[It doesn't matter if the words aren't right. (They are, but it wouldn't matter even if they weren't.) It's enough to hear him breath her name like a sigh, Sypha Sypha Sypha, not a thing and not an it but a girl with a name and a home and a heart big enough to hold two families in it.
But he gets them right, not because they're carefully crafted the way that a Speaker would but because they aren't. They're clumsy and trip over themselves like he always does, like the look in his eyes when she'd tricked him into holding her hand.
(Because what she'd really needed is to know that it's him, and he's here. Perfect words couldn't do that. Alucard's words could.)
Her head is tucked pleasantly under his chin, her lips near his collarbone. It's easy and natural, somehow, to part them and mouth lightly against his skin.]
...An aretalogy.
[After all the crying, her humor is wrung-out and thin. But there's a spark of it there, like the last glowing ember in a coal that still stands a chance of rekindling itself into a blaze.]
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But he gets them right, not because they're carefully crafted the way that a Speaker would but because they aren't. They're clumsy and trip over themselves like he always does, like the look in his eyes when she'd tricked him into holding her hand.
(Because what she'd really needed is to know that it's him, and he's here. Perfect words couldn't do that. Alucard's words could.)
Her head is tucked pleasantly under his chin, her lips near his collarbone. It's easy and natural, somehow, to part them and mouth lightly against his skin.]
...An aretalogy.
[After all the crying, her humor is wrung-out and thin. But there's a spark of it there, like the last glowing ember in a coal that still stands a chance of rekindling itself into a blaze.]