[Alucard sits on the floor of the hold, and for a time, he does not remove the twine or break the seal. He knows the hand. He knows that there is no happiness inside. A part of him demands he not open the letters at all.
But there is love for the dead, and in that love the deepest wish to reconnect on some level. Any. So Alucard reads.
His hands shake more and more as he goes through the letters, for no matter where they end, it is in pain. They're all humans. It only ends one way with humans. Alucard knows that, but then he glances down at the dwindling pile of correspondence and his heart ache grows. It's too small for a lifetime. Far too small.
That's the first point tears fill his eyes and his hands tremble.
It is impossible to stop though. Love of the dead demands seeing it all through to the end, and so Alucard does. Muted sobs die in his throat. The last letter shakes so badly that he puts it down twice so he can steady himself. And then...
...and then he hates the thing that made him sleep for four centuries. Whatever happened, whatever arrangements were made to keep himself, he could have fought against what happened to cause them. Been more than enough to prevent it from happening, or at least a capable creature who could see all through the aftermath.
It doesn't matter. He wasn't there. He was stuffed in a glass box like a particularly pretty piece of taxidermy and that was that.
Alucard stays on the floor of the hold, defeated by letters. His eyes are closed, face angled upwards towards the ceiling. The sobs don't escape. Tears do.
no subject
But there is love for the dead, and in that love the deepest wish to reconnect on some level. Any. So Alucard reads.
His hands shake more and more as he goes through the letters, for no matter where they end, it is in pain. They're all humans. It only ends one way with humans. Alucard knows that, but then he glances down at the dwindling pile of correspondence and his heart ache grows. It's too small for a lifetime. Far too small.
That's the first point tears fill his eyes and his hands tremble.
It is impossible to stop though. Love of the dead demands seeing it all through to the end, and so Alucard does. Muted sobs die in his throat. The last letter shakes so badly that he puts it down twice so he can steady himself. And then...
...and then he hates the thing that made him sleep for four centuries. Whatever happened, whatever arrangements were made to keep himself, he could have fought against what happened to cause them. Been more than enough to prevent it from happening, or at least a capable creature who could see all through the aftermath.
It doesn't matter. He wasn't there. He was stuffed in a glass box like a particularly pretty piece of taxidermy and that was that.
Alucard stays on the floor of the hold, defeated by letters. His eyes are closed, face angled upwards towards the ceiling. The sobs don't escape. Tears do.
Forty five minutes have passed.]