Would It Have Been So Very Different?

The next night Rosamund spoke to Count Ivar with a shyness she had never experienced before. Both acted fairly awkwardly, with him seeming even more reserved than normal and maintaining a calm and quiet posture. Unsure what to say, she bit her lip. He had been more emotional around her when he had released her than he had been in all the days she had known him. Both of them needed some time to get used to this new, uncomfortable ceasefire.

They sat in big winged armchairs by the roaring fire in the vast dining hall, all of them apparently reading. But Ivar kept looking up at her from his book, and Rosamund thought he was not as interested in his book as she was in hers.

But now, she told herself, they were meant to be friends. She was a visitor, not a prisoner, and she chose to be here.

“Ivar?” she dared to ask.

As though hearing his initial name had given him a shock of electricity, he instantly sat up taller.

"Yes, Rosamund?" he asked courteously, his eyebrows going up with real curiosity.

Daring to ask what she had previously feared, she inhaled deeply. "How did you become into this person? You were once human, just like me; you weren't always undead. You must have been changed by someone. Your creator "acted on whims," as you put it. What were you trying to say?

Ivar's features took on a dismal appearance as his face darkened. As he talked, he got up and started to pace in front of the fireplace.

A stranger, another Count, who resided in a nearby castle in the Carpathian Mountains, wrote to me when I was twenty-eight years old. In order to forge a cordial alliance, he asked me to remain at his fortress. I accepted without question because I was naive about human behavior, and I rode to his house.

Her voice was low as she said, "Was it a trap?"

"Yes, it was," he said sourly. "I feel stupid now. Despite his charm and polite demeanor, there was something strange and sinister about him. Even though he gave me a warm greeting, I was unable to articulate why I felt uneasy.

I made the terrible error of dozing off in the study on the second night rather than going to my guest accommodations. A gentle voice called my name as I woke up.

A woman's soft, airy voice called out to me from the corridor. I got up and floated to the door in a daze. Aside from you, my dear, while you had not yet been born, there were three of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen. They were frighteningly pale, wearing flowing white skirts, two with dark hair and one blonde. I was mesmerized by their smiles and felt obliged to follow them when they beckoned.

They guided me down numerous flights of stairs and along twisting hallways before arriving at a crypt, a chilly, dim passageway.

Despite my fear, I was powerless to resist these alluring women. With a sly smirk, the blonde one moved in to give me a kiss, but—

A voice—Count Ivar's—broke the silence. "Girls," he mockingly reprimanded, "did I not tell you that I am going to kill this gentleman? Tonight, I'll supply your own prey.

I recognized it as Count Ivar with a shudder of fear. He emerged from the darkness, and I was frozen in horror, unable to move or scream. Reluctantly, the women separated to let him pass, and then

Ivar turned away from her and trailed off, putting a hand on the mantle.

"Did he bite you?" With timidity, Rosamund inquired.

He gave a quick nod.

I was in a dim, enclosed area when I woke up. I felt the silk-lined walls and knew, horrified, that I was buried deep beneath in a coffin.

With a gasp, Rosamund put a palm to her mouth. "No!"

Yes, he responded somberly. My servants buried me because they believed I was dead. Count Ivar insisted on a speedy funeral, telling them that I, like my father, had perished from the plague.

"But why did he change you at all?" Rosamund inquired hesitantly.

Ivar's expression was stern as he turned away. He claimed, "I believed he turned me on a whim for years." "However, I now think he viewed me as a possible ally—a well-positioned aristocratic vampire."

"It sounds like he was preparing a war."

Vlad the Impaler, a conqueror who enjoyed violence and horror even before he turned undead, was my creation. He probably wants to instill terror even though he isn't organizing a conflict. Naturally, he grinned, "he is unaware that I would never accompany him or that my... unusual way of life would undoubtedly disgust him."

Rosamund shuddered. "What happened next?"

I tore through six feet of dirt with my claws. Luckily, it was dark, and nobody noticed me coming out. Castle Dravenstone was where I ran to.

As the light rose, I became aware of what had happened to me and who I had become. I don't think I need to, yet I can't explain the horror and loathing that followed. You recall waking up yourself.

But in my dark exile, I had no friend and was completely alone—a monster despised and hated by humanity.

"Like my mother, I attempted to take my own life, but I discovered too late that we are unable to do so. So, as you know, I sunk into despair and banished myself to Castle Dravenstone, where I vowed to eat strictly. I detested the monster I had turned into for forty years.

His bleak comments caused Rosamund's eyes to sting. She took a deep breath.

"Then a girl came to Valtara: beautiful, innocent, compassionate, and orphaned like me," Ivar said, his voice quivering as he turned to face her. I understood I didn't have to be alone. I longed for a companion, an equal—someone who was aware of my difficulties.

His eyes searched hers with an unspoken, raw plea as he crouched before her chair, bringing their faces level.

His voice was filled with emotion as he admitted, "All I wanted was to be allowed to love someone." I acted selfishly because my desperation impairs judgment. Rosamund, I had no right to determine your destiny. That is only a cause, not an excuse.

Rosamund narrowed her eyes and sniffed. "Why are you stating this to me?"

He answered quietly and passionately, "Because I want you to understand why I made the choices I did." "I want to win your friendship, even though I don't deserve it, and I don't think I can accomplish that until you get why the offense was committed in the first place. I want you to know that I am not often that heartless or self-serving; I was desperate enough to act in such a selfish manner. I don't want you to think of me as a despot.

He begged her to understand, and his words lingered in the air, vulnerable and raw. However, Rosamund came to a chilly realization as she listened to his upsetting memories. She couldn't really detest him. She felt sorry for the shattered guy in front of her, who was imprisoned in his own guilt.

Ivar hesitated, his confession still weighing heavily on them.

He clasped her hands in his and whispered, "I have a second motive." "I am aware of how much you have also experienced. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here. I am available to bring you comfort if discussion or company could lessen your suffering in any way.

Rosamund paused, the cold in her heart a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hands. She nodded, her face softening as she slowly released her hands from his.

"I'm grateful," she muttered. "Thank you for that."