[ If Alucard has dreamed this before, Trevor has always been human. Always the same man on the other side of the bed, between the two of them and the door, meant to be awake but so, so tired, enough even to fail at his watch.
He isn't this time.
The black horse, the queen's, goes first. The brown follows it, bearing the necromancer, its reins those shadow hands around its neck. And then follows the milk white horse, and the creature atop it is not quite the same man from the other side of the bed. It's Trevor, just about visible beneath a long shroud painted with moth wings, but perfect and scarless, eyes somehow both dull and lifeless and too bright at the same time. Unlike the others, he doesn't guide his horse. Instead it simply follows the others, his wrists bound to its saddle with the vampire killer.
no subject
He isn't this time.
The black horse, the queen's, goes first. The brown follows it, bearing the necromancer, its reins those shadow hands around its neck. And then follows the milk white horse, and the creature atop it is not quite the same man from the other side of the bed. It's Trevor, just about visible beneath a long shroud painted with moth wings, but perfect and scarless, eyes somehow both dull and lifeless and too bright at the same time. Unlike the others, he doesn't guide his horse. Instead it simply follows the others, his wrists bound to its saddle with the vampire killer.
He does not turn to face Alucard. ]