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Title: As in Dreaming
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Carmilla
Rating: G
Pairing: Carmilla/Laura
Genre: Angst/Romance
Disclaimer: I do not own Carmilla and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The tale of Carmilla didn't end with the novel. This is what happened after.
Author's Notes: This was written for goblindaughter as a part of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ficmountain, the summer rare fandoms fest.
This is not my first narrative on this subject. That one is to become more widespread than this, written as it is for the eyes of doctors and academics and those others with an interest in such things. This is for my own gain. It is to record the truth of what came next, so that in my moments of doubt I may return to it and remember for even now – even to I, who have lived it – the truth seems so incredible as to be a dream.
I have, in that earlier narrative, spoken of the journey I took with my father after those events that led to the demise of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. We travelled together to Italy, to revel in the sunlight that catches in quiet plazas, and to recover from our ordeal. My father had plans to take me to museums and ancient temples in order to distract me, and introduce me to new companions – replacements – so that I may have the society that I had so lacked in my youth.
I am sorry to say that his kind thoughts and dreams were in vain. I was weakened by more than just the physical draining. The loss of Carmilla was a weight on my mind. Strange, frightening creature that she was, she had been my first true friend and my first love. Her face haunted me. Its final expression rose in my mind whenever my eyes closed, and I saw the peaceful tragedy of her last sleep every night in my dreams. My grief was, at first, a crippling thing, and I spent much of the initial stages of our journey through the Italian Alps shut away by myself with tears tracking my cheeks.
Slowly, however, I began to leave this shell. I tasted gelato in Florence, and thick ice cream drowned in espresso; I sailed in gondolas in Venice, where I purchased a half-mask in the festival style. White porcelain decorated with gold and blue crystals shaped like tears. I basked in warmth and good food; in architecture – ancient and modern – and in history.
Yet everywhere, I saw Carmilla. Her form was immortalised wherever I looked, in statues and friezes and my own darkening dreams. Much like the vision of her that had so terrified me as a child, she would creep to my side as I lay in my hotel rooms, but in these dreams she did not bite. She did not touch me either to soothe or seduce. She stood weeping, her long hair forming a thick curtain over her face so that I could not see, each sob shaking her violently.
Why did she not touch me? Why did she seek no comfort from me who she had professed on so many occasions to love? I told myself that dreams rarely made sense and that I should forget them; that I should return to the sunlight as my father wished. Yet for all my determination, those dreams tangled themselves into my heart and mind until not even the sights of Rome itself could distract me from them.
Carmilla wept, and I – a fool, perhaps, but just as devoted as I had been since our first meeting – longed to take her in my arms, though I never did.
Our return to the schloss was, perhaps, less triumphant than my father had hoped for. The promised society of others my own age had done little to rouse my interest beyond that which was courteous.
Despite my disinterest, my father was determined that all trace of Carmilla should be erased now that – as he deemed it – sufficient time had passed. I know that he did this out of care for me, but I could not help but resist him at every turn. I lost most of my battles, and the room Carmilla had stayed in was redecorated and her remaining possessions – few though they were – were for the most part thrown away. I managed only to save a vanity set crafted of silver and pearls, and the portrait that remained on my wall despite every effort.
Those few items became my solace as months passed and life at the schloss returned to the quiet state it had always been. Those items and the dreams that still came nightly.
Carmilla no longer wept. From my bed I watched her prowl my room like a great cat, investigating my scattered trinkets and lingering by her portrait. I began to speak to her. I told her of Italy: of the taste of gelato and the echo of marble halls. I told her of my grief at her loss, and how I still longed for her company; I told her, in the shadows of those dreams, that I forgave her for supping from me – even invited her to do it again, baring my breast to her suddenly piercing gaze, so desperate I was for her to return to me.
She did not bite. She touched me, her small hand sliding down from my collar bone to the peak of my nipple, but she did not bite. She smiled at me, and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her face into the curve of my neck so that I could breathe in the scent of her luxurious hair, and she whispered once more of love and devotion – words I had heard so often and yet never thought to hear again.
“For you, dearest Laura, I will always return. No tomb may hold me while you are on this earth.” Oh, how my heart soared to hear such things. How my limbs shook as she pressed cold kisses to my lips and throat.
I know not who she feeds upon but it is not me. We live together in the schloss with my father – now aging – who does not know that Carmilla is once more under his roof. It is a deception we must maintain for safety’s sake, for while a vampire may survive the desecration of her grave and body, such acts will weaken her horribly for many years. My Carmilla belongs – for now – entirely to the night and to the mystery of dreams and she will remain so until she regains her previous strength. This is why my earlier, publicised narrative ends with her end and why I will hoard this document until the end of my days – taking it out only, as I have said, to remind myself of how Carmilla did return to me in my dreaming.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Carmilla
Rating: G
Pairing: Carmilla/Laura
Genre: Angst/Romance
Disclaimer: I do not own Carmilla and am making no profit from this story.
Summary: The tale of Carmilla didn't end with the novel. This is what happened after.
Author's Notes: This was written for goblindaughter as a part of
ficmountain, the summer rare fandoms fest.This is not my first narrative on this subject. That one is to become more widespread than this, written as it is for the eyes of doctors and academics and those others with an interest in such things. This is for my own gain. It is to record the truth of what came next, so that in my moments of doubt I may return to it and remember for even now – even to I, who have lived it – the truth seems so incredible as to be a dream.
I have, in that earlier narrative, spoken of the journey I took with my father after those events that led to the demise of Mircalla, Countess Karnstein. We travelled together to Italy, to revel in the sunlight that catches in quiet plazas, and to recover from our ordeal. My father had plans to take me to museums and ancient temples in order to distract me, and introduce me to new companions – replacements – so that I may have the society that I had so lacked in my youth.
I am sorry to say that his kind thoughts and dreams were in vain. I was weakened by more than just the physical draining. The loss of Carmilla was a weight on my mind. Strange, frightening creature that she was, she had been my first true friend and my first love. Her face haunted me. Its final expression rose in my mind whenever my eyes closed, and I saw the peaceful tragedy of her last sleep every night in my dreams. My grief was, at first, a crippling thing, and I spent much of the initial stages of our journey through the Italian Alps shut away by myself with tears tracking my cheeks.
Slowly, however, I began to leave this shell. I tasted gelato in Florence, and thick ice cream drowned in espresso; I sailed in gondolas in Venice, where I purchased a half-mask in the festival style. White porcelain decorated with gold and blue crystals shaped like tears. I basked in warmth and good food; in architecture – ancient and modern – and in history.
Yet everywhere, I saw Carmilla. Her form was immortalised wherever I looked, in statues and friezes and my own darkening dreams. Much like the vision of her that had so terrified me as a child, she would creep to my side as I lay in my hotel rooms, but in these dreams she did not bite. She did not touch me either to soothe or seduce. She stood weeping, her long hair forming a thick curtain over her face so that I could not see, each sob shaking her violently.
Why did she not touch me? Why did she seek no comfort from me who she had professed on so many occasions to love? I told myself that dreams rarely made sense and that I should forget them; that I should return to the sunlight as my father wished. Yet for all my determination, those dreams tangled themselves into my heart and mind until not even the sights of Rome itself could distract me from them.
Carmilla wept, and I – a fool, perhaps, but just as devoted as I had been since our first meeting – longed to take her in my arms, though I never did.
Our return to the schloss was, perhaps, less triumphant than my father had hoped for. The promised society of others my own age had done little to rouse my interest beyond that which was courteous.
Despite my disinterest, my father was determined that all trace of Carmilla should be erased now that – as he deemed it – sufficient time had passed. I know that he did this out of care for me, but I could not help but resist him at every turn. I lost most of my battles, and the room Carmilla had stayed in was redecorated and her remaining possessions – few though they were – were for the most part thrown away. I managed only to save a vanity set crafted of silver and pearls, and the portrait that remained on my wall despite every effort.
Those few items became my solace as months passed and life at the schloss returned to the quiet state it had always been. Those items and the dreams that still came nightly.
Carmilla no longer wept. From my bed I watched her prowl my room like a great cat, investigating my scattered trinkets and lingering by her portrait. I began to speak to her. I told her of Italy: of the taste of gelato and the echo of marble halls. I told her of my grief at her loss, and how I still longed for her company; I told her, in the shadows of those dreams, that I forgave her for supping from me – even invited her to do it again, baring my breast to her suddenly piercing gaze, so desperate I was for her to return to me.
She did not bite. She touched me, her small hand sliding down from my collar bone to the peak of my nipple, but she did not bite. She smiled at me, and wrapped her arms around me, pressing her face into the curve of my neck so that I could breathe in the scent of her luxurious hair, and she whispered once more of love and devotion – words I had heard so often and yet never thought to hear again.
“For you, dearest Laura, I will always return. No tomb may hold me while you are on this earth.” Oh, how my heart soared to hear such things. How my limbs shook as she pressed cold kisses to my lips and throat.
I know not who she feeds upon but it is not me. We live together in the schloss with my father – now aging – who does not know that Carmilla is once more under his roof. It is a deception we must maintain for safety’s sake, for while a vampire may survive the desecration of her grave and body, such acts will weaken her horribly for many years. My Carmilla belongs – for now – entirely to the night and to the mystery of dreams and she will remain so until she regains her previous strength. This is why my earlier, publicised narrative ends with her end and why I will hoard this document until the end of my days – taking it out only, as I have said, to remind myself of how Carmilla did return to me in my dreaming.
