[Mist is the moment that Alucard is stymied, and not a moment before. Shifting to a wolf, his great jaws snapped at the bird, almost getting it dragged down once or twice. And yet...
...fuck. Alucard's hand is on the door, and he looks down at Trevor. Worry crosses his face.]
[ Outside of the door, visible through the keyhole, a member of the crew works in the darkness. A thread of white mist is wrapped around his throat, growing more and more transparent as the ugly bird flies away. Another hostage. One he can actually hurt this time. ]
He took some of my blood, Belmont. The knife he had, there was an apparatus attached. I don't know why he'd want it, or what someone like Godbrand could gain from it, which makes me believe he is not working alone. Whoever he is collecting blood for means far greater harm.
[ He tries the door. It opens, and he mumbles something about seasickness to the worker as the last threads of mist pass from around his throat. Nothing. He’s gone. He thanks the man for letting him get fresh air and returns to Alucard. ]
You’re sure it was to take blood from you, not to poison you or some shit?
[ He’s fucked up. He fucked up, letting Godbrand get away. He doesn’t know what to do about that now. All he can do is make control what damage is under his control. ]
[They're on deck at least, and Alucard's eyes lock onto the direction that the bird went. Nothing now. Alucard can't fight in the air, because to plummet into the sea? He'd actually drown, considering he needs air.]
[ He can’t answer that. He just trails off. His body feels like lead, nothing’s managed to scare him this badly in a long time. He counts time by the crashes of waves. It’s six waves later when he just pretends he didn’t hear the question. He has a question of his own. ]
...who are you, that makes your blood so important?
I am Adrian Tepes, once known among the Wallachians as Alucard. My father was Vlad Dracula Tepes.
[It's said with Alucard's eyes on the skies rather than fixed upon Trevor. It is easier speaking of it without looking at Trevor.]
You grew up learning of my father's death, I'm sure. I assisted your late aunts and whoever your grandmother was among them in the matter, at the near cost of my life.
[ He looks like he's about to say something - that isn't the version of events he grew up with. That isn't at all the version of events that he grew up with. ]
Shit. I-
[ Whatever he was going to say, whether it was 'so I was under the impression that Great Aunt Juliet killed you' or 'so hey about that Wallachia thing, you need to update your geography', it doesn't matter. Not compared to the weight of the situation. ]
[Alucard falls silent, and upon his face is a dawning horror. It is a slow thing, all gears in his mind turning, turning, turning and then all at once he understands.]
They may intend to bring him back. That's why whoever is ordering Godbrand around, which in and of itself is a remarkable matter, would need my blood.
[ He slides to the ground again, head sinking into his hands. ]
This was a trap. I thought it was just bad fucking luck that we got on the vampire boat, but this was a fucking trap and I just walked into it and dragged you along, and- fuck.
[ He wants to ask what to do. It wouldn't be the first time that he's asked the man in the coffin what the fuck he should do. But before, it was always just a way to ask himself. Now Alucard's alive, and his presence is a lot less of a comforting constant. He can't ask. He just has to force himself to stop babbling and focus, the same way he always had, just without a cold, dead, answering body prompting him. ]
Nothing's changed. Not yet. The London business still comes first. I can't do anything about Dracula, not unless I know more. Spring Heel is hurting people now, and that has to take priority. Once that's dealt with, once whoever the fuck is bossing the captain around makes a move- I'll figure it out then.
[ He takes his head from his hands, leaning it back until it hits the wall behind him. ]
[ He moves, holding himself differently. Slightly more confidently. ]
There was an outbreak of sickness in London, maybe- twenty years ago now. It was- bad water, something like that. The problem is that the symptoms of it were a little like the early stages of turning. We had- other shit to deal with. Assumed it was just the disease. It wasn’t.
[He remembers the medical wisdom of his father. How he and his mother would talk of it late into the night. It's fine. That doesn't hurt and--]
How is London not completely dominated by vampires then? Given the feeding habits, any city shouldn't be able to sustain that many vampires in one place.
I don't know. I didn't know that the outbreak was being used to hide turnings until I talked to the speaker. All the information we've been able to get until recently is that London is the territory of only one vampire, and that any other vampire who tries to enter his territory vanishes. [ We've. He's not referring to him and Sypha there. He's still pretending that there is more than just him. Shit's less scary that way. ]
Which is why there was only ever one group of hunters for the seat of an empire. Only one vampire. Never had contact with them, but- we like to keep an ear out for news of each other. They've been dragged off to jail for ritualism, all of them, and all of them have died there. Spring Heel's lived with them harassing him for decades now, if he's finally having all of them killed at once he has to be planning something.
[Alucard listens. Listens carefully. Nods to show he's registering everything, but there's still so much he's missing. Spring Heel sounds like a bad vampire name, but that could just be the trend now. The idea of one hunter per empire must have happened some time ago. Ritualism is something he doesn't know at all, but it seems awfully lucky for whoever this Spring Heel is.
Then he shakes his head.]
Belmont, I'm sorry, but if my hunch is correct then this situation is nothing in the light of returning my father to this earth.
I know. Fuck, I know. But unless you know where he is, I don't see what we can do beyond keeping our eyes open. Spring Heel, I can at least fight as things are now.
[ He sighs. He also really, really, really does not want to have to deal with Dracula. ]
I can follow your lead, but only if you have a plan.
[He should be asking her, but she isn't here. Alucard pauses, and...
...he offers Trevor a hand. They both need to be anywhere else right now, and maybe they'll draw out the remaining two vampires on the ship while they're at it.]
I- maybe? You'd have to ask her. Not known her much longer than you have, to be honest. Don't know where she's going, or if she feels like a Dracula-based detour.
[ He takes Alucard's hand, using it to stand up. And that's weird, seeing the body he's been carrying around for so long suddenly taking his weight. ]
The hold, first. There were things in the coffin other than just you and the flowers. We should see if there's anything left.
[ The Speaker can, in fact, use magic to track Alucard’s blood. She’ll need components that can’t be found at sea but once them make landfall she’ll be able to start. Also, she does want to fight Dracula. And she, at least, is of the opinion that she’s travelling with Trevor rather than being the temporary ally of convenience that Trevor seems to think of her as.
Clearing away the remains of the broken coffin is a harrowing task and Trevor makes quick work of it. By the time Alucard and Sypha arrive the bulk of the glass is cleared away and a few items are in its place. There’s the sword’s sheath. A long black coat, one that’s had obvious battle damage repaired by someone perhaps less practiced than she could be in repairing clothes. A small pile of letters, bound with wax-sealed twine. ]
Don’t know if he stole anything, but I think these are all yours.
[Sypha is...Alucard likes her. She's a quick wit, and it's clear from talking with her that Trevor comes with a great deal more emotions in Alucard's direction. It shouldn't be shocking, Alucard knows. He's a former family heirloom given life. Alucard remembers the snippets of discussion had over the years, when he heard Trevor's voice.
No wonder.
When they arrive in the hold, Alucard's relieved that the glass is gone. He leans over and takes one of the lillies though, placing it in the pocket of his trousers. The coat is...oh. He knows that repair was probably done by a handful of people, and his face falls just a little.
The letters are...Alucard can see the handwriting from where he stands. He flinches.]
Godbrand can't even read. He'd have no need or want of them.
Probably didn’t take anything from the letters, at least. The seal’s still intact. If he took anything else- I wouldn’t know. Never paid much attention to the things under the flowers.
[ He pauses awkwardly, looking at the letters. ]
I’ll give you a moment. I need to talk to the speaker anyway.
[ He still doesn't like the idea of rooming with an unmarried woman, but needs must.
There are about a dozen letters in all, some short and some long. Most are normal, as normal as letters written to a dead man by a vampire hunter can be. They detail the daily events of the household, Juliet's recovery from her own injuries, the birth of her nephews (twins! just as you thought they might be), the misadventures of various dogs.
As time passes and she's clearly recovered, they start to detail her work. How her family have taken her away from the mediation work, because a reputation as Dracula's killer has rendered her a little too intimidating for it. How instead she's been focusing on her other work - the study of naturally-born night creature populations. These letters are filled with painstakingly detailed ink drawings of the creatures she's been studying, ones that are somewhat ruined by the fact that the labels on those drawings are being used to point out 'cute nose, probably good to boop' or 'good wings, very flappy'.
A year passes in letter form. Then two. The letters sent around the anniversary of Alucard's sleep are always a little melancholy. By the end of the third year- ]
I don't understand. The speakers say that you are whole once more, and yet no force I can muster will wake you.
I spoke with their elder when they examined you, and he told me that the body sometimes makes itself weak to protect the mind, that perhaps you cannot wake because your body wishes to keep you from the sorrow you have endured. That you will not wake unless you have something to wake for. So I suppose that I am addressing this to your foolish body-
Times are kind, now. We are happy. The winter is mild and the storehouses are full and the house warm and full of love. The boys are old enough now to have begun roughhousing with each other and the dogs (and me, when they feel confident, but not yet their mother or Enid) and they seem to be enjoying that immensely. Work brings me to see the most fascinating creatures. I do not doubt the depth of the sorrow that you are protecting yourself from, not for a moment, but I know that there is joy enough here to temper it.
With love, with all the love the world can bear to hold, Ton Lapin
[ That is the second-last letter. The last is dated a few months later. ]
Mon Loup,
I think perhaps you knew. This was why you didn't wake, wasn't it? It wasn't that there was not joy enough for you at the time, no, it was that you could sense what would come. You could sense even before the dogs did. You would not wake only to suffer another loss.
I am sorry for not understanding sooner.
My sisters and I have made arrangements. We have moved you to the hold. Enid has altered the books - I know, I know, believe that she hates this terrible sacrifice more than you do - any of her successors will read that you have been in the possession of our house since the time of our ancestor Leon, and that it is not our place to question why he brought you here. When the boys begin their education next year, they will learn that Dracula and his son alike were brought low by my hand. They will tell this to their own sons and daughters, so that any search for you leads to nothing.
I know that you will wake, one day. I know that you are stronger than the sorrow you are protecting yourself from, that it will not hold you captive forever.
I wish you all the happiness in the world when you do, my most precious love. Ton Lapin.
[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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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...fuck. Alucard's hand is on the door, and he looks down at Trevor. Worry crosses his face.]
Belmont, is something wrong? We don't have time.
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[ Outside of the door, visible through the keyhole, a member of the crew works in the darkness. A thread of white mist is wrapped around his throat, growing more and more transparent as the ugly bird flies away. Another hostage. One he can actually hurt this time. ]
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He took some of my blood, Belmont. The knife he had, there was an apparatus attached. I don't know why he'd want it, or what someone like Godbrand could gain from it, which makes me believe he is not working alone. Whoever he is collecting blood for means far greater harm.
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[ He tries the door. It opens, and he mumbles something about seasickness to the worker as the last threads of mist pass from around his throat. Nothing. He’s gone. He thanks the man for letting him get fresh air and returns to Alucard. ]
You’re sure it was to take blood from you, not to poison you or some shit?
[ He’s fucked up. He fucked up, letting Godbrand get away. He doesn’t know what to do about that now. All he can do is make control what damage is under his control. ]
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[They're on deck at least, and Alucard's eyes lock onto the direction that the bird went. Nothing now. Alucard can't fight in the air, because to plummet into the sea? He'd actually drown, considering he needs air.]
Why did you do what he said?
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[ He can’t answer that. He just trails off. His body feels like lead, nothing’s managed to scare him this badly in a long time. He counts time by the crashes of waves. It’s six waves later when he just pretends he didn’t hear the question. He has a question of his own. ]
...who are you, that makes your blood so important?
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[It's said with Alucard's eyes on the skies rather than fixed upon Trevor. It is easier speaking of it without looking at Trevor.]
You grew up learning of my father's death, I'm sure. I assisted your late aunts and whoever your grandmother was among them in the matter, at the near cost of my life.
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Shit. I-
[ Whatever he was going to say, whether it was 'so I was under the impression that Great Aunt Juliet killed you' or 'so hey about that Wallachia thing, you need to update your geography', it doesn't matter. Not compared to the weight of the situation. ]
So this is Dracula bullshit. Fuck.
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[Alucard falls silent, and upon his face is a dawning horror. It is a slow thing, all gears in his mind turning, turning, turning and then all at once he understands.]
They may intend to bring him back. That's why whoever is ordering Godbrand around, which in and of itself is a remarkable matter, would need my blood.
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[ He slides to the ground again, head sinking into his hands. ]
This was a trap. I thought it was just bad fucking luck that we got on the vampire boat, but this was a fucking trap and I just walked into it and dragged you along, and- fuck.
[ He wants to ask what to do. It wouldn't be the first time that he's asked the man in the coffin what the fuck he should do. But before, it was always just a way to ask himself. Now Alucard's alive, and his presence is a lot less of a comforting constant. He can't ask. He just has to force himself to stop babbling and focus, the same way he always had, just without a cold, dead, answering body prompting him. ]
Nothing's changed. Not yet. The London business still comes first. I can't do anything about Dracula, not unless I know more. Spring Heel is hurting people now, and that has to take priority. Once that's dealt with, once whoever the fuck is bossing the captain around makes a move- I'll figure it out then.
[ He takes his head from his hands, leaning it back until it hits the wall behind him. ]
Are you hurt?
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[Physically, at least. Alucard gestures to his side, and inded, there is no problem at all there. No wound. No sign he was ever stabbed at all.
But the rest of it....]
Belmont, I'm afraid that being asleep and recovering for 400 years means that you're speaking words I do not remotely understand. What is happening?
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[ He moves, holding himself differently. Slightly more confidently. ]
There was an outbreak of sickness in London, maybe- twenty years ago now. It was- bad water, something like that. The problem is that the symptoms of it were a little like the early stages of turning. We had- other shit to deal with. Assumed it was just the disease. It wasn’t.
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[He remembers the medical wisdom of his father. How he and his mother would talk of it late into the night. It's fine. That doesn't hurt and--]
How is London not completely dominated by vampires then? Given the feeding habits, any city shouldn't be able to sustain that many vampires in one place.
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I don't know. I didn't know that the outbreak was being used to hide turnings until I talked to the speaker. All the information we've been able to get until recently is that London is the territory of only one vampire, and that any other vampire who tries to enter his territory vanishes. [ We've. He's not referring to him and Sypha there. He's still pretending that there is more than just him. Shit's less scary that way. ]
Which is why there was only ever one group of hunters for the seat of an empire. Only one vampire. Never had contact with them, but- we like to keep an ear out for news of each other. They've been dragged off to jail for ritualism, all of them, and all of them have died there. Spring Heel's lived with them harassing him for decades now, if he's finally having all of them killed at once he has to be planning something.
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Then he shakes his head.]
Belmont, I'm sorry, but if my hunch is correct then this situation is nothing in the light of returning my father to this earth.
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[ He sighs. He also really, really, really does not want to have to deal with Dracula. ]
I can follow your lead, but only if you have a plan.
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[He should be asking her, but she isn't here. Alucard pauses, and...
...he offers Trevor a hand. They both need to be anywhere else right now, and maybe they'll draw out the remaining two vampires on the ship while they're at it.]
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[ He takes Alucard's hand, using it to stand up. And that's weird, seeing the body he's been carrying around for so long suddenly taking his weight. ]
The hold, first. There were things in the coffin other than just you and the flowers. We should see if there's anything left.
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If she can track my blood, then we will know where they are and--
[Other things? Alucard frowns slightly at that, but he nods. Hopefully it'll be useful.]
I'll go find the Speaker and meet you there then.
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Clearing away the remains of the broken coffin is a harrowing task and Trevor makes quick work of it. By the time Alucard and Sypha arrive the bulk of the glass is cleared away and a few items are in its place. There’s the sword’s sheath. A long black coat, one that’s had obvious battle damage repaired by someone perhaps less practiced than she could be in repairing clothes. A small pile of letters, bound with wax-sealed twine. ]
Don’t know if he stole anything, but I think these are all yours.
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No wonder.
When they arrive in the hold, Alucard's relieved that the glass is gone. He leans over and takes one of the lillies though, placing it in the pocket of his trousers. The coat is...oh. He knows that repair was probably done by a handful of people, and his face falls just a little.
The letters are...Alucard can see the handwriting from where he stands. He flinches.]
Godbrand can't even read. He'd have no need or want of them.
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[ He pauses awkwardly, looking at the letters. ]
I’ll give you a moment. I need to talk to the speaker anyway.
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[He takes it all: the coat, the letters, everything. Shrugs the coat on, and then looks down at the letters again.]
Ten minutes? There's quite a few.
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[ He still doesn't like the idea of rooming with an unmarried woman, but needs must.
There are about a dozen letters in all, some short and some long. Most are normal, as normal as letters written to a dead man by a vampire hunter can be. They detail the daily events of the household, Juliet's recovery from her own injuries, the birth of her nephews (twins! just as you thought they might be), the misadventures of various dogs.
As time passes and she's clearly recovered, they start to detail her work. How her family have taken her away from the mediation work, because a reputation as Dracula's killer has rendered her a little too intimidating for it. How instead she's been focusing on her other work - the study of naturally-born night creature populations. These letters are filled with painstakingly detailed ink drawings of the creatures she's been studying, ones that are somewhat ruined by the fact that the labels on those drawings are being used to point out 'cute nose, probably good to boop' or 'good wings, very flappy'.
A year passes in letter form. Then two. The letters sent around the anniversary of Alucard's sleep are always a little melancholy. By the end of the third year- ]
I don't understand. The speakers say that you are whole once more, and yet no force I can muster will wake you.
I spoke with their elder when they examined you, and he told me that the body sometimes makes itself weak to protect the mind, that perhaps you cannot wake because your body wishes to keep you from the sorrow you have endured. That you will not wake unless you have something to wake for. So I suppose that I am addressing this to your foolish body-
Times are kind, now. We are happy. The winter is mild and the storehouses are full and the house warm and full of love. The boys are old enough now to have begun roughhousing with each other and the dogs (and me, when they feel confident, but not yet their mother or Enid) and they seem to be enjoying that immensely. Work brings me to see the most fascinating creatures. I do not doubt the depth of the sorrow that you are protecting yourself from, not for a moment, but I know that there is joy enough here to temper it.
With love, with all the love the world can bear to hold,
Ton Lapin
[ That is the second-last letter. The last is dated a few months later. ]
Mon Loup,
I think perhaps you knew. This was why you didn't wake, wasn't it? It wasn't that there was not joy enough for you at the time, no, it was that you could sense what would come. You could sense even before the dogs did. You would not wake only to suffer another loss.
I am sorry for not understanding sooner.
My sisters and I have made arrangements. We have moved you to the hold. Enid has altered the books - I know, I know, believe that she hates this terrible sacrifice more than you do - any of her successors will read that you have been in the possession of our house since the time of our ancestor Leon, and that it is not our place to question why he brought you here. When the boys begin their education next year, they will learn that Dracula and his son alike were brought low by my hand. They will tell this to their own sons and daughters, so that any search for you leads to nothing.
I know that you will wake, one day. I know that you are stronger than the sorrow you are protecting yourself from, that it will not hold you captive forever.
I wish you all the happiness in the world when you do, my most precious love.
Ton Lapin.
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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.]
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