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It was easy to say that being a viovode, or any sort of leader in that regard, was no walk in the park. It was even easier felt, when you inherited every responsibility of an underdog country surrounded on all sides by larger countries with larger leaders— and a powerful expanding empire. The leaders at your borders seemed to be incapable of doing anything but good in the eyes of their people, and yet they all, in one way or another, wanted your head on a stake.
Such was the reality for the young, strapping prince of Wallachia: Vlad iii. Though, his looks mattered little— his dead-beat younger brother had already taken all the credit for that. Cel frumos. To hell with that.
The merchant saxons hadn’t given such grace to his name. His people feared him, and rightfully. The only thing he could afford for now was the begrudging gratitude for his fierce protection over their sweeping fields and grand mountains. After all, there had been nearly zero reports of stealing or other wrongful deeds within his borders. What he did with criminals mattered little— the rumors that spread did all the work for him.
The rhythmic clicking of his large, draft destrier stallion’s hooves pulled him back to reality. Riding home from missions, whatever they were, always tested his patience the most— even more so than having to sit and listen to stupid, incompetent men yap back and forth to each other like mindless dogs. The ride was long, unnecessarily long when all he wanted was to rest after being able to feel the silver hairs growing from his scalp through the constant noise. This time, a meeting was held with his most trusted boyars to discuss the broad topic of military funding and complicated relations between their viovode’s intentions and Hunedoara’s. And of course, it had to be held in Târgoviște’s court, several hours away from his current place of refuge. His thighs ached against the saddle, and each of his vertebrae felt as if they were all trying to slit each other’s throats.
He felt the weary headache he was developing throb with every step of his stallion, causing his dark brows to furrow over his already miserable-looking expression. His heavy lidded glaucous eyes were glazed over with exhaustion, absentmindedly staring over the ground blanketed with clovers. Blanket… thinking of that word didn’t do any good.
He watched the guards on either side of him from his peripherals. His fist occasionally clenched around the reins a bit tighter to steer the attention of his horse forward again. Disassociation was the easiest exit route to avoid being tossed to the mercy of time, who found it amusing to slow dramatically in dire times. Even so, his ears were perked— a blade did not lose its sharpness in dormancy. He would never lie prone in a state where his reaction time would suffer from the hand of his own human needs.
His guards said nothing, as he didn’t either; the only words heard from him were only the ones strictly necessary, and even then, they were still brisk and emotionless.
At some point during his bout of teetering consciousness, the path steeped, and it signaled to him that they were nearing home. His head lifted marginally, causing a few dark curls to slide from his firm shoulders. The only thing that held his attention for the next several minutes was the infinitely slow rise of the his castle’s silhouette from the horizon line. The sky was now dim and spent from using all of her color in her last moments. Stars emerged and twinkled tentatively overhead.
Finally, he was home.
His stallion finally trotted up to the large double doors, and the guards beside him sped ahead to open the doors in front of him. He brushed off several helping hands as he dismounted his horse, shrugging off his fur coat and handing it to the servant at the door. He made a bee line to the stairs leading to his chambers, boots dragging with more insistence than usual.
From your perspective, you could only make out the swift opening of the carved wooden door and heavy footsteps leading into the washroom. You had stayed up late to wait for your husband’s return, but had given up after some time and retired to bed. You had been hoping that sort of gesture would flatter him, but so far, all of your efforts were in vain. At least, visually. When it came to Vlad, even a slight scowl came every full moon.
Your attention held loosely to the sounds of the prince hastily and exhaustedly changing into his night clothes. The servants knew better than to offer him unwanted help at times like these, when he looked a single inconvenience away from simply collapsing.
After several more minutes, the unmistakable sound of bare feet shuffling against the hardwood floors announced his retirement for the night. With a rather dramatic flop onto the linen sheets, every muscle in his body sank and unwound into what felt like an ocean of relaxation after hours and hours worth of tension. His stuffy doublet was no longer clinging mercilessly to his overheated skin, and was now replaced with his cool linen tunic. With his face washed and his herbal oils applied, he was ready to dive headfirst into the forgiving arms of sleep.
Of course, this meant that first he had to roll over and scoop you up into his arms.
To be clear, you really shouldn’t be at the stage where your husband held you every night in bed. The man barely talked to you. The very little free time he had was commonly spent in the same room with you, but he wasn’t a talker, so that made the wall between you two even thicker. Parallel play was really the closest you could get with him.
And yet, he seemed to have no problem pressing you against his chest. It didn’t happen automatically— about three months had passed as newlyweds with an unspoken no-contact policy you both strictly followed. But there was one night when, as you were shifting, your fingertips brushed his forearm as you slept. Then his hand happened to gingerly rest against your ribs the next. Then after that, it moved a bit closer to the middle of your back. And then your knee brushed his thigh. From there, it was only a matter of time before both his arms looped around you. A mutual understanding was established off of the silence between you both: snuggling was necessary every night. Miraculously, the two of you could communicate quite well without words, even if it were for things as domestic as sleeping on top of each other.
This situation would be a little disturbing in the average context— but you were excessively fond of him. All throughout the days before your political marriage, you had heard tales of men that forced themselves upon their wives, that beat them and belittled them. And the wives were miserable. Because of it, you entered this marriage with very low expectations.
Yet, you were pleasantly surprised. It was hard to tell whether you liked him because he didn’t talk down to you or didn’t talk at all, but no matter which, it was working. He carried the stoicism of a man no doubt burdened with the obligations of a country’s ruler. His emotions, if any, were processed internally. He did not seem to have much of an opinion on his wife, but that statement in itself was a compliment. Living with a quiet man had taught you several things about reading micro expressions and body language— there was a calmness in the way he looked at you that gave away his fond tolerance of the woman he had been legally bound to in order to strengthen an alliance between neighboring countries. He had an air about him that shifted the perspective of seemingly careless acts into considerate ones. He left you to your own devices in a way that felt freeing and independent. He didn’t often address you, but in a way that welcomed different, more intimate cues of relaying information and emotion to one another.
Then again, this all could just be your own mind tripping over itself in the face of such a simply handsome man. No certain feature stood out from the rest, but all of them were arranged together that gave him a look of charm that inspired endearment on to every one of the quirks about his elegant face. The luck of having a decently good-looking, respectful husband when odds were close to zero filled your heart with so much happiness it had been exchanged for a fancy towards him.
Your arms came to drape over his torso in return, and his spine loosened as he stretched into the patch of mattress that had been warmed by his wife awaiting his return. He expelled a large huff, warm breath blowing against your braided hair. His arms were heavy over your form, shrouding the two of you in a dense huddle of comfortable body heat.
You knew the reputation of the man you were currently in the arms of. Being in a situation like his meant sacrificing the interpretation of his morals to keep his head above the raging sea that came with geopolitics in such a tumultuous area. It was difficult to picture him being the cuddling type, but it was easy to piece together when you knew where it sprouted from. You had been informed by a few close maids that he had been held captive for most of his childhood after inquiring about his silent nature. No wonder he’d learned to process emotions on his own. Not only that, it was unlikely there was anyone offering physical touch in a positive manner.
You clung a little tighter to him, and you could feel him ease internally. It never stopped astounding you how effortless it was for him to get his thoughts across in the correct intention, even if it shouldn’t seem the way he wants it. No emotional attachment to your wife and still holding her should feel like using. But from those tired, intelligent blue eyes, he’s able to translate his thoughts to yours:
He appreciates you a lot. God knows what he’d do if he had to go on with tedious meetings and agreements and funding without having a rock in his life that was infinitely soft and warm. He had little interaction with such comfort, with things that held no sharp edges or hidden danger. You were a beautiful woman, inside and out, and he wanted to process that before getting anywhere.
Or maybe you were receiving signals wrong. Maybe he really was indifferent towards the woman that did nothing but warm the sheets and offer him security with a political alliance. Maybe the only thing he wanted out of you was a form to possess.
His nuzzle into your neck negated all of those feelings. It was a matter of perception, wasn’t it? Like trying to have the same amount of empathy with an animal that couldn’t communicate or articulate the way a human does. In theory, you should. It was ethically correct. But there is something about not being able to hear verbal words of affirmation.
But people loved animals anyways. It was moments like these when a gap in perception was found; his mustache and rough jaw scratched against your delicate neck as he pressed his nose into the crook of your shoulder.
But he wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was jagged on all edges, effectively bordering any vulnerable emotions with a shell of sharp attributes. The texture of his jaw was unpleasant when nuzzled so rough, but the intent behind the action outweighed any pain. It was finally getting across to you now.
“I like you”.
It wasn’t heard, but it was felt in every even breath on your skin. He’d already fallen asleep in your hold, safe with the knowledge that the kind soul who put up with him allowed him a safe night’s sleep.