Chapter Text
Narrator:
"You brought me out here for a corpse? There are corpses all over Darkon, Ghita!" Milos spat, scowling down at the body slumped in the dirt. The muddy toe of his boot nudged the haggard skull. It had been severed from the neck of the emaciated thing, and lay a couple paces away. He'd almost missed it in the brush.
"This one's different," Ghita insisted, kneeling down to slap his brother's foot away. Pulling the sash from his waist, he draped the fabric over his hands and scooped up the disembodied head. "I swear on our mother's life it was Lord Azalin walking around in it."
Milos grimaced. "Leave Mama out of this. It'll be your head in a sack if you're wrong. Where did he go, if this was his body?"
Ghita tied the sash over his shoulder like a makeshift satchel. A wisp of grimy yellow hair spilled out of it. He tucked it back inside and shrugged. "Does it matter? He's not here. Now help me with the rest before the Kargat come back."
"The Kargat? Gaina murata, what next?"
With an exasperated sigh, Milos pulled his billowing sleeves over his own hands and slid them underneath the corpse's bony shoulders. Ghita wrestled with its long legs. Together, they picked the ruined figure up off the ground and hefted it into the back of the round-topped wagon waiting for them on the road. Ghita sacrificed a blanket, laying it out on the floor so they could wrap the body up inside it.
"Now it shouldn't fall apart, at least," Ghita said. He placed the bundled head down next to it.
"And we don't have to look at it." Milos mussed his brother's hair on his way back out, and clambored onto the bench at the wagon's front to take the reins. "You better be right about this," he muttered under his breath, and spurred the horses into motion, driving them out of Darkon altogether, through the mists... into Barovia.
The sun had only just gone down beyond the curtain wall when Milos and Ghita's great-uncle's friend's wife's cousin's granddaughter's husband finally approached Castle Ravenloft to deliver a letter directly, with haste, to Lord Strahd von Zarovich.
Lord Strahd,
My brother and I have secured the body of an agent of Lord Azalin of Darkon. The man was seen once, speaking with the former baron of Il Aluk, said to be one of Azalin's favored subjects. My brother believes Lord Azalin's spirit might even have possessed this man for a time. If it is true, we hope there is something of use to you in the remains.
We are camped temporarily near Krezk, at Darkon's border. We await your word or your appearance, whichever suits you. Else we will burn the corpse and bother you with it no further.
Respectfully at your service,
Milos Machvaya
Strahd:
Strahd von Zarovich is a busy man. Or, at least, he endeavors to be. Keeping busy is infinitely more challenging when one has to do it for an eternity.
It gets worse, when Tatyana is not around. For all the heartbreak her reincarnations bring, for all that Strahd sometimes wishes he’d never met the woman, at least it’s a change from the dreadful monotony of Barovia. Lately, he hasn’t even had any visitors from beyond the Mists, any would-be adventurers with their heads full of heroic ideas and hubris, come to take him down.
What Strahd von Zarovich is, frankly, is bored. There are too many hours in the night and not enough to fill them, not enough to distract him from just how long forever is. He thinks to call upon one, or possibly more, of his brides to keep him company, but decides against it. He’s just not in the mood for them. He’s not in the mood for anything.
It is in this state that the letter finds him, delivered by Milos and Ghita’s great-uncle’s wife’s cousin’s granddaughter’s husband, a relationship which Strahd forgets the very moment he hears it out of the man’s lips. A few silver pieces later, the Vistana is gone, and Strahd opens the letter to read it.
A corpse? One that Azalin possessed, no less. For a moment, absurdly, he weighs in his mind which is worse: boredom, or the lich? That thought is quickly banished, and Strahd instead reaches for a drawer in his desk where he keeps the crystal ball that Madame Ilka gave him so long ago. Looking through it is a feat he could perform with his eyes closed, if it did not require sight. Without delay, the crystal ball reveals the Vistani camp near Krezk, with the mysterious corpse loaded on the back of one of the vardos. It’s wrapped in some sort of blanket, unfortunately, which does mean that Strahd will either have to send for the Vistani to deliver it to him, or go out and inspect it himself.
To ignore this is out of the question. Though the conflict between them has lain dormant for centuries, any plot Azalin hatches could be dangerous for Strahd. To wait for the Vistani to cross all of Barovia to him would take too long and leave him with more empty hours to fill.
So it is that Strahd assumes the form of a bat, flying out into the night westward. It’s a clear night, by Barovian standards, and flight allows Strahd to reach the Vistani camp with plenty of time to spare before the dawn.
He descends towards the last embers of the fire that faintly illuminates the ring of wagons outside of Krezk, along with the few Vistani that remain awake at this hour, either to drink or to keep watch. Reverting to his humanoid form, Strahd lands some distance outside of the ring, his momentum in flight seamlessly translating to his stride, pausing just short of the wagons, where Strahd wordlessly gives a small gesture of greeting to the lone Vistana by the fire.
Narrator:
Unlike the familiar Tser Pool camp near the castle, this band of Vistani is rather small, their horses and vardos laden with merchandise and trade goods. There is no great Seer in their midst. Even if there were, though, it is not the bleary-eyed young man seated by the fire. He startles at Strahd's approach.
"Lord Strahd!" he assumes, scrambling to his feet to return the dark stranger's subtle greeting. His trepidation is laced with the thrill of youth moreso than true fear of danger. He has never seen the vampire in person, but there isn't a Vistana alive who hasn't heard the stories.
"You truly are as swift as they say. You've come for the body, then! It is in a poor state," he babbles. By the boy's exuberant tone, he must be the younger of the brothers, the one called Ghita.
"I saw the man once, only a glimpse, but for a pale-faced giorgio he had a good look about him. An unlikely disguise for Lord Azalin, if you ask me—and taller than I'd expect—but I thought to myself: Ghita, this is a clever man, to use the unlikely disguise. Not as clever as you, of course, m'lord," he amends graciously.
Ghita leads Strahd right to the vardo which holds the corpse in question. The eyes of the few other Vistani milling about the camp at this late hour follow with wary consternation, but they do not interfere.
"Here it is!" Ghita opens the door and makes a rather extravagant gesture to invite Strahd to enter ahead of him. The bundled corpse, clearly headless within its makeshift shroud, lies on the floor. What is presumably the corpse's missing head lies beside it, wrapped in a much more colorful bit of fabric. It is just the same as it was when he scried on it earlier.
Strahd:
Strahd says little to the youth, except to acknowledge and confirm the assumption of his identity, and simply lets him ramble about his findings.
His explanation of the corpse as a disguise strikes Strahd as incomplete. Azalin, as Strahd himself well knows, is perfectly capable of disguising himself through magical means, and even warping the thoughts of those around him so as to not question the disguise or what lies beneath. No, there must be more to this than simple disguise. Perhaps Azalin thought to use another body to circumvent the restrictions the Mists place upon him, as Strahd once did himself, and enter other domains. Would that have any effect, if it was a full possession of a corpse, bearing all of Azalin’s essence? Strahd severely doubts it. What, then, was the use of this body?
With a wry smile at the man, Ghita’s, flattery, Strahd approaches the vardo and takes in the scene once more.
“And you found this corpse where exactly?” He glances back at Ghita momentarily, and motions him closer with a flick of his fingers. The Vistana has been handling the corpse, evidently, without issue, but that’s not to say it’s not a trap. A practitioner of Azalin’s skill would have no trouble embedding a trap to be sprung only should Strahd himself make contact with the body.
“Uncover the head.” Strahd instructs.
Narrator:
Ghita complies. The Vistana's movements are almost theatrical, as he picks up the decorative ball of cloth and begins to reveal the comparatively gruesome thing at its core. "It was near the road to Falkovnia," he explains. "I think the Kargat left it behind."
A stringy lock of wavy blond hair is the first thing to fall out of the colorful sash. The head in Ghita's arms is barely more than a skeleton. A crust of mummified skin still lingers in a thin veil over the skull. Its eyes are gone, along with most of its nose. A sharp shard of cartilage high up on the bridge still remains, jutting out from the brow. It's this small space on the faintly elongated structure of the face which strikes Strahd as uncannily familiar. It has been centuries since he's seen it, but the hard angles of bone around the sockets where the eyes should be... Those eyes should be just as sharp. A flash of pale grey, a hint of mischief. Thin lips stretched over those grinning teeth...
Strahd:
”The Kargat,” Strahd muses. “And how long since—"
The remainder of his questions flees his mind the moment recognition sets in. What floods in to replace it is sheer disbelief. What manner of trick is this? What is that wretch Azalin playing at, invoking this likeness? How does he even know, and what could he possibly hope to bait Strahd into by doing this?
His mouth snaps closed into a frown and his fingers move in the practiced motions of a detection spell. There’s every likelihood that if Azalin has laid some spellwork on this corpse, it will be far too well-hidden to spot like this, but it doesn’t hurt to try.
“How long since Azalin abandoned the body?” Strahd completes the question, his tone more demanding. “And for how long was he using it?”
Narrator:
"The body is recent," Ghita reports. "It has been only two days since we sent word to you. My brother Milos and I, we picked it up quick, before the Kargat could return."
There is a very faint trace of... something. Something old. It's difficult to tell, but it does not seem like Azalin's doing. It's beyond him, surely. A stale sliver of ice-cold dread. Like a whisper in the dark.
"I don't know how long he used it," the Vistana admits. "I only saw the man a few days before I found the body. It did not look like this then, but..." He shrugs. "I do not understand the lich's cursed magic as you do. No one has seen Lord Azalin personally in many years."
Strahd:
”I am aware the lich has been elusive,” Strahd replies, absently. His agents tend to keep him apprised of Azalin’s movements, at least roughly, though things have been quiet lately. Too quiet? Possibly.
But the hint of magic on the body does not strike him as Azalin’s. This is… something more powerful. Something Strahd hesitates to put a name to, even in the relative safety of his own thoughts. He’s fairly certain, at least, that for all his prowess Azalin would balk at this himself.
No illusions then. One question does remain: is the corpse… authentic? Could it be? There are too many questions and Strahd all too aware the Vistana will not be able to answer any of them. Neither will his library, most likely, unless that damnable book, the one that was delivered centuries ago by the very same body that lies before him, when it was not a body but a man, has suddenly decided to be forthcoming. That seems about as likely as Azalin deciding to give up on lordship and retire to a life of gardening.
Not for the first time, Strahd wishes he had the ability to not only raise the dead, but commune with them, in the same way he remembers seeing priests do once or twice in his mortal life. Turning away from the body, away from the sight of this specter of the past come back to haunt him, he considers his options. They are near Krezk, and there is someone there that might be of assistance, both in discerning whether the corpse has been altered in any physical way, as well as in getting answers out of it.
Is Strahd going to enjoy speaking to this someone? No. But he did wish for something to break the monotony and he really should have learned to be careful what he wishes for a long time ago.
Mind made up, he makes a show of opening his pouch and counting out a generous amount of coins in front of Ghita. “You will bring h— the body to Krezk with your wagon. Now.” He adds a couple extra coins simply to cover for the near slip of the tongue. “I will go ahead and make sure you are not impeded in any way. Be swift, do not speak of what you carry to anyone, and bring it up to the abbey. Is that clear?”
Narrator:
Ghita's eyes widen. "Now?" He blinks, and seems to come to his senses, watching several gold coins pile up in front of him. "Now—of course!" he amends quickly. A flash of excitement lights his face. "Then I was right!" Ghita glances at the extra coins dropped onto the pile and dutifully tamps down the urge to ask for the story undoubtedly brewing beyond his reach. "With all haste to the abbey," he agrees. "Ours are the swiftest horses in all of Darkon!"
When Strahd ducks back out of the wagon, Ghita darts to the front, where his brother is passed out on a small pallet. "Milos! Get up! We have to go."
Milos groans and swats a hand in Ghita's direction, but the younger man is already tucking things into compartments. With sudden alarm, he sits up. "What happened?"
"Lord Strahd came while you were asleep. He told me to take the body up to the Abbey on the hill." Ghita tosses the gold coins in his direction. They land in a glittering shower on the bed, though one hits Milos in the face. "Ready the horses!"
Rubbing his cheek, Milos tucks a few of the coins in his pocket. He scurries outside with his brother, and together the two prepare to depart. With a flick of the reins, the wagon separates from the small encampment of its fellows, and makes its way toward Kresk, the rocky slope to the desolate abbey.
They say that, though the abbey was abandoned long ago, a strange man has come to inhabit the place... He is the keeper of cursed creatures, whose screams can be heard echoing throughout its halls. He has no name, this pale warden of the damned. He is known only as the Abbot.
Strahd:
For Strahd’s part, he does enter Krezk ahead of the Vistani, and wakes the burgomaster with little remorse to spread the word that the wagon arriving soon should be allowed through the walls and not disturbed in any way. Then, assuming mist form as soon as he’s out of sight, he rises above Krezk, to the level of the Abbey, though he lingers there, above the town, for a few moments, watching.
It will be some time before the Vistani make it all the way to Krezk and up the switchback road to the Abbey. Strahd is thankful that it’s not summer and the nights are long enough to allow for such escapades. He’s not particularly keen on the idea of spending that time with the creature that calls itself the Abbot, however, so here he remains, for some time, in the cold air over Krezk. Here, he can think.
The body. Alek’s body. Everything about this screams impossible, and yet it would not be the first time the Mists have done something that Strahd had previously deemed impossible. He casts his thoughts back to that night, when Alek had come to tell him of… something, and to the following night, when he had opened his closet to find that very same body gone. Assuming it was the same body, of course. Everything about that night was so frantic, there had hardly been time to consider what might have been the cause of the body’s disappearance, and he had simply guessed it has somehow part of the bargain he had made. Certainly Tatyana’s body also faded into the Mists every single time she died, so it seemed, in hindsight, a not-unreasonable guess.
But Tatyana had returned after her first death, and now Alek had too, in a manner, and that ice-cold twisting, like the laughter of familiar voices in the dark, was on him. What could it mean? Were the Mists themselves playing a trick on Strahd, as cruel as almost letting him have Tatyana, over and over? Or have they thought of one even crueler? One way or another, he will find out.
He lingers in the same place for a little longer, until he sees the vardo approach the gates and be allowed in. From there, it will be a slow ascent to the Abbey, but not so slow that he would have to stomach the Abbot’s company for longer than necessary. The fine cloud of mist floats over the outer wall and rematerializes into Strahd in the courtyard, eliciting a scream from… whatever that is, lurking in the well. Strahd is in no particular hurry to know.
Before any of the creatures decide they want to get to know him better, he steps to the main doors and raises a hand, knocking, loudly, on the door, once, twice, three times in total. If the master of the Abbey sleeps at all, Strahd’s rare visits have never caught him at it.
Narrator:
The shrieks and squawks of a dozen other strange creatures erupts in a half-muffled cacophony from the opposite wing of the abbey, roused by their fellow in the well and Strahd's resounding knocks on the main door. Despite the horrific sounds, the fair, willowy man who opens the door is entirely placid, prestinely dressed in the plain robes of his trade. He looks down at Strahd with a benign, if somewhat distant, smile. His quiet voice cuts unnaturally through the din.
"Strahd," the Abbott greets him wistfully. "How are you?"
Strahd:
Strahd’s face adopts the expression of a man who has bitten into something slightly bitter as the ruckus fills the silence of the night. That’s the expression with which he meets the Abbot as well, waving a hand to the side as if to dismiss the needless pleasantries. There’s something almost patronizing about the way the Abbot regards him, that always makes him wonder what this… man’s, creature’s, what his blood would taste like if Strahd were to rip his throat out.
“I have use of someone with your abilities, Abbot. I trust you are not busy?”
Narrator:
The Abbot's beatific smile fades somewhat. "I am sorry to hear that," he says in the same breathy, pensive tone. "Your trust is well placed. How can I be of service?"
Strahd:
”A body has come into my possession,” Strahd states, keeping a flat, matter-of-fact tone. “It will be delivered here shortly. I need you to examine it for any tampering, and possibly commune with it for answers.” He gestures, sharply, to the room behind the Abbot. If the creature thinks Strahd will stand here all night being looked down on, he is mistaken.
Narrator:
The Abbott regards Strahd with a slight tilt of his head. But he does step back, holding the door open wider. "Please, come in."
He gently closes the door behind Strahd once the lord strides into the room. Cut off from the courtyard, the noise from the opposite wing is mostly dampened. Inside, a long table stretches across the room, set with many dining chairs, and the soft glow of lantern light illuminates the space.
"There is something special about this body," the Abbot surmises, "or you would not have come here. What manner of 'tampering' do you expect?" The thoughtful smile returns to his lips, a faint glimmer of curiosity in those faraway eyes. "What questions will you ask?"
Strahd:
Strahd ignores the question at first, simply out of a streak of petty obstinance towards the Abbot. Instead, he simply enters the room and leisurely walks around the room, letting his fingers trail across the backs of the dining chairs and the table itself, as if he were checking whether his servants did a good job dusting the place.
“I cannot say for sure. Or I would not have come here, hm?” He turns to raise an eyebrow at the Abbot. The smile he sees when he does so is one he does not trust one bit. “Suffice it to say it is a body that should not be. I want to ascertain whether it, in fact, is. The nature of my questions will depend on that.”
Narrator:
The vardo's spindled wooden wheels creak along the switchback road leading up to the abbey, crunching over pebbles in its path. Milos, at the front, shudders at the mournful wail of creatures beyond the gate. He catches sight of shadowy guards high up on the walls and curses under his breath.
Ghita, in the back of the wagon, fidgets with a coin. It tumbles back and forth over his knuckles in a flash of moonlight through the window. He stoops forward suddenly, catching the coin and the head of the mysterious corpse as the vardo jostles over a rocky patch of land and it nearly rolls away. The fabric slips and empty sockets peer up at him over a mournful grimace. "Who were you?" Ghita mutters. He pockets the coin to pick up the head with both hands. "Ah, the stories you could tell, my friend..."
The vardo finally lurches to a stop. A moment later, Milos opens the door and more silvery light spills in, exposed as they are atop the hill overlooking Krezk. Milos grabs the legs of the corpse and drags it out into the night, hupping the body over one broad shoulder.
Tipping his head the other way, the Abbot hums thoughtfully. He loses some of that faraway look as his eyes, nearly golden in color, focus in on the vampire before him. Though soft, there is a new weight in his voice. A note of personal condolence. "I will do what I can."
In the courtyard, an animalistic yelp accompanies a foreign shout. The two Vistani brothers mumble fretfully to each other, and the sturdy thump of a boot against the thick wooden door elicits another commotion among the Abbott's distant wards. The tall, ethereal man turns to welcome the wary Vistani inside with the disparate pieces of their own charge. Hesitantly, the brothers carry the remains inside.
Strahd:
Strahd watches the Vistani with a semblance of imperious indifference, fingers tapping idly on the table until the corpse is safely inside. A semblance, only, because, in truth, there is a growing impatience in him, in part curiosity about the body and in part distaste for being in the Abbot’s company. The creature sees too much. The sooner he knows whether this are truly Alek’s remains, the sooner he can be out of here, the sooner he can start piecing together what happened and how.
Mostly out of spite he gestures for the brothers to leave the body on the table, and fishes out one last piece of coin for them, for having to deal with the Abbot and his creations, then dismisses them.
When they are gone, and the commotion has died down a bit, he turns to the Abbot and simply regards him expectantly.
Narrator:
With delicate hands, the Abbot unwraps the blanket, revealing the skeletal thing inside. Brushing back the tattered remnants of its hair, he positions the corpse's head back at the top of the broken neck, where it belongs, careful to peel up the frayed edges of skin and align the vertebrae just so. A fair draft would roll the skull back out of position, but with meticulous poise, the Abbot balances the two pieces back together, and there they rest, nearly as one. Strahd's terse impatience will have to fester. One cannot rush the work of an artist. Perhaps the corpse itself would understand.
The Abbot closes his eyes, hands hovering in the air above the body. He goes very still.
Just when it seems like he might never move again, a small crease forms between the Abbot's brows, marring slightly the perfect mask of youth. "The Ba'al Verzi was not finished. Merely asleep," he murmurs. He opens his eyes again to regard Strahd curiously. "Does this mean anything to you?"
Strahd:
For all of Strahd’s impatience, something about seeing the body put together causes him to still entirely. Only his eyes move, observing the Abbot’s every movement and change in expression. In some corner of his mind, tucked away, lies a feeling of… protectiveness, perhaps even jealousy, at the gentleness with which the Abbot handles the head, though Strahd thoroughly ignores it. He still does not trust this creature, does not trust his motives, does not trust his methods, so he watches, and waits.
At the Abbot’s statement, Strahd’s eyebrows rise a touch in surprise, and then quickly mirror the Abbot’s troubled expression. The Ba’al Verzi… Strahd dredges up the old memory of that night, one he doesn’t often revisit, but a clear one regardless, ever since he put it down to writing. Hindsight works wonders here. Alek had wanted to tell him something, before his death, had even managed to get half of it out. This is the other half. Then…
“The corpse is likely genuine,” is all Strahd replies to the Abbot, sidestepping his actual question. “What you just said, how did you come to know it?”
Narrator:
"A man's last words are written on his heart," the Abbot says. His eyes flicker to Strahd's chest as the thought occurs to him to look. Strahd has only one word written there, the rest cut off by some other force, as his own death had been interrupted centuries ago. It is not a word he expected.
"Alek—"
Indeed, the corpse was usually quite genuine, wasn't he?
"I can do more." The Abbot does not wait for instruction or permission. He simply turns back to the body on the table to continue his work. The head is placed, the body identified, and the trace of darkness which touches it bears little difference from that which touches all of this land, even the Abbot himself. The Abbot had set himself already to a task which he believed would mend a fissure in Strahd's doomed heart, if not the rent which severed Barovia from its home plane, but he sees now that his efforts might have truly been in vain. But, ah... Here is a better opportunity.
The Abbot resumes his careful pose over the remains, closing his eyes once more. Luckily for Strahd, he does not need to breathe, but the air around them, and the torchlight with it, seems to swell. It grows, slowly pressing in on them, almost crushing in its density, until suddenly—it's gone. The Abbot opens his eyes, and the air is ripped from the room. Shadows from the corners of the room descend upon the torchlight, sweeping the soft glow in toward the uncanny being at its center. Despite the darkness, the light reflects in the glossy liquid gold of the Abbot's gaze and gathers in the palms of his hands.
The breath and the fire of the spirit are forced back into the emaciated form. The flesh builds around the bones, filling out the skin and bringing the softness and color of life back into it. The severed neck knits back together, and the face reforms its missing parts. By all accounts, this should not be possible. And yet...
The room returns to its natural state. As the torches flicker slowly back to life upon the walls, the Abbot sways. He takes a step back, blinking rapidly to reorient himself through intense dizziness. His eyes return to something more resembling human.
Alek:
That is not all which once more resembles something human.
Alek Gwilym's chest rises beneath his ragged clothing. His brow furrows, and he groans faintly on the exhale. His movements are heavy, groggy, but his fingers twitch. His hand moves to rub at his eyes.
The first thing he sees, though hazy, when he opens them... is Strahd.
Strahd:
Instinct curls Strahd’s lip up into a sneer before he even fully considers what the Abbot is saying. Written on his heart? He catches the glance the creature gives him and realizes he doesn’t quite remember what his own last words were,, as a living man. It’s not something he ever thought might be said of him.
“More? What do you—” The air grows heavy. Suddenly, Strahd can’t pull enough of it into his lungs to speak, can’t even move through it, as if he were stuck in a pit of molasses, pressing down on him from every direction, threatening to grind bones to dust. All of his thoughts turn to alarm, to a betrayal he was expecting yet is now powerless to stop, frozen as he finds himself with teeth bared in a snarl that has no sound behind it. All of his strength only amounts to a few centimeters’ worth of movement towards the Abbot.
And then the tension breaks. Strahd stumbles forward and catches himself on the table. He poises himself to strike at this being now wreathed in light, to stop whatever this is and— And stops. There is movement on the table itself. Unblinking, Strahd watches Alek’s barely recognizable remains reform into the familiar features he knew so long ago, long limbs, light hair, sharp nose, mustache, that mouth that curled into a smile so much more often than Strahd’s own, and, finally, the storm-grey eyes that open to look at him.
A myriad of questions pass through Strahd’s head. How? Why? Is it really him? Is he somehow dreaming? What does the Abbot have to gain from this? Is this some kind of trick?
All that passes through his lips, however, is a single word, a mirror to that last word he’s not even aware of. “Alek.”
Alek:
Alek blinks to clear the lingering fog from his vision. He opens his mouth to speak, but splutters a bit. Coughs. Clears his throat, massaging his recently reconstituted neck as he sits upright. And then he reaches for Strahd. Grasps his shoulder. "Strahd." His voice is rough.
Alek's sharp gaze flickers over their surroundings. This isn't Ravenloft. He notices a tall man in priest's robes, doubled over with exhaustion. But this isn't their chapel. Nor any priest that he's familiar with. The painted amulet dangling from the man's neck bears a strange symbol.
The last thing he remembers is...
Alek focuses back in on Strahd. He's... pale, but he seems whole. They survived then. "Are you all right?"
Someone from the guard tower might have found them after all. Called for a healer. Saved their lives. But if they aren't in the castle... Did Leo make his move while they were recovering? Were they forced to flee?
"Where are we?"
Strahd:
Strahd’s shoulder tenses under Alek’s hand. There are so many questions, so much to say and he’s not eager to say any of it in the Abbot’s presence. One thing is certain, from the way the man before him immediately reaches for him, the way his eyes scan the place, the way his first point of concern is about Strahd, as if he wasn’t himself just lying decapitated on this table mere moments ago: this is really none other than Alek Gwilym, returned from the dead.
“I am fine,” he says, in a strained voice. “We are… in a safe place. Relatively.” A grimace crosses his face, remembering the sheer display of power from the Abbot just before, but the man seems fairly incapacitated now and his creations should prove no threat.
“I will explain, in private.” He casts a pointed look towards the Abbot, one he trusts Alek will understand as an indication of his reluctance to speak freely in present company.
Alek:
"Right." The priest is a stranger to Alek, and they seem to be at risk, despite the present quiet. He realizes then that he's sitting atop an enormous dining table. What...?
It doesn't matter now. Alek swings his legs around to stand. He wobbles. Almost collapses to his knees, but the hand still clasped on Strahd's shoulder steadies him. A bewildered look crosses his face, but he recovers. He'd always had a knack for bouncing back from an eventful night.
Strahd:
Strahd moves quickly to catch Alek with a hand on his chest. The moment passes as quickly as it came, but that split second of contact is still enough for Strahd to be keenly aware of Alek’s still-human heartbeat. By all accounts, he’s seen priests raise people before, and yet this still feels surreal.
“Steady, Commander.” The ghost of a smile makes its way into Strahd’s face, though that too is gone in the blink of an eye and his expression turns serious once more. “Let’s get you some fresh air, hm?”
He pauses, then, just as he’s about to direct Alek to the door, considering the traces of lingering heat in his fingers from where he touched Alek, and the warm hand on his shoulder. He remembers, vaguely, what it was like to visit Krezk as a human. Alek’s clothes are barely more than rags, and he’s not about to ask the Abbot for something warmer, nor give Alek a blanket that still smells of death. With a swift, decisive motion, Strahd unclasps his cloak and holds it out to Alek. “Here. It’s quite cold out.”
Alek:
Strahd's hand on his chest throws him back momentarily to the sensation of a blade piercing through him, but it's lost in the rest of his unsteadiness and shrugged off just as quickly. There's an untold amount of relief to be found in that fleeting hint of a smile.
Alek takes the offered cloak and drapes it around his own shoulders. He might have objected, but Strahd still seems fairly well dressed by comparison... He expects the cloak to be warmer than it is. Was Strahd's hand cold? Perhaps he should have kept the extra layer.
"Have I been forgiven, then?"
Strahd:
Forgiven. Who exactly needs to be forgiven is up for debate, here. Still, Strahd gives a small nod to assuage Alek’s concerns, and gestures towards the door.
“As I said, we will talk in private. Do not be alarmed by the sounds.”
He says nothing to the Abbot as he leads Alek out. That he lets the creature live, despite the liberties he took, speaks volumes on its own.
Alek:
The sounds?
But he hears them once the door swings open on the courtyard beyond. Strahd told him not to be alarmed, but since when has that ever curbed his anxiety over the man?
The priest at least seems to have recovered from his fatigue enough to right himself and grant Alek a perplexing look of serenity which follows them until they venture out into the shrieking night.
The night air is definitely brisk, but that's only one of the reasons Alek holds open the cloak to throw it and his arm across Strahd's shoulders. He walks side-by-side with him out of the main gate before he asks, "What happened?"
Strahd:
The casual camaraderie of that arm across his shoulders throws Strahd off. Does Alek not remember what happened that night? But no, he asked whether he was forgiven, so surely he must, or there would be nothing for him to be forgiven for. Is there something for him to be forgiven for?
Strahd is broken out of his thoughts by the sound of Alek’s voice again. What did happen? Where to even start?
“A lot.” He sighs. “…A lot of mistakes.” Or one very large mistake, depending on how one looks at it. Four hundred years is too long a time to avoid thinking about things, even if one is very good at it. Might as well start somewhere. “Alek, many things have… changed since that night. More time has gone by than you might think.”
Alek:
Alek frowns, but he glances at Strahd with a cocked eyebrow and a look of concern. The man is bizarrely cold, even considering the weather. Alek's arm tenses, giving Strahd a light squeeze. Mistakes were made, certainly. Not least of which, the dagger Alek plunged between Strahd's ribs.
He doesn't understand what compelled him to do it. He had only meant to disarm Strahd, not... that. Never that.
"How long—"
No doubt some time has passed. At least enough to get out of the castle to... wherever they are. Looking out over the town from their high vantage is... well, it's quite dark, so it's hard to tell, but he thinks he must have been here before. He thinks they must still be in Strahd's lands, but even that could be days of travel at least.
As his mind spins off to try to piece together context clues, that sideways glance at Strahd, so close by his side, reveals another oddity.
"—What happened to your ears?"
Strahd:
Strahd catches Alek’s eye, looking at him, and his gaze flees to the town beneath them, a single fang digging into his lower lip, on the side of his mouth obscured from Alek’s view. He draws in a breath he doesn’t need, then lets it out in a sigh. Another nod of his head, just to acknowledge the question, even if it’s taking him a moment to answer.
The silence stretches out a little further, a silence in which Strahd reminds himself to keep breathing, for now, to refrain from placing his own, too-cold hand on Alek’s arm, to maintain at least part of the illusion of a mortal man. One thing at a time.
“Long,” he says, finally turning back to Alek. “Too long. How much did you hear, from outside my study?”
Alek:
"I heard..." Alek swallows. He looks back out over the sleeping town, too. "I don't know what I heard. There were only fragments. Voices—too many of them... My own?" There's a stutter in his breath. A shake in his voice. Strahd had never seen Alek Gwilym afraid before that night. This is the second time.
Alek tries to soothe the heart hammering in his chest. "What was it?" More questions tumble out of him. "Where are the others? What of Ilona? Who found us? How did we end up out here? Did the traitor make his move?"
Strahd:
This time, Strahd does bring up a hand to Alek’s arm to steady the man. Perhaps even to steady himself. He has seen Alek afraid before, but this is the first time he not only sees it, but hears it, in the beating of his heart, in the subtle catch of his breath.
“The traitor made his move, but he has been dealt with.” Strahd starts there, because that is the easiest part to give an answer to. He hopes it will soothe a little bit of Alek’s fear, because the rest of this is not going to be pleasant. “It’s complicated. You brought me a book, once, one I could not decipher. That night before the wedding…” He pauses, changes tracks slightly. “The voices. I heard them too. Yours, Tatyana’s Sergei’s, Ilona’s… They promised me… everything I could have wanted.” He shakes his head. “I should have known the price would be too steep.”
It’s not a very good explanation. It’s now much of an explanation at all, in fact. But how does one even begin to explain this, to Alek no less?
Alek:
"Good," he says, of the traitor's fate. But that still doesn't explain why they're out here.
Alek remembers that book. When they picked it up, it had drove his men to uneasy bickering just by its presence. He was tempted to toss the damned thing into the river. Seems he would have been right to do so. Strahd's ire then couldn't have been anything compared to that night. "I thought I'd lost you," he says. Lost him to whatever evil had been lurking in that book, and then... He turns his sharp gaze back on Strahd. "I thought I'd killed you." Lingering fear and now grief are both evident in his voice. "But here you are..." he whispers.
His eyes flicker over Strahd's pale face, those pointed ears... He's so cold.
No, Strahd hadn't died. It was the voices, then. It was that... thing. No one had found them out there, on the wall, to bring them in from the rain and tend their mortal wounds. Something, Alek is certain, had forced his own hand, if not both of theirs. And then it had asked Strahd, 'Do you want to live?'
Strahd is alive, here, now. They both are. But... "At what cost?"
Alek can feel his knees buckling under him again, in part from the fatigue of nearly dying—or, perhaps, of being fully dead—dragged back into the world of the living, and part from the crushing weight of loss. Of helplessness, in the face of unfathomably dark and dangerous magic. A ragged gasp escapes his lungs as he tries to hold himself together, gripping Strahd ever tighter. "What have you done?"
Strahd:
In Strahd’s thoughts, in the admittedly very little time he had to spend thinking about this, he intended to spirit Alek back to Castle Ravenloft, and take his time explaining what happened. This? This is not going the way he intended. Absurdly, he breathes a little laugh, a bitter, fragile thing.
“I told you: I made a lot of mistakes. I did lose you, Alek. I did kill you. And you…” The Abbot spoke of last words. If asked at any before tonight, Strahd might say that he died on the night of the wedding, when the traitors revealed themselves. Now, he’s not so sure.
Almost unconsciously, he repeats his earlier gesture intended to catch Alek, to stop him from collapsing. A hand on Alek’s chest, even more obviously cold than the one on his arm. Alek’s pulse hammering against Strahd’s fingers is what finally breaks his expression into something mirroring Alek’s grief.
“Alek, I… I am sorry.”
Alek:
Alek nods, letting out another forceful breath as he tries to ground himself. He claps his free hand over Strahd's, over his heart. He shuts his eyes, tight, as he leans on his lord, his old friend. And then he tips his head back, and blinks up at the stars. Another point of orientation. Overall, they're not terribly far from where they should be.
"So am I." There's more he wants to say. If he could have gotten there sooner. If he had put the pieces together earlier. About Leo. About Tatyana. Any of it. If he had just tossed that godsdamned book over his shoulder and never looked back... "It didn't have to be this way," he says instead, an echo of himself. They've both made mistakes.
Steadier on his feet again, Alek's arm shifts. His hand comes to rest on the back of Strahd's neck instead, a reassuring pressure on his nape, warmth seeping through his hair. "Did you get what you wanted?" he asks.
Strahd:
Strahd does not follow Alek’s gaze up to the stars. Whatever is up there is less of a miracle, less of a mystery than what stands before him. Alek, in the flesh, warm despite the cold air up here.
Perhaps it didn’t have to be this way, or perhaps it did. Strahd has had a very long time to reflect on all the ways this might have been different and, at the end of it all, all the speculation is nothing compared to how it felt to have those voices whispering to him.
The contact with Alek drives home the difference between them, one living, despite everything, and one dead. Strahd opens his mouth to say something, rethinks it, and ends up with another low laugh, every bit as bitter as the one before it. “No,” he says, softly, “no I did not. I only… lost.”
Alek:
At Strahd's bitter laughter, Alek glances over at him again. Tries to meet his eyes. "Well... Why don't we take it back?" It's not like they haven't conquered and reclaimed before, at each other's side. "You still have me. No matter what."
An easy promise to make, despite the dread still knotted in his chest.
"Strahd... Where are we going?" he asks, breaking the tesnsion of the moment with a small quirk of his lips. "It's frigid out here, and it's the middle of the night."
Strahd:
Strahd himself only meets Alek’s eyes for a fleeting moment, after which his eyes drop to look at the hand still resting over his own, against Alek’s chest. He does not ask why, what he has done to deserve such loyalty. Something about not looking a gift horse in the mouth. Whether what Alek is proposing is possible or not, his presence is a gift, at least for the moment.
“I am glad to have you back, Commander. We are going… home.” Strahd’s face twists into something resembling amusement, and he reins in the amount of emotion in his voice to continue. “I have summoned a carriage, though we’ll have to make our way down to the town gates.” And then, almost in afterthought, he adds, “The town being Krezk.”
Alek:
"Krezk! You know, it looks a lot different from above, when you can't see a damn thing." The casual tone comes back to him instinctually. He takes 'summoned' to mean that Strahd must have sent for the carriage in advance. Although, that wouldn't explain why whatever had conveyed them here in the first place wouldn't have stuck around... It really does seem to be just himself and Strahd here. Inadvisable, so far out from the castle. Improbable, for a number of reasons which make speculation an uncanny task.
Alek pats Strahd's hand on his chest before letting it go, so they can walk again properly. "We should get moving, then, before I start losing limbs." He means the cold, of course, unaware of the extent of his body's true fragility not half an hour ago. He doesn't quite question why his clothes are as much as mess as they are. Can't do much about it now. At least Strahd lent him the cloak.
As they make their way down the switchback road toward the main town, Alek asks again, "So, what brings us out west? I was worried Ravenloft had been taken." It's hard to imagine any ritual being outside Ilona's capabilities as a cleric. Since the death of High Priest Kir, she's been the strongest among the lot.
Strahd:
“I might be inclined to say that not seeing a damn thing is an improvement, in this case.” It’s truly surprising how easily Strahd falls back into this himself, the comfort of talking amongst friends, even after so many years. Had he really gone so long without Alek? That fateful night feels, at the same time, like forever ago and just yesterday. The lightness of it can’t last, of course, not under the weight of all those things Alek is still blissfully unaware of.
The loss of the warmth of Alek’s hand is, well, a loss, but Strahd keeps close to its source as they walk.
“Ravenloft is…” Another twist of his mouth, this time into a subtle frown. “Not intact, per se, but under my command regardless. It has suffered in your absence as steward, I will admit.” And what an absence that was. “Alek, when I said more time has passed than you might imagine, I did mean it. This is… in many ways not the Barovia you remember.” And Strahd himself is in many ways not the man Alek remembers. Features set in a full seriousness, he regards Alek as if to impress upon him that he is in no way exaggerating.
Alek:
"I imagine it's been some time," Alek says at length, judging by the stars, "but I won't know until you tell me. How long?"
Strahd:
Strahd reaches for Alek’s arm again, preemptively this time. “It has been nearly four hundred years,” he states, matter-of-factly, because there is, simply, no easy way to explain this.
Alek:
Alek stalls again, with Strahd's grip on his arm. He hears the words, but they don't mean anything. Four hundred years? There's no way anyone could have survived that. Why bring him back only now, even if it were possible?
But as he scrutinizes Strahd's expression, it's clear that the man believes his own words, at least.
For once, Alek is speechless. A new kind of chill reaches him: that uncanny feeling creeping closer, at the back of his mind.
"That seems unlikely," is what he finally lands on.
Strahd:
“So do dark forces whispering to me in your voice, and yet…” Strahd points out.
Disbelief. Of course. It’s what his own mind had reached for when he saw Alek’s body. He sees no reason why it should be different for Alek.
“I may not quite have died that night, but I did change.”
Alek:
Alek concedes the point with an apprehensive nod. "All right."
He considers the hand on his arm for a long moment. Strahd's fingernails are sharp like claws.
"I could say I told you so," Alek offers. But, in many ways, this isn't the right time. He glances back up to Strahd's pale face, his pointed ears. The differences worry him, but much of Strahd still looks the same as he expects. Still acts the same as he expects... unlike the madman who attacked him.
"Let's get to the coach. The road home is a long one, and we'll have plenty of opportunity to discuss it there."
Strahd:
Strahd observes Alek’s measured reaction with a touch of curiosity. So the weight of the truth hadn’t settled on him yet. Shock, Strahd would assume. He had seen it often enough during the wars of his youth. The mind had to protect itself somehow. Then again, if there ever was a man who could hear this and retain his faith in Strahd, that would have to be Alek Gwilym.
He doesn’t remove his hand from Alek’s arm, only moves it further up and to the back, near Alek’s shoulder.
“You could say that, but would I listen?” Strahd muses, urging Alek forward. They should get to the coach, before reality has a chance to become too real, between the two of them. “It is a long way home, and it is late.”
Alek:
Alek's sideways glance at Strahd's first comment is conspiratorial. "It's not often you admit it."
As they make their way down the hill and through the town toward the main gate, the silence that lingers between them is as fond as it is laced with trepidation. It's not unusual, to anticipate a storm on the horizon. Barovia is a moody land, and Strahd and Alek are accustomed to war.
Walking at Strahd's side feels entirely natural, despite the ideas Strahd has presented. In some ways, it feels better. Whether or not four hundred years have passed, it has been at least three since they've been able to travel anywhere together. Since they'd finished with the first round of burgomasters, Alek has been the one to venture out, while Strahd stayed behind in the castle... where it was—or should have been—safe.
In that way, Alek saw Ravenloft as an extension of himself. Something to guard Strahd while he was away, acting on the man's behalf to keep him from both unpleasantries and further risk. His eyes flicker over Strahd's form again, noting mostly the similarities to the man he remembers. There are many, and for this he is grateful, despite his worries.
The carriage is waiting for them when they pass through the gates, leaving Krezk behind them. The horses stamp and splutter lightly at their approach.
Strahd:
The sleepy town of Krezk barely stirs at the passage of the two men, unaware of how monumental it is to have Alek Gwilym walking these lands once more. To them, even to the burgomaster, who has apparently not managed to ho back to sleep after Strahd’s earlier visit, and who now peeks out from behind the window blinds, the man walking beside Strahd is just that: a man, no more and no less.
To Strahd, every step for which Alek remains by his side, and does not fade back into the Mists, is just as implausible as the last. And yet, they make it all the way down and through the town, and Alek is still there, and it’s almost as if he was never gone. Almost.
The guards at the gate seem distinctly nervous when the two men arrive. It’s not difficult to see why. The carriage waiting outside is unnerving in how dark it is, the only spot of lighter color being the von Zarovich coat of arms on its doors. Even the horses drawing it are fully black, and there’s one more deeply unsettling element: Nowhere does there appear to be any trace of a driver.
Strahd wastes no time in striding over and opening the door, waiting for Alek to board first. The interior is dark, but looks comfortable in what little moonlight illuminates it. Another odd feature: the windows are equipped with heavy curtains, which attach on all sides and appear capable of blocking out any light.
Alek:
Alek almost doesn't think much of the chivalrous gesture, except that the carriage is so extravagant in its privacy. It seems like he ought to be the one holding the door for Strahd. As for the guards, well... they should be nervous. This is their lord walking through town, unannounced, in the middle of the night.
He does wonder at the coach's distinct lack of any driver. "Those must be some clever horses," he remarks, climbing inside.
Strahd:
Strahd chuckles as he settles in next to Alek. “You might say I’ve picked up some tricks in my time.” As if to prove just that, the door softly swings closed of its own accord and the carriage starts to move.
“So. How are you feeling, Commander?” Strahd asks, when the initial rocking of the carriage settles into a comfortable rhythm. He really has no baseline for what it’s like to come back from the dead, not in this way, at least.
Alek:
Alek winces slightly as some invisible force closes the door behind them. It reeks of magic. He never really trusted the Art, despite Strahd's adamant interest in it. At least its use here seems to assist with minor inconveniences. Still, he wonders what consequences might lurk behind its use.
"Kind of you to ask," he says. They're close enough that their shoulders bump when he shifts. "I'm all right. I'm alive," he confirms. "But what about you? You said you've changed... The ears are cute," he quips. Truthfully, he's not sure what to think of them. The new angles are flattering against the lines of his face, though, easily drawing the eye from his cheekbones up into his hair.
Strahd:
“Cute?” Strahd echoes. An incredulous smile spreads across his face. He truly has missed this man, hasn’t he? “Is that an appropriate comment to be making about your Lord?” An eyebrow goes up, returning the banter.
Strahd shakes his head, and a measure of seriousness re-establishes itself. “I am well enough. Alive… not quite. But I am here.”
Alek:
"Why shouldn't I flatter My Lord?" Alek ripostes, with an answering grin. With more sincerity, he adds, "It's good to see you smile again." It hasn't been four hundred years, to Alek, but it's been long enough. Strahd had been going downhill for a while. He could see it; he just hadn't been able to pinpoint the cause.
"What do you mean 'not quite'?" Alek's humor fades as he thinks back on what he can remember from that night. He frowns. "The voices... They said you wouldn't age. Is that right?" If that's the case... maybe four hundred years would be possible to survive...
Strahd:
Good to see him smile… How long has it been since Strahd had cause to smile, genuinely? Too long, surely. It feels… fragile, somehow.
Strahd leans back against the wall of the carriage, body slightly at an angle to face Alek. “That’s right, yes. And I haven’t, though not exactly in the sense I expected. I do not age, because I am not human, because my heart does not beat like a human’s, nor do I breathe, sleep, or eat the way a human does. I am not living, yet not truly dead.”
Alek:
"I suppose that explains it." Alek's voice is edged with unease. He crosses his arms. "If not human, what are you then?"
Strahd:
Strahd cocks his head, eyes scanning Alek’s face for signs of just how far that unease goes. “I assume you’ve heard the term 'vampire' before?”
Alek:
Alek arches a brow. "No," he says, bewildered. The word doesn't draw up any associations. However, the utter blank does leave room for other ideas to creep in. "I have heard stories about the dead rising from the grave, unaided. People who... didn't come back the same." His eyes flicker over Strahd again, as he leans toward him, voice hushed. "Usually, they go mad. They're not themselves. They start attacking—"
Alek falters suddenly, as lightning flashes in his memory, wind ripping his words from him and flining them off the parapet before they can reach Strahd's ears. Strahd coming after him, sword drawn, a man possessed.
He leans back, clearing his throat. "So you're some kind of ghoul?" he concludes.
Strahd:
“I assure you, I am not mad,” Strahd says, drily. “The part about rising from the grave, changed, perhaps is accurate, though in my case it was more of a castle parapet than a grave.” The image of Alek, before him, in the present, juxtaposed with that of him lying on the floor, bleeding to death. Strahd’s mouth draws into a thin line. Of the two versions, he very much prefers the one in the carriage with him.
“If we are to be accurate about the use of the word, I am not a ghoul, either. Though I do require… blood, as sustenance.”
Alek:
It feels like he's been hollowed out. For a tense moment, there's nothing inside his chest, beneath his overlapping arms. A void. Numb, until it starts to ache. He draws an unsteady breath, but his low voice remains level. "So that was it... What you had to do..."
One hand comes up to briefly rub the stubble on his jaw.
"You waited four centuries to bring me back?" He still doesn't quite believe it, but much of this is unbelievable. "Ilona could have done it. The rituals your ancestors used to do, to bind themselves to the land—you told me once that they would go all out, sacrifice themselves, and a priest would have to revive them..."
He laughs, bitterly. "You know... you could have asked. You might have at least told me what you were trying to do."
Strahd:
Strahd nods. Yes, that was the price, or part of it.
“I know,” he says, in a quiet voice, just as bitter as that laugh. “I know now. Like I said. A lot of mistakes.”
A lot of mistakes, but not bringing Alek back earlier could not really be counted among them. “I didn’t wait. You were gone, Alek, your body was gone.” He stops, abruptly, halting whatever emotion this is that threatens to spill out. A mix of the desperation of that night, mixed with the guilt and grief that followed, then left to sit for four hundred years. When he next speaks, it’s quieter again.
“I still don’t know why or how you’re back now. I’m glad you are.” There’s a subtle twitch of his hand, like it momentarily gained a will of its own and longed to reach out and touch where Alek’s hand had just been along his jaw. Strahd curls it into a fist instead, claws pressed lightly against skin.
Alek:
...Gone?
Alek sees Strahd's hand curl into a fist. The man had always had a particularly strong hatred for thieves. How could Alek's body have gone anywhere unless it was stolen away? Who would dare?
With a beleaguered sigh, Alek unfolds his arms, to rest a warm hand on Strahd's knee. "I'm glad to be back," he says firmly. "And I'm glad you survived." He would never have forgiven himself if things had been different—if he had lived and Strahd had not. Regardless of what Strahd had become, and what he had lost.
"Whatever happened... we'll get through it. We always do. Now that I am here, maybe we can track down some answers."
Strahd:
The warmth of Alek’s hand breaks Strahd out of some sort of spell. Or puts him under a different one altogether.
“Perhaps we can,” he says, less bitter, yet with an obvious hint of wariness in his tone. Much as he wants to understand —and he does want to— he’s also not particularly eager to go poking around the proverbial hornet’s nest. Alek has already suffered the consequences of that once, and so has Strahd himself.
“I did miss you.” His curled fingers relax, as does the rest of his posture. Now that Alek has made that overture, has demonstrated that he is still willing to make it, Strahd returns the gesture in the form of his own hand on Alek’s shoulder. “And I do still wonder what I did to earn such loyalty that extends even beyond death itself.”
Alek:
Alek's expression softens into one of open bemusement. "You have changed," he teases gently. "Or had you really forgotten the last eighteen years?"
Alek had spent nearly half his life in service to Strahd von Zarovich. They had naturally become friends during that time, though the lord would have hesitated to admit it. They'd fought alongside each other over countless battlefields. What was one more in the face of that? Strahd had earned Alek's loyalty a thousand times over.
"I'm your steward, Strahd."
There's a certain gravity in the way he says it; a candidness in his sharp features which underscores the weight of the hand on Strahd's knee. In the end—or after it—it's not about what he did.
"I know you."
Strahd:
Strahd meets Alek’s bemused remark with an earnestness he didn’t think he was still capable of. “I haven’t forgotten. Changed, maybe, but no matter how many centuries pass, I could not forget.”
It’s the truth. Of the intervening centuries, much felt empty, and some was even spent in that dreamless slumber that only one not truly alive might achieve, but the years spent with Alek at his side were anything but empty, anything but as dull and meaningless as existence has often been since.
“I merely feared that your trust, along with you yourself, was yet one more among all that I lost so many years ago.” A pause, meeting Alek’s gaze. “You know me, and on that night you knew the worst of me.”
Alek:
Strahd's dark eyes have an odd sort of power behind them, but that's not what draws Alek in. He can see past it. So, he takes a moment just to look. To appease his aesthetic sense, one could say. Strahd is being uncharacteristically genuine... but, after so much grief...
"I knew you at your most desperate." A tendon in his cheek pulls taut as he thinks back on what he saw before Strahd caught him outside. How tired and defeated the man looked, solemnly re-lighting candles in the darkness. "...It broke my heart."
Strahd:
For a moment, Strahd has the distinct feeling of being observed in that very characteristic Alek way, that slow, almost ritualistic way with which the Commander always savored things. He’s not sure he’d ever been on the receiving end of that look before, or whether he has and was simply not aware of it or no longer remembers, but to experience it now reminds him that Alek Gwilym has always had an uncanny gift for reading his thoughts.
Strahd’s eyes go blank at Alek’s words, said thoughts taking a moment to catch up with what was said. Broke his heart? A dramatic expression, to be sure, yet true enough from the sound of it. Of all the things that happened, that was what broke Alek’s heart? He always was more concerned about Strahd’s wellbeing than Strahd himself, but to hear it now is strangely unbearable, to know that a broken heart preceded Alek’s death. Somehow, that feels like the part that breaks his, unbeating as it is.
“Is there any way I could mend it?” he asks, so softly it’s barely audible over the creaking of the carriage.
Alek:
A sort of quiet realization dawns on Alek, subtle, a light tension around his eyes as they waver more purposefully over Strahd's face. Strahd hadn't gotten what he wanted, after all. He had missed Alek. Had been distraught when he explained that even Alek's body had been taken from him.
Alek breathes a short sigh that might have once dreamed of being a laugh, but there's no energy behind it. What tension remains in Alek's shoulder, under Strahd's hand, finally relaxes. His own hand retreats from Strahd's knee, but only to find its way up to the man's jaw instead. His thumb lightly brushes Strahd's cheek. "Allow me the chance to mend yours?" he suggests.
Strahd:
Strahd blinks, trying to decipher this new look in Alek’s eyes, cursing the fact that he doesn’t have the same talent for seeing through the man, and in the space of that blink, Alek shifts and… And does exactly what Strahd thought of doing, earlier.
A bewildered hum escapes Strahd, which turns into a soundless laugh. The wounds of his heart are very old ones, but very much still open.
“You may be committing to a rather arduous campaign here, Commander. Are you sure?” There’s no bite to the tease, not with the way Strahd subtly leans into the touch, not with the undisguised fondness in his eyes.
Alek:
Alek smiles. "Yes," he says plainly. "I'm sure."
After every frost-bitten, wind-lashed trip abroad in those last years, the first place he returned to was Strahd's quarters. To sit with him, to speak with him, to drink in his company after a hard road without Strahd in his periphery. Wouldn't take off his muddy boots until he was back in front of Strahd's hearth. Alek can't imagine a campaign like this would be arduous. The whole idea was to stand beside the very man he loves most in this world.
And now a new facet of that idea has been opened up to him; one he doesn't object to in the least. It's a bit unexpected, perhaps, especially considering recent—to him—events, but, even so... "Would it be too forward of me to kiss you, my lord?"
Strahd:
Strahd, nearly ten times older than Alek last saw him, has had a very long time to reflect on his mortal life. Some facets of it, he’s avoided thinking back on, to the best of his ability. One such aspect is Alek, or, more specifically, his relationship to Alek, and why it was Alek’s life that was the first those voices demanded as a sacrifice.
This, here, is why.
“Even if it were,” Strahd whispers, and leans forward, until he can feel Alek’s breath on his face, “would you let that stop you, Alek?”
Narrator:
A love for a love; a life for a life. But each one Strahd traded for was lesser than what he'd already had in front of him. Not quite alive, though nevermore to die, and only unrequited longing left to follow him through time.
Until Alek Gwilym was returned to him. A fluke, a circumstance, or perhaps there are other powers yet at work, struggling to keep the darkness within this misty demiplane from an even graver purpose.
No one knows for sure. Or... almost no one. It is certainly a mystery to each of the two men being drawn toward each other in the privacy of one black carriage, making its way across fair Barovia to bring them home again.
'It's beautiful,' one of their officers had said upon first sight of the conquered castle.
'It's a wreck,' Alek remarked, mostly fearing for his lord's safety in that moment.
'You're both right,' Victor Wachter said to them, in compromise. 'It's a beautiful wreck.'
Alek:
Alek's grin turns wry. The side of his nose brushes faintly against Strahd's, and he cards his fingers deep into the man's dark hair.
"It wouldn't stop you," he murmurs. Alek takes a breath, shifting closer, and presses his lips against Strahd's, backed by the tender force of his devotion.
'It's amazing,' Alek admitted later, when he and Strahd stood alone together on the overlook.
Strahd proudly replied to him, 'It's mine.'
Strahd:
Strahd’s lips, when Alek’s meet them, are half-open in a smile. He gives a little hum, as if to say “no, it wouldn’t”, and his hand comes up to run along Alek’s jaw, to finally test what that stubble feels like. He finds himself, for once, understanding why Alek always took his time with the things that brought him pleasure. This kiss, in every way, is sweeter than the blood Strahd had drunk from Alek, that still, miraculously, runs in Alek’s veins.
He forces himself to keep this slow, to take this in with every sense. Taste, of course. Touch, for which one hand is not enough, and so he wraps his other arm around Alek’s waist and pulls him closer and deeper into the kiss. Sight, perhaps not so much, at this proximity, but he’s had the benefit of seeing very well in the dark this entire time. Hearing, hearing Alek’s very heartbeat, and the way it picks up slightly as their lips meet. And smell, an odd mixture of the scents of life and death, overshadowed by that of blood. Perhaps that last one isn’t the wisest one to be thinking about right now, but it is there and it is part of Alek. Alek, who is beautiful, and who is his.
Alek:
There's a feeling in Alek's body, one he didn't recognize before. But he feels it in his bones, pressed close to Strahd's cold form, leaning into the touch. His breath catches, makes him shiver. His body recognizes death. It recognizes near-starvation, pushed beyond its usual limits by something strange and other. There truly is no heartbeat beneath the hand he places on Strahd's chest, so Alek does his best to instead remind Strahd's animated corpse how it feels to be luxuriously alive.
Alek breaks the kiss with a breathless laugh. "You have fangs," he notes. "As if you needed to be any more devastating." The double meaning of the word is evidenced by the way Alek nuzzles back into another kiss. "You won't try to eat me again, will you?"
Strahd:
There’s a flicker of red in Strahd’s eyes as the hand on Alek’s jaw tips his head towards Strahd to meet the kiss. When he breaks away from it, he grins, letting the fangs show. “Only if you ask me to.” Some parts of human existence Strahd remembers perfectly well, that mortal hunger to be close that sits beside the other one.
The red in his eyes grows into a steady glow as he lets his fingers trail down from Alek’s jaw to his neck, coming to rest right where his pulse is strongest. An experiment, of sorts. He does mean what he said, in whatever meaning Alek reads into it, but he’s curious to see how his Commander will react.
Alek:
Alek hums indulgently into the kiss, and interest stirs at the implications of Strahd's words, but he is taken aback by the devilish glow in Strahd's eyes. There's nothing else to blame it on, except some kind of witchcraft. He stills, as though Strahd's fingers on his pulse were the sharp point of a blade. It's not Strahd he's afraid of, but whatever did this to him.
His throat moves as he swallows. "I think if you tried it now, you'd have to turn this cart around and take me back to the priest."
Alek curls his own fingers around Strahd's and pulls them away from his neck, up to his lips. He kisses Strahd's fingers, and then the palm of his hand, and then he slides the cuff of Strahd's shirt sleeve back, just enough to kiss the inside of his wrist.
"I am... exhausted," he admits, tracing the tip of his nose lightly over Strahd's wrist bone. "But there are many things I would explore with you." A certain glint lights his eyes, too, but it's only the proverbial spark of mischief. "I might have sooner, if I'd thought you were interested... We certainly had enough opportunities."
Strahd:
Strahd’s eyes momentarily dart to the movement of Alek’s throat, but the red glow slowly fades in the face of the sheer tenderness of the gesture that follows. The hunger melts away into fondness, and he cups Alek’s cheek with his hand, gently urging him forward and pressing a kiss to his forehead.
“I know.” It’s an answer to all of the things Alek said, really. “Some things I only realized I wanted when it was already too late.” Strahd takes a breath, full of the scent of Alek, and lets it out in a small sigh.
“But for now, Commander, you should rest. It’s a long ride back home and I have more to catch you up on before we get there.” Perhaps not the full four hundred years’ worth of information all at once, but the essentials, especially when it comes to the castle’s other residents. In an amused voice, he adds, “The carriage is not the most comfortable for resting, but we’ve had worse in our time, haven’t we?”
Alek:
Alek chuckles, softly at first, for the unexpected gentleness Strahd returns with a kiss to his forehead, and then stronger, as he thinks back on all the makeshift sleeping arrangements they've endured in the past.
"I expect a full debriefing in the morning," he agrees fondly.
He starts to lean back, but hesitates. "I would rather not let you out of my sight, weak as it is in here." As a compromise, when Alek shifts into a more comfortable position, he pulls Strahd along with him, urging him to stay close at his side, locked in the secure embrace of Alek's arms, to lay his head on Alek's chest.
"If this is a dream," Alek mumbles, idly petting Strahd's hair while he drifts off, "wake me up for the wedding..."
Strahd:
“It will have to be an evening debrief, as you’ll find my sleeping habits have had to change…” Not that Strahd didn’t often keep late hours when he was alive. It occurs to him to mention one more thing before Alek’s strength gives out. “On that matter, I should warn you not to open the curtains or try to wake me before sundown.”
With that, he goes easily where Alek leads him, grateful that for all that he’s had his fair share of experience when it comes to sleeping in strange positions, the muscle and joint pains of his living body aren’t an issue anymore. He gives a subtle wave of his hand as he does, the curtains drawing all the way closed at his command, plunging the carriage into full darkness. Dawn is not too far away, now.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises the already half-asleep Alek, “and neither are you.”