[ He had been waiting for them, at the place that the compass led, difficult to recognize even when the funeral shroud (thin silk, sewn in beautiful patterns with silver thread that meant that Sypha had to be the one to pull it away) was pulled back. Because he's different, in this place. All scarless, with silver-blue eyes reflecting light like a cat's. Not paler, not quite, but with magic shimmering under his skin and catching light. Breathing comes more easily. Everything looks and sounds sharper to him, more real. Even silence has a weight to it. It's a little like being in church, and isn't that kind of a fucked up thought?
The prison is what one might metaphorically call a gilded cage. It's only metaphorical instead of literal because the intricate, swirling bars of it are silver and not gold. There is no furniture, but it's comfortable, the floor lined with cushions and silk blankets and soft furs from creatures he's certain don't really exist. He isn't sure what he was expecting, when this finally happened. It wasn't so much colour, so much brightness, to be washed in perfumed water and wrapped in silk and beads and fed figs and honey and wine.
(The door of it isn't even locked. But he can't leave. He's been told not to. And the orders of the fae hold truer even than Sypha's.)
And he's forgetting. This place seems so sharp. So colourful. So real. The time before it seems soft and dreamlike, and even with Alucard lying on top of him, even knowing that somewhere beyond that open door that he can't pass there is someone fighting for him-
-he's biting his lip again. Drawing blood, this time. ]
Her name. [ He whispers when Alucard stirs. His voice is so heavy, so weary, so defeated. ] The speaker, did she have a name?
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The prison is what one might metaphorically call a gilded cage. It's only metaphorical instead of literal because the intricate, swirling bars of it are silver and not gold. There is no furniture, but it's comfortable, the floor lined with cushions and silk blankets and soft furs from creatures he's certain don't really exist. He isn't sure what he was expecting, when this finally happened. It wasn't so much colour, so much brightness, to be washed in perfumed water and wrapped in silk and beads and fed figs and honey and wine.
(The door of it isn't even locked. But he can't leave. He's been told not to. And the orders of the fae hold truer even than Sypha's.)
And he's forgetting. This place seems so sharp. So colourful. So real. The time before it seems soft and dreamlike, and even with Alucard lying on top of him, even knowing that somewhere beyond that open door that he can't pass there is someone fighting for him-
-he's biting his lip again. Drawing blood, this time. ]
Her name. [ He whispers when Alucard stirs. His voice is so heavy, so weary, so defeated. ] The speaker, did she have a name?