I've Chosen You To Be My Bride

Rosamund was forced to withdraw to her room because she was trapped by the intense sunlight that was shining through the tiny windows of the musty, depressingly dismal castle.

The chamber was enveloped in a permanent twilight, which appeared to reflect her own deteriorating circumstances, as the heavy drapes covering the windows obscured the outside world. The sudden luxury in front of her made her breath catch in her throat as she entered. The stone walls were decorated with rich tapestries, the elaborate threads of which showed images of ancient battles and legendary animals engaged in never-ending conflict. With its deep velvet canopy embroidered with delicate gold thread that shimmered faintly in the dark light, a huge four-poster bed dominated the middle of the room. A crystal chandelier dangling from the vaulted ceiling reflected the mellow glow of the ornate furnishings that stood sentinel around the chamber, polished to a mirror-like sheen. This must be the master bedroom, opulent with all its opulence, she realized immediately, with a sickening ache in her stomach—a cruel irony for a prisoner like her.

She closed herself in the room, moving as slowly as if she were wading through molasses, loath to confront Count Ivar more than was necessary. A shiver went down her spine as she saw that the key was missing from the handle of the thick oak door. She felt a surge of powerlessness that threatened to overwhelm her determination. She gave in to her uncontrollable tears and threw herself upon the bed, the soft down comforter giving way under her weight. Her tears were muffled by the cloth, but they still came freely and soaked into the duvet, which then stuck damply to her cheek.

From outside, she heard the dim, menacing click of the key turning in the lock, but it was too late. Her senses were electrified as alarm jolted through her like a lightning strike. With quivering hands, she twisted the handle desperately as she leaped to the door. It refused to move. She hammered against the unforgiving wood, the sound resonating hollowly in the cramped room, panic clawing at her throat like a wild, feral animal.

She screamed, "Let me out!" her voice cracking with unadulterated rage and terror. Did he intend to keep her here until she was completely insane, until she turned into the monster she feared? She had, after all, locked herself in this chamber of her own choosing, to escape the misery that had become her existence, but his act of locking her in turned it into a jail she could not control, a golden cage from which she could not escape. Her fists were bruised against the door as she begged, "Please, let me out of here'."

She believed she heard a gentle sigh coming from beyond the barrier, but she couldn't be positive. A low grumble, barely heard through the dense wood, said, "I'm sorry, but this is for your sake and others'." She was puzzled by the words, which whirled around in her head like leaves in a tempest. Before she could answer, she heard a faint whooshing sound, similar to the one that accompanied his strange movements, indicating that her kidnapper had left. Then fatigue overcame her, suffocating her will like a thick blanket. She wasn't even strong enough to walk around the room. Having been defeated, she collapsed back onto the bed, allowing her sadness to build inside of her and release more tears. The saltwater of her sorrow soaked the comforter underneath her, a visible testament to her suffering.

With the weight of her situation pressing down on her heart, she said to herself, "I want to be good, not evil." Can't you be merciful and let me die a real death, God? It's better to be dead than undead, killing innocent people and preying on the people I love! The silent supplication echoed in her head, a frantic call to an unattainable heaven.

Her agonized plea, however, sparked a slender glimmer of hope as she lay there sniffing and staring at the elaborately carved ceiling. She still had a strong, intense concern for her morals. If she still felt empathy, if she still wanted to be decent, then maybe she was herself after all, even though it was silly to hold onto the idea that a vampire could keep their soul. Perhaps she wasn't yet a demon. Perhaps her compassion would endure, a sliver of her humanity, if she never gave in to the need to drink blood. Even if it was unlikely, there might still be a chance for her to be saved for all eternity.

How could she, however, avoid the inevitable? She would undoubtedly get extremely hungry as time went on, driven insane by the unquenchable thirst for blood that still pulsates beneath her flesh. She thought about this incessantly, her thoughts spinning with doubt and anxiety. Though she knew it was only a temporary fix, keeping herself in this room seemed to be her only option for the time being, a thin barrier against the darkness inside of her.

Biting her fingernail in anxious reflection, she grimly decided to accept this arrangement for the time being. A painful reminder of the change she was unable to avoid, the sharp edge of her newly enlarged canine teeth scraped her finger.

Her mind wandered to other problems, each one a new injury. Her bed would have been empty by now, the covers chilly and undisturbed, when her aunt and uncle returned home. Their hearts were shattered by the thought of possibly even piecing together her terrible destiny. She pondered anguishedly why the garlic thread and cross hadn't deterred him. Then she realized—the monster must have sneaked through the window, avoiding her weak defenses—with a sob that ripped from her chest. The grief of discovering their niece had been taken from them in this manner was not something those kindhearted people who had accepted her as their own daughter deserved. It was impossible for her to go back to them; even though she really wanted to comfort them and see their familiar faces one last time, she couldn't trust herself not to hurt them. With bone-white skin and sharper teeth almost protruding over her lips, who would want to see their niece in such a changed state?

And what could she do in this castle? It felt hard to get away from Count Ivar forever. He was always aware of her exact whereabouts, rising out of the darkness like a ghost, his presence a continual, oppressive burden on her soul.

Rosamund was so engrossed in her fantasy that she hardly noticed the passing of the hours. She was trapped in an eternal dusk as the sun sank below the horizon, streaking the sky red, but the heavy draperies blocked off the changing light. She was brought back to the present by a startling mechanical click—the door was being unlocked. She felt a shock of terror that ignited her nerves like lightning. A blast of wind rustled the tapestries as the door swung wide, revealing Count Ivar's imposing, ominous figure standing in the doorway with his dark cloak billowing slightly.

With a low rumbling that seemed to reverberate through the stone floor, he declared, "It's sunset now." "You must have a lot of thirst."

Rosamund's fingers trembled as she touched her throat in surprise. She had vaguely sensed an odd dryness and an unexplainable gnawing throughout the last few hours—like an unquenchable hunger. She felt a wave of sickness churn her stomach, and she knew it was a rising, sneaky hunger for blood.

With methodical steps, he moved inside the room and grabbed her wrist with an iron-like grip.

"Come," he ordered resolutely, his voice not allowing for any dissent. "Letting you get thirsty is much riskier because you'll turn into a threat." The first year is the most intense because you are still a young person and have not yet perfected fasting.

She resisted, pressing her heels as deeply into the floor as she could, but he dragged her out of the room. Her efforts were in vain because of his unwavering strength, which was infused with the might of twenty men. She felt helpless to stop him, like a rag doll in his hands.

Too scared to look him in the eyes, she screamed, "No, no, no!" as her voice reached a desperate crescendo. Her cries for compassion reverberated around the hallway, but they were not heard.

With a visage as hard as stone and features as unforgiving as granite, he ignored her and pulled her forward. As he pulled her down the hallway to the marble staircase, her screams echoed off the chilly stone walls, creating a hollow and eerie sound.

Finally, he turned to face her, his patience clearly waning as he continued to hold her wrist. With a growl that sent shivers down her spine, he growled, "Must I carry you all a way down?"

His face was hideous in his rage—eyes like coals in the gloom, forehead furrowed in a deep furrow, and sharp fangs exposed in a sneer that exposed the predator hidden beneath the man. She was rendered speechless by the sight, and her breath froze in her throat, immobilizing her.

"Good," he yelled, seeing her lack of response as obedience. He pulled her down the spiral staircase, and she followed faster now, like a shy mouse in a hawk's shadow. Each step was a slide into greater misery, and the steps were smooth and chilly underfoot. With its vaulted ceiling engulfed in shadows and moonlight filtered through tall windows to create unsettling patterns on the marble floor, the vast entrance hall loomed ahead. He marched to the tall double doors, pushed them open with a flourish that reverberated through the hall, and took her hand again, waves of barely contained rage rolling off him.