Note: This little... thing is the result of my starting to read The Historian by Elizabeth Kastova, as well as several different biographical works on Vlad III Draculea, and watching Dracula: Dark Prince starring Rudolf Martin.
Word Count: 605
The angrier he became, the more he felt like causing pain. It was a complete injustice, what had been done to him, complete and complex in its horror. He, who had done so much for the people of his country, murdered in such an ignoble way. Yet, he could do nothing to avenge this, not himself. Even his sons could do nothing; they were naught but dust these many years.
Years? Was it just that short an amount of time? How long had past in the world above? How many years had he lain in this dank pit of a grave, saving up, regaining his strength, preparing to free himself upon the world that had so callously abandoned him? It wouldn't be much longer. In his rage, he had grown much, much stronger.
In the blackness, he'd had little to think of save his revenge. Everything - everyone - that had betrayed him must be made to suffer. Not just those who had been foolish enough to betray him, but every betrayer in this miserable world... Yes, he'd make them all suffer. They would know the pain he had felt, but he would visit it upon them in ways no one would ever forget. Deep in his mind, he knew he was coming closer to the devil he had been whispered to be, but his cause was - as it had always been - just.
The time was getting closer. Soon, soon, he'd be up there again. Already he grew impatient for air that was not stale with his own scents, as well as those he was beginning to become innured to: animal rot, decaying earth, decomposing wood, long-dried blood. And the more impatient he became, the angrier he became...
He could wait no more. An infuriated fist shot up, striking the thin wood of his prison, and beneath his righteous anger, it gave way easily. How flimsy were the tools they had used to keep him locked away, how unimaginably powerless they would be to stop him now.
Light, blinding light... After so long in the darkness, it burned his eyes, hurt his skin, made him want to howl and scream like a dying hell creature. Scuttling back, he found a cool corner where the light did not touch. In the darkness, the darkness that - till now - had been his enemy, the darkness that now sheltered him as one of its own, he huddled to make his new strategies.
When the light went away, he'd replace the top of his prison so no one would realize he was gone. When the light went away, he'd slip into the night, through the graveyard that was once the country he'd bled and died for, and into the world. When the light went away, he'd begin again from the very beginning, born again, a damned creature embraced by the darkness, a strigoi.
All he had to do now was wait. It couldn't be more than a few hours. He'd waited years for his revenge, surviving on the flesh and blood of whatever small animals came into his prison. He'd waited untold days and nights, waited till he could be in the world once more, waited till he could breathe the air he was now starting to catch scents of. Soon he could leave this prison within a prison; all he had to do was wait.
He did not enjoy waiting.