whoreofabaddon:

This is a blasphemous thought, even by my standards, but I simply adore the thought of Vlad Tepes so nearly destined for a vicious sainthood.

I cherish the image of him as the picture of a saint that modern pagans would so love to hate, with lips covered in blood, and a life sworn to the cross since childhood. He would be the knight his father had never been even if he had to become a monster in the process.

I imagine him seated in the cool evening beside St. Stefan; his beautiful golden cousin, who was every bit as ferocious a crusader. He would be so near to a living saint that he might even fondly embrace him, so familiar with him that he would know his childhood fears.  Vlad would listen so intently to his wise counsel in warfare but, when all had been said, he would scoff at the reserve of Stefan’s hand when it came to his own people.    

Vlad, so very nearly good, who could make angels weep for his cruelty.  Gradually losing his very chance at Heaven, because the longer that he lived, the more distant the promise became.  Thoughts of love for a woman who would never see Heaven would plague him, memories of shame and turmoil brought upon him by his father’s own disloyalty, and the distant recollection of a brother who so loved God that he died for Him.

I would wish him to be the darkness to St. Maria Goretti’s light. Where she is the symbol of forgiveness, he would be vengeance…the monster in your closet who watches over you.  I imagine him as nearly a demon that never quite gave up on his wish for Heaven, but simply buried it as far within him as he could.