Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

December 19th, 1476

A scholar approaches a mausoleum, somewhere on the north side of town. Nobody pays the scholar any mind despite the wool of her cloak, dyed a brilliant blue, a proud symbol of her identity. There are crowds of people attending a frankly heartbreaking quantity of funerals. They’re wrapped up in their own cloaks, and to her eyes they look like bouquets of browns, blacks, grays, tans—hues of flowers long dead, forgotten in a vase in the corner of a dusty room. Her eyes mist, not for the first time since arriving at cold, cynical, unwelcoming Gresit. She hates it here, but she could never admit it to her caravan. She turns back to the grey wooden door. Time to focus, the caravan's come here for her after all.

The scholar enters the mausoleum, and instantly, there’s a spider web in her face. She snorts, frantically pats at her face, hoping the web’s owner hasn’t hitched a ride. She’s glad nobody saw. Well, she hopes nobody saw.

She traces her fingers along the stone walls, pressing at cracks here and there, looking for something. She expected it to be damp and cold as it is outside, but it’s strangely dry and warm. Movement catches her eye, she looks up. There, just behind the stone gargoyles, another spider. This one is fastidiously weaving itself a new home in front of a suspiciously large opening.

The scholar climbs the wall of a mausoleum, stone gargoyle heads and limbs are her footholds. She forms a small icicle in her hand, uses it to gently prod the spider away and clear the web. “Sorry to disturb your work, my friend,” she whispers. “I’ll be out of your way soon.”

The opening gives way to an uncomfortably narrow stone slide. At the end of it is a hall of arches with plenty of unlit torches that smell of fresh oil. There’s definitely somebody living down here, she figures. She snaps her fingers, and a mote of flame hovers above her fingers--her own torch.

The next chamber isn’t far off. She passes the threshold, and bright blue light suddenly stings at her vision. The torches here are encased in glass, yet buzzing like insects. Strange. She admires one for a long moment before tearing her gaze away. Come on, Sypha. You don't have all day.

She begins to step towards the next chamber, but movement catches her eye. This time, it’s not a spider.

A titan, the height of three, maybe four men, approaches. How did it manage to sneak up with such heavy footsteps? Sypha ducks behind a column, and a blinding beam of light crashes into the spot she had just been standing. Sypha stares side-eyed at the spot of her near-death in shock. She has no clue what that beam of light does and she has no interest in finding out.

It’s big, but not slow. Sypha peeks from behind her cover and it’s already almost on her. It has one bulging eye, glowing brilliant purple. Sypha squeaks, throws up a defensive wall of ice. It fires its beam again, and before her eyes the glistening ice darkens into dull stone. The cyclops’ massive hand punches through and reaches for her, but Sypha has already retreated behind cover of an adjacent column.

She whispers to herself between urgent breaths, “Okay, so he’s big, has one eye, turns things to stone. Perfect. Just have to find his weakness-” Another beam fires, Sypha feels half her hair suddenly weigh down. She groans and prods at the pebbles now hanging from her head. “God really does hate me, huh?”

The giant’s hand reaches her and smacks her into the column wall. She’s pinned and its eye is glowing again. One of Sypha’s hands is still free, so she manages to launch her own beam of fire right in its stupid face. It was only an act of desperation, but it works. The cyclops staggers back and rubs at its wounded eye. Sypha instantly brings her hands down to the damp stone, and raises from the slick moisture a long spear of ice.

The cyclops recovers and its terrible eye is on her once again. Sypha launches the spear and flees, not even risking a glimpse behind her, just in case she misses. Her heart is thumping and her lungs burning, she readies another spear from behind the column and springs out to attack—

“Oh.” The monster is on its belly, dead. Her spear had done the trick. Sypha is trembling, and woozily slides to the floor. There are other broken statues in the room, she abruptly notices only as they shift back into dead human flesh. Sypha tries not to think too hard about the grim fate she nearly missed.

Thankfully, the rest of the strange catacombs are uninhabited. She spots the bodies of night creatures long dead—dusty collapsed skeletons dressed in armor, the rotting corpses of wargs. Sypha wonders if they came from Dracula’s army or are unrelated entirely.

The only real dangers are crumbling bricks and stones, which collapse under her weight as if by design. Booby traps, she suspects, but it’s no trouble for her. She uses magic gusts of air to break falls and cross chasms. She’s only a little winded by the time she reaches what appears to be the final chamber.

Compared to the rest of the catacombs, this room is bright and welcoming. There’s more of those strange, self-lighting torches here. A massive red and gold rug forms a path to the end, and rows of pointed arches frame each side. It feels like a cathedral—and there at the end, where an altar would be, is a raised platform displaying a beautiful black marble coffin trimmed with gold.

Sypha looks around. This room is very different from ones previous, but still might be trapped. Best to be cautious.

Oh, and there it is. A little square cut into the rug. Obviously a special panel of some kind, which she has absolutely no intention of stepping on.

Sypha treads a careful path through the room, up the platform stairs, mindful of any other potential traps. This place is truly bizarre. Glass as thin as paper form huge vials on either side of the center, housing gallons of red, viscous liquid. Sypha has a hypothesis about what that might be, but she hopes she’s wrong.

She directs her attention back to the coffin. Well, she figures, if anybody’s sleeping down here, this is as likely a resting place as any.

In a moment of recklessness, Sypha rests her hand on the coffin. It’s… not as cold as she expected. Before she can examine further, the giant gears hanging above her suddenly start to turn. Sypha, having encountered more than enough falling machinery on her way down here, scrambles off of the platform to relative safety. Steam erupts from the ground, a panel rises up, elevating the head of the coffin until it rests at an angle.

Sypha tenses. She readies fire in one hand, ice in the other, stares as the lid begins to move. She hopes, she hopes, she hopes. But she’s also ready to fight, if it comes to it. Something pale and golden emerges from inside and floats weightlessly above her.

A scholar wakes a sleeping soldier.

“Why are you here?” His voice is low, soothing. His hand rests over the massive scar that mars his torso, over his heart.

“You… you’re…” Sypha’s magic dissipates in her hands. “Sleeping soldier. You’re real.”

The man raises his face, his golden eyes are shining. He’s beautiful.

“Why are you here?” he asks again.

Sypha finds her words. “You’re the messiah who lives under Gresit. You’re the man who will save us from Dracula.”

He drifts closer. “Is that so?” His words are so brief, Sypha almost doesn’t catch sight of them—the fangs in his mouth. She tenses.

“Y-yes.” She looks again at the glass tubes of red liquid. “Well, um, maybe. You do not seem…”

“Heroic?” His feet touch the ground now. He’s staring at her. His face looks kind but some primal instinct in Sypha warns her of terrible danger. She ignores it best she can.

“I… could not presume to know.” She considers re-summoning her flame. “My name is Sypha Belnades. I am a speaker and a scholar. I am here for the prophecy.”

“Isn’t there supposed to be a hunter?” He’s stepping closer and closer. It makes Sypha jittery.

“My people and I have searched all through Gresit, but could never find one who fits the description. Times are desperate, we wanted to act quickly." She takes a step back. "Please, sir, no closer.”

He pauses. “I’m frightening you.”

“Well, it’s just that you kind of seem like…”

“A vampire?”

“Dracula.”

He grins, displays his fangs proudly. “What if I am?”

Oh dear.

An instant wall of fire rises between them, a way to buy herself time to find cover in the forest of stone arches. Somewhere, there’s the unmistakable sound of steel. A sword? Vampires use swords? She always figured it was just claws and—

Panicky thoughts are interrupted, because he’s leapt in front of her. The suspected sword is in his grasp, and it’s the length of his entire body. “How are you wielding such a thing?!” She cries, and shoots two stakes of ice towards his heart. He’s lightning fast, the ice flies harmlessly towards empty space. Now he’s back again, the rapid swipes of his sword prods her back out into the open center of the room.

This is bad, she needs to find proper cover. She knows that she is no good in close quarters. Sypha is sweating, shields of ice are crumbling away instantly as she throws them in the path of his arching blade. Frustrated, she shouts, “I liked the cyclops much better than you!”

That gives him the briefest pause. “Oh, Sasha? I hope you were gentle with him.” Sypha takes her chance to leap back, her legs bump into the platform. She scrambles up as fast as she can.

“Sorry, no. He was very dangerous, so I had to put him down.” Suddenly, the vampire, Dracula, vanishes. Her gut screams for Sypha to turn around, and there he is, tall and menacing, leaning over her. With a grunt, Sypha shoves a fist of fire right into his stomach. It throws him back, he crashes into one of the glass containers, and the scent of iron fills her nostrils. “Oh, gross, I knew it was blood," she grumbles, but she’s grinning now. This is her chance to switch to offense.

Rapid bursst of fire chase his pale form as he dodges, hopping from column to column. Frankly, it’s an excessively showy feat of acrobatics. But he’s starting to close the distance again, so Sypha raises a column of ice up from beneath to launch him far away.

It gives her a little too much time to think. When the hell is that stupid, useless hunter from the prophecy going to show?! What could they possibly be up to at a time like this? She can’t take Dracula all by herself. Heavens, is she going to die down here?

No. She can’t. She just can’t. Sypha grasps at the many pockets of her robes and—there! Her dagger! It’s a tiny thing, barely threatening, yet her grandfather would have a fit if he knew she carried a blade. Could this work as a stake? Sypha looks up, her eyes frantic and searching. Where did he go?

From behind, a heavy shape pounces on her back. A hand with inhuman strength roughly grasps her hair (still a bit gravelly from the cyclops) and wrenches her head back. Sypha hears him hiss, right beside her ear. “This has been fun.” Even now, his voice is strangely soothing. “Tell me, Sypha Belnades, speaker and scholar. Do you have a god to put a last prayer to?”

“No,” she grunts. “My people are enemies of God.” She twists beneath him, ignores the sharp pain of hair ripping from her skull. Her hand thrusts upward, dagger pierces into flesh, just a centimeter. He snarls. One good push, and she’d pierce his undead heart.

“I can still rip your throat out.” He grips her hair tighter, the stabbing pain brings tears to her eyes.

“I sincerely doubt that.” She’s lying. She’s terrified. She hopes he can’t tell.

A second passes. Another. Neither combatent is moving. Finally, Sypha tenses, pushes the blade a little deeper. He hisses at the pain, but releases his grip and backs off. Confused, Sypha sits up.

“Are you really Dracula?”

He smiles. “No. I am Adrian Tepes, known to the people of Wallachia as Alucard. I am the son of Vlad Dracula Tepes, and I believe my goal is the same as yours.”

“You wish to stop Dracula?”

“I wish to kill Dracula.”

“Why?”

Alucard looks down. As before, he rests his hand on the pink flesh of his scar. “It’s the only way to save Wallachia. To save the world. It’s what my mother would have wanted, and we are all, in the end, slaves to our family’s wishes.”

“So you are the sleeping soldier.”

“I am aware of the stories. I am also aware that Speakers believe they are messages from the future.” He steps forward, reaches a hand out. Sypha decides to trust him, accepts it, and he helps her stand. “However, I see no hunter here.”

She sighs. “Yes, I know. Perhaps some details of the story morphed over the years.”

“Perhaps.”

Alucard walks away, gathers up a fresh white shirt and beautiful black coat from the coffin. Sypha puts her dagger away, tenderly touches her injured scalp. An alarming amount of loose hair and gravel fall away, and Sypha winces. She must look a mess. “Um, anyway, you should come see my people. They will help us plan our next steps.”

“Very well, Sypha Belnades. Allow me to lead the way, I know a shortcut out of here.”

It turns out, at some point the trusty shortcut had caved in. Alucard sighs. He really neglected this place over the years. “You may as well sit down and rest, I’m sure you’re tired. I can clear the rubble,” Alucard says to the Sypha, who, even now, keeps a healthy distance between them. He respects her caution.

“Are you sure? We could always return the way I came, you know.”

Alucard is already clearing the way. The rocks aren’t too heavy, but from the way she stares, he supposes his strength is surprising. Or maybe she’s just admiring. “The way you came is intentionally perilous, I would rather avoid the trouble.”

“Did you put the cyclops and crumbling floors in, then?” Sypha takes the break as an opportunity to procure an apple from somewhere in the depths of her robes.

Alucard smirks. “No, that was a family project. It’s too bad about Sasha, though.” He glances back at her. “Not that I blame you for defending yourself.”

“That was its name? Sasha?”

“Yes, he was a childhood pet.”

She takes a thoughtful bite. “My, what a strange childhood.”

Alucard chuckles. “Strange, but happy.”

“That’s good, I suppose.” Another bite. “Why did you want to fight me, back there, if you knew we had the same goal?”

Alucard pauses, looks down at the rock in his arms. The cave in was thankfully small, he can already see the beginnings of an opening. “I suppose I wanted to be sure that you were capable.”

“Of fighting?”

“Yes, and killing as well. It takes a strong will to look a man in the eye and press a dagger to his heart, even when you know you’re killing yourself, too.”

Sypha scoffs. “I am not afraid of killing. But,” she hesitates, “were you going easy on me?”

Alucard doesn’t reply for a few minutes, he’s clearing away the last of the rubble. He presses his hand against the low roof. Hmm, seems stable enough. “Does it matter?”

Sypha stands at his beckoning, and follows him through the newly revealed tunnel. “Yes, it does. I imagine your father is stronger than you, yes? I want to know if I truly stand a chance.”

“I think you do. Not on your own, of course. I didn’t stand a chance on my own, either.” His scar burns at the thought. “I cannot do what you can do, magician. I think we can succeed together.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Alucard sighs. “I had no intention of killing you. So yes, I suppose I did hold back.”

She scoffs. “If that’s the case, you didn’t have to rip a bald spot in my hair.”

Alucard freezes, looks back at her in horror. “Did I?”

Sypha is both scowling and blushing. “Yes! You did! Will you… does it look bad?” She turns her head to the side, a nervous hand points to the affected spot.

“Hmm… may I approach?” Sypha nods. He does so. There is something speckled in her hair. He raises a hand, hesitates. “May I touch?”

“Yes, but not like last time!” She’s frowning, but it’s halfhearted.

Alucard brings a hand up, his fingers give the barest touch. “There’s… a lot of gravel.”

“Oh yes, that would be Sasha’s work.”

Alucard can’t hold back a snort. “I’m sorry he gave you so much trouble. I think your hair looks okay.”

“Just okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine.”

“Fine?” She makes a face of mock offense.

Alucard laughs, throws his hands up in concession. “I surrender, take mercy. All I mean to say is that, if damage has been done, I cannot tell.”

“Very well, Alucard. If I find out you’re lying, I’ll be forced to give you a bald spot of your own.” She snaps her fingers, a brief flash of fire pops.

“It would only be fair.”

By the time they reach the surface of Gresit, Sypha is all smiles and laughs, walking confidently at his side rather than keeping a nervous distance as before. Alucard is surprised at how quickly she’s warmed to him. He’s grateful, too.

“Wow, I had no idea this much time had passed. It was still daylight when I first went underground.”

“What time do you suppose it is?”

She peers up at the sky. The moon is hidden behind clouds, but stars alone seem to be enough for her. “Perhaps a few hours before sunrise.” Her brow furrows. “We must’ve missed the demon attacks on this night, if there were any. Please, we must hurry—I must check on my caravan.”

With that, their pace quickens. Alucard tries not to focus too hard on the stench of death and fear permeating through the city he’d once loved.