#*cvfic

Wallachia is not a small country, yet its scope seems to diminish with each passing day. Word travels fast whether by horse, wagon, or foot. Rumours and gossip flourish the same as in a noble’s parlour or as crops prosper during a good harvest. And just like a lord with an unshakable grudge or a sudden cruel frost, rumours can change the instant they take root. 

Do you know about the new village near that manor? 

The one that burned down fifteen years ago? 

Well, I heard they actually named it after those black magicians and devil worshippers. 

No, that family wasn’t evil. They were always protecting us. 

Their last surviving son is a hero. 

If only it were so easy to put that much faith into the common people. Not the ones nurtured under a leader who carries a good if not insane head atop her shoulders. He means the tavern crawlers, the goat farmers, the church devotees, those pushing through life with what little they carry in their hands and in their heads. Maybe they did realize how wrong they were about the origins of his village’s namesake. They’re the ones who reached out, after all. Delivered a letter requesting conversation between communities despite their isolation. If lies can spread like the plague, surely the truth can as well. But Alucard has misinterpreted people before, consequences of which turned out for the greater good and the greatest regret.

Sitting on the front porch of a simple yet homely cottage, breathing in the cool October air while surrounding trees of orange and red emit silence, it grants him a sense of clarity. The place was rented only for the night, thanks to an aging groundskeeper who forsake the traditional single inn in favour of better business: multiple cabins used by other hunters and travellers looking for some privacy to pair with their rest. During a two day journey out to god knows where, it came as a blessing. The groundskeeper might have said the same thing about the three travellers’ generous patronage—were he not already aware of their growing reputation. A hunter who carries a slight limp as scars encircle his entire right arm, a man with unnatural eyes coupled with pointed canines, and a clearly pregnant magician traveling side by side would of course raise a number of wary eyebrows regardless of past deeds.

“Not a single monster around these parts so no trouble from either of you.”

Personally, the hunter had heard better greetings from businessmen but the small group obliged his request and slept together like the dead. If Alucard was a more narrow minded man, he would buy the cottage for himself as a retreat from the constant bustling of the world at large. To enjoy peace and quiet as life’s purest vices. Well, him and a few other persons. In reality, he is content with its intended temporary purposes.

Content is an apt descriptor of Alucard’s life as it currently stands. Not quite enough for him to leave his sword and cape upon their pedestals before setting out on a diplomatic mission, but still content with the way things are now. 

For the first time in my life, I have absolutely no idea what happens next. I just have this feeling that it’s going to be worth it. He cannot read the future, no one can be they human or vampire. Nostradamus was an anomaly in the annals of history. Knowing that fault, it might have been naive of Alucard to say such a bold proclamation. Yet some divine force must have stopped fucking about to hear him speak those words and actually listened. This life is good, he worked hard for it with more tears than sweat and certainly more blood than both combined. A life protected, but has every possibility of being taken away all the same.

Alucard won’t dwell on that fear, not when current matters demand his attention as representative of Belmont Village. He instead reaches into his pocket and rereads the letter stained with black ink and brown splotches along the edges. Dirty, so dirty. Most likely from the long arduous journey inside an equally ragged messenger’s pouch. It’s not a cry for help as he’s used to receiving but rather a cry for connection, allyship, negotiation. Things every developing village must take into account when it comes to setting up good relations between neighbours. Greta insisted on keeping a watchful eye on things at home, much to Alucard’s fear. Still trying to take her advice of being around the human half of himself as much as his heart can handle, until his planned excuses were scattered to the four winds when two others volunteered as delegates. Suddenly, meeting new people didn’t seem so horrifying.

“We’re ready. Sorry for the wait.”

He turns around at the sound of Trevor’s lackadaisy voice. The Belmont holds himself a little more carefully these days, not as spry or quick as he used to be. Thankfully (and depending on how well he behaves), it will take a good decade or a dozen years before he requires a cane. With Sypha at his side, the two meander onto the porch and shut the cabin door, leaving the key in a discreet location, lest they endure another blundering encounter with the groundskeeper. They seem to glow surrounded by the warm colours of autumn, though it could be due to how soundly each of them rested the night before. Sypha’s is a different sort of glow. Trevor caresses her six month bump, afterwards mimicked by Alucard’s gloved hand once he’s standing. Like rubbing a good luck charm to protect the three of them—four to be exact.

“What did you do with the chicken bones?” He asks Trevor.

“Tossed in a ditch a ways from the other cabins last night. Some wolves or foxes might appreciate them.”

“Do we have enough left for the journey back?”

“We have…” Sypha rummages through one of the burlap sacks. It feels considerably less heavy than when their little troupe embarked. “More strips of dried goat, a pound of sirloin, and a few apples.”

Furrowing his brow, Alucard checks their rations himself. Not that he doesn’t believe Sypha; he’s only curious about this abundance of meat. “And Trevor packed everything, correct?”

“Well, I helped. Something wrong?”

“Just… it’s a lot of meat even after last night’s feast.”

Trevor overhears the conversation as he finishes preparing their horses. “Don’t pin all the blame on me. Pregnancy apparently turns you into a carnivore.”

“Oh… how are you feeling, Sypha?”

“Fine! I promise you I am fine. Just hungrier than usual. And Trevor’s right…” She rubs her stomach, managing to stay light upon both feet. “This little one seems to have an appetite for meat.”

“Good. When the time comes, they will be born healthy and strong. But there’s no shame in resting for another day. I’m sure our benefactors will understand and I will haggle with that groundskeeper if need be.”

Sypha’s eyes narrow, a crease forming between them. Like something rotten passed through or a string of poorly times words sounded inadvertently offensive. “Count your blessings—both of you—that you did not just ask me to turn around and ride in the direction of the village.”

Both men shrink, tongue tied, nervous of the Speaker’s wrath. Neither of them were going to suggest it in the first place, but the months have gone by too quickly. Before there was barely anything, now they see the semblance of a child biding its time. How could they not voice concerns? Even so, they are unable to explain themselves. Sypha scoffs as though pleased with the mild fear she’s just wrought.

“I am riding a horse and spending a couple hours on my very sturdy feet. That is all. You worry too much.”

“Well, it’s sort of our job now.”

Sypha gives Trevor a well-meaning punch to his arm along with a chuckle. Secretly, she adores the added attention, within and without a convenient bedroom where she can truly, unabashedly enjoy it. Doesn’t mean she’s lost the ability to tease, prodding at their most sensitive bits. Trevor glances at Alucard as if to wordlessly say with cocked lips, “thank god she hasn’t lost her touch”. He smiles in return. The dhampir and hunter need to stay on their toes despite these times of peace.

Three horses set off mid morning carrying three travellers in high spirits. Late noon comes and three apples are eaten before the journey carries on. Deeper into the forest they trek, creating a trail all their own through the dying brush. Soon every colour of the season will fade into stark neutrals as snow replaces leaves upon the ground and skeleton branches reveal themselves behind lush foliage. Winter is on its way, swift as the death of nature, which is why this visit must be completed now before Wallachia falls into its deep cold sleep.

Autumn days are short. The longer the ride, the darker the skies. Not quite nightfall yet but far from the familiarity of daylight. Alucard almost reaches into his pocket for the letter again, grateful for his better eyes while wondering if he misread the directions, until Trevor points ahead.

“That what we’re looking for?”

He follows the outstretched finger, settling on a path of lights hovering in mid air. Except none of them are actually floating with no supports. Torches illuminate deep into the woods where it seems few have traversed before. Alucard should have suspected as much; the letter did mention the word “isolated”. Yet nothing this dark, this quiet, or this lonely came to mind. They ride closer over uneven terrain until it’s too much for the horses, snorting then loudly whinnying in protest. Each one fervently digs their hooves into the dirt.

“Easy, girl, easy…” Trevor pats his horse’s neck. Always a man more compliant with beasts rather than people—less of those finicky complicated emotions. He makes the wise decision of dismounting, silently encouraging the others to do the same. Nowhere to go now but onwards still. The horses comply for a couple more feet before stopping entirely.

  “Should we—” Sypha begins but Alucard already has her answer.

“We’ll tie them to the trees. They will be fine here.”

The other two agree with one of those statements. As they secure each rein around a sturdy trunk, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard remain close. Occasionally, hands will embrace hands purely for reassurance. A physical way of saying, “I’m still here. I won’t let the darkness consume you”. Pathways scattered with light are supposed to bring guidance to wanderers, a sense of ease from the tribulations of travel, yet Alucard feels none of that. He brushes it off as merely a symptom of their lengthy journey. 

A different light appears at the end of the torches in the form of a human figure. Two more join their comrade, also dressed in the typical rags of farmers, peasants, people of the land. Harmless. Relatively gaunt for their statutes while their bloodshot eyes further betray poor displays of health. These countrymen need sleep, proper bathing, and food most importantly. They seemed deprived of everything, even good blood judging from their lack of colour. It’s lucky they reached out for help when they did.

“Are you from the village Belmont?” The first man hangs his head slightly low, deepening the dark circles beneath his hollow eyes.

“We are. You know me as Alucard. No ‘the’, please. I’ve come with Trevor Belmont and Sypha Belnades as representatives. It said in your letter that you would like to negotiate terms of trade between our communities. Is that correct?”

The people respond with empty stares then look to each other, their exchanged glances brief yet heavy, like carrying out a wordless discussion between themselves. No one can decipher whatever they’re saying despite it happening right in front of them. 

“Follow us.”

The dreadful unease returns. Perhaps being led into the unending heart of the forest by strangers who don’t seem altogether there is the root cause. Or the faint stench of something metallic wafting through the stagnant air which Alucard cannot shake nor can he discern where it’s originating. It could be both reasons or more. He wants to voice, or rather whisper, his concerns to Trevor and Sypha. Better them first than saying the wrong thing to their guides. But then Sypha commits her only mistake: she speaks to them first.

“So… where are your community leaders?”

The woods people stop, nearly causing a collision. Their answer to Sypha’s legitimate and responsible nature comes in the form of quivering… laughter? Alucard hears it as such, so does Trevor based on his expression of equal confusion. Before either one can demand the meaning of this, the silence of the trees is broken when Alucard’s arms, chest, neck, and legs start burning.

“GAAH!”

It happened too quickly. He should have heard the other humans rustling in the nearby bushes, following them the entire way. Unable to reach for his sword or transfigure into a wolf, bats, mist, anything his father taught him, Alucard violently sucks in air through teeth and flared nostrils. Smoke and the same smell of metal fill his exasperated lungs. It feels like something is tearing through his clothes to mark itself on his skin—silver chains. No. No, no, no, no. Not again. Not now. Alucard refocuses his mania back to the present. This isn’t only about him. Trevor and Sypha, where they are and if they managed to retaliate. His eyes dart in frantic directions, trying to locate them, widening when he does.

Trevor, always the apt fighter even with weakened muscles and bones, immediately counters with a swing at one of the men’s jawline, breaking it with a satisfactory crack. But his cohorts gain the upper hand by finding that very spot near the Belmont’s shin where a single well-placed kick sends him straight to the ground. Overwhelmed, they hold him firm against the dirt and mud with their boots atop his body. Trevor bares his teeth, angry, rageful, even more so when he sees Sypha. 

Holding off her attackers with fire incantations, relishing their screams when they burn, until concern for the safety of her child overrides concern for her own. She briefly places a hand on her stomach to shield it and the woods people take advantage of this open window. They hook a line around her throat, pulling her backwards before binding her wrists so her spells mean nothing and do nothing. Snarling and cursing, her head lobbing in all directions. Alucard has never seen Sypha this overcome with fury, though he never doubted her ability to lose control. 

He can’t focus on her forever as something else emerges from the brush, crawling forward on elongated limbs then standing upright. Alucard recognizes these creatures but only from his father’s books—the only place where he ever wanted to encounter them. Ancient vampires, perhaps older than most concepts of time. White skin, paler than fresh snow yet more grotesque, and naked without a single hair from top to bottom. Sypha continues to curse about how she’ll fucking kill every last one of them until one human woman with unhinged eyes finally answers her first question.

“Our leaders are here.”

The three of them remain on the ground before this amalgamation of insane monsters and equally insane humans. Sacrificing their freedoms, their health, and their lives to become familiars. All for a taste of immortality that may or may not be granted unto them. All because they fear the natural inevitability of death, that endless abyss. Alucard would speak every indecency towards them if he were not already occupied with numbing his own pain. 

“You could never hide from us,” rasps one vampire still creeping on all fours. 

“Not when you announce your home named after Lord Dracul’s murderer.” Another chimes in. Unlike the common blood drinker who can barely keep their selfish ego from growing into a tumour, these vampires seem more cooperative. They speak in tandem like a single minded hive.

“That’s it? That’s what this is all about? You freaks are still angry because your lord ate shit and then kicked it? Well, you’re not bringing him back. Others have tried and even got close but all failed miserably before dying themselves so just give up and go rot somewhere in a fucking ditch!”

Alucard winces at Trevor’s proclamation, thinking about the memories in his childhood bedroom deformed, defiled, and now gone. The moment passes. Trevor is angry, stressed, as he has every right to be. We say things we don’t consider for a second when we’re angry. It’s more important that their lives are being toyed with in a cat and mouse situation.

“We did not bring you here to avenge Dracul.”

“We were never under his command.”

“We follow a different master.”

“The one who bestowed upon us these gifts.”

“The one who made us pure.”

“The one who feeds off the end of a mortal life.”

Sypha calms herself and loosens the restraint around her neck enough to decipher their cryptid sayings. “Death? You worshipped Death?”

“Long way to go for a dusty pile of bones who’d rather take a shit on his followers than give a damn about any of you.”

The vampires suddenly turn on Trevor. They strain their vocal chords into shrill howls, fangs chattering and long forked tongues flicking in and out of their lipless mouths. He glances at Alucard, both their foreheads drenched in perspiration for different reasons. I think I pissed them off.

“Do not speak blasphemy against the master!”

“Lies! Lies! Snakes on his tongue!”

“Killer! Murderer! Killer of Death!”

Piercing through the painful fog caused by the silver, Alucard experiences a moment of clarity. An idea. Risky, perhaps stupid, but stupid is all he can rely on. “Stop!” He yells, hoping to distract them away from his friends, his loved ones. Those he fought for since the beginning even when he didn’t realize it. The vampires pause and listen.

“He didn’t kill Death. I did. I killed Dracula too. I erected a town for humans atop their ashes to spite them. If you desire revenge, then take me but let them go.”

Trevor and Sypha turn to him, shocked. Begging with their gaze. They know of Alucard’s sacrificial nature but hoped he would never resort to it. It doesn’t matter though as the vampires gag then spit out the bait.

“Liars. All of you.”

“We care not who dealt the final blow.”

“Who carried out the killing strike.”

“All three of you are at fault.”

“Your village, its humans, a stain upon our master’s grave and memory.”

“Tonight we carry out his final wish.”

One familiar with his boot on the back of Trevor’s skull starts to plead. “Let us have the half vampire. Please. Give him to us. Feast on the other two. We want him! We want to see if he bleeds like a vampire or human!”

Just as quick as he began whining and raving, his eyes are scratched out by a vampire too fast for the normal eye to catch. He weeps, legs crumpling to the ground in a pitiful display, but doesn’t shriek. Too mad for even that.

“Fools! Mortal sacks of pig blood and shit.”

“He is too strong for any of you.”

“Take the hunter and magician. Kill them with your knives and hands if you must. Leave the traitor son to us.”

Half of the remaining familiars grumble but dare not speak against their masters. Alucard watches as Trevor and Sypha are dragged away to some darker corner of the forest, struggling to the best of their abilities. Then they’re gone. He waits for the shouts, the curses, bones breaking and meat gouged. Frozen, in pain, panicking. His trapped skin reeks of blood and seared flesh. Don’t cry. Don’t cry from the fear or the agony or your mounting rage.

What can he do? What else is there to do? He can use his sword, wherever it lies. He just needs to picture it.

His mind won’t let him. Alucard cannot think of how to save himself. He only thinks of death among those supposed to be his own kind.

“The magician is with child. The hunter’s? Or yours?”

“Matters not. All bloodlines end tonight.”

“Yours.”

“His.”

“Hers.”

“Everyone’s.”

Trevor, torn to pieces. Sypha, her throat slashed. Greta, her blood drained along with the entire Belmont Village. Everyone dead, all because he wanted to be kind again. To trust humanity. The images of what’s to come in the future flash before him, distracting from the vampires’ hideous contorted faces as they laugh and taunt and fill his ears with terrible possibilities worse than anything Alucard can think of. The anger blocks it out. All he can hear is the blood pounding its way into his ears, telling him something different. 

It whispers so convincingly. Everything he loves, everything he risked protecting, everything he rightfully earned, gone. There is no question of if; it will be taken away from him, brutal and terrible. Why hold back his own capacity for monstrousness. Why not meet evil with evil. It’s a dirty thing to do. Dirty, so dirty, like the taste of blood from a wicked man.

Alucard waits for the first vampire to lean in before lunging forward and biting open their neck, his teeth elongated to unnatural lengths. The whites of his eyes are replaced with pure endless black while blood seeps into his yellow irises. By sheer untapped strength, he breaks free and further forgets his sword. His claws are faster this way, more unforgiving. The familiars who stayed behind are the first to die as well as the quickest. Lucky them. Their bodies rip easily. Alucard’s own skin tears as well. His skeletal structure rearranges itself both with and without his consent. 

He screams the only way a frightened, angry animal knows how. There is only a blood red darkness before his eyes.

--

Sypha Belnades and her handsome sidekick, often mistaken for a misshapen bear, have done this dance before. Cultists of this, fanatics of that, worshippers of whichever supernatural madman of the month sounds more appealing. They crawl out from the bloodsoaked underbelly of Wallachia like squirming maggots. Everyone's the same, their purposes unoriginal. Only the methods change but even those have become old tricks. If not for the added risk of Alucard, their community, their child not yet welcomed into this world, and their own physical barriers, it might even be boring. 

Regardless of how hardened this world has turned them, it doesn’t make the anger any colder or the urgency any less pressing. Trevor’s blood feels hot, boiling through his veins, while Sypha’s fingertips tingle with sparks. He reluctantly watches her captors push her towards a stone slab darkened by the remains of past offerings—presumably. They’ve seen pedestals like this before. It seems so long ago. Helpless children wetting them with frightened tears until someone with a whip and another with magic rushes in and gives back their short lives.

Sypha’s head is shoved against the top, her body forced into an undignified kneeling position. She doesn’t swear or spit or cry out. Nothing will come of that. Her eyes burn and she waits. Waits until she hears the withdrawal of some large blade—an axe or cleaver. Not that it matters when the back of her head collides with the unlucky executioner situated directly behind the apparent sacrifice. Teeth fragments fall to the ground, blood spurts from his nose and eyes, placing the familiars in a state of shock. They expected none of this, less of which the moment when Sypha frees one hand, reaches for the cloak brooch that’s been in her life longer than her own birth parents, and blinds everyone unfortunate to find themselves in her vicinity.

Trevor’s pride is outweighed by his own self-preservation. Disarming the last few with some well-timed kicks and punches is a time honoured Belmont tradition, but he isn’t happy. It’s not enough to break in their faces or crack their femurs; he wants them gone for good. 

When a certain last son was still woefully unprepared with a family whip left for him in the rubble of his home, Trevor saved himself on multiple occasions with a knife in his boot. Other and far more formidable weapons fell into his lap, he eventually got better with the whip, but the knife stayed with him  to this very moment. He always thought he’d need it one day when circumstances said otherwise. Sometimes well placed paranoia can keep one alive a day more than if they viewed the world as white, not in shades of varying grey. Few things get the job done better than a knife to the gut, back, or neck.

Sypha uses the last of her energy to raze those still alive into burnt artifices made to resemble human beings. She gags on scorched flesh as her knees meet the dirt once again. Barely a second passes before Trevor is by her side.

“Sypha! You alright? Where does it hurt? Show me where it hurts.”

“I’m fine. More tired than usual, that’s all.”

“What about the kid? Our baby, Sypha. Is it—” He squeezes her hand. Sypha responds to his unchecked strength by reassuringly patting his stubbled cheek once she’s standing.

“Also fine. I can feel the devil kicking up a storm. I think they want to fight as well.”

Trevor exhales as though it’s the first breath he’s let out all night. “That wouldn’t surprise me.” Placing his palm over her swollen belly. She’s right. Their little warrior, still kicking, still moving, still alive. They both are, same as him.

Another deathly chorus cuts through the trees. The two of them are used to similar sounds (sometimes being the ones who cause them), but not like this. Trevor feels his bones rattle; Sypha’s heart plummets into her already queasy stomach. It sits there for a disturbing amount of time while the screams and helpless chokes carry on their sickening death rattles, then stop. The comfort of their own survival is short-lived as they remember Alucard, desperate to know his place during the brief carnage. Was he fighting those things? Barely vampires, at least not the sort they’ve come to know. 

Trevor and Sypha hurry back to the meeting place of debasement and humiliation. None of them would have thought twice about how they were treated, but it hurt all the more especially after they floated through what was meant to be a hopeful day. Upon arrival, they cover their lower faces, assaulted by air so wretched with death, blood, and other bodily fluids neither one wants to think about. Forced to compose themselves, forced to look at the sight before them. 

This is the first time Trevor Belmont of the House of Belmont has ever been stunned into pure silence. Not since the fire.

The ground is soft; dirt and mud thick with blood. Their boots sink into the monster made marsh with every uneasy step forward. Like walking atop bodies until Sypha’s foot unknowingly crashes through a disemboweled ribcage. The shock is too great for her to even flinch. They find more pieces scattered to the ditches and hills. Gutted, mutilated, torn asunder. There is no identity here, nothing recognizable or identifiable. Familiars and vampires meld together in a cacophony of mangled flesh. Organs, bones, it’s all the same. Hearts smashed into pulp, tangled intestines, blackened livers, crushed skulls, and burst lungs. Brain matter scattered across the ground. They all look alike on the inside. The rest of the forest is dry. Here, it rains red. The trees and leaves, dripping. A fat drop falls into Trevor’s eye, snapping him back to the present. 

He never witnessed the real fall of Targoviste. Despondent Gresit only supplied him with a brief tasting of hell on earth. Lindenfield was the same, meager and short, yet enough all the same. Enough death and hopelessness. Those forsaken places now have one more in good company, one more addition to their lexicon of horror.

“I can’t find Alucard.”

Sypha’s shaken tone causes Trevor to jump after a prolonged moment of tense and unpleasant quietness. It also helps refocus him. Her voice could bring anyone back from the dissociative abyss. He rejoins her side only to see that she’s not all there either. Eyes wide, unable to tear themselves away while the rest of her body remains immobile, save for the continuous trembling. Trevor follows her gaze and notices a different set of footprints imprinted deep in the bloody soil, neither human nor vampire. Nothing their size or smaller. If he were to place his hand inside the outline, the print would swallow it whole.

“Something else did this. I couldn’t find Alucard, but, but I found those. They were not there before. I can’t find him, Trevor. Everyone’s faces, they… they all look the same. That thing must have... Trevor, he’s—” Sypha fights against herself. Normally so certain in her words and how she speaks, until now. 

She recalls that night when the sky above Dracula’s ruined castle exploded with a blinding light. The earth shook, a final war cry bellowed out, and then there was nothing. No Death, no Germain, and no Trevor. The following seconds felt like hours when she had to face the realization of what happened. How she tried to deny and rationalize the inevitable. Not again. Sypha hoped she would never again have to live through such pain. She holds her belly for comfort, perhaps in the last frivolous hope that something, some cosmic sign will tell her that she’s wrong.

Before, she managed to pull Trevor away from a dark state of mind with her voice. He does the same with his hands. Holding her shoulders wracked with shakes, he takes his thumb and rubs her hot cheeks before the tears can fall.

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey, listen to me. We know him. He’d never give up as easily as any of these creeps. I can’t see his clothes anywhere, so he must have gotten away somehow.”

Sypha presses her lips together, tight. She swallows past the lump in her throat and nods; not entirely convinced but it satisfies Trevor. He glances back towards the tracks leading away from the wreckage.

“Let’s follow those. Maybe he chased the beast into the woods.”

“I don’t see his footprints. It might have dragged him away.”

“Then all the more reason to go after it.”

She agrees, though with more doubt eating at her conscience. The beastial tracks thankfully lead them to clean air yet even more tumultuous ground. Whatever left them clearly wanted to lose whoever felt foolish enough to follow. With no second pair of footprints, the thought of Alucard helpless, in a worse state, dragged by some night creature they’ve yet encountered brings their dread to new heights.

Onwards Trevor and Sypha stalk their prey, helping each other over hills and rocks, always questioning if either of them will be able to fight it. The opening of a large cavern suddenly appears behind the dense tree brush. There’s no end, no back wall, only a deep void. Trevor wanders inside first, Sypha close behind, her hands ready. Each finger brimming with the sensation of fire, ice, lightning, anything that will make this monster suffer the same way Alucard did.

Something breathes. The cavern fills with hot air and the same bloody stench. They’ve found it, just as abominable as the carnage it wrought. Grey leathery skin blends into the darkness and with every heavy breath, the cave seems to move alongside its hulking mass. Stone walls can barely contain its massive wings, pointed, sharp, and stretched to their limit over an impossible bone structure. Claws fresh with blood rake at the dirt while the tips of its horns pierce the rough ceiling. Kept in a cage of its own body. Trevor and Sypha prepare themselves, but the one thing they weren’t expecting was the creature capable of speech. Knives scratch their way up its throat with only two short words.

“Go away.”

It’s not unusual for night creatures to speak. One memorable blue fang in Gresit trapped behind ice, warning them about the armies from hell before its head split in two, was the most articulate Trevor had ever heard. Most are intelligent beings, same as they must have been before death, before some necromancer got their kicks from playing with predetermined fate. This beasty speaks again, longer and with more malice dripping off its gore-covered fangs. Every syllable echoes off the cave walls, shaking the two humans down to their very core.

“I said leave. Run. Don’t look at me.”

Since entering its domain, Trevor had the feeling this night creature was different. A tickling sensation in the back of his mind. Call it a hunter’s intuition (or a Belmont’s). Because Sonia and Gabriel raised their children well, no matter how short the upbringing was for one child. The youngest Belmont, so deeply versed with understanding monsters and the ways in which a vampire or lycan or the lowliest fleaman think. Information has flowed back to him alongside the memories. Listening to its voice, the hateful desperation, the way it bitterly refers to these two intruders (still cautious enough to look first rather than leap into something beyond either of them), Trevor finally realizes. 

He knows what this thing is—and the knowledge scares him.

“Sypha…” He whispers and grabs her arm before she can take another step. “You’re going to think I’m crazy… fuck, maybe I am crazy… but—”

“It’s him.” They turn to each other, the disbelief just as apparent in her face and strained voice as it is in Trevor’s.

“You knew?”

“When he spoke. I was waiting for you to say something. In case…”

In case we’re both crazy. Maybe they are. There is no explanation, just a gut reaction that festers and boils over until it all vomits forth. Both their heads feel rife, overflowing with blood and violence, maybe the fact that this monster might be Alucard is a delusion. Yet it can only be proven by lowering their defenses. To put their faith in a concept as abstract as trust, companionship, and something like love but far more complicated yet just as wonderful in their cases.

“I said leave.”

“It’s just us, Alucard. It’s just us.” Trevor once thought acts of gentleness were some of the most pointless things in this harsh sad world. Always out of reach, something he would never truly achieve on his own. His older sisters were gentle, his parents (in their own ways) were gentle. Look at where it got them. But admitting wrongness within oneself is a part of human nature. Gentleness comes easy, now and onwards in his life.

“We’re here to help. It’s alright.” Sypha can’t stop how she trembles, reaching her hand out to touch Alucard—if he really is there. She’s terrified and it’s alright to accept that.

“I’ll kill you. I’ll only kill you. I killed them all. I killed them all. I killed them. I’ll kill you like I killed them. I’ll… kill… them all...”

He never does. Never strikes or paints the cave with gore like the outside, not even when feather-light touches drift over his rough skin before settling. Trevor’s fingers are calloused; Sypha’s as well though a bit less so. But they’re both warm, seeping through his tough outer rim and into his true self buried deep inside.

“You are not going to hurt us.” Like her hands, Sypha is firm and soft with her proclamation.

“I will hurt you.”

“No you will not.”

“I will…”

“We don’t believe you.” Trevor slowly rests his forehead between the two horns, unafraid. One more creature he can understand.

“I…”

They’ve seen Alucard transform from wolf to bat then back to himself. A quick process, more ethereal than supernatural. Graceful wisps of smoke similar to streams of incense. There is nothing graceful about this transfiguration. One moment, Trevor and Sypha hold a monster in their arms, dwarfed by his size. The next, Alucard stands before them, clothes torn, baptized in blood. His hair weighed down by that which does not belong to him. They try asking if he’s alright and if he can hear them. It’s nothing but muffled sounds piercing into his throbbing head.

Alucard doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. His only thought is what he did. What he is.

--

They killed the horses. Why wouldn’t they? No one was expecting three travelers to come out of that burrow alive, so an easy way back towards the village was no longer necessary. The familiars could have spared the animals, if only to give blistered feet a chance to breathe along their crusade, but their masters would have eaten them regardless, pouncing upon the horses to create a massacre like feasting on a second course. Their deaths were preemptive.

“We’re walking,” Trevor declares.

Somewhere between the corpses and their far away home, Alucard regains alertness. He’s been trudging along with the help of two hands which guide him ever forward. Once his eyes start blinking followed by his quivering bottom lip, he feels heavier in his bones, flesh, his heart and soul. Heavy and dirty. What he did was wrong yet also right. He had no other choice, cornered like a hunted animal, but there is always another choice. His own claws were ready for use, his own fangs as well. None of which belonged to that thing, but he did not take advantage of them. Alucard’s mind holds an unshakable conclusion, despite the apparent contradictions swirling in his conscience. He is wrong. He is dirty. Drenched in blood not his, right down to the marrow. No amount of good deeds or erected townships or safe communities will change that about him.

Knees meet the ground again as Alucard breaks one more secret. He weeps, open and inconsolable. His tears used to be quiet even when no one was there to see or hear them. Strands of hair bunched in his hands, breaths shallow and hitched, fingernails digging into his skin until one finally breaks just to stop him from screaming. Tonight, in the presence of two individuals he fought harder than with anyone else to hide this facet from, to maintain his steadfastness and stay as the cold spot in the room, Alucard cries. Cries and cries and cries enough to turn his throat ragged and bloody.

Trevor and Sypha find themselves lost. Not on their current trail, direct as it may seem in darkness, but with someone whom both feel they have abandoned in some form. Neither can ask what happened, why he became that thing. All they can do is lift Alucard onto his unsteady feet and pull him further down the familiar path against the constant reluctance. Trevor considers snapping at Alucard; a firm grip on his shoulders or worse, a palm to his cheek. Brief thoughts, yet all the more strong. The more he resists, the slower they are getting him to a bath and warm bed. Swallow whatever misplaced guilt you have and fucking move. 

It would have been an awful, terrible thing to do to a friend. Any frustration towards Alucard dissolves into compassionate pity with every whimper and sob.

Their return to the rest site is not a welcome one. The groundskeeper’s hostility is matched by his incessant questioning. Sypha shields Alucard from his accusations while Trevor tries placating him, holding the man back for their safety and perhaps his own. He’s never been good at playing the middleman during heated tangents despite best intentions while also never starting them. Often enough (or rather too often), he’s put to rest various altercations by leaving more jaw-snapping and testicle inebriating punches than meaningful sayings. And if there were some tangible words thrown about, they were of the hateful variety. Bastard, fuck, and more colourful four letter insults. For tonight, Trevor brushes off his peacemaker skills until the flash of money eventually wins out over talk—as it always does with simple men trying to make livings for themselves in a country where humans in the daylight can be just as terrible as those who stalk the night.

The groundskeeper eyes the bag of coins offered by Trevor. Extra for what is essentially the same amount of time they paid not even a day ago. He takes it, reluctantly, but not before giving them one last caveat.

“And shut that friend of yours up. He’ll scare away my other patrons.”

Alucard is hastily shuffled into the nearest empty cabin. Looking over her shoulder, Sypha stares daggers into the groundskeeper’s back in the hopes they’ll somehow materialize and he’ll feel every prick and sting. Both have gotten used to Alucard’s weeping yet once inside the safe warm confines of the cottage, the enclosed space amplifies his cries, which shows little sign of stopping or quieting down. 

Sypha quickly draws a bath, heating the water with the simplest spell she knows. Between his whimpering, Trevor helps peel off what’s left of Alucard’s clothes, heavy and viscous with clotted blood. It stains his bare skin, a grotesque collage splattered across a trembling short-breathed canvas. His tears won’t wash it clean but maybe the bath will. The clothes finally burn to slow ashes in the fireplace. As Trevor runs to fetch new threads, Sypha begins. 

A pitiful soap bar is better than nothing at all. She soaks Alucard’s reddened body in steamed water and listens to his haunting lamentations. The only time she gently shushes him is when she wets a cloth and wipes his face, finally reducing his sobs to breathless sniffles. Her hands outline every curve, every crevice, washing out every unwelcome blemish. Alucard cannot stop himself from shivering. He’s still dirty, dirty, dirty. What is supposed to be holy work is made unholy because of him. Blood mixes with the soapy, white bathwater surrounding his naked body like a horrid baptism. At long last Trevor barges through the door carrying a fresh set of peasantry clothes long after the others have vanished in the fire. He thinks about what the groundskeeper said once he paid in more coins and more begging.

“This is the last favour I do for you freaks.”

Freaks, the same thing Trevor called those vampires and their familiars. Maybe the groundskeeper has a point. Not one of them is normal right down to the circumstance of their births. It’s a fact which Trevor has somewhat accepted, though perhaps he should give it more thought. Perhaps not as it might unearth more troubling personal discoveries, just as it has for someone else. He doesn’t bring up this sudden revelation or the comment which spawned it, not with Sypha and god forbid he tells Alucard anything while helping him dress. The better thing would be to say nothing. Take comfort in silence and rest his forehead against the other man’s same as when he wasn’t himself in that cave. 

Before Trevor’s head can lean forward, Alucard wobbles towards the bedroom, swallowed by clothes a couple sizes too big even for his stature, and requests to be left alone for the time being. They respect his wishes, waiting by the fireplace now smelling of burnt leather and cooked blood. Just the two of them and Alucard’s sword, having found its way back to them. After the dark void of night overstaying its welcome, morning will come yet no one can think about sleep. Instead, Sypha thinks about his dull blood-tinged eyes; Trevor about the troublesome softness in his voice.

“Did you know he could transform like that?” Sypha asks, uncertain of how the uncomfortable question feels on her tongue. 

“He never mentioned anything about turning into bats or a bloody wolf. What makes you think he’d say anything about this?” In all honesty, regardless of his answer, Trevor mentally assumes Alucard never knew himself.

“He saved our lives. Those creatures, those people, they would have done worse to us and the village… that must count for something, right? Why did he react in such a distressed way?”

“Like I said, he’s not one to air out personal details unless poked about it.”

“And are you willing to ‘poke’ him for an explanation?” 

There’s an unintentional bitter aftertaste to Sypha’s tone, suggesting he might be cruel enough to actually do it. Until Trevor deflects and metaphorically bounces the query right back in her direction like they were playing an awkward mind game.

“Are you?”

He’s got her there. It’s not to make Sypha feel guilt or to make himself morally superior, but to give both of them some valuable perspective. One step in the wrong direction, one careless word spoken with no thought, and Alucard would most likely crawl further into his self-made shell, refusing to emerge. Time passes as they sit with their options. How exhausting, yet still somehow necessary it is to think about these things. 

When the three of them started out, the unknown terrain surrounding Alucard was full of traps both literal and figurative. Trevor, with his then two left feet, was the first to set them off; happenstance which fate eventually twisted into the best decision of their lives. Soon the traps lessened into egg shells. If broken, tensions between them rose as did mental walls but there was no hate, no grudges. Whatever damage left behind was easily swept away.

Time runs out. Trevor and Sypha cautiously inch their way to the bedroom door before peeking through the open crack. Unsure if they’ll step on egg shells or a pit filled with bloodied spikes. Either way, no matter the outcome, they can’t be hesitant anymore. Inside, sitting with his knees against his chest atop the well-used mattress, is Alucard, his upper body covered with a blanket. The door creaks as Trevor and Sypha invite themselves in. A quick glance, a brief acknowledgement of their presence, is all they receive. Alucard won’t look at them, not when they stand before him and not when Sypha asks if he’s feeling alright even while holding her heavy stomach. She should be asking herself that question. Fingernails dig into the loose pant fabric over his knees. Seconds pass before his tongue becomes more complacent than his eyes. Someone needs to talk—might as well be him.

“I never wanted you to see me like that.”

“As… that thing?”

Sypha roughly elbows Trevor for the inconsiderate comment. Exactly what they were fearing. Yet Alucard doesn’t react in any troubling manner. He’s too tired, too spent of all his tears, and too uncomfortable with his own skin.

“It wasn’t just that… thing. How I wept and screamed while you both washed my body. No one should have to witness all of that.”

He despises how his voice sounds. Weak and shaken and the very antithesis of what they know him as.

“We care about you, Alucard. So, so much. Moments like that, it is par for the course. We do not mind and we could never think less of you because of it.”

Sypha can try as much as she wants with her comfort, which Alucard knows is true and tries reminding himself of it. Pure and selfless honesty won’t matter because the very part of him that he’s been fighting against will viciously refute it. The sadness grows, his throat tightens as his eyes glisten with sorry feelings, but forces himself to stay when Trevor and Sypha sit down on either side. Maybe they’ll see it too—the blood on his hands that didn’t wash away. Alucard rubs down his palms and fingers enough to hurt, constantly missing a small spot until realizing how pointless it is. Even when cleansed, he’s always dirty. Dirty, Dirty.

“Get it off… I need to get it off. I need to wash this blood off before it stains.”

“Alucard…” She holds his shoulder, the concern in her voice as worrisome as his sudden behaviour. “There is no blood. We already washed it off, remember? Your hands are clean.”

“No, no, it’s there. It’s still there. There was too much of it, that’s why—that’s why it won’t—I can still feel the blood it won’t—I can’t—”

Sypha’s gaze darts between Alucard’s expression, mixing guilt with fear, and his hands as he ravages them slowly at first then more erratically. His words are incomprehensible; she’s not even sure if he can still breathe normally. He can’t, or it’s getting worse with every attempted frantic syllable. She guides his head close to her neck, trying to soothe him. Fingertips running through his damp hair, tracing the curve of his skull. Things only calm themselves when Trevor steps in and takes one of Alucard’s hands, reddened not by blood but by his constant kneading. Slowly, gently, he repeats the same action, cleaning what has already been cleaned. 

Alucard concentrates on Trevor’s careful movements along with Sypha’s rhythmic stroking over his head. He breathes in her smell, listens to the blood flowing through her neck, but does not bite down. Rather than entice him, the sound lulls Alucard into a state of delicate peace. Briefly flinching when he feels Trevor’s lips on each of his fingers, then tongue and the edges of his teeth, but never tells him to stop. His skin doesn’t hurt as much now, nor is it drenched in what he assumed was blood.

“There.” Trevor mutters, removing the last finger from his mouth. Some time ago he might have acted embarrassed. “Is that better?”

A couple more breaths and Alucard feels ready to speak, clear and plain. “Perhaps I should explain everything.”

“Sypha and I have come across cultists like that before. All of them, obsessed with bringing back Dracula. Admittedly, those vampires were new but it’s nothing we couldn’t handle or were surprised by—”

“I’m not referring to them.”

Trevor and Sypha exchange a look as their grip on Alucard loosens. To give him space while he composes himself.

“You both know the story. God created Adam who used his rib to create Eve. Then the rest of humankind followed, starting with Cain and Abel.”

“I am… aware of that story, yes.” Trevor adds to Sypha’s hesitant reply with a nod. Alucard carries on, letting slip a sardonic chuckle.

“I suppose it’s quite ironic. God creates these two perfect humans and places them in paradise, thinking they can do no wrong. Then the unthinkable happens. God exiles them and they start a family. One of the first humans to walk this earth becomes a murderer of his own kin.” Alucard pauses before shaking his head. He and theology never seemed to be on the same page. Especially when he’s not feeling his most holy.

“However, my father had a different theory. Actually, it wasn’t even his to begin with. He acquired the knowledge from a Persian scholar during his travels. They hypothesized that every living being once originated from a form so vastly different from their current one. Something that could only exist thousands if not millions of years in the past. Over time, we eventually evolved until we reached our ideal form. But what humanity and even inhumanity started out as, he called it the original design.”

“So, this includes vampires?” Asks Trevor, surprised by his own ability to follow Alucard’s line of thinking. Still, it sounds no less plausible than a cosmic corridor with various doors leading to different locations in time and space.

“It does, but… he mentioned something different. When under threat or distress, when our powers seem insufficient, vampires are able to revert back to our original designs as a last resort. Our most primal forms… even those who were turned as humans.” Alucard stares down at his open palm, expecting to see nonexistent blood flowing between the lines again. Nothing. “To become a monster of all monsters.”

Just as he goes quiet, Sypha puts forth a genuine query. “How often does this happen?”

“Very rarely. Dracula avoided it at all costs. I’m not certain about the other lords, but we never heard anything. Vampires are inherently powerful, not to mention prideful, so reducing ourselves to these grotesque original forms is unnecessary. Most would rather die than reveal their true selves. But… I was so frightened. Frightened and angry and hateful towards those who wanted to take away everything I fought to protect. I didn’t care about myself, I cared about you, Trevor, the baby, Greta, everyone. I couldn’t control this primal instinct. Now I know, as do the both of you. I know what’s been lurking inside me. The very thing that can rip through my skin at any moment. I truly, deeply, don’t feel safe with myself. Even now I can still feel that thing writhing, breathing, waiting…”

Arms wrap around Alucard’s body, caging him in warmth and reprieve from his spiral downwards back into that dark place which the transformation forced him into. Trevor in front, Sypha behind. Hands cup his flustered cheeks, keeping his head raised, and kiss the space beneath his weary eyes swollen by a downpour of tears.

“No more crying. You’ll make yourself sick.” Trevor’s gentle command is said in good faith, yet shame runs deep. Alucard’s lips quiver once again even as Sypha presses herself firmly against his back and strokes his chest. Her fingers stay over the pounding beat within his ribs.

“This is you. Your immense strength, your powers, your fangs, even that creature, they may take up small parts. But this right here is fully you. And we’ve known you long enough to know that is true.”

Alucard wants to believe it like Trevor and Sypha do. Must be so easy for them. Easy to say and easy to think. Under his breath, barely an audible whisper, he apologizes to the both of them. He can’t. He can’t take their reassurance that nothing about this has changed their perception of him to heart. Nothing in his mind will allow him that luxury of trust, belief, and self resolve. It would be better for all if no one knew what lurked beneath his skin—including himself.

“Sypha… how much are you aware of memory spells?”

“Memory spells? Why?” She asks, despite already guessing what Alucard is requesting. When she sees him hide his face in the recesses of Trevor’s shoulder and hears him choke back tears, her twisted gut eats itself out of worry some more. 

“Please… I want to forget. I want to forget everything that happened. I don’t want to know myself.”

“Don’t be stupid.” Trevor adds a caveat to his comment in the form of another kiss. “I know it hurts now, but getting rid of everything is not the solution.”

“Trevor is right. Magic that changes the mind is risky and dangerous. I could take away far more than just one memory. It would be too cruel.”

“No more cruel than what I’ve done or will do.”

“If you’re trying to scare us, you’re doing a piss poor job of it.” 

Much like death—both the concept and the scythe-wielding bastard who couldn’t even beat a mortal human in a match—Trevor has never feared the dhampir. Nervous, yes, but once he realized what a sad, lonely man this brat turned out to be, all predispositions fell apart. When he looks at Alucard, sometimes the Belmont confuses him for a mirror. Cracked and warped, but still reflective. Sypha isn’t scared of him either, not since the beginning. Certainly not when she slips her hands under Alucard’s shirt just to draw him closer and feel his skin on hers. There’s no need for magic; he’s already unbearably warm.

“We can make a better memory right now. If you want it and if you’ll let us.”

Trevor’s voice sounds huskier than usual yet more patient than eager. He won’t force anything, nor will Sypha. She seems more than satisfied to keep her hands on Alucard, just so she’s aware of his presence. He ponders it, though not for long. He wants to forget his deeds in any way possible.

More than that, he wants them. Damn what he feels about his dirty, unholy body which they still lovingly praise with the touch of their hands, fingers, and lips. Limbs tangle together like macrame, slow and careful. Alucard, quickly lost in the feeling of them. Sypha’s grown stomach presses against him while Trevor’s scarred hand traces the outline of the first battle trophy across his chest. There is sweat, a few awkward head bumps followed by brief laughter, and perhaps one final tear shed out of pure relief and the overwhelming sensation of being loved. When it’s unfortunately over, Alucard struggles for a steady breath before Trevor and Sypha calm him after taking care of themselves. His hand brushes along Sypha’s belly to make sure everything is as it should be. She catches him and intertwines their fingers, settling his nerves. She’s alright. She’s safe. They all are.

“Rest now. There’s not much time until morning. Just rest…”

It was another rough ramble through town. Rough meaning knuckles bruised enough to break the skin stretched out over battered bones, a few teeth knocked loose in their sockets, and a nose bleeding thin streams past his lips and onto his tongue. Trevor could taste copper along with the fading remnants of bitter ale well past its prime window of desperate and needful consumption. In other words, bad decisions.

The trio of men hanging about the tavern were the usual breed of what Trevor so affectionately referred to as born fucking stupid louts. Shit smeared across their combined grins; if one had the wherewithal to look close enough, they would count the amount of teeth each man held in their heads. Admittedly, not the best thing to voice towards three inebriated piss sacks just waiting for an excuse to beat out the day to day frustrations felt by every common Wallachian with a pitchfork in one hand and a beer pint in the other. Casually wondering, a childlike curiosity, if the last Belmont was truly “up to snuff”. Not before denouncing that same family name, of course.

Trevor paid for that little comment concerning their lack of teeth—he’s still paying for it even as he stumbles out the gates of one more town covered in blankets of ever-falling snow. One more he can add to his list of establishments that would rather see him gone forever than well rested in a paid for bed, not bothering anybody. The list grows every week it seems, if not every day. While it becomes bigger, Wallachia, a country of what feels to be a wasted opportunity, shrinks in size. There aren’t many places left where the bastard of a dead legacy can hide.

He licks another drop of blood falling from his (third time) broken nose before teetering off the edge of his upper lip, desensitised to its rancid taste. Any other day he would inject a bit of dark humour into the reality of his decade long situation. Saunter away like a tomcat or true vagabond whilst caring fuck all about the perpetrators of his bruised muscles. He may be hell bound towards an early grave, not because he happened to stoop as low as some of those farmers did. Petty thoughts such as these usually help to pass the days easily and with less ass-splintering pain.

But Trevor is tired; the first time he’s admitting to this. Perhaps it’s the cold, the snow, or how the sun fades at an earlier hour. He doesn’t even know why it surprises him every year and why he denies it up until now; the feeling is always the same. That could be the answer. With winter comes hopelessness. Another push towards that early year he thinks so often about. He’s not afraid of dying itself, just that it might happen for some stupid avoidable reason.

Further the Belmont drifts from his newly hated town. Headspace light yet still pounding like an out of rhythm drum after all the hits it took. For once, the sorry state of his mind is not due to the alcohol. Trevor mentally pats his own back as though this is a victorious milestone for him. Well done, shit heel. Maybe there’s hope for you yet.

Halfway between an uncaring tipsy stupor and an angry concussion, he begins to wander aimlessly off the well-travelled road and into the woods. Boots digging deep into the accumulating snow while stray twigs snag at his tattered cloak, as though begging him to stay. Trevor keeps walking, or the closest thing he can accomplish given his current state. This is not without purpose. If he continues onward, past the beaten tracks, past the recognizable landmarks, past any semblance of human interaction with nature, he might get swallowed up by the forest where no one will come looking for the last Belmont to pick another pointless fight. Trevor enjoys those, against his own health. Once backed into a corner with no hope of weaselling his way out with his charming personality, he’d never refuse some good old fashioned fisticuffs. 

But he’s so fucking tired of it all. 

The trees grow denser. The snow, heavier. There’s no sign of a clearing. Trevor thinks to himself how it might not be the cold which finally puts his family name to eternal rest. Strange things are bound to happen deep in the forest and even stranger things are found. Mother, father, and some of his older sisters roped into babysitting told them like bedtime stories though every single one of them told the truth. Not all of them involved the usual company of vampires. 

Never wander outside during a lunar eclipse for the Pricolici might eat you along with the moon. If you see a man wearing a dog’s head, four eyes, with too many arms and legs, run, else the Căpcăun will snatch you up and tear off your own limbs to add to its collection. Wander too close to a pool of water, still as death itself, and the Rusalka will choke you with her long hair then drag you beneath the surface. Then there’s everything concerning those damn wolves, particularly the white ones.

I don’t care. Trevor has bested those beasties along with plenty more. Should one cross his path, he will simply deal with them in the traditional Belmont way—or lose, which might not be the worst thing. The leather braided whip that has always dangled precariously off his hip feels heavier. Surely, if his family tree has anything to say about it, there’s honour to be found in dying to protect the common folk of Wallachia from yet another thing that goes bump in the night.

But Trevor wouldn’t be protecting anyone. There’s nobody around to which he can self-sacrifice for; not now in these woods and certainly not for a very, very long time. He doesn’t want to fight for any so-called citizen of Wallachia. At long last Trevor finds that one tree he’s been searching for. Something which doesn’t speak, doesn’t think, and doesn’t feel has done more to deserve his attention. His respect, even. He collapses by its trunk, snowflakes caught in his lowering eyelashes, and prays to be granted one moment of peace. Outside and inside.

--

“Something wandered over the threshold?”

We saw him. We saw him pass out by the tallest pine tree.

The prince taps a blackened nail upon his cheek. Curious. “You found a human.”

He’s ugly. And he smells. All humans smell.

“There’s no need for hasty conclusions. You only just met our guest.”

Not a guest! A trespasser! He broke the rules of hospitality.

Punish him. Make him sick. Eat his heart.

No, let us do it! Pluck his eyes out. Slip thorns underneath his fingernails. 

“Enough from all of you. I shall decide what must be done with our visitor. Bring him here. And be gentle. Our guest deserves a more respectable welcome.”

--

Trevor doesn’t remember falling unconscious, nor does he remember being moved from his claimed spot under the pine tree. He wakes—not very gracefully—similar to after a night scumming around local taverns, searching for something to warm his muscles while also using his head as a battering ram once the morning sun reveals its irritable face. Small price to pay for poor temporary shelter from the cold. Only now Trevor doesn’t feel the familiar chill numbing his fingertips or the stagnant blood suddenly rushing to his cheeks in an attempt to save him from becoming another frozen body stumbled upon in the woods.

His eyes adjust, blinking out the last bits of grime left behind by the ever elusive and punctual sandman. Trevor expects to be blinded by stark white snow, fresh and untouched. He does go blind, a few seconds at most if even that, though not from snow. For there is none to be found on the ground, atop the branches, or nestled amongst the overgrown bushes. Leaves, fully grown green and twitching in a gentle breeze, shelter Trevor from the sun’s overhead rays. His sight should be clear by now, yet no matter how often each eye closes then reopens, that soft haze covering his vision never fades. Like looking at the world through nothing but the thinnest, most fragile linen fabric. Unclear, unfocused, muffled. Everything is bright, warm, and alive—everything that should be wrong. Never has he felt more unease in the presence of spring.

Trevor is presented with two options, one more logical than the other. This is a dream made all the more real thanks to whatever his parched throat tasted before he shuffled out of town with more than his deteriorating pride bruised. Or, he’s dead. Exposure claimed him under that tree and this is the fabled afterlife. Trevor doubts his own theory; he’s done nothing to earn himself a place in heaven, whether this one or another.

Enough of his senses return for him to feel what lies beneath his immobile body; soft, something like fur which envelops the space between his fingers. Flowers intertwined with vines and other sweet-smelling plants, braiding into a gently swaying hammock that feels no heavier despite who it carries. Nature comes together to create shelter with no steady footing or foundation, suspended off the ground (how high exactly Trevor cannot tell—not entirely certain he wishes to know). He cautiously moves each hand around, mapping out a general idea pertaining to this odd bed of his. Not perfect, no regard to pure accuracy, just enough to form some sort of grounded reality. More blankets and a few pillows surrounding him. This might as well be the world’s kindest cage.

Trevor isn’t given much time to further investigate his environment. Another weight shifts upon the same canopy. They sidle up closer and Trevor’s head inexplicably feels lighter as it's moved from one of the pillows into his visitor’s lap, sudden yet with grace so he’s not disturbed. Lithe fingers tipped with sharp black nails like talons touch along his chest, arms, and forehead, tender and fleeting but repetitive.

He wants to flinch from this foreign contact, yet something in Trevor’s heart outweighs his innate suspicion and sense of self-preservation. Instead, he pushes his faint vision to its limit in order to see the features of this second presence. A man, his face partially obscured by strands of long silken hair the colour of pale gold with every twitch of his head. Trevor finds two incredibly pointed ears sticking out from underneath. There’s not much colour in the man’s skin, giving it an unearthly hue. Eyes filled with darkness and yellow irises, drops of gold floating in pools of black ink. Atop his head above a delicate crown of copper-tinged rose thorns is the strangest feature of all: intricately entwined antlers, bone thin and sharp as daggers. He doesn’t seem to be wearing much else apart from a nearly translucent white robe that hangs lackadaisy off his shoulders and down his broad chest. Much like the unnerving discovery of the antlers, Trevor finally notices a pair of night black wings just behind the inhuman stranger, more akin to a gargoyle than any angel or bird.

The man opens his delicate mouth to speak, his voice like honey. Deep but sweet and slow moving. Trevor’s eyes dart towards the abnormally sharp canines.

“You were lucky to be found.”

Those childhood stories passed on into adulthood as important lessons. The Pricolici, the Căpcăun, the Rusalka, and more of their family members. It’s never luck stumbling upon any of them, unless one means to. Unless one desires the thrill of the hunt and won’t get easily subdued. Or reluctantly cradled in the arms of those Trevor once pursued.

“Not sure how lucky I am to be found by a Vila.”

Vila—he recognized the signs as soon as his vision allowed him to. Often mistaken for vampires in the east, which might have been the reason why his family bestiary dedicated so many pages to them. The southern Slavs traded warnings about these creatures, their own breed of faeries. Not the sort to plant mushrooms in a perfect circle or steal children’s loose teeth in exchange for a few measly coins. No, the Vila will just take the entire child and replace it with a devilish changeling. Beautiful, prone to entrancing humans, mostly hunters. They transform into swans, falcons, deer, or wolves and lure them with the promise of good game. Before the first arrow can be released or the beginning strike of an axe, they’ve already lost themselves. Usually quite friendly—usually, which plants a seed of nervousness in Trevor as this particular Vila chuckles at his accusation. It sounds pleasant, sweet, like everything else atop their canopy.

“I must admit, those with a more feral disposition wanted me to punish you.”

Not surprising. Vila are notoriously sensitive to the laws of hospitality much like their smaller, more frivolous cousins. One overlooked slight or phrase said with the wrong connotations, and some poor bastard would be forced into the most miserable lifestyle until his dying breath. With his own miserable existence in mind, Trevor thinks very, very carefully about what to say next. Or rather, how to present his query.

“Thank you. Will you permit me to ask something?”

The Vila threads his nails through Trevor’s poorly trimmed bangs, toying with a few strands. “If you desire it so. I shall permit it.”

“What’s your name?”

Before he can utter out that last syllable, the Vila presses a finger over his lips and shushes him, an odd look of amusement on his serene face. “Anything but that. I cannot allow it. Names hold power to those who know them.”

Another fae truth unsurprising to Trevor. Calling out one’s name unsolicited in the human world might be seen as simply rude but at least no one turns stiff and moves only with a difficult pain before dying of disease within the next year. Is this another subtle warning or a display of concern? Does he not want to harm his human? Either reason, it was a valiant attempt on Trevor’s part as his head sinks further into the Vila’s lap. 

“But I already know who you are.” Hands smooth over his chest as it slowly rises then falls, tracing the outline of his family crest. Shit. That crest brings him nothing but trouble.

“So I’m essentially stuck here until you either say so or don’t say so.” Trevor freezes, wondering if his question sounded unintentionally rude. A new expression creeps across the Vila’s black eyes, one of deliberate pondering.

“I am still considering what should be done with you. For now, rest. Let your body heal. It was meant to be the truth when I said you were lucky to be found.”

Trevor manages to shift slightly in his inebriated position. His body no longer aches or punishes him for the previous night of a liquid dinner along with an impromptu show of fists and kicks at no added charge. Though even he realises it would be in his best interest to not galavant off as though the bruises, cracked bones, and loose teeth were part of this assumed hallucination. Yet, he cannot keep feigning disbelief or scepticism. It all feels so real, something he’s slowly coming to terms with. Why would anyone want this to be fake? Where else could one find such peace and warmth in plentiful amounts without caveats or blemishes made plain to see. Precisely the reason why Trevor’s guard (admittedly weakening with the unclear passing of time) remains erect. Nothing offered by the world should be this perfect—then again, he’s aware that this is not the world he knows. Not one which has broken and spat him out only to chew him down into dust not just the next day but the next hour.

“Ask me something else,” the Vila requests with no prelude or hint. Trevor looks up and is faced with a look of genuine curiosity. There’s a strange comfort to his expression, nothing like how a cat toys with a trapped mouse. “I like hearing you speak.”

Trevor considers it, shocked at the sound of a compliment directed towards him. “Why is it so warm? Isn’t it supposed to be winter?”

“The forest has always been like this. You simply never looked at it in the right way. Ask another.”

There are plenty of unknowns, including the Vila’s sudden fascinating with hearing Trevor speak what must sound like simple, idiotic queries about a realm so mundane to those not human. Yet he takes longer to voice them as the easy rocking of the canopy coupled with gentle caresses where allowed eventually lulls him into a passive state. Muscles healed but feeling heavier, eyes hazier, falling asleep. Realising that his present company is far more enjoyable helps Trevor slip further into relaxed pleasantry.

“How long has it been since I came here?” The words struggle out, slurred and longer than they should.

“We do not measure events or experiences based on time. It has no place here. We only rely on our feelings and memories. What might seem like a fleeting second for you could be an eternity for us.”

Cryptic and frustrating; Trevor expected no less from fucking faeries. There’s little energy and consciousness left for him to voice his confusion. There is however one last question as he closes his eyes, prepared for sleep-driven darkness.

“Am I really going to stay here?”

He can still see slivers of light passing through the slits between his eyelids along with the silhouette of his newfound… friend? Trevor can’t say for certain. The interpersonal lines blur even more drastically when the Vila leans in, his breath smelling like rosemary and cedar. He whispers another cryptic phrase before his lips lay claim to an exposed patch of skin on Trevor’s neck and everything else fades away again.

“Search the undergrounds of a dying city if you wish to see me again.”

--

“Excuse me… hey. Hey! Can you hear me?”

The first statement manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog, but the words are still muffled and distorted. Same way one is pulled from a dream too real to be the simple conjuring of a restless mind. The second sounds clearer, clear enough for him to make out an Iberian accent. He’s heard it before, in his youth. Back then it sounded louder, older, and far angrier. This version is a pleasant departure from that memory, though whoever’s calling out to him seems no less determined to make themselves heard.

“Are you alright?”

One confused blink after the other and Trevor is finally able to see his benefactor in all her glory. Eyes as large and blue as the sea next to her homeland, hair cut short and perpetually tangled. Blue robes, baggy, shapeless, and held together by a silver brooch. Songbird. Coupled with the accent reminiscent of another noticed during his childhood, he comes to a fair conclusion concerning which band of nomads she belongs to. This Speaker stares down at him like observing a sad little rat with a clipped tail. Worried, but also a bit morbidly curious.

“Here—” She offers her hand and with a grunt of thanks, Trevor takes it, rising to his unstable feet. Now he’s able to see the sunny main road and how he was unceremoniously dropped by the side of it. It’s still cold, there’s still snow, but no bruises on his knuckles.

“What happened to you?”

“I, uh…” He could tell her. Speakers know a thing or two about strange things in strange forests themselves, but Trevor sees the way she glances at the family emblem on his breast before turning away just as fast, never mentioning it. She’d call him another crazy black magic Belmont; maybe she’d be alright with that considering her background. Maybe he’ll tell her later, if he sticks around for that long. Right now, feeling oddly rejuvenated, self preservation comes first.

“Is your caravan nearby?”

“Yes. I saw you lying in the ditch and told them to stop for a moment. We were on our way towards a city in need of charity. You could… join us. Ride in one of the wagons and sleep off your hangover.”

“I don’t have a hang—” Trevor stops himself. He said it as a fake counter to her assumption, but it’s the truth. Once fully conscious, there were no signs of ailment on the outside or inside. For the first time in weeks, he’s clear headed. Like all the grime and shit accumulated between his ears was finally washed clean. It feels fucking weird.

“Alright. I’ll join your people for a bit.” Better with those genuinely deserving the best from the world than back on the trial alone. “What’s the city called?”

The two of them walk side by side down the road, eyes peering away from the blinding sunlight as it turns the fresh snow into sparkles.

There’s a sharp pain pooling beneath his right arm, coursing through his ribcage. Trevor ignores it just as he’s ignored all the other aches, jabs, and stings over the past two years. Two years of building something better, something sustainable to last far longer than its young, admittedly green founders. Countless days, weeks, and months erecting homes, gardens, and pens for those dumb gentle animals who think the entire townscape is their personal pasture. Not another mistake of allowing them to wander aimlessly straight into the castle. As if heifers need to learn how to craft medicine or conduct what’s being referred to as “electricity”.

The work will never be finished. Even on days like this when the sun burns hotter than any circle in hell. A few drops of warm salt-ridden sweat crawl past Trevor’s pressed lips and into his dry mouth. Pain and thick heat were never enough to stop him before—he tells himself this, barely certain of his own supportive thoughts (a new concept taking root in his mind). Take it slow, don’t push yourself, idiot. This cabin made from the earth will get built eventually. Another family will receive their forever home to fill with lots of babies. Old wounds beg to differ as Trevor’s arms begin to weaken, each movement slower than the last, struggling to keep up with Greta’s superior pace. She’s always known her way around a mallet.

Another bead of sweat gets caught in Trevor’s lashes, sparing his eyes from temporary discomfort. Though it wouldn’t have mattered as they’re already past any sort of respite. He looks for distraction but can only see the blurred shapes coming from a huddle of bodies, despite being a short distance from them. He knows it’s only Sypha and Alucard with the village children, which gives Trevor some relief.

There’s more comfort to be felt when he remembers that one of those little monsters is his own, nestled in Sypha’s lap then placed in Alucard’s gentle arms. She has a name far too long for any toddler to pronounce—Elizabeta Belnades Tepes Belmont—so what rolls off her developing tongue instead is simply “Liza”. She’s innocent now but once she leaves this little man-made paradise and ventures into a harsher world, she will take more after her mother and father. Grabbing whatever life offers with both fists, clawing and biting her way through every obstacle until her teeth are reddened with bloody meat. For the time being, they relish Liza’s soft cheeks, wispy hair, and the way she throws herself at whichever adult happens to be in her nearest vicinity. The other children are helping her socialize by playing games and embracing frivolity; a tactic Trevor remembers from his own upbringing, though with less games and even less frivolity. 

“Think you can handle one or two more?”

Greta’s voice manages to cut through Trevor’s mental fog. Funny how she asks if he can “think” about anything especially at this suffocating moment. She must have noticed the way his lips curl into a happy doped up grin while observing his family and couldn’t help but inquire. As any close, loved and valued friend would.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“What’s wrong with looking a bit further into the future? Now that we all have one.” 

“Looking is one thing, but seriously suggesting is something else completely. My… performance in certain areas isn’t as up to snuff as it used to be.”

As Trevor says this, things deteriorate and get a bit fuzzier from his eyesight down to his chest. Out of focus. Painful. He keeps talking, keeps ignoring the inevitable. Always ignoring what his own body screams for.

Greta wrinkles her nose at his statement. “There are children present, Belmont.”

“What? I’m referring to the house. I barely managed to get one wall up while you’re already on the fucking roof.”

“So dramatic. You three really do deserve each other. And you’re still young.”

“On the outside, maybe.”

She laughs at his lie, misinterpreting it as another piece of mild self-deprecatory banter he might never be able to live without. Greta says something else, perhaps her own personal jest to counter his, but Trevor cannot hear. Breath grows heavier, forcing out a raspy “it’s fine. It’s just my chest”. Barely able to tell if Greta actually said anything about his sudden condition. Or rather, not so sudden. No, this has been building over quite some time now. His muscles and bones screaming, begging for relief or death, and end to everything—whichever comes first. Feelings that only worsened over the years.

Trevor loses control over his legs, now practically boneless. The collision between his head and the ground is nothing compared to the inner war over his heart. Whether it will finally succumb. Greta immediately calls for help—he thinks without confidence, once again. Trevor can still hear voices, but not their exact words. Not Sypha when she demands to know what happened. Not Alucard when he begs for him to stay conscious. Not even Liza as she cries for her papa.

Then all the chaos in the world fades into slow darkness.

--

Alucard stands outside the closed bedchamber door, contemplating how often he’s touched Trevor’s body. Lithe fingertips have memorized every crevice, scar, soft and rough spots alike. Not just as a lover with wandering hands underneath blankets in the dead of night. Or a friend who holds him steady on both feet when he needs it. But as this family’s self-appointed physician. 

Perhaps the prince of two worlds took after his father after all. “Polymath” is what Alucard used to describe Dracula and the very same word others have referred to him as, mostly in the realm of medicine. He knows more than anyone, little offence given towards the herb dispensers and leech farmers (only to be polite for his own townsfolk). Thus, through the anxieties and trembling hands, Alucard gave Trevor his diagnosis: heat exhaustion along with a muscle somewhere in his chest that decided to go rogue and strain itself.

The son of Tepes, the only local doctor worth trusting, and arguably the co-leader of their little prospering hamlet paces across the hall like Trevor did the day Liza was born. He’s on the other side of that closed door, resting. Bedridden from heat exhaustion and a fucking pulled muscle. It bothers Alucard. This shouldn’t have happened to someone who stood up to the personification of Death and pissed in his eye. A stupidly common and easily treatable inconvenience to the human body shouldn’t be the end of a fucking Belmont.

It shouldn’t—unless Trevor’s scars have anything to say about it. The ones on the inside and outside. Inside, unseen, and untreatable. There’s a harsh revelation to be found there; one which the prince has been purposefully avoiding up to this moment. Alucard can try as he wants, use the tools left behind by his father and mother as though it were their final death wish, but he might never tend to what pains Trevor on the inside. He’s a Belmont, undeniably so, but Belmonts are human despite the many recurring signs pointing to the contrary. Then there’s Sypha with her magic, but she’s human as well. Greta and Liza are still human. Humans are more susceptible to dying easy, little deaths even when they follow world-saving victories.

Where does this leave Alucard? Thoughts spiral down, down towards darker places the longer he nervously hovers outside the bedroom. He’s been known to awkwardly stumble into deflection, insisting he’s only half human whenever certain someones bring up this topic of necessary conversation. Meaning he might as well not be human at all. Not when the bodies of those he loves change so rapidly while his remains petrified. It’s only been two years, filled to the brim with countless hours he wouldn’t ever want to trade for the entire world. But the thought of one night as they nestle themselves into bed and Alucard touches either Trevor or Sypha’s chest only to feel an anomaly within their hearts. The earliest sign that time and age will eventually betray them as it does for all mortals—it could be the one thing to break him.

Alucard stops himself at the opportune moment, right before he starts thinking about his mother and father. Did Dracula ever contemplate Lisa’s mortality? Was the decision to never turn her easy or the hardest thing he forced upon his unstable, immortal conscience? Arms crossed over his chest like a protective cage, fingernails digging into the fabric of his shirt until it hurts, Alucard swallows a bitter glob of spit and reaches for the doorknob. Sypha will have to accept the fact that he couldn’t wait for her. He quietly thanks her for the lessons she taught him. If he needs to talk about something—truly talk, no sarcastic wit or banter, just the raw emotions—Alucard no longer hesitates. He won’t, not as he enters the room and immediately sees Trevor still in bed, not quite altogether there. At least he can manage a decent smile and wave of his hand.

“Evening.”

“How does your chest feel?”

“Still a bit tight, but I’ve been taking deep breaths like the doctor ordered.”

The amount of strain heard in Trevor’s voice worries Alucard. Hopefully the Belmont has learned something from the recent past, so he won’t be stupid and suggest anything having to do with leaving bed or getting back to work.

 “I think I should get up.”

“I think that’s a poor decision.”

“Are you saying that as my physician or because you’re letting that pretty little blonde head of yours get too worked up?”

No. Yes. Both? If only Trevor didn’t look up at him with those glassy eyes (can he still see him?) the colour of stained glass windows erected in cathedrals he felt so unwelcome inside. If only that smile, somehow both soft and shit-eating, wasn’t in place of a more serious expression. Then maybe Alucard could voice his concerns without being accused of acting overbearing—an accusation grounded in solid evidence but he’s not ready to admit that yet. Not out loud.

“Normal, healthy adults do not become bedridden after pulling a small muscle in their chest.”

“Belmonts aren’t normal… or healthy in my case.”

Alucard’s brow furrows. “I want to think you’re healthy—” I need to. “—that you’ll live long enough to see the children of this village have little ones of their own. Liza included.”

“God’s sake, she’s only two years old. You and Greta, always talking about looking one step too far into the future. Let her be a child before adulthood rears its ugly maw.”

“Try not to change the subject.”

Trevor lifts his head off the indent pressed into his sweat drenched pillow. “Alright. Fine. I feel much better. I won’t push myself and give my heart some more time to recover.”

No response coupled with broken eye contact; sure signs of Alucard’s reluctance to accept his rather weak assurance. The Belmont has no other choice.

“Come here. Sit.”

Another moment’s hesitation before Alucard complies. Feeling his weight upon the mattress, Trevor blindly reaches for his wrist until calloused fingers grip cool, unblemished skin.

“Now lie down. No, no. Not like that. Place your head right here.” He pats his chest and with a fleeting amount of guidance, Alucard’s cheek fits perfectly between his breasts. Two hands smooth over the dhampir’s curves before one before one rests on his silk smooth head and the other against the small of his back. Alucard lied about one thing: his own body can change in small yet noticeable ways. Without the need to fight for the lives of others, whether today or tomorrow, sharp edges turn softer. Trevor and Sypha have finally let themselves breathe as well, let go, and enjoy all of life’s pleasures.

“Hear that?” He asks Alucard.

“... It’s slow.”

“Slow and strong like it should be.”

Alucard wishes he could bottle up that heartbeat or place it in a box. Preferably a music box to listen to its soothing melody long after its original body and soul are both eventually gone from this world. Who knows? It might make things hurt a little bit less like when he redrew his parent’s portrait or built a much larger nursery where his own used to be. Not a lot, but Alucard could possibly live with just “a little”.

“Speaking of Greta…” The baritone of Trevor’s voice sends deep vibrations through his broad chest, tickling Alucard’s cheek. “She said something about more children.”

“More orphans joining us?”

“No, even though I know how much you love those damn orphans. She asked if we could handle one or two more.”

“What did you say?”

“I implied that she was taking after Sypha’s influence by being wonderfully insane.”

Alucard chuckles in agreement. That sounds like Greta. “You never know. It might be good for Liza if she has a younger sibling.”

With the sound of Sypha’s well timed arrival, he’s mercifully saved from Trevor’s lengthy speech about how patience is apparently a virtue and tirades about his “performance” or lack thereof. Greta reveals herself shortly afterwards with a still crying Liza in tow. So many bodies gathered around one inebriated individual, here for him and him alone. Trevor’s consoled yet exasperated expression directed at Greta in particular says “isn’t there someone more important you could be helping right now?”

Sypha is the first to voice her gratitude after fussing over her exhausting loved one. “I will never be able to thank you enough, Alucard.”

“I think the bed did most of the heavy lifting, love.”

Trevor is given an affectionate, somewhat caring glare in response but his focus is demanded elsewhere once he suddenly notices Liza jumping onto the bed. She snuggles herself between him and Alucard, wetting their shirts with her tears.

“Easy there, you little monster. Papa’s still a bit tender.” Not that she can understand or care.

There’s an aura of relief felt amongst everyone in the room—less with Alucard who smiles bittersweetly. It’s a truth he knew he had to acknowledge before it tore his heart open. Trevor and Sypha will die one day and he will have to bury them. He’ll bury Greta, he might even bury Liza. Not today thank all the gods, or tomorrow, not for the next few decades if fate is kind enough.