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Let me tell you a story. I doubt you've heard it before. I heard it from the birds you see - only they ever knew the ending, and without that contribution it never was worth the telling. Now, I'm afraid what they don't know is the niceties of time and place, for what use have they for the calendars we use, or for our squabbling nations? But the story remains, and it has no great need of them.
Let me set the stage. This is the story of a boy named Vlad. The boy Vlad was a prince, and a hostage. He was, you see, the second of three children, and his father a minor king. It was because of this that the boy Vlad was a hostage, for his captors were rulers of a mighty kingdom indeed, holding him to hold his father's loyalty. Compelled loyalty is no true loyalty, of course.
Let me begin.
The boy Vlad was young when his father died. The life of royalty is often short, and violence common. A neighbouring nation had slain his father and his elder brother, and this the boy Vlad accepted, though it sorrowed him, for such was the way of things. Another had taken his throne from him, and this the boy Vlad accepted, though it angered him, for such was the way of things. His kingdom had been taken with aid of a traitor, and this he accepted, though it disgusted him, for such was the way of things. This traitor was his cousin, and he would not accept this, and it drove him to fury. Yet he could do nothing, for still was he young, still a hostage.
The years passed, and the boy Vlad grew to be a man with time, and the man Vlad grew to be cruel with his resentment toward the usurpers, and toward his captors. Yet he could do nothing, for still was he a hostage.
His foes brought their own end, in a sense. For their ambition grew beyond their wisdom, and they attacked the man Vlad's captors. They were little greater in might than his father had been, in the eyes of his captors, their kingdom mighty indeed. So it was that his captors marched forth in a tide of steel and blood. So it was that the man Vlad was restored to his throne.
He ruled, then, for several years. The birds tell me nothing of them, save that there was nothing worth telling, beyond their ending. That ending was one of blood. Once more came his foes. Once more was he left without his kingdom, though he escaped as had his cousin. For a number of years, then, did he wander as an exile, before he returned to those who had been his captors. And though the loyalty compelled is false, still could the man Vlad pull on his old chains. Again, they came in a tide of steel and blood, and again was he restored to his throne.
This time, though, this time his cousin did not escape. And the man Vlad now acted with more vengeance than wisdom, and he broke a rule far older than petty mortal law. He slew his cousin – still his cousin, for all that he was a usurper and betrayer. And as he died, his hatred mixed with his blood, as it drip, drip, dripped down the man Vlad's blade, and seeped into the soil. And the powers of the land woke to it, and were filled with that hate, and ever after would know him as a killer of his kin, and it would be to his ruin.
He ruled, then, for several years more, years of far more note. Rebellion came, and was ended. And rebellion came, and was ended. And rebellion came, and was ended. And the man Vlad grew crueller with each (and he never had been a kind man). And rebellion came, and no more after. For the man Vlad went forth in fury, and he had raised up great stakes of wood, and he had the rebels seized. And he placed them, still living, still writhing and thrashing and screaming, upon the stakes. Their deaths were slow, and their deaths were painful, and their deaths were filled with hatred.
And as they died their hatred mixed with their blood, as it drip, drip, dripped down the stakes and seeped into the soil. And the powers of the land woke to it, and were filled with that hate, and it would be to his ruin.
He ruled, then, a land of peace and fear. Until back came his old masters. Two emissaries were sent, and he received them as guests. One message was passed on. The man Vlad was called by his old captors, called to pay homage. Compelled loyalty is no true loyalty, and the man Vlad taught them that, that day. Once more the stakes were raised. Their deaths, too, were slow, were painful, were filled with hate.
And as they died their hatred mixed with their blood, as it drip, drip, dripped down the stakes and seeped into the soil. And the powers of the land woke to it, and were filled with that hate, and ever after would know him as a killer of his guests, and it would be to his ruin.
And the powers of mortals, too, woke to the killing, and again did his old masters come, again in a tide of steel and blood. Now came his ruin, and the land rose against him as his foes fell upon him. With every step, his warriors were tripped and tangled, caught by root and rock and mud. With every battle, his pride dimmed and his fury grew, stoked by loss of land and warriors and wealth. With the last, his life went with them.
But loss of life was not death, not for one who had angered the powers of such a land as Vlad had angered them. Death would have been too kind an escape. His screams did not stutter and fade, but grew. Into his throat were placed the screams of all his victims, and yet still his screams grew past that. He screamed with fresh pain. The pain of his bones grinding, and twisting, and shrinking, and hollowing. The pain of his flesh, as it tore and stretched and pulled tight. The pain of his organs, as they were squeezed slowly through his ribcage, squeezed into jelly, and dragged bag, squashed and squished until they fit. The pain of his face, as it hardened and split and lengthened. He screamed as he took form of a bird, and for his screams the bird Vlad was named Shrike.
He was granted freedom of body, to fly and see all his kingdom had become, and yet bound tight in heart and mind, to his cruelties and his obsession of rule. Nobody, not even the birds is sure if he still lives, for all he or his descendants could ever do was scream, and none can understand him. His descendants, too, hold to his manners of cruelty- many small beasts have found themselves placed upon thorns since that day.