the vampire diaries. [M]

[Jusztina Draculesti]

April 1462


A cry of ecstasy rose like billowing smoke into the tension filled air as the blonde’s finger nails dug into the toned back of the raven haired man. She bit her lower lip and closed her delicate eyelids tightly as she waited impatiently for his release, for her to know it was over; and with a shudder running through him and the grunt of a bear escaping from the confines of his throat, her thrust his hips roughly against her own a few more times before he finally collapsed on top of her, crushing her breasts and ribcage and causing her to have a slight discomfort in breathing. Azure feline orbs appeared as eyelids finally flew open like a spring flower blossoming for summer and she let out a heavy exhalation of her own breath in comparison to his labored breathing right by her ear. Her fingers relaxed against his back, slipping down the toned edges until they fell to either side of her-arms stretched wide open. Her long legs were in a similar manner, his callused hands still placed on her thighs as if to keep them in place as she felt him still beating within her. She looked up at the ceiling where there was a reflective surface – one his father had before him and so on down the line. She could see his naked form upon her own, the way her golden loose curls fell like a halo around the two of them, and how his one hand slipped away from her thigh to tangle into the blonde jungle and play with the strands absently, contently weary.

He sucked in a deep breath, as if savoring the scent they had created and how the musk counteracted against her usual honeysuckle aroma. He always smelled of the forest, of the battle field, of labor and royalty. His lips, thin, caressed the crook of her neck and shoulder, free hand exploring her gentle curves as he had so many times before. The fourteen year old’s orbs wavered on that image given by the reflection, feeling like she’d been torn in two in the most delicious way possible and yet praying he wouldn’t want to go for another ride. This had been the second time that night and she was surprised his stamina could even last so long. Normally, once was enough – for both of them – and then they could easily fall asleep with each other’s limbs intertwined blissfully. This had been normal since she was thirteen and made his wife, a routine she had hated on the first night but had grown accustomed to. As he pulled out and away from her, he scratched his chiseled abdomen and looked down at her youthful form sprawled out for his own pleasure. His dark emerald orbs bore into her skin and she watched him, his mouth twisting into a lethargic puppy like grin that held more power than he probably could have ever imagined on his own. His fingers traced her outline as if memorizing them, the way her hips dipped into her concave and flat stomach, how her ribs were ever so slightly visible. Women, at that time, weren’t toned with flexible muscles or as thin as she was. They didn’t possess her itty waist, jutting hips, and small yet perky breasts. Granted, she was only fourteen, but even fourteen year olds were not 5’10.

“Did I ever tell you how delicious you looked?”

The Romanian words entered her small ears as she looked up at him, an innocent and playful youth chanting and dancing across her features as she held up her dainty hands so his fingers laced in with her own – so much longer and larger so they swallowed her hand full. She nodded, remembering how he’d told her that shortly before deflowering her the previous year on their wedding night. He pulled her up with ease and wrapped his arms around her, kissing into her hair, “You wouldn’t ever leave me…would you, Jusztina?” She shook her head as a response, her heart beating slowly with how exhausted he’d make her over the last hour. The thirty one year old stroked her hair before pulling her down with him as he landed on his side on the bed, holding her with one strong arm and using the other to cover them with the fur blankets, “Good.”

[Jusztina Draculesti]

February 1464

The ear splitting scream came from the person next to her.

The sixteen year old cast her eyes away, down to the damp stone floors covered in blood with bones, limbs, and flies in the corners. The closed off dungeon smelled like decay and felt like death. It clung to her skin and she felt so utterly desperate to wash the smell off. She didn’t like the icy feeling that crept up her spine as she hung there, her small hands gripping the chains attached to the handcuffs eating away at her thin wrists. She sucked in a shaky breath that came out more like a gasp as she attempted to take in some kind of oxygen without causing too much noise. There was more screaming, the sound of a blade slicing flesh and hacking away at bone as if it were wood, and then silence. Her blonde hair was matted against her head and neck, damp with sweat and from the freezing water that had been dumped on her two days ago. Her skin was clammy; the winter fierce just above the ceiling on her head, and the thin, white, linen gown she wore was torn up on the back, heavy welts and obvious signs of abuse visible with the blood caked and some still trickling through. A violent shiver ran through her and as the door loudly creaked and opened, the light from the torches hurt her eyes, long unaccustomed to such blinding rays. She didn’t look away, though, only let her ghostly orbs, foggy with malnutrition and silence penetrate through some unspoken field between them. The silence hung like a heavy curtain of tension as the Turkish general walked into the room and she could feel the floor vibrated beneath her bare feet, reverberating up through her weakened bones. Her knees had buckled long before he’d walked in so she felt like her arms were being outstretched above her.

“Do you plan on telling us anything today, your highness?”

One would think if they called her by such a name, even if it was sarcastically, they would treat her with more respect. If anything, to them it was a laughable matter. The queen of Wallachia – broken and defeated with her King nowhere in sight to come to her rescue. Hadn’t he been the one to brag about his devotion to her? His undying affection and how he would forever be her knight in shining armor? Was he just saying that so no man would dare look twice at her? So she could be his and his alone? He wasn’t protecting her. He wasn’t keeping them from picking up the whips and hitting them against her small back. He wasn’t there to stop them from kicking and beating her, raping her until she felt disgusting from the inside out. He just wasn’t around. Period.

She couldn’t blame Vlad, though, could she? He was off fighting a war on the front and she had been left behind to watch over the country while he was away to keep the order and the peace. But a queen only has as much power as the king gives her and she hadn’t been given much. She still had to go through him for every single decision and it took weeks, months, for things to go in positive directions. In the end, she was captured by the Turks and he did nothing to stop them or save her. She was on her own. Yet she still said nothing, the pride she felt for her country, the loyalty to her family, seemed to be what would grant her her death wish. At least she would die as someone true and faithful to what she believed in. Noble. She never thought she could use such a word to describe herself. So she remained silent for a few moments as the general came up to her, his gloved hand grabbing her already bruised jaw so she was forced to look at him as if he were trying to scare her. The blonde looked at him defiantly, however, forcing all emotions to the background and showing rebellion in the foreground. She was as stubborn as a mule and she wasn’t going to go down unless they chopped her up into pieces, “Shame. Such a beautiful creature and so unappreciated. I heard your husband is looking for more wives. I guess he gave up on you, yes? Maybe you can become mine?” his face was close to hers as he whispered the last question into her cheek. His breathe smelled like tobacco and gun powder as he brushed his lips against hers and then kissed her forcefully. Without hesitating, she bit down on his lower lip and he let out a howl as he pulled away. She spat the blood out at him and the rage flew across his disgusting face as the back of leather-bound hand fell hard across her cheek. It felt like her head had spun three times over as it lolled to the side, hair covering her face as she started coughing, swaying with the chains as she tried standing up right as if to fight him but simply couldn’t.

He breathed in heavily and breathed out in the same manner, starring daggers of disbelief in her direction, “Unchain her.” the order was barked out as the two soldiers unlocked the handcuffs and once she was released, she collapsed on the ground, trying to gulp in air as if she wouldn’t have any more of it soon. He took the liberty of kicking her hard in the stomach but after the third kick, she had gone so numb, he could have thrown her off a cliff onto shards of glass and she wouldn’t have felt anything. He picked her up by her hair so she was the same eye level as he was and by then, she was weezing, trying to breathe just to keep her eyes opened. He must have seen death written across her features but, miraculously, didn’t have the heart to chop her to bits as he’d done the last captive. He still smelled like fresh blood, “Dump her in the river. She won’t survive it.”

He let her fall in a heap on the ground before the soldiers went on each end of her, one grabbing her arms and the other her legs, and headed out of the cell. Her head lolled and her body was limp as they carried her and she felt herself go in and out of consciousness, the inky blackness seeming so inviting as it beckoned her to let it swallow her whole. She could see glimpses of her life playing like one of those gypsy dramas she always went to. She could see her birth, her childhood playing in the Carpathian Mountains, her father’s funeral, being introduced and married to Vlad all on the same day, the birth of Mihnea I – her beautiful baby boy with his curly blonde hair and large blue eyes, then the birth of Mihail with his entrancing sky blue hues and shaggy raven hair, her husband the last night she saw him lying next to her n bed and brushing her hair out of her face – for the first time telling her he loved her.

Then she saw the Turkish men barging into her castle, the nannies running off with the two boys down a secret corridor under the structure, the soldiers fighting her off until she was finally captured and dragged to a secret location after being blindfolded. All she could register was the sound of hooves on hard packed dirt roads, the screeching wheels of the carriage, and then the barking of orders in a language she did not know. Soon enough, she felt herself being lifted and felt the cold, winter air whipping around her and causing a daring, swelling pain on all her exposed skin like knifes slicing her open in a million different direction. She hadn’t realized she’d been thrown, even with the flighty feeling anchoring itself in the pit of her stomach, and she hit the water hard. The bridge wasn’t high enough, really, to even give her a broken limb. They just assumed she wouldn’t swim and would just drown. Under the water, she was sure this was it. Everything was compressing against her and what felt like moments of agony were interrupted by someone grabbing her upper arm, the warmth of their hand keeping her from diving head first into the open arms of hell, and dragging her out into the sunlight.

[Jusztina Draculesti]

December 1465

The scent clung to the electrified air as the goblet fell from her thin hands, hitting the stone floor of the dining hall. The wine spilled and pooled in dark splotches as Jusztina stood there, her face growing pale. Clad in her night gown, she looked at the servant in disbelief, her words penetrating her ears and beating on her eardrums in a chorus she didn’t want to hear. Quickly, the blonde pushed past the servant with the grave expression and raced through the dining hall, bare feet making tiny padded sounds and trailing a bit of the wine behind her in small footsteps. She ran through the hall, suddenly feeling as if it were endless, her heart beating quickly in her chest cavity. No no no… the words ran over and over in her face as she caught sight of the familiar blonde curls like a halo on the head of her oldest son. His right side faced her as he looked on, his angelic face stoic as he stood there in his own night gown, fire reflected in those muddy hues. ”Mihnea,” she grabbed him desperately, not even realizing she had already been sobbing as her hands gripped his thin shoulders to turn the small boy around. The sight of his face, so emotionless and bare other than a single tear slipping down his cheek, caused a panic to rise within the young, seventeen year old mother. She forced her eyes away from his as she looked into Mihail’s bed chambers where Mihnea had been looking and the sight made her muscles turn to jello yet her feet remained cemented into the ground.

She knew her husband had been acting strange for the past couple of months. She knew he had been sleeping in all day only to be wide awake at night. She knew he refused to eat any of the food the servants would have for him but would disappear for hours on end and return with the scent of perfume or sex on his collar. She had simply thought he’d found himself a mistress, that she kept him away from his family and she would simply deal with it. He was king after all. She could not go against him – not without potentially losing her life and never seeing her sons again. But this…this…

The small bed was drenched in blood with the dismembered arm on the ground next to it, small with cherub fingers loosely curled in. The stone walls and floor were slick, all the ivory and baby blue covered linens soaked into unearthly tones that screamed death and stank of copper. But the worst sight was that of her husband, back turned to the doorway, with his body crouched around another smaller form, the dark curls spilling out from a face still completely asleep with blood staining his cheeks and nose. Vlad’s mouth was latched onto his neck as if drinking deeply and Jusztina found herself running over to him and, with a gentleness she didn’t think she could ever have for the creature, placed a hand on his back that was as cold as ice even through his stained shirt, “Enough…” it came out as a choked sob and he seemed to detach himself and look at her with crimson eyes of a demon, the fires of hell burning behind them. He seemed drunk as he looked up at her, almost as if begging for her forgiveness without saying any words. He looked down at Mihail’s corpse in his arms, the boy’s arm missing, the neck strangled and abused and then held him up to Jusztina who, with trembling hands, took her youngest son, only two years old, into her arms and let out such a tremendous wail as she fell to her knees, holding him close to her chest as if somehow her life could spill into this form and he would wake up and be fine. He would smile and be adventurous as he always had. He would pull on the bottom hem of her dress and she would look down at him while he held his chubby arms up, asking for his mama to pick him up and take him to see the horses in the stables. He would be okay…he would not be dead.

The wail seemed to carry on as she sobbed, Mihnea standing in the doorway watching with careful eyes, crying but silent as if he could somehow blend in with the walls. Vlad remained crouched, looking at his wife and his youngest son together and the hearty, plump tears that continued down her cheeks, holding the boys head against her own and staining her blonde locks with his blood. “How could you do this!” she suddenly screamed out, eyes wide with venom and sadness at her husband who continued looking at her with that same face, “Our son! OUR SON!” her voice was hoarse as she clung to the tiny frame, still somehow hoping this was all just a terrible nightmare and it would all be over son, “You were there for his birth! YOU CREATED HIM!” she sounded frantic, panicked as she rocked back and forth, suddenly looking like the child she was. The aching in her chest festered, gripping and gnawing rawness like put salt on a new wound and pressing down. It felt worse than the months of torture from the Turks. It felt worse than finding out her older brother had killed her father. It was worse than any pain in the world, losing a child…such an innocent little boy, so bright and wonderful, cheerful and kind. He’d never harm a fly and would have possibly made an amazing man should he have had the chance, “My baby boy…” the Romanian words ran over her tongue that felt thick as she looked down at him, the ever present knot in her throat feeding the waterfall of tears. She did not care that she was completely drenched in her son’s crimson life support. She just wanted him, so desperately, to not be in the state he was in, to not have died in such a tragic and painful way.

A servant had grabbed Mihnea, carrying him off to his room and locking the door behind the two of them to keep Vlad from doing away with another heir to his throne…especially when the look of a beggar left his orbs and a hunger seemed to settle in and an anger she could not comprehend, “Silence,” he stood, his voice commanding and demonic, icy and just wrong as if he were talking to his soldiers. He had never spoken to Jusztina in such a way and she didn’t dare look up at him, just continued rocking back and forth at Vlad’s feet holding Mihail, “Enough of this ridiculous behavior, Jusztina. Mihail served his purpose and there is no use sobbing like a child over it,” he grabbed the boy away as if he were a rag doll with a strength she never remembered Vlad possessing. He flung the body off to the side of the room and Jusztina shrieked, arms outstretched toward the corpse of the two year old before Vlad grabbed her thin wrist and yanked her to her feet. She struggled to pull away, but alas it was in vain as his grip remained unmoving, “Let me go!” she screamed out, using her free hand to punch Vlad hard in the chest as if it would somehow convince him to simply let her be, “I have the right to grieve for my son which you murdered!” she was yelling though it sounded shrill as she continued struggling and he pushed her in the opposite direction to the wall, knocking the wind out of her as her small back made the impact. Falling to the floor, she gasped for air and then, looking at Vlad who took his time walking toward her, she darted for the door which Vlad was suddenly in front of as he slammed it shut, “Don’t be a stupid girl, Jusztina,” he began, “Am I not your husband? Your king? Am I not always right and my word always law?” She looked up at him with a sudden terror creeping into her round blue orbs. She was backing up, tripping and stumbling over her long night gown until she was crawling backwards away from him. She reached the curtains for the balcony which were pulled back since Mihail used to use the moonlight as his guide into the dream world.

Her head gently bumped into the stone wall that created the thick railing and she felt her heart jump into her chest as Vlad loomed over her as if defying the laws of gravity and logic, “We could live forever, my love. Forever to watch and conquer this world and make it our own.” but the words didn’t entirely register in her head. Instead, she spat in his face, her eyebrows coming down harshly as she defied his supposed offer, “I’d rather suffer the torture of the Turks for the rest of eternity than live it with a monster such as yourself,” her voice, still hoarse, came out angry and bitter, the innocence that once floated in her orbs disappearing the longer she looked at him. He wiped the spit off his face and gave a dark chuckle, “No need for such harsh words, love. So you lost a son…You can have thousands of children who will never leave you – have them for as long as this earth survives,” his hand darted out, fingers wrapping around her skinny neck. She scrambled to try to get away from his grip, eyes going wide as the oxygen supply in her lungs started lessening, “No matter. I am your husband, your king, your owner and you are nothing more than a wild horse that needs to be tamed,” he spoke with frustration in his eyes as his free hand tore off her clothing. Spreading her long legs, he forced himself on her, causing a choked sound to come from her as she closed her eyes tightly and grimaced, fingers desperately trying to pry his fingers loose and when she was finally given the chance to breathe, as he continued to have his way with her, she watched the fangs grow in his mouth and they were suddenly clamped down on her neck, causing a scream to erupt from within her. It was a scream of terror, of pain both physical and emotional. A scream that plagued Vlad for the rest of his days and was the source of the guilt that ate away at him-a remorse that now lingered as a memory through Jusztina’s veins.