Chapter Text
A castle stood surrounded by mountains; lit by a thousand candles. Cold, dark, and tall. In its halls, a shadow moved past the stone of the walls decorated with portraits of people who've long passed. His face was set in a deep scowl, and his shoulders were rigid. A king infuriated by the audacity of one he considers lesser.
The lesser, some slimy American secretary who had tried to persuade *Him*—Dracula, *King* of Vampires—into allying with America. He had promised him their precious Captain to help him protect his land, as if *their* best was not worth less than the weakest of his own. He had thought it ridiculous. He was a king. He did not need help to protect his people, especially not the help of some mortal and his group of idiots seeking glory behind the guise of heroism. Yet, he had still agreed to this offer of alliance. He was too proud to admit it, but there was no overseeing the fact that America had a lot of resources, and he had been in dire need of them.
However, he had made a request; the Captain would need to visit him a few days beforehand and attend an event arranged by the Vampire himself. Dracula had given Secretary Whatever-His-Name-Was a lazy excuse as to wanting to meet the good Captain before having to work with him. The American had been anything but thrilled by this request, and Dracula considered if he had made a crucial mistake. Captain America surely couldn't possibly be worse company than he had imagined. The human still agreed nonetheless, and Dracula dismissed his wondering. Their alliance had been sealed, and their meeting had been concluded, for the most part. Now he needed to think. Plan. *Scheme*.
And exactly that is what he did. He thought about an effective way to rid himself of future unwanted company while still reaping his much-needed resources. The dust-covered floors and cobweb-showered corners blurred into muddied colours of black and grey as his pacing reached near running speed. He could make the Captain wait. Make his spirit wither as he was shut off from the outside world. Make him familiar with his kingdom's lifeless nature. Before he would drain the blood out of him, if he hadn’t found his place among the sodden soil or ran away like a scared child by then.
Finally, he found himself standing in front of the door to his study. He pushed it open and strode across the room to his desk. There, on the dark wooded surface, laid a simple envelope, dust-covered but still intact. A thought crossed his mind: Why not make this more enjoyable for himself? As much joy as his first plan brought him, there was a better option. After all, a simple feeding was pleasant, but a feast would be spectacular. He sat down and began to write.
...............................................
No life to be seen amongst the taunting grey of the graves reaching deep into the earth. Soldiers waiting—hiding—in their dull green army tents. Why they had set up camp near what appeared to be a forgotten graveyard remained a mystery to Steve. Like so many other things. For two days now he had been stationed in Transylvania. No reason he was made aware of to be heard. Questioned higher-ups squirmed in their seats, vague mumbles of hydra attacks flowed from their lips. Other than that, silence. Not even the howlies were there to fill the sickening quiet that had fallen over their campsite. They, too, were taken with the mind-numbing stillness of everything surrounding them.
Not even the worms deep in the soil dared to move. Above them, Steve sat in an army tent, his posture slouched, one of his hands squishing his face where it rested upon it. A heavy sigh fell from his lips. Boredom. There was nothing but deep-set boredom in this barren wasteland. The sun hadn't shone a single minute since they arrived in this godforsaken kingdom, his eyes stayed ever-adjusted to the dark. The air was thick, he felt his breathing starting to shallow while the candles and their flames slowly robbed him of his oxygen. Very soon he’d have to extinguish them and return to doing nothing while waiting for more air to slowly seep in. Even if he opened his tent, it would not help make the process of regaining air quicker. There was no wind. He had tried before. There was only stillness. He ran his hand over his face and straightened his posture. He needed to stay focused.
Steve sorted through his mail. Orders on where he and the howling commando were supposed to head next. Or sometimes a high-ranking government official invited him to insufferable banquets. Even though those invitations were rare. He found politicians didn’t like being overshadowed by a failed experiment. And who would? A soldier—creature—not quite the person they once were, not quite someone else. Not quite human either way. Millions of dollars invested in an army, just to get a single brightly dressed nuisance instead. Untestest and unknown in nature. Every event remained ruined by his—*his?*—mere presence.
He grabbed the next letter and expected another report or a standardized invite. Anything of the ordinary. So deep in thought, so tired of his situation was he, he had paid no real mind to what he was holding. Steve was about to open it but halted mid-action. The envelope was of deep black colour, with only a beautiful wax seal in dark red that depicted a rose on its front. He turned it, but there was nothing on the backside, either. He had no idea how this letter found its way to him. How any mail found him out here was a mystery to him on its own, but this? No sender's address, nor a recipient's one. Nothing.
He eyed it for a while longer, unsure. As if it would bite him if he let it. He opened it carefully, to not break the beautiful seal or envelope. If it was as special as it looked, he didn't want to destroy something so beautifully crafted. It weirdly intrigued him. A bit more strangeness wouldn't hurt, would it? After all, if he could handle his own body painfully morphing into someone else's, *something* else, then a simple letter couldn't be much worse. And anything was better than sitting until his own added to the number of gravestones waiting just outside the thin fabric of his temporary home.
Steve read the words on the paper two times over. A masquerade. A masquerade Captain America was invited to. His lips twitched upward and his heartbeat fastened.
When he was a kid, he had seen paintings of people in expensive dresses and fancy masks dancing away, and he had marvelled at them. It was something he could never reach. Even as a young child, he knew that his family was not as fortunate when it came to living an easy life. The other kids, those that were better off, made sure of that. So, dreaming of one day wearing one of these expensive evening attires was nothing but an absurd fantasy.
A masquerade—a chance of actually being a someone. A chance to live life as someone else. Just a chance. Now, though, he already got everything he dreamed of, he was someone, he just wasn’t sure what that person was. The letter was addressed to that person. Captain America—the title most marketable to the masses of unaware propaganda victims, exploited until their dying days. But still, that letter beheld a chance at a dream to him. Though lost to time, mangled and twisted into something else, it was. Instead of being someone else for a night, like he always thought it would be, he’d be himself. And he was going to make the best of that dreaded night, which meant he needed a costume. He had a week to make one.
...............................................
Steve spent altogether most definitely too long on his outfit, using what little knowledge on sewing he had to further alter and add new parts to it. The camp was very remote, and as a result of that, the clothing choices had been extremely limited. All he had was cloth in various shades of brown and beige taken from old or unused army uniforms, some thread and wire. But he was determined and as he looked in the mirror, on the night of the event itself, he was satisfied with what he managed to put together. In the distance, he heard the stomping of hoofs followed by the sound of wheels. A carriage. Just as was promised in the invitation. Steve fixed his hair and put his mask on as he stepped out of his tent and into the neatly decorated vehicle waiting there for him.
It was a 40-minute ride that was mostly pleasant, if a bit rough at times. Steve looked out the window for most of it. It looked like it was going to rain, so he waited for the first drops to fall. The only reason he was able to see anything at all was because of his enhanced eyesight. Steve wondered how the carriage driver knew where to go, surely he couldn’t see much, if anything. The driver didn't talk much, he quickly found, and with that, he was left to ponder by himself. Which was fine. An unchanging sound of hoofs hitting the ground accompanied his thinking. There was a time when his mind would probably been reeling with questions in a moment like this. But these days, it seemed a certain sense of consistent numbness followed him everywhere. He guessed that was just what a constant image of war does to your mind. Not that he minded, it was better than the uncertainty of thoughts running wild, anyway.
When the carriage came to a halt, and his feet hit the ground again, he was standing in front of a giant, hauntingly beautiful castle. Cold stone walls created a stark contrast against the warm, yellow light illuminating the windows and their surroundings. He felt the rain starting to pour, heard the music playing, and smelled a hundred different perfumes in the air.
Steve wasn't ready for this. This wasn't who he was, either, he dully realised. There was no way of getting that ever back. He was never supposed to be able to do something like this. But he was already there, and his carriage had driven off.
So, with no choice left and a sour taste in his mouth, he collected himself and stepped towards the large wooden doors. Steve was about to knock on one of them, his invitation in hand when suddenly, they flew open with a bone-chilling creak. There was no one near the doors, no one who could have opened them for him. Not that Steve believed any human could have opened them on their own, anyway. And so he stood there, like a deer in the headlights, with no clue what to do.
He looked down to his left hand, just to find his invitation gone, and a rose brooch in its place. He was sure he was hallucinating. All of this was too much. A bomb must've gone off, and he was in a coma-induced sleep. He was dreaming. He must've been. Steve stood there for a long moment. Then he pinned the brooch on, straightened his posture, held his head up higher, ever stubborn, and stepped inside.
................................
It was after five glasses of blood wine, the decline of four people's dance offers, three accepted offers, two times someone stepped on his feet, and one particular missing guest, that Dracula remembered how annoying these events were. Seemingly so everlasting, yet nothing special ever happened.
His eyes swept over the room, and everyone was dressed identically. The men looked as if they were sharing one wardrobe, and so did the women. Not exactly creative three-piece suits met dark-coloured, floor-long gowns. Simple masks, nothing special, and pearl necklaces were tiring his eyes. The Captain was nowhere to be seen. Maybe he didn't show. Maybe he did, but blended into the crowd. Dracula couldn't tell. A shame. He mostly held these masquerades to pick a couple of interesting individuals to feast upon, but seeing the utter lack of individuality in the people, he’d rather stay hungry.
The door opened and made a horrible sound as it always did. A new guest arrived. Another disappointing show of a lack of creativity was sure to be waiting there. Even though dreading the sure failure of reaching uniqueness, Dracula’s gaze turned to the door.
There, not dressed in a three-piece suit, nor a floor-long gown stood a tall figure, hidden by a long cloak made to look like the wings of a moth. The hood was put down first, revealing a beautiful face, a mask matching the cape framing it, and golden hair, glistening in the light. Dracula could see how this person's eyes adjusted to the sudden exposure to the light. A shift so minimal it was hardly noticeable, at least it should have been. But it wasn't, there was something not quite humane about it. No one turned to the new arrival, too busy with themselves were the other guests.
Dracula’s eyes stayed on the individual In a gaze, one could have almost called it fixated. They had to have been invited, the person — creature? — was pinning on the signature red rose to their garment. Nonetheless, there was a serenity about them that wouldn't let Dracula go. How did such beauty go unnoticed by the masses who crowded the very heart of the castle? Was it another vampire? No, couldn't be. Dracula was sure of it. This person's eyes gleamed like stars amongst the night sky, and no creature of the night could ever achieve that.
With Dracula staring at them for such a long time, and the figure's eyes dutifully scanning the room, it was inevitable that their eyes would meet. And when they did, one certainty within Dracula's mind solidified.
He might not have been sure what, or who this person was, but one thing *was* sure, he wanted a taste of their blood.
................................
The doors opened to a gigantic hall filled with people. On the left, there was a buffet with a long line of what Steve assumed was supposed to be food made to look appetising. But the familiar smell of blood and raw meat, that practically forced itself onto his senses, let him know better than to eat any of it. Directly next to it, was a table arrangement where people sat, ate—the thought alone made his stomach turn—or just chatted. The other side of the room mirrored the left. In the middle of the room, was where the guests danced. Behind them, there was a throne of sorts, but no one sat upon it.
Steve didn't know what to do. He was never a good dancer, and he quite honestly did not feel like eating for a week upon seeing the grotesque-looking arrangements of the buffet.
His eyes swept through the room, and his eyes met stunning people, who all wore very controlled attire. He worried he accidentally skipped over the dress code on his invitation, everyone else was so unified in their choice of clothing. He felt foolish. He didn't want this anymore, to be the laughing stock, the one ugly duckling, cast out for not being good enough, or later the pretty swan, looked at for nothing but outer perceivance.
That's when he noticed a figure standing taller above the other guests. They carried their shoulders high, a posture which left no room for doubt or uncertainty. Blood red and pearly white made up most of their evening's attire. White hair slightly longer than their shoulder was partially bound back. A white mask framed their face oh so elegantly. The mask they were wearing was symmetrical, with what looked like fangs on either side, decorated with red jewels to make it look as if blood were dripping from them. It had a very theatrical look to it. The only other silhouette not fitting in with the rest. When he finished examining their clothes, he looked at their face as a whole and noticed their confident gaze lay upon Steve.
They looked right into Steve's soul, he felt it. Steve couldn't dare not look at their eyes. However, describing them as eyes would be wrong. Because they weren't, there were no pupils, no softness, no *life* in them. They were glowing, illuminating parts of the mask surrounding them and after a while of looking at them, Steve's own eyes started to hurt. It hurt, but he couldn't stop. A sense of uncertainty, confusion—curiosity—whatever you wanted to call it, left his gaze lingering.
He processed the observation and there followed a realization. They weren't human. They were anything but human. Were they born like this? Were they also an experiment? Did they know what it was like to be in a body that wasn't their own? To be spoken to with a name that didn't belong to them? Were they like him?
Questions reeling in his brain, he needed answers. But he just stared. Would it be wrong to approach them, to ask them any of those questions? He knows he wouldn’t want to be, were he in their position.
Dracula gravitated towards the promise of mystery. A pull so strong he didn't want to fight it. His legs moved on their own accord, his eyes still focused on what was only able to be described as the centre of his attention for the evening. Ther it was, his longed-for feast.
After having made their way over to the stranger, he reached for their hand, to ask a dance of them. But the other person seemingly perceived his movement toward them as a threat, their shoulders straightened. Their entire body suddenly on edge and only in the way that their eyes glistened and their pupils widened and narrowed was Dracula able to tell the figure's uncertainty. It felt to him almost as though they were trying to figure out whether he was real or not, such did they look at him.
Dracula could tell there was an aversion toward him coming from the other person. As if, if he didn't act correctly now, they might try to fight him later. It reminded him of how his most loyal subjects first reacted upon meeting him and feeling almost bad for this stranger he had put on edge so quickly without intending to, he began to speak. “Pardon my forwardness, I didn't mean to scare you," his voice was quiet in a way he hoped was reassuring and he let his gaze linger upon the person in front of him.
"You didn't,” they quickly replied without a second thought. Their tone indicative of being the one in control. It was almost convincing. But the haste with which it was said let Dracula know better. He was about to interject, when they continued, “I was just taken by surprise. That's all." The person's eyes traveled up and down Dracula's body and rested shortly on his blood-stained lips, then shot back to his eyes.
The corners of Dracula’s mouth twitched. This one would be fun to play with.