Val

Even if I've been more introverted than normal the last stretch of months, I know I've mentioned how much I care about Val. At the risk of making myself vulnerable in an artistic sense, he's my favorite, and he's never done anything wrong in his life, ever. (I jest)

To be more specific: Val is a character I've had tucked away for a long time. For years. (He, Fulk, and Anna are my longest-held characters) But he was, up until I actually started laying out some real foundations for SoR, the sort of character I wanted to write, but was afraid I couldn't bring to life on the page in the way he deserved. Lowering him down onto the stage for the first time, giving him lines, and watching him toss his hair, in White Wolf, was a tiny, personal triumph. It was joyous. But getting to reach back to his childhood in Dragon Slayer, to tell his whole story...that's been an incredible process of discovery. 

I like to say - and it's true - that I don't build characters; I meet them. They introduce themselves, and getting to know them is more like an internal interview; or sometimes it's a bit like watching a documentary. They already exist, independent and fully-formed, and it's my job to learn them inside and out, and then present them properly to the reader. This sounds weird, I know. But it's the best way I know how to describe it. 

Some characters come on swift and sudden: that was Nikita. He dropped down into a chair, hungry and angry, lit a cigarette, and said, "What do you want to know?" That was also Lanny; it's been many of my characters.

Val, though, and maybe because he first introduced himself when I was much younger, and still very much a writer-in-the-making, has been more enigmatic. He's charming, and accommodating, but he has a way of skirting substantial questions about himself; he likes to play the mirror, rather than look into it. So Dragon Slayer was an exercise in finally, fully getting to the heart of him, and I think that was what made it such a fun project. 

Imagine writing back and forth with a pen pal for thirteen years, and then, finally, meeting face-to-face for lunch and learning everything. 

I think the reason I love writing him so much is that he's a character that so many can readily identify with. His personal struggle is one of identity, of freedom, of autonomy, and those themes resonate far past  his specific circumstances of Ottoman hostage. He's royalty, yes, and embroiled in politics, but he's always held a sort of soft power; rather than sitting on a throne and deciding the fate of others, he's trying to stay alive, trying to stay one step ahead, and wrestling with the moral conflicts of saving his hide - or standing up for his own beliefs. Val is a prince, but he isn't in charge of anything except his own behavior, and of the image he projects to others. 

***

Val took a restorative sip of wine, and some of the shaking began to subside. “I’ve found that a little kindness and familiarity goes much farther than treating a person like property and barking orders at them.”

“Hmph. It never worked for you.”

“You’re a wealth of comedy, your majesty.”

***

Without spoiling too much, I can happily say that Val ends DS in a good place. But his history - and reason I felt it necessary to write it - is going to dog his heels well into the future. It's the interpersonal struggle - Val wrestling with his family, his friends, with himself - that I love most about writing, and while DS does walk us through a bit of 15th Century Romanian history, the book is, at its heart, a character study. 

***

A dinner tray did indeed arrive, and it wasn’t the prepackaged, microwaved fare Val usually enjoyed in his cell. No, this was freshly prepared by hand in the manor’s kitchen, the same food that Vlad, and Talbot, and Treadwell, and all the mortals in the mansion ate. Roasted chicken, and rice, and steamed vegetables, and a cup of pig’s blood alongside a dish of something soft, and chocolate-smelling.

“What is this?” he asked, prodding it with his spoon. It wiggled.

“Pudding,” Vlad said, like the idea of such a thing was beneath him. Sour enough to have Val biting back a laugh. “It’s dessert.”

It was delicious, is what it was. Val ate every bite of it first thing, and then licked the dish before taking a more civilized approach with his chicken.

When his belly wasn’t so empty, he slumped back against the headboard and ate more slowly, sipping blood in between. “Alright, oh patient one, tell me of your elaborate plan.”

Vlad stood at the window, arms folded across his chest, staring out through the parted curtains at the moonlight lying across the lawn. It shouldn’t have, considering all that had happened since their reunion – Val set down his cup and reached to gently touch the wound that lay beneath his shirt, still angry-red in the mirror and healing slowly from the inside out – but the sight of him there, immovable as ever, was a comfort.

As if he sensed these thoughts, Vlad’s gaze slid over to him. “What?”

Val smiled. “You’re a warrior in every century, aren’t you?”