here! He’d suffered through trial upon trial and battles that would have bested lesser warriors. He'd killed an ancient vampire! He'd bested Strahd von Zarovich! He’d done what no adventurer, no lich, could before. He’d fought his way out of the pit of his circumstances and made himself into something . And he just gets to… gets to come back to life on a whim?! It’s nonsensical!  

He’s trapped. Trapped in this damned crypt. Trapped in Barovia. Trapped in this terrible cycle. Trapped to live out the rest of his days with Strahd’s shadow looming over him. Once upon a time, he would have seen such circumstances as a gift. But now it makes him want to scream until his throat is in tatters.  

A voice in the back of his mind wonders is this how Strahd felt for the past four centuries? Was he disappointed, infuriated, even, upon being roused from death? 

Strahd. Strahd. Strahd. Why do his thoughts insist on returning to him over and over and over again? He doesn’t care. He shouldn’t care. The vampire is a blight upon society. An ineffective ruler. A leech who has robbed him of any chance at peace. He hates him. Hates him! 

If only it hadn't been sweet—for a time. If only it could have all been so agonizing. How easy it would have been to succumb to despair if he had never tasted the ambrosia of love. 

The scream bubbles up from his lungs and forces itself past his lips; he doesn’t recognize his own voice. Rahadin throws his head back hard enough for him to feel wetness beginning to cling to his tangled hair, yet the pain doesn’t register. 

With a trembling hand, Rahadin reaches into his right boot. He winces upon feeling the rough surface of a wooden stake against his skin. He pulls it free. His fingers curl around it, finding a strange solace in its weight. It’s been sharpened to a fine point—presumably by Van Richten in preparation for raiding Castle Ravenloft. The dusk elf stares at it until his vision blurs with fatigue. It had been meant for Strahd. But… 

It’s a cowardly thing to do, he knows; a principle that has been hammered into his mind since a young age. Only cravens tried to escape their problems rather than face them with a sword in their hand. But in the same vein, it’s not as if his principles haven’t been thrown into imbalance already. Perhaps his only chance at redemption lies not in the mercy of his captor, but in his own hands. Sacrificing one principle to achieve another. 

How easy it would have been. Had he never tasted love. 

This is his story. Strahd shall not write its ending. 

With a sudden surge of strength, he thrusts the stake into his chest, driving it upward just beneath his sternum. A pained gasp, a splutter of dark blood, escapes his lips as the wood pierces his flesh. His lungs seize. But amidst the agony, there is a sense of liberation, a defiance that transcends the confines of his physical form. 

Gods, how he wishes he could lock eyes with Strahd at this moment… In part to see his reaction, but mostly to convey the sentiment you did this. Your hand guides mine.  

Deeper, until the tip of the stake pierces his heart, and deeper still. A whoosh of air is forced from his mouth—a death knell he’s heard from the lips of thousands before. Glancing down, Rahadin watches as the skin of his hands takes on an ashen hue as it begins to crack and peel like wood turning to cinders.  

His blood-streaked lips raise into a small smile. For one of the few times in his long life, Rahadin chooses not to be a pawn in Strahd's twisted game, but a martyr for his own redemption. And as darkness closes in around him, he embraces the peace that comes with the knowledge that he has reclaimed a portion of his humanity, even in the face of eternity's embrace. 

Fifteen years to the day. Fifteen long, tedious, miserable years. He’s kept careful track of the time. While it has felt like a lifetime for Strahd, he takes small solace in the fact that it has likely felt like an eternity to his former chamberlain.  

Starvation is a pain like no other. It pales even when compared to the feeling of having a wound turn necrotic or—and this he can now speak of with first-hand knowledge—a stake forced through one’s heart. The hunger of undeath at its most extreme is akin to having the walls of one’s stomach torn away layer by layer. It’s a craving so powerful it could, and has, driven people to madness, an addict deprived of their substance for far too long. He’s witnessed resilient men be pushed to the deepest depths of depravity to taste a single drop of blood. 

Strahd von Zarovich does not consider himself a tender-hearted man by any means—war saw to that long before he’d become undead—but it’s a fate he would only wish upon those who had committed the most heinous of crimes. Regicide, namely. 

Yet he had taken great pleasure in imagining Rahadin’s suffering. Actions have consequences, and even his former chamberlain-turned-traitor cannot be spared from them. But he knows prying open that door to his crypt and seeing what horrors lie within will bring him even greater joy. The academic side of him is curious, mostly, but his pride seeks to hurt Rahadin just as much as he’d hurt him. 

As the nobleman briskly approaches the catacombs, drifting through the walls of Ravenloft when he can, he considers what his next steps shall be. Sure, he’d had plenty of time to consider such things, but it had not felt real until now. He is to be reunited with the dusk elf traitor for the first time in fifteen years, and even he is without words. Would he kill him there? Subject him to a public execution? Or would he have a change of heart and show mercy? He’ll make the decision once he’s cataloged the extent of Rahadin’s suffering, he supposes. 

Strahd pauses outside the crypt. His eyes ghost over its placard. 

Rahadin. Consort. 

His lip curls upon reading the word consort. He’s inclined to scratch it out and replace it with betrayer. Time has done little to heal that wound, he’s realizing. All things in time, however. And the Dark Powers know he has plenty of it. 

With a muttered incantation and a traced sigil in the air, the repulsive ward surrounding the crypt is dispelled. Strahd pauses, listening. He hears no shuffling coming from inside. No screaming. No curse words being directed toward him. It’s a tad disappointing. The count of Barovia pushes the door to the crypt aside with a great heave, sending chunks of stonework crumbling to the ground. 

An icy hand grips his ill-beating heart.  

Inside the crypt, he does not find the ghoulish husk of a dusk elf. There is only a coffin, its lid still pried open, and a blood-spattered heap of ash. A wooden stake lies half-submerged in the pile. 

A tremor overcomes him. Strahd seethes shaky breaths through gritted, pointed teeth before throwing his head back.  

The pillarstone of Ravenloft trembles beneath his furious roar. 

Chapter Text

A chill wind blows through the cracks of the barn, causing the bridles to swing from their hooks. It brings with it the sweet smell of hay from the nearby loft, though it does a poor job of masking the overpowering stench of horses. Thankfully, Rhaelar had gotten used to the smell a long time ago; you had to if you were going to work in a stable. Horses shit where and when they please—such was one of the few truths the stable boy knew. 

A cloud of black flies buzzes before his face, and Rhaelar does his best to shoo them away. The insects instead make their way to the chestnut mare, Zephyr, who gives an angry huff of hot breath and swats at them with her tail. Pesky things, He’ll be grateful for the winter when most of the insects die off. With a huff of his own, Rhaelar gets back to work brushing Zephyr’s sleek coat.  

Several of the horses squeal and rear up in their stalls. Rhaelar hurriedly grabs Zephyr’s headstall. He attempts to soothe the wide-eyed animal—to no avail. To avoid taking a hoof to the head, he retreats from the stall and closes the gate behind him. Wolves, he thinks with certainty. It must be an errant scent that's disturbed the beasts. Then again, it would do less to explain why the stable proprietor, Andrej, is suddenly making conversation at the front. 

“Welcome, friend! What can I do for you?” 

A customer, then. With a hound about him, perhaps. He can’t hear their response over the ruckus. Given the late hour, it’s probably someone seeking to stable their animal for the night. Better he get ahead of things. He makes his way to the nearest empty stall to begin forking in fresh bedding. 

“That’s a… that’s an interesting steed you have there, sir. Are you wanting to stable him for the night?” 

Rhaelar rolls his eyes. If the old man is calling something interesting, then it’s probably something strange. He recalls with distaste the time someone had brought in a hooved, wooly creature about three times the height of a sheep. (He later learned it was called an alpaca.) The horses were in a literal pissing contest the whole night while the alpaca persistently spat at beast and men alike. Needless to say, he’d been left with quite a mess to clean up the morning after. On multiple occasions since then, he’s asked Andrej to adapt a horses-only policy for the stable, only to have it shot down each time. ‘Bad for business,’ he’d said—with all the ignorance of a man whose only expertise was collecting the coin off others' hard work. As far as the old oaf was concerned, anything with hooves was the same animal, like as not. 

He doesn’t get paid enough for all the shit he puts up with. The room and board is nice, but sometimes he wonders if plucking maggots from horse wounds is worth it. 

“What, you mean the boy?” 

That catches Rhaelar’s attention. Are they talking about him? Andrej stopped being a boy half a century ago, and no one else around fits the description. Leaning the pitchfork against the wall—he’ll finish throwing in the bedding later, he swears—Rhaelar goes to busy himself near the opening of the barn. And if he just so happens to eavesdrop in the process, well, so be it.  

All at once, chaos breaks loose; the four horses rear up onto their hind legs and scream. One of the white colts slams down onto its hooves and kicks the walls of his stall hard enough to send splinters flying every which way. Panic settles in Rhaelar’s gut: what’s gotten into them? The last time the horses threw a fit this bad was when a wolf pack had actually snuck into the barn and tried to eat one of the fillies. Frantic, his eyes scan the surroundings. No predators, and nothing seems out of the ordinary. He redirects his attention to Zephyr and grabs her headstall. The mare snorts, her hot breath misting in the cold air, and bucks wildly in his grip. Rhaelar attempts to soothe her, pulling her head down when he can. After a moment that feels like an eternity, Zephyr calms down enough for Rhaelar to stroke her mane. 

“There’s a good girl,” he mutters. “What’s gotten into you?” A part of him wonders if he wants to know the answer himself. 

Zephyr responds with a stomp of her hoof. Even in the dwindling light, he can make out the whites of her eyes. Once the chaos dies down enough for him to hear again, Rhaelar turns his attention toward the barn door. His ears strain to thresh the men's voices from the creaking eams, moaning winds, and rustling leaves. 

“The dusk elves are to be contained to the encampment.” 

“I don’t know what a ‘dusk elf’ is, but he ain't one of those. Half-elf, maybe, but—” 

“Yes. Half human, half dusk elf.” 

Idly, Rhaelar tugs at the pointed tip of his left ear. Now he definitely knows they’re talking about him. Curiosity getting the better of him, he gives Zephyr one last pat before creeping forward. Hands pressed against the barn wall, the half-elf peers outside. About 20 feet ahead, he sees Andrej talking to the palest man he’s ever seen. And perhaps the tallest, especially when standing beside Andrej’s slouched posture. The mystery man is dressed in a fine black vest atop a silk dress shirt. A dark cloak is clasped over his shoulders with a ruby brooch. Such regal attire is hardly befitting a visit to a stable, he thinks, or—as his eyes fall upon the black stallion at his side—horseback riding. 

Rhaelar squints. Is that horse on fire? 

Before he can make sense of what he’s seeing, the mystery man jerks his head in his direction. They lock eyes, and a chill grips Rhaelar’s body. He should duck away, he knows, pretend as if he hadn’t been eavesdropping, but his limbs feel frozen in place. His gaze is inescapable. The way the rising moonlight catches the man’s eyes gives the illusion of irises red as blood. The man smiles, a thin-lipped yet charming grin that causes Rhaelar to shudder. 

“Eh?” From the corner of his eye, the half-elf sees Andrej turn to follow the mystery man’s line of sight. He frowns when he sees Rhaelar. “Oh. Boy, get over here.” 

Warmth floods back into his body. Rhaelar sucks in a shuddering breath. He feels lightheaded. Using the barn wall to stabilize himself, he grudgingly creeps forward until he’s standing beside the stable owner. The tall man’s gaze never leaves him, and he does his best to ignore him by staring at his mucked-up boots.  

“This here,” Andrej slaps him on the shoulder, causing him to jump, “is Rhaelar. He’s a proper lad. Like my own son, he is. Hardest working stable hand in the valley, I reckon.” 

His voice comes out barely louder than a whisper. “Hello.” 

The mystery man hums. “Well met, Rhaelar the stable hand.” His gaze burns into him like hot coals.  

“Rhaelar, this here is—” 

The stranger interrupts, “Do you know who I am?” 

For the first time since catching his gaze, Rhaelar dares to glance at him, being mindful not to meet his eyes. The man has the long, dark hair typical of Barovians and the gaunt face of someone who hasn’t eaten in days. Strong features. Judging by the regalness of his attire, he can only assume he’s some sort of noble. “...You're the man on the coins.” 

Andrej’s face turns red as a beet. “You show him some respect, you sorry sod! That is Count Strahd von Zarovich!” 

The Strahd fellow gives a quiet chuckle. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Rhaelar blinks. “Who?” 

Just as quickly as his face had flushed, all of the color leaves Andrej’s face. The whole thing would almost be funny if he didn’t know he was going to get backhanded later for his ignorance. “A lord, boy.” There’s a tremor to his voice that has the stable hand furrowing his brow. “Forgotten how to bow, have you?” 

Rhaelar looks between the old man and the stranger. Strahd stares at him, though it's hard to read the emotion behind his eyes. With all the clumsiness of a man who has bowed perhaps twice in his life, Rhaelar ducks low at the waist.  

“Please forgive the lad’s, ah, ignorance, m’lord. He doesn’t get out much. Never had much of a proper education outside of what it takes to rear horses.” 

“I’d expect basic instruction on this valley’s leadership to be taught to even the most lowborn of Barovians.” 

Andrej is the next to bow. “A thousand pardons, m’lord.” 

Rhaelar chews on the inside of his cheek. Nothing here makes sense. Why is a noble visiting their shitty ranch in the middle of nowhere in person? Vallaki is a mile to the east. Do nobles really entrust the stabling of their horses to nobody ranchers? Don’t they have servants to see to all their needs or something?  

“In any case,” Strahd places a hand on the pouch at his belt, “How much for your apprentice?” 

“What?” Andrej sputters. He jerks up straight as a board. “To buy?” 

“Indeed.” 

The old man's mouth hangs open. “...What for?” 

Strahd sets his jaw. ”My reasons are none of your concern. If you must know, however, I am planning on making him my understudy.” 

“Your what?” His eyes look like they're about to bulge out of his skull. “You do not want this one, m’lord. He’s just a boy—” 

“He is 18 years as of a moon ago.” 

“—who cannot even read or write proper. He’s not good for war. He’s got no education. The only thing he’s good for is shoveling horse shit—forgivin' my language, m'lord.” 

Rhaelar flinches at his words. He’s good for lots of things! Sure, maybe he can’t read well, but he can put a shoe on a horse with enough trial and error. He can cook an egg six different ways. He’s decent at tending the garden. The horses like him. 

“He's not for sale, 'm afraid. I never had a blood son of my own, and I'll need someone to care for the horses when I'm old.” 

“I shall compensate you fairly for the impact on your business. You'll be able to hire at least ten new stable hands with the proceeds.” 

Andrej pauses for an uncomfortable amount of time, stroking his stubbled chin all the while. “...No. Forgive me, m’lord, but the boy isn't for sale.” 

Rhaelar gives a sigh of relief. Thank the Morninglord. Life amongst the horses is life, at the very least. Noblemen play a bloody sort of game, and folks like him are the pieces they play with. It's no castle, but the stable is his home. He's not keen to abandon it to be some nobleman's cupbearer, bed warmer, or whatever else this "lord" wants of him. 

Strahd sets his jaw. His voice deepens, taking on an alluring baritone. “I pray you reconsider, friend.” 

The stable master’s head lolls forward, his eyes becoming glazed, before he jerks upright as if having been suddenly woken. He shakes his head. Andrej turns and closes the space between them. With Rhaelar being a head taller, he has to lift his chin to meet his gaze. “Rhaelar,” he begins, his voice soft, “you’re a man now. This ain’t my life bein’ offered up. What do you think?” 

His mouth opens and closes. Rhaelar’s eyes dart between Strahd, whose expression suggests the choice is a simple one , and Andrej. He's quickly come to miss the minutes past, when alpacas were his biggest concern. The day had started off normal enough with him going through the same motions he has for the past decade. But then this strange pale man shows up and turns his life on its head. On one hand, he’d really like to see the old man take it easy for the rest of his years: his joints had started acting up real bad about three years ago, and Rhaelar has noticed from his grimacing just how much ranch life had been hurting him. But on the other hand, like Andrej had said, it is his life—one that he still has a good 80 years left of. Does he really want to spend them being a cupbearer?  

An intrusive thought creeps into his mind: how did he know you’d recently turned 18? 

No. He’d rather spend them with the horses, even if it means he has to clean shit from horseshoes for the rest of his years. They’re basically his family. What would happen to them if he left? He can’t trust a new hand to treat them right.  

Rhaelar inhales deeply to steady his nerves. “No.” 

Andrej’s bushy eyebrows meet his hairline. “You’re certain, son? This man could give you a nicer lifestyle than I can afford. There's a lot of honor in serving—” 

“I don't care about honor!” he blurts. ”I want to stay here!” 

He hears Strahd sigh through his nose. “Regrettably, that is neither of the two options I shall lay before you now. Option one is that you return to Castle Ravenloft and serve me. You'll have a position of honor, fine clothing, and warm lodgings. Option two is that you're dragged to the dusk elf encampment on the west edge of Vallaki to be with your kin. The Vistani will be your wardens, to ensure that the treachery in your blood is not allowed to idly bloom.” He spreads his hands outward. “The choice is yours.” 

The half-elf’s stomach sinks. He looks to Andrej, who's staring off into the distance with the same clouded look in his eyes. Why does he suddenly seem so okay with this ultimatum when he'd said no but moments earlier? “Aren't you going to say something, Andrej?” he squeaks, his voice breaking. 

“Lord Strahd is a just man. A fair man.” 

He can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. They’d never met this man before. Judging by the cold aura radiating off him, the look of what he could only describe as maliciousness behind his jet-black eyes… He does not seem like a ‘just man’ in any sense of the word. Andrej had always taught him to listen to his gut, and his gut is telling him to stay far away from this stranger.  

Manners be damned, Rhaelar sprints away, easily hopping over the fence that surrounds the ranch and into the surrounding forest. He pretends not to hear the old rancher calling out for him, just keeps running until his legs feel like they’re going to give. The dim, silvery wash of daylight has vanished behind the horizon by the time Rhaelar throws himself against a tree and sinks to the ground, lungs heaving. He closes his eyes and lets the breeze cool the sweat from his brow.  

Once his heart feels like it’s no longer going to pound out of his chest, he sits up and tries to get his bearings. He’d been running for maybe half an hour. Probably not the wisest decision, in retrospect, but he’d felt like he was going to punch someone—nobleman or not—in the nose if he had to stay in that awkward, terrible situation any longer. Even with his darkvision, he can’t make out any paths. Just the endless stretch of evergreens all around him. 

Shit. No, this definitely had not been a wise decision. Ever since Rhaelar was young, Andrej had reinforced two rules that superseded all others: always double-check to make sure you locked the stalls, and never, ever, venture outside the ranch at night. Wolves and monsters and whatnot. Once, he had spun a yarn about how night creatures would abduct straying Barovians and use their bones to flavor their soup, but he’d never repeated the tale after a young Rhaelar couldn’t sleep for half a moon afterward… Some good that did him now. 

While he no longer puts much thought into the night creature thing, he very much believes in the threat of wolves. On more than one occasion he’s had to clean up the horse viscera they’d left in their wake. He’d rather Andrej not have to pick up his bones from the path.  

But what if there are night creatures about? 

No. He’s 18 now, no longer a child afraid of the night; he can find his way back without trouble. First, he needs to find north. With a renewed sense of determination, Rhaelar lets down his long, black hair to shield his ears from the cold and starts searching for the moon through the tree cover. 

A low growl from the brush quickly has him reconsidering his previous confidence. Rhaelar presses his back flat to the tree, eyes darting about wildly. A large gray wolf stalks out from the cover of a bush, its upper lip pulled back in a snarl. Its bushy tail is held stiffly horizontal. Behind it, the half-elf can make out three more pairs of glowing yellow eyes ready to ambush. 

Rhaelar swallows thickly. Never breaking line of sight, his right hand inches along the ground. His fingers brush against the rough bark of a branch, and he grips it like his life depends on it— which it might, he thinks. With a sudden rush of heroism, he leaps onto his feet and swings the branch out like a sword. 

“Back! Get away from me!” he shouts. The wolves take a step back but otherwise don’t appear deterred by his wild swinging. Instead, another growl rumbles in the throat of the leading wolf. It crouches down as if to charge. 

The thought crosses his mind: I’m going to die. I’m going to get eaten by wolves in the middle of nowhere, and no one will find my body. His hands tremble. Silent, he mouths a prayer to the Morninglord while widening his stance in preparation for an attack. 

Before the creatures can lunge at him, there’s the unmistakable sound of hooves tearing into the soft earth. A man atop a flaming stallion rides into the midst of the wolves. The horse rears with an otherworldly whinny, great plumes of smoke billowing from its nostrils, and the pack scatters. The very earth seems to heave when it slams its massive hooves back down. Caught off guard, Rhaelar yelps and falls onto his backside, narrowly avoiding a stone that might have smashed his skull then and there. 

Rhaelar swallows and clenches his shirt above his heart, chest heaving. 

A deep voice cuts through the haze of adrenaline. “Are you wounded?” 

It takes him a moment to recompose himself. To realize that the man on the horse is speaking to him. The voice is recognizable—the count from the ranch. “I’m, uh,” he pants, “yes, I’m okay. I’m alive. I think.” 

Strahd chuckles. “Very much so. If I were a moment late, however, you may not have been. It’s ill-advised to stare down a wolf. They interpret such gestures as a challenge, and it increases the odds of them attacking. Though your theatrics with that mummer's sword were most amusing. ” With a flourish of his dark cloak, the stranger steps down from his stallion and approaches. He reaches a hand down as if to help him up. 

Rhaelar stares at the offered hand for longer than is proper. It’s because of this man that he ran into the forest in the first place… Though Andrej had raised him to be a decent person. Grudgingly, he takes the offered hand with a nod of his head. His pale skin feels like ice.  

The half-elf brushes the dirt and pine needles from his pants. “Thank you, uh, m’lord,” that’s how Andrej had referred to him, “for steppin’ in when you did. I was almost wolf food.” 

“Yes, you were.” 

He dares ask the question eating at him. “How did you find me?” 

“Your shouting carried through the forest.” Strahd crosses his arms. “The proprietor of the ranch stated that you’d received no formal education, but surely this doesn't preclude you of the cautionary tales about wandering my woods at night?” 

Rhaelar bites his tongue. He doesn’t like the insinuation that either he doesn’t have any common sense or that Andrej hadn’t taught him anything. “Yes. He told me those tales. He also told me to not trust strangers that show up at your door after evening.” He mirrors the man and crosses his arm. “Noble or not, it’s just rude.” 

“Firstly, I arrived when there was still daylight. Secondly, my station affords me privileges not afforded to the common man. Thirdly, I am no stranger.” He tilts his head. “I find you to be surprisingly impetuous.” 

He doesn’t even want to know what that word means. Impetuous. “How about this, then? You, some noble I’ve not even heard of much less seen, shows up at my door and threatens to either steal me away or squirrel me off to some—what did you call it?—some camp? All because one of my parents was an elf and fucked a human? Well, I’ve been raised by Andrej, a human, my whole life, and I don’t know anything about some… some dusk elves or whatnot. Forgive me if either option doesn’t sound appealing!” 

“Most would be honored to have a spot at a count’s side.” 

“I’m not most people.” 

"And I find myself needing to remind myself of that fact." Strahd’s gaze pierces him, a look of cold fire with something simmering beneath the flames. Something unidentifiable that deeply unsettles him. Their eyes remain locked for an uncomfortably long time, each trying to read the other without much success. Strahd blinks, and for the briefest moment, Rhaelar swears he sees something akin to tenderness. It's quickly replaced by the stone-faced expression he's grown accustomed to in the short time they've known each other. 

The man inhales through his nose and gestures to the steed as black as pitch behind him. “You enjoy horses. Would you like to pet him?” he asks softly. 

The topic change catches him off guard. “Pet?” His eyes widen. “He’s on fire!” 

“...I’m aware. Only his mane and tail are hot to the touch, however. The rest of his pelt is perfectly safe.” Proving his point, Strahd reaches out to stroke the side of the stallion’s sleek neck. The horse turns his head to nose at Strahd’s arm. It's clear to Rhaelar that the count and this strange horse share a deep trust in each other. 

“His name is Beucephalus.” 

Consider his curiosity piqued. “And what, ah, what is Beucephalus? If that’s not rude to ask?” 

“Beucephalus is what is colloquially referred to as a nightmare.” 

“Is he a horse?” Rhaelar considers how dumb the question is the moment it leaves his mouth. Of course it's not a horse—it's on fire! 

Strahd hums. “Surprisingly enough, he is more related to a pegasus than your run-of-the-mill horse.” He pauses, lifting an eyebrow. “...A winged steed from the plane of Celestia.”   

Rhaelar doesn't ask where ‘Celestia’ is.  

The count gestures toward his mount with his chin. “Come. Keep your hands away from his mane and he shall not harm you.” 

Rhaelar swallows thickly. Despite his better judgment, he approaches. The nightmare towers over him, taller than Strahd and even the sturdiest of draft horses. One kick from this creature would surely kill him. Radiating heat like a camp stove, Beucephalus’s warmth is palpable from a foot away. Rhaelar steps beside Strahd and places his hand where directed. Strahd gives an affirming nod, and Rhaelar strokes the creature’s side. His coat is surprisingly sleek, and the skin beneath radiates heat like stones by a hearth, yet, as Strahd had said, it doesn't burn him. Rhaelar finds himself huffing in disbelief, the corners of his mouth turning upward. Beucephalus snorts. There’s a thrill to it, like the heartbeats before breaking a stallion. A creature with a flaming mane and glowing eyes, and he’s petting it just like he might Zephyr! He wonders what it would be like to ride him, with a trail of smoke billowing behind them and embers at his hooves illuminating the path ahead. 

“How fast is he?” Rhaelar blurts out. 

“Fast, and faster still.” 

”Does your castle have its own farrier? How does he take a shoe?” 

"Some time ago, Castle Ravenloft had its own farrier, yes, but not anymore. Beucephalus’s hooves, due to his high body heat, are not suitable for shoes. However, I have never had an issue with his hooves wearing down. I would reason that his hooves are more durable than iron." There’s a certain pride in Strahd’s voice as he speaks. 

Rhaelar continues to stroke the nightmare’s flank. “There used to be a farrier in Krezk that Andrej would hire for our horses, but I haven’t seen him in a while. I’ve been trying to learn the art of farriery myself, but it’s challenging. Probably one of the scarier jobs in raising horses, I reckon. It takes a lot of courage to stand beside a horse and mess with their feet. Andrej once told me a story about how he saw a horse kick in a man’s skull—blood and brains everywhere.” He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “Nothing like an ill-trained horse to humble a man.” 

He feels the man's eyes boring into him once more. Glancing over, he sees Strahd looking at him with that same thousand-yard stare from before. Begrudgingly, Rhaelar pulls his hand away from Beucephalus to narrow his eyes at the man. “What?” 

Strahd says softly, barely audible over the breeze rustling through the pines, “Apologies, I was lost in thought. It's rare for Beucephalus to let those that aren't his master approach, much less caress him.” 

Rhaelar takes a healthy step back, erecting his walls once more. “And you encouraged me to pet him?!” 

“Yes.” Strahd trails a hand up along the steed’s nose. Beucephalus’ glowing eyes close, a plume of smoke rising from his nostrils. “It was a test. They say that horses, especially pegasi, are excellent judges of character, after all.” 

This is strange, Rhaelar thinks to himself. The whole situation had already been strange, but this man had to come in and somehow make it stranger still. “Don’t bother ‘judging my character’ or whatever. I already told you ’m not interested.” 

The nobleman's jaw tightens once more. “So you’ve said.” Strahd brushes his hands off and adjusts the belt at his waist. “You’ve wondered, ‘Why me?’ Is that correct, Rhaelar? Why has the count of Barovia, a man I’ve never seen before, shown up to my ranch with the intent of making me his understudy?”  

Rhaelar shifts from foot to foot. He doesn’t remember voicing that, but he’s not wrong. The half-elf shrugs. 

“In truth, I have known of you for some time, though I was waiting for you to become a man before I made myself known. I would argue I know you better than you know yourself. Your ancestor, a dusk elf, served me for most of his life.” 

The air feels as if it has been pulled from his lungs. “My father?” 

Strahd smirks. “Something of the sort. All things considered, he was a good man. Loyal to a fault. He served me in many capacities, including general and chamberlain.” 

Rhaelar’s eyes widen. “My father was a Barovian general? In the military?” He doesn’t know what a chamberlain is, but he doesn’t want to seem dumb in front of a noble. 

“Indeed. For over four generations, he served the Von Zarovich household. As a sword. As a mentor. As a…” his eyelids twitch, ”dear companion.” 

The world around him seems to go quiet, the only sound the thrumming of blood in his ears. If what this man is saying is true, does that make him a noble as well? Blood and inheritance and all that? 

“I see much of him in you.” Strahd rolls his wrist in his direction. “The raven-colored hair. The same steadfastness. Stubborn to a fault. But it’s your eyes that stripped me of all doubt.”  

He steps forward. Rhaelar wonders how the ground doesn't shake beneath his footsteps. Even the fucking grass feels like it's kneeling before him. “Green, like swathes of fir obscured by the encroaching dusk. There is a haunted look behind them, one that seeks to put your stamp on humanity. Yours is the look of one who refuses to bend to the whims of the weak.” Strahd reaches out to cup his chin between forefinger and thumb. His limbs feel heavy, and he finds himself cemented in Strahd's gaze even as he lifts his chin. “My Rahadin. Returned to my domain in the body of a wretched, mortal half-elf.” 

The way he says the name Rahadin causes his breath to catch. Strahd’s eyes are like bottomless oceans of void drawing him in. In this light, he realizes he hadn’t been mistaken. The man’s eyes really are red. Not red like the auburn hair of a farmer's daughter. Not red like a chestnut mare's coat. Red—like blood. Rhaelar wets his lips. He struggles to enunciate the words, “Andrej said my parents didn’t want me.” 

”Perhaps not, Rhaelar. But I do. Your ancestor would have wished to see you fulfilling your purpose by serving a greater purpose. I am merely carrying out his wishes by being here today.” 

”Ancestor.” The word feels odd on his tongue. He hadn’t thought much about his family since he was little. Andrej never spoke much about the day he’d taken him on as his ward. His parents really must not have wanted him if they were willing to dump him at a ranch to be raised by a human, he reckons. He doesn’t think of them often, much less higher up the family tree. He’s Rhaelar. He’s a half-elf stable hand earning his keep. Andrej is enough of a father figure for him. Though to think that he had royal family on his elven side… Life is funny like that sometimes.  

The half-elf is pulled from his thoughts by the grip on his chin lessening and Strahd taking a few steps back. The moon at his back gives him an ethereal glow. “I entreat you: carry forth your ancestor’s legacy. Serve me, rise above your humble beginnings once more, and in time you will seize the glory from your past and make it your own.” 

He holds out a hand, palm facing upward. 

Rhaelar’s ears dip. He glances from the offered hand to the menacing steed casting an orange glow on the surrounding trees, then over his shoulder, wondering if Andrej is waiting for him by their front door with the lantern lit. The gratitude he holds for Andrej feels so far away right now, lost beneath the tide of promise, of opportunity, of this 'Rahadin.' 

His deep voice rumbles, “Remember that this is what Andrej wanted. To see you flourish. Even he knows that you serve a greater purpose.” 

He swallows the lump forming in his throat. The offered hand. The menacing steed. Over his shoulder. The red eyes of the man seeking to steal him away from all of this.  

His bottom lip trembling, Rhaelar takes the cold hand of Death.