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Elisabeta's black stone tomb sticks out atop the roots of one of the grand blossom trees that bloom with color beyond the castle perimeters.
Vlad stalks forward, his entire being completely vacant, moving like a ghost with eyes so lost and an expression so terribly grim you’d think he was anywhere but a place he called home. He stops at the last of the green grass surrounding the longer side of the marble, but not for too long. He has waited long enough. He has waited nearly 300 years to see his Elizabeta again.
His princess. The love of his life. His greatest treasure. His reason for being. The great loss which caused the utter destruction of the man he once was. He will wait no longer. He can’t.
He needs his wife.
He turns to the shorter edge, dropping to his knees. Without hesitation or thought, he leans down and braces both hands against the edge of the top stone, and starts to push. His body trembles with desperate effort, driven by the vibrating need to see her face just once more. To hold her to him just once more. To whisper the goodbye he was never given the chance to into her skin. Her oh so hauntingly soft skin.
He roars with each push, his hands whitening where his blood flow restricts, pressing against the sharp rock as he budges the opening of the grave just enough for his body to slide through.
Illuminated by daylight, a wooden casket fits snug in between the deep walls of the tomb. He abandons the grass and drops forward into the confined space, knees slamming into the hard wood as he moves to straddle his lover’s coffin.
Elisabeta’s coffin.
His breathing is ragged, plumes of dust fluttering around with every move he makes. He places a stable hand on the top of the coffin as he starts to punch through it, the wood splitting under each relentless blow of his fist.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Like an animal. Like a monster.
He breaks through just enough of the vintage wood that a ray of light expands into the darkness of the coffin. He thrashes away the broken planks that lay scattered atop the lid until the light forms a shape against the-
Dust.
Golden brown textured sand.
The flame of hope in his heart died before it had even lived.
He reaches in, to grasp a handful, lifting it to his face and watching as the grains slip straight through his now uncontrollably shaking fingers.
No.
He’s doubled over as his entire body now starts to quake. He can’t breathe, letting the last few grains of his one true love sink past the deep creases of his hand.
No.
He heaves, searching for air. Searching for her. The air to his lungs.
His body stutters back, hands gripping at whatever he can grab onto as he chokes, fighting to find footing. To find her.
The one who always kept him upright.
Please.
Please.
A sound of pure and disgusting grief releases through his body. A sound that mimics a sob, a gag, and the roar of an injured animal on the brink of bleeding out. He can’t speak, any connections from his brain to his body halted, as he propels himself back and to the foot of the wood coffin. His eyes stuck to the shape of light brightening the dust, and the dent where his hand scooped what was left of his love after 400 years.
Where her beautiful face should’ve been. Where he should’ve been able to hold her cold face and press his dead lips against her own. Where he should’ve been able to slip her out and carry her still body back to the chambers they once shared together. To the bed where they breathed life into each other mouths, as the sweet pleasure building through their wet and worn bodies crested. The bed where her now bloody dress lay neatly above the silk blankets.
He is limp against the stone wall of the tomb, and continues to wail, his body rejecting efforts of anything but pain. His hand lifts to his mouth, as if trying to fight the urge to vomit.
He wonders if, after being denied death by God for so long, and after being left with a heart but without it’s purpose for beating, he will finally feel what it is to die. To be truly gone without resurrection.
Maybe, finally, the pain would finally set him free.