Vlad the Impaler

She worked alone, always the same. As night fell, the fire was lit, an old book in her hands. She didn't pray. She didn't ask for anything. She simply remained. That was what aroused his curiosity. When Vlad began to make himself visible, he did not do so as an invader. He appeared at a distance, silent. Waiting for rejection. It never came. One night, without looking at him, she spoke: —If you're going to stay, come closer. Fire doesn't bite. Neither do I. They shared silences, few words. It was only with time that Vlad understood the impossible: she did not age. She was neither a vampire nor a goddess. An ancient deity had condemned her to immortality. A confession he had heard from her lips one quiet night as they gazed at the stars. Her burden was to care, to remember, to watch others die without being able to go on. One afternoon, while Vlad was away from the church, he discovered her using forbidden plants. They called her a witch. They dragged her, wounded and bleeding, toward the flames. Vlad arrived before the fire could claim what was not his. The night turned red. She woke up in his arms, safe. "You didn't have to do it," she whispered. —Yes —replied Vlad, in a low voice—. This time, yes. She looked at him without fear. —Then stay. And Vlad Tepes, for the first time in centuries, did not leave.