Immortality

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Fifteen

He knew that he was dreaming. He knew that he was dreaming because he did not remember falling asleep in that chair by the fire; he was certain that he’d trudged wearily up the stairs and crawled into his bed, and now there he was back by the fire in that worn chair, dressed and watching as the wood smouldered in the hearth, the flames dying down. The room was so cold then, and he shivered, feeling it right down to his bones. He rose and crossed the room, plucking his coat from the stand where it hung and pulling it on quickly around him. After the first momentary chill he knew that the thick leather would warm him.

He meant to go to the stairs. Though he knew he was dreaming he wanted to climb the stairs and go to his room, lie down and drift off to sleep, though he was unsure if it was at all possible to sleep in dreams. The question, however, remained unanswered, as he went instead to the door. He opened it, and stepped outside.

The village was quiet and the air was entirely still as he passed through it, walking away to the woods with no real understanding of why he was doing what it was that he was doing. It didn’t matter, he knew, because on some perfectly obscure level it made absolute sense to him, knowing as he did that each night he dreamt of the woods outside that village. That was where he was going, striding swiftly through the frosty streets away from the inn to the dark woods at the edge of the village. It wasn’t long before he was there, standing on the patch of limp green grass at the border of it. He only hesitated for a moment before striding in.

Twigs and matted undergrowth cracked and rustled beneath his feet as he walked, but that had no meaning; he seemed to understand that with the logic of dreams his actions could do nothing to affect the final outcome, and so the noise he made was of no consequence at all. Even had he stayed there by the inn’s dying fire his dream would have come to him, and it seemed to be a nobler thing to stride out through the night to meet it than to wait meekly in a comfortable chair. He had to admit, though, as the forest grew denser and the branches began to claw at him, that the chair would probably have been the wiser option. Still, he pressed on.

It ws ifs if he knew what to expect. He was not at all surprised as a sharp branch caught him by the line of his eyebrow and brought forth blood that trickled into his eye; he wiped it away on the back of his hand and continued, his feet snagging on tree roots and creeping plants along the ground, the branches clawing at him, threatening to knock away his hat, pulling at his hair, scoring faint lines in the leather of his coat. It was all so very familiar, as though he’d been there before. Perhaps it was that sense of déjà vu that brought forth the dread in him, or perhaps a little more.

He stepped out after what seemed like an hour of that walking, and perhaps it had been an hour, but he didn’t think to check. He’d expected there to be a full moon in the sky and there wasn’t, which confused him. He expected to see a stake in the centre of that clearing, tall and lit up in the moonlight, but there was nothing there. But he felt there was *something*, just as he felt that there was something terribly wrong.

Then he saw her. She was so faint, so thin, almost as a wisp of smoke on the air, but he could make out her shape in the moonlight. She was standing at the other side of the clearing, wearing a red dress and white gloves that stretched up to her elbows. And she was trying to say something, her rouged lips moving but emitting no sound whatsoever. He moved closer, frowning, wiping again at the cut above his eye that was causing his vision to blur. She was gesturing now, almost wildly, but it seemed to make no sense. Then the wind rose, and in the moment before the rain burst forth in a crack of thunder loud as the heavens torn asunder, she found her voice.

“Run,” she said, her eyes pleading. But it was too late.

The gathered rain clouds burst overhead and poured forth and icy, biting torrent. The thunder cracked and he jerked around like an awkward puppet to gaze up at the origin of the sound, only to find himself blinded by a sudden and tremendous flash of lightning. When he spun back around, his wet hair whipping at his face, to where Anna had stood, she was gone. But he was by no means alone.

His stomach lurched sickly and he felt he wanted to screw shut his eyes but found himself unable. There was nowhere to run because the rain obscured his path, wiped his footprints from the ground so that he had no way of knowing which was it was that he had come. And then he felt the touch upon his shoulders and knew that soon it would be over. Dracula had found him.

“I knew you would be waiting, Gabriel,” the count whispero hio him, somehow audible over all of the din about him, his lips just beside Gabriel’s ear. Then he tossed aside his hat, which was caught by the wind and carried spinning away. He was powerless in his grasp, chilled, staring out into the icy black darkness through the glittering curtain of rain as he was held there, immobile, held by more than just those infinitely powerful white hands. It was Dracula’s thrall, and he was in it.

The whole world seemed dark as he turned then, was turned, a vast ocean of nothingness that existed only in those moments when the lightning split the sky. There was no moon, no stars, nothing but the grasp that held him and for terrible instants the fathomless shining eyes of the creature before him. He knew exactly what was to come but, shivering, he still struggled. But only in the beginning. Soon he felt too weak to struggle.

There was no frenzy, no wild beating of his heart to accompany the end, and somehow he had known it would be so. In all that swirling, raking darkness he was the calm, still eye, even as he felt the life flow from him; he was peace despite the terror, the disgust. As Dracula held him then, his cold hands in his wet hair and his mouth pressed at his throat, all that he felt was warmth despite the bitter cold. It was one exquisite, terrifying moment. But something was wrong.

As he faded, as the calm was shattered in him and replaced with all the chaos of the swirling, rain-swept winds, he knew; this was not a dream.

This was *not* a dream.

***