Work Text:
2010, 9:22 PM
The New Inn
"You've lost your accent."
Oh, shit.
Hob looks up from his phone to a stern face, one never forgotten in the centuries between.
"You recognize me," says the Prince.
Hob swallows. He's done a lot of things he's not proud of, but his time in the Turkish army, that. That will never leave him. Not even his Stranger knows about it.
He's not due back inside the Inn for another fifteen minutes. Hopefully enough time to come back from whatever rightfully earned punishment he'll get.
"I do, sir."
Prince Vlad Tepes' jaw ticks. Hob imagines he hears the crackling of his knuckles. Still handsome, even in his brooding black coat, but then, Hob's got a thing for brooding coats. Even his bloody hair is the same, brushing his shoulders in light waves. Though Hob supposes he's kept his own hair relatively the same too. It's a comforting constant, he's found.
Not that he deserves comfort.
Hob pockets his phone and lets his hands fall limp at his sides. "Whatever you want to do, sir, I welcome it. Nothing can make up for what I did. What I tried to do."
He still sees the kid's eyes, sometimes. Putting on a brave face as Hob grins and taunts his father. Hob's accent had been barely passable, but his actions more than made up for it: demanding child soldiers without hesitation, slaughtering villages to make a living.
And he'd still gone into the slave trade years later.
The Prince's eyes have narrowed. "Your heart still beats. Yet you stand before me, knowing who I am and what you have done."
Hob winces. "Yeah. It's a...long story." He swallows again. "I've heard of yours. Well, versions of it. I'm glad you fought them off."
He chokes, hoping his collision with the wall isn't loud enough to alert anyone inside.
"You did not die," the Prince snarls, "Does that mean you will not die if I rend your skin from your bones?"
At this point, Hob doesn't think so. If dismembering or the pyre won't do it, he's pretty sure he'll be in immense pain for a few hours before regrowing skin or something.
"You tried to take my son from me. Tried to take all of my people's sons."
"I did," Hob gurgles, "And I can't. Can't make up for it." He grunts as claws tighten around his throat. He's bleeding. "Please. Do your worst. I earned it."
The Prince peers at him. His eyes glow like candles.
Hob collapses in a heap.
"Yes," says Dracula, "you have."
He yanks Hob's mouth open. "I have watched you all night. Laughing, enjoying yourself, as if your immortality is a gift. Well then."
He slices his palm on his own fangs.
"I will make it a curse, upon you and yours. May you never again know peace."
Blood fills Hob's mouth.