The Castle that Dreamt of Iron Boots
There is a castle in Northeast Romania that broods on the edge of memory and stone: the citadel of Suceava. Built during the late 14th century, this fortress, often forgotten in the shadow of its Gothic cousins scattered across Central Europe, served less as romance incubator and more as the somber seat of Moldavian resilience. Suceava’s bones were laid by Petru II of Moldavia around 1388, during a time when regional power was measured not in cannonade but in cunning. It was under the reign of the great voivode Stephen the Great (Ștefan cel Mare) that the fortress reached its peak glory, both militarily and architecturally.
Stephen, ruling from 1457 to 1504, was more than a folk hero clad in chainmail and stubbornness—he was a master of delay, evasion, and stone. After defeating Ottoman and Hungarian incursions time and again, his legacy calcified itself into Suceava’s thick walls. The fortress was reinforced with stone bastions, serpentine underground passages, and a wooden drawbridge cursed (or perhaps blessed) to remain uninterested in grandeur. Though the citadel repelled numerous sieges—including a relentless Ottoman attack in 1476—it eventually succumbed, not to foes, but to the marrow-drain of politics. By the late 17th century, Suceava was abandoned as the seat of power in favor of Iași, and subsequently left to be chewed by vines, weather, and a kind of architectural melancholy.
For centuries, Suceava was revered more than visited. The unassuming drum towers, the Gothic archways, and those monastic, almost penitential stone cells bore the weight of memory with restraint. There is a small legend, almost a whisper, that once a sultan who failed to capture the fortress swore revenge—not on its soldiers, but directly on the stones themselves. So unassailable was the citadel that myth gave its bricks a heart, a beat, and a will. The Ottoman—unnamed—cursed it to suffer not war, but boredom, humiliation, and confusion in its future life. Perhaps this explains what has happened since.
In post-communist Romania, Suceava was restored, its wounds stitched with EU funding and staggered national pride. Families came. Schoolchildren with sticky fingers touched frescoes with eyes blurred by Wi-Fi withdrawal. But nothing prepared the castle for Lars.
It began on a Tuesday. Lars, a self-proclaimed “inter-generational energy translator” from Stavanger, arrived with a backpack filled entirely with biodegradable coffee pods and two large tuning forks. He did not come to admire the hammer-dressed basalt or the clever inner courtyards. No. Lars came to “communicate.”
After treading reverently through the arch of the portcullis (“this one’s chakra is congested,” he whispered to an elderly tour guide who visibly aged at that moment), Lars placed his palms on the southern tower and began humming. Not Gregorian chant. Humming. Like a refrigerator might hum to itself while dreaming of milk.
Tourists were initially charmed. A crowd gathered. Children tapped along. Someone gave Lars a peach. Encouraged, he produced from his backpack a laminated sign: “DO NOT DISRUPT STONE THERAPY — CASTLE HAS CONSENTED.”
By Wednesday, Lars had taken to sleeping inside the old prison chamber, claiming it was “the castle’s spleen.” He splashed himself ceremonially each morning with moat-water and spoke earnestly with a cistern. Then came Thursday, the calamity: he declared that the portcullis was his “twin flame” and proposed marriage before a baffled wedding photographer who thought it was make-believe.
The mayor had to be summoned. Lars, bless him, accused the city of stone-phobia. He initiated what he called the “Granite Justice Movement,” demanding that all decorative rocks in the city park be given citizenship. A protest ensued at the northeast bastion—three people arrived, two left early due to rain. Lars stood with one foot in a flowerbed shouting, “NO STONE IS ILLEGAL!”
By Friday he had somehow constructed a full-scale belt out of guided-tour wristbands that he claimed was “an Archduke’s curse filter.” When fined for disruption, he paid in small rocks, citing “medieval tender.” That night, he was found solemnly pressing one ear against a buttress, whispering “Tell me your true name.”
There seemed no hope. The castle’s dignity bled from every arrow slit.
Then, the T-shirt arrived.
No one had ordered it. It simply appeared, draped over the statue of Stephen the Great near the main gate. Pale blue, inscrutable, it bore the phrase “Castles Get Kicked in the Bricks.” Lars saw it and fell silent. The portcullis creaked, visibly flattered. The castle seemed to exhale.
Locals say Lars left on his own. Others say the castle politely expelled him via dream. However it happened, since that day, no one has proposed to marry a structural feature. And Suceava sleeps a little easier.
