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soscarlett-itwasmaroon · 1 month ago

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Vices & Virtues - Ethan Ramsey x MC

Dr. Ramsey's weaknesses don’t disturb his everyday life often, but when they do, a certain intern happens to always be involved.

Book: Open Heart, Intern Year (between Chapters 5 & 6)

Warnings: language, my rusty writing, a truckload of pining

Rating/Category: Teen+ / fluffy angst

Author’s note: [insert the ‘surprise, bitch’ & 'it's been 84 years' reaction GIFs]

I’m eternally grateful for the very few angels still waiting for new E&T content—this one’s for you 🫶🏻 Hope you’ll find a moment to read my word vomit and enjoy the mess (aka my writing). I appreciate every comment and like more than words can convey!

Edenbrook is indigestible on Mondays. Though Ethan Ramsey doesn’t believe in whatever ‘curse’ humankind attributed to an absolutely random day, he cannot deny the madness that usually ensues upon the beginning of each week. An inexplicable air of post-weekend malaise does tend to envelop the globe, and Boston is no lucky exception.

“Mondays suck!”

Striding across the hustly-bustly pediatric ward, Doctor Ramsey overhears an agitated boy explicitly expressing his annoyance.

Ethan’s Monday has been a doozy of a day as well, but he’d rather keep his troubles six feet under, preferably in concrete. Nevertheless, a drop of sympathy implores him to stop near the patient’s room and watch the scene unfold at a safe distance.

The child blows a raspberry at the nurse preparing him for a corridor-long wheelchair ride, clearly upset about the surgery he’s being taken to.

A heavy sigh followed by the unmistakable giggle of a certain copper-haired radiologist interrupts Ethan’s first break during today’s demanding shift.

“It’s not Monday, kid. It’s just your life.” Doctor Herbert whispers into Ethan’s ear, a large cup of raspberry tea in her hand. “But at least it’s going to be all rainbows and candy again in three weeks.”

Meanwhile, the situation has escalated quickly: a river of tears streams down the young Monday-hater's cheeks now, his concerned mother shooting pleading looks between her shuddering offspring and the strict nurse trying to efficiently finish the task so she could move on with her hectic schedule.

A pang of dejection pierces Ethan all of a sudden when a long-forgotten fragment of the past he buried flashes through his mind. Before its splinters reopen old wounds, he swiftly pushes the unwanted memory back to the unexplored depths of his psyche.

“I don’t think he’s heard you.”

“Gee, Doctor Ramsey, share some of that cheerful attitude with the rest of us!” Liz nudges his side, almost spilling her hot beverage on his foot. She mouths an apology, but his unimpressed gaze falls elsewhere.

“You wouldn’t even know what to do with it.”

“Thank God your interns still haven’t caught that grumpiness you’re suffering from.”

“No need to worry, it’s not contagious.” He gives a dismissive wave of his hand, partially to announce his departure, then continues the journey to his primary destination: the harmonious sanctuary of his private office.

As soon as the elevator door closes behind Ethan, the confined space becomes his temporary resort. He takes a deep breath, rubbing his sunken, aweary eyes to relieve the tension—an aching remnant of the sleepless night. The exhaustion begins to mess with his senses, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary; permanent fatigue has been his steadfast companion for more than a decade of his career as a doctor.

There’s a crack in that orderly, borderline clinical life of his, as big as a closed fist, and he’s slowly beginning to realize its detrimental consequences.

But none of that matters now.

What matters is that his desperate efforts to bend Naveen’s stubbornness weren’t in vain; there’s still hope—a notion Ethan isn’t exactly on board with, but he puts his trust in science, and beyond any doubt science will point him in the right direction. As long as there’s time, he’ll do whatever it takes to save his mentor, his friend. He’s confident he can do it, he’s capable of diagnosing and curing whichever mysterious illness keeps Naveen captive.

He’s the only one who can do it.

A double shot of deep roasted espresso shall help this cause. Or, at the very least, make his Monday slightly more endurable.

Loud metallic thud followed by a streak of bright fluorescent lighting annunciates the arrival. Empty, windowless corridor welcomes his nostrils with the odious mixture of staleness and antiseptic, typical of the office wing on the sixth floor. He operates on autopilot, mindlessly trudging ahead, marginally consoled by the aura of eerie quietude. Blissfully oblivious to what the so-called Manic Monday has prepared for him next.

All his rational thought and peerless logic evaporate into thin air the second his drowsy gaze zooms in on the old waiting room under renovation currently withheld by the recent budget cuts. Within its hoary walls, a familiar sylphlike figure catches his eye, unwittingly staking her claim to his undivided attention.

Ethan’s dire need of coffee has vanished as well; he’s wide awake now.

Smiling to herself, a sense of pride evident in the alluring dimples carved into her cheeks, Doctor Addams arranges a stack of papers atop a massive couch protected by thin plastic sheet.

Ethan acknowledges that he must ignore the tempest raging inside his chest, but he’s unable to focus on anything else other than the energy she exudes, luring him in like a siren’s song.

This isn’t the first time the infamous Doctor Terminator is utterly powerless in the face of her—the most intriguing mystery he’s tempted to unravel for some godforsaken, unfathomable reason.

Everything he knows about Tiffany Addams has been collateral damage from their close proximity and the isolating nature of their work. Against better judgment, Ethan has stored every single crumb of information thrown at him, like it’s a treasure guarded in the vault of his mind, acquiring new pieces and adding them to this clandestine collection.

With certainty, there’s a new element behind that glass wall, ready to be studied in secret.

As though pulled by a magnet, his feet carry him towards the room while Ethan shuffles through a myriad of excuses plausible enough to start a conversation. A good excuse, however, requires an elaborate background story, supported by a carefully planned follow-up—both of which clearly out of his reach at the moment.

Fully aware of the possible disaster awaiting inside, Ethan steps into the room quietly, leaning against the doorframe with arms crossed over his chest. A sophisticated scent of sultry vanilla wrapped with notes of luminous lavender pervades the space, handily smothering the musty odor of the old hospital furniture stored here for at least a year.

Heedless of his presence, Tiffany remains locked in her own bubble. She’s seated on the couch, browsing through a large leather bag with a lot of noise.

Long onyx locks neatly tamed in a sleek bun reveal the exquisitely sculpted contour of her features, its sharp edges so far removed from the overpowering warmth hiding in her sparkling emeralds and tenacious kindness dripping from the corners of her full mouth.

That stark contrast surely must be a part of her allure, he reckons. Not that there’s any evidence at his disposal—he’s her boss, for fuck’s sake. But the set of cardinal rules applying to the situation doesn’t stop him from looking, nor does it dilute the poison seeping from that singular contaminated thought…

Loud, treacherous voice snarls inside his mind like a beast at the gates of his sanity.

This isn’t staring, this is a comprehensive risk assessment.

Regardless of the pretext, watching her feels almost perverse, but he’s too transfixed to listen to his voice of reason hopelessly trying to redirect him to the path of impeccable propriety.

He can’t look away. Can’t move either. She'll notice him…Eventually.

Is that all he’s become? A disappointment, a fraud. One of the best diagnosticians of the generation, the esteemed Dr. Ethan Ramsey is consistently failing to do his job. His own mind appalls him—once the most treasured asset, his pride and joy, now compromised, useless, struggling to cut through the veil of his inappropriate longing.

Perhaps instead of triggering a spiral of destruction, he should address a more pressing matter: why is there a splotch of purple paint on her cheek?

Better late than never, his focus switches from Tiffany to the negligible surroundings. On her left, spread across the polythene-covered couch, lie a couple of ridiculously abstract drawings, colorful and confusing, each of them made with the skill and precision equal to a six-year-old if he has to guess.

Suddenly, it all clicks.

Along with his tongue.

The short clack doesn’t make her flinch, though she straightens immediately, a glimmer of surprise shining in her riveting eyes when she looks up at the intruder and deems him worthy of a smile. Her lush, rosy lips curl up generously, greeting him with a beam so dazzling his body heats up like bare skin kissed by the blazing midday sun in the middle of summer.

The older doctor doesn’t return the cordial gesture—he has a reputation to uphold and his bruised dignity to save. He quickly takes refuge in the shadow of his perfect decorum, dexterously covering the unjustifiable act of treason committed by his very own carnality.

Tiffany, however, is undeterred in her mission to melt his callous indifference with the disarming sincerity of her vivacious spirit.

“Before you drop your sarcastic grenades on me: no, I have not found my true calling elsewhere. I have not been slacking up either. These aren’t even mine, so insulting someone else’s artistic skills would be totally inappropriate.” Her hand waves over the drawings.

“I wouldn’t dare to insult a respected artist and credit you with their art.” He retorts flatly, then spills the aforementioned sarcasm like the Lord intended. “Early Pollock must cost a fortune or two. How come such rare artworks ended up in your possession?”

His comment inspires a peal of infectious laughter; the powerful melody of Tiffany’s unadulterated amusement conquers the room, all but obliterating the chronic sternness of Ethan’s face.

He cannot help but bask in the glory of this unexpected outcome: he’s the reason behind the glorious, velvety sound; she’s laughing because of him.

“You made a pretty solid assumption, Doctor Ramsey, but I have to disappoint you: early Pollock had an affair with surrealism and his style was way more compositional than this.” She points at the glittery mess splashed in the center of one of the pieces, not so subtly suppressing another wave of laughter.

Miss Addams and her irreplaceable wit painfully remind him of the golden rule he often pretends doesn’t concern his giant ego: do not speak on the topics your knowledge of is insufficient.

Lustrous vivid-green eyes fixed on him and the urgency he’s facing at the moment leave him no choice but to quickly shake off the embarrassment and adapt his reaction accordingly.

Reluctantly, Ethan clings to brutal honesty. “I’m not an art connoisseur, so I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.”

“Oh, trust me, you would.”

A smudge of amethyst retrieves the diagnostician’s attention for one split second, demanding a seamless change of topic.

“I presume you spent your lunch break on the pediatric ward again, trying to start a new art movement.”

Doctor Addams gasps theatrically and presses her slender fingers to her mouth, lowering her head slightly. “What gave me away?”

Ethan considers revealing the truth through another shot of bluntly delivered sarcasm (something he would have done in any other case), but his body betrays him, subconsciously drawing near Tiffany.

“Apart from the excited chatter on the second floor? Nothing.” He replies, straining to keep his impeccable composure just as she bites into her lower lip tantalizingly in what appears to be keen anticipation.

A few risky steps later she’s at his arm’s length, and he decides to measure that dangerously short distance; akin to an audience member of some ludicrous soap opera, the diagnostician observes his hand move towards the intern’s face in slow motion, as if that bloody limb wasn’t his and the falsely innocent intention swarming inside his incisive, virtuous mind filled him with repulsion.

Except he wants this. He needs to feel her.

Even though the mere ghost of an idea may bring his demise, he cannot break free, imprisoned by the torturous vision of her vanilla-scented skin gliding smoothly against his.

Much to his bewilderment, her breath quickens just as much as his; the evergreen forest in her eyes bursts into flames when their gazes meet, burning his hesitation down.

She wants this too.

Nothing could convince him to refrain from acting on this forbidden desire now, not a single reasonable thought seems to be charged with a cogent argument.

So he lets his thumb brush down her right cheek, down the lick of wet paint smeared across her warm skin, taking most of the dark purple off the silken canvas along the way.

The sky didn’t tear in half, there was no divine retribution exacted upon a sinner like him, no sign of punishment fit for his appalling misdeed.

“Nothing. At. All.”

Nothing but the silky smoothness of her face, rapid rise and fall of her shapely chest, and fiery heat searing through his veins…

Inevitably, the unbearable tension crackling between them dissipates in a flash when Tiffany snorts at the sight of his acrylic-stained thumb, a soundless ‘fuck’ escapes her mouth as she sprints to find a prompt solution for the paintmergency, stripping him of time to ponder on what the living hell just happened.

He takes advantage of the moment, immediately scolding himself, forcing his thoughts to flee from the crime scene concocted by his newly depraved brain.

“Must be your enviable instinct of an outstanding diagnostician then.” Cheeky as ever, she casts a playful eye over Ethan while rummaging through the drawers, summoning him to focus on her.

Within a long minute, she scuttles back to him, stretched arm offering one of the two pieces of paper towel sprayed with hand sanitizer. They use it to rub the paint off their skin. As soon as they’re done, Ethan quips back. Sort of.

“The balance between mockery and flattery is a bit too delicate to be used in a professional environment, don’t you agree, Addams?”

Unintimidated by the tricky question, Tiffany lifts her shoulder in a half shrug. “It all depends on the intelligence of the person you’re speaking with. You’re ultrawealthy in that department, so I assumed you wouldn’t mind some harmless friendly banter.”

“We’re not friends.” The speed with which he retaliates might have just sealed his fate. Deep down, he doesn’t quite believe those words himself, but there are rules to be followed unconditionally, rules that cannot be broken under any circumstances.

Dark, noble brows accentuating the breadth of her radiance crease together in sheer bewilderment. He can almost hear the scoff she’s choking back when she sees right through the cone-shaped hole in the thick wall separating them.

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

“We’re getting there.” She nods vigorously, openly mocking his well-meaning mendacity with lips pursed into a thin line and narrowed eyes surveying him diligently.

„An attending befriending his intern? I can’t see that happening.”

A winning grin lights Tiffany’s features up. „It’s already happening, whether you like it or not.”

The more she pushes forward, infuriatingly so, the more he resists, fortifying his helpless defense.

„Would you be kind enough to explain why on Earth would I let it happen?”

“It’s beyond your control.” She shakes her head. „There’s nothing you can do now.”

He frowns at her, takes her fierce expression in, feigning utter disinterest in the mesmerizing spatter of freckles adorning her glowy skin.

Is the intensity of his glare too revealing? Can there be a flash of ardent curiosity swimming in his eyes and acting up against him?

„You’re awfully confident about all the wrong things, Rookie.”

She mimics the military salute, right hand raised sharply, touching her forehead, fingers and thumb extended and joined, palm facing down. „The colossal pain in your ass reporting for duty, sir.”

This display of her goofiness, derived from the smidgeon of irreverence he’s found himself covertly fond of, successfully penetrates his ruptured facade.

At last, Doctor Terminator’s perpetually grim face blooms with an ear-to-ear smile, so wide and genuine that Tiffany blinks once, twice, most probably questioning whether the exceptionally unusual scene in front of her is real.

The way she gapes at his mouth almost drills a hole in him—she’s that awestruck, like a pious believer who stumbled upon irrefutable evidence confirming the foundation of her faith.

“You should smile more. You…” Her plush lips part when she trails off, then sucks in a breath, as if to stop the profanation of their professional relationship jumping on the tip of her tongue from slipping out recklessly.

She wants this too.

“It suits you.”

Ethan’s cheeks erupt with disgraceful heat, resembling an awkward teenager attracting his crush’s attention for the very first time—the feeling almost as mortifying and inexcusable as the unprecedented lack of any snarky response.

As if the worst was yet to come, Tiffany keeps on staring at him with such exhilarating wonder and sureness he doesn’t quite know how to proceed with such abundance of emotion meddling with his stoic approach.

She wants this too.

For a fleeting moment, the abyss of his solitude shrinks significantly, purple paint filling the crack on the illusory contentment with the life he’s chosen, just as her piercing gaze invites him further into the impossible fantasy.

Then, a jolt of sobering guilt runs along his spine in a rude awakening, at the same time when Tiffany realizes the gravity of her daring statement and its perilous implications.

“I, erm…”

“Uhm, my…”

Ethan smashes the uncharacteristic uneasiness descending on them, a benign half-smile and barely perceptible nod encourage her to continue. “Go on.”

Her gaze flickers towards the hall, a tinge of crimson reddening freckled porcelain. “My break is almost over. I should head back to the ER.”

Hell must have frozen over: his fearless protégée, strong-willed and sharp-tongued at all times, befuddles him with this uncommonly demure armor plate she has put on. The most challenging obstacles and cases fail to break her down, stress and pressure never threaten her admirable strength, and yet there she is—bleeding from her own sword.

This supremely fascinating token of hidden vulnerability sheds new light on the beguiling collection of contradictions making her whole.

He examines the younger doctor pacing around the room as she gathers her belongings up, stuffing her capacious bag with them. Half-way, she spins to address him directly and points at her cheek.

“Am I…Still…?”

“No, you’re alright. The paint is gone.”

“Splendid.”

As she goes forward, assembling her patients’ drawings into a neat pile, and—rather intentionally—ignoring Ethan, he readjusts his tie and dives headfirst into the pool of her discomfort.

“Addams?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t have to dedicate such a vast portion of your free time to helping others.”

She freezes, visibly offended, but still intent on avoiding his gaze. “I know. I want to.”

“What I meant...Is that you need to add yourself to the equation, Tiffany.”

“I’m doing just fine, thank you.” She scoffs, the barely noticeable defensive undertone reverberating in her firm answer not entirely convincing for the diagnostics virtuoso.

His evaluation is disrupted by the abominably loud beeping of Tiffany’s pager. Their eyes finally clash for a brief shootout with no winner before she shuts the damn thing up.

“Well then. See you later, Doctor Ramsey.” She blurts out hastily without giving him a second glance and turns round to rush out of the room, but stops in her tracks near the door.

Something sparks inside that brilliant mind of hers, reigniting her boldness. Dense curtain of long lashes flutters at him over her shoulder, inky-black and luxurious akin to the finest lace, the signature magnetic smile dancing on her lips again—this time infused with genuine concern. She inspects his countenance for a still moment, inch by inch, crease by crease, until her head falls to the side like she has just uncovered his biggest secret.

“Consider locking the door in your office and getting some rest.”

“Giving me advice isn’t included in your job description.” He sneers, the unnecessarily harsh huff of his disapproval concealing the alien sentiment spilling inside his chest.

Somehow it’s still not enough to antagonize her.

Her eyes bore into his audaciously; the gentleness gleaming from elusive emerald green, reminiscent of safety, offers shelter he despairingly seeks, but cannot take. “But it’s nice to have someone watching out for you, isn’t it?”

Somehow they might have more in common than one would think.

Careful not to expose the motley collection of feelings stirring his blood, Ethan draws in a long breath and slips his hands into the pockets of pristine white coat, perfecting his posture, with tense body standing even taller, as though to appear completely unaffected by her undeniable appeal, more unrelenting.

He’s been looked at countless times, yes, but this must be the first instance where he feels truly seen.

It is indeed nice.

The attending doesn’t say a word, for he would have to agree with the intern. She smirks triumphantly, accepting the tacit disbelief etched on his face as conclusive proof of her diagnosis.

Instead of claiming victory through verbal manifestation of her sass, Doctor Addams attacks him using a different weapon: a provocative wink. “Just think about it.”

With a graceful twirl indicating goodbye, his Rookie struts out, leaving a dizzying mist of her divine scent behind.

Wasting no time, Ethan scoots to the exact place where she stood prior to this moment, soaking up the delicious cloud of fragrance, unable to resist sniffing the air like some sort of disgustingly pathetic creep.

Thankfully, there are no witnesses to this particularly revolting descent into madness.

No witnesses to the beginning of his fall.

Mind over heart has never sounded more delusional than now, that his hard-won empire of spotless reason stands on the verge of crumbling. But he’s not giving up—he can’t give up. There’s too much at stake.

Beyond dispute, Ethan Ramsey is not an easy man to defeat. The King of Quiet Desperation wears his broken crown with arrogance, each burnished gem representing his sins, though the ultimate one hasn’t brought him down yet.

Having put the mask of nonchalance back on, Doctor Ramsey turns off the lights and stomps into the empty corridor—his hand still carrying the heavenly softness of Tiffany’s skin like a fingerprint, like a sin, shaky fingers curling at the very thought of the contact—then begins a seemingly casual stroll to his office.

He doesn’t have many vices—she is all of them.

_____

A/N2: Hope you enjoyed this bad boy ❤️ Sorry (not sorry) if it's too long and repetitive...I literally can't shut up when it comes to these two fsksjdkfjs Plus it felt really good to find my writing mojo after such a long time!

PS. If there are any typos and/or mistakes...No, there aren't lol I'm fighting COVID at the moment, so my brain's a little foggy. I had this fic sitting in my drafts and decided to just go with the flow while I'm feverish and can't see any faults sjfskfkjf I'll get back to everyone waiting for a reply when I'm more coherent. Stay safe, lovelies!

#saw this on the tl and you know i had to reblog #ashamed of myself that i never gave it a proper review #but i hope you know im utterly obsessed with it and have reread it countless times #i feel like i’m beginning to memorize it at this point #'he doesn’t have many vices—she is all of them'#this fucking line!!!! so insane of me to write it #<it IS insane of you to do this to me acc ‼️‼️#i think about it a lot actually #ugh now i’m missing them extra hard rn #my babies ☹️#love them so so much #and i love YOU miss hilde 🫶#i hope you remember that always always

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soscarlett-itwasmaroon · 2 months ago

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rereading this and giving it a reblog here because it’s an absolute masterpiece and no words can describe how much i loved reading every single word of this 🫶🫶🫶

— in which Vlad Dracula grapples with a variety of feelings as he holds his newborn son for the first time.

word count: 1,227 words

warnings: non-graphic references to blood and violence; themes of mortality and death; themes of sacrifice and loss (but none of it is depressive, I promise!)

a/n: The draft for this work was sitting in my folder for such a long time — I only wrote down a few ideas here and there but never had enough inspiration or felt enough direction to carry this out. This week, something finally clicked and so, here it is, a significant work born (together with the baby boy). Just like fatherhood is a crucial aspect of Vlad Dracul’s personality (I have an entire lore about what fatherhood means to him both as a man and as a ruler that I will introduce in due time), the same eventually applies to his sons. In my fictional world, being a father is definitely a driving force in Vlad’s life — this work establishes that significance. As always, thank you for following this journey, and I hope you enjoy this piece! ❤️️

➨ also available on AO3

December 29, 1455, Hermannstadt, Transylvania

Outside, the snow is a silent and relentless thief, stealing the world he once knew. It smothers the streets in white like a shroud, an unending nothingness, the earth buried and forgotten beneath the crystalline sky. Cobblestones drown beneath it, and skeletal trees drip with ice, their boughs bent like penitents under the weight of winter’s reign. A void. A silence so complete, it threatens to consume.

But here, inside, the world is chaos, riotous, wild with colours — colours he did not know could exist, colours that claw at his chest, burst behind his eyes. Red like blood, blood always, because he has lived his whole life in its shadow, but never like this. This blood is not spilt, is not lost, is not of grief or vengeance. It is fire, molten gold, the sun devouring him from within.

He stares at the tiny form in his arms, so small, so impossibly fragile, yet heavy. How can something this small weigh more than the world itself? He thought he knew weight — of swords, of crowns, of bodies — but this is different. He does not dare move, does not dare speak, as though the spell might break. The boy’s breath is a whisper against his chest, and suddenly, he understands what it is to be humbled. Not by men or power or death, but by life, by this life, by the way it roots itself inside him and demands everything. His hands — those hands that have killed, that have built and destroyed and overpowered — feel clumsy, unworthy of this weight. Yet the boy sleeps, serene, unknowing, trusting, as if he belongs there, as if this was always meant to be. And maybe it was. Maybe this is destiny, or grace, or simply the beautiful miracle of life. Whatever it is, it burns, and he knows it will burn forever.

A boy. His boy. My son. The thought erupts, echoing like a battle cry, like a prayer, and shatters him. Tiny fingers curl, so impossibly small, impossibly perfect, and with each movement, a law is written into his blood, a command that says: Protect. Provide. Burn for him if you must.

Less than an hour — how is it only an hour? — and his world is unmade. Every moment before this, every choice, every scar, has been a prelude, a stumbling preface to this. The light through the window is a pale, indifferent thing, trying in vain to intrude, but it has no place here, no power. What is the sun compared to this child, his son, to the pulse of his heartbeat against his own? He is no longer singular — he is plural. We. A father, a son. Blood calls to blood, and suddenly all the rivers of his life converge, rushing, flooding, drowning him in feelings he cannot yet name.

This is my son. The words rise and fall in his mind, crashing like waves. Our son. He sees his reflection in the baby’s face. The downy hair, his own midnight black, still damp and curling slightly at the edges. He sees Cătălina too, in the child’s darkest eyes, her eyes, revealed for a moment before he shut them close again. The line of her brow. She gave him this. He and Cătălina — Cătălina, whose laughter carries him through his darkest nights, whose quiet strength is his fortress — together they have created this. They have conjured life where there was none, a third born of their two, as though God owed them this act of creation after all He had taken.

His love for her has been his constant, his solace, his battle cry. It is the calm of still waters, the salve for old wounds, the strength that steadies him when the earth trembles beneath his feet. With her, love has been a choice — a deliberate, defiant act against fate’s capricious cruelty. Together, they have endured, their scars exposed, their hearts laid bare, and in that sharing, they have built something indestructible.

This love is nothing like that. It is not calm. It is not a choice. It is feral, raw, all-consuming. It tears through him like a storm, leaving nothing untouched. It is a blade, sharp and merciless, carving through his chest and leaving him exposed, vulnerable in a way he has never been before. It could never be shattered but has the power to shatter him. The world is not safe, not for something this small, this fragile. How can it be, when he knows what lurks beyond these walls — men with blades, beasts with teeth, a world indifferent to the sanctity of innocence? And yet, it is also power. It fills him, hardens him. He would stand alone against the fury of armies, against death itself, if it meant protecting this child from harm’s claws.

His utmost source of pride. His profoundest vulnerability.

He thinks of his father. Of Mircea. Of Radu. All names etched in his bones, faces carved into memory. He has been protector and brother and son, will become avenger one day, but never this. Never father. The title clings to him, foreign and sacred. He thought he knew it — the duty, the sacrifice. He found purpose in this devotion. He thought that all the years spent shielding his younger brother from the cold edges of the world prepared him for this moment. But how could they? Nothing could prepare him for the sight of this child, his child, breathing in his arms.

The weight of his father’s ghost presses upon him, sharp as the chill of the snow-covered street outside. He is not his father, and yet he is. The line between them blurs. Legacy threads its needle and sews father to son, one life bleeding into the next. He sees Dracul’s shadow kneeling before death, eyes blazing with a ferocity only a parent could muster. He sees the unyielding choice — sacrifice, always sacrifice, for the sake of the bloodline. Would he also bare his neck to the blade if it meant this child, this piece of him, might live? The answer is not a thought. It is a certainty, instinctual, primal, eternal.

He finds himself on the precipice of uncharted territory that he must navigate alone, led only by instinct. The tiny soul in his embrace is a unique entity, the only one of his kind in the vast expanse of the world. Despite their shared blood, they are strangers, meeting for the first time. How does he decipher the soft sounds emerging from the small body? Is his son content in his hold?

Will he navigate this journey correctly? Is it within his power? What kind of man will this frail angel bloom into as the days rush past?

His mind races through visions — the child running, the boy laughing, the man holding a sword. And then — no, he will not think it, but it comes nonetheless — visions of cold stones and red spilt over snow. He holds the child closer, as if the force of his grip can shield him from futures too dark to be borne.

The snow outside might as well be an ocean. He will wade through it, drown in it, to keep his son safe. To keep him warm. To keep him whole.

For the first time in years, Vlad Drăculea feels fear. And it feels beautiful indeed.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end! As always, now is the time to dive a little into some historical context behind the story.

You might have noticed that the timeline does not quite align with the historical information we have about Vlad’s sons. While I try to stay as faithful as I can to all the information that we have at our disposal, every writer has certain areas in their work in which they take some creative liberties — this is mine, and so here is the space to introduce a fictional eldest son into the narrative. (I hope the dedicated Vlad researchers can forgive me for this tweak!) This choice came from nothing else but a personal desire to explore Vlad as a father much earlier in his life. While his real decisions and actions stand on their own — his life unfolded the way it did, after all — I was fascinated by the creative prospect of how fatherhood might influence his personality and decisions in other areas. That is how Mircea came to be. Nonetheless, here is a bit of factual information about Vlad’s children to clarify the decision!

The precise number of Vlad’s children remains a subject of historical uncertainty, but it is generally accepted by historians that he had three sons. The eldest, Mihnea (traditionally recorded as being born in 1462, though I have adjusted his birth year to 1460 for narrative purposes), was born out of a relationship with Vlad’s mistress. After a tumultuous life marked by persistent struggles, he ultimately ascended to his father’s throne and became the voivode of Wallachia in 1508. Vlad’s other two sons were born of his first marriage to the illegitimate daughter of John Hunyadi. One of these, Vlad (alternatively Ladislaus), became his elder half-brother’s rival, unsuccessfully laid claim to Wallachia around 1495, and subsequently relocated to Western Transylvania, where his descendants would later establish the Hungarian noble branch of the Drăculești. The other son (whose name we do not know) chose a markedly different path by renouncing political ambition entirely and becoming a priest. He passed away at a young age in 1486 in Oradea. If you want to learn more about Vlad’s family, Corpus Draculianum offers an excellent video on the topic, which I highly recommend.

Mircea (who, as you might surmise, bears the name of another significant figure in Vlad’s life — we shall get to that soon) is, just like my version of Vlad’s mistress, entirely a product of my imagination. In crafting his story, I have taken creative liberties by reordering the lineage of Vlad’s children — in my version, Vlad has two sons with Cătălina and only one son (Vlad) with his first wife. Yet, even as a fictional character, Mircea serves as a lens through which to explore some of the customs, challenges, and intricacies of life in Wallachia in those times. This is certainly not his last appearance as he will be a recurring figure, with his journey depicted from his earliest moments through to adulthood. I hold a deep love for Mircea as a character, and I hope you will come to cherish him just as much.

Between 1454 and 1456, Vlad spent two years in exile in Sibiu (Hermannstadt in German), a period marked by a very lucrative and pragmatic alliance with John Hunyadi. Through this arrangement, Vlad was granted a military appointment to safeguard the southern borders of Transylvania from potential Ottoman incursions. (This role actually mirrored his father’s earlier duties in Sighișoara, where he similarly acted as a bulwark against Ottoman threats.) As part of this agreement, Vlad established his residence in Sibiu, where the influential Saxon authorities (many of whom had previously sought his death) were ordered to tolerate his presence under Hunyadi’s directive. Sibiu was a prominent cultural and administrative hub of the Transylvanian Saxons and became the centre of Vlad’s operations during this time. His headquarters attracted other Wallachian noble exiles loyal to the Drăculești, which allowed Vlad to establish the groundwork for a strategic return to Wallachia to reclaim the throne. This period of his long exile therefore served as both a refuge and a staging ground for his ambitions. (Note: In referencing place names, I adopt the regional language(s) of the said place to reflect the sociopolitical and cultural realities of the time. During the High and Late Middle Ages, the Transylvanian Saxons were among the most influential ethnic groups in Transylvania, particularly in cities like Sibiu, which underscored their dominance in administrative and cultural affairs in the region. For that reason, I employ the German equivalents for these cities.)

You may have been taken aback by Cătălina’s appearance in Vlad’s Sibiu chapter of his exile years. I promise this will also be elaborated on in the future — while I cannot promise absolute historical plausibility, I still try to use as much historical information as I can to make the arc of their relationship as realistic as possible. Let’s just say that the events taking place in “When Paths Cross” are just the beginning of the rollercoaster that their relationship will turn out to be at times. :)

#vlad dracula #need to go back to your other work lin #ugh i just wish i could understand the lore behind all of it #lin is an absolute genius (REAL)

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