[ The sunlight strikes after the first leap, and from there Trevor is lost. It isn’t deadly, not yet, but the sight of the brightness of it alone makes it feel as if his skull is cracking apart, like the migraines his bad eye gives him but magnified by a hundred thousand times. And then there is the warmth of it, and the sensation is not quite like burning. Not by fire. More like stone being worn away by weather over hundreds of years, condensed into the space of seconds.
He struggles, because how can he not, and it is all Sypha can do to freeze his fist closed around Alucard’s coat so he can keep contact. And then he falls still. He is unconscious, finally, or at least still and blissfully outside of himself, for the worst of it when they move from spring into late summer and cloudless sky.
He only stirs when he is lain on the bed, Sypha carefully removing the morning star from where it had started burning against the skin of his hip, keeping herself grounded enough to act only through finding tasks that need to be done. And he speaks, finally. Or tries to. It’s still a horrible rasping sound, recognisable only by the way that the syllable ends sharply and by the fact that this is Trevor and everyone here is well acquainted with Trevor’s vocabulary. ]
[It's the straining against sunlight that hits the hardest. Alucard knows why, all those long naps in the afternoon to replace sleeping at night, those will be gone if things go the way that they are expected to. If this goes quicker than it should be going. If if ififif.
There's the horrible desire to walk out of the kitchen door right now and just let out a long, horrible scream until his throat tears from the sustained noise. Do it at a high enough pitch to break through the barrier. Let every fucking vampire in France know that there has been a horrible miscalculation, and god, if they wanted his father they've got the very worst of Dracula now.
But it is a flight of fancy brought on by nothing more than straight up fear. They don't have the time for such indulgences, not when time is of the essence.
That horrible voice. Alucard can only kneel down next to Trevor, take hand in his.]
Agreed.
[Just a moment or two like this. Then the work begins in earnest.]
[ 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. ]
[It isn't a joke. Nothing about this is a joke, and never has Alucard's ice cold sincerity meant more or been more appropriate than it has been for this very moment. In the quiet little moments he had had enough time to develop his theories. Test bits out with Sypha, although nothing is complete or thought through in full, but they are the greater fools if they do not try whatever haphazard things that they can now.
There are too many horrible thoughts spinning at once. Laying here like this, it's a mockery of every tender moment of the past three years. That very first fucking kiss, for that matter, because being knocked over and then scooped up was not a kiss to be forgotten under any circumstances. Alucard's grip tightens, because that thought brings for another.
The blood in Trevor's now is as close to his father's as any. As close to his own. If there could be any tighter binding between them both, through family hatred, through sacraments and vows, through soft promises muttered in glorious afterglows, it isthis. It is the worst realization. It nearly sends a cry out of his throat. It will, when all is said and done.
They have precious few hours to work. There is no time to make other promises, even as Alucard's head begins that process. We will move the heavens and Earth for this to not be so. All of our will, our magic, our intent, the sole focus of it shall be you as human as you ever were. Should we falter, should we fail, we shall carry you home. Weight you down with finest silver. Give you rest. And that shall be all. There shall be no defying the heavens for the paths that have been forced on us, for that way there is only madness. Our lot will be mourning, and that too, that too we shall bear with all of the grace we can muster.]
[ That many words at once hurts. Those words specifically hurt. It's different having them in his head to hearing them coming out of his mouth in that horrible rasping voice from a ruined throat.
And he hates saying it. He hates it because he doesn't have the strength in him to turn away, and he can see Sypha's face when the words hit the air and- fuck. This serves him right for making a shitty fucking plan, but they don't deserve this. ]
[ He wants to argue. Arguing is what he does. But he's tired. He's tried and it hurts so, so much and he just wants to spend the afternoon with them as they ought to be, all happy and beautiful.
But desperately trying to do something impossible is also how they ought to be, isn't it? Has been since the start. ]
Just stay with me. I'm- [ He's scared. ] -I don't know what's going to happen.
[There's no more time to spend words. They have to work but fast, and so that means moving all three to the lab. They have to work in the lab, so Trevor gets scooped up again, this time the action fiercer and more terrified than before, and it's probably worse because it gives Trevor time to register that fear. They're all scared. They're all bugfuck terrified.
Sypha's got all of the bed things in her arms. Alucard has her walk first, so that she can lay it all down once they're in the lab. There's purpose as they walk, grim and terrible and uncertain, because this is an all or nothing chance.
The lab's windows are closed with only a flick of Sypha's hand. The bedding is put down, and Alucard stands in the threshold, still holding onto Trevor for dear life. His eyes are fixated elsewhere though, quietly accounting for where everything is. What they were in the middle of, what they can speed through, what needs more attention. The stone that this process has produced lays on the workspace, a dark, deep sea blue rather than brilliant crimson. It is dull. There is no magic in it, not yet, and that shall be step one.]
I said I would complete the work. It shall be as I said.
[It's as much comfort as he can offer right now, laying Trevor back down as carefully as he can.]
I love you too, you dramatic fuck. [ Even now, even now, he can't help himself. He has to make fun of the vampire for being too dramatic. Because if he doesn't - he's already admitted how bad things are, but if he does it by missing a chance to mock the vampire, they might believe him. ] I trust you both.
[ For all his determination to stay with them for as long as he can, he sleeps through most of the process. Sometimes there's Alucard holding Sypha's hands to guide them and instructing her, or Sypha leaning over his shoulder as he reads and offering context from stories about the philosopher's stone and he watches half awake and smiles. This was always his favourite thing, seeing the two of them fitting together so perfectly. Sypha all full of the past and Alucard all full of the future, meeting to complete each other's understanding of all possible things.
And he dreams. He dreams of Sara (this was the bed where she lay when Mathias treated her, wasn't it?). Of her holding Justine, fingers stroking through her hair softly, Justine's tiny hands in her chest, tugging at ribs. Of her whispering to the girl that she was safe and loved, holding her tightly until the estate was evacuated. And it should be terrible, but her voice is soft and calming.
It's hard to judge the time here, with the curtain drawn. But the glow behind the curtain is becoming redder and redder when he next wakes.
[In the end, the theory is this: the stone is science and the stone is magic. The stone is powered by Sypha's intent, which is that when the blood from the one tube passes in, it will be purified, and the tube that it exits from shall clear the rest of the veins. The stone works like transfusion, adding more iron to the system to flush out any vampiric traces in a way that won't be painful. And if there is the tiniest bit of communion wine to goose the system along, well. This is Trevor's blood. They need faith in this mix of science and magic too.
There are times when one of them sits down next to Trevor, leaving the other to work. There's quiet terror threaded in every action, but when either of them are down beside him, it leaves. He cannot have that weighing him down, not if this is truly the last of him. He shall have none of the mourning that will follow in his wake.
And when it is time, or as near to as they can tell, Alucard is the one who is holding all of the equipment in hand. That's practicality, because this is vampire blood. The last thing the three of them need is for her to turn as well. (Perhaps, Alucard thinks in the very back of his head, perhaps that would not be the worst outcome. They would still be together, after all.)
No warnings. No prelude. Just a rub of alcohol at two spots on Trevor's arm, and then the puncture of two needles through skin. Hissed instruction to the skin to not fucking dare an attempt to heal and...it seems to obey.]
[ There's a pinch. And- this ought to feel strange, really, his blood taking a different path than it should. But it's not the weirdest thing that's happened to his blood today. As it is it's just two pinches. A strange tiredness, as whatever it is that's been sustaining him is pulled out from him. It still hurts- everything still hurts, but that's not a change.
He's watching the window, watching the soft red glow reflected on the wall from the inside of the curtain. It's fading now. Fading. And Fading. And gone.
And he screams, bringing both hands up to his face and knocking the needles and tubes out of his arm as he does. He doesn't care about them right now. He can't care about them right now, because he can feel his skull changing shape, the bones of it stretching and cracking and reforming, teeth being shoved out of place to account for the presence of two bony growths from the front of it. He's digging his claws into the side of his head to try to control the pain of it and- claws, there are long claws where there were previously short and blunt nails. He can hear his heartbeat in every part of him but it's slow, so very slow.
And he can feel a hand on his, pulling it back from his face to stop him from clawing at it further, and the broken skin knits together instantly but the insides of him are changing now, the slow healing now instantaneous, bones and tissue knitting back into place in some places and withering away in others and-
There's a pained cry. Distant, feminine. Trevor, you're hurting me, and it's all too overwhelming to understand what he's doing, how tight his grip on Sypha's wrist is. ]
[It's the sound of bones changing shape that makes Alucard blanch. He's heard bones break before, he's caused that, and the sound is always horrible. The worst, he's thought in the past, is when the sharpened bones break through the skin itself, the noise combining with screams of pain and white sharpened bits that come out of the body at angles they never should.
This is worse. This is worse because everything still stays inside the body, and the body is contorting in ways it never, ever should.
Instinct doesn't help him in this moment. He tries to recover the stone and the equipment first, but no, he can't. Trevor's agony is too wild and frenzied to do anything but try and. And. He doesn't fucking know, to keep Trevor from hurting any of them, but most of all, Trevor himself. Gloved hands (because of course he's wearing gloves for this) struggle to hold him down, hold him fast, keep him still. But no. He's clinging to Sypha too hard, and it's all Alucard can do to squeeze Trevor's other hand. Demand attention, demand a fight, distract, disorient, anything, everything, to make this stop for even just a second.
He's never witnessed anything like this. And no wonder his father never ventured this thought upon his mother. He could never bear to see his wife pained, and this....]
[ There's no despair. No anger. None of Trevor's comfortable old haunts. There's just twisting, crushing pain in every part of him, something horrible and wild writhing about in his skin and and bones and trying to crush everything in there. He's screaming still, so much that there's blood from his ruined throat in his mouth with every cry, as it heals and tears again with each breath. He can't even feel it when desperation forces Sypha to use ice to pry his hand open, when it closes again on a spike of it that passes clean through skin and muscle and bone. He can barely feel it when all of that reforms.
Sypha's scrambling backwards, encasing his arms and legs and throat in ice and- it's cold. Logically he knows it's cold. But he can barely feel it. It isn't just not being able to feel it in comparison to the pain, he can barely feel it at all. It doesn't seem cold, and there isn't even pressure against his skin as his throes break through it easily.
He's clinging to Alucard's hand now, with crushing force that he could have never achieved before, claws digging in to tendons. He can smell blood from it, he can smell it so, so clearly, more clearly than he's ever sensed anything in his life.
His grip only loosens when the turning starts to come to an end. The pain is still present, all-consuming, but it's a crushing ache instead of the living, snarling thing tearing at him from the inside. He can hear the bones of his skull reforming, his teeth finishing their rearranging. He can hear Sypha yelling again, to stop, to please stop can't he see he's hurting Alucard, and his face is streaked with red from crying from the pain and he would still be screaming but he isn't breathing. His lungs aren't demanding air. And without it there's nothing left in him for sound and so he just lies silent and still twitching from the pain. ]
[He can take the physical pain. It barely registers, after all, he's his father's son. This is a newly formed vampire (this is Trevor) and so even with all that strength, wild and untamed, it only smarts. He'll take it all if it makes any of this easier, he'll let the blood drip down his arm and pool on the floor, he'll take it, take it, take it even as Sypha has to back away.
There is so much horror here that he cannot process an inch of it. Not the agony of Trevor in those screams, not Sypha as her magic fails her in every way that matters, there is only the moment and enduring it all. In looking at red streaming down a face that should only ever be full of living skin, not the horribly ashy stuff that there is there now.
They didn't have time to even see if the stone worked. This is reality now. This is what they have to endure, and there is only pulling Trevor to his chest and waiting for that terrible, terrible twitching to stop. There are no tears on Alucard's face, not now, not yet, just eyes wide, expression impossible to place. Even he doesn't know what he's feeling.
(No. He knows. It's the terrible feeling of anger that Sypha cannot hold Trevor from the other side, because of blood.)]
[ He can see individual strands of Alucard's hair.
That's his first coherent thought. He never could before. He could feel them, but to his eyes it was all one big golden, flowing, soft mass. His eyes are sharper, so much sharper, and when he blinks (does he need to?) there's none of the roughness of a scarred left eye against the inside of the eyelid.
He's still, now, save for his fingertips still twitching up and down, playing at trying to form fists but failing. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He manages to speak eventually, drawing in one gasping breath to speak. He can't feel anything, really, anything at all save for the residual pain, but the knowledge that this blood must have got here somewhere, that that horrible bruise on Sypha's wrist must have come from something. Even if the guilt's not hit him yet, he knows he's hurt them both. ]
[Alucard holds him there. He doesn't know what else he can do. He doesn't think there is anything else he can do or say or even think to cut the horrible tension of the ever-present moment. Trevor is so cold in his arms, colder than himself, and it is terrible thought to have. That weight is warm and pleasant and sometimes a little crushing, but that was never a problem. Usually it turned into something more playful. Or just an evening of insults.
There's none of that now. There's the sound of Sypha standing up and bringing over a clean cloth, and for that at least Alucard can do something. Wipe at the blood on Trevor's face, because Sypha needs to hold him too. It is terribly cruel to deny her that.]
Don't.
[Don't apologize for things that can't be controlled. Don't say a word. Just. Just don't. This already a horrible moment. Anything, anything at all, will make it worse.]
[ The cloth confuses him for a moment, and then it's- it would be almost humiliating if he had it left in him to care, because fuck off and stop making a big deal of him crying it fucking hurt okay he's allowed to. And then it comes away from his face red, and he understands and what's left of his stomach twists.
He wants to talk. He doesn't have anything to say but apologies and goodbyes, but the silence is terrible. But he doesn't. Sypha moves in to hold him and he raises his arms unsteadily and wraps them around both of them.
Warm. They're both so warm. It's nothing new, from Sypha, but Alucard has always been cool to the touch. And it's- it's strange. Alien. Like he's holding two different people. One so hot as to seem deathly feverish, one just warm in a way that neither of them have ever been 'just warm' (that had always been him).
He needs to go to the whip. He needs to finish this, to return to Sara. To serve her with all of the other sons of Leon Belmont who fell in this way.
But he's selfish. He's selfish and he's afraid and he wants just a little longer with the two people who saved him and brought him this far. So he just holds on to both of them, and he doesn't sob. He can't. There'll be blood again, and then Sypha will have to step away and that can't happen right now. ]
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cryptsleeper) wrote2018-11-10 11:26 pm
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He struggles, because how can he not, and it is all Sypha can do to freeze his fist closed around Alucard’s coat so he can keep contact. And then he falls still. He is unconscious, finally, or at least still and blissfully outside of himself, for the worst of it when they move from spring into late summer and cloudless sky.
He only stirs when he is lain on the bed, Sypha carefully removing the morning star from where it had started burning against the skin of his hip, keeping herself grounded enough to act only through finding tasks that need to be done. And he speaks, finally. Or tries to. It’s still a horrible rasping sound, recognisable only by the way that the syllable ends sharply and by the fact that this is Trevor and everyone here is well acquainted with Trevor’s vocabulary. ]
Fuck.
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There's the horrible desire to walk out of the kitchen door right now and just let out a long, horrible scream until his throat tears from the sustained noise. Do it at a high enough pitch to break through the barrier. Let every fucking vampire in France know that there has been a horrible miscalculation, and god, if they wanted his father they've got the very worst of Dracula now.
But it is a flight of fancy brought on by nothing more than straight up fear. They don't have the time for such indulgences, not when time is of the essence.
That horrible voice. Alucard can only kneel down next to Trevor, take hand in his.]
Agreed.
[Just a moment or two like this. Then the work begins in earnest.]
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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. ]
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We have a deadline. We can do deadlines.
[It isn't a joke. Nothing about this is a joke, and never has Alucard's ice cold sincerity meant more or been more appropriate than it has been for this very moment. In the quiet little moments he had had enough time to develop his theories. Test bits out with Sypha, although nothing is complete or thought through in full, but they are the greater fools if they do not try whatever haphazard things that they can now.
There are too many horrible thoughts spinning at once. Laying here like this, it's a mockery of every tender moment of the past three years. That very first fucking kiss, for that matter, because being knocked over and then scooped up was not a kiss to be forgotten under any circumstances. Alucard's grip tightens, because that thought brings for another.
The blood in Trevor's now is as close to his father's as any. As close to his own. If there could be any tighter binding between them both, through family hatred, through sacraments and vows, through soft promises muttered in glorious afterglows, it isthis. It is the worst realization. It nearly sends a cry out of his throat. It will, when all is said and done.
They have precious few hours to work. There is no time to make other promises, even as Alucard's head begins that process. We will move the heavens and Earth for this to not be so. All of our will, our magic, our intent, the sole focus of it shall be you as human as you ever were. Should we falter, should we fail, we shall carry you home. Weight you down with finest silver. Give you rest. And that shall be all. There shall be no defying the heavens for the paths that have been forced on us, for that way there is only madness. Our lot will be mourning, and that too, that too we shall bear with all of the grace we can muster.]
We'll move you to the lab. It will be easier.
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[ That many words at once hurts. Those words specifically hurt. It's different having them in his head to hearing them coming out of his mouth in that horrible rasping voice from a ruined throat.
And he hates saying it. He hates it because he doesn't have the strength in him to turn away, and he can see Sypha's face when the words hit the air and- fuck. This serves him right for making a shitty fucking plan, but they don't deserve this. ]
Just- stay here. Until dusk. Please.
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[Magic is about intent, in the end. Will. And if there is anything that exists in the sea of ice now, it is simple and stubborn will.]
I will not stand idly by where there is a wild chance of fixing this.
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[ He wants to argue. Arguing is what he does. But he's tired. He's tried and it hurts so, so much and he just wants to spend the afternoon with them as they ought to be, all happy and beautiful.
But desperately trying to do something impossible is also how they ought to be, isn't it? Has been since the start. ]
Just stay with me. I'm- [ He's scared. ] -I don't know what's going to happen.
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[There's no more time to spend words. They have to work but fast, and so that means moving all three to the lab. They have to work in the lab, so Trevor gets scooped up again, this time the action fiercer and more terrified than before, and it's probably worse because it gives Trevor time to register that fear. They're all scared. They're all bugfuck terrified.
Sypha's got all of the bed things in her arms. Alucard has her walk first, so that she can lay it all down once they're in the lab. There's purpose as they walk, grim and terrible and uncertain, because this is an all or nothing chance.
The lab's windows are closed with only a flick of Sypha's hand. The bedding is put down, and Alucard stands in the threshold, still holding onto Trevor for dear life. His eyes are fixated elsewhere though, quietly accounting for where everything is. What they were in the middle of, what they can speed through, what needs more attention. The stone that this process has produced lays on the workspace, a dark, deep sea blue rather than brilliant crimson. It is dull. There is no magic in it, not yet, and that shall be step one.]
I said I would complete the work. It shall be as I said.
[It's as much comfort as he can offer right now, laying Trevor back down as carefully as he can.]
I love you too much not to make it so.
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[ For all his determination to stay with them for as long as he can, he sleeps through most of the process. Sometimes there's Alucard holding Sypha's hands to guide them and instructing her, or Sypha leaning over his shoulder as he reads and offering context from stories about the philosopher's stone and he watches half awake and smiles. This was always his favourite thing, seeing the two of them fitting together so perfectly. Sypha all full of the past and Alucard all full of the future, meeting to complete each other's understanding of all possible things.
And he dreams. He dreams of Sara (this was the bed where she lay when Mathias treated her, wasn't it?). Of her holding Justine, fingers stroking through her hair softly, Justine's tiny hands in her chest, tugging at ribs. Of her whispering to the girl that she was safe and loved, holding her tightly until the estate was evacuated. And it should be terrible, but her voice is soft and calming.
It's hard to judge the time here, with the curtain drawn. But the glow behind the curtain is becoming redder and redder when he next wakes.
It's almost time. ]
no subject
There are times when one of them sits down next to Trevor, leaving the other to work. There's quiet terror threaded in every action, but when either of them are down beside him, it leaves. He cannot have that weighing him down, not if this is truly the last of him. He shall have none of the mourning that will follow in his wake.
And when it is time, or as near to as they can tell, Alucard is the one who is holding all of the equipment in hand. That's practicality, because this is vampire blood. The last thing the three of them need is for her to turn as well. (Perhaps, Alucard thinks in the very back of his head, perhaps that would not be the worst outcome. They would still be together, after all.)
No warnings. No prelude. Just a rub of alcohol at two spots on Trevor's arm, and then the puncture of two needles through skin. Hissed instruction to the skin to not fucking dare an attempt to heal and...it seems to obey.]
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He's watching the window, watching the soft red glow reflected on the wall from the inside of the curtain. It's fading now. Fading. And Fading. And gone.
And he screams, bringing both hands up to his face and knocking the needles and tubes out of his arm as he does. He doesn't care about them right now. He can't care about them right now, because he can feel his skull changing shape, the bones of it stretching and cracking and reforming, teeth being shoved out of place to account for the presence of two bony growths from the front of it. He's digging his claws into the side of his head to try to control the pain of it and- claws, there are long claws where there were previously short and blunt nails. He can hear his heartbeat in every part of him but it's slow, so very slow.
And he can feel a hand on his, pulling it back from his face to stop him from clawing at it further, and the broken skin knits together instantly but the insides of him are changing now, the slow healing now instantaneous, bones and tissue knitting back into place in some places and withering away in others and-
There's a pained cry. Distant, feminine. Trevor, you're hurting me, and it's all too overwhelming to understand what he's doing, how tight his grip on Sypha's wrist is. ]
no subject
This is worse. This is worse because everything still stays inside the body, and the body is contorting in ways it never, ever should.
Instinct doesn't help him in this moment. He tries to recover the stone and the equipment first, but no, he can't. Trevor's agony is too wild and frenzied to do anything but try and. And. He doesn't fucking know, to keep Trevor from hurting any of them, but most of all, Trevor himself. Gloved hands (because of course he's wearing gloves for this) struggle to hold him down, hold him fast, keep him still. But no. He's clinging to Sypha too hard, and it's all Alucard can do to squeeze Trevor's other hand. Demand attention, demand a fight, distract, disorient, anything, everything, to make this stop for even just a second.
He's never witnessed anything like this. And no wonder his father never ventured this thought upon his mother. He could never bear to see his wife pained, and this....]
no subject
Sypha's scrambling backwards, encasing his arms and legs and throat in ice and- it's cold. Logically he knows it's cold. But he can barely feel it. It isn't just not being able to feel it in comparison to the pain, he can barely feel it at all. It doesn't seem cold, and there isn't even pressure against his skin as his throes break through it easily.
He's clinging to Alucard's hand now, with crushing force that he could have never achieved before, claws digging in to tendons. He can smell blood from it, he can smell it so, so clearly, more clearly than he's ever sensed anything in his life.
His grip only loosens when the turning starts to come to an end. The pain is still present, all-consuming, but it's a crushing ache instead of the living, snarling thing tearing at him from the inside. He can hear the bones of his skull reforming, his teeth finishing their rearranging. He can hear Sypha yelling again, to stop, to please stop can't he see he's hurting Alucard, and his face is streaked with red from crying from the pain and he would still be screaming but he isn't breathing. His lungs aren't demanding air. And without it there's nothing left in him for sound and so he just lies silent and still twitching from the pain. ]
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There is so much horror here that he cannot process an inch of it. Not the agony of Trevor in those screams, not Sypha as her magic fails her in every way that matters, there is only the moment and enduring it all. In looking at red streaming down a face that should only ever be full of living skin, not the horribly ashy stuff that there is there now.
They didn't have time to even see if the stone worked. This is reality now. This is what they have to endure, and there is only pulling Trevor to his chest and waiting for that terrible, terrible twitching to stop. There are no tears on Alucard's face, not now, not yet, just eyes wide, expression impossible to place. Even he doesn't know what he's feeling.
(No. He knows. It's the terrible feeling of anger that Sypha cannot hold Trevor from the other side, because of blood.)]
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That's his first coherent thought. He never could before. He could feel them, but to his eyes it was all one big golden, flowing, soft mass. His eyes are sharper, so much sharper, and when he blinks (does he need to?) there's none of the roughness of a scarred left eye against the inside of the eyelid.
He's still, now, save for his fingertips still twitching up and down, playing at trying to form fists but failing. ]
I'm sorry.
[ He manages to speak eventually, drawing in one gasping breath to speak. He can't feel anything, really, anything at all save for the residual pain, but the knowledge that this blood must have got here somewhere, that that horrible bruise on Sypha's wrist must have come from something. Even if the guilt's not hit him yet, he knows he's hurt them both. ]
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There's none of that now. There's the sound of Sypha standing up and bringing over a clean cloth, and for that at least Alucard can do something. Wipe at the blood on Trevor's face, because Sypha needs to hold him too. It is terribly cruel to deny her that.]
Don't.
[Don't apologize for things that can't be controlled. Don't say a word. Just. Just don't. This already a horrible moment. Anything, anything at all, will make it worse.]
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He wants to talk. He doesn't have anything to say but apologies and goodbyes, but the silence is terrible. But he doesn't. Sypha moves in to hold him and he raises his arms unsteadily and wraps them around both of them.
Warm. They're both so warm. It's nothing new, from Sypha, but Alucard has always been cool to the touch. And it's- it's strange. Alien. Like he's holding two different people. One so hot as to seem deathly feverish, one just warm in a way that neither of them have ever been 'just warm' (that had always been him).
He needs to go to the whip. He needs to finish this, to return to Sara. To serve her with all of the other sons of Leon Belmont who fell in this way.
But he's selfish. He's selfish and he's afraid and he wants just a little longer with the two people who saved him and brought him this far. So he just holds on to both of them, and he doesn't sob. He can't. There'll be blood again, and then Sypha will have to step away and that can't happen right now. ]