Trinity Blood fic: Not How it Happened
May. 3rd, 2007 06:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
narcasse1139 words. AU. G. Post-series.
A possible end to the story and a slightly different take on the business of the Dracula brothers. An exercise in rewriting myth for a universe without magic.
Not How it Happened
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
The story is almost legend now, that one day, many centuries ago Contra Mundi was slain in the ultimate act of sacrifice by a man who’d sworn to a fallen saint that he would continue to carry her cross. The name of the saint is lost to time but her image still adorns the Vatican. And if the stories are to be believed it is her line that that founded the house of kings, the noble line that rules over all Methuselah. They say that the first Emperor, Süleyman son of Seth even bore a great resemblance to his noble ancestor. And the Methuselah race embraces these legends, these myths, glorifies them, elaborates on them, expands hints and supposition into unyielding truth.
“But aren’t we chosen by God? How can you refute that?” Shahrazad’s small nose wrinkles as she frowns. And she’s no more pleased by the Duke’s amused silence as he taps a finger lightly against his lips instead of replying.
“We’re descended from the great Warrior Saint who fought against the Three Demons from the Outer World!”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“But-“
The arrival of a servant interrupts the discussion.
It has taken barely half a millennia to wipe clean the public memory of actual events. Only five hundred years to make the enemy of all Methuselah one of their own, to install Autojäger instead of yeniçeris, to procure a Duke’s title for a terrorist. The story goes that the Duke of Moldova is the half-brother of the Emperor Süleyman, hidden away because in his veins flows the pure blood of the noble saint. Blood that makes him more than human, greater, more powerful than a mortal man. And yet for the sake of his people and his duty to the world, he hides himself away, rarely seen save only by the royal family itself.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?”
The Methuselah smirks and merely holds out his coffee cup for a refill.
“It’s not that I don’t mind the business. I mean, it’s rare that we get Methuselah on this side of the city at all but…”
“I prefer to do my reading here. It’s quiet enough in your café most of the time. Though business seems to be picking up these days.”
A snort. “They just come to see the Methuselah noble so spends his days reading German philosophy.”
A brief look of confusion. “I was reading Dumas yesterday.”
The stories are all garbled legend now with grains of truth scattered abruptly in amongst nationalistic pride and the vainglorious assertions of few. The legends make little sense when they’re really examined but no one ever bothers. Even the regular Vatican emissaries never think to question the ludicrous assertions. Not that they’re likely to anyway, since they took to canonising terrorists. Though in that case it has become the stuff of romantic fairytale. The saint who for the sake of humanity and love of the young Catholic Queen of Albion, gave his life disabling the weapons system that would have destroyed the world.
“But what about Saint-“
The Crown Princess is cut off by the Duke’s sudden, uncontrollable laughter. “He wasn’t a saint.”
“But-“
“What he was; was a monster.”
The ten year old Princess stamps her foot angrily. “I’ve been reading about him all day!”
“Those history books are nothing but lies.” But he’s still laughing.
The truth is of course that the disabling of the Arc’s systems had less to do with the sudden insanity that had struck Empress Seth, than trying to gain control of the system itself. Seth hadn’t been mad, nor had her heir been forced to strike her down but that is the way the story’s told. For the tale goes that having ruled for so very long, the world weary Empress knew that slowly she was beginning to lose her mind and thus in a calculated act of martyrdom, let it be known that she would wage war against the terrans, knowing that her beloved son would be forced to strike her down before she could perpetrate such insanity. Though some terran variants on the story suggest that she had quite honestly become deranged instead.
“You were just never anything of a threat.” Ash flicked casually from the tip of a cigarillo.
“No. But why me?”
“It was a test.”
A flicker of naked flame and a lit cigarette.
“You’re not going to ask me anything more?”
“What’s to ask? You needed a Methuselah to test your modifications on.”
“True. But perhaps you should ask me ‘what now?’”
But the conclusion to the experiment is obvious. The world divided into two spheres; political and economic. The Duke of Moldova will shape the future of the Methuselah race for centuries to come and in far distant Berlin, a reclusive businessman will profit from the machinations of time. It’s an oddly pedestrian end to the story or at least to the tale of a man who may never have been a normal man in the first place. Sainthood, aristocracy, material gain; these have been the recompense for an organization that once attempted to destroy the world. Though quite why a southern region of Germanicus celebrates the Virgin Saint of Austria, even the Duke of Moldova doesn’t know.
“When I was a child I used to think he must be Dracula.” Shahrazad II smiles as she sips her wine.
“That’s a rather large leap of logic, wouldn’t you say?”
“It just seemed too convenient. The reclusive businessman whose interests span the known world, who’s rarely seen in public…”
“Who’s said never to age?”
“Yes. I… didn’t believe the stories at first. Because… I could believe that Dracula lives in Germanicus but I couldn’t believe that my uncle was really immortal.”
“And now you know differently.”
And so it goes. Immortality for two entirely unworthy men. Yet perhaps it is immortality that has redeemed them. The deranged scientist now a paragon of commerce and the worthless terrorist; the guardian of a benevolent royal line. It may even be some sort of appalling joke but if it is, nobody seems quite prepared to deliver the punch-line. Perhaps nobody really cares enough to, too caught up in their glorious nonsense legends and inherited pride. And why would anyone want to change the fairytale anyway? Especially when it gives everyone a happy ending.
“She used to think you were Dracula, you know.”
“Who says I’m not? This name is just an alias after all.”
“Just as long as you don’t start calling yourself Voivode of Walachia.”
“Why? Do you have designs on it?”
“No. Why are we having this conversation anyway?”
A smoke ring is the only answer.
“Such nonsense.”
“I’m surprised that you’ve not insisted on being called Domnitor of Wallachia and Moldavia really.”
And this time Radu can’t help but laugh.
++++++++++
Domnitor was the title of the ruler of Wallachia and Moldavia between 1859 and 1881.
For comparison it really does look like Vlad and Radu are up to their old tricks again. Though goodness knows what the Saint of Germanicus would have to say about that.
A possible end to the story and a slightly different take on the business of the Dracula brothers. An exercise in rewriting myth for a universe without magic.
Not How it Happened
Disclaimer: Trinity Blood belongs to Sunao Yoshida, Gonzo and others.
++++++++++
The story is almost legend now, that one day, many centuries ago Contra Mundi was slain in the ultimate act of sacrifice by a man who’d sworn to a fallen saint that he would continue to carry her cross. The name of the saint is lost to time but her image still adorns the Vatican. And if the stories are to be believed it is her line that that founded the house of kings, the noble line that rules over all Methuselah. They say that the first Emperor, Süleyman son of Seth even bore a great resemblance to his noble ancestor. And the Methuselah race embraces these legends, these myths, glorifies them, elaborates on them, expands hints and supposition into unyielding truth.
“But aren’t we chosen by God? How can you refute that?” Shahrazad’s small nose wrinkles as she frowns. And she’s no more pleased by the Duke’s amused silence as he taps a finger lightly against his lips instead of replying.
“We’re descended from the great Warrior Saint who fought against the Three Demons from the Outer World!”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“But-“
The arrival of a servant interrupts the discussion.
It has taken barely half a millennia to wipe clean the public memory of actual events. Only five hundred years to make the enemy of all Methuselah one of their own, to install Autojäger instead of yeniçeris, to procure a Duke’s title for a terrorist. The story goes that the Duke of Moldova is the half-brother of the Emperor Süleyman, hidden away because in his veins flows the pure blood of the noble saint. Blood that makes him more than human, greater, more powerful than a mortal man. And yet for the sake of his people and his duty to the world, he hides himself away, rarely seen save only by the royal family itself.
“Don’t you have a home to go to?”
The Methuselah smirks and merely holds out his coffee cup for a refill.
“It’s not that I don’t mind the business. I mean, it’s rare that we get Methuselah on this side of the city at all but…”
“I prefer to do my reading here. It’s quiet enough in your café most of the time. Though business seems to be picking up these days.”
A snort. “They just come to see the Methuselah noble so spends his days reading German philosophy.”
A brief look of confusion. “I was reading Dumas yesterday.”
The stories are all garbled legend now with grains of truth scattered abruptly in amongst nationalistic pride and the vainglorious assertions of few. The legends make little sense when they’re really examined but no one ever bothers. Even the regular Vatican emissaries never think to question the ludicrous assertions. Not that they’re likely to anyway, since they took to canonising terrorists. Though in that case it has become the stuff of romantic fairytale. The saint who for the sake of humanity and love of the young Catholic Queen of Albion, gave his life disabling the weapons system that would have destroyed the world.
“But what about Saint-“
The Crown Princess is cut off by the Duke’s sudden, uncontrollable laughter. “He wasn’t a saint.”
“But-“
“What he was; was a monster.”
The ten year old Princess stamps her foot angrily. “I’ve been reading about him all day!”
“Those history books are nothing but lies.” But he’s still laughing.
The truth is of course that the disabling of the Arc’s systems had less to do with the sudden insanity that had struck Empress Seth, than trying to gain control of the system itself. Seth hadn’t been mad, nor had her heir been forced to strike her down but that is the way the story’s told. For the tale goes that having ruled for so very long, the world weary Empress knew that slowly she was beginning to lose her mind and thus in a calculated act of martyrdom, let it be known that she would wage war against the terrans, knowing that her beloved son would be forced to strike her down before she could perpetrate such insanity. Though some terran variants on the story suggest that she had quite honestly become deranged instead.
“You were just never anything of a threat.” Ash flicked casually from the tip of a cigarillo.
“No. But why me?”
“It was a test.”
A flicker of naked flame and a lit cigarette.
“You’re not going to ask me anything more?”
“What’s to ask? You needed a Methuselah to test your modifications on.”
“True. But perhaps you should ask me ‘what now?’”
But the conclusion to the experiment is obvious. The world divided into two spheres; political and economic. The Duke of Moldova will shape the future of the Methuselah race for centuries to come and in far distant Berlin, a reclusive businessman will profit from the machinations of time. It’s an oddly pedestrian end to the story or at least to the tale of a man who may never have been a normal man in the first place. Sainthood, aristocracy, material gain; these have been the recompense for an organization that once attempted to destroy the world. Though quite why a southern region of Germanicus celebrates the Virgin Saint of Austria, even the Duke of Moldova doesn’t know.
“When I was a child I used to think he must be Dracula.” Shahrazad II smiles as she sips her wine.
“That’s a rather large leap of logic, wouldn’t you say?”
“It just seemed too convenient. The reclusive businessman whose interests span the known world, who’s rarely seen in public…”
“Who’s said never to age?”
“Yes. I… didn’t believe the stories at first. Because… I could believe that Dracula lives in Germanicus but I couldn’t believe that my uncle was really immortal.”
“And now you know differently.”
And so it goes. Immortality for two entirely unworthy men. Yet perhaps it is immortality that has redeemed them. The deranged scientist now a paragon of commerce and the worthless terrorist; the guardian of a benevolent royal line. It may even be some sort of appalling joke but if it is, nobody seems quite prepared to deliver the punch-line. Perhaps nobody really cares enough to, too caught up in their glorious nonsense legends and inherited pride. And why would anyone want to change the fairytale anyway? Especially when it gives everyone a happy ending.
“She used to think you were Dracula, you know.”
“Who says I’m not? This name is just an alias after all.”
“Just as long as you don’t start calling yourself Voivode of Walachia.”
“Why? Do you have designs on it?”
“No. Why are we having this conversation anyway?”
A smoke ring is the only answer.
“Such nonsense.”
“I’m surprised that you’ve not insisted on being called Domnitor of Wallachia and Moldavia really.”
And this time Radu can’t help but laugh.
++++++++++
Domnitor was the title of the ruler of Wallachia and Moldavia between 1859 and 1881.
For comparison it really does look like Vlad and Radu are up to their old tricks again. Though goodness knows what the Saint of Germanicus would have to say about that.