The same death as my parents. Death by smoke inhalation, with the flames meant to inflict pain and act as a precursor to hellfire.
[For all the exhausted resignation in Alucard's tone, his hand still reacts. Fingers curl, trying to escape the flame. He hisses at the burns as they start to form. There's finally something new on his face, all brought about by a living flame.]
[ Better. Perhaps another night without sleep would have produced a more satisfying response, but the third night is always a tricky one. Some people wear down further. Some adapt, get it into their heads that their masters might have given them the means to survive this. ]
Cleansing, not death. Cleansing of the devil's influence.
[ He moves the candle to the top of the palm and leaves it there at the fleshy part where the fingers begin. ]
You understand, yes? That this is the least of that.
[ He pulls the candle away. Not out of any sort of kindness, but because his job comes with a certain understanding of the human body. Too much damage, and it stops feeling. Too much pain at once and the mind decouples from it. His peers make mistakes like that, and so those under their care endure.
Periods of rest are needed, even if only short ones. Witches need space to dread. ]
The flames burn out. They end. This? This does not.
[Alucard's fingers flex out of instinct, but the rest of him flinches wildly. This is not good. Or it could be, if infection sets in and the church decides to keep him alive for a little while. Oh, it'll be a nasty way to go, but no worse than the other options available to him.
But still, the implications of that trap ring in Alucard's mind. He needs time to parse them out. Time and less burnt flesh smell in the room.
[ That's a lie. He wants that signature. He wants his perfect record to remain intact. He wants his authority recognised and respected by his lessers.
But perhaps that was intended as a question. What can he do, to make this stop. ]
You will sign. You will sign, and you will allow the Lord into your heart. Let him drive away the devils who have lied to you. Let him scourge the poison from you with fire. You will recognise that you decide none of this. You will recognise that all of this is in His hands, not your own. And if you wish to die? You will earn it by submitting to the will of his Chosen.
Then don't pretend to think I'm innocent and give me false hope.
[I know it's a trap.
For the rest, Alucard falls silent. Lets his feet out from under himself, so that the guard is forced to either take his weight entirely or drop him. (As if there's a lot of weight to take. Had the church not found Alucard when they did, he has assumed that the winter would finally claim him.
He'll earn nothing. Be a dead weight and force people to choose. Inaction, in and of itself, is a choice.]
[ The guards let Alucard fall. The inquisitor looks down at him for a few seconds before grinding his heel into the burned hand. ]
Feed him and return him to the pillory. Do not allow him to sleep. Have him whipped at dawn, if he tries.
[ It's two more frigid nights before Alucard encounters the Inquisitor again. The next two days consist of his orders, of course, but he doesn't oversee them. Short periods of intense pain followed by longer ones of discomfort and isolation or humiliation. No sleep.
On the second night, Alucard it returned to the Inquisitor. The same nicer cell. the same hot meal. A moth or two, flitting about the candle. ]
[He barely eats. Doesn't sleep because he isn't allowed. Takes very little water, because that'll help get all of this over.
The cell again. Alucard would groan if he had the effort. Such as it is, his legs tremble badly, and he doesn't know if he'll be permitted to sit in any form.
Let this be the end. Please.]
I will say my truths and you will do as you will.
[His voice is terrible and rough. Hoarse and barely audible.]
[ He gestures to the chair opposite his own, as if he's inviting Alucard to sit. It's not an invitation, and the guards immediately wrestle him into the chair.
The inquisitor smiles, pushing the papers to Alucard once again. ]
There's a moment's relief on Alucard's face for the luxury, but it fades within a moment. He ignores the papers. Forces himself to meet the inquisitor's eyes, and he holds that gaze.]
My name is Adrian Mathias Tepes. I am the last son of my family. Ten years ago, my mother and father, Lisa and Vlad, were likewise executed for the accusation of witchcraft.
They were doctors and alchemists. Our family's trade going back for four hundred years. A trade that requires some unorthodoxy to try and reveal the secrets of the world, so that we may better help people. We have done that, just as our family has done harm by accident. That is the rule of this trade: not all your patients will live. You will do everything you can but sometimes, not even that will work. You will perform experimental procedures that go wrong in pursuit of healing. Your job is to minimize their harm.
I have been alone for the past decade since my parents were killed. I have tried to do good, as they taught me to. Survived, because they would want me to. Healed those who would permit me. Experimented when I could. Bartered whatever I needed to in order to keep going. Myself when there was nothing else left.
[This won't be the confession the priest wants. He doesn't care.]
I've lived ten years on borrowed time. I've been rejected and chased out of places enough time to know that what I can offer the world is not wanted.
[ The Inquisitor gestures, and a guard places a clean sheet of paper into his hand. He sets it down and writes, and the scratching of the quill is the only sound for a few minutes.
The moth doesn't move away. It remains on Alucard's hand for a few seconds before walking up his arm. Insects just crawling over him, as if he's already dead.
He places the amended confession in front of Alucard, setting the quill next to it. ]
[ They do so. Clean clothes. A pail of warm water to wash himself. Another meal at morning. And aside from that, until dusk the next day, Alucard is alone. ]
[The mattress is all Alucard cares about. He's curled up on it the moment he's left alone, and he barely moves from it. He hasn't had a comfortable mattress since his home was destroyed, save for the rare inn or night in someone else's bed.
It'll be the only comfort he allows himself. He'll die in his own horrible clothes rather than the clean ones left for him. They're not even touched. Same goes for the food. Neither are needed at this point. He'll be dehydrated and halfway to dead, and that'll minimize the pain. Make it easier to let the smoke take him before the flames well and truly start.
He'll scream. He knows that. It'll be awful but at least after that, it'll be over.
He sleeps, mostly. Lets the last two days pass by.]
[ It's a raspy sound that approaches Alucard on All Hollow's Eve. A cough. Heavy footsteps.
The moths settled in Alucard's hair scatter as the inquisitor approaches, guards flanking him on each side. Even just two days later, he looks different. His eyes are sunken, lips pale, body barely able to hold its own weight. ]
Follow.
[ He says nothing more. The door is unlocked and the guards enter, ready to drag Alucard if he can't drag himself to his feet.
The stake is already prepared outside the church. Kindling is ready to be stacked around Alucard. And those moths lie on every surface. The inquisitor coughs again as the men set about binding Alucard to the stake, more violently this time. ]
[Alucard stirs from sleep. Gets up slowly, just barely moving under his own steam. This is his last act alive. He won't be helped along.
He had protested for years that this was unfair. That he didn't deserve any of this. But after too many years of being ground down, there's only acceptance and a certain amount of relief.
There. Binding. Alucard's body just goes slack. He doesn't have to do anything further. His eyes close, clocking the moths for a last moment.
There's been a lot of those lately, haven't there? Strange.]
[ The sun sets as the firewood is stacked around Alucard.
And then the inquisitor coughs again. So violently that eyes leave Alucard, that the guards have to rush to his side to keep him standing. He coughs and hacks until something tears its way out of his throat. More moths. Three of them living, a few more dead and attached to the tar-like mass they pull out of the inquisitor's mouth.
More people begin to cough among the audience, as more of those moths pull more of that horrible substance out of them. From the well not far away, half-drowned moths tug great clumps of ichor.
It's all-hallows, and Trevor has been sent here to hunt. ]
Light the flames!
[ The inquisitor's voice is ragged from the choking, but his guards obey nonetheless before all attention turns back to the horrible substance as it coalesces into something more solid. And then to the moths as they do likewise. Trevor isn't unharmed by the chase, but he's not been slowed either. Not by injury or by the fact that doing this in front of so many people is breaking all sorts of rules. The plague is weak, forced out into the open like this, and he simply shoves it into the flames.
The flames where Alucard is.
It's- probably the smoke getting to him, isn't it? There isn't actually a moth monster 1v1ing the plague in his fire. ]
[Alucard doesn't open his eyes until the coughing becomes too loud and violent that he can't ignroe it. That means that he opens his eyes at the exact moment that the moths tear their way out of the priest's throat. It is horrifying to see what comes out with them and--
--fuck.
He'll really be a witch, won't he?
Alucard's too wide eyed and horrified to struggle more. The guards try to do the work but the moths? He can't make sense of them. But the fires are lit, the smoke is starting to take effect and you know what?
It doesn't matter. The thing he wanted is happening and whatever this result is? He won't be alive for it.
The flames catch at his boots. Around him is chaos, moths, and fire.
His eyes close. At some point, he thinks he screams. Then there is nothing.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[For all the exhausted resignation in Alucard's tone, his hand still reacts. Fingers curl, trying to escape the flame. He hisses at the burns as they start to form. There's finally something new on his face, all brought about by a living flame.]
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Cleansing, not death. Cleansing of the devil's influence.
[ He moves the candle to the top of the palm and leaves it there at the fleshy part where the fingers begin. ]
You understand, yes? That this is the least of that.
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[It hurts. Of course it hurts. Alucard can feel the flesh scald and blister and burst, and the sharp hiss does become a yelp. Finally.
But it changes nothing.]
Why does it matter?
[To you, he means.]
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Because I do not consign innocent men to the flames. [ He pushes Alucard's hand downward. ]
Sign. If the flames are what you want, sign.
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That's a trap and Alucard knows it. He's in pain, he wants to just die already, he should ignore the statement.
But no. That statement means so much. That the priest has been fucking with him for three days and why?
Alucard's arm finally begins to twist and try and pull away. There's the real threat of something catching now.
There's no survival instinct that's kicked in. There's only paralysis.]
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Enough.
[ He pulls the candle away. Not out of any sort of kindness, but because his job comes with a certain understanding of the human body. Too much damage, and it stops feeling. Too much pain at once and the mind decouples from it. His peers make mistakes like that, and so those under their care endure.
Periods of rest are needed, even if only short ones. Witches need space to dread. ]
The flames burn out. They end. This? This does not.
no subject
But still, the implications of that trap ring in Alucard's mind. He needs time to parse them out. Time and less burnt flesh smell in the room.
He's not meeting the man's eyes. He hasn't been.]
You want something besides a confession.
[It's a guess. A good one.]
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[ That's a lie. He wants that signature. He wants his perfect record to remain intact. He wants his authority recognised and respected by his lessers.
But perhaps that was intended as a question. What can he do, to make this stop. ]
You will sign. You will sign, and you will allow the Lord into your heart. Let him drive away the devils who have lied to you. Let him scourge the poison from you with fire. You will recognise that you decide none of this. You will recognise that all of this is in His hands, not your own. And if you wish to die? You will earn it by submitting to the will of his Chosen.
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[I know it's a trap.
For the rest, Alucard falls silent. Lets his feet out from under himself, so that the guard is forced to either take his weight entirely or drop him. (As if there's a lot of weight to take. Had the church not found Alucard when they did, he has assumed that the winter would finally claim him.
He'll earn nothing. Be a dead weight and force people to choose. Inaction, in and of itself, is a choice.]
no subject
Feed him and return him to the pillory. Do not allow him to sleep. Have him whipped at dawn, if he tries.
[ It's two more frigid nights before Alucard encounters the Inquisitor again. The next two days consist of his orders, of course, but he doesn't oversee them. Short periods of intense pain followed by longer ones of discomfort and isolation or humiliation. No sleep.
On the second night, Alucard it returned to the Inquisitor. The same nicer cell. the same hot meal. A moth or two, flitting about the candle. ]
Are you ready to confess, now?
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The cell again. Alucard would groan if he had the effort. Such as it is, his legs tremble badly, and he doesn't know if he'll be permitted to sit in any form.
Let this be the end. Please.]
I will say my truths and you will do as you will.
[His voice is terrible and rough. Hoarse and barely audible.]
no subject
[ He gestures to the chair opposite his own, as if he's inviting Alucard to sit. It's not an invitation, and the guards immediately wrestle him into the chair.
The inquisitor smiles, pushing the papers to Alucard once again. ]
Speak as you will.
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There's a moment's relief on Alucard's face for the luxury, but it fades within a moment. He ignores the papers. Forces himself to meet the inquisitor's eyes, and he holds that gaze.]
My name is Adrian Mathias Tepes. I am the last son of my family. Ten years ago, my mother and father, Lisa and Vlad, were likewise executed for the accusation of witchcraft.
They were doctors and alchemists. Our family's trade going back for four hundred years. A trade that requires some unorthodoxy to try and reveal the secrets of the world, so that we may better help people. We have done that, just as our family has done harm by accident. That is the rule of this trade: not all your patients will live. You will do everything you can but sometimes, not even that will work. You will perform experimental procedures that go wrong in pursuit of healing. Your job is to minimize their harm.
I have been alone for the past decade since my parents were killed. I have tried to do good, as they taught me to. Survived, because they would want me to. Healed those who would permit me. Experimented when I could. Bartered whatever I needed to in order to keep going. Myself when there was nothing else left.
[This won't be the confession the priest wants. He doesn't care.]
I've lived ten years on borrowed time. I've been rejected and chased out of places enough time to know that what I can offer the world is not wanted.
That is all I have to confess.
no subject
It is sad, to be doomed by one's birth.
[ It's hard to say if that's genuine or not. Everything he's said so far has seemed genuine, and yet so little of it has been. ]
Sign, then, and I will bring this tragedy to an end.
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[That's the only thing he'll argue.
The moth lands. Alucard curls his hand out of response, then flinches.]
no subject
[ The Inquisitor gestures, and a guard places a clean sheet of paper into his hand. He sets it down and writes, and the scratching of the quill is the only sound for a few minutes.
The moth doesn't move away. It remains on Alucard's hand for a few seconds before walking up his arm. Insects just crawling over him, as if he's already dead.
He places the amended confession in front of Alucard, setting the quill next to it. ]
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...well it's the truth. So the rest of this can be done and dusted.
His name is signed on the paper in neat script. Then that hand falls away.]
When?
[How long until this is over?]
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[ He looks over the paper, then smiles. The guards behind Alucard relax, and he pushes the plate of soup across the table. ]
Eat. You must be hungry.
[ His entire demeanor is different, with that. Alucard is being rewarded. ]
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Alucard doesn't touch the soup. He shakes his head at it.]
No. Thank you.
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[ He stands. ]
Bring him clean clothes, and then leave him be.
[ They do so. Clean clothes. A pail of warm water to wash himself. Another meal at morning. And aside from that, until dusk the next day, Alucard is alone. ]
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It'll be the only comfort he allows himself. He'll die in his own horrible clothes rather than the clean ones left for him. They're not even touched. Same goes for the food. Neither are needed at this point. He'll be dehydrated and halfway to dead, and that'll minimize the pain. Make it easier to let the smoke take him before the flames well and truly start.
He'll scream. He knows that. It'll be awful but at least after that, it'll be over.
He sleeps, mostly. Lets the last two days pass by.]
no subject
The moths settled in Alucard's hair scatter as the inquisitor approaches, guards flanking him on each side. Even just two days later, he looks different. His eyes are sunken, lips pale, body barely able to hold its own weight. ]
Follow.
[ He says nothing more. The door is unlocked and the guards enter, ready to drag Alucard if he can't drag himself to his feet.
The stake is already prepared outside the church. Kindling is ready to be stacked around Alucard. And those moths lie on every surface. The inquisitor coughs again as the men set about binding Alucard to the stake, more violently this time. ]
no subject
He had protested for years that this was unfair. That he didn't deserve any of this. But after too many years of being ground down, there's only acceptance and a certain amount of relief.
There. Binding. Alucard's body just goes slack. He doesn't have to do anything further. His eyes close, clocking the moths for a last moment.
There's been a lot of those lately, haven't there? Strange.]
AND THEN SHIT GETS WILD
And then the inquisitor coughs again. So violently that eyes leave Alucard, that the guards have to rush to his side to keep him standing. He coughs and hacks until something tears its way out of his throat. More moths. Three of them living, a few more dead and attached to the tar-like mass they pull out of the inquisitor's mouth.
More people begin to cough among the audience, as more of those moths pull more of that horrible substance out of them. From the well not far away, half-drowned moths tug great clumps of ichor.
It's all-hallows, and Trevor has been sent here to hunt. ]
Light the flames!
[ The inquisitor's voice is ragged from the choking, but his guards obey nonetheless before all attention turns back to the horrible substance as it coalesces into something more solid. And then to the moths as they do likewise. Trevor isn't unharmed by the chase, but he's not been slowed either. Not by injury or by the fact that doing this in front of so many people is breaking all sorts of rules. The plague is weak, forced out into the open like this, and he simply shoves it into the flames.
The flames where Alucard is.
It's- probably the smoke getting to him, isn't it? There isn't actually a moth monster 1v1ing the plague in his fire. ]
no subject
--fuck.
He'll really be a witch, won't he?
Alucard's too wide eyed and horrified to struggle more. The guards try to do the work but the moths? He can't make sense of them. But the fires are lit, the smoke is starting to take effect and you know what?
It doesn't matter. The thing he wanted is happening and whatever this result is? He won't be alive for it.
The flames catch at his boots. Around him is chaos, moths, and fire.
His eyes close. At some point, he thinks he screams. Then there is nothing.]
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