[ And fuck if this isn't similar in all the petty, stupid ways to the ways he likes to joke around, how as Sypha likes to call Alucard her handsome prince he has never quite given up the insult of princeling and likes to make a scene out of kneeling in front of him to kiss his hands and lifting him like a delicate maiden. It starts out as jest and ends in sincerity just as much as Sypha starts with sincerity and ends with soft, bell-like laughter.
Alucard is nothing but sincerity, and there will be no laughter at the end of this. ]
Dusk. It'll- at dusk.
[ They have until dusk. The turning always finishes at dusk. This is an exception in so many ways, but that- he can trust that. It's the body protecting itself, refusing to complete the process until the sun is gone in the same way it might reject stepping from a cliff or holding one's breath too long. Sypha finishes closing the windows, having figured out the source of the tiny red spiderwebs of blood blooming under his skin, and her hands join his and Alucard's.
He half considers demanding the communion wine and a sharp knife - he'd been talking to Alucard about this only a day or so ago, hadn't he? - but there's no sense in it. The turning process is what's keeping his throat intact. He could expel Walter's blood from himself with the sacrament, but he would be dead either way. Better to finish the turning process, have a few more hours with the two of them, join Sara within the whip, be of some use.
(For what use the whip will be, without a Belmont to hold it. There are the Renard and Lacarde branches of the family, but the relation is distant by now. Sara may well not recognize them as descendants of Leon.) ]
Sorry.
[ And he was wrong, it does end in laughter. Joyless, bitter, pained laughter. Because there's fucking up and then there's being turned by the blood of Dracula's fucking Sire. ]
no subject
Alucard is nothing but sincerity, and there will be no laughter at the end of this. ]
Dusk. It'll- at dusk.
[ They have until dusk. The turning always finishes at dusk. This is an exception in so many ways, but that- he can trust that. It's the body protecting itself, refusing to complete the process until the sun is gone in the same way it might reject stepping from a cliff or holding one's breath too long. Sypha finishes closing the windows, having figured out the source of the tiny red spiderwebs of blood blooming under his skin, and her hands join his and Alucard's.
He half considers demanding the communion wine and a sharp knife - he'd been talking to Alucard about this only a day or so ago, hadn't he? - but there's no sense in it. The turning process is what's keeping his throat intact. He could expel Walter's blood from himself with the sacrament, but he would be dead either way. Better to finish the turning process, have a few more hours with the two of them, join Sara within the whip, be of some use.
(For what use the whip will be, without a Belmont to hold it. There are the Renard and Lacarde branches of the family, but the relation is distant by now. Sara may well not recognize them as descendants of Leon.) ]
Sorry.
[ And he was wrong, it does end in laughter. Joyless, bitter, pained laughter. Because there's fucking up and then there's being turned by the blood of Dracula's fucking Sire. ]