Chapter Text
Romania is an enchanting country, brimming with legends, as though it were one of the primordial cradles of the world’s most macabre narratives. Upon setting foot there, there was no other course of action but to delve into its historical and infamous landmarks, such as the illustrious and ominous Dracula’s Castle.
The journey from Bucharest to Bran spans roughly four hours by car. Naturally, as a woman with a proclivity for intrepid exploration, you delight in undertaking ventures independently, whether for the thrill of autonomy or to preserve financial resources. In this particular scenario, renting a vehicle and embarking on the expedition alone proved significantly more economical than participating in a conventional group tour.
Clutching the keys firmly, you made your way toward the car, methodically entering the destination into the GPS. As you proceeded, a delicate veil of snow began descending from the sky. You presumed this was a typical occurrence for the region, confident that, four hours from your current location, snow would not present itself as an obstacle.
Such an innocent misconception.
Midway through your expedition, the snowfall escalated, transforming from a gentle drizzle to a relentless barrage. The GPS signal, meanwhile, faltered intermittently, struggling to maintain its connection amidst the mountainous terrain. Yet, with only ninety minutes remaining, turning back seemed illogical; you were now closer to your destination than to where you had departed.
Resolutely, you pressed forward, navigating through winding roads as directed by the unreliable GPS, which frequently recalculated after you inadvertently took a wrong turn.
Fatigue soon set in. You pulled the car over to the side of the road, realizing that the storm was intensifying. The snow had begun to accumulate, forming an ever-growing blanket over the ground. Still, you opted to remain in the car, moving into the backseat to take a brief respite. Perhaps, when you awoke, conditions would have improved.
However, as the hours passed and the storm showed no signs of abating, you realized that passive waiting was no longer an option. Action was imperative; you needed assistance.
Unfortunately, the weak cellular signal inside the vehicle rendered your phone useless. Stepping outside into the frigid snowstorm, you assumed a brief exposure would not cause harm. Determined, you ventured out, phone in hand, searching for a signal, but to no avail.
Undeterred, you proceeded to walk further down the desolate road—yet, still nothing.
Finally, you approached the edge of the looming forest and, to your immense relief, discovered a faint signal. You hurriedly dialed a number, but just as quickly, the signal dissipated once again. Infuriated by your unreliable service provider, you made the audacious decision to step a little further into the forest, hoping to strengthen the connection. You held your phone high above your head, desperately attempting to capture even the weakest signal. In a fit of desperation, you climbed a nearby tree, and though you failed to find reception, something far more surprising appeared on the horizon—smoke.
In the distance, rising between the trees, you saw the unmistakable plume of smoke billowing from chimneys. A village was nearby, possibly no more than three or four kilometers from your current position. It wasn’t far.
Daylight still clung to the sky, so you resolved that it was best to head towards the village, seek help, and return to your car before nightfall.
The trek was arduous, the snow hindering your progress, and as you walked through the dense forest, you calculated that reaching the village would take at least an hour, perhaps more given the conditions.
Upon arriving, you found yourself in a modest, seemingly forgotten village. Uncertain of your next move, you approached the nearest house, knocking on the door. To your dismay, the door was promptly slammed shut before you could utter a word.
Undaunted, you continued to the largest house you could find. An elderly woman opened the door and, though there was a language barrier, she welcomed you inside. Unable to communicate verbally, she grasped your wrist with an urgency that alarmed you, leading you toward an unknown destination. Confused, you implored her for assistance, but she remained silent.
The woman guided you into a diminutive, isolated church, motioning for you to sit on one of the pews. Though perplexed, you obeyed, gazing at the altar. There, an enigmatic figure was depicted—a woman, her face obscured by a mask, surrounded by what appeared to be attendants or acolytes.
Time passed slowly, agonizingly, and you were left in solitude until the creaking of the door shattered the silence. What emerged was nothing short of extraordinary—a vision, ethereal and haunting.
A towering, statuesque woman with flowing blonde hair entered the church. From her back extended enormous black wings—eight of them in total, each one vast and foreboding. She wore a mask identical to the one you had seen in the painting, further deepening your bewilderment. Your pulse quickened as the surreal nature of the situation overwhelmed you.
With deliberate grace, she removed her mask, revealing a face of almost divine beauty. She scrutinized you, her eyes sharp and inquisitive, before arching an eyebrow slightly.
"I have come to aid you."
“Am I dead?” you stammered, your breath catching in your throat. Her presence was so otherworldly, so awe-inspiring, that for a moment you truly believed you had transcended to some celestial realm. Never before had you been so captivated by anyone, let alone a woman of such extraordinary grace.
The woman said nothing, but extended her hand to you, beckoning. In that moment, you could scarcely believe it—by taking her hand, it felt as though you would be lifted from the mundane world and carried into the spiritual beyond.
"My name is Miranda. You may call me Mother Miranda."
Trembling, you took her hand and rose from your seat. This was not the type of divine intervention you had expected when you prayed for help, but it was undeniable. Divine aid had arrived, though not in any form you could have anticipated.
After introducing yourself, Miranda replaced her mask and led you out of the church. As she guided you, your attention fixated on the intricate golden claws she wore as rings, their frigid touch against your skin sending shivers down your spine.
"My car is stranded on the road. I need to return to the main road and continue my journey to Bran," you explained, unsure if she would understand.
A faint, amused smile danced across her lips as she continued leading you further into the unknown, away from where you had come.
"In the midst of a snowstorm? The roads will be impassable soon. We are in the mountains." she said, her voice resonating with a calm authority.
"And what am I supposed to do?" you replied, only later realizing how sharp your tone had sounded.
Miranda paused momentarily, releasing your hand as the two of you reached a corridor lined with towering trees and seemingly endless wilderness.
"You are free to return, or you may allow me to take you somewhere safe until the storm passes."
You hesitated, contemplating your options. The notion of safety appealed to you more than the thought of struggling through the storm. The rental car could be dealt with later, but for now, shelter was paramount.
"Is there a hotel where I can stay?"
"This is not a metropolis."
"Then, where are we going?"
"To my home."
As you approached Miranda’s house, your heart skipped a beat. There was something about her—her charm, her presence—that left you unsure of how to react. She had done so much for you, and all you could do was hold her hand in silence, letting her guide you further into the unknown.
Snowflakes drifted down gently, brushing your exposed skin and dampening your hair as you walked along the quiet, secluded path. In the distance, her house came into view: a grand, white structure that towered over everything else, save for the imposing silhouette of the castle you had glimpsed earlier. It was a large house, at least three stories high, seemingly the largest in the area.
Miranda released your hand, motioning for you to enter.
"Are you sure I won’t be intruding?" you asked softly as you stepped inside.
Miranda followed closely behind, removing her mask. Her wings, which had previously fluttered behind her, now shrank and disappeared into her back, as though they had never been there at all. She placed the mask on a nearby table and gestured for you to continue into the house as she removed the rings she was wearing.
“It won’t be a bother, I assure you.” she replied smoothly.
You followed her into a spacious room where a massive sofa—large enough to accommodate more than eight people—sat against the wall. There was no television, only a tall bookshelf filled with books, hinting at her preference for quiet solitude. A glass coffee table, neatly arranged with decorative items, and an air of meticulous order filled the space.
She led you past a corridor, offering a glimpse of the dining room in the distance, though she did not linger on the ground floor. Instead, she guided you upstairs. On the second floor, Miranda opened the door to a well-kept bedroom. Inside was a double bed, a wardrobe, a desk, and another door that likely led to a bathroom or closet.
"Make yourself comfortable. This will be your room for the night."
"Thank you, Mother Miranda." you said, the title feeling both formal and strange. Still, her expression remained unchanged.
"I’ll fetch you a towel and some clothes. I won’t be long."
With that, she left, her steps soundless as she disappeared toward the third floor. Left alone, you explored the room. Everything was spotless, from the carefully made bed to the immaculate furniture. When you opened the bathroom door, you found a functional yet simple space: a gas-powered shower, sink, toilet, and a full-length mirror. Nothing about it seemed extravagant, and you wondered if she often had guests.
Before long, Miranda returned, knocking before she entered. She placed a towel and a long-sleeved dress with a matching skirt on the bed, along with a pair of socks.
“You can wear this as nightwear. It might be a bit large, but it should keep you warm.”
"You’ve already done so much for me. You really didn’t have to."
"I’m simply ensuring your comfort, so I can be at ease with your presence." she responded evenly.
You hesitated but nodded. "Is this your dress?" you asked, curiosity getting the better of you.
"No," she replied bluntly.
"Then..." You thought about asking whose it was but held your tongue, sensing that Miranda didn’t appreciate being questioned. However, she sighed and offered an explanation.
"It belonged to one of my... granddaughters." she said, the words seeming to cause her discomfort.
"Thank you.." you murmured.
"While you take a shower, I’ll prepare something for you to eat." With that, she left the room.
You took a long, hot shower, letting the warmth chase away the chill that had settled into your bones. After drying off, you slipped into the dress, which fit loosely but was comfortable. You combed your hair and made your way downstairs, following the sounds of movement to the kitchen.
There, Miranda worked with an almost mechanical precision, her movements deliberate and exact. The kitchen, like the rest of the house, was impeccably organized. She glanced at you briefly before returning to her task, the silence between you both almost palpable.
"Thank you again." you said, hoping to break the tension.
“There’s no need for thanks,” she replied, glancing at you before adding, "Go sit in the dining room. I’ll bring your meal shortly."
Nodding, you made your way to the dining room and sat down. After a few minutes, Miranda appeared with a steaming bowl of soup. She placed it in front of you and returned with another bowl and two glasses of lemon juice.
“It’s a traditional vegetable soup. The juice is fresh lemon." she explained, waiting for you to taste the meal first.
You took a sip, savoring the rich, comforting flavors. "It’s delicious." you remarked, noticing a brief flicker of relief in her expression.
"How long do you think the snowstorm will last?" you asked after a moment of silence.
"A few hours."
"So, I should be able to leave by morning?"
“If the snow doesn’t rise too high,” she responded, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly happened?”
"I didn’t check the weather and got lost. I was on my way to Bran."
“I see." she said curtly.
"I’d appreciate help getting back to my car once the storm passes."
"Mhm."
Conversation dwindled after that, and you both ate in silence. Once the meal was finished, Miranda stood first, gathering the dishes.
"Let me help with the dishes," you offered, but she declined with a firm "No," leaving you with no chance to argue.
You wandered into the living room, where you perused the bookshelf. Most of the books were in Romanian, which you couldn’t read. Eventually, you settled on a book about the fungal kingdom, though it wasn’t your first choice of reading material.
Before long, the dullness of the text made your eyelids heavy, and you dozed off on the couch. When you awoke, it was to the sensation of being carried. Startled, you realized Miranda was holding you, effortlessly carrying your weight as though it were nothing. She had changed into a white gown, her hair still damp from what must have been a recent bath.
Embarrassed, you stammered, “I-I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she reassured you softly. “It’s just after ten, and I came to check if you had gone to bed.”
She carried you to your bedroom door and gently set you down.
“Goodnight.” she said before turning and ascending the stairs to the third floor.
Once in bed, sleep didn’t come easily. You tossed and turned, the events of the day swirling in your mind. Glancing at your phone, the time read 23:43h. It was only then that you noticed faint noises coming from downstairs.
Curiosity sparked, but remembering the rules, you decided not to investigate further. Instead, you returned to your bed, trying once more to find rest despite the lingering mystery.