Hey! So, have this. I rewrote a bunch of it, but i'm still not entirely satisfied with it in some parts, but at this point i think i'm overanalysing and just exhausting myself, so I decided to leave it like it is. Anywho, Radu as a historical figure interests me quite a bit. Particularly, I wanted to explore the whole effect of having lived in the Ottoman empire for a large chunk of his life and how that would leave him feeling when he does finally return to Wallachia. I admit, I used my own feelings as an immigrant from Romania to lead this. Obviously, it's not entirely the same (I was 10, excited to go to England and I had my parents by my side. Also, less trauma) but you know. Also, Maria Voichița is here, because father daughter bonding time <3
Also, i tried to use some romanian words, but mixing romanian and english together is kind of awkward. I'll have translations at the end.
Wallachia. Valahia. Eflak.
So many words for one place, yet they all lead the same way.
At least, this is suppose to be home. What a strange word that is; home. Home is where you're safe, comfortable, and able to feel the most primitive emotions.
Yet, as he stands in his darkening room, a singular candle illuminating his features in the mirror, his person stripped of his armour to reveal bare bones, he feels none of those things. He stares at his half alight face, the way the shadows hug every wrinkle, every scar, every hair, every miniscule indent upon his face, and he feels nothing. Everything appears foreign, from the pale eyes pushed within his skull, to the world beyond this pocket of space. The language, build up of all those words and sounds that once felt like an embrace, feel heavy upon his tongue, crumbled and faded like an abandoned toy he once loved well.
He is finally where he's meant to be, however a freezing chill has settled in his muscles, his skin stretching and pulling as if it no longer fit his bones. This burning land made of hills and rivers did not know him, and he knew it not. The sky doesn't recognise his presence, the dirt doesn't hold the carvings of his feet, his essence doesn't linger in the air, the rooms don't hold space for his body; he's grown a stranger to his own skin, flesh and blood. He studies himself in the mirror, looking at the way the soft glow besides him morphs his face, removing his long lived years, and instead presenting him with his younger self, fragile red and skinless, his flesh writhing in agony as his old skin lays thrown away like waste.
By God, how he aches to mould and squeeze himself into that old, dusty skin; to retrieve the bones of that child that once knew well. They've long laid those bones within the confines of the Ottoman empire, that golden cage that glittered like sunshine on a summer's day, bold and unapologetic, yet so enticing; a perfect tomb for a child.
His body is now strange, no matter where he leaves it. His mind ticks, and weaves, and twists like a Wallachian, yet this clay he calls skin has been shaped into a Turkish man, so clean and graceful. His mind and body are hardly ever in tandem, but it had never mattered before, not to Mehmed. You're so beautiful, Radu. Radu Bey. Radu cel Frumos. They dressed his tomb in flowers and fruits.
Wallachian or Turkish. He was somehow both and neither.
He tries to think back on this day which made him Voivode, yet it all comes in blurs of colours, sounds and smells. The Ceremony which crowned him had tickled his nose with the smell of incense, had filled his eyes with images of holy stories painted in blue, red and gold along the walls and the hard floor, which was icy and hard against his knees as he kneeled for his God given right to be laid upon his brow. Words were spoken to him in unfamiliar tongues, prayers he hasn't whispered in years for he could not bring himself to; they appeared stolen and wrapped in falsity when he spoke them alone. They were verses of a song that his family once sang, the ones he could conjure up in his mind. His mother and his brother, both long gone from his grasp, alive or not. His mother, he can only remember her in seconds, in the reflection of his blue eyes they once shared, and she had loved this song. She would sing it to him as he sat in her lap, tiny and half asleep. The rotten blur of memories made it appear rippled and distorted, off-key in some way he can't comprehend. In contrast, his brother, Vlad, is one he can remember very well. From the hard edges along his face, to his furrowed brows, to the pitch black hair that curled at the ends, to those calculating grey green eyes, the image was so clear it felt like Vlad would be standing right in front of him right now if he blinked. Except, he appeared wrong, still 17 years old and not the grown man he has become. Radu shakes his head, swallowing down to soothe his dry throat, and the image vanishes.
Vlad has always loved this song, its melody and beats, and repeated them in whispers and mumbles, as if they'd wilt away. Wallachia remembered his brother well, just as Vlad remembered it. He'd tried to teach him, to tell him about their land, their blood, to let him not forget who he had barley known - their strong willed father, their confident and hopeful brother, and their sweet and daring sister - Vlad Dracul, Mircea, and Alexandra. These names were dear to Vlad; to Radu, they were names without faces or memories, just ghosts of touches, of mere concepts. He hadn't intended it, but with this power Vlad held, he became one in the same with Wallachia in Radu's mind; he revered him, he hates him, yet a feeling like love still lingers like a bad smell. He was the sweet balm and the sharp sword, the warmth of the flames and the stinging burn. Vlad left him first, and now he's gone and Radu has taken his place, and it wasn't fair; it never was with them. No matter, he doesn't need him.
He doesn't need any of them anymore.
He doesn't remember what came after the Ceremony. It appeared to be a celebration of his ascendence as Voivode, with the smell of roasted meat and spices overwhelming his nose, people dancing and turning into blurs of colourful skirts and robes. The warmth of the room had been intoxicating, just as the wine had left him dizzy and desperate to evade it all as fast as possible. Eyes started boring into his very soul, turning the celebration into judgement, a scrutiny of his every move. Suddenly, he was not sat upon a stiff wooden throne, but in the airy chambers he used to inhabit once, with its smooth silk sheets and its glossamer curtains. He tasted the fruity perfume and the sweat along his skin as he turned pale and started trembling in his flesh. Hands touched his skin, so clean and soft, leaving splotches of red and purple, but that wasn't right. It was disturbed in some way. Was his mind so lost? He was not in that chamber or under Mehmed's touch anymore, and the hands moving down his spine and up his thigh were tricks of the mind. He was beyond that now, not so young anymore, not so foolish. It was all in the past, it would never happen again. His body didn't believe it, so he made the wise decision to leave early. Now, he was here, in his chambers, in Wallachia, dark and cool, and most importantly, alone.
Had he even eaten anything? He can't remember. He can hardly remember what was served. There must be something in there to explain the ache and twist in his stomach leaving him nauseous, but nothing came to mind. He looks at his reflection again, truly looks this time, no illusion. He had taken the time to strip himself of all his finery that made him Voivode, leaving him in a plain cotton shirt and shorts that made him a mere man. Small bits of hair stuck to his skin and there was a light gleam of sweat decorating him. His cheeks were rosier than they should be, and his eyes, wide and alert, twitched as if they were trying to crawl out of his skin. He blinked and felt something cool drip down his cheeks. Was he crying? He didn't feel any twinge in his body to suggest it but his eyes were too glossy in the candlelight, and the tears on his face glowed white. Why was he crying?
His heart started racing in his chest and he stood up so abruptly that the chair he was sat on nearly fell to the ground. By God, was he actually here, in Wallachia, or was he still there, in the Empire? Had his mind tricked him again? He frantically runs his gaze over the place, and the room doesn't shift or twist in tones. It remains stagnant, steady, real. Thank God.
Breathe. Just breathe. Stop thinking like that, you fool.
He looks through a window and notices stars starting to twinkle and shine in the dark sky. He ought to get some rest. Some proper rest will clear his mind and rid him of this youthful foolishness. He moves over to his bed and collapses into the sheets like a dead animal. His wife won't be joining him for a couple more hours, so his only companion is the candle which has now flickered out, leaving him in total darkness. He turns onto his side to snuggle further into the sheets. They are different to what he's used to; thicker, coarser, yet still so soft and kind on his skin. He thinks he could stay here forever, cocoon himself in this blanket and let the world pass him by, and no one would see him again. This room is his, untouched by filth and failure and tears and another's burning hands. It can stay this way forever, until he goes to his grave; until there's nothing left of him to see.
A few hours later, he's brought back to the waking world by the door creaking open and a flicker of light slithering into the room. He sat up, trying to adjust his eyes to the unyielding darkness. He swiftly makes out a small child in the doorway, barely peeking through, wearing a simple white shift and long hair in a loose braid, locks sticking out and frizzled up from moving around in sleep, as she should still be doing. His daughter, Maria, was at the door, with her lower lip wobbling and her eyes wide as they always were when she was about to cry.
"Oh, what happened, puiu meu?" he says, opening his arms so the little girl can run into them. In the blink of an eye, his daughter had flown into his arms, legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his neck, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. He moved one hand up and down her back and the other hand on her head petting down wild locks, rocking lightly and shushing smoothly to soothe her tears. She says nothing, sobbing for a few minutes before she gathers her words, sniffing loudly before she speaks.
"I don't like this place, Tati. I want to go home. Can we go home please?" she whimpers, and Radu can feel his heart shatter at the wobble in her voice. He tightens his hold on her as he swallows down the growing bubble in his throat. The words ring so eerily familiar. He might as well have woken up twenty years in the past, a small boy saying the same words to his older brother, desperatly longing for his own bed in his own home. God, Maria is older than he was when he was taken as a hostage. She's so tiny at only five years old; had he been so small? He doesn't remember, but he must've been. Perhaps even tinier than her. Oh God.
"Nu Tati, we can't go home, because this is our home now. I'm sorry, Maria." he says gently, and she starts to whine louder, unsatisfied with his answer. She pushes away, lifting her head up to look at him. Her brows were furrowed and her lips were in a pout, her eyes red rimmed and her whole face blotchy and wet. With all the strength a little girl can have, she hits him in the chest.
"But I don't like it here! It's scary!"
"I know, draga mea, but you have to try to be brave. I promise you won't be scared forever." Maria pushes him away with an upset huff and turns her head away, her arms crossed together. He can't help but chuckle to himself at the seriousness Maria fails to exhibit, looking rather like a little puffed up bird rather than anything intimidating, before cupping her cheeks and turning her face over so their eyes meet. Her face is glistening with tears, and Radu can't help but wipe them away with his thumbs. He presses a kiss to her forehead before he whispers to her: "Do you think you can be brave? For Tati și Mami?" After a few moments of silence, she nods and lays her head on his shoulder as Radu murmers sweet little words under his breath for her, lightly rocking once more.
She starts to fidget with his hair, running her fingers through his short locks absentmindedly, a habit she has taken to whenever she sneaks into bed with her parents. She typically does it to her mother, who has much longer hair fit for a five-year-old to play with. She’ll run her fingers through it and attempt to braid it with untrained hands, which always creates knots that the older Maria will have a nightmare trying to rid herself of in the morning. Radu chuckles at the thought of the amount of swears he’s heard the woman mutter under her breath while brushing her hair after such nights, both familiar and foreign words, but he knew she wouldn’t have it any other way. Neither of them would. His heart softens feeling his little girl’s hands in his hair that he can’t help but indulge her.
"Would it help you be more brave if you slept here tonight?" As soon as the words left his mouth, Maria jumps up with an excited squeal, a wide smile on her face as she untangles herself from him and rolls over into the spot next to him, snuggling under the blanket between giggles of success. Radu can't help but giggle as well at his daughter's characteristic change in mood before laying down alongside her and placing an arm over her in a comforting embrace.
No sooner had she laid down, the small child was asleep, emitting small snores. He can't help but look upon her; her cheeks are still chubby with baby fat, as are her arms and legs, her tiny hands have hardly learned the art of holding the quill, her messy curls in disarray, which are typically placed in braids and decorated with ribbons that the little girl loves to show off. The warmth emitting from her body is like a soft caress upon his skin which he hasn't felt in years. He leans down to kiss her on the forehead once more, and her skin feels as fragile as glass. A precious jewel, a small being in need of his protection.
Mayhaps this place will never feel like home for him, but he can make this a home for his daughter. He can make this land, with its tall hills and cold rivers, a place where Maria feels safe, comfortable and free. She will never feel the unwanted desire to shed her skin, to become something she is not.
And maybe he'll find his own skin along the way.
