[It's not so unheard of, what happens one night in the midst of the two weeks the three of them spend at the castle recuperating. Sypha has heard stories of the phenomenon, certainly; it shows up often enough in tales from around the world to be at least familiar, if not curious. Trevor's religion shares some of the same: sleepers being visited with dreams and prophecies, and awaking the next morning with the guidance offered to them during their slumber.
It happens just once, in the right place and at the right time — on a night when Alucard has finally relented enough to sleep in the middle of the tangle of three, with Trevor's arms around him and Sypha's head tucked under his chin, and the castle still and quiet, and the blankets warm and thick.
It's a dream that begins like a memory: his father's study, the great tall chair by the fire. It faces the door, this time, the way it had for all his years of growing up with these corridors as a playground. The fire is glowing, red-orange and warm. The room is quiet, and still, but oddly not lonely.
It's only after he sits in the chair, and faces the door, that something changes. He'll look once, and find the open portal to the corridor empty.
If he looks twice, he'll find that it's empty no longer — filled now with the figure of a blond woman in a sensible burgundy dress, her soft hair so much like his own in the way that it frames her face in waves.]
drops this onto this post because i do what i want
It happens just once, in the right place and at the right time — on a night when Alucard has finally relented enough to sleep in the middle of the tangle of three, with Trevor's arms around him and Sypha's head tucked under his chin, and the castle still and quiet, and the blankets warm and thick.
It's a dream that begins like a memory: his father's study, the great tall chair by the fire. It faces the door, this time, the way it had for all his years of growing up with these corridors as a playground. The fire is glowing, red-orange and warm. The room is quiet, and still, but oddly not lonely.
It's only after he sits in the chair, and faces the door, that something changes. He'll look once, and find the open portal to the corridor empty.
If he looks twice, he'll find that it's empty no longer — filled now with the figure of a blond woman in a sensible burgundy dress, her soft hair so much like his own in the way that it frames her face in waves.]