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.

Chapter Text

December 20 th , 1476

A hunter paces through the streets of Gresit. The city is miserable, no surprise there. Trevor’s been all over town, picking up whatever dregs of gossip, food, and drink he can find. It’s a full day’s work, this sort of foraging. By the time the sun is low in the sky, he hits the jackpot—a bottle of wine in a dead man’s grasp, nearly a third full. He sniffs it, peeks inside. There’s a drowned fly floating around, but he could use the protein.

Then, there’s a woman’s voice not too far off: “Get your hands off of me!”

Great. A damsel in distress to ruin his dinner. Trevor takes a long swig, coughs out the fly. “Let’s get this over with,” he grunts.

He finds two Speakers just around the corner, aforementioned damsel and an elderly man. They’re being crowded into a corner by a couple of priests carrying alarmingly knife-like crucifixes.

Trevor grabs the handle of his whip, prepares to strike. But before he can a ball of flame explodes in the bigger priest’s face. He screams, falls to the ground, starts shoveling dirty snow over his burning skin. Trevor expects the other priest to back off after a display like that, but nope; his tacky knife-cross-thing is out, and he’s about to shove it into the elder Speaker’s stomach.

Now Trevor joins the fun. With a satisfying crack, his whip slaps the weapon from the man’s hand (and maybe a finger, too, it looks like). That’s finally enough. The priest finds his senses, gathers his companion up, and flees without even a word.

The Speakers need a moment to recover, and then their eyes are on Trevor, holding grateful smiles. “We appreciate your aid, sir,” says the elderly one.

“Yes,” the woman dusts herself off, sighs, and looks at him. “Although I’m sorry if this leads to trouble for you.”

“Yeah well,” Trevor pauses his sentence to take another swig. Burps. “It’ll be much more trouble for you, I’m sure.”

The elder chuckles at that. “You’re not wrong. Still, thank you.”

Trevor approaches, helps the elder retrieve his cane that’d been dropped in the scuffle. “Can I walk you two back your train?” He knows they can handle themselves just fine without him, that fireball was incredible. But Trevor likes Speakers, they always have plenty of useful things to share. Everything from petty gossip to insider political intrigue of countries he’d never heard of. It’s an old habit, collecting facts the way he does. Part of a monster hunter’s job is just listening to what folk have to say—not that he’s in that line of business anymore.

The two Speakers exchange glances, a brief silent conversation, and look back at him again. “Yes, of course,” the elder says, “Although we are settled here, no caravans.”

“But we would be happy for your company back at the lodge.” The woman smiles. “My name is Sypha Belnades, and this is my grandfather, the elder of the Codrii Speakers. What may we call you?”

“Trevor. Please, lead the way.” Trevor takes another drink, finishes off the last of the wine, and then simply lets it fall to the ground. The woman, Sypha, does raise an eyebrow at that, but says nothing.

A few minutes into their walk, Trevor clears his throat and speaks. “That was quite impressive, the fire. You didn’t need my help at all, really. Are you magicians?”

Sypha brightens at his question, and the elder beams with pride as he says, “I am not, but Sypha here is indeed a very talented mage.”

Sypha asks, “Do you practice magic, Trevor?”

“No, no.” Trevor scratches the scruff of his chin. “Never had the brains for it. I’m better with weapons, anyway.”

“Yes,” The elder says, “That whip you used—I’d never seen one wield one so masterfully.”

Trevor just grunts; he’s no prodigy. “So, how many are you?”

“Twelve,” says the elder.

“Thirteen,” says Sypha.

“Oh, pardon me, thirteen is what I meant to say.” The elder corrects himself smoothly, but Trevor catches nervousness on Sypha’s face. Hmm.

The trio passes through the final alley, and find themselves entering one of Gresit’s many abandoned districts. The architecture around them is in shambles, but the two Speakers lead Trevor to a stone house that seems relatively in tact (if you ignore slightly collapsed roof). “This is us!” Sypha opens the door, gestures Trevor inside.

Despite the cold and damp outside, this shabby little house is cozy. A healthy fire roars in the hearth, and dozens of candles shine on the friendly faces of the Speaker coterie. A younger speaker, brown skinned and dark haired, jumps to his feet and runs quickly to the elder’s aid. “You were gone for far too long,” he grumbles. “It’s dangerous, you should’ve stayed.”

“Oh, it was fine, Arn. I was with him the whole time.” Sypha waves her hand at the younger man dismissively. “And look, we even made a new friend! This is Trevor… ah, what was your last name?”

Trevor considers lying, but eh, they’re only Speakers. “Belmont.”

Sypha’s eyebrows shoot up and there’s a question on her tongue, but it’s another one who speaks up now. “House of Belmont?” The voice comes from a man leaning against the wall, in the far corner of the house where the candle light is dimmest.

“So, you’ve heard of us.”

The man steps forward. Now that Trevor has a better look at him, he’s surprised he hadn’t noticed him before. His skin is impossibly pale, his hair far too clean. The blue robes he’s wearing look ridiculous on him; Trevor always thought they were a one-size-fits-all kind of thing, but they’re clearly too small on his alpine frame. “I heard the Belmonts were all killed,” says the man.

“All but one, I’m sorry to say.” Trevor squints. “What did you say your name was?”

The man ignores his question, starts to pace around him but still skirts the darker edges of the room. He doesn’t carry himself like a nomad at all. His steps are slow, intentional; a predator’s grace. “I heard the Belmonts liked to hunt.”

“You seem to hear lots of things.” Apprehension settles in Trevor’s belly. “Why don’t you come a little closer? Let me see your face.”

Sypha abruptly jumps in, puts herself between them. “Yes, well, we Speakers do like to keep up with current events.”

The man is still pacing, and it’s starting to grate on Trevor’s nerves. His voice is light as he asks, “Do you hunt, Belmont?”

“Sure, for liquor.”

“What about vampires?”

“If the opportunity presents itself.” Trevor narrows his eyes. “Stop moving.”

The man complies easily. He looks at Trevor full in the face now. His eyes are strikingly golden. He looks like an angel. The man starts to speak, pauses, looks towards the door with alarm. “People are approaching.” Trevor catches the briefest glimmer of fangs in candlelight.

Sypha runs to one of the windows, peers outside. “Alucard’s right. There’s a whole mob out there.”

“Fuck,” Trevor says. Not one to waste time, he rushes out the door. Sure enough, there’s a crowd approaching wielding pitchforks and torches, priests are herding them like sheepdogs. Now that he’s listening for it, he can hear the murmurers of distant shouts coming closer.

Trevor’s stomach cramps. It’s not the first time he’s been on the wrong side of an angry mob. He grits his teeth, pushes the fear down, tucks it away for later. He needs to focus right now.

Trevor storms out to meet them, and the crowd slows to a stop at his approach. A big burly priest steps forward. “Step aside. We’re here for the Speakers.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“You defend these witches?”

“No,” Sypha’s voice rings out, and she’s there beside Trevor. She points two fingers forward, and wall of fire rises from the street and forces the crowd back. “We are not witches, we are Speakers. We serve no demons and do no evil.”

Trevor can’t help but grin in admiration. “You should get your people out of here. I’ve got this.”

“I fight for myself, Trevor Belmont.” She’s smiling back. “My people will be fine.”

Trevor glances back towards the house and sees with some relief that the Speakers are escaping one by one, fleeing deeper into the crumbling district. He squints. “Where’s the ugly one?”

“I hope you’re not referring to me.” Comes another voice, way too close behind Trevor’s ear.

Trevor spins, swings his knife out. “Jesus.” He spits, glaring daggers at the pale man. “Wow, look at you, out in bare sunshine. Not a normal vampire, are you?”

“Focus, Belmont.” Sypha, on his other side, tugs at his cloak. “Alucard is not your enemy.” She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes in the briefest meditation. And then, “People of Gresit, you must return to your homes. The sun is almost set and the night creatures will be here soon.”

“You beckon the demons here!” Shouts the burly priest at the front. “You’ve come to bring Dracula’s wrath down upon us!”

“No, we’ve come to aid you!” Sypha calls back to them. “We’ve come to seek the sleeping soldier, and we’ve found him!”

Trevor was nodding along, but freezes at the last part. “Um. You what?”

Sypha pays him no mind. “Our goal is to defeat Dracula, in the name of the people of Wallachia.”

“Liar!” “Witch!” “Kill them!”

Trevor’s done with the talking. He draws a handful of throwing knives, dashes up to the edge of the fire and flings them out into the crowd. Each blade lands in the body of a priest. The regular folk start scrambling away. “You heard her, get the fuck out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

The burly priest from before spits, rips the dagger from his arm, draws his sword, and leaps through the fire barricade. Trevor’s own shortsword is out in an instant, and upon their clashing he sheds the priest’s swing harmlessly to his side. With an angry grunt, the priest goes for a lunge, and Trevor grabs the blade in his free hand and flings it away from them. Ouch, forgot he wasn’t wearing gloves. Good thing it was fairly dull.

The priest, now unarmed and off balance, staggers back into the fire barricade, and screams in terror as the magical embers alight his trousers. Sypha catches sight of this and summons forth a powerful gust of wind to extinguish all of the flame—which unfortunately includes much of her barricade.

A bulk of the mob takes the new opportunity to charge in, and they’re all aiming their pitchforks like amateur pikemen. Trevor exchanges shortsword for whip and swings it hard, intentionally landing a thunderous crack just a handful of paces before the frontline. The noise startles the group to a clumsy stop, but they’re still pointing their weapons towards the trio anxiously.

Sypha steps forward. “You need to go back to your homes, or whatever shelter you can find quickly as possible.” Points towards the pink and blue western sky. “The sun will be down in minutes. We’re not the ones you should worry about right now.”

The people start murmuring among themselves. At this point, most of the priests are injured from Trevor’s well-aimed knives, and some have even fled. In the chaos, much of the crowd had dispersed as well. Trevor feels a rush of giddy elation when he realizes that, holy shit, they’re giving up, aren’t they? He looks at Sypha in awe. He may have helped a little, but she just pacified a god damned mob. He mutters under his breath, “She’s fucking brilliant.”

But the burly priest is still there, and he’s not convinced. He had retrieved his lost sword at some point, and now charges at Sypha with a battle cry. She makes a gesture to manifest more magic in defense, but she’s slow, she’s not going to make it in time. Trevor jerks forward to intercept—

But Alucard beats him to it, materializes from thin air before the attacker, and he’s wielding a fucking ridiculously long sword. He flicks his wrist and parries the priest’s own blade off target, and then his free hand jerks forward and punches the priest square in the center of his face. It launches the priest several yards back, and then Alucard is standing over him.

Sypha blanches. “Alucard, you better not kill him!”

Alucard doesn’t show any sign of hearing her. He shoots one hand forward and grabs the man’s throat. Trevor’s conflicted. On one hand, seeing this piece of shit priest get his ass handed to him is bloody excellent. On the other hand, that Alucard guy is about to fucking drain him dry of blood right here in front of everyone, and that’s just wrong on principle. Trevor tightens his grip on the whip, a decision firms itself in his mind: as soon as the he bites, Trevor will knock his fucking head off.

Alucard doesn’t bite. He just lifts the priest up high by his throat, so all can see how he sputters and chokes and goes red in the face. Alucard’s expression is serene, but there’s no mistaking the rage behind those bulging muscles in his neck and arm.

“Alucard, stop it!”

The priest is going from red to blue now as his dangling legs kick uselessly in the air with less and less energy now. The crowd is dead silent. Alucard turns his head towards Sypha, a questioning look on his face.

“Put him down.” She summons an ember in her hand. “Or I’ll make you.”

Alucard just stands there a moment longer, and it almost feels like Trevor’s watching an insolent child refuse to give up a prized toy. And then, finally, Alucard releases his grip. The priest collapses to the ground and coughs violently between frantic gasps of air.

Trevor looks at Sypha again in awe. Who is this woman and how the hell did she manage to domesticate a fucking vampire?

The few remaining civilians stare at the scene in quiet shock. Everyone and everything is quiet, and then Alucard looks towards the west. “Winged night creatures approach.”

Alucard dashes through the streets of Gresit, weaves between frightened civilians and fallen debris with ease. He can’t go as fast as he’d like, Trevor and Sypha have already begun to lag behind.

It’s been a bizarre day, to say the least. The Speakers were welcoming, but overly curious folk with an abundance of questions, and he found himself conversing more in one day than he had in years. His throat was burning from overuse by the time Sypha and her grandfather had returned with the Belmont.

The violence that followed was sobering. Alucard knew that his father’s hordes were attacking the region and he knew it was wrong. But he hadn’t considered what that meant for the people, not really.

Speakers gather stories, treasure every detail. To them, the smallest moments, if shared with others, are the holiest gifts of God. How unfair, that the moments that matter most—those final breaths and heartbeats, those final wishes and regrets—can never be shared. A Speaker will never know the truth of a death, much less a cruel one, until it’s too late to be spoken of.

Something small and jagged stabs in Alucard’s chest, like his grieving heart is fighting to escape him. It’s so fucking unfair, to not know. He wants to learn the truth of every death wrought in the name of Lisa Fahrenheit Tepes. He wants to gather those untold stories and bury himself beneath them.

“Vampire! Quit fucking weeping and do something!” Trevor’s voice startles Alucard from his thoughts.

The three of them are in front of the Cathedral in western Gresit, and demons have come to meet them. Trevor and Sypha have jumped into action, and already made quick work of one night creature. Its fresh corpse lies still on the steps to the building’s entrance. A second one has swooped down and grabbed Trevor’s in its claws, and he’s can’t get enough purchase to free himself. Sypha raises her arms and invokes a dozen shards of ice to stab into the creature’s hide, but it doesn’t seem to care.

Alucard bolts, and after a few rapid leaps, he’s on the monster’s back and severing its upper spine with the blade of his sword. Trevor scrambles from its arms before its paralyzed body can fall prone and pin him. It’s still alive, so Alucard stabs again—this time through it’s head.

“Fucking finally.” Trevor growls.

“The other ones went inside!” Sypha shouts. “There must be people in there!”

“They shouldn’t be able to go inside, it’s consecrated,” Alucard says.

“Apparently not,” Trevor says, already chasing Sypha through the wrecked entrance of the Cathedral. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

Alucard falters at the steps of the Cathedral. If the demons are fine, he should be fine, right? He balls his fists, ashamed of his own cowardice, after everything.

A trembling human voice calls out from inside, “She had to burn! She was a witch! ”

Alucard forgets his hesitation, dashes inside. There, at the pulpit, the Bishop of Gresit trembles before a large night creature, whose fangs glow eerie blue. It speaks back to the holy man, tone mocking: “Lies? In your house of God?”

Alucard is flying, sword thoughtlessly abandoned somewhere behind him. And then he’s a wolf, and he’s on its back, and he’s snarling and ripping into any flesh he can get a hold of. It screams, claws at him, but he doesn’t even notice the scratches it leaves. From somewhere, Trevor’s whip strikes its chest and a holy yellow burning erupts from the wound. Another demon swoops from the vaulting overhead, and now it has Alucard in the air, and now he’s a swarm of bats that easily scatter from the monster’s claws, and his many mouths are biting—it’s death by a thousand cuts.

Once the monster is simply dead weight falling to the ground, Alucard is a man again, and Sypha has found his longsword and slides it to him across the marble floor. He takes it and hacks at another swooping creature. It falls so quickly that it’s not even satisfying.

Sypha is handling the other ones attacking from above. Trevor is still at the front dancing around Blue Fangs, landing hits when he can, but that’s his kill. Alucard launches himself into the middle of their combat, gets in close to Blue Fangs, shoves his sword up into its belly. It roars, crunches its jaws around his head and shoulders, but he doesn’t care. Alucard shoves his embedded sword downward, and it’s as if he’s bursting open a waterskin of rotten guts and soured blood. The teeth digging into him slacken, and Alucard pushes its massive lifeless head off of himself.

All of the other night creatures are dead by the time Alucard is looking for his next kill. So, instead, he turns to the bishop that cowers in the ambulatory.

“Who was it?”

The bishop just stares. He’s splattered with gore and rendered stupid with fear, but he’s unharmed. Alucard storms towards him, grabs him by the collar.

“Who. Who did you burn.” Alucard is staring hard. “Tell me, before I make you wish the demons got to you first.”

“She… she was a witch,” the bishop whispers. “She was evil.”

“Tell me her fucking name.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know.” The bishop is sobbing. Alucard pushes him into the wall.

“Was it you? In Targoviste? Did you kill the wife of Dracula?”

“I…”

Alucard bares his teeth and the bishop’s eyes bulge at the sight of his fangs. “I told my father that you’d be vengeance enough. You and whoever else was there that night. But no. You broke him so thoroughly, so completely, that human extinction became the only answer to his grief.” He leans in close, until their noses nearly touch. “You’ve killed my mother. You’ve killed my father. You’ve almost killed humanity, but I won’t let that happen. What do you suppose, then, I should do with you now?”

The man can’t even speak, he’s just trembling. Alucard sneers, and puts his open hand over the bishop’s face, and presses. The bishop screams, Alucard is compressing his head into the wall. Alucard opens himself up to the screaming, strains to listen the truth of this death. He wants to know this story. Alucard presses harder, and finally, the bishop’s skull collapses inward with a wet crunch. Alucard doesn’t move, he’s too focused on breathing deeply to memorize the scent. He pulls his bloodied hand away, stares at the bone and blood and brain now plastered on the wall, and wonders at the jagged grieving thing that beats in his chest.

Chapter Text

December 21 st , 1476

Chilly wind and the dim light of an early morning sun rouses Sypha from her sleep. With a deep breath, she cracks open an eye, tries to remember where she is.

Ah, that’s right. She and Trevor are huddled together, sharing his stinky furred cloak, backs resting against the outer wall of the Speaker’s lodge. Her head rests on his shoulder, and it’s nice, but her neck has a crick and she needs to move. Sypha stiffly starts to pull away, but Trevor grumbles at the movement. His arm comes around her, tugs her in closer to the center of their shared warmth.

“Don’t leave.” He mumbles. “S’too cold.”

“Have you seen Alucard?” she whispers back. “He never woke me up for the second watch.”

“Who cares?” Trevor gives a long, sleepy sigh. “He’s probably out gorging himself on the blood of virgins, or whatever it is that he does.”

Sypha rolls her eyes, pushes Trevor off of her, and stretches out her cramping legs. “Don’t be rude. You know he isn’t like that.”

Trevor grumbles and finally opens his own bleary eyes. “Yeah, yeah. God, it’s fucking cold.” He rubs his face hard like he’s trying to defrost his nose. “Why’d we sleep outside when there’s a perfectly good house right behind us?”

“We were supposed to be on guard in case more demons or unhinged priests showed up.” Sypha feels a pang of worry. “Why didn’t Alucard wake me?”

“I wasn’t tired,” Alucard’s voice comes from somewhere above. Trevor and Sypha look up, and he’s sitting on the roof, long legs dangled over the edge. “You both looked like you needed the sleep.” He peers down at them. “And no, Belmont. I didn’t drink anybody’s blood, virgin or otherwise.”

Trevor grins up at Alucard, suddenly finds his energy and hops to his feet. Now Sypha’s the one left shivering and grumbling in the cold. “I don’t know if I believe that,” Trevor says. “You’re pretty fucked up, you know.”

Instead of responding, Alucard drops from the roof with the elegance of a cat, outstretches a hand to help Sypha stand. Now that she can see him in proper light, she can’t help but wince at his injuries. His head, neck, and shoulders are covered in gashes and bruises, probably inflicted by that blue fanged monster from the night before.

Alucard sees her wince, and misinterprets. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you just now?”

“No, no. I’m worried about you. We should’ve bandaged you up last night, and now you might get sick. I just thought… Well, before you healed very quickly.”

“Oh.” Alucard rubs at one of the slashes on his throat. “It will be fine, soon. I’m just a little… too tired to heal.”

“He means hungry.” Trevor pokes his head between them, a smug grin on his face. “Right? Vampires need blood to heal. Who did you last eat, and when?”

Alucard just gives a long, suffering sigh. “Two days ago. I had some stored in the chamber where Sypha found me. None of it was sourced the way you’re thinking. I don’t take blood without consent.”

“Really? How the hell do you manage that?”

Alucard shrugs. “Bloodletting. I pay people well for it, and take less than half a wine glass at a time. I only need very little of it to survive, human food takes care of the rest.”

Sypha frowns. “Should we go back to your chamber so you can drink some more?”

“I’m afraid it’s not an option. In our battle, we broke one of the glass canisters, which would’ve disrupted the preservation system. I’m sure it’s all gone rancid by now.”

Trevor raises an eyebrow. “You fought?”

“Oh yes,” says Sypha. “I thought he was evil at first.”

Trevor turns to Alucard, gives him a contemplative look. “Hmm. I’m still not convinced he isn’t.”

She rolls her eyes, pushes Trevor out of the way. “Well, you can take my blood, and then you won’t even have to pay for it.”

“No.” Both men shut her down instantaneously. Sypha just sighs.

“Why? Between the three of us, I’m in the best health. And I bet Trevor would only get you drunk.”

Trevor laughs. “She’s not wrong.”

Alucard pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sure there’s someone else in Gresit who could…”

“I really don’t see what the problem is.” She narrows her eyes. “Oh, is this a stupid chivalry thing?”

Alucard’s eyes bulge open. “What?”

“You think you have to protect my delicate constitution? Please, I’m quite accustomed to losing a little blood, it's been a common occurance since puberty.”

Trevor blushes, and then turns away to snicker. Alucard just looks ashamed and relents. “You’re right. I’m being foolish. My mother would’ve said the same thing.”

Trevor rejoins the fray. “Oh no, I am not letting this happen. I think you should just hold out on drinking anybody’s blood for the day.”

“Sure,” says Alucard easily. “That was my original plan.”

“Oh. Well. Good.” Trevor rubs the back of his head. “Glad we agree.”

Sypha doesn’t agree. It makes no sense to let his wounds fester when the solution is so easy. While the men are distracted, she procures her knife and travel bowl. By the time they notice, she’s already bleeding from a carefully placed cut on her upper forearm, bowl underneath to capture the flow. Sypha looks up at them as they stare in shock, wearing an innocent smile. “It should only be a few more seconds.”

“Christ, woman,” Trevor grumbles. “Fine. Next time I’ll do it.”

After a brief wait, Alucard tells her it’s enough. He takes some clean linen scraps from the Speaker’s supplies inside, and presses one to her cut. “Can you hold your arm above your head? It will reduce the flow.” She nods, does so. Once the wound has closed, she puts her arm back down and Alucard washes her skin with clean water (summoned by Sypha). He then wraps her arm securely with a second linen bandage. Trevor watches the entire process with an expression that’s hard to read.

Once Alucard is finally satisfied that Sypha is taken care of, he hesitantly picks up the bowl. “Should I… take this somewhere else?” He grimaces. “I understand if it’s unseemly.”

Sypha shrugs. “No, I don’t really care. I’ve seen far worse in the last two days.” She looks at Trevor. “Do you mind if he drinks it here?”

“Uh, it’s fine.” He says, voice lacking its usual cockiness. Trevor is looking at them both so oddly.

“You seem uncomfortable,” Alucard says.

“No, I’m just thirsty.” He coughs. “Not for blood, though. Obviously.”

“Oh, you need water?” Sypha stands to fetch him some.

“Ugh, gross. Never mind.”

Sypha laughs in shock. “Gross? Our water is perfectly safe to drink, you know.”

“Wine and ale have plenty of water, and taste much better.”

When Sypha turns to Alucard to share a secret look of disapproval, he’s already drinking from the bowl. He catches her eye and lowers it, looking somewhat embarrassed. “Sorry,” he says, and she can see her blood on his teeth. It makes her stomach flip.

“No, no, you’re fine!” She raises her hands in appeasement. “I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

“Holy shit, you heal fast,” says Trevor, and he’s right. Already, the bruises have vanished and the gashes are not far behind.

Alucard doesn’t respond. He looks down at the bowl. There’s still a little left, but he’s hesitant to continue. Sypha abruptly realizes that Alucard wanted to drink it privately. She grabs Trevor’s arm and says, too loudly, “Trevor, do you need the privy? Me too, let’s go find one!”

“How’d you know?” Trevor says, stumbling as she drags him away.

Sypha glances back just before Alucard’s out of sight. He’s licking the bowl clean.

Trevor leans back against his makeshift bench of rubble and stares up at the misty sky. Sypha’s taking ages in the outhouse, he’s glad he went first. He kind of wants to tease her for it when she’s done, but he doesn’t want to be cruel. Women are easily embarrassed by bodily functions.

Well, Sypha doesn’t really seem that way. Maybe Trevor is wrong. It’s not like he’s gotten to know a lot of women; people don’t really like to hang around when you’re a slobbering drunken asshole. He hopes Sypha hangs around.

He hopes Alucard hangs around, too.

The fight at the cathedral last night was… well, it was pretty fucking great, actually. Alucard clearly does not fuck around. Trevor knows from experience that you can’t hide things when you’re in battle. Survival demands truth, and Alucard is a particularly honest fighter. The man was openly weeping even as he ripped a small battalion of hellspawn into shreds.

And the thing with the bishop? Trevor is glad he killed the asshole, frankly. Even if it wasn’t Dracula’s wife, he definitely admitted to burning somebody. Even Sypha, who is apparently very insistent on not killing humans, didn’t try to stop him.

Later in the night, once everything was calm, they asked if Trevor would join them, and it was an easy yes. Now, they just need to come up with some sort of plan, because until Trevor came along, all they had was wait around for a prophesied hunter to show up. He can’t believe that worked.

The outhouse door swings open with a creak, and Sypha steps out, rubbing her hands vigorously in a magically summoned globule of water. Trevor raises a brow. “It’s cleaner this way,” she answers his silent question. “Here, wash your hands, too, you’re filthy.”

It takes a while for Trevor to clean his hands to Sypha’s satisfaction, and then they’re walking back to the lodging. “I can’t believe I slept next to a man who doesn’t know how to wash himself! I swear, if you get me sick, I’m going to put your head on fire.” Her tone is humorous, even if the threat does have Trevor slightly worried.

“Life on the road doesn’t leave much time for grooming.”

“I am a nomadic Speaker. I am very accustomed to life on the road, and that has never stopped me from taking care of my body.”

“Then let me clarify: solitary life on the road doesn’t leave much time for grooming. I don’t have companions to split the work with.”

“You do now.”

He pauses at that. “Are you inviting me to join the Speakers?”

She shakes her head. “No. Well, you are of course welcome to do so, I suppose. But I don’t think we should travel with my people.”

“Does your grandfather feel that way?”

“No, he doesn’t. He thinks we should travel together.”

“You’re worried about getting them hurt.”

She looks at him, eyes hard. “Yes. Do you think that’s foolish?”

“Not at all. They will get hurt, assuming we get anywhere close to our goal.” Trevor rubs his neck. “And they’ll slow us down, too.”

She looks at her feet. “I’ve never traveled without them before.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I may never see them again.”

“Mm.” Trevor can’t think of anything to say, so he doesn’t. After several minutes of walking in silence, they arrive at the speaker lodge. The Speakers have come outside to enjoy the chilly sunshine. Sypha’s grandfather waves at their approach, and urges them inside for a humble breakfast of cabbage soup. It’s the best food Trevor’s had in months.

Alucard shows up halfway through the meal to gingerly return Sypha’s bowl. “I’ve washed it thoroughly,” he assures.

“Thank you, Alucard! See, now this is a man who understands the importance of cleanliness.” She jabs Trevor with her elbow. “You could learn a thing or two from him.”

“It’s not that I don’t understand, it’s that I don’t care.”

Alucard sits on Sypha’s other side. “You should care. Far more have died from filth than swords.”

“I usually have more immediate things to worry about.”

Alucard rolls his eyes. “Like finding your next drink?”

“Yes, actually. I’ve been wondering about it all morning. I think this city has run dry. It’s time to move on.”

“We can’t leave quite yet,” Sypha says. “I don’t want to leave the people defenseless. I was thinking that maybe we could teach them how to fight monsters. I don’t think they’ll be as hostile as before, after yesterday”

“Hmm.” Trevor takes another drink of soup. “I suppose we could have them re-consecrate the cathedral for shelter, get some salt and holy water stocked up. And then tomorrow, or better yet tonight, we’ll go.”

“Go where?” Asks Alucard. “We don’t know where my father’s castle is, or where it’s going next.”

“Right, I have a thought about that. The Belmonts have collected information about Dracula’s castle for generations, and I think most of that knowledge still survives. Finding it requires magic, which I lack, so I’ve never been able to get to it myself.”

Alucard taps his chin in thought. “It’s a start. How far away is your family estate?”

“A few weeks travel north,” says Trevor. “Hope you like snow.”

Sypha grins. “I love snow.”

Chapter Text

December 22 nd , 1476

Alucard’s third morning on the surface of Gresit is quiet. The Speakers have vacated the crumbling old house, with Sypha and Trevor briefly following to see them off; Alucard waited around for a total of five minutes before finding himself stir-crazed.

Now he's on the far side of the city, at the front of the last functioning stable house in Gresit. A thin and graying man comes outside, leading two emaciated horses along. “Here’s all we have left, sir. The tan mare is Iona. The gray gelding is her offspring, Ducky.”

“Ducky?”

The man gives a small smile. “It was my boy’s horse, sir. Named him when he was tiny. But, eh, he’s gone now.”

Alucard furrows his brow. “These are family pets. Are you sure you want to sell them?”

“Not much choice, sir. See those ribs poking out?” He gently rubs at Ducky’s side. “I can’t care properly for them no more. Already planned to butcher them for food by the end of the week.” The man pets Ducky with so much mournful fondness that it makes Alucard’s throat sting. “They have a better chance with you on the road.”

“I understand. I will treat them with utmost care. Perhaps one day, in happier times, I can return them to you.”

The man starts with a laugh. “Aye, that’d be a blessing. In happier times. Well, if you’re taking the horses, let’s choose you a wagon as well. I have a few, but I’m afraid they’re all in poor repair.”

Alucard follows the man and horses back into the stable, and picks a cart as his recommendation. He pays more than asked because the man needs it and Alucard is feeling guilty.

Alucard rides the cart back to the empty Speaker lodge. Both of the horses have downcast personalities and don't pick up their pace at his urging. He hopes they’ll brighten up once they’re on the road proper. He hopes he will, too, for that matter.

As he and his cart approach, his keen ears pick up Sypha’s voice.

“When somebody’s sad, you’re supposed to comfort them, Belmont. You’re supposed to say things like: you’re not alone, I’m here for you!”

“You already know I’m here, I’m standing next to you. Why should I insult your intelligence by telling you something you already know?” There’s a playful mocking in his voice.

“I don’t mean literally—ugh , just stop talking.”

The cart comes to a halt, and Alucard steps down. “I’m back.”

Sypha and Trevor both pop out from the open door.

“Oh, see, I told you he was finding us a cart!” Sypha grins in victory.

“We don’t know he wasn’t also eating somebody,” Trevor says. “Maybe he ate the cart’s original owner.”

Alucard sighs. “I don’t eat people, Belmont. Your jokes are beginning to grate me.”

“My jokes grate everyone, you’re not special.”

Alucard scoffs. “How strange, do you actually pride yourself on being an asshole?”

“Some would say I’m charmingly audacious,” Trevor asserts. The stupid grin on his face is disarmingly cute, and Alucard can’t think of a response. Damn.

“No, Belmont. Nobody would say that,” Sypha says.

Trevor merely shrugs smugly in response and the banter is over. The trio sets to work packing for their journey. At some point Trevor pauses to draw a simple map of Wallachia into the dirt with a stick. They discuss potential paths to take, and settle one that passes through Arges.

“If the weather’s good, I imagine we’d be at my family’s estate in two week’s time,” Trevor says. “But the weather won’t be good, so let’s just assume three.”

Sypha looks towards the sickly horses with a concerned frown. “Can these poor things make the journey?”

“Iona and Ducky will be fine,” Alucard says. “We’ll just have to rest them often until they find their strength again.”

“Ducky?” Trevor looks at the horses skeptically.

“What a cute name!” Sypha says, smiling brightly and climbing into the driver’s seat. “Shall we go?”

For the beginning leg of their journey, Sypha and Trevor sit at the front. It suits Alucard fine to lounge in the wagon, letting his mind drift as he passively eavesdrops on their wandering conversations. They speak of horse husbandry, land cultivation, grain storage—the practicalities of a lifestyle neither have. Sypha asks questions with enthusiastic curiosity; Trevor answers her patiently, but his words are tinted with gloomy nostalgia.

Alucard loses track of their conversation after a while; their words lose meaning and morph into strange non-melodic notes of a mundane lullaby. Only the cessation of the cart’s rickety movement brings him back to reluctant wakefulness. He stretches, sits up to find himself alone. Even the horses are gone.

He tilts his head to focus in and listen. They’ve let the horses take a break—he hears hooves clopping in damp brush and equine molars grinding up vegetation. Trevor is further off, pissing onto the base of a tree. Sypha, wherever she is, is quiet enough that Alucard can’t tell what she’s doing, but he guesses she’s watching the horses.

Trevor stops pissing. Alucard can barely hear his footsteps as he returns to the road; for such a boisterous man, he’s remarkably light-footed.

Alucard climbs out, looks up at the sky. The sun is already hanging low.

“Hate how short the days are this time of year.” Trevor says, now returned to the wagon.

Alucard looks at him. “It’s the solstice. Darkest day of the year. Tomorrow, it’ll be a little better.”

“You’ve been keeping track of the date this whole time?”

“I slept under Gresit for a long time, Belmont. The date was one of the first things I wanted to check.”

Trevor leans against the wagon. “I’m surprised you managed to nap through the wagon ride after all that. Aren’t you tired of sleeping?”

Alucard frowns. “No. I enjoy sleeping.” Meet’s Trevor’s eye. “Don’t you?”

Trevor shrugs. “I guess. It happens whether I like it or not. But I couldn’t sleep a year straight, like you did.”

“You could survive it. Just wake up once in a while to tend to your needs, and then go back to bed. It’s nice.”

“That sounds like fucking misery.”

Alucard gives a noncommittal hum. Perhaps to some that would be misery, but he can't imagine a lifestyle he'd prefer. At least, not a realistic lifestyle. “It passes the time.”

“Plenty of better ways to pass the time, vampire.” Trevor looks at Alucard with a smile, free of its usual ironic edge. “I’ll show you sometime.”

Alucard smirks. “Are you propositioning me?”

Trevor’s smile drops. “What? God, no! I was talking about drinking, or sparring—you know, normal shit. Jesus.” He turns away in a huff, but Alucard doesn’t miss how pink his ears are.

“You’re very easy to embarrass.”

Sypha comes through the bushes, leading the horses behind her. “Go easy on him, Alucard. Trevor’s people don’t like to talk about those things.”

“My people?”

“Christians,” she supplies.

Trevor scoffs. “I’m excommunicated.”

“Please, you’re very Christian.” She leads the horses back to the wagon, and then hesitates. “It’s already getting dark. Should we just set up a camp for the night?”

“I suppose the horses would be grateful for it,” Alucard says. “Tomorrow I can take the reigns, and you both may rest in the back.”

Sypha hums. “I like driving the horses, though. Tomorrow, let’s sit up front together." Alucard and Trevor each grunt tepidly in response and Sypha rolls her eyes. “God forbid the men show any sort of appreciation for another person’s company.”

A few hours later, the sun is gone from sight, and the only hint of day is the dim gray sheet of sky backlighting the forest canopy. Alucard trots through the wood, carrying a freshly killed hare in his mouth. His belly is happily full from the family of voles he’d caught earlier.

Upon his arrival to camp, the horses shuffle nervously at his scent but do not bolt. He drops the hare before Trevor and Sypha, who had huddled up next to the fire under Trevor’s big fluffy cloak.

“Good boy,” says Trevor, a hint of mocking in his voice.

“Alucard, don’t you want to turn back into a man, now?” Sypha asks. She takes the hare, examines it for a moment, and then stands up to rifle through supplies. Hanging over the fire is a deep iron pot, its contents already bubbling away and filled with root vegetables. Rabbit should make a fine addition to the hearty stew in the making.

Alucard lies down in the warm spot on the ground that she left, close to Trevor. As an experiment, he rests his head on Trevor’s leg. The man tenses, but doesn’t push him off. “Cuddly little pecker, aren’t you?”

Alucard replies with a soft boof, which translates to ‘shut the hell up and scratch my ears.' Trevor evidently doesn’t pick up on the meaning. Alucard’s ears remain untouched.

“I like him like this,” says Sypha with amusement, now returned with a good knife. “Is his fur as soft as it looks?” She finds a flat stone, rinses it clean with conjured water, and sets to work skinning and butchering the hare for dinner.

“I’m not going to pet the man. That’s weird.”

“Right now he’s a dog, not a man.”

Alucard gives a short growl, which translates to ‘actually, I am a wolf.’

“See, he agrees with me. He doesn’t want to be pet.”

Alucard snorts, pulls himself closer to Trevor until he is halfway on the man's lap. He nudges Trevor’s free hand with a paw.

“I actually don’t think he agrees with you, Belmont.”

Trevor groans. “Fucking… fine.” He lays an uncertain hand on Alucard’s back, where his shoulder blades meet his spine. Alucard’s tail gives a single approving wag, which encourages Trevor to make scritching motions.

When Alucard was a boy, he loved to become a wolf pup and snuggle up with his parents near the hearth. They would all climb into the couch, wrap up in blankets, and bask in each other's love and warmth. Dracula would scratch his ears and neck, and Lisa would read aloud from whatever book it was that had her attention at the time. Most of what she read was mind bogglingly boring, but Alucard found her voice soothing and rhythmic. It was his favorite sound in the world. It still is.

Trevor’s pets do not quite give the sensation Alucard was hoping for; his fingers are too blunt and awkward. Yet, it’s still remarkably nostalgic here before the fire in someone’s (admittedly reluctant) embrace.

“I never thought Alucard could be so sweet,” Sypha says, after a while. She returns to the fire and drops the chunks of meat into the brewing soup.

Trevor just grunts. Sypha approaches them both and finds her way into the bubble of warmth between them. She ducks under Trevor’s arm, nudges Alucard forward so that he is now laying across both their laps. He knows he’s remarkably heavy in this form, but neither seem to mind. Now two sets of hands are petting his head and neck and back. He melts into their laps, and gives a long satisfied sigh.

“Oh, his fur is quite coarse. I suppose that makes sense.” Sypha says. She runs her fingers over his haunch, where the fur is a little longer. “Alucard, you make a very cute dog.”

“He’s a wolf,” Trevor corrects. Alucard gives an agreeing snort.

“I’ve never seen a wolf this friendly,” Sypha says. “Even wolf-dogs are wilder than this. No, he’s definitely a dog.”

Alucard disapproves, but not enough to act on it. Trevor and Sypha keep talking, and Alucard lets his mind gradually drift towards sleep. At some point, they have to move him around—presumably to serve themselves dinner. And then they’re back, and they all lie down in a big pile under Trevor’s cloak. Alucard is sandwiched between them, tangled up in arms and legs. Sypha’s face is close enough that her breathing tickles his ears. Trevor, at some point, tugs them both up into a sleepy hug.

It makes Alucard miss his parents deeply, but not in a painful way. He wraps the love around himself, and it protects him from the cold.

Chapter Text

December 23rd, 1476

Trevor comes to consciousness with the scent of spruce and wood smoke in his nose. He can tell he’s outside from the chill in the air, but he’s perfectly warm in this little huddle he finds himself in.

Trevor isn’t ready to open his eyes and acknowledge the day; instead he gives a long, happy sigh and stretches his toes. There’s a person in his arms, so naturally, he hugs them closer. He entwines his hand in theirs and breathes them in—they smell of sweat, vanilla, earth, and strangely, a little bit of wet dog. It’s a pleasant mix. They shift slightly in his adjusted embrace to let their back rest flush against his front. He’s distantly aware that this new arrangement puts a gentle pressure on his morning wood, which is nice.

Trevor awakens again some while later at the sound of movement around the camp. He finally opens his eyes to find his vision filled with a mess of blond hair. He turns his head towards the sky, and though his internal clock informs him that it’s midmorning, the sky is dark with a blanket of angry looking clouds.

“Are you awake?” Sypha’s voice whispers to him from nearby. He strains his neck to look behind him, and sees her by the newly revived fire. She’s burying some foraged tree-nuts in the hot ashes to roast.

Trevor grunts, because he’s not quite conscious enough for words yet. He reluctantly lets go of the person in his arms (Alucard, he realizes with halfhearted alarm) and sits himself up. He looks around the camp dazedly.

“Where…” He coughs to clear his throat. “Who took watch last night?”

“Nobody,” says Sypha. “We’re lucky that nothing happened.”

Trevor yawns, rubs at his face. “Shit. Yeah.” Looks back up at the threatening sky. “Snow, you think?”

Sypha hums in thought. “Yes. We should get on the road soon, before it starts. I’m worried about the horses, though.”

Trevor looks over at Iona and Ducky, tied to a tree at the edge of the clearing, chewing on undergrowth. Though they do seem a little cheerier out on the road, they’re still out of shape and malnourished. He sighs. “Honestly, we’d be faster without them.”

Alucard, at this point, had finally stirred awake as well. If he felt any sort of way about their embarrassing morning cuddle, his face didn’t show it. “The horses will be fine,” he insists. “Although we will need to find them some blankets soon.”

Iona shifts nervously at Alucard’s voice, and Ducky huddles closer to her. Seeing this, Trevor says, “They’re scared of you, now that they know you’re sometimes a wolf.”

Alucard sighs. “I’ll have to make it up to them with some turnips.”

“Not too many,” Trevor grumbles. “Those are for us.”

A sudden pop near the fire startles everyone. Sypha excitedly digs into its ashes with a stick, revealing one of the buried tree nuts now steaming and cracked open by the heat. “Breakfast!”

The nuts taste like dirt, but Sypha insists they’re safe once cooked through. They fill his belly, so that’s what matters most, he supposes. Alucard spends most of the morning bribing the horses, but even then, they only allow Sypha and Trevor to hook them up to the cart while Alucard watches glumly from a distance. Trevor thinks it’s funny; the more desperate Alucard gets, the more the horses hate him.

For the start of today’s journey, Sypha and Alucard sit at the front of the cart. Trevor chooses to walk alongside for now. The cart may be handy, but by yesterday evening he was aching and motion sick from its constant rattling on the uneven roads. Trevor has no idea how Alucard managed to sleep through the entire day like that.

A few hours into the day, the sky is still darkly ominous, but neither snow nor rain had yet arrived. Although the tree canopy above is dancing wildly in the wind, the air around Trevor is calm.

“So, what else can you turn into?” Sypha asks.

“You were something back in Gresit, at the Cathedral.” Trevor says. “Like a… black mist?”

“Bats,” Alucard says.

Sypha hums in surprise. “Bats? Plural?”

“Yes.” Alucard sounds embarrassed, which is fucking ridiculous—most vampires love to brag about their creepy magic powers.

“How does that work?”

“It’s difficult to describe. I control my bodies, the bats, as a group. Being precise with individuals is difficult, but I can maneuver the swarm in a general way.”

Trevor had heard of vampires making such swarm-like transformations in the past—flies, locusts, crows, leaches. He considered that one of the more dubious claims in his family’s bestiaries, but apparently it’s legitimate. “How did you figure out you could do that?”

Alucard shrugs, still self-conscious. “I don’t remember not knowing. My parents told me that at first, it was only one bat; the swarm grew as I did.”

Sypha asks, “How many do you have now?”

“I’m not sure. When I am in that form, it’s… well, it’d be like trying to count all the bones in your body only by sensation. It isn’t really possible.” He pauses to think. “My mother counted them up, a few months before she died. I think there were nineteen, then. Perhaps it’s based on my age.”

“That doesn’t make sense.” Sypha touched her chin in thought. “Your mother died last year, didn’t she?”

Alucard nods.

“You’re saying that you’re only twenty years old? I thought you were older than me.”

“I believe it,” Trevor says. “I’m twenty as well.”

“What?!” Sypha spins to stare at Trevor in open shock. “I thought you were much older than me!”

Well then. It’s good to know he’s as haggard on the outside as he feels on the inside. “Thanks,” he mutters.

Sypha drops the reins to bury her face in her hands. “This was a mistake. I cannot be the only adult on this journey.”

“We’re not children,” says Alucard. He swoops down to rescue the discarded reigns before they fall completely out of reach.

Trevor indignantly kicks a rock in his path. “How old are you, then?”

“Twenty four.” Sypha mutters, face still buried.

“Are you fucking kidding me? Four years difference got you this upset?”

She lifts her eyes to stare glumly into space. “I cannot be the one in charge. We’ll die.”

“Who said anything about in charge?” Trevor is tired of walking as he argues, so he hops up onto the cart to sit on the last free spot on the bench, beside Alucard.

“We all share responsibilities equally.” Alucard says, and then pauses. “Or at least, we should. Sypha, do you feel overburdened?”

“No.” She pauses in thought “Among Speakers, it is usually the eldest of the caravan who acts as leader. Like my grandfather.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Trevor grumbles. “What if the oldest one’s senile?”

Sypha ignores his question, which Trevor takes as a victory. “I know that we’re not a Speaker caravan, and the ways of my people do not fit our situation. I just thought you both were more experienced.”

“I’ve been on my own for a hell of a long time. I’m plenty experienced.”

“And I grew up fast, quite literally.” Alucard’s words are gentle. He reaches out a comforting hand to rest on Sypha’s shoulder. “I’ve been an adult for longer than you think. You don’t need to worry, we can handle ourselves.”

Sypha looks over at Trevor and Alucard and gives a hesitant nod. “Perhaps I’m jumping to foolish conclusions.” She looks away again, as if ashamed. “It’s difficult for me to be apart from my people. I knew I could always go to them if something went wrong.”

Trevor leans back, suddenly comprehending. “You lost your old safety net, and you’re not sure about this new one yet.” He exhales. “That’s fair.”

Alucard leans toward her, trying to catch her eye, “I understand that this is a difficult situation, and I’m grateful that you chose to be here, despite that. But you don’t need to worry. You aren’t alone, but even if you were, you’d be fine. You’re very capable—you proved that the day I met you, and again every day since.”

She doesn’t respond. Alucard turns back to Trevor with an expectant look and gently elbows him.

Trevor sighs. Fine, fine. “Vampire’s right. You can put things on fire with your mind. What the fuck are you worried about?”

Sypha gives the briefest, quietest chuckle. “Fire doesn’t solve everything.”

“Sure it does. Oh what’s that, tax collector? You say I owe lots of money? Well fuck you, then—fireball! ” Trevor dramatically mimes the magic gestures he’s seen her make in battle. Sypha stifles a giggle, which only eggs him on. “And what’s that? A deer got into my garden? Sounds like roast venison for dinner, then! Oh no, doctor, you say I’m dying of syphilis? Maybe some fire will change your mind.”

“Medicine does not work that way,” Alucard says, raising a concerned eyebrow. “You do know it’s not up to the doctor, right?”

Trevor waves his hand dismissively. “Fine, whatever. Maybe you just burn your dick off then, that’ll fix it.”

Alucard learns toward Sypha and mutters, “if you ever get sick, please do not go to Belmont for medical advice.”

The conversation descends into a half-serious lecture about medicine, which Trevor loudly and adamantly disagrees with, just to be an asshole. As the three of them argue and laugh, the initial flurries of the incoming storm finally begin their gentle descent.

Sypha carefully weaves between trees and thickets, leading Ducky by the reign. Her shoes squish into the soft muddy earth, where only the thinnest layer of snow has begun to accumulate. Trevor is far ahead, leading Iona. Much further still is Alucard, guiding their way.

Once the first flurries were spotted, they had all agreed it was time to look for shelter, even though it was still only early afternoon. Alucard had gone into the woods to scout, while Sypha and Trevor tended to the tired horses. After an hour or so, he returned with news of a cave nearby.

They had to leave the carriage by the road, as the dense trees and thick underbrush would not permit its girth. Now everyone, vampire and human and horse alike, carries their combined worldly belongings on their backs. As they travel, Sypha keeps an eye out for suitably dry wood and gathers what she finds.

Alucard in the distance says something to Trevor, who then turns back and calls to Sypha, “He said he sees the cave, we’re nearly there.”

“Good, my feet are freezing.” Ducky gives a soft snort, as if to agree.

Trevor and Alucard are already unloading supplies by the time Sypha and Ducky reach the cave. It’s definitely not a glamorous setup—the cave recedes very far into the hill, but the ground becomes rocky and steep past the first several feet, so they’re forced to setup camp at the mouth. There’s still room for both people and horses to lie down without getting directly snowed on, though, and that’s the most important thing.

Trevor is fumbling with the beginnings of a tiny pine straw campfire, and Sypha drops the wood she’d been collecting beside him. She grins down at him. “I can do that much faster, you know.”

Trevor pauses to return her smile. “Of course you can, but there’s no need. You made the last two fires, plus this morning’s breakfast and last night’s dinner.” He returns to his work and says, light humor in his voice, “You’ve got to let a man feel useful sometimes. I’ve got it handled. Go, sit.”

Sypha waits a moment, watching Trevor furiously working to build up the friction between two twigs. Her arms ache in sympathy. It’s ridiculous to not just take advantage of her magic, but she shrugs and leaves him to it, instead turning to unload and groom the weary horses.

Iona is already out of her tack, and Alucard is making quick work on doing the same for a complaining Ducky. He glimpses back at Sypha’s approach and says kindly, “Please, rest. They need to get used to me handling them, or we’ll never get along.”

Sighing, she relents, and instead makes herself useful by unloading the sleeping mats. That doesn’t take long, so she starts going through their food stores to gather ingredients for dinner. Trevor, done with the fire by now, stops her to declare that he’s making dinner, and she should just sit down and relax for once.

Sypha doesn’t want to sit down and relax. She ignites a spark of fire to hover her over her finger, and walks deeper into the cave. Alucard calls out, “Sypha, don’t take fire down there. Sometimes there are flammable pockets of air in caves like these, you could be killed.”

She groans and turns back towards him to exaggeratedly roll her eyes. “How else am I supposed to see?”

“You could just leave it alone and stay out here,” Alucard suggests hopefully.

“There could be something good down here, though!”

“Oh I’m sure there’s all sorts of good things,” Trevor says, tone facetious. “Like a hibernating bear, or a nest of deadly snakes, or a sudden forty foot drop. I say go for it!”

“Thanks Belmont, I will!” Sypha keeps walking, and the men let her, so evidently their concerns weren’t that serious.

It turns out, the cave isn’t that exciting. Her companions are barely out of sight before the tunnel becomes too narrow to continue. She sighs in disappointment and turns to go back, but trips over a huge dip in the rocky ground she somehow didn’t see before.

It’s a steep hole, about knee deep. Sypha leans down to touch its lowest point, and other than a thin layer of accumulated soil, it’s bare. Sypha grins, a wonderful idea forming in her head.

The men pause their respective tasks to stare at her. “A what?”

“A bath! I found a place we can take a hot bath! It’s a pretty shallow hole, so you can’t lie down in it, but it’s better than nothing!” Sypha combs a hand through her hair; it’s unpleasantly oily to the touch. “There were no bathhouses operating in Gresit, and I’m sick of the bucket and rag method.”

Alucard frowns. “Is it… clean?”

“I’ll make sure it is, don’t worry.”

“I’m not boiling and hauling water back there.” Trevor grunts.

“I can just make hot water, it’s not difficult.” Sypha gestures out towards the woods, where the snow continues to accumulate. “It’s going to get so much colder tonight. Just imagine how nice it will be to soak your feet in hot water.”

Alucard looks like he’s considering it, but Trevor rolls his eyes and turns back to chopping root vegetables. “You don’t need my permission to do it,” he grumbles. “Go ahead.”

Sypha crosses her arms. “If anybody needs a bath, it’s you most of all, Belmont.”

“I have to agree,” Alucard says. “When did you last bathe, exactly?”

Trevor takes a moment to ponder. “I know it was just after Christmas. How long is that?”

Sypha grimaces. “Belmont, if you do not bathe tonight, I am feeding you to the wolf.”

“I don’t eat rotten meat,” huffs Alucard. And then a look of horror dawns on his face. “Should you really be the one cooking right now?”

Sypha’s eyes go wide. “Trevor, step away from those innocent vegetables and follow me. You’re bathing first.”

Trevor sighs, stands up. “Fine, if it will shut you two up.”

Trevor is squinting in the dim light as Sypha blasts a heavy stream of water into the pit, which violently dislodges any dirt from its crevices. Once she’s satisfied that it’s clean, she summons perfectly steaming hot water to fill it up. “There, all ready!” She beams at him excitedly.

Trevor looks at her silently. Sypha stares back, confused, until he finally coughs and says, “Are you, uh, going to give me some privacy?”

“Oh.” She frowns. “Sure. But you better be thorough! Don’t forget your back, or behind your ears!”

“You don’t think a grown man knows how to clean himself?”

“I think we’ve established that I don’t think you’re a grown man anymore.”

Trevor puts a hand on his chest in mock offense. “That’s not true!” A mischievous grin flashes across his face. “I’ve seen you... sneaking looks. You think I’m plenty grown, don’t you?”

Sypha’s cheeks warm. “I don’t sneak looks! I just… look normally! Without sneaking!”

Trevor looks irritatingly smug. “And yet, you still look. Is this why you want to stay here while I bathe?” He gasps dramatically. “Sypha, I’m a good Christian man! ”

Sypha hides behind her hands, mortified. “Shut up! You’re excommunicated! I’m going!”

Alucard is gently stirring the bubbling pot of food when Sypha sits beside him with a huff. “That man is so rude,” she grumbles, face still warm.

Alucard chuckles. “Yes, I heard. The sound carries very well here.”

“It sure does!” Trevor’s stupid smug voice echos from further inside. Iona stomps a hoof in response.

Sypha groans, hugs her knees, and says, “I’m very much looking forward to the day we find an inn where I can sleep far away from you both, in my very own bed and my very own room.”

Alucard hums. “I thought Speakers liked communal sleeping.”

Sypha rests her head on her arms and glares at the fire. He’s right, but she won’t admit it. She doesn’t really remember the last time she slept alone, but she had tried it a few times. It was always uncomfortable, lonely, and a little bit scary.

Some time passes where nobody speaks, and Sypha lets her thoughts wander aimlessly. The sky is finally getting dark, the horses are at ease, the soup bubbles, the fire pops. Her eyelids are feeling heavy, so she scoots close to Alucard and leans more comfortably against him. He stiffens, so she pulls back.

“Sorry,” she mutters. And then, “You’re more cuddly as a wolf.”

Alucard hums in agreement. “In that form, physical touch is more acceptable.”

“What do you mean?”

He pokes at the fire with a stick absentmindedly. “Everyone likes to hug and pet cute animals, and a wolf can be cute in the right context. But you don’t do that with men.”

“Why not?”

He frowns. “You just don’t, unless he’s family. Or your lover, I suppose.”

“Nobody hugs you?”

“My parents do. Did.”

Sypha looks at the fire, thinks. “Speakers hug their friends all the time, man or woman.”

“That must be nice.”

“It is.” she looks at him. “Do you prefer not being hugged?”

Alucard hesitates. “I miss it, sometimes.”

“Can I hug you? As a friend?”

Alucard meets her eye and smiles warmly. “I would like that.”

She scoots closer again and wraps her arms around him. After a few moments, he digs his own arm free from her embrace to rest on her shoulders. He leans his head on hers.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

She holds him tighter in response.

It takes Sypha quite a bit of effort to get the makeshift tub clean after Trevor’s turn. He had returned to them like a strutting peacock, naked except for his old tunic wrapped around his waist as a towel, and laid down luxuriously by the fire to dry off and poke at the bubbling stew. Sypha refused to make eye contact, and merely stomped deeper inside to prepare her own bath.

Now Sypha huddles in the bath, making herself as small as possible to maximize warm water on her skin. She dips her travel bowl in, pours it over her, and gives a long happy sigh at the blanket of warmth cascading down her back.

If she stays still in the water, it’s surprisingly easy to hear Alucard’s voice as he says, “ Please, put some clothes on.”

“Why? Fire’s keeping me plenty warm,” Trevor’s snarky voice echoes down the tunnel.

Sypha pours more water over her head, picks up the sad sliver of soap she’d managed to purchase months ago and uses as sparingly as possible. She digs her fingernail in to scratch out the smallest fleck of soap as the ration for her bath, and gently tosses the rest of the soap onto her pile of clothes to protect it from melting in the water.

As Sypha rubs the lather into her scalp, she tunes back into the men’s distant conversation.

Trevor sighs dramatically. “Fine, fine. Toss me my trousers, they’re right there.”

“These reek. Do you not have anything clean?”

“Do I look like the kind of man who has time for laundry?”

“We are taking care of that as soon as we find a laundress. Or a river. Here, take it.”

A pause, some fabric shuffling.

“Okay, so maybe it’s a little ripe.”

“I’m honestly impressed that your sense of smell still functions.”

“We Belmonts have fantastic noses.”

Sypha stifles a snort of laughter, just as Alucard’s own chuckles echo down the cave. She begins to scoop water over her head and rinse her hair. The soapy water trickles over her ears and blocks their voices.

She squishes herself even deeper into the warmth, but her exposed neck and upper back are still shivering in the chill. Sypha considers summoning fire, but she’d summoned a lot of water for the first two baths, and still has Alucard’s to prepare after she’s done. She could spare the energy, but she’d never pushed it very far, and doesn’t want to risk exhaustion.

For not the first time, Sypha wishes there was another magician with her. Somebody more experienced, who could tell her exactly what happens if you overexert your magic, and if it’s possible to run out. She’d met other Speaker magicians, here and there, but none who pursued it as seriously as she—practicing magic openly is an invitation for witch hunts, after all.

The problem with learning only from ancient books and scrolls is that the world was just too different back then. Writers don’t like to waste expensive ink and vellum describing common knowledge; they don’t write for readers like Sypha, who have no cultural context to aid in comprehension. Sypha had memorized dozens of fantastic and complicated spells, but because the fundamentals were never documented, she could never put them to use.

The truth is, most of her abilities are common and contemporary beginner’s tricks, somewhat improved by constant practice and experimentation. Magic is so rare that people admire her abilities anyway, but advanced scholars of magic would surely be unimpressed. She wonders if Alucard is unimpressed.

“Do you hear that?” Alucard’s voice echoes down the cave. Sypha perks up at his worried inflection.

“No,” Trevor responds. “What?”

Several tense and quiet seconds pass, and Sypha strains to listen. “Night creatures,” he finally says.

“Shit. How many?”

Another pause. “Perhaps a dozen.” Hearing this, Sypha abruptly stands, scrambles out of the water, and throws on her robe over dripping wet skin.

Trevor swears. “Headed for a city, you think?”

“Most likely,” Alucard says. “Do you want to intercept?”

Sypha’s pruney fingers are still fumbling with her ties and she shouts to the men, “Of course we’re intercepting.”

She and Trevor are running as hard as they can through the wood. Although the moon’s light is hidden behind dense cloud cover, the forest floor is white with snow, so they’re not completely blind.

Alucard slows his pace just a little to call back, “We’re losing them!”

“Don’t wait on us, then!” Trevor shouts back.

Alucard glances back in acknowledgment, and then his long legs pick up an even more supernatural pace. After another minute of running and no sign of anything, Sypha’s worried they’re lost.

And then she hears a screech, much closer than expected. The two of them adjust course, and Alucard is suddenly back in sight. He’s taking a wide stance, longsword out and ready, and is staring up at the living corpse of a massive harpy, clutching at a tree twenty feet above the ground.

The harpy screeches again and other distant screams answer.

“She’s calling her friends,” Trevor grunts.

“Good,” Sypha asserts. She points her right hand, index and middle finger extended, and summons a stream of fire towards the creature’s center of mass.

The monster’s right wing catches Sypha’s flame, so she flails her wings violently to extinguish it. The urgent movement launches fluffy confetti of snow and feathers around them. Alucard takes the opportunity to launch himself impossibly high up the tree and bury his sword in her smoldering underbelly.

The night creature screams her death rattle and the other harpies answer. They’re arriving now; some are in flight, others’ wings are too decayed so they charge between trees.

Trevor’s still shirtless from bathing, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His whip meets the next closest creature enthusiastically; with a flick of his wrist, it wraps around a harpy’s neck. He tugs hard, something snaps, and she collapses, dead.

Sypha is barefoot and shivering, her robe haphazardly tied closed, so when she climbs into the nearby brambles for cover, it hurts more than expected. From this vantage point, she launches razor sharp arrows of ice at the airborne monsters, aiming for their wings. She gets three grounded before another one finds her. The harpy lands atop Sypha and screams directly into her face, breath stinking of putrid death. Sypha screams back and twists her right hand free to summon a spear of ice, which pierces the harpy’s clawed hand. The harpy flinches back in pain, and Sypha uses the extra room to launch more spears to pierce the night creature everywhere she can reach.

Alucard appears out of nowhere and drags Sypha’s prone form into his arms. She blinks, and they’re suddenly impossibly far away on the other side of the clearing. Sypha wrenches herself from Alucard’s arms to empty ber stomach in the dirty snow. She turns back to glare daggers at Alucard.

“You looked like you needed help,” he admits apologetically.

“I’m fine.” She spits, and it tastes awful. Sypha turns her attention to another harpy swooping down above them and punches up two blasts of fire to meet the creature’s path; the harpy flails out of the way with a squawk and readjusts her path to approach them more swiftly. Alucard obnoxiously inserts himself to shield Sypha, so she ducks down below his arms to poke her hand out, launching another beam of fire. Crispy feathers rain down as the singed harpy retreats in a panic.

Sypha takes the brief moment of safety to shove Alucard. “I’m fine, go save somebody else!”

“Um, help?” Sypha and Alucard both turn towards Trevor’s distant voice, which alarmingly comes from above. A different harpy in flight is clutching him in her clawed feet, and another smaller harpy swoops from the side to grab at his legs, like a crow attempting to steal an eagle’s prey.

Sypha cries out in rage and throws daggers of ice as hard as she can; one hits Trevor’s leg, which he shouts indignantly at, but the others find their mark and suddenly he’s free and rapidly hurdling back towards earth.

Alucard vanishes and reappears with a startled Trevor in his arms. Trevor vomits, right next to Sypha’s previous pile of sick. Alucard pales and gives a meek “sorry.”

Two grounded harpies pounce like cats from the nearby thicket, and Trevor is still coughing up dinner as he flicks his whip at their outstretched heads. The cuts leave glowing yellow wounds in their wake.

Sypha throws more fire. One of them catches the brunt of it and immolates, and that scream is the worst one of the night. Alucard pierces his sword into the throat of the other, twists his arm, and severs something vital; the harpy collapses into a twitching feathery mess.

Trevor’s two previous attackers in the sky swoop back down for him again, and Sypha throws a shielding dome of fire above his head. The smaller harpy redirects in time to avoid it, but the larger one crashes through the barrier, landing on top of Trevor. He screams, hidden under her mess of burning plumage; Sypha curses and conjures a horizontal pillar of ice to shove the harpy’s dying body aside.

At the sight of Trevor clutching his bleeding face, Sypha pushes down another wave of nausea and crouches at his side.

“Did I burn you? Belmont!” She grabs his wrist with two hands, tries to pull it aside so she can see, but he’s too strong. “Show me!”

Trevor lets lose a string of strained insults about somebody’s mother, but he finally hears her and allows her to pull his trembling hand aside. There’s lots of blood—too much to see the nature of his wound. “Is it hot? Are you burning?” She demands, but Trevor is too busy cursing to answer. “Shit,” she whispers, the profanity feeling odd on her tongue, and grabs a fistful of snow from the ground beside her feet and shoves it into his hand. “Put this where it burns, I’ve got to—”

Alucard is abruptly standing over them, swipes his sword to deflect another swooping harpy’s claws. “Trevor?” He glances down to meet Sypha’s eyes, his pupils large with fear.

“Fuck,” Trevor finally says through gritted teeth, clutching snow to his face and chest. “Just kill the fucking birds.”

They’d managed to take down nearly every undead harpy, but a couple of them fled—away from the road, Alucard had noted with some relief.

Both Sypha and Trevor were in terrible shape by the end. Her bare feet are swollen and bleeding, and Trevor’s old scars are now decorated with flecks of burn marks across his face, neck, and chest. The snow he had used to cool the burning was dirty with blood and feathers, so infection is a high concern. Alucard wonders what kind of diseases the undead creatures carried in those crumbling talons.

Sypha was not too proud to let Alucard carry her back to protect her feet, although she squirmed indignantly in his arms the entire way back. Trevor, luckily, had managed to find himself some boots before their wild dash into the night, so despite his many injuries, he could walk by himself.

Now Alucard is sitting over Trevor, cleaning one of the nastier burns on his shoulder with the lightest touches he can manage. Sypha, having rejected Alucard’s help, sits across the revived fire, digging sticks and rocks from the soles of her feet.

Alucard squeezes his eyes closed and takes a deep breath. He should’ve insisted that they take the time to dress properly. He should’ve guarded Trevor instead of Sypha. He should’ve avoided teleportation, since it made them sick and hurt their reflexes. He should’ve said nothing at all when he heard the flock passing by.

“How bad is it?” Trevor mutters through the cold cloth he’s holding against his burned face.

Alucard takes a deep breath, willing himself to be present again. “These should heal alright if we can keep them clean. I am worried about your eye, though.”

“I can open it a little, it just hurts like a motherfucker and everything is blurry.”

Alucard furrows his brow. “Were those your symptoms before, too?”

“Hm? You mean when I got the old scar on my eye?” Trevor takes a moment to ponder. “I don’t remember.”

Alucard frowns. “I’m afraid I haven’t studied eye injuries very much before, so I am not certain how to best treat it. We’ll just have to keep it clean like the other burns, and hopefully your vision will recover.”

Trevor shrugs. “And if not, at least I’d look damn good with an eye patch.”

Alucard gives a quiet snort of amusement. “How can you be so sure, Belmont?”

“My great-great uncle once removed had one, and looked like me, too. If his portrait in the old parlor was anything to go by, it’d suit me well.”

“Please. Painters are liars,” Sypha grumbles from across the fire. Trevor only chuckles in response.

Alucard leans back, finally finished with Trevor’s shoulder. Time for the worst part. “Alright, Belmont. Let’s see it.”

Trevor lowers the cloth from his face, and the sight is not as gruesome as Alucard feared. Dozens of minuscule burn marks freckle his face, mostly gathered around his left eye. His eyelid is swollen and angry, but not actually damaged. Alucard asks, “can you open it, please?”

He tries, but only the tiniest slit of his eye becomes visible. Alucard gently brings his fingers to Trevor’s face, which makes him flinch. “Sorry,” Alucard breathes, “I’d like to open it more. Is that alright?” Trevor grumbles an assent, so Alucard gently pries his eye open. The eyeball is irritated and red, but he doesn’t see any scratches or burns. “Still blurry?” Alucard asks, voice soft as a whisper.

“A little,” Trevor says. “How does it look?”

Alucard releases Trevor’s face and pulls back, smiling. “I don’t think you’ll need that eye patch after all.”

“Damn.” Trevor returns his smile. “Maybe next time.”

Sypha glares at their joking from across the camp, and then her anger breaks into guilt. “I’m so sorry, Trevor. I didn’t expect the harpy to just… crash through the fire.” She wilts. “That was foolish of me.”

Trevor shrugs. “It’s not like you had a lot of time to weigh your options. You killed a monster that was about to kill me. For all we know, it was the best possible outcome.” Trevor watches her through the campfire smoke, and when she ducks shamefully under his gaze, he sighs. “You did good. I learned a long time ago that just making any choice at all is better than freezing up and doing nothing.”

Alucard watches him silently as he speaks. A fresh burn blister near the man’s laugh line breaks, and Trevor doesn’t seem to notice. Alucard puts a hand on his and says, “I agree with you, but you should try to avoid speaking for the rest of the night. Give your face some time to heal.”

Sypha, a little bit cheerier now, gives a halfhearted laugh and says, “If this is how to keep him quiet, I would’ve burned him days ago.”

Trevor laughs at that, which only further agitates his injuries. Alucard firmly tells him to stop, which is a little heartbreaking—he likes Trevor’s laughter.

Later that night, the three of them are huddled up in their combined bedding. Alucard feels a little self conscious, since he’s the only one who hadn’t had a chance to bathe, but his companions don’t seem to care. Sypha is in the middle this time, fast asleep but somehow already tangled up in blankets, which leaves Alucard partially exposed to the biting cold. He doesn’t mind.

“You called me by my first name today.” Trevor’s voice is smug.

Alucard’s cheeks warm. He decides to feign sleepy disinterest. “Did I?”

“Does this mean I get to call you Adrian?”

Alucard’s cheeks are burning now. “I thought I said no talking.”

Trevor snorts, amused, but thankfully remains silent for the rest of the night.

Chapter Text

December 24th, 1476

Alucard stirs awake to the metallic smell of blood. He had woken up several times in the night to this scent, and dragged himself up to check the source—every time before it had been a reopened wound of Trevor or Sypha’s, which he would gently clean and re-bandage. Then, each time, he offered to take over on the night’s watch, and received a firm no in response.

This particular scent is different, though. It doesn’t carry the additional notes that accompany a treated wound several hours old—pus, salves, and linen bandages. No, Alucard realizes, this is a fresh injury. He sits up in flinch of panic. Sypha mumbles a sleepy complaint under the bedding beside him. The sun is low in the eastern sky, yet the snow already glows brightly against the dark silhouettes of trees.

Alucard spares a glance to the horses who are nosing into the snow to chew at the dead grass hidden underneath. Their lack of alarm calms him somewhat, but he still holds tight to a pang of worry when he realizes that Trevor is missing. The hunter is supposed to be on watch, yet is nowhere to be found. Alucard stands abruptly and squints into the snow, catches sight of the impression of footprints. He grabs his quarter-full jar of salve and the last of his clean linen rags and follows the path.

It isn’t long before he finds Trevor, hunching in front of a small mirror perched in the crook of a tree branch. Alucard’s relief at seeing his companion safe quickly replaces itself with irritation. “What are you doing, Belmont?”

Trevor flinches and another whiff of fresh blood reaches Alucard’s nose. “Bloody hell, vampire. Don’t you know not to sneak up on a man shaving?” Trevor turns towards him with a glare, holding a hand to his neck, where a hint of red is already starting to bloom between his fingers.

Alucard swallows heavily. Of the many feelings stirred awake by the sight, Alucard chooses to focus only on concern for his friend. “I’m—sorry.” He holds up the salve and bandage as a peace offering. “Please, allow me to help.”

Trevor squints. “I can handle my own grooming, thanks.”

Alucard steps forward anyway. “I’m sure you can, but neck wounds can be dangerous.”

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re the expert of neck wounds, aren’t you?” Still, he allows Alucard to lift his hand away from the several cuts beneath it, intermingling with the small pocks of burnt skin from the night previous.

Alucard frowns. “It doesn’t look like you can handle your grooming at all.” None of the injuries are too serious; there is more blood than he’d like, but it’s only from the accumulation of so many cuts. Some of Trevor’s older facial scars are starting to make far more sense. “Who taught you how to shave, Belmont? He should be banned from the practice.”

“Port Daphne.”

Alucard raises a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Port Daphne taught me. Best whore in Braila. I found myself with an excess of coin, so I hired her for a week. She let me shave her mustache, legs, and cunt. Said I was a natural.” Trevor smiles dreamily. “I’d give up drink for a month to drop anchor at Port Daphne again.”

Alucard stares. “There is just… so much to unpack there. Nevertheless, I’m banning you from shaving.”

“What?!” Trevor pulls away. “I’m a grown-ass man, you can’t tell me not to shave!”

“You have a responsibility to the people of Wallachia to stay alive until my father’s defeat. I’m not letting you accidentally slit your own throat. Now, hold still.”

Trevor begrudgingly allows Alucard to clean his cuts and apply the salve. The cuts are so numerous and small that Alucard decides against bandaging them. Still, he instructs Trevor to avoid touching them, lest he risk permanent scars.

“Whatever,” Trevor sniffs. “Scars are cool.”

“No fine lady will be wooed by shaving scars, Belmont. It’s a sign of incompetence, not bravery.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, fangs. Ladies love all scars. Adds a nice texture to the skin, more fun to rub and kiss.” He waggles his brows.

Alucard doesn’t bother hiding an amused smirk. “Did Daphne tell you that?”

Trevor just flashes a toothy smile in return, and then drops it to say, “But no lady loves a half-sheared chin. So I’m going to finish up.” He lifts his razor again and turns to face the tiny mirror. Alucard reaches out and grasps the man’s raised wrist.

“No, you’re not. Banned, remember?”

“So you want me to walk around looking like an idiot?”

“You should be well accustomed by this point.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Trevor tugs his wrist away, but Alucard just grips more tightly and fixes him with a firm stare. Trevor stares back. Several tense seconds go by, until Alucard finally sighs.

“Why don’t you let me finish the job, then?”

Trevor squints. “You think I’d trust a vampire to put a blade to my neck?”

“How about a half-vampire?”

A look of weary contemplation crosses Trevor’s expression, and then annoyed defeat. “Fine.”

Alucard returns to Trevor with a fur, a bowl, a small whetstone, and a sliver of soap begged from Sypha. He clears snow from a small space, lays the fur down, and sits atop it. Trevor sits warily beside him as Alucard puts a handful of half-melting snow into the bowl and mixes the soap into it.

“What’s that?” Trevor asks with suspicion.

“Soap lather. It’ll lubricate the blade and allow a smoother shave.” Alucard hands Trevor the razor and whetstone. “Sharpen it, please.”

Trevor accepts the instruction with only a little grumbling. Once there is finally a suitable amount of daylight in the sky, Alucard takes the razor back, and then pats his thigh. “Place your head here, please.”

Trevor just glares. “I’m not putting my head in your lap.”

“I can’t shear what I can’t see, Belmont.”

Trevor tilts his chin up. “There, you can see it.”

“No, I can’t. You’re too short. Do you expect me to hunch?”

“I’m not short.” Trevor lowers his chin to glare straight on at him. “You’re just freakishly tall.”

After a fair amount of additional bickering, Alucard finally convinces Trevor to lie on his back and rest his head on Alucard’s thigh. Alucard ties his own hair back into a loose knot to keep it from his face and then dips his fingers in the bowl of lathered soap. Trevor flinches at the first touch of Alucard’s fingers to his cheek.

“Too cold?” Trevor gives a barely perceptible grunt in response, eyes averted and cheeks burning. Alucard sighs and sits back. “I’m making you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. Maybe Sypha should do this instead.”

“No, I’m fine. It’s just… new for me,” he admits. “I’m not used to being touched by anyone I’m not fighting or fucking. It’s fine, you can keep going.” At Alucard’s further hesitation, Trevor rolls his eyes, grabs his soapy fingers, and presses them to the pulse-point of his neck, just beneath the hinge of his exposed jaw. “Go on, then.”

So, Alucard goes on. His hand revisits the bowl several times to pick up more soap to lather on Trevor’s skin. Then, he brings the razor towards Trevor’s neck, below the Adam's apple where the hairline begins. With the razor angled upwards, Alucard touches it to Trevor’s skin and slowly draws it the blade upward until it reaches the line of his jaw. As it glides over flesh, it pushes lather and shorn hair in front of it like a shovel gathering snow.

By the razor’s third journey up Trevor’s neck, both men are considerably more relaxed. The fear of novelty wears off, and at some point Trevor even closes his eyes.

Once Trevor’s neck is done, Alucard moves on to his face. He allows himself to soak in Trevor’s strong jaw, the shallow dip of his cupid’s bow, the stick-straight bridge of his nose. His brows, usually fixed into a permanent glower, now relax in gentle arches. Some would think they need plucking, but Alucard finds himself appreciating the unruly shape of them. Alucard also lets his gaze linger on Trevor’s largest facial scar—this one most certainly not from a shaving mishap.

Alucard, without thinking, touches the scar where it sits high on his cheekbone. Trevor’s eyes open. The two men just watch each other for several moments, Alucard’s hand still on Trevor’s cheek.

“Is it hard for you to be so close to a human’s neck?”

Trevor’s question startles Alucard. “No. I don’t get cravings that way.” He could never allow it for himself.

“Was it hard for you earlier, when my neck was bleeding?”

A beat of fear flows through Alucard’s chest. He doesn’t want to answer, so instead he asks, “what are these questions, Belmont?”

“I thought you were calling me Trevor now.”

Alucard sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “Do you want me to call you that?”

“I don’t care what you call me.” Trevor looks aside, his brows are back in that tiresome glowering expression.

“Why are you asking me these things?”

Trevor shrugs, his shoulders pushing against Alucard’s leg. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Well, stop. I don’t want to nick you just because you can’t keep your mouth still.”

“Fine.”

Alucard rushes to finish the shave after that, and it’s a miracle he doesn’t hurt Trevor in his haste. Trevor sits up beside Alucard and stretches back and rubs his face. “Not bad.”

The trio had decided that they would stay put for the day due to Sypha’s injured feet as well as the heavy blanket of snow. The road would be slow to traverse as things were, and they would likely not find adequate shelter again. Despite the good sense of that decision, Sypha hates it. She is a nomad at heart, after all.

She makes herself busy all day, darning clothes and testing out soap recipes from ashes and rendered fat—any chores she can manage that let her remain seated. It’s early evening when Sypha is suddenly sick of sitting, to hell with her feet. She stands up to stretch her legs and walk the horses. She leaves a fretful Alucard behind, ignoring his protests that she should rest.

She catches Trevor kneeling under a tree, eyes closed, cheeks wet, hands clasped, mouth moving wordlessly. His clothes are less wrinkly than usual, and his hair is shaped into something that could almost be described as tidy. The Belmont crest sits proudly on his shirt where it’s normally hidden beneath other layers of clothing.

She could just leave him to this private moment, but she doesn’t want to, so she asks, “are you crying?”

Trevor’s head whips up to look at her, and then he groans. “What is it with you people always sneaking up on me?!”

She knows that he wants her to go away. Instead, she comes closer, reins of the horses still in hand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Just my lack of privacy.” He’s trying to sound angry, but his voice cracks.

Sypha kneels in front of him, puts a hand on one of his. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and holds it for a moment. Finally, he exhales and says, “I’m praying. It’s, uh, an important day.”

Sypha has to think about it. “Oh, Christmas Eve?”

“No. Well, kind of. It’s not about that.” He looks away, his voice so low that Sypha strains to hear. “I, um. It’s the anniversary of…” He waves a hand vaguely. “When they… when I lost—the Belmonts.”

Sypha feels embarrassed for intruding, but it’s too late to undo. She tries to think of something to say. The best she can come up with is, “I’m sorry, Trevor.”

He looks back at her, expression hardened into something not meant to look like grief. “Don’t be. It’s not a big deal.”

“What’s the prayer?”

He recites it, voice halting and uncertain. “Give rest, oh Christ. To thy servant with thy saints. Where sorrow and pain are no more.” A pause. “Something, something, life everlasting. I, uh. I forgot most of the words.”

Sypha smiles. “I know this one. I’ve memorized many hymns. Let’s recite it together, okay?”

Trevor locks his eyes on the ground between them, and nods.

Together, they sing the words—Sypha’s voice is clear and confident, Trevor stumbles behind her, but halfway through he finds his rhythm and remembers the shape of the prayer. Together, they finish the song, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.” And then they sing it again, because that’s all they can think to do.

Alucard doesn’t ask where they’ve been when Sypha leads Trevor and horses back. The three of them share a warm stew of root vegetables and rabbit. Alucard takes the bath he’d missed out on the night before, and then the trio climbs into the pile of furs and blankets for bed. Trevor doesn’t complain about being in the middle. In the night, Sypha’s forehead brushes his cheek, and she marvels at the silky smooth skin interrupted by tiny ridges of scars.

Chapter Text

December 25th, 1476

There have been remarkably few times in Sypha’s life where she slept further than arm’s width from another person. Her earliest memory is gazing up at a wide open sky, a biting cold breeze on her exposed cheeks, the comforting warmth and weight of bodies surrounding her. She must have been very young in this memory because she was in the middle of the sleeping group—a spot reserved for children and sickly.

Sypha knows that Trevor and Alucard are unaccustomed to communal sleep even though they never said so aloud. If an outside observer came across their camp, they might assume that the trio had been sleeping together for year, given how happily their limbs entangled under the furs. They wouldn’t notice how tightly Trevor clings, or how Alucard wraps his bedfellows around himself as if they were an extra blanket. It must be a novelty; why else would they embrace it like starving men before a feast?

It’s always a little sad to see the disappointment in their eyes when it’s time to change the night's watch. Neither man is ever eager to leave bed, nor are they pleased by the hassle of their bed companions switching places. She often finds herself keeping night’s watch longer than planned, just to allow them more time together.

During the day, it’s a different story. The men like to keep well-fortified walls between themselves and others; Trevor shies from any touch, and Alucard is doggedly aloof. It’s, quite frankly, exasperating. She can’t imagine denying herself proximity and friendship the way they both do. Is it some sort of homesteader cultural thing?

While cooking breakfast, a buckwheat porridge made sweet and pink with beetroot, Sypha decides to broach the subject. Trevor and Alucard are just beginning to mumble and stir out of bed.

“Why are you always in such a hurry to get away from each other in the morning?”

“Hmm?” Trevor mumbles in sleepy reply, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he rises to a wobbly standing position. “What was that? Don’t ask questions before I’ve had a piss. S’not polite.”

“You are both so snuggly at night, and then the moment daylight hits, you act as though everyone has leprosy.” Sypha gesticulates with a porridgey spoon in hand; flecks of mushy buckwheat splatter into the fire and sizzle.

Alucard sighs as he sits up, mumbles something about winter and practicality. Trevor is already stumbling through his escape from the cave, probably looking for a tree to mark.

She waits until Trevor returns to firmly push her point again. “It’s ridiculous. Aren’t we friends now? Why are you both so shy?”

“I am not shy!” Trevor is indignant.

Alucard is tending the horses by now; he tries to lift their feet to inspect their hooves, but they resist grumpily. He groans in frustration, then says, “For once, Trevor speaks truly. I don’t think either of us are exactly timid.”

“Fine, prove it. Hug.” Sypha sniffs. “Each other or me, I don’t care.” Trevor scoffs and says nothing. Alucard keeps his back to them, pretending to be engrossed by Ducky’s mane. After a few minutes, she says, triumphant, “Thought so.”

Trevor digs through his supplies and dons his weaponry. “Men don’t hug. We bite and kick and occasionally fuck beautiful women, but we don’t hug.”

“That’s completely untrue! I’ve seen men hug all the time! Their lovers, their family, their friends.”

“Those weren’t men, those were cucks.”

Alucard, clearly embarrassed to be on Trevor’s side in the argument, finds a new strategy. He turns away from the horses and gives her a gentlemanly smile. “I’d happily hug you, Sypha, if that’s your wish.”

Sypha smiles warmly, stands up, and expands her arms in invitation. Alucard casts a nervous glance to Trevor, who only sneers at him mockingly, and approaches.

After their embrace, Sypha says, “three.”

“Excuse me?”

“Out of ten. It was a pretty pathetic hug, Alucard.” She counts the reasons on her fingers: “It didn’t even last a second, you barely touched me at all, and I could tell you were even holding your breath. I felt like I was being hugged by a corpse.”

“I mean, he is undead,” Trevor ventured.

“I am not.”

Sypha turns to Trevor. “Your turn.”

“Ha ha. No.”

“Then admit you’re shy!”

“No.” And then, hastily, “because I’m not shy. Would a shy man have twenty notches on his bedpost by age eighteen?”

“You don’t have a bedpost. Anyway, how many of those were acquired sober?”

Trevor flounders. “It was metaphorical—and how should I know!”

Sypha looks at Alucard, shrugs. “See?”

Trevor pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Fuck you.” Trevor stomps over and firmly wraps his arms around her, almost too tightly. Sypha laughs, triumphant, and returns the hug with enthusiasm. Peeking over his shoulder, she sees Alucard watching, looking nervous and maybe a little envious. She waves a hand, beckoning him forth.

“May Alucard join in?”

Trevor grumbles, but opens an arm to make room.

Alucard approaches again, anxiety plain on his face. He enters the hug, and Trevor wraps them both in uncharacteristic warmth. Sypha maneuvers Alucard to be in the center, remembering his sleeping preferences. Three three of them stand in embrace for several long moments, and Sypha’s cheeks hurt from smiling. “I’m so proud of you both,” she tells them sweetly. “Ten.”

To Trevor’s great relief, they’re on the road by late morning. They had found their wagon exactly where they’d left it—a bit worse for wear thanks to accumulated snow collapsing the wagon cover, but still functional. Horses tacked and supplies loaded, the trio finds themselves back on the road towards Belmont Estate.

Trevor leads the way on foot, testing the mud and slush of the road for slipping hazards. The wagon follows at a far distance, and he’s grateful for the solitude. He needs to sort himself out. There’s a strange fluttering in his stomach, and a barrage of unwelcome feelings keep pushing themselves into the forefront of his mind.

Sure, he admits. The hug was nice. Sort of. But that doesn’t have to mean anything. It was probably just from Sypha’s chest pressing into his. It’s perfectly reasonable to enjoy a pair of breasts as nice as hers—what sort of man wouldn’t? Trevor feels a hint of fluttering lower down and nods to himself approvingly. Yes, that’s it. He’s merely horny, no shame in that. An easy enough situation to address in private later on.

Trevor’s foot slips out from under him on a frozen patch of mud, and suddenly he’s on his back in a puddle of dirty slush. He lays there for several beats, letting the cold seep into his clothes and sting his wounds. He thinks of Sypha’s sweet praise, teasing yet full of fondness. He thinks of Alucard, stiff at first, then gradually relaxing and resting his head on Trevor’s shoulder. Someone’s hand had rubbed Trevor’s back, just like his mother used to. Their commingling scents had resolved into a unique mixture of earth, spice, and sweat; the memory brings a strange, tight feeling in his chest.

Trevor chews his cheek harshly until he tastes copper, and then pulls himself to his feet. His entire backside is completely soaked through. He should probably rejoin the others and change into something dry.

Trevor heads back to do just that, and he sees the wagon coming around the road’s bend, his companions apparently oblivious of his fall. He frowns at the sight of Sypha’s arm around Alucard, all cozy like lovers. Alucard says something to her and they laugh. Sypha catches Trevor watching them and waves cheerfully.

Trevor turns around and kicks savagely at the ice he’d slipped on, breaking it apart into harmless chunks of frozen dirt. Once satisfied the horses could tread it safely, he continues forward. He refuses to shiver at the biting cold invading his body.

Some time later, Trevor smells smoke on the wind. His eyes roam the horizon and he catches sight of it, far far off. As they travel, the forest thins and gives ways to acres and acres of fallow fields, pocked by the occasional decrepit barn or farmhouse. And then, upon reaching the zenith of a hill, Arges comes into view.

Dragoslav watches the thin line of declining sunlight drift across the inn room’s walls, until finally, finally, it vanishes. To verify, he lifts a corner of a curtain with the tip of his knife, mindful to keep his distance. The sun is gone. Time to go.

Downstairs, the gathering of tavern patrons is sparse compared to that of the night before. It's to be expected; he figures most people would be in their homes, or what’s left of them, preparing for tonight’s raids.

Up until the night prior, Arges had been shielded from Dracula’s wrath. Trade had been poor and food expensive, but these are mundane problems found even in peacetime. The people of Arges were troubled by the times, but not especially so. They had expected this war to be like any other. Dragoslav smirks. Oh, how wrong they were.

He strides to the center of the tavern dining area and plants himself at a small table; its surface is stained and marked with prominent graffiti of genitalia. His clothing, which includes a moth-eaten wool cloak and a ratty fur hat, fits the setting well. He likes it, too–much better than the stuffy costumes at Dracula’s court. He carries nothing on his person but a handful of coin, a hunting knife, and a shard of mirror wrapped in cloth.

There is a heavy stench of smoke drifting through the boarded windows. Some of it is woody, most likely of lingering fires from the night before, but some of it carries delicious notes of human flesh. Funerary, he supposes. The first night’s raids had won a remarkable amount of human deaths, yet Arges had gotten off easy for its first raid. Half of the night creatures meant to partake never arrived; an entire flock of harpies, missing. Only two had made it back to the castle—or, at least near enough to be found in the woods by roaming guards, dead of injury and exhaustion.

It’s a great shame. Harpies are rare and magnificent creatures. Dragoslav himself had been in the hunting party that tracked down a coven of them in the northern Ural mountains, and he brought their corpses to Dracula’s court as material for the forge masters. It stung when he learned that they’d been lost—all of that beautiful, vicious strength, gone to waste. He had eagerly volunteered to go out, learn what befell them, and then bring them back for reforging. He plans to take his time, in no rush at all to return to that miserable castle.

Dragoslav drinks deeply from the tankard delivered by the barkeeper, and sighs with a smile. He had never lost the taste for drink acquired in a previous life. He signals for a refill.

A distant cacophony of voices draws near, and then the doors open to reveal a trio of people, obviously not local based on their accents and dress. There are three men—no, one is a woman. A Speaker, dressed masculinely. Another is fair enough to be obviously aristocratic. The third is more or less unremarkable except in how loudly he bellows out a demand for booze.

Dragoslav takes another mouthful of ale, and grunts in approval when the barkeeper refills his cup. The trio sit at another table, as far away as possible from him and the few other patrons. The barkeeper rushes to them to deliver three tankards. The boisterous one sweeps an arm out to claim all three for himself.

“Seriously, Trevor?” The woman says, and snatches one of the tankards from him—Trevor, apparently.

“Yes, seriously, Sypha,” Trevor snarles. “After watching you two climb all over each other like a couple of horny teenagers, I’d like to drink myself blind.”

“Excuse me?” Sypha looks towards the fair man. “Do you remember this happening? I certainly do not.”

The fair man looks amused. “If two people sitting near each other counts as obscene, I’d hate to hear what you think of hand holding. Were you perhaps raised in a nunnery?”

“Close enough, actually.” Trevor empties the first tankard, starts his second. “But that’s irrelevant. You’re very obviously obsessed with each other. Perhaps you both should get your own room and I’ll just bed down in the fucking stables.”

Sypha laughs and begins a rebuttal, but the fair man extends an arm to stop Trevor from taking another deep drink. “Slow down, we need you sober.”

Trevor tears his hand away. “I fight better drunk.” He downs the drink and shouts to the barkeeper for another, and then continues, “not that this horse piss will get me there.” Dragoslav smirks and signals for another refill himself. Trevor is not wrong; the ale’s been watered down generously.

Trevor and Sypha continue their good-natured bickering, but the fair man falls silent for a time. He casts the briefest glance towards Dragoslav. Ah, noticed already?

Perhaps the missing harpies can wait. The night creatures wouldn’t begin their assault until he’s safely outside of Arges’ walls. Dragoslav had been planning to begin his search on the road to Gresit, but this colorful troupe is too delightful to ignore.

Smiling, Dragoslav stands and brings his tankard to the bar for another refill. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fair man excuse himself and then approach Dragoslav at the bar. Although they do not look at each other directly, Dragoslav can clearly see his sharp cheekbones and royal profile. It strikes him as strangely familiar.

“Sorry for staring, friend,” Dragoslav laces his voice with charm. “I could not help myself. Your friend draws attention.”

“Of course. I only came to apologize for the noise. Here, allow me.” The fair man places a golden coin on the surface to pay for Dragoslav’s refill. The coin’s worth far exceeds the drink’s. Showing off? Or perhaps simply oblivious of the economy of peasants.

Dragoslav doesn’t bother hiding his pleasure. He likes stupid nobles. Gullible, fun in the bedroom, and absolutely delicious. Most vampires will satisfy themselves with blood alone, but Dragoslav has occasionally indulged in consuming flesh as well–particularly favoring the livers made fatty from a decadent lifestyle.

“Thank you, friend,” Dragoslav says easily, “Allow me to purchase you a drink in kind.”

“I am not thirsty tonight. Perhaps instead, you could share some news with me. We have been traveling for some time; why is Arges in such a terrible state?” As the fair man speaks, he does not face him directly. Peculiar. 

“I’m sure you know of Dracula’s war. I’m afraid the violence has finally reached this place, just yesterday. There’s talk that the night creatures will attack again tonight.” He leans closer, tries to catch the fair man’s eye. “What did you say your name was?”

The man resists eye contact. “I did not say, but it is Adrian.”

“Adrian.” Dragoslav enjoys the taste of the name on his tongue. “I am Drago. Tell me–why are you looking away from me so shyly? Have I done something to offend?”

Adrian freezes, and then finally turns to face Dragoslav. “Not at all.” A fang flashes in the dim oil lantern light. “Forgive my caution.”

Dragoslav smiles, suddenly comprehending. “My friend, there is nothing to fear from me.” He feels a pang of disappointment–no fatty livers for his dinner–but also curious delight at the strangeness of it all. “You raise many questions, but I will ask only one.” He leans forward and lowers his voice, “Are you hiding from your duties to the war?”

“Very much the opposite.” Adrian smiles. “I just prefer to work quietly.”

“You have picked the wrong companions for that,” Dragoslav says. They are both acutely aware that, in the back corner of the tavern, Trevor and Sypha are engaged in a battle of verbal wit that grows feverishly in both volume and incoherence. Neither seem particularly sober by this point.

Adrian’s smile tightens into something exasperated. “You’re not wrong.”

“Well, if you’d like to follow, I know a quieter spot to pass the time while your friends tire themselves out.” He tips his head towards the stairs–he still has the room until morning, after all. 

Adrian looks towards his companions, who seem to have completely forgotten his existence, and gives a long suffering sigh. “Thank you, but I had better keep my eye on them.”

“They will be fine for a short time.” Dragoslav puts a hand on Adrian’s knee. The bartender notices this, and then pretends he hasn’t. A wise choice. In the past, when anyone accused Dragoslav of sodomy, he would simply tear out their throats in response.

Adrian, however, raises his brows in surprise at Dragoslav’s invitation. After a moment or two of consideration, though, the corner of his mouth quirks into a sly grin. “An attractive offer. Still...” Again, he looks back at his friends. “It will have to be quick.”

Dragoslav stands, stretches his back. “As you wish, my friend.”

Dragoslav gently herds Adrian inside the room, begins to follow him inside, and stops suddenly. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He closes the door, leaving the other man inside, and then slinks further into the hallway. Cautiously, he takes a fabric bundle from the pouch on his belt and unwraps it, revealing a shard of mirror beneath. “There’s been a development,” he whispers into the gleaming surface. “The apostate son of Dracula is in Arges.”

Chapter Text

Continuing the night of December 25th, 1476

Hector stares at the shard on his nightstand. Normally just a simple piece of mirror, now its surface is dark as if covered with something. A peek of light at one corner reveals a fanged mouth that whispers something selcouth. Alucard has returned to the living. 

Hector rests his hands on the nightstand. “What’s his status? Is he alright?”

“Bring reinforcements,” the mirror replies grimly. Its surface ripples and morphs back into a simple reflection of the dusty stone ceiling of Hector’s bedroom. 

“Well, then,” he says to the empty room. Is it treasonous to be happy?

For not the first time on this endlessly miserable day, Alucard curses himself. The anxious knot of unease that had been tightening in his belly since last night is now agonizing. It makes his muscles tense to the point of trembling, and his vision is going red. He needs Dragoslav to open the door. He needs to fix this, somehow.

What was it that Dragoslav had said? ‘I’m afraid the violence has finally reached this place, just yesterday.’  There was no trace of sorrow in his voice. His cheeks were tense, like he was poorly suppressing a vile grin. Alucard had recognized Dragoslav immediately, for at one point, it was Alucard’s duty to learn the names and faces of all vampire nobility. Dragoslav was always known for his quiet demeanor in court, but many unsettling rumors orbited him. Alucard’s mother did not like him, so Alucard didn’t, either.

However, it is not Dragoslav who makes Alucard tremble now. Last night, Alucard had been resting by the campfire at the mouth of the cave. Trevor and Sypha were gone–he could hear them praying together but tried not to pay attention out of respect. And then Alucard heard something else, far away, near the road. Fleshy wings beating, wet snarls of some demonic language. More night creatures, traveling close to where the harpies had been. 

Alucard had almost stood, almost called for his friends, almost led them to the second fight in as many nights. But he didn’t. Instead, he thought of the harpies–how poorly Trevor and Sypha faired. They had been healing, but they weren’t ready for another fight. They were only humans. So, an hour later, when his companions returned to the cave and prepared for bed, Alucard said nothing. And then today, all day, even before he smelled heavy smoke in Arges’ direction, Alucard regretted his choice.

If Alucard had acted differently, Arges might be a different town tonight. The Church bells would be ringing joyfully, welcoming all to an evening Mass. Every humble cottage would emit the happy smells of hearty meats, seasonal pastries, and spiced wines. Once again, Alucard’s inaction has made him complicit in his father’s evil.

Alucard is brought back to the present by the sound of approaching steps, which stop at the other side of the door. Alucard holds his breath, his vision sharpens. He stares hard at the door knob as it turns. He readies his sword, mental grip on the pommel tremoring.

The door opens an inch and a knife meets Alucard’s first strike. The man wielding it, Drago, slithers inside. His grin is too wide, and his fangs are grotesquely long. “This is not the swordplay I was expecting to engage in, friend,” he says. “But I’m not complaining.”

Alucard’s sword takes another thrust, and this time, Dragoslav’s calloused hand shoots out to grab the blade. Alucard’s mental hold on the sword tugs, but the man’s grip is iron. He doesn’t show any reaction to how the blade cuts into his calloused palm and fingers.

“What have I done to earn the wrath of the son of Dracula, I wonder? It’s not as if I am the traitor here.”

Briefly giving up on the sword, Alucard punches him in the jaw. The momentary shock of it loosens Dragoslav’s hold on the blade, and Alucard wrenches it free to bring around for a wide swing. Dragoslav recovers from the punch quickly enough to dodge, and then he shoots his knife forward. Alucard is too slow. The knife plants itself deep in his core. Judging by the blood that gurgles forth, Dragoslav lucked out into piercing something important.

Alucard rips Dragoslav’s hand away, and the knife goes with it. He tenses his abdomen, willing the tissue there to stitch itself back together, but something’s wrong. The healing is sluggish, and there’s a growing sense of numbness radiating from the wound.

“Count yourself lucky, friend.” Dragoslav’s voice is mocking. Alucard bears the sword down upon him again, but the man easily deflects it. “A pure-blood would be dead by now.”

“I’ve never seen a vampire wield a holy blade before,” Alucard grunts through gritted teeth. His limbs feel heavy and sluggish. It shouldn’t have this dramatic of an effect.

“Nice, isn’t it? The blade is from a melted reliquary said to carry one of Saint Peter’s finger bones. Probably bullshit, but very powerful bullshit.” 

Alucard’s sword swings, but Dragoslav avoids it with a side-step, and then tackles him to the floor. Alucard morphs his nails into deadly points, and he shoves them knife-like into Dragoslav’s midsection. At the same time, Dragoslav’s teeth rip into his neck.

The numbness from the holy wound intermingles with the numbness of his sudden blood loss. Alucard’s sharpened nails lose their edge and his limbs fall prone. His mental tether to the longsword fades. It drops to the floor with a heavy thud. 

Dragoslav pauses a moment to lift his head and smile ghoulishly. His face and thick beard are coated in Alucard’s sticky, dripping blood. “I’ve never had dhampir before,” he says conversationally, as if talking about the weather. “Milder than expected, but pleasant.” He descends to drink again.

And then the door opens. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Help me, I’m being eaten by a vampire,” is what Alucard tries to say, but what comes out is “ghaghubuk.”

Apparently, the message still gets across. Dragoslav barely has time to react before a rod of ice impales his skull, stopping inches above Alucard’s own face. The body above him slumps immediately, twitching in the way that a fresh corpse is wont to do. Alucard is too dazed to push it off, so two pairs of arms do it for him.

“Hey, hey,” a calloused hand comes to pressure Alucard neck where the blood still flows. "Fuck, Adrian.” The blurry face hovering above Alucard turns towards the other person in the room. “He’s bleeding out–what–we need to—”

Alucard gurgles out an attempt at instructing first aid techniques. It’s a mistake. The blood pooled in his throat catches in his airway, startling him into a fit of violent coughing.

After a brief panicked squabbling, they rotate him onto his side and his airway clears. “Blood,” Alucard wheezes.

“Yes, we know, there’s lots of blood–”

“I need–” Alucard coughs out more moisture from his trachea. “–blood.”

“Yes, I know–”

“He means he needs to drink, Belmont.”

“Oh! Fuck–okay–” 

A wrist is suddenly pushing at Alucard’s face. He opens his mouth to bite, but hesitates, “Sure?”

“Christ, yes I’m fucking sure!” The wrist pushes against Alucard’s teeth. “Now is not the time for fucking table manners!”

Alucard drinks. The blood is salty, metallic, savory. There’s a bitter edge to it, which must be alcohol. The wrist is trembling. He wants to bite down harder, to keep it from getting away. He pushes that ravenous predator’s instinct out of his consciousness and releases Trevor’s arm.

“Okay, my turn.” Sypha shoves her wrist in Alucard’s face, which is kind of rude if he’s being honest, but he bites down anyway. Her blood carries the same note of alcohol. Alucard dreads the hangover he’ll have tomorrow.

Hector watches Dracula, or more accurately, the back of Dracula’s chair, rimlit by low embers in the fireplace. 

“...Dracula?”

“Yes, I heard you.” Another long pause, interrupted only by soft crackling from the fire. “Tell me, what is your advice?”

“Well, it depends, I suppose.” Hector looks back towards the door, wishing Isaac was here. He’s so much better at reading Dracula’s silences.“Do you wish to… capture him? Kill him?” The words ache as he says them. Hector had once seen Dracula carry a toddler-aged Adrian on his shoulders, the boy’s chubby hands tugging at his ears like the reins of a horse. And now Hector stands here, casually suggesting filicide. 

“I wish for Arges to burn.”

“Right.” Hector coughs awkwardly. “Well, we do have a fleet of night creatures waiting outside Arges walls, ready to go. We don’t have to wait on Dragoslav’s signal. I’m sure he’d appreciate the help.”

Dracula’s clawed hand peeks from behind the chair and waves him away. “Yes, good. I trust you to handle this. But before you go–” Dracula leans over the side of the chair to look at Hector. His skin is papery thin and his eyes as dull as Hector had ever seen them. “I don’t need to be kept informed about the status of Alucard. Simply do what must be done.”

Alucard forces himself to stop drinking, even though he knows he’s not yet fully healed. He cannot afford to leave his friends anemic. He releases Sypha’s wrist, and smiles gratefully to her. "Thank you.” He looks at Trevor. “Both of you.”

Trevor looks away, as if embarrassed. Sypha returns Alucard’s smile, but dismisses his gratitude with a wave of her hand. “What was that? We saw that you’d left with him, but we didn’t know why.”

Trevor, crouching on the other side of Alucard and inspecting the corpse, asks, “did he ambush you?”

“No. I tried to ambush him. Without causing a scene.”

“You kind of did anyway,” Sypha says. “Everyone downstairs could hear crashing, so we told them you have the falling sickness.” 

“How did he get you?” Trevor sounds baffled. “He looks like nothing special.”

“He wasn’t, really. His knife is.”

Trevor makes an intrigued hum. He fishes through the corpse’s belongings until he finds it and holds it up. “This one?” 

Alucard subconsciously leans away from the blade. “It’s blessed. Extremely so. More than your whip, even. I’m surprised he was even capable of touching the handle.”

Trevor grins and pockets it. “Good to know.” He continues rifling through the man’s things.

Sypha asks, “why did you fight?”

“I recognized him, and it turns out he recognized me. He used to come to court often.” Alucard remembers something and breathes out a halfhearted laugh. “He was not very popular. There were rumors that he occasionally drank from other vampires. It would explain why he carried that knife, I suppose.”

Trevor barks out a laugh. “Vampire cannibalism? I like that. Let’s hope it catches on.”

“It sounds a little hypocritical for other vampires to look down on that,” Sypha says. “Drinking human blood is cannibalistic, too, after all.”

Alucared gives pause at that. Does she consider him a cannibal? 

“I don’t know about that,” Trevor mutters, back to searching the body. “Vampires aren’t people, it doesn’t count.”

Should Alucard be offended?

Sypha shakes her head. “Vampires are definitely people. Otherwise, Adrian couldn’t have been conceived.”

“Sure he could’ve. If horses and donkeys can fuck, so can humans and vampires.”

Alucard raises a brow, “are you calling me a mule?”

“Sure as hell stubborn en–” Trevor loses track of his words, distracted by a lump of fabric pulled from Dragoslav’s pocket. “Odd…”

Alucard and Sypha both move closer to see. Trevor unwraps the parcel and a glimpse of reflective surface pokes through. Alucard, abruptly realizing what it is, shoots his hand forward to stop Trevor’s. 

“Keep it covered, that’s–”

The sound of church bells, distant yet impressively loud, interrupt him. The three of them tense, listening.

“Evening Mass, or an alarm…?” Trevor mutters. 

Alucard strains to hear. The damn bells are so loud that it’s hard to make out but…  “I hear them. Night creatures. Time to go.”

The three bolt to their feet, and only once he’s standing does Alucard feel the effects of his half-healed injuries and the alcohol from his friends' blood. He manages to hide it well enough that they don’t notice and follows them out into the night.

Hector stares down at the mangled remains of the harpy lying on his work table. One of her clawed hands is half severted and her belly is pocketed with stab wounds. Strangely, most of her feathers are charred if not burnt away entirely; when he brings her back, she probably won’t be able to fly.

“I heard Alucard has returned to the living.”

Hector turns towards the doorway, and smiles at the man standing there. “Isaac. Come in.”

Isaac walks into the workshop in that stiff way of his, back rod straight and hands clasped behind him. He joins Hector at the table, and they both regard the harpy in a few moments of silence.

Hector decides to ask the obvious question. “Do you think Adrian did this?”

“It’s possible. We know Alucard had been in Gresit previously, and now he is in Arges.” Isaac adds the slightest inflection to the name; it’s his passive aggressive way of reminding Hector that he should refer to Alucard by his title. “We lost track of the flock somewhere between those two cities.” Isaac picks up one of the burnt feathers that had fallen off a wing. “But I have never seen him use fire in this way.”

Hector sighs. “That’s what I keep coming back to. The way you can see clear boundaries where the burns begin, as if fire’s been painted on, makes me think it’s magic. I don’t think Adr– Alucard is capable of that.”

“Perhaps he has a companion.”

Hector laughs. “Ah, that old dream. Making a friend who doesn’t know his father.”

Isaac pointedly does not laugh. He merely looks at him, and the intensity of his attention makes Hector flush. “You speak too fondly of our enemy.”

Hector rubs the back of his head. “Enemy is a strong word. Maybe he’s more of a… conscientious objector?” 

Isaac sighs. “Any opponent to the war is our enemy. You must remember that. If any of the generals heard you speaking this way, they’d accuse you of treason.” 

“That’d be rich, coming from any of them. Mutinous bastards.” Hector rests his hip against the work table and crosses his arms. “I don’t think I’m the only one who’s unsure about how to feel about Alucard. Dracula himself won’t say a word about him; I think he’s afraid of what he might say.”

Isaac’s face hardens. “Be careful of how you speak. I will not abide–”

“I’m not insulting him, or saying he’s being at all unreasonable. I think it’s complicated for him. It sure as hell is complicated for me.” Hector frowns at Isaac. “You remember how things used to be, before Lisa died. Adrian was our friend, practically family. He called us both unchi.”

“We are not his uncles.”

“Would you have said that two years ago?”

Isaac is quiet for a moment, and then says, “I repeatedly asked him to call me Isaac, but he refused.” 

Hector laughs. “I remember. You’re very easy to pick on, you know. He figured that out quickly.”

“He has never made me lose my composure.”

“Exactly. You just take it all very stoically. You’d think he would’ve gotten bored of you, but he liked the challenge.” Hector smiles fondly, thinking back to ridiculous pranks that Isaac usually outsmarted, but every once in a while fell for. Once, Isaac had gone the whole day completely unaware of a childish butterfly painted on the back of his head. Hector still has no clue how Adrian managed to pull that off. 

The pause in conversation is briefly interrupted when the shard of mirror, sitting on the far corner of the table, suddenly alights. It shows a glimpse of a stranger's face; somebody else’s distant voice says, “keep it covered,” and then the mirror goes dark again. 

After several moments of stunned silence, Hector says, “I suppose we just lost Dragoslav.”

“A shame. He was one of the less annoying generals.”

Chapter Text

December 26th, 1476

Fire. Blood. Screams running out of breath.

His eyes are searing from the blinding light and dry, ashy heat roaring in his face. A hand on the scruff of his neck, bruising and immovable, large enough around to touch both earlobes. Fingers tangling in his hair, pulling taught, forcing his head up to watch. A knee jabbing into his spinal cord, the weight of a man twice his size behind it. His lungs ache, too compressed for a full breath. The little air he does inhale is acrid and choking, full of smoke. He waits.

The body bearing down on him whispers something into his ear. He can’t remember most of the words, but he will never forget the feeling of them–ghoulish delight of what’s been wrought, and promises of more to come. Little Belmont boy, the body says. Little witch boy. You’ll never see the sun again. He waits.

The knee’s pressure abates as the body adjusts its position. The hand on his neck loosens, just for a moment. He does not wait any longer. He twists around abruptly, ignores the hair ripping from his scalp and the crunching of a rib. He knows there is a shitty little whittling knife on the body’s belt. Even at this awkward angle, snatching and then burying it in the muscled abdomen above him is trivial.

The body roars, but a knife in the gut is more than enough to disable it. He sits up and scrambles away, until his back is nearly scalded by the roaring fire behind him. He wishes he didn’t leave the knife in the writhing body’s belly, but he knows better than to try retrieving it now.

There had been others earlier, but he does not see them now. There is a newly burning structure down the hill that he recognizes as the stable house. The mob must have moved on. He breathes out a thanks to God.

He does not yet blame God.

He gets on his belly and crawls, parallel along the burning walls of the manor. Escaping embers char his clothes and skin. The body shouts for help. He flattens himself further, willing himself to be invisible against the blaze of the fire, and keeps going. When he is halfway around the burning manor and he can no longer hear voices, he stands and runs. He runs and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs and runs and 

Trevor jerks upright, thrashes his way out of the tangle of limbs and blankets and furs. It takes him two attempts to stand, and even then, swirling vertigo almost brings him back to his knees. He is coughing and halfway out the building when the first rush of bile rises to his throat.

The cold wind and weak pre-dawn light outside is enough to dull the sharp edges of Trevor’s panic, but he vomits a few more times before the angry roiling of his guts subside. He looks back at the barnyard he’d escaped with bleary vision. The inn they’d chosen the night prior, before everything went to shit, caught fire along with half of Arges. They’d come to the stable once things had settled, expecting to see it along with their cart and horses burned to nothing, but miraculously it had avoided any damage. The stablemaster had allowed the three of them to bed down in a stall for the night.

Trevor is well accustomed to sleeping in stables. They’re always kept warm, and there’s a strange comfort to be found in the company of friendly, drowsing animals. He is not, however, accustomed to sharing a space closed in as that. They’d all practically piled on top of each other, and Trevor somehow ended up on his stomach with someone’s elbow prodding his back. That, along with the acrid smoke of last night's fires in the air, is probably what triggered the nightmare. 

Trevor raises his eyes to look eastward, where the first hints of sunshine peak above the forested hills. You’ll never see the sun again, the man had said in his dream of a memory. Proven wrong, yet again.

Sypha wakes up with a sneeze. Her eyes open to the sight of Adrian under a pile of blankets, his arm draped over her belly and head resting on her chest. Snoozing on him is a barn cat curled into a nearly perfect sphere. Its eyes barely open to peek at her, and upon finding her apparently uninteresting, lets them drift closed again. Sypha wrinkles her nose. 

“What’s wrong?” Adrian peeks up at her, wearing a sleepy expression eerily similar to feline’s.

“Cat’s make me sneeze.” He lifts an arm to shoo the cat away, but she stops him by saying, “don’t be rude.” 

Adrian gives her a lazy grin. “You’re worried about offending a cat?”

Sypha feels her own smile tugging at her lips. “Cats can be vicious when angry.”

“Fair,” he says, eyes falling closed again.

Sypha pulls Adrian even closer to herself with a lazy sigh. The cat alerts for a moment at the shifting, and then resettles. “This is nice,” she says.

“Mm.”

She looks down at his slack expression. The cowlick at his hairline, his pale eyelashes, straight and narrow nose, the mild sloping of his cupid’s bow. She brings a hand up to trace the curve of his jawline, and then down the side of his neck where his skin is still marred from last night. “I’m angry with you,” she says, voice soft.

His eyes shoot open at that. “Are you?”

“Why didn’t you tell us what you were planning last night, with that vampire?”

“I… was misguided,” he admits. “I didn’t anticipate the holy knife.”

“I would have been angry even if you didn’t get a single scratch.”

“Really?” His tone is skeptical, carrying an edge of irritation. “Doesn’t seem likely.”

Sypha bristles. “Why invite us along with you, if you won’t use us?”

He sits up, looks at her with a displeased furrow in his brow. “You’re not something to be used.” The cat, jostled by the movement, jumps off of him with a disgruntled mewl, but he pays it no mind. “I was trying to lure him away from you, to keep you safe.”

“You don’t think Trevor and I can handle a vampire?”

“You aren’t even able to handle me,” he shoots back. Heat stings Sypha’s cheeks; in their first meeting, that first fight, she thought she’d impressed him, at least. Adrian looks away. “As for Trevor, I don’t think he’s stronger than you.”

Sypha throws out her hands in exasperation. “Great, so I’m not the worst in the group. So comforting. Why do you even keep us around?”

Adrian pinches his nose and makes a frustrated sound. “You’re both extremely capable fighters. The strongest people I know, outside my own father.” He lowers his hand to give her a pleading look. “I don’t want to endanger you pointlessly. You’re both so…” He looks away. “Humans break so easily.”

Sympathy tugs at Sypha, threatening to unravel her anger. She doesn’t allow it. “I fight for myself. You will not coddle me.”

He glares at the dirt floor. “My mother said something similar to that. My father respected her wishes, and now she’s dead.”

“He was right to listen to her.”

Adrian shoots her a snarling glare. “You truly think so? You think he was right to let her burn?”

Sypha’s anger does vanish at that. She stares at him, heart aching at the hurt that shows through the clenching of his jaw. “It wasn’t his fault,” she says, voice soft. “It was a tragedy. It was an act of unspeakable cruelty. But your father did not let your mother die. It sounds like your father let her live, as she chose.”

Adrian’s face slackens for a moment, and then re-hardens into fury. “My father is a monster. He didn’t intend her death, but he could’ve done so much more to prevent it. Now he punishes the world for his mistake.”

Sypha gives a minuscule shake of her head. “It’s not his fault.”

“This war is not his fault?”

She wants to touch him. She doesn’t think he’d welcome it. “Adrian.” Sypha falters, searching for the words that will fix his hurt. “You didn’t cause any of this.”

Adrian’s eyes dampen. “I know you think so,” he says in a shaky voice, “but you’re wrong. I let her die, let him break.”

“You can’t control those things.”

“Sypha’s right.” She and Alucard both startle, turn to see Trevor standing at the entrance of the stall, a parcel of food in his arms. “The world is shit. It’s been shit long before you were born, and will continue to be shit longer after you die.” Trevor pauses. “Assuming you can die. Point is, you didn’t start the fire.” With a grunt, he drops to sit beside them both. “I didn’t start the fire, either. The bastards that did are probably long dead by now, good fucking riddance.” He opens the parcel and starts setting out breakfast–bread, cheese, dried meats. He pulls out a half-empty bottle of wine, pops the cork, and brings it to his lips for a long drink. Sypha and Adrian watch in half-stunned silence. 

Finally, Trevor continues, “I understand the temptation to blame yourself, because that implies you have control. Maybe if you do everything perfectly from now on, no more terrible things will ever happen to you again.” He rips off a chunk of bread and stuffs it into his mouth. Voice muffled, he says, “Trust me, terrible things will always happen.”

A few beats of silence. Alucard says, “I genuinely can’t tell if I’m supposed to feel comforted or not.”

Sypha breaks into laughter. “Were you aiming for hopelessness, or did that just sneak in?”

Trevor shrugs, grinning. “Hope is overrated.”

Chapter Text

December 31st, 1476

Arges is long behind them, the Belmont estate long ahead. Alucard cannot bear to wait any longer. 

He stares into the campfire, blindingly brilliant against the night. His companions have long drifted off, Sypha in the midst of some exciting dream judging by her soft murmurs. The horses lie in half sleep; Iona’s ear twitches at the sound of some small bird taking flight from a nearby tree. Alert enough to keep watch in his stead, he decides. 

Silently as he can manage, which is pretty damn silent, he slinks away from the camp with a parcel and a fur tucked beneath his arm. He walks as far as he dares, until the crackling of the fire is just out of earshot. He stops to listen for other sounds. A small mammal digging beneath the snow near his feet. An owl preening its feathers. Hopefully, unless a vampire were paying close attention, this would do.

Even on a moonless night like this, there might be enough light to call attention, so he hunches down and drapes the fur above himself. Here, in this silent and lightless makeshift nook, Alucard finally, finally, unwraps the parcel containing Dragoslav’s stolen shard of mirror from those many nights ago. 

As soon as the final layer of fabric begins to fall away from the mirror’s surface, candlelight falls on Alucard’s face. He curses inwardly, points the mirror towards the fur, hoping it doesn’t reflect the emitted light. He tenses. If any light or sound were to come from his end, his cover would be blown, and this would have all been a fool’s errand. 

A woman’s voice comes through. “The castle lands in Braila, by the river. Dracula’s loyal forces will leave the castle to take the town. My own forces will take the castle and unseat Dracula–saving your life. Going forward to control and surround the human race.”

Carmilla’s eyes are glowing red, fangs stretched and gleaming, clawed hands are flexing as if it’s all she can muster to keep from tearing out his heart. Hector holds himself tall, refusing to tremble against her angry, hungry glare. He closes his eyes, takes a breath. She wouldn’t hurt him. She is too clever for that.

He speaks. “Dracula is powerful. Your forces alone may not be enough.”

So suddenly, the tension in Carmilla relaxes into smug victory, as if she actually had eaten him up, and now enjoys the satisfaction of a good meal. “You’re right. They may not be. Which is why you must do something for me."

Once she’s gone, Hector slumps against his worktable. It’s a truly baffling plan. He glances over at the pile of bodies, future night creatures to be forged by his hand. The mangled corpse of a holy man draped on top. He chews the inside of his cheek. How can she be so confident it would work? How can an undead priest make holy water?

Dracula is his master, his mentor, his friend. Carmilla is not wrong about the madness of the war, but is this truly the best solution? Could Dracula not be convinced to change paths peacefully? Does Hector truly wish to give up on him? 

“God, if Adrian were here…” But even Adrian could not stop his father. Perhaps Carmilla is right.

And then behind him, a voice says, “...go on. If I were there, what?” Hector jumps, suppresses a yelp, and spins around. There on the surface of the worktable, left out in case anyone tried to connect, but half-forgotten when nobody did, is the mirror shard. Except now, barely perceptible, is the face of Adrian Tepes. Hector’s eyes go so wide that he fears they’ll fall from their sockets.

Adrian’s image waits patiently as he lifts the shard with trembling hands. Breathlessly, Hector asks, “How much have you heard?” 

“You plan to betray my father.”

“No, I…” Hector takes a shaky breath. “I haven’t yet decided. I still love the Tepes family very much.”

Adrian blinks his yellow glowing eyes. “We are not family anymore.”

“You are. You are.” Hector pulls the mirror closer to his face, grips it tightly. Its razored edges bite into his palms. “Come home.”

“Working on it, actually,” he says.

“Do you plan to take the castle for yourself, then?”

Adrian lifts one shoulder, half-shrugging. “I plan to kill my father. I don’t much care about the other details.”

“Do you not believe he can change willingly?”

“I do not.”

Hector sighs, closes his eyes. “You could not stop him the first time.”

“I was just a boy. A coward.”

“You were never a coward.” He smiles fondly, even with the gloom of it all. “Still a boy, though.”

Adrian drops his gaze and, for barely a instant, grief shows plainly on his face. He re-steels himself, and asks, “Will you aid that woman?”

As helpless Hector had felt before, he cannot help but believe in his nephew, and by extension in Dracula. There has to be some way to restore what they lost when Lisa died. “No.”

Adrian appears to think for a moment. “Where will the castle be in two month’s time?”

Hector shrugs. “I’m sure not even Dracula knows. There is division in the council.”

“Go to Danesti.”

Hector laughs. “Belmont land. Carmilla guessed correctly, then.”

Adrian gazes at him solemnly. “Will you aid me, Hector?”

“Yes.” Hector wonders if he’s lying.

Adrian slumps a bit, as if relieved. “Keep your mirror covered, especially during treasonous conversations with ambitious ladies. Check it once a day at sunrise. I’ll keep in touch.” 

Hector nods wordlessly, and then the mirror goes blank as it had been before. He puts it down, stretches. Best go find Dracula, he figures.

Trevor is sitting at the fire when Adrian returns. “That was a pretty long shit,” he says mildly, poking at ashes with a stick.

Adrian sits beside him to stare glumly at the flames. After an extended silence he says, “I used the mirror.”

Trevor pauses. After a week of not letting anybody even see the damn thing, he goes and secretly uses it in the middle of the night? Pretty fucking typical, actually. He sighs. “And?”

“An old friend was on the other side. I asked him to take the castle to Danesti in late February.”

“Mm. Handy.”

“Indeed.”

“Will he actually do it?”

“Who can say? But we have a contact now. That’s something.”

Trevor leans back, braces his gloved hands against the snowy earth. He looks at his companion, corpsely pale even in the warmly-tinted firelight. The punctures in his neck have already faded away, and the last of the bruising have shrunk to a small patch of mild, sickly yellow. Trevor hasn’t gotten a good look at the stab wound in Adrian’s belly for days, but judging from the stiffness of his posture, its healing is not nearly as far along. Makes Trevor nervous to see his friend so slow to recover. Fucking holy weapons, huh? 

So, Trevor broaches the touchiest of subjects for the billionth time this week: “You hungry?”

Adrian’s expression hardens. “No.”

“You sure? Look pretty hungry to me.” Trevor risks leaning over to pinch Adrian’s arm teasingly. “Skin and bones.”

Adrian looks at him with irritation plain on his face. At Trevor’s beseeching smirk, he says, “you wouldn’t be smiling if I took you up on your offer.”

Trevor’s heart thumps. Sounds like a maybe to him. “Try me.”

Adrian considers him for a moment, and then shifts his body to face Trevor full on. “How’s your arm?”

Trevor looks at it, two scabbed over tooth marks sit on the tender flesh near his inner elbow. “It’s fine. Forgot it was there.”

“I could’ve drained you dry.”

“It’d take a dozen vampires to get their fill before I go empty.” Trevor supplements his boast with a toothy, shit-eating grin. Adrian stares at him. Trevor can’t tell if it’s the fire reflecting in his eyes or not, but they’re looking a smidge more red than usual. “Am I getting under your skin? You know how to shut me up.”

Adrian glances over to the pile of bedding, probably checking on Sypha. Apparently satisfied that she’s still asleep, he scoots closer to Trevor and says, voice low and threatening, “I know many ways to shut you up, Belmont. More than just the one you’re thinking of.”

The bite marks on his forearm pulse and burn in a not-entirely-unpleasant way. “Just take a fucking drink,” he whispers.

Adrian reaches out, puts a hand on Trevor’s shoulder, gently urges him closer. The sudden contact makes Trevor jump; he feels his entire body heat with embarrassment (and maybe something else). He allows Adrian to close the distance, until he feels the man’s breath on his own face. While Trevor’s exhalations are warm and visible in the frosty air, Adrian’s are curiously not. Even his lungs run cold. For some reason, the thought makes Trevor shiver. 

Adrian watches him for a moment, and then pulls back. “No,” Adrian says firmly. Trevor had not noticed when his eyes went fully red, but the shift back to yellow is abrupt enough to startle. “It frightens you too much.”

“I wasn’t fucking scared,” Trevor growls. He was, but he wasn’t. “Fucking do it.”

Adrian stands up, brushes dirt and snow from his trousers. “I’m tired. Take the last watch for me.”

“Fucking coward,” Trevor puts his back to Adrian and glowers at the fire. His body trembles with thousands of emotions he dare not name aloud.

Alucard does not find sleep for the remainder of the night. Instead he imagines, over and over, what he almost did to his friend. With his friend. What a fucking mess.

Chapter Text

January 6th, 1477

Sypha kneels beside the barrel and rests her hand against its wooden paneling. The air is frosty, but the wood warms beneath her palm. It had been filled to the brim with snow that now melts under Sypha’s directed heat, until the barrel is left half full of steaming water. Sypha throws off her robes abruptly, the bare skin of her arms and back pebbling in the chill early evening. Eager for heat, but weary of tripping, she delicately climbs in and sinks into the warmth.

“You can open your eyes now,” she announces. On the other side of the fire, the men do just that. Trevor resumes the tedium of repairing horse tack, while Adrian leans forward to stir a pot of bubbling mutton stew. 

When they first purchased the barrel for bathing–at some nameless inn on the road a few days back, freshly emptied of ale–Sypha and her companions were still fairly modest around one another. Washing was done far away from camp for privacy, until one day a curious bear startled Trevor awake from a mid-bath nap. After that, they all agreed that it was worthwhile to sacrifice a bit of modesty in the name of safety, but it still took many days and a few accidental eyefulls for everyone to stop blushing about it. 

Now they have a routine. Sypha would bathe first, then Adrian, and Trevor last–he always takes the longest due to his tendency to drowse off in the bath. When Adrian once asked why, he shrugged and said, ”it’s nice to sleep warm for once.” They started bringing a lot more blankets to bed after that.

Sypha leans her back against the walls of the barrel and lets out a long, lazy sigh. She had been aching and shivering all day. They must be close to the estate, though, because for days, Trevor had been pointing out landmarks. 

“That's where my uncle took me on my first hunt–for rabbits, not monsters.” 

“That old pile of rubble used to be a house, and the hermity old man who lived there came to market once a week to sell pickled vegetables.” 

“A bandit tried to rob my father there, and he killed them with a single throw of a well-aimed stone.” 

It makes Sypha’s heart twinge. She grips the stories tightly to her heart, commits them to memory. It’s rare to see Trevor nostalgic, even though none of the tales end happily. 

“The first rabbit I ever killed screamed when my arrow hit–sounded like a human baby. I couldn’t stomach food for days.” 

“He was burned as a witch about a month before they came for us. I wonder if the adults in the family knew what was coming.” 

“The bandit’s partner, out of revenge I suppose, beat my father so badly that he went strange in the head. He always got confused, or forgot simple things. Thought I was two years old for the rest of his life. Everyone told me he used to be brilliant.”

Sypha sinks lower into the water, until it comes all the way up to her ears. The water distorts the sounds around her: soft crackling of fire, horses chewing on dried grain, an occasional curse from Trevor as he fights the tack, Adrian poking at coals to adjust the heat. It relaxes her to listen to the mundanity, filtered through water to make it sound distant and dreamlike.

And then her eye catches a hint of red blooming in the water. Sypha lowers her hand, feels around–damn it. That explains the aching. While infrequent for most women, periods are not unheard of for a speaker. Christians do not seem to mind living their lives with an endless string of pregnancies–or more likely don’t know of an alternative–but every speaker, woman or not, can name a dozen different strategies to tame one’s fertility. The only downside is that, occasionally, the body has a temper tantrum about it. 

Speaker midwives say that prolonged hunger and fear can disrupt it–as though the body takes pity on the spirit and gives her a break. The war brought plenty of both, so Sypha hadn’t menstruated in months. So why now, Sypha wonders? She is eating better these days, thanks to Adrian’s wealth of coin. And, she admits, going on a grand quest with the two most powerful men she’s ever met is pretty fun, even if the details around it are morbid and terrible.

So thus, the body decides the spirit is getting a little overconfident, and resumes its monthly tantrums anew. Great.

“I’m going to need an extra rag when I’m done–clean, please,” Sypha says. Both men look up at her–Trevor dimly confused–and Adrian nods and stands to rummage through their medical supplies. 

“What?” Trevor looks from Adrian back to Sypha. “Did you hurt yourself?”

She shakes her head. “Menses.”

“Oh.” Trevor returns to his tack, disinterested. A beat later, he realizes what that word means, or maybe he realizes that he’s supposed to be embarrassed like a good Christian man, and he stares up at her in plain shock. Sypha can’t help but laugh.

Adrian, sorting through supplies, says, “For a man who brags about bedding so many women, you’re very easy to scandalize. Give the pot a stir please, I don’t want it burning.” 

Trevor wiggles the spoon in the stew ineffectively and says, “The only time a woman ever really brought it up to me, she framed it like a… sexual thing. Extra lubrication. It sounds gruesome, all that blood.” Trevor looks at Sypha skeptically. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Yes, it does hurt. Like a stomach ache combined with a muscle cramp.” Sypha pauses thoughtfully. “That woman was smart, though. A good orgasm can ease up the pain,” she says, grinning at Trevor’s rapid onset blushing. 

“Are you making that up?” Adrian asks wearily–Sypha is delighted to see that even he’s flustered now. 

“It’s true! I’ve tested it many times–it’s like that thing you were talking about the other day. I used the scientific method.”

Adrian furrows his brow. “Well, not really, unless you tested with a larger group of people, and even then, the placebo effect–”

Trevor cuts him off, “I’ve had plenty of stomach aches in my day, and cumming hasn’t–well–they don’t just go away.”

“I don’t imagine they will, no.” Sypha shrugs. “If you’re looking for a cure for that, I suggest you try drinking less, or perhaps avoiding suspicious meat.”

He snorts. “Easier said than done.”

Adrian returns to sit beside him, clean linen in hand. “Quite fond of suspicious meat, are you?”

“What? That’s–you—” Trevor stutters, “what does that even imply? Is the cock green or something?”

“This is great progress,” Sypha chirps. “Two weeks ago, he’d go on and on about being a woman’s man, thank you very much.” 

Adrian grins mischievously. “So much growth, I’m very proud.”

“I am a woman’s man,” Trevor grumbles. 

She lays back against the barrel, once again sinking into the heat of the water, and sighs fondly.  “We know, we know.”

After his turn in the bath, Alucard gave Sypha some willowbark tea, a wineskin of hot water, and sent her to bed early. She had resisted the excess coddling at first, until he told her he used to do the same things for his mother. Sypha, he came to learn, will always fall for the dead mother card–Alucard tries not to abuse this power, but he cannot stand to see a friend in pain. Especially not such treatable pain as this.

So now he sits, cleaning out the vestiges of dinner from the soup pot, while Sypha is snoring softly in a pile of bedding and Trevor takes his routine bath time nap. Alucard hates this habit of Trevor’s; his ears strain from listening for breathing, always terrified that Trevor will slip beneath the water and drown in silence. And Trevor would be the sort of man who drowns in a barrel of water half his own height.

And yet, Alucard can never bring himself to wake Trevor up. He likes to steal glances and see his friend–always glaring, always tense, always on–feel comfortable, relaxed, maybe even safe. Perhaps, Alucard flatters himself by speculating, Trevor doesn’t fear drowning because he pleasures in knowing Alucard would never let it happen. More likely, though, he’s just stupid, and never considered the risk. Truly, Alucard is the one taking pleasure, basking in the role of protector, caregiver.

He thinks back to a week ago–the last time Trevor offered up his blood. The experience had shaken them both, and neither said a word about it since. And yet, Alucard became uncomfortably aware of a new atmosphere blooming between them–not hostility, exactly, but certainly not comradery, either. Something like fear, something like fondness. It’s not entirely unwelcome.

His relationship to Sypha, meanwhile, has grown in a different direction. Where Trevor has tension, she has give. Where Trevor keeps his distance, Sypha draws closer. Alucard soaks up her easy affection like a sponge. When they hug–a common thing now–he resists the urge to squeeze too hard. He soaks up her emotions, too. When she’s angry, he alights in her fire, picks fights with Trevor, chops wood too aggressively. When she’s sad, he goes wolf and throws himself on her lap, demanding ear scritches, and doesn’t even growl when she calls him a good dog. 

Lately, Alucard has had the urge to kiss her. He doesn’t know what to do with that. He pushes it to the back of his mind, shifts his attention to Trevor’s steady breathing, and scrapes burnt bits from the bottom of the pot. 

Chapter Text

January 7th, 1477

Belmont Hold is exactly as Trevor left it four years ago–the last time he’d felt brave or masochistic enough to come here and pick through the rubble. The broken stone structure reaches high into the sky and still holds many beautiful details of its original construction: jutting cornices, rounded turrets, tall thin windows, endless pointed arches. 

As a child, Trevor often told himself he’d one day come here to stay for good and finally rebuild his ancestral home. He doesn’t know when exactly he stopped dreaming about it, but it was probably the terrible and wonderful winter of his adolescence when he first discovered how nicely a whore’s bed and several pints of ale could keep him warm through the night. That was the winter he gave up on childhood, embarrassingly long after it had already given up on him.

“I can’t imagine what it was like to grow up in a single place,” says Sypha as she walks up a spiraling staircase that leads nowhere.

Trevor hunches in the eastern sitting room and sweeps away some dirt. He’s pretty sure this is where he once had been practicing a knife trick. He’d accidentally dropped the blade and gouged the tea table, nudged a vase of flowers over the offending mark, and avoided the room for days. When it was eventually discovered, Trevor’s cousin was the one who got in trouble. “It was fine,” says Trevor.

Adrian comes to stand beside him, pretends to take interest in a column. “How old were you?”

Twelve, he thinks. “Fourteen,” he says, “or something like that.”

Sypha comes closer to say, “You've been on your own since you were fourteen?”

Trevor shrugs. He doesn’t want to explain himself. He looks up and catches sight of a stone of different coloration to the rest. It was part of the main hearth. At dinner, Trevor would sneak unwanted vegetables into his pockets, and then afterward come here to burn the evidence. He had been doing exactly that when his nursemaid ran in, frightened and oblivious to his misbehavior, and told him to hide.

Trevor had never thought to question the strange runes carved into the hearthstone before. “I think this is it,” he says. It’s covered in giant pieces of rubble. He grunts with effort to remove the first piece.

Adrian sighs, takes the boulder from Trevor with one hand and tosses it behind himself as if it were a crumpled ball of parchment. In a matter of seconds, the hearthstone is clear of debris. Trevor’s face empties of blood as he realizes how outmatched he’d be if Adrian turned on him. The blood instead gathers somewhere else when Trevor imagines himself being carried and tossed around with such ease. Christ. Trevor tugs his cloak closed around his front.

The trio stares down at the hearthstone for a few silent moments. Eventually, Sypha says, “Do we lift it, or…?” Alucard crouches down to try, but can’t get purchase on it. Sypha kneels closer, runs her hands along the runes. “Oh!” She looks up at Trevor. “Were your parents magicians?”

Trevor shakes his head. “No. I mean, they knew a lot, but an ancestor installed this door. There's some special trick to opening it.”

Sypha smiles. “So they learned the trick, but they didn’t know what it really was.” She beckons for the men to stand back, put her hands on the stone, and mutters a word that Trevor doesn’t recognize: “Teloch.” 

Bright white light, and then the stone evaporates to reveal a staircase descending into shadow. Sypha looks back at them and says, grinning, “open sesame.”

“Interesting.” says Adrian. ”A magical door that opens to occult language.” He looks at Trevor. “You know teloch means death in Enochian, right?”

Trevor is already walking down the stairs. “Shut up,” he says.

“The naughty Belmonts hunting terrible things of the forest, and all the while sitting on top of a magical door of death.” Adrian’s gleefully mocking tone is giving him a headache. 

“A single rock in the floor doesn’t make us fucking black magicians.” Trevor should’ve expected this. 

The library is magnificent. The last time he saw it, he was a bored and spoiled child, trailing long behind his uncle and cousin. Trevor was always meant to inherit, but then his father’s mind broke. Trevor’s uncle took over as head of the family and he used his power to position his own son as a more suitable heir. Trevor himself hadn’t cared, being a clueless little brat, but it would’ve eventually become a problem if everything hadn’t gone to shit. Small blessings, he supposes. 

Adrian is unbearable all day. He and Trevor had always bickered before, but not like this. Something about this place is bringing out Adrian’s cruel streak, or maybe Trevor’s just too raw. Luckily, the library is massive enough that ditching company is an easy accomplishment.

Trevor follows the half-remembered route of his uncle’s tour. Past the necromancy aisle, the lich aisle, the draugr aisle. Past the massive fossils of long extinct beasts. Past one of the many seating areas, where a dusty, haphazard tower of books sits beside a cracked leather armchair, a teacup and saucer sitting neatly on top. Trevor pauses, steps over to see what book is on the tea table, left open as if the reader had only just stepped away. 

It’s porn. Really badly illustrated porn. He wants to think it’s funny, but imagining the stupid jab that Adrian would make if he saw this ruins the humor of it. Trevor sighs, hides the book underneath the chair where it’s safe from mockery, and continues on. 

He’s trying to remember where the armory is. The Belmonts had an above ground armory, too, but that was for mundane weapons. The good shit was always down here. Trevor touches a finger to the knife on his belt–that holy one taken from Dragoslav’s corpse so many nights ago. He wonders if there’s anything down here that can rival its potency. 

When Sypha speaks, far on the other side of the massive chamber, the echo carries her voice as clear as day. “You’re not usually the rude one,” she says. Trevor stops, confused.

Adrian’s voice responds, “I’ve offended you?” 

“You’re picking on Trevor, here of all places. You couldn’t get this out of your system when he actually had his armor on?”

Adrian’s tone is dry. “He doesn’t wear armor.”

The sound of a light smack. “Don’t be obtuse. He wouldn’t let just anyone in here. He’s trusting us, and you’re punishing him for it.”

“Yes, it’s quite an honor to be inside an archive dedicated to the extermination of my people.”

“Trevor is not responsible for anything here, he was only a child when his house fell. And you agreed to come. You must’ve known we’d find some uncomfortable things.”

“I expected a few books, maybe, but not this. Have you seen the hutch full of fang-toothed infant skulls? It’s very charming.” 

A pause. She sighs and says, “This is painful for both of you. I’m sorry. But you have to see that fighting won’t make it easier for anyone right now.”

“Do you wish for me to apologize?” Adrian’s tone is distasteful. Trevor smirks. 

“I wish for you to consider what he’s going through. Then use your best judgment from there.”

Trevor stands there a few moments longer, waiting for Adrian’s response, and then grumbles out a sigh when it doesn't come. He continues walking.

“So.” 

Hector stops, rests his hand against the mossy trunk of a great old tree. There’s a bite in the air, but where the sunlight reaches him, he feels warm. Hector turns back to face Isaac, who had been accompanying him on this afternoon walk far away from vampire ears.

“So,” he echoes. May as well come out with it. “Carmilla has a standing army in Braila. She wants the castle there so that she may capture it. She wants a priest night creature so that it might consecrate the bay and make the water toxic for vampires.”

Isaac's stiff face briefly breaks in surprise. Only briefly. “She asked you to help her betray Dracula.”

“Yes.”

Isaac crosses his arms. “Then why is she still alive?”

Hector pinches the bridge of his nose. He had a feeling it’d go this way. “Forgive my weak mental fortitude, but I’m not in the practice of murdering powerful vampires without at least getting a second opinion beforehand.”

“Very well. Here is your second opinion: she must die, and I will help you ensure that she does.”

“Great idea! That doesn’t exactly take care of the standing army, however. This is not a small plan she’s invented, Isaac.” He leans against the tree. “Carmilla has done her homework. She has accomplices.”

“How long have you known about this?”

Hector had been dreading that question. “A week,” he admits. 

Isaac takes a tense step towards him. “It took you a week to decide to not betray Dracula?”

“It took me a week to conclude that I can’t solve this on my own,” Hector says firmly. He doesn’t know why he feels insulted–he is betraying Dracula. He waited because he wanted to give Adrian time to safely reach the Belmont hold before he released this storm. “I was also hoping she’d tell me more of her plan by now, so that we–yes, we–could make a more informed decision of what to do next.”

“Carmilla could have attempted an assassination in that time. You do not think she has backup plans to account for your foolishness?”

Hector waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I’m sure she’s itching for the chance. She keeps badgering me to get my newly forged priest to make holy water, probably to slip into Dracula’s wine, and I keep telling her it doesn't work like that.” Hector takes a clear vial of water from his pocket and tosses it to Isaac. “But maybe it does work like that. I asked the night creature to try, but I don’t know how to test its efficacy.”

Isaac pops open the vial and dips a finger in the clear water, then brings it to his tongue to taste. “It is holy,” he says, face still hard but surprise in his voice. “Her plan could have worked.” He narrows his eyes at Hector. “You could’ve ruined us all by joining her.”

Hector shrugs. “I doubt I could have done too much damage. Should we bring this to Dracula?”

Isaac closes the vial and drops it into his own pocket. “He is normally above such things, but you give good reasons to be cautious. If there really is an opposing army, he should know.” Isaac glares at Hector. “I suggest you find a very good excuse for waiting so long to say something. He is not as forgiving as me.”

There is earnest concern hidden behind those words, so Hector smiles. “Whatever his judgment, I probably deserve it, anyway.”

Alucard keeps thinking about the horses. Late in the day, Sypha, Trevor, and he had all decided it was best to let them free. They were not planning to travel anymore, except maybe to get supplies from Danesti by foot once in a while, and they could not afford the time and effort needed to keep the horses healthy. Iona and Ducky would probably fare better on their own, anyway. 

Alucard had been the one to take the long winding staircase back to the surface, release Iona and Ducky from their tack, and feed them a few goodbye treats. They did not show any interest in leaving. Their calm eyes followed him as he descended the stairs again. It had made his chest ache.

He walks aimlessly through the aisles of the library, and then pauses at the sight of Trevor and Sypha huddled up in a cloak and sleeping against a bookshelf, looking much as they did that very first night in Gresit, outside the Speakers’ temporary house. Alucard starts to move on. He thinks again of the horses. He stops. 

He is tired of walking away from those he loves. 

He grabs a book from a nearby shelf, not even bothering to read the spine, and sits on the floor with his back flush against a bookcase opposite to Trevor and Sypha. He flips it open and stares at the faded paper and ink. 

He reads about home remedies for foot funguses. Most of them, in his medical opinion, would probably make the ailment worse. If the Belmonts really believed in this sort of nonsense, it’s amazing that Trevor survived past infancy.

“The fuck are you over there for?” says Trevor, voice muddy with sleep. 

Alucard puts on a face of casual disinterest and looks up. Trevor is squinting at him through Sypha’s hair. She’s still asleep. “I’m reading,” Alucard says.

“Reading? In a library? ” Trevor grins crookedly. “How quaint.”

“Oh, is that out of fashion these days?”

“It is. Libraries are for drunken naps, haven’t you heard?” He lifts an arm out from beneath the cloak, his hand is clasped around the neck of a glossy green bottle of wine, one-third full. “Found a stash in the werewolf aisle. I think it was my mother’s . Saved you some.” Trevor lays the bottle horizontally on the floor and rolls it Alucard’s way. It starts spinning clockwise halfway through and goes wildly off the mark, ending up in the next aisle over. “Whoops,” says Trevor. 

Alucard laughs a little, puts the stupid foot fungus book aside, and stands to retrieve the drink. Trevor pats the ground beside himself, and after a moment's hesitation, Alucard sits there, wine in hand. Up close, he can smell the drunkenness in Trevor’s sweat. Sypha’s just as drunk and still fast asleep.

“Not even a day and you’ve already sniffed out the alcohol. I hope you plan to pace yourself,” Alucard says. He pops the cork off with his thumb and takes a swig. He hums in appreciation; the quality is far better than he expected. “Your mother was a person of fine taste,” he says.

“We all were. Are.” Trevor clears his throat lightly. “Eh. Were. I probably ran out of good taste back in ‘69.”

Alucard raises the bottle in mock salute. “An auspicious year, then.” Trevor grunts out a chuckle. He leans his head against the wood of the bookshelf and lets his eyes drift closed, looking like he’s about to fall asleep again. Alucard braces himself and says, “I was cruel to you today. I’m sorry.” 

“Well shit,” Trevor mutters. 

“What?”

“I overheard you getting chastised by Sypha. These walls echo really well, you should be more careful.” He opens his eyes to look at Alucard, gaze somewhat unfocused. “I bet the dragon fossil that you wouldn’t say anything. Now I owe him a hand job.”

Alucard breaks into laughter. “Men are off the table unless they’re a massive ancient skeleton and a wager’s involved?”

Trevor turns his head away, and the tips of his ears are red. He mumbles something incomprehensible.

“Pardon?”

“I said… ah, fuck. I said nothing’s off the table. There’s not even a table anymore. I think I lost it in Arges.”

“I see.” Alucard feels a little fluttery, and he pretends it’s amusement. “I’m glad you’re expanding your horizons. I’m sure we can find you a very pretty, girlish fellow in Danesti to ease you into things.”

“Jesus. What an asshole,” Trevor laughs. “I’m pouring my heart out to you and this is what I get. A girly chap in Danesti.”

Alucard is a little warm and a little confused. “Pouring your heart out? All I’ve heard about is dragon hand jobs and missing furniture.”

“Just drink your fucking wine,” says Trevor. Alucard complies. “It’s fine, by the way.”

Alucard lowers the bottle. “What’s fine?”

“You’re not wrong about the Belmonts. All the insults mostly pissed me off because they were accurate. We’re a bunch of assholes.” Trevor sighs. “But it was always about helping people. Not exterminating. I’m sure some of us forgot to make the distinction, but it’s true.”

“To be fair, most vampires probably deserve what the Belmonts gave them. My father certainly deserves what’s coming his way.”

“Yeah, but I never thought about the young vampires before. It didn’t seem like a problem when I was a kid. Now? It’s pretty fucked up.”

“If they were turned as children, their sires are the criminals.”

“And if they were born as vampires?”

“Like me?”

Trevor looks at Alucard, then away. “Yeah.”

He sighs. “Then it’s pretty fucked up, as you say. But in any case, I shouldn’t be tormenting you about it. You didn’t kill them.”

“Oh, but I would’ve. If I had the chance. Might still, honestly. If all that stands between me and killing your father is a shield of fangy toddlers, I’ll do what has to be done.”

Alucard laughs. “I know. You like to be the villain, don’t you?”

Trevor looks back at him, confused. 

“All three of us would do what had to be done. But you’re the only one who’d say it plainly and let people hate you for it. Who taught you to do that?”

Trevor scoffs, snatches the bottle from Alucard’s hand and takes a long drink. “It’s not that deep, Adrian. I’m just an asshole.”

“Did the habit start before or after you lost your family?”

“Fucking hell, how should I know?”

“How old were you really? When they died?”

Trevor clenches his jaw tightly closed and stares straight ahead. “Your questions are spoiling the wine,” he says eventually. 

Alucard takes the bottle back for another sip of his own. “Tastes fine to me,” he says dryly. 

Sypha stirs in Trevor’s arms, but Alucard can hear her heartbeat. She’s still asleep. Trevor looks down at her and his eyes soften. “I’ve been alone for a very long time. It doesn’t matter if people hate me, I can just buy a friend for a night if I’m lonely. She’d pretend I’m charming and good at fucking, and that’s enough to keep me going for a while.”

Alucard’s chest goes tight. He thinks of the whore that Trevor once mentioned, Port Daphne. He had said she taught him how to shave. How young was he at the time? How young was Trevor the first time he sought friendship in a brothel? 

Alucard can’t bear to ask. 

Trevor takes the wine and finishes the last of it. “Are we done pitying the little Belmont boy, yet?” Trevor asks, voice slurring slightly again. 

Alucard hesitates, brings his arm up and around Trevor’s shoulders, pulls him and Sypha closer. “You are charming, when you want to be. And I’m sure your skills in bed are the stuff of legends.” He rests his cheek on the crown of Trevor’s head, breaths in the scent of him. “You’re not alone any longer. You’re stuck with us now.”

There’s a smile in Trevor’s voice as he mutters, “should’ve left you in Gresit when I had the chance.”

Chapter Text

January 8th, 1477

When Hector was a boy, he discovered the cure for grief. He found his dog in a field of barley after days of searching. Vultures circled above, and larva wiggled through her flesh. Hector does not remember why he thought to try it–to try forging. He hadn’t even known the word for what he was doing. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was instinct. Hands trembling, sun on his back, almost sick from the overwhelming stench of decay, Hector struck a coin against a coin. Her tail began to wag. 

He doesn’t really remember much about his parents. Perhaps they did love him at one point. Perhaps they had been kind and doting. He remembers his bewilderment at their fear and anger. They killed his dog, again and again, until they burned her body so that there was nothing left to bring back.

Hector’s mother called him wicked and deranged. Hector’s father beat him often. Perhaps they did love him, since they let him stay alive. Hector wonders if they regretted their sentimentality in the end.

Hector wanted to obey his parents, but this was not something he could stop. Forging was, and is, his first love. His first puberty. His first drink of water, when all he’d known before it was aching thirst. Death itself reaches out to him. When a spider in the corner of his room died, Hector felt her soul crawl along his arm. He gently led her back into her body with the strike of a coin against a coin. 

His father caught him in the act and slammed his fist into the wall. It left a dent and the spider’s tiny, broken body. His father took away his coins, and then broke his fingers for good measure. The spider’s soul crawled along Hector’s cheek, as if to wipe away his tears. 

His parents loved to destroy and hurt, but Hector only longed to restore the broken. One day, he decided to finally give them what they wanted. Their deaths did not reach out to him. He was fine with that. 

Hector was alone after that. Well, he wasn’t really alone, but foxes and cattle and voles do not make the best conversationalists. One day, Dracula came to his door, expecting a fully grown man thanks to local gossip, but Hector was not even yet a teenager. Dracula was the first adult that Hector met who was kind to him and supportive of his abilities. By the end of the afternoon, Hector was enamored. When Dracula offered to mentor, Hector agreed without hesitation.

The Tepes family is Hector’s second love. Hector took to Lisa; they shared the same passion for life, although she was admittedly more human-centric in her values. She taught him about bodies and anatomy, and it made his forging more effective. She let him hold little Adrian and explained to him how babies are made. For a long time, Lisa was the center of Hector’s world. 

Isaac joined a few months after. He was nearly mute from shyness those first few days and he stuck to Dracula like a tick. Dracula shocked everyone with his patience for it. As Isaac spent more time in the castle and realized he was safe, he grew in confidence and independence. Still, Hector can plainly see that even now, Dracula is still the center of Isaac’s world.

Even now, Isaac’s subtle devotion is evident. He positions himself between Dracula and the door, his hand casually hovering near his sheathed knife. There are two night creatures, one of Hector’s and one of Isaac’s, standing in the corner where they would not be noticed upon first entry. 

Hector himself stands near the fireplace, leaning against the wall, pretending it’s casual instead of necessary to keep his knees from buckling. 

Carmilla comes into view and stands outside the open doorway. She doesn’t step inside. Hector feels cold sweat on the back of his neck. She knows.  

Dracula does not turn to face her. He says, “I summoned you thirty five minutes ago.”

Carmilla’s arms are tense at her side. “I cannot be expected to drop everything at a moment’s notice. I’m here now. What is this about?”

Hector says, “Master Dracula has questions about the Braila plan.”

She looks at him. “Why the sudden interest?”

Dracula scoffs, sips his wine glass. “If it will quiet the council’s squabbling and contribute to the cause, that’s good enough.”

Carmilla’s stare has not left Hector.

Isaac says, “is something the matter?”

“We don’t have all night,” Dracula says. “Sit.” He waves his hand toward an empty chair.

Carmilla’s stare turns withering. She definitely knows. “Ask your questions. I’ll remain here.” 

Dracula exhales, slow and bored. Isaac asks, “what are you hoping to find in Braila?”

Carmilla’s back straightens and she tips her chin up, defiant. “I’ve already explained the strategic benefits, shall I do so again?”

“What else?” Dracula’s question is flat. 

“There are also a great deal of humans. Everyone in court is sick of drinking animal blood.”

“Humans are everywhere,” Hector points out. Carmilla’s glare indicates that she does not appreciate his contribution.

“Tell me, why haven’t your sisters come to court?” Dracula gently swirls the wine glass; the burgundy liquid leaves fat, viscous legs in its wake. He finally lifts his eyes to look at her. “Perhaps they plan to join us in Braila.” 

Carmilla gives up on the game after that. She snarls and reaches for something on her hip, but Isaac finds his knife first. She retreats further into the hall, and Isaac chases her with a lunging swipe.

Hector and the night creatures scramble to chase Isaac and Carmilla out into the hall. She has her own knife now. She jabs it towards Isaac’s face and he deftly ducks it. There was too much momentum in the thrust, it leaves her open for an instant and Isaac uses the opportunity to grab her wrist and yank her off balance. 

She stumbles into the arms of Hector’s night creature and it pulls her into a punishing hug, arms immobile at her side. 

“If you submit, I will not kill you,” says Isaac. 

Carmilla barks out a laugh and maneuvers a hand to stab her clawed fingers into the night creature’s gut. It flinches with a squawk, which is enough for Carmilla to wrestle free. She swings her knife in an oversized arc–even Hector can see she’s left herself wide open with this one–but the creature doesn’t react in time. With absurd strength and speed, she gauges the knife halfway through the night creature’s neck until it gets blocked by vertebrae. It slumps away, dead, and Carmilla spins around to face the greater threat–Isaac. 

“My sisters will come here if I die,” Carmilla snarls. “They will eviscerate you, along with every other useless bastard in this fucking castle.”

Dracula unhurriedly steps into the hall. “Is that so?”

Carmilla’s eyes flicker with rage; the sclerae are already staining red. 

Isaac’s night creature charges toward her, intending to knock her down. She’s ready for it, but instead of dodging, she thrusts her free hand out to meet it. She grabs its face with clawed fingers and turns to fling its momentum towards the far wall. It slams into solid stone with a loud crunch and does not get up again.

Isaac lunges forward and her blade deflects his. They trade several jabs and swipes until Carmilla finally lands one–her blade digs deep into Isaac’s forearm, likely severing tendons, making him drop the knife. The heady scent of iron immediately fills the space. 

Carmilla readies another swing at Isaac. Hector catches a bit of movement out the corner of his eye, and then suddenly Dracula is standing behind her. He grabs her wrists, one in each hand. Carmilla’s considerable strength is no match. 

“Enough,” says Dracula. “You will submit. You will be imprisoned. You will be interrogated. And then, if you are very lucky, you will be permitted to continue living.”

Something in Carmilla’s expression changes. The anger becomes something different–it makes Hector think of the little spider his father killed, and Isaac flinching when someone touches his back. 

Carmilla swings one leg back, exactly into Dracula’s groin, but he doesn’t even flinch. His hold on her wrists tighten and Hector knows he’s close to breaking them. 

 “Wait,” Hector says, stepping forward. “You don’t have to–she’ll calm down after a few hours in the cell. She’s not thinking clearly right now.” 

“How fucking dare you,” Carmilla growls, “pretend to know the state of my mind. I will rip your fucking throat out.”

“It seems she disagrees,” says Dracula. “It’s time to end this.”

“No,” Hector says, insistent. “We need her alive for questioning–we need to know the extent of the damage she’s done.”

“I suspect she would not yield to interrogation,” says Isaac. 

“I wouldn’t tell you shit," Carmilla spits. “You will all die for this, excruciatingly, slowly–”

Dracula does not let her finish. He snaps her wrists. Hector almost gags at the awful sound of it. Carmilla screams, and then stops screaming when Dracula’s claws rip deep, jagged gashes into her throat, evidently severing her airway.

She half turns towards Dracula, eyes fully red, teeth bared viciously. She cannot vocalize, but Hector can read her lips. 'Fuck. You.'

Hector doesn’t understand what happens next. Fire bursts out from her body and the force of it launches him into the air. His head slams into something solid and the world stops existing.

Hector does not come to the mirror at their agreed time. Alucard waits an additional fifteen minutes before he gives up, wraps the mirror shard in its dirty linen cloth, and tucks it safely away. Hector had mentioned he might be busy today. Alucard isn’t going to let himself worry about it. 

Chapter Text

January 9th, 1477

“Trevor,” groans Sypha, “can you please do that somewhere else?”

She is sitting in an overstuffed loveseat, a pile of books beside her and a massive tome on her lap, cutting off circulation to her feet. Trevor, meanwhile, is somewhere nearby flinging around his newest toy, a ridiculous whip of metal chain, and the racket is not helping her headache.

“Maybe you should stop complaining,” he answers, popping his head into view from behind a bookshelf with a grin, “and spar with me instead.”

She frowns and gestures to the dense book on her lap. It is open to a page explaining grammatical components of teleportation spells, the script so tiny that she has to squint to make it out. “I’m clearly busy. Ask Adrian.”

Trevor scoffs. “The vampire is upstairs cooking lunch. Probably sneaking carrots to those damn horses.” He steps into full view, the metal whip coiled around his forearm. “Come on. You need the practice.”

Sypha bristles. “Are you doubting my ability to fight, Belmont?”

He holds his hand out, appeasing. “Of course not, you’re a fucking force of nature.” A grin. “You need a challenge.”

“And you think that you’re challenging?”

“Only one way to find out.” His playful, cocky smirk is obnoxious as it is adorable. It draws out a long suffering sigh from her.

“What do I get when I win?” she asks.

“What do you want?”

Sypha leans back and thinks. They share all supplies already. There’s no chores she’s particularly interested in shoving on to him. She sighs. “Peace and quiet. I win, you don’t make a peep for the rest of the day.”

“Sure. If I win, no more books for today.”

She scowls. “Trevor, this is really important–”

“And training isn’t? You can’t read Dracula to death, or the Belmonts would’ve taken care of him ages ago.”

Sypha glares at him, but she shoves the heavy book off her lap. The relief in pressure is quickly replaced with pins and needles as her legs wake up. Alright, maybe some exercise would be nice. “Fine,” she says. “Where?”

Trevor’s answering grin is enthusiastic and infectious.

The sky is a somber grey, uncharacteristically dark for midday. Adrian looks up to watch them curiously from his small campfire, settled just outside the manor’s footprint, a pot of something enticing and savory boiling away above the embers. Iona and Ducky, who have yet to show any interest in taking advantage of their freedom, huddle nearby and nose at dead grass.

Trevor leads Sypha towards what was once the front entrance. The road in front of the manor is wide enough to fit at least six standard carriages across–the existence of such an accomodation speaks something about the wealth and importance the Belmonts once had. The wide expanse of cobblestone is ideal for a fight, so long as you’re not the type to use your environment for cover. Unfortunate for Sypha.

Adrian steps away from the fire to lean against the front archway and watch them, arms crossed. Trevor glances towards him and says, “What, planning to keep score? Watch for fouls?”

“Of course not,” Adrian replies cheerfully. “I’m here to challenge the winner.” His eyes shift to her with significance.

Sypha’s cheeks warm. She clears her throat and asks, “any ground rules?”

“Yeah, don’t kill me.” Trevor dips into a wide crouching stance. “Let’s go.”

The wide open area is too perfect for Trevor and his long-reaching whip, so the first thing Sypha does is build obstacles. Swiftly running backwards, she lifts several thick barricades of ice from the ground in a wide zigzagging pattern. It’s a lot of energy to expend up front and puts her immediately on the defense, but she’d be far worse off with no cover on the field at all.

Trevor quickly catches on to her strategy and busts forward with a startling speed that Sypha cannot match, especially not running backwards. His shoulders suddenly tense, he jerks his arm, and the metal whip comes to life. It flings out and strikes her like a viper, but the bite is condescendingly mild, leaving only an egg-sized bruise on one tricep. Sypha’s face heats with indignation.

She decides to lean into the heat. She thrusts her hand out and shoots a thin, contained beam of fire towards Trevor’s center. Trevor lunges to the side and the whip flicks out again. Sypha only has time to see a flash of metal before the weighted endpiece crashes into her thigh.

Sypha knows Trevor is fast, but she had been hoping the whip being metal rather than leather would’ve slowed him down far more than it’s turning out to. She throws out another expensive barrier of ice to the side Trevor keeps striking from, and by pure luck it’s up in time to deflect a third hit.

Trevor pauses his assault to run for a different vantage point–she can see he’s trying to get around the barriers–so she flings out darts of ice along his path. Two of them hit; red blooms from his neck and shoulder. Sypha freezes, suddenly horrified at herself, and Trevor shouts, “nice one, keep going!”

He ducks behind one of Sypha’s barriers, perhaps to allow her a moment to stop panicking. It’s just half a second and he’s running again. Sypha sees the sudden tension build in his shoulder and she throws out a thin shield of ice to the side he favors. It instantly shatters as it deflects the next strike perfectly. She’s starting to figure this out.

The fight goes on like that for several more seconds. Sypha keeps Trevor constantly on the move, each new barrier forcing him to find a new vantage point. Soon, she’ll have barriers completely surrounding her and he’ll fully lose his advantage.

Trevor’s shoulder tenses, Sypha throws out a shield, but a strike does not come to meet it. She falters for a moment, confused, and then falls forward at the heavy bruising thunk of metal against her middle back. Sypha scrambles to her feet, and realizes that Trevor has broken his pattern, flinging the whip to wrap around a barrier and hit from a different direction.

Anger hits her like a punch in the chest; he was playing with her, pretending the barriers were a problem. Of course Trevor knows how to maneuver in crowded places, nearly all their fights together had been in such circumstances. Fine. She has her own tricks to play.

Sypha takes off running, weaving through barriers towards Trevor’s apparent destination, hoping to meet him up close. As soon as she has a clean line of sight to his feet, pumping hard against the broken cobblestone, Sypha thrusts her hands skyward. Another barrier of ice lifts, this time directly where Trevor’s next step falls, and it throws him off balance. She angles it at a harsh diagonal and flings Trevor onto his back, stunning him. Sypha throws out two more columns of ice on each side, limiting his range of motion, threatening to cage him in.

Trevor bursts into laughter and says, delight in his voice, “damn, Sypha.”

As she helps him to his feet, Adrian arrives, armed with clean rags and balm for Trevor’s wounds. Trevor begrudgingly endures first aid, and as Adrian works, he says, “I hope the winner is not too tired for another round.”

This match is wildly different from the first time Sypha and Adrian faced each other, deep beneath Gresit. Back then she’d been terrified, fighting for her life against a stranger she thought might be Dracula himself. This time the stakes are lower, and Sypha’s far more confident.

Adrian likes to fight up close using his hands, the floating sword occasionally swiping in for a surprise attack from behind. Sypha’s ice barriers are less helpful in these circumstances, so she doesn’t restrain her fire to keep them from melting as she had with Trevor.

She feels safe enough to experiment, so she flings her fire out in wide shielding berths, expending an arguably excessive amount of energy in the process. It forces Adrian to keep some distance so he has to rely on his sword for offense. She realizes, with some delight, that he can’t see very well through the flame, and his sword’s aim suffers for it.

The downside is that she can’t see through flame, either, so she misses the telling creep of red in his eyes that always precedes a burst of untraceable speed. She feels his breath on the back of her neck an instant before he grapples her, quickly wrenching her wrists back to hold in one hand while the other comes around to brace her against him, forearm across her neck. They both stand there, breathing heavily, his chest warm against her back.

“You know you just put my hands in perfect reach to light your crotch on fire,” she says, turning her head as much as she can to look at him from the corner of her eye.

“So you’re not conceding?” Adrian asks, his smile a challenge.

Sypha hums, rests her head against his chest. “No, you win this time, it’s just something to keep in mind.”

“Believe me, we’re all very much aware of how easily you could neuter us,” Trevor’s voice comes from the side as he approaches them. “Lunch is ready, let’s fucking eat.”

They eat beneath open sky in a loose gathering of rubble that Trevor calls the breakfast room. Sypha is surprised that such a thing exists–and asks why they aren’t eating in the lunch room. Trevor scoffs and says that’s not a thing, but the dining room was on a different floor. Adrian nods along, as if the entire concept of separating rooms by mealtime is not completely absurd.

“Is this really how settled people live?” she asks, bewildered, between sips of stew. It is thick with flour and rendered beef fat, large chunks of cabbage and root vegetables throughout, frugally seasoned with black pepper from their dwindling stash.

Trevor and Adrian exchange glances at her question. “No,” Trevor says eventually. “It’s how rich people live–except for bratty kids like my cousin and I, who got shoved into the kitchen to eat with the servants. We were better off that way, though. Formal dining is a goddamn nightmare.”

Adrian chuckles. “It’s not so terrible if you have a modicum of social competence.”

“Well, there you have it,” Trevor says, grinning. “I was doomed from the start.”

Conversation flows easily until oncoming snowfall chases them back underground, Adrian hanging back to start a low fire in a more sheltered part of the ruin where the horses could linger to stay warm and dry.

Although Sypha had technically won an evening of peace and quiet, once the three are gathered together on the library’s main floor, Trevor insists on leading an impromptu lesson on the safest ways to take hits and falls. Apparently, he was displeased by Sypha and Adrian’s performances in their match. Trevor is a surprisingly good instructor, and Sypha hadn’t realized it was a skill she lacked. Speakers are largely pacifists, so Sypha’s fighting abilities until now were mostly self-taught.

Adrian disagrees with Trevor about technique, and neither seem to realize they’re both arguing in favor of the exact same thing. The fight is lighthearted and playful, full of dramatic demonstrations of punches, grapples, flips, rolls. She’s never seen the men get along so well.

She doesn’t know what time it is when they all finally collapse, bodies pleasantly sore, in a pile of blankets, furs, and pillows scavenged from all over the library, their newly designated bedding spot. Trevor lies down first, so Sypha of course falls on top of him, and Adrian on top of her, and then they’re shoving each other around, playing king of the hill with the bedding.

They let Sypha win, which she takes offense at. “You have to use your full strength! How will we know the rightful king, otherwise?” she asks. Trevor puts on a mischievous smirk and tackles her; she finds herself completely unable to budge from beneath him, now that he’s not going easy on her.

Unluckily for Trevor, Sypha has no qualms about fighting dirty. With a flick of her finger, he jerks away, yelping and flapping erratically. Adrian stares, uncomprehending, and then bursts out laughing when a large chunk of ice finally falls out the back of Trevor’s tunic. He gives an exaggerated shiver, then points a threatening finger at Sypha and says, “you’re going to pay for that.”

Before Trevor can exact his revenge, though, Adrian sweeps in from the side and throws him down against the soft bedding with ferocious strength. Sypha rejoins the fray.

She doesn’t notice the change in energy until Trevor is face to face on top of her, Adrian above him, pinning Trevor’s hands down against Sypha’s. All three of them go still in that moment, their panting breaths suddenly deafening in the cavernous library. The weight of two men on top of her makes it a little hard to breathe, but she likes the feeling of being compressed.

Sypha nudges her hips experimentally, and it prompts a sharp inhale from Trevor. His brow is furrowed and tense–an expression typical for him, but still notable after he’d been so unusually relaxed and cheerful all day. Trevor’s gaze keeps flickering between her eyes and her lips.

“Are you okay?” she asks carefully.

“Yeah,” he says, a bit breathless.

Adrian leans closer, his chin against Trevor’s shoulder. He’s looking at Sypha, perhaps trying to read Trevor through her own reactions. “Are you certain?” he asks. Adrian’s voice evokes a small shiver in Trevor, his face flushing now. Sypha feels lightheaded, watching them both watching her.

Christians, she knows, have very particular values about very particular things. She knows how Trevor feels about sex with another man–not good–and she can take an educated guess about his stance towards multiple partners. If it were only her and Trevor, she’d be confident about what he’s thinking when he makes a face like the one he’s making now.

But it’s not only her and Trevor. Adrian is not the type to be concerned by the addition of a third, and he’s never indicated a preference for one sex above another. Given all of that, along with the expression on Adrian’s face, she definitely knows what he’s thinking.

It’s only Trevor who seems in doubt. Adrian gently eases off, allowing Trevor and Sypha to pull apart and sit up. Sypha finds herself missing the contact.

They wait in a few moments of silence, each person waiting for another one to speak up first.

Adrian breaks first. “We don’t have to talk if you–”

“No–no, I want to talk,” Trevor interrupts him, his own voice jittery. “I just–fuck.”

Adrian’s voice is soft, cautious. “Do you want to do this?”

Trevor makes an exasperated noise, gestures towards the rising tent in his trousers. “Obviously.”

“Your body cannot decide these things for you,” Sypha says. “Think of it this way: would you regret it in the morning?”

Trevor looks at her, brow furrowed. Then he turns to lock eyes with Adrian. After a heavy pause, he says, “No, I wouldn’t regret it.”

“Neither would I,” Adrian says.

More still moments pass by. When it’s clear that neither man is willing to make the first move, Sypha does.

She takes one of Trevor’s hands in her own, then leans toward Adrian. Her eyes shifting between each man, she puts her other hand on Adrian’s cheek, gently nudging him closer. He leans forward to meet her. The kiss is brief, cool, and dry. She pulls back to offer an encouraging smile, and then she turns towards Trevor.

Trevor inches forward. He lets her come to him and press a kiss against his lips. She ends it just as quickly as she had the first, leaning back to watch both men process.

Adrian looks at Trevor, shy. “May I…?” he asks, breathless. Trevor’s head twitches in an embarassed nod.

The two men come together. Their kiss is brief and chaste as the first two had been.

Sypha scoots forward and kisses Adrian again. This time, she parts her lips slightly, letting it warm and linger. Trevor’s breath hitches at the sight. Sypha gently squeezes his hand, urging him closer.

They stay that way for a time, kissing in turns, heat slowly rising with every iteration. Adrian is afraid to hurt Trevor, Trevor is afraid in general, but their bravery is growing. When Sypha gently pulls Trevor’s bottom lip between her teeth, he sighs against her and opens his mouth to deepen the kiss. He’s not so shy with her.

Sypha startles when she feels a second pair of lips against her jaw. Adrian is leaning into her, one hand rubbing soothing circles along her back, the other behind Trevor, presumably doing the same. His kiss is soft, a little wet. Sypha’s skin breaks into goosebumps when he presses his tongue against the muscle where her jaw meets her neck, just below her ear.

Sypha nudges a hand against Trevor’s chest, silently suggesting he lie down, and he complies. Sypha follows him to the soft bedding, Adrian behind her, until they’re all lying together, Sypha in the middle, two bodies pressing delightfully against her. She turns to face Adrian and wraps an arm around him, pulling him flush against her. Trevor’s hand drifts across her waist to rest on Adrian’s hip.

Slowly, they move against each other, rhythmic sounds of kissing singing in her ears. A hand brushes against her breast, she grasps it and presses to herself enthusiastically. Encouraged, both Adrian and Trevor let their hands wander over her, tracing the lines of her body down her thick, woolen blue robes. She feels overdressed. She tugs her arms into their sleeves and wriggles free of her outermost layer. Adrian has to lift himself when it catches under his elbow, and then Sypha is free of the wool. She’s still wearing her long tunic of undyed cotton, a black, billowing skirt, and two layers of leggings; Wallachia gets cold, after all.

When hands return to wander her body, Sypha realizes that Adrian and Trevor have removed their own coats as well. Neither tend to dress as warmly as her, so it makes a big difference; she marvels at the sensation of running her hands across their abdomens, only thin fabric to separate them.

All three of them are underweight. Adrian had let himself waste away under Gresit for a year. Trevor and Sypha had been enduring war and famine. Only once they joined up did any of them start eating full portions at regular intervals, mostly thanks to Adrian’s heavy coin purse. Sypha is pleasantly surprised when her fingers brush down Trevor’s belly and find softness there, fat on top of muscle. Adrian is skinnier in comparison, but still not unhealthy. Sypha’s heart feels close to bursting. They’re both here, warm and fed, protecting and protected. They’re in her arms, and she’s in theirs. Not alone. Not distant. For the first time since Gresit, Sypha is tethered to the world. She forgot how good it feels.

Abruptly, Adrian and Trevor freeze. Adrian brings up a hand to her jawline, his thumb brushing against wetness on her cheek. Was she crying? Trevor leans over to edge into her field of view. They both look so concerned that it makes her laugh.

Adrian returns her smile, but still asks, “are you okay, Sypha?”

“Yes,” she says, voice breathy. “I’m happy.” She brings up a hand to wipe against her eyes. “You’re both giving me all the attention. Aren’t you afraid of spoiling me?”

“Shit. Good point,” Trevor says lightly. To correct the error, he rolls over until Sypha is laughing and squirming, crushed beneath his weight. Trevor brings a firm hand to the back of Adrian’s neck and pulls their lips together roughly, all previous hesitation forgotten. The rhythm of the kissing travels down Trevor’s body, and Sypha finds herself grinding back against it. There’s too many clothes in the way, so she can’t quite get the friction she’s straining for, but it’s still very, very nice. Sypha is inspired to reach her free hand towards Adrian and palms at the straining peak of his trousers.

“I-” Adrian gasps, and then stops, apparently losing focus. She rubs him lazily, slowly, until he tries again, voice straining, “How far? What’s–ah–on the not-table?”

Not -table?

Adrian’s question brings everything to a gradual, panting halt. Trevor eventually says, voice small, “I want it all, Christ, I really, really do. But I, uh, rushed things before, and–” a glance to Sypha “–as you put it, there was some regret the next morning.”

Sypha gives him a fond smile, kisses his cheek. She says, “it’s normal to need time, or change your mind. Thank you for being honest.” Trevor, almost remorsefully, rolls off and she’s bracketed by the men again. The three of them stare up to the ceiling, a nondescript plane of shadow far out of reach of any candlelight.

“Shit,” Trevor says. “I’m–”

“If you’re thinking of apologizing, there’s no need,” Adrian says. “We–or, at least I–would only be upset if you let things go farther than you wanted.” A pause. “You didn’t do that, right?”

“No, it was all fine–shit, not fine, it was fucking hot–but if you both want to keep going, I can make myself scarce.”

Sypha and Adrian exchange uncertain glances. Sypha says, “I want both of you to stay here, with me. Anything beyond that is nice, but I’m already happy.” She takes their hands in each of hers. “Is that alright?” Adrian breaks into a smile.

At almost the same time, as if they coordinated it, Trevor and Adrian squeeze her hands. Then the three of them shuffle around, tugging blankets, intertwining their limbs, lying flush against each other. They’d been sleeping like this, all tangled up together, since that very first night on the road, but tonight Sypha feels the intimacy of it like she’d never felt before. She falls asleep smiling.

Isaac wakes gradually, in a bed much nicer than his own. Someone is breathing, loud and creaky and labored. With some difficulty, he turns his head and sees another person in another bed, just beside him. They’re covered in linen bandages, some of which are seeping red. Isaac opens his mouth to say something, but stops from the sharp tugging pain it brings to his skin.

“The burns aren’t as bad as they probably feel,” someone says.

Isaac turns his head back, towards the voice, and a cramp in his neck stops him part way. He takes in a shuddering breath, brings his hand up to massage it–

He can’t move his hand. His entire arm is tied up, immoble. Has he been imprisoned? He tests his other hand, and while it aches, it can move freely.

Isaac wants to ask a question, but his face is already on fire from what little movement he’s made and he dreads making it worse. He’s amazed by his own cowardice.

“Carmilla is dead. She tried to take you both with her.”

The voice is deep, paternal, grounding. He wants them to say more things.

“Your back was nearly as torn up as your arm, you know. I hereby ban you from from that ridiculous self-flagellation, I won’t have my best general die of pointless infection.”

Isaacs out a low, scratchy groan, hoping it conveys his disagreement. It’s not pointless. They don’t understand.

“None of that,” says the voice, stern. “You really shouldn’t be awake yet.”

Isaac’s heavy eyelids seem to agree. He lets the weight of dreamless sleep envelop him, and the terrible labored breathing fades into the background.

Chapter Text

January 10th, 1477

Slow down, Adrian. The street is icy, you’ll hurt yourself.

Sorry, Unchi.

Do you want cream or date filling?

Um. What’s yours?

I’m going to get the date.

Me, too!

Alright. Two date pastries, please. And some warm milk.

Unchi, look! What’s that?

They’re building a snowman. Do you want to try?

Adrian. Adi, talk to me. What’s wrong? Why are you crying?

It’s not moving.

Well, no. It’s a snowman.

It’s dead.

No, it’s just snow, Adi. It’s just snow we rolled into a shape.

Please make it alive.

I can’t, Adi.

Why?

It was never living in the first place.

But it’s scared. It wants to be here.

Oh, Adrian…

Please, Hector.

Isaac is not supposed to be up, but it’s the middle of the day and there’s no vampires around to stop him. He shuffles across the stuffy room, his good hand bracing against any furniture within reach as he goes. Staying upright is a challenge.

“...can’t,” mumbles Hector. Isaac glances back and watches him a moment, there in the second bed, much of his skin bandaged out of sight, a third of his hair shorn away for a long trail of angry, winding stitches. Hector’s been talking in his sleep off and on for hours. It’s probably a positive sign for his recovery. Good. Dracula needs him.

Isaac walks down the long corridors, his weight sliding against the walls. Sunlight sneaks through arrow-slit windows, leaving slivers of light draped across the floor. Isaac takes a break each time his vision starts to tunnel, opting to lie fully down on the floor. The stone is cool against his burning cheeks.

To avoid passing Dracula’s office, Isaac the long way to his workroom. He doesn’t want to know the extent of the damage there. He doesn’t want to see burns and bloodstains. It’s cowardly, but Isaac doesn’t have the energy to feel ashamed.

Isaac’s workroom is hot. It’s near the chamber with the mechanism—the engine, Dracula calls it. A thing of magic that Isaac will never comprehend. He chose this as his workroom because as much as Isaac hates the heat, he likes to be near the center of things.

Isaac shuffles along the workroom's wall until he reaches the row of hooks that hold his tools. The flay whip is gone, as Dracula had threatened. Isaac is not surprised, but it’s a shame. He will have to visit the interrogation chamber, borrow a replacement until he can have something better made. His forging knife is gone, too. He was stupid to think it’d be here. Carmilla's fire probably warped it when she died.

He takes an older blade from the wall. It’s longer than Isaac likes and the balance is off, but he had maintained it with the same care and attention as all his other tools. The blade is sharp and clean. Isaac can see the vague colors of his skin the reflection, his organic shapes distorted by beveled edges.

Isaac carries the blade in his left hand.

A corpse is laid out neatly on the table; it must’ve been delivered quite recently by a confused night creature still operating under out-of-date orders. That’s lucky. He would have had to go all the way downstairs to cold storage otherwise.

Isaac tries to flex the fingers of his right hand, hidden out of view in a cast of gauze and plaster. He can’t feel any motion, just pain shooting up his forearm. He may never again hold a pen or a knife in that hand. He flexes again, just to feel it hurt.

Isaac looks at the corpse. He swings the blade in his left hand, testing the motion. It feels awkward. It won’t work, Isaac thinks. It has to work.

Slowly and deliberately, Isaac slits the blade between the corpse’s ribs. He feels the phantom pain mirrored in his own abdomen.

Hector once remarked that forging felt like striking a tuning fork. Isaac disagrees. He feels the magic of it now; something sharp and hooked inside his stomach, the claws of a soul reaching out from hell. Isaac is the portal it must climb through.

The corpse twitches. Isaac angles his knife closer towards the heart, twists it just slightly. The claws are tearing into him, but it doesn’t feel right. The soul’s hold is failing; it can’t drag itself free from its own damnation. Isaac pushes the knife to the hilt. The soul digs into him desperately.

And then, suddenly, the soul slips away. The corpse doesn’t move again.

Isaac throws the knife across the room. He leans against the table, slides down alongside it until he’s flat on the ground. The stone floor is not cold against his cheeks. His skin is burning.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Trevor Belmont.”

“What, packing?” mumbles Trevor, half distracted, trying to get this stupid fucking sleeping mat inside this stupid fucking sack. He knows it should fit, but it’s folded wrong or something, because he’s pretty sure it doesn’t look this lumpy when Adrian does it. “Ugh. I give up,” he says in disgust, shoving the infuriating bundle of fabric away from himself.

Sypha perks up. “Oh? So you’re not going?”

Trevor gives her an impatient look. “No, I am going. Just not with a sleeping mat if I can’t find a damn way to carry it.” He straightens his back, takes a moment to stretch, and then leans down to pick up the other sack, which has successfully been packed. It carries some money, jerky, and a few other odds and ends that he might find need for. It’s not much, but he doesn’t plan on needing a lot.

“Trevor, this is ridiculous. We have at least six more days of food, and Adrian can always hunt.”

“Yeah, but your latest soap recipe sucks, and we’re low on medical ingredients, and Adrian keeps feeding the horses our carrots. It’s just Danesti, Sypha. I’ll be back this time tomorrow.”

“And this has nothing to do with last night?” Her question drips with skepticism.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Fine. I need time to think and I’m tired of smelling like lard. Two birds, one stone.”

Sypha starts to say something, then pauses. “Wait, you really don’t like the soap?”

“I really don’t.”

“You said it was better than the last one!”

“That’s true. The last one was gravelly.”

“It was supposed to be exfoliating!”

“Is that a fancy word for giving me a rash? Because then it was really great, if that’s our measure.” Trevor starts walking up the dreaded stairs that lead outside, then pauses. He cups a hand around his mouth and shouts, “Adrian, come down here!”

“He’s with the horses again.”

“I know he is. And I know he can hear me. Adrian!”

Very distantly: “what?”

“I need a lift!”

Sypha levels Trevor with an unimpressed glare. “Really, Trevor?”

“What? The man can fly, and I’m sick of climbing up and down these fucking stairs all day.”

Trevor pretends not to be startled when Adrian is suddenly beside them. Creepy vampirey teleporty bullshit. “You should be grateful. Stairs build character,” says Adrian dryly.

“I have plenty of character.” Trevor holds out an arm to him expectantly. “Come on, then. Going up.”

Adrian quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t think I want to.”

“Can I have a ride?” asks Sypha.

“Of course.”

Trevor groans, adjusts the sack on his shoulder, and starts trudging up the endless winding steps. “Everyone’s against me,” he mutters. Adrian picks Sypha up in a suspiciously romantic sort of embrace and floats skyward, like he’s a fucking angel carrying her to heaven. Trevor flicks them off when they wave cheerily from high above.

He’s one story higher when Adrian returns to float beside him, without Sypha this time. “Sorry,” Adrian says, smiling. “You’re too easy to pick on. I’ll take you up.”

“No, no,” Trevor grunts, still climbing. “I’m building character.”

“You have plenty of character.”

“Nah, can never have too much.”

Adrian rolls his eyes, tips forward to put his hands on Trevor’s shoulders. “Let me help. I’ll even say please.”

Trevor sighs, comes to a stop. Adrian gives him a mischievous smile, and then suddenly swoops down to hook one arm under Trevor’s knees and the other supporting his back, bridal-style.

“I hate you,” says Trevor as they ascend.

“I know,” says Adrian.

It’s strangely nostalgic, walking the old path to Danesti by foot. He used to hate these trips as a kid—or more accurately, he hated the five or six hours of boredom to endure before ever actually reaching Danesti. He and his cousin used to run ahead until whatever poor sods accompanying them were far behind and out of sight. Then they’d hide in the trees and stage an ambush.

They’d only tried it once with his uncle; Trevor’s cheek smarted for hours after, and his cousin sulked in the carriage with a black eye for the rest of the journey. When they found other kids to play with in Danesti that evening, Trevor’s cousin told them that he’d gotten the black eye from fighting a werewolf.

Trevor doesn’t feel bored this time. It’s a little startling to realize that it’s been almost three weeks since he’s last traveled alone. It feels both longer and shorter. Trevor tries to remember the last time he’d traveled with companions before now. Had he ever?

Well, there had occasionally been people that happened to walk the same pace and direction as he for an hour or two. A couple times, Trevor had been hired to accompany travelers in case of bandits. Once, a flea bitten dog had followed Trevor around for about a week, until one day it lost interest and simply walked away.

Trevor wracks his brain, trying to think of other times. No, that’s it. That’s all the traveling companions he’d ever had in seven—no, eight years now, shit. His time with Sypha and Adrian has gone on for much, much longer than any time before, too. And after nearly a decade of never even daring to say his last name aloud, he had bared half his soul to Sypha and Alucard over the course of three fucking weeks. Trevor suddenly feels horribly claustrophobic.

And then, a comforting realization: Trevor doesn’t have to go back to the library.

He already more or less served his purpose by giving them his only remaining birthright, the total accumulation of his family’s knowledge. Not to mention Adrian now has some sort of contact inside the castle, so they have a really good chance of managing a successful infiltration. And in terms of combat—well, Trevor knows he’s a competent fighter, but yesterday’s events made it quite clear that Sypha and Adrian can hold their own just fine. If they were hunting normal vampires, Trevor’s niche skills might come in handy, but this is fucking Dracula, and Trevor is, at the end of the day, an average human man. He would just end up being a distraction or collateral.

Trevor could keep going past Danesti, cut west through the woods from there and find the old footpath to the village of Lasa. He picks up his pace, feeling excited, or maybe agitated. God, he missed this—being alone, untethered. Nobody to please, nobody to behave for. He could drink himself blind. He could trip and break his neck. Nobody would care.

Sypha and Adrian would care. They’re sentimental like that. At first Trevor found it annoying, even dangerous; a soft heart is a liability. Now Trevor sees it as something rare and worthy of preservation. Still dangerous, but maybe that’s the point. Being good is supposed to be painful, right? Of course it is.

Trevor’s never had a high tolerance for pain.

He breaks into a run. He doesn’t mind being the asshole, doesn’t mind if he breaks their hearts a little. They’ll be fine, they have each other. They’re probably together right now, doing all the things they were building up to before Trevor cock blocked them. Already, they’re moving on, and they don’t even know it, yet. It’s better off this way. They’ll be fine. Everybody wins.

Trevor reaches Danesti at least an hour earlier than expected. He must’ve been running for miles. Only when he stops at the outskirts of town does he feel the effects of his exertion: thirst, pain, fatigue, nausea. Perhaps continuing on to Lasa can wait until the morning.

Trevor goes to the tavern, there in the exact same stone structure he remembers from his childhood. Danesti is a humble town, long past its best days. Once there were no more Belmonts around to offer protection, the area simply became a tougher place to live.

Trevor notes a respectable amount of patronage in the tavern as he makes his way to slump at the bar and order his first ale of the night. He’s careful to keep his head down. Trevor’s been to Danesti many times since being on his own, and so far nobody’s recognized him, but he should at least pretend to be careful.

Trevor recognizes plenty of them. Some he recalls fondly. Some turned his family into ashes. Trevor often thinks about revenge against those people, plans out how he’d make it slow and excruciating. But he’s never gone through with it, not even close. They always look too much like regular people in the light of day.

“We don’t get many new faces here these days.”

Trevor looks up from his fourth mug of ale at the woman perched beside him. She’s gorgeous, brown skin and black hair, eyes sharp and mouth quirked in a troublesome kind of smile. He says, “there a problem?”

“No, of course not. I like new people. Even if they smell like beef fat.”

Trevor coughs out a quick chuckle. If only Sypha could hear this. “Some people like that smell. Doesn’t it remind you of nana’s cooking?”

The woman settles into her chair, motions the barkeep for a drink. “My nana didn’t cook with beef. We kept chickens.”

Trevor empties his tankard, gladly accepts a refill when the barkeep offers. “Ah, damn. I was wearing my chicken perfume yesterday.”

The woman laughs and Trevor finds himself grinning with her. She says, “funny and handsome. I’m starting to like this new stranger.” Trevor looks back at his cup; he’s not used to compliments he hasn’t paid for. “I’m Greta, by the way.”

The name is vaguely familiar. Trevor thinks she might have been one of the older kids. But not old enough to be potentially culpable. “Trevor,” he says.

Greta gives Trevor a long evaluating look. Fuck. It was stupid to give his actual first name. Then she says, “do you like to handle wood, Trevor?”

Trevor chokes on his ale.

Greta bursts into laughter. “You can learn so much about a man when you ask him a question like that. Don’t worry, I mean nothing untoward. You might’ve have seen it on your way in, but we’re building a wall.”

Trevor honestly hadn’t noticed, but he nods along anyway. Once his throat is clear he asks, “you’re looking for labor?”

“Yes. We need to fell a lot more trees to get Danesti properly defended, but there’s not a lot of able bodies in town anymore.”

Trevor frowns. “I didn’t think demon attacks were a problem in the area yet.”

“They’re not, but I know which way the wind is blowing. If it’s not night creatures coming our way, it’ll be foreign invaders. The crown is weak, it can’t protect us.”

It’s stupid to bring up, but Trevor does anyway. “Isn’t your vassal helping?”

She spits, right there on the tavern floor. “The vassal is living fat off our taxes from the safety of Greece. He’s a title, nothing more.”

Trevor ventures further into idiocy. “I thought there was a family that managed these lands.”

“You must have terrible hearing to not’ve heard what happened to them.”

Trevor shrugs. Finishes his latest round of ale, orders more. He doesn’t feel drunk, but he knows it’s just around the corner. “Humor me.”

“Well, have you heard of the Belmonts?”

Trevor grunts. “Monster hunters, right?”

“Sure, more or less. They did a lot of good for us—not just Danesti, I mean, they traveled all over the continent hunting down all sorts of horrors. They were quite popular overall.” A meaningful pause. “And then they weren’t.”

“What changed?”

Greta shrugs. “The Church said the Belmonts were witches. And, of course, anyone whose friendly with a witch might get called a witch, too. Much easier to go along with what the Church wants rather get your own home torched.”

“I’m sure the ones who let Dracula’s wife burn felt the same way.”

She grins. “I’m sure they did. Look, I’m not saying it’s right, it’s just how it is.”

“So that’s what your lot did? You burned the Belmonts as witches?”

“Some of us, yes. Oh, don’t give me that look, it was years ago, and we’ve served our punishment plenty of times over.”

“How so?”

“A few months after the Belmonts were gone, we started to have a lot of problems with evil magics and such moving into the region. When the cat’s away and all that, I suppose.” Greta’s good humor slips for a moment. “We lost a lot of people. It only eased up when Dracula’s war started, which makes me think he recruited our tormentors.”

Trevor looks down at his tankard. “You’ve been in want of that wall for a while then,” he says.

“Exactly. So, you’re up for helping tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah. Sure. If you buy the next few rounds.”

“Consider it done, friend.”

Greta tries to pay for Trevor’s lodging in the tavern, but he waves her off, feeling weirdly embarrassed by the whole thing. Trevor is technically the rightful vassal, after all, and he refuses to get fat off his people’s money. “That’s a stupid thought,” Trevor mumbles. He’d never before considered these people his.

Trevor pays a stable boy to let him sleep in an empty stall for the night. He’s aware that it’s cold, but the alcohol makes it a distant problem. Trevor lies on his back in the itchy, damp hay and lets his eyes drift closed.

And then suddenly Trevor startles, eyes wide, starting at the ceiling. There’s a fucking bat hanging there. “Adrian?” Trevor whispers.

The bat ignores him. Trevor scans the ceiling for others, but it’s so dark and his eyes are so blurry. Trevor groans, gives up. He’s being stupid again. Adrian wouldn’t leave Sypha by herself—in fact, they’re probably together right now. It’s somehow comforting to imagine them, safe and warm and wrapped up in each other. Maybe sleeping, maybe doing other things. Trevor lets his mind drift into a haze, imagining that he’s there with them.

Chapter Text

January 11^th, 1477

Sypha runs her hands across the smooth leather binding of the tome. It must be hundreds of years old, but it’s been well preserved. Each page is clear of wrinkles or stains, the ink is stark and barely faded. The spine isn’t even broken. At first, she thought the Belmonts must’ve forgotten that it was here for it to have escaped the typical wear and tear of frequent reading.

Now, looking through it, Sypha understands. “Adrian,” she calls out, running her fingers across each vellum leaf, “I found the family records.”

The book is massive and not even a quarter full of writing. Recorded in precise, tiny letters written by generations of hands is an account of every Belmont birth, death, marriage, annulment, entitlement, and major accomplishment. The very first name recorded is that of a Sir Leon Belmont, born in France in the 11^th century.

The very last name recorded is Trevor Christopher Belmont.

“That idiot,” Sypha whispers.

Adrian comes from around the corner of a bookshelf, having been perusing nearby. “What is it?” he asks.

She looks up at him, brows raised. “Trevor’s birthday is tomorrow. He was never going to tell us, was he?”

Adrian’s expression is carefully still. “Well, I don’t blame him,” he says slowly.

Sypha blinks. “What?”

“Why would he bring it up? Sort of odd to go around telling people your birthday.” He leans against the shelf, very obviously trying to appear nonchalant.

She narrows her eyes. “Adrian. When is your birthday?”

Adrian coughs. “It hardly matters.”

“Is it this month?”

He takes a sudden great interest in admiring the ceiling.

“Is it this week?”

“I ought to go check on the horses.”

“Is it tomorrow—no, is it today?”

Adrian’s guilty expression breaks into weak amusement. “How much trouble am I in?”

Sypha laughs and stands to pull him into a tight hug. “Congratulations, Adrian. You’re one year older.” She pulls back and gives him a critical look. “As for how much trouble, that depends. How important are birthdays for you normally?” When he hesitates to answer, Sypha continues, “among Speakers, we would honor your birth parents—giving them gifts if they’re present for the occasion, sharing happy stories of them if not. What do you normally do?”

Adrian smiles, warm and almost shy. “We hold feasts and give gifts—to the person getting older, not their parents, unfortunately. It could get very excessive, especially if the gift-giver was trying to impress my father. However, most vampires prefer to celebrate the anniversary of their deaths.”

“I can imagine.” Sypha looks down at the tome in her hands. “How do you think Trevor used to celebrate?”

“By getting shitfaced and picking fights, I’m guessing.”

“I mean before he lost his family.”

“So do I.” Adrian’s snarky grin makes her laugh harder than she should. “But really, I’m sure he and I grew up similarly in that regard. My mother came from a well off Christian family, after all.” He looks around them. “Not as well off as the Belmonts, of course, but she would’ve known the customs of nobility.”

She sighs in mock annoyance. “Well, now I have to find you both a gift!”

Adrian gives her a helpless smile. “Alternatively, we could drop the subject entirely and not think about birthdays at all.”

Sypha laughs, raises a hand to cup his cheek. “Oh, Adrian.” He closes his eyes and leans into her palm. She lets the moment linger, and then abruptly pats his cheek and pulls away. “Not a chance. I better get started, you’ve both given me no time to prepare. Why don’t you go see to the horses and keep an eye out for Trevor? He should be back soon.”

Adrian rubs his cheek petulantly and sighs. “It was worth a try. Very well.”

Sypha brushes past him, devious plans already shaping in her mind. She leaves him with one last cheeky afterthought: “My birthday is in June, by the way.”

Trevor, it turns out, is really good at hitting trees with hatchets. He doesn’t have to think very hard about where to hit, he just follows the markings left by the village headman, an older gentleman who he recalls had once been the head forester for the Belmont estate. Back then, the forester was a friendly sort who didn’t mind when Trevor and his cousin followed him around the forest, pretending they were elite monster hunters tracking a beast rather than loud, clumsy boys playing in the woods.

Trevor doesn’t know if the forester had been involved with the burning, but he hopes not. He doesn’t want more happy memories to be spoiled by imagining the man secretly seething and planning Trevor’s demise. But at least now, the forester-turned-headman seems polite enough, mostly preoccupied with overseeing the logging and keeping everyone safe.

The headman had selected several medium-sized trees to be felled after some careful deliberation. Greta had followed him, listening intently as the headman explained aloud how he selected for straightness of the trunk and prioritized removing younger or sicklier trees. She watched as the he marked shapes on each tree with charcoal, explaining to her the reasoning for each mark’s placement and geometry. Trevor got the distinct impression that Greta was some sort of apprentice to this man.

Trevor now hacks away at each drawn mark with another worker, both of them timing their chops into a harmonious sort of rhythm. As they carve each wedge-shaped hole, other villagers are clearing away debris from the forest floor where the trees are intended to land and plan logistics for hauling the logs back to Danesti.

The work is menial and not too far outside Trevor’s comfort zone, although he definitely feels the muscles in his thighs and lower back complaining when he has to hunch to get the angles right. Swordfights never last more than a few explosive seconds; Trevor isn’t used to this slow, methodical type of exertion.

Trevor freezes on an upswing when Greta’s voice is suddenly close behind him. “Take a rest,” she says. “Your arms are shaking and your tunic is soaked through.”

“I can keep going,” he grits out, resuming the upswing, but not yet committing to the next chop.

“I prefer that you don’t,” she says. “We need precise, steady hands, or the tree might fall too early and kill someone.”

Trevor heaves out a sigh and lowers the hatchet. As sore as his body is, he was enjoying the mindlessness of it. He hadn’t thought about Sypha or Adrian once since the work began. “Fine,” he grumbles. Another worker steps in to take his place and Greta leads Trevor towards the village

May as well make sure his break is useful. “Where can I buy soap and rations?” he asks. Greta looks back at him, one eyebrow perked.

“Well, market’s only open on Saturdays. The tavern might be willing to sell you something.” She smirks. “I don’t think they have any meat-based soap, unfortunately.”

“I can live with that,” he says, returning her smirk with one of his own. Although, if Trevor isn’t going back to the Belmont estate, why buy soap at all? The bathing was more for the benefit of his companions than anything. On his own, Trevor can just rub himself down with snowmelt and a burlap rag. Or not bother with anything at all—who’s he trying to impress?

He buys soap anyway. It smells like pine sap, which isn’t too bad. He stocks up on enough carrots to feed a cavalry of horses, dried meats, pickled eggs, medicinal herbs, and even splurges on some sugar.

He’s sitting at a table with Greta, only halfway through his first tankard, when buyer’s remorse sets in. Trevor bought supplies like he’s still with Sypha and Adrian. And sure, maybe he sort of is, he hasn’t officially declared his emancipation to anyone yet. Yesterday’s plan to break away had hit him like an arrow, sharp and sudden and overwhelming. Now it pulsed and burned like the arrow hadn’t struck cleanly, like the shaft split and left him full of splinters. Still overwhelming, but in a slow, prodding way. Now, the idea of leaving feels more like closing doors rather than opening them. Which makes no fucking sense at all.

Trevor is startled from his thoughts when a server refills his empty cup. He frowns down at the piss-colored ale, then takes a deep drink.

After a while, Greta says, “so, what’s your next move?”

Trevor looks up at her with tired eyes. “Knocking down another tree, I imagine.”

She smiles. “Sorry, but no. That’s your fourth drink, and your hands are still unsteady. You’re done with logging for today.”

Trevor looks down at his hands wrapped around the ceramic tankard. He has to admit, his arms do feel sort of boneless. “I’m built more for strength than endurance.”

“That you certainly are,” says Greta, giving his chest an appreciative glance. Trevor laughs, embarrassed by how flattered he feels. “What sort of work leads to a body like that, and where can I get some?”

“Er, mercenary work, mostly. And excessive bar fighting. If you just look mean enough, the jobs will come to you. Look stupid enough and the fights will, too.”

“I see. Can you demonstrate, for educational purposes?”

He leans back, amused. “You want to see my mean look?”

She mirrors his posture, eyes crinkled in a smile. “Actually, your stupid look, if you don’t mind.”

“Well, that one is sort of there by default.”

She hums. “Really? I don’t see it.”

“Only other stupid people can detect it. That’s how we keep track of each other in crowds, you see.”

She sighs dramatically. “Then it’s hopeless for me. I’ll never make it in the bar fighting business.” And then the mock sadness is replaced with eager mischief. “Well, show me your mean look, then.”

Trevor gives it his all. Greta bursts out laughing, loud enough to startle everyone in the room. For the next half hour, Greta makes her own attempts, interrupted often by Trevor’s advice and her own inability to keep a straight face. Eventually, though, they both acknowledge that their break had gone on long enough. Greta sends him to work on the palisade wall, digging out the meter-deep trench where the next logs will be set.

Trevor’s still grinning stupidly as he works, imagining the sort of glowering faces that Sypha and Adrian would have attempted. Then a muted sound of snow crunching under a foot breaks him from his thoughts. Trevor’s head whips up to see a dog standing a few meters away, watching him intently.

It’s a large, white dog with eerily intelligent eyes. For a few seconds, Trevor’s heart beats fast, almost thinking it’s Adrian—but no, this is clearly just a dog. Probably someone’s pet, with fur that clean. Trevor goes back to his labor.

He stops. Trevor did see that bat the night before. He had thought… no, Trevor’s being stupid. It’s just paranoia (wishful thinking? No. Paranoia.)

Trevor keeps digging.

The day reaches that murky time between afternoon and evening. The dog is still watching him. It’s even lying down now, its head atop its paws, tail wagging once or twice each time Trevor spares it a glance. Adrian never said he could turn into a dog, but maybe he can vary his wolf form a bit here and there, choose a smaller shape when it suits him?

The simmering doubt in Trevor’s mind finally boils over. He turns to glare at the dog full on. “Adrian,” he growls. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The dog blinks, lifts its head. Its tail thumps against the snowy ground.

“Yes, yes, very cute. What is this? Why are you just sitting there?”

The dog tilts its head.

“Have you been following me since yesterday? I knew that was you in the rafters—fucking hell, this is too much. Am I not entitled to my goddamn privacy? Am I not trustworthy?” Okay, sure, maybe he was planning to take the money and run, but still. This is just insulting.

The dog fails to respond. Suddenly enraged, Trevor throws the shovel as hard as he can to the side. He’s about to tear Adrian a new one, but before he opens his mouth, the dog has shot to its feet and… and…

It fucking catches the shovel. The shovel is heavy, so the dog half drags it back to Trevor and drops it at the edge of the trench. Trevor stares dumbly. The dog play bows, its behind wiggling joyfully.

“Who’s your friend?”

Trevor whips around and sees, there on the other side of the goddamn trench, goddamn Adrian Tepes. His normally subtle height advantage over Trevor is exaggerated by virtue of not standing in a meter-deep trench, and there’s barely contained laughter behind his expression.

Oh, god. Trevor resists the sudden overpowering urge to spontaneously combust. He doesn’t think he’d pull it off, anyway.

Adrian crouches down, resting his elbows on his knees, so now he’s only somewhat towering over him. “You blush very handsomely, you know.”

Trevor’s face definitely does not heat even more. He puts on his defensive scowl and says, “what the hell are you doing here?”

“Well, yesterday you led us to believe you’d be home in time for lunch. And yet, here you are, not even on the road, and it’s past six o’clock. Sypha will be relieved to know you’re digging a ditch, rather than lying dead in one.”

“Well, they needed some help. We’re trying to bring Dracula to their front yard, the least we can do is help make Danesti more defensible.”

“I wholeheartedly agree. But I’m failing to see why you had to drop everything and do this today, leaving Sypha and I in the dark for hours, imagining all the horrible things that might’ve happened to you.”

Trevor hadn’t considered it from that angle, exactly, but to be fair, it wouldn’t have changed his choices. Best to move on. “How long did it take you to get here?”

“Two hours or so.”

Trevor stares. “You traveled twenty miles in two hours.”

Adrian waves a hand dismissively. “It’s not nearly that far as the crow flies. Or as the bats fly.” He tilts his head, just like the dog had done. “There’s a woman approaching.”

Trevor turns to follow Adrian’s gaze, then holds out a hand and waves. “Greta,” he greets her.

“Trevor,” she responds brightly. She crouches down to scratch the dog’s scruff. The dog, meanwhile, is still very intensely watching the shovel, presumably waiting for someone to throw it again. “Who’s this?”

“Some dog,” Trevor says flatly.

“Funny. I know Argos, he’s the headman’s dog.” Her eyes flick up to Adrian. “I mean your handsome friend.”

“Adrian,” says Adrian. He looks at the palisade wall where it ends and the trench it’s set into continues. Soon, more logs will be brought to expand the wall and fill in what Trevor has dug. “You’ve put him to work, I see.”

“I have. Trevor’s a handy one. Put him to task and he won’t stop for hours.” She grins down at him. “I don’t think we felled enough trees for all the progress you’ve made here, I should’ve stopped you earlier.”

Trevor shrugs.

“Then it won’t be a problem if I take him away?” asks Adrian.

“Of course not, long as he’s fine with it,” she says, giving Trevor a questioning look.

Well, Trevor wasn’t exactly planning to go back. But he also stopped planning to not go back. Trevor had all day to think about what to do next, and instead he very studiously thought about nothing at all. Probably for the best that Adrian decided for him. Trevor heaves out a sigh. “Yeah, I should go. I’ll visit again, though.”

She raises her brow. “I didn’t get the impression you lived around here.”

“I don’t, just staying in the area for a while.” He shrugs. “Mercenary work.”

“Ah. Well, I look forward to your next visit. Bring your handsome friend next time, we can always use another helping hand.” Saying that, Greta reaches her own hand out to Trevor, helping him out of the trench when he takes it. Trevor goes to join Adrian, but gets interrupted by a light touch at the back of his knee. He looks down to see the white dog, Argos, nosing at his leg.

“You know, you’re very annoying,” Trevor says. Argos wags.

Adrian huffs out a laugh. And then, suddenly, there’s a carrot in his hands, which he tosses to the dog. Argos snaps it from the air smoothly, then hunches down to chew at it between his paws.

Trevor pinches the bridge of his nose, gives Greta a strained goodbye, picks up his pack, and follows Adrian back on the path to Belmont manor.

Isaac’s internal clock is still disoriented, so it’s surprising when he starts to hear the distant voices of vampires newly awake for the evening, greeting each other in the halls. The stiffness in their tones should have been plenty of warning that Dracula was coming in, but Isaac still has to suppress a startle when the door opens.

“I heard you went to the workroom again,” says Dracula, voice cool. He sits down at the plush chair by the second bed, where Hector is asleep. He’s been steadfastly recovering, waking up for longer and longer bouts of time, occasionally even present enough to ask for water. Nobody has been consistently attending to either of the forgemasters, so Isaac himself played the nurse when Hector’s needs were within his limited scope of ability and retrieved help from the guards when they were not.

Isaac is sitting up in his own bed, legs crossed, an open Quran on his lap. With recent events being as they are, Isaac has a particular need to meditate, but no flay whip to help him find his focus. So far, cogitating on the verses has not been an effective substitution. He closes the book and rests his hands on the stiff leather cover. “It is critical that I recover my forging skills as quickly as possible,” he says.

“Your body’s recovery comes first.”

Isaac doesn't respond. They had already played the argument out yesterday. Isaac had fallen asleep—or possibly fainted—in his workroom after his third failed attempt at forging. Isaac then found himself waking up in bed, hazy and confused, with a very displeased Dracula looming over him. It’s not as if Isaac hadn’t learned his limit, though. Today he only allowed himself two forging attempts (neither of which succeeded), and then returned to bed on his own.

Still, it’s strange being in this dynamic. Dracula has never lectured at Isaac before. Alucard and Hector both received their fair share of chastisement over the years, but Isaac had always known better. He never felt a desire to disobey Dracula’s instruction, but now that it chafes against the war, he simply has no choice. Isaac cannot do nothing.

Hector mumbles something indecipherable in his sleep. Dracula rests a hand on his wrist. “How is he?”

“He still mostly sleeps, but he can move his fingers and toes and he recognized me today.”

Dracula lets out a long, exhausted breath and says, “Good. That’s good.” He looks over at Isaac. “And you?”

“My hand is still numb, but I can manage limited movements.” It’s difficult to keep his voice clinical. Isaac has not yet wrapped his mind around the loss of his dominant hand’s dexterity. It hurts, deep in his chest, to think on all the mundane things he’ll have to relearn with his left hand or give up on entirely. Forging is the most immediate concern, but certainly not the most devastating.

Isaac’s distress must have penetrated his stony expression, because Dracula gives him an uncharacteristic look of sympathy. “I’ve wronged you. I allowed you to fight her because I was angry. I wanted to toy with her, draw it out. I forget how… fragile humans are.” Dracula squeezes his eyes closed and lets out a long breath. “I almost lost you both. I don’t know why I’m so… it shouldn’t matter this much.”

“It would have been alright,” Isaac says firmly. “We’re just humans, the war does not depend on us. You would have found another way to build your armies.” He clenches his right hand—or tries to, anyway. “You may still have to.”

“I know. I know.” Dracula stares down at Hector. “You’re just humans. The lifespan of a fruit fly. But Lisa was—she…”

She was just a human, too, Isaac thinks. “Master Dracula.” Dracula looks back up at him, and it’s frightening to see him so uncertain. Isaac takes a fortifying breath. He can be the anchor if that’s what Dracula needs right now. “God made us both to serve you. Anything beyond that is merely… decorative.”

Dracula’s brow furrows deeper.

“I am your tool. One day I will break, as all tools do, and you will simply pick up another one to continue your work. That does not undo what you’ve accomplished with me. It simply means I’ve served my purpose to completion.”

Saying the words aloud is like a magic spell. It quiets the roiling fear that had unbalanced and unsettled him. Isaac is just a tool. A tool is not vain, it does not care about breaking. A tool exists without ego. A tool knows only peace.

Dracula watches him silently. After a long time, he says, voice low and almost threatening, “You will never break. I will not allow it.”

Later, while Dracula is elsewhere and Hector is asleep, Isaac meditates. He flexes his right hand and the staticky pain is a balm to his soul.

It’s just before midnight when the road goes wide and the remains of the Belmont estate finally come into view. There is a lit campfire near the stairs to the library. Ducky and Iona and basking in the glow, lying on their sides and drowsing. Alucard’s heart lurches when he registers the nondescript lump beside the horses as not a piece of rubble, but Sypha—swaddled in layers of her blue robes, hugging her knees to her chest, head hidden beneath her hood.

She startles awake when Trevor drops his heavy bag to the ground beside her. She stares up at him, and her eyes are puffy and red. She doesn’t say a word. Alucard watches them watch each other.

Eventually, Sypha says, voice hoarse, “I’m too tired to be angry. Just tell me if you’re alright.”

Trevor huffs out a breath, rubs his face, and then sits down beside her. “I’m alright,” he whispers. “Just lost track of time.”

She jerks her head in a quick nod. “Good.”

Adrian comes to sit between them, leans his arm against Sypha. She rests her head on his shoulder. Trevor looks away.

“Happy birthday,” Sypha says.

Trevor jerks his head back. “What?”

She sniffs haughtily. “I was talking to Adrian.”

Trevor flicks his eyes towards Alucard. “It’s your birthday?”

Sypha’s energy is starting to lift. “Yes, his birthday is January eleventh, isn’t that fascinating?”

“Today’s the eleventh? Wait—” Trevor points an accusatory finger at Alucard. “We just walked for five hours together, you didn’t think to mention this?”

“I wasn’t allowed to,” he says honestly.

“Not allowed?” Trevor looks between Alucard and Sypha, outrage and confusion growing. “What the hell is going on?”

Alucard can’t warn him verbally, but he tries to convey it through his expression: It’s a setup. Run now.

Sypha’s voice goes dangerously innocent. “Do you have anything you’d like to tell us, Trevor?”

Trevor pales.

Just say it. She may be merciful if you’re honest.

After a very long wait, Trevor groans and says, “fuck, alright. Fine. So I may have entertained the thought of not coming back here.”

Oh, you idiot.

Trevor continues, words stringing together in a fast jumble, “but obviously I didn’t go through with it, so I don’t see what the problem is. I think I’m entitled to a little harmless panic, alright, you’re both very strange people and I’m very—”

Alucard interrupts when he can’t stand it anymore. “Trevor, for the love of whatever higher power you hold dear, stop talking.” And then he’s unable to resist glancing at Sypha and saying, “I called it, by the way.” The moment Alucard saw Trevor’s face yesterday morning, he knew the moron was on the verge of spiraling. When Trevor failed to return on time, Alucard went in pursuit fully expecting to see him on the road to a completely different town. Catching him in Danesti had been a pleasant surprise.

Sypha bites back a smile. “That isn’t what I was fishing for, Trevor, but I’m grateful for your honesty. We will talk about that, but first,” she leans over to smack his arm gently, “happy birthday, you idiot.”

Alucard can’t hold back his laughter at Trevor’s displeased grimace.

“I should’ve run when I had the chance,” Trevor says grimly, but he’s smiling now. “I hate birthdays. Please don’t make this a thing.”

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Sypha says. “And because you ruined Adrian’s birthday by disappearing, we’re going to celebrate both of you tomorrow.” Trevor drops his head in his hands.

“There is one bright side to all this,” Alucard says. Trevor lifts his face, but only to glare at Alucard suspiciously. Rightly so. “I’m older than you.”

Trevor buries his face anew. “Fuck me.”

“Maybe later,” Alucard says.

“Fuck you. And shut up.”

Chapter Text

January 12th, 1477

The sky is pitch black when Alucard ascends from the library a few hours before sunrise. As he walks deep into the woods, the wrapped mirror shard and a scratchy wool blanket in tow, the occasional snow flurry tickles his skin, gently warning of an oncoming storm. 

He throws the blanket over himself. It’s still the best method he’s found to block light and dampen sound. He unwraps the mirror and frowns down at its dark reflection. He’ll wait one hour. If Hector doesn’t show up today, Alucard will have no choice but to assume that he’s no longer in the picture. They’ll be back to square one.

He’s been reluctant to tell Sypha and Trevor about the missed appointments. Things have just been so good lately, despite Trevor’s best efforts. Last night, after admitting to his abandoned plan to, well, abandon them, Trevor still let himself be tucked into the middle of their bedding, still let Alucard and Sypha rest their heads on his chest and fall asleep to the rocking movement of his breathing.

Minutes crawl by. The mirror doesn’t change. 

Alucard imagines himself going back to bed. Maybe he tugs Sypha into a sleepy embrace, their chests pressed together, and then Trevor comes from behind to hold him in turn. Maybe Trevor stirs a little, gets a little hard and gently grinds against him, as he does sometimes in his sleep. Then, when Trevor wakes up enough to realize, instead of pulling away in vaguely insulting embarrassment like usual, maybe he pushes a little harder. Maybe Alucard mimics the motion against Sypha, and she sighs and presses her breasts against him. Maybe they both kiss Alucard, Sypha’s lips hot and wet against his, Trevor’s tongue massaging the sensitive skin below his ear…

Alucard shivers. The mirror doesn’t change. 

Hector isn’t coming. Alucard is wasting his time. He lifts the cloth to rewrap the mirror, hesitates. Just an hour–even less than that, now–then he’ll give up for good. 

And then what? 

In their past conversations, Hector never outright admitted where the castle was, but Alucard had gotten enough hints to guess it’s somewhere near Targoviste. Could they possibly make the trek to find it in time, or will the castle have relocated to the other end of Wallachia by then? 

Sypha said she found some promising Adamic spell that a long-dead Belmont had once designed, but it’s incomplete. They’d decided to keep looking and come back to it if there was nothing better. Maybe it’s time to revisit it.

Alucard scowls at the mirror. It doesn’t change. 

When Isaac stands to leave their shared recovery room, Hector sits up quickly. “I want to see my workroom,” he says. “Will you take me?”

Isaac looks back at him with narrowed eyes. The bulk of his face is hidden beneath wound dressings and angry looking scabs. Hector’s own face probably looks the same. “I am not your chaperone,” Isaac says coolly.

Hector pushes the blanket off himself, swings his legs out over the side of the bed. Just that little movement makes him dizzy. “I just need help walking. Unless you want me to crawl there.”

Isaac is unmoved. “Why not? I did.” He turns and leaves. 

Hector is on his own.

A lightweight wooden chair makes a nearly passable walker. Hector grips its round back, arms trembling with exertion to hold himself upright, and shuffles his way down long empty corridors. “At least I can sit when I’m tired,” he mutters. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to waste even more time.

The stairs are a challenge, but at least he’s going to a lower floor. Hector abandons the chair to sit on the top step and carefully ease himself down, stair by stair.

Once he reaches his floor, he does indeed crawl the rest of the way, not trusting his ability to stay balanced on his feet. At least there aren’t any vampires around to point and laugh at the pathetic sight he must be.

The workroom is darker and larger than he recalls, but perhaps that’s just his shorter perspective. It takes Hector a long time to find the drawer where he stashed the mirror. By the time he finds it, he’s ready to tear his hair out. Or what’s left of it. Much of it was burned away, or shorn to better reach wounds for treatment. There are still a few long silvery locks here and there. He must look ridiculous.

Hector hesitates to unwrap the mirror from its bundle of burlap. There is a strong chance that Adrian won’t be waiting on the other side. It’s been days, after all. He must think Hector’s abandoned him. 

He stares down at the coarse fabric, brushes his finger across one frayed edge. What the hell is his plan here, really? Why is he even doing this? Does he truly want to betray Dracula, after all he’s done for him? Is it even possible to end the war peacefully? Was this all to avoid Carmilla’s even worse machinations? Or does Hector just miss his nephew’s company? 

Does it matter?

He pushes the fabric aside, and his stomach twists. Adrian is there. His eyes are closed, brow furrowed in frustration or focus, mouth tweaked into a mild frown. 

“Sorry I’m late,” Hector says, voice rasping.

Adrians eyes fly open. “Hector, I–” His eyes open even wider in shock at whatever he sees on Hector’s face. At least bandages are covering the worst of it. “What happened?”

“Had some trouble. Carmilla is dead.”

Hector tells him everything that happened before he lost consciousness. Well, everything he can recall. Some details are fuzzy, some are just gone. Apparently that’s common with head injuries like the one he survived. “I didn’t know vampires could explode,” he admits. “Doesn’t seem like a useful power.”

Adrian quirks his mouth, almost a smile. “She found a use anyway, though.”

Hector chuckles half-heartedly. The movement of it opens a scab on the corner of his mouth. Gross. “How do you even discover something like that?”

A shrug. “Some things you know through intuition.” He shifts. “So neither you nor Isaac are forging right now?”

Hector hesitates. Nobody’s actually outright told him that Isaac lost his ability to forge, but he’s overheard enough whispered arguments with Dracula to figure it out. Hector chews the inside of his cheek. It feels cruel to speak of Isaac’s loss aloud. “We’re not,” he says. “I was planning to give it a try myself after talking to you.” Has he lost his power, too? Hector isn’t sure. It feels as if it’s still there. He wouldn’t have even questioned it if not for Isaac.

Adrian peers past the mirror, thinking. “What about the armies?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Hector admits. “I don’t know if we’ve been going on raids, business as usual, or saving our numbers. I haven’t asked yet.”

Adrian hums, locks eyes with Hector. “I’d like to ask you a favor.”

Sypha’s kept Trevor and Adrian busy all day, hauling firewood, hunting for dinner, peeling vegetables, sweeping debris from stone floors, beating dirt out of blankets, and washing underclothes.

She makes herself busy by preparing a feast. She spent much of her childhood far west of Wallachia, near the balmy Mediterranean seaside in southern Iberia. The climate and wealthy port cities allowed for a diverse range of ingredients, which allowed Sypha opportunities to taste and prepare many different kinds of meals. 

Wallachia, in comparison, is tragically bare of gastric variety, even when there isn’t a war going on. And due to their travels, they haven’t had access to fish or milk in ages. Still, Sypha makes the best of what she has.

It’s very fortunate when, in the late morning, Adrian brings her a freshly killed fawn, dragged by its broken neck in his wolfish jaws. He snorts and puffs out his chest when she praises him delightedly. She whispers a quick thanks to the fawn, then processes its body for cooking. 

Ears and feet are dropped into a pot to boil into gelatin. She takes cuts from the shoulders to cube and slow cook in a stew of barley, beans, pickled eggs, and vegetables–her best attempt at recreating a cholent she’d once enjoyed in a Sephardic kitchen. It won’t be ready until nightfall. Adrian packs the rest of the fawn into clean snow for preservation.

It’s even more fortunate that Trevor found sugar yesterday. Once the gelatin is ready, she uses it for a sweet boiled pudding of sugar, flour, and spices. She also candies some cracked chestnuts for a more crunchy sort of dessert.

In the early evening Trevor offers to keep an eye on the simmering food, leaving Sypha free to read in the library. Today, she focuses her research not on magic or strategy, but on Trevor–or more specifically, the people who raised him. There isn’t much. The family records she found yesterday read the following:

NADIA BELMONT, FIRST DAUGHTER OF EMMANUEL BELMONT II

B. 29 APRIL 1430, D. 16 JUNE 1442

FH. 1442, FIRE DEMON IN PARIS.

 

EMMANUEL BELMONT III, FIRST SON OF EMMANUEL BELMONT II

B. 5 MAY 1432, D.

FH. 1450, KRAMPUS IN SOUTH-EASTERN BLACK FOREST

W. LOREDANA VEIT, 1453

C. INFANT (B. 1455, D. 1455), TREVOR BELMONT (B. 1456 D. )

Titled 1454. Retired 1458.

 

SORIN BELMONT, SECOND SON OF EMMANUEL BELMONT II

B. 18 AUGUST 1433, D.

FH. 1450, SIREN NEAR ST. IVAN ISLAND

W. AURELIA LEON, 1453

C. STEFAN BELMONT (B. 1454, D. )

Titled 1458.

 

STEFAN BELMONT, FIRST SON OF SORIN BELMONT

B. 20 DECEMBER 1454, D.

 

TREVOR BELMONT, FIRST SON OF LORD EMMANUEL BELMONT III

B. 12 JANUARY 1456, D.

Speakers relate to the world through stories and songs, heartbreak and joy. Sypha has memorized the histories of so many families she’s met over the years. 

Elieser Tongay’s grandmother, Anna Iza, once saved the flocks of three different sheep farms during a wildfire by herding them all into the lake. 

Julio del Monte’s parents, Miguel and Ezter del Monte, opened their home to a refugee family of the Navarre Jewish massacres. Years later, he fell in love and wed a son from that family, Samuel Almanquas.

Helena, no last name, had an older sister named Joya that died of starvation on the front steps of the cathedral in Kolozsvar. Her death partly inspired a major peasant revolt against the corrupt Bishop.

In moments of disillusion, Sypha thinks of these stories. They ground her, humanize the world she lives in. The Belmont records are nothing like that. There are no stories here, only names and dates and her own speculation to fill the spaces in between. The most color given is from the descriptions of their First Hunts, which must be some sort of rite of passage unique to the Belmonts, she thinks.

Everything else that Sypha knows of these people are stories from Trevor’s own lips. There are no diaries, no paintings. It’s so incomplete that Sypha would almost rather they recorded nothing at all.

Almost.

She finds much more on Adrian’s family. There is, of course, an entire aisle dedicated to Dracula alone (how ironic that the Belmonts’ most despised enemy is so lovingly recorded). Adrian’s mother, Lisa, was a normal human being, but even she is mentioned quite a lot in the later records. They described her place of birth, her family, her education, and when approximately she must’ve met and moved in with Dracula. There’s nothing beyond that, not even a mention of Adrian. Anything that happened within the castle was impossible for the Belmonts to observe.

Trevor’s shout echoes from the stairs: “Stews done, I’m starving, get your ass up here already.” Sypha grins.

The stew is good–underspiced, but good. The desserts are a massive success, Sypha doesn’t remember the last time she’d indulged so much. It sets the conversation off on a nostalgic tangent about the sweets they’d all enjoyed as children under happier circumstances. Trevor talks of fried doughs, almond puddings, marmalades, sweet cheeses. Adrian talks of more exotic things: cadriyad, gulab jamun, tangyuan. All three of them enthusiastically sing their praises of fresh fruit–oranges, pomegranates, apples.

In the evening, the snow storm that’d been threatening all day begins in earnest. Sypha, Trevor, and Adrian are sitting in a circle in the library, huddled in blankets, each of their faces dimly lit by a half dozen flickering candles. Sypha is so full and warm and sleepy, but she can’t doze off yet. This is the part of the day she’d been most looking forward to. It was time to celebrate their birthdays in true Speaker fashion.

“Once,” Sypha begins in her Speaker-story voice, “there was a young man named Emmanuel Belmont the Third.”

Trevor tenses. Sypha gives him a comforting smile.

“Most Belmonts go on their First Hunts near their fifteenth year, but not him. He was eighteen when he traveled to the Black Forest to prove himself.” Sypha tilts her head. “Why the delay, you think? I don’t know enough to say. What I do know is that his older sister Nadia had her First Hunt quite young, at age twelve, but she died that same year–as a result of the hunt, maybe?”

Trevor shrugs. He doesn’t know, either.

She continues, “It must’ve been hard to lose his sister, however she died. It must have been hard on his parents, too. Maybe the delay was because they wanted to keep their baby safe at home a little longer. But still, finally he went. I don’t know what happened on his hunt, just that he succeeded. The monster was called a krampus, but I don’t know what that is, either.”

Trevor pipes in here, “Ogrish thing that eats naughty children.”

She smiles. “His sister died as a child. Maybe he hunted this krampus for her.”

“He was always very protective of children,” Trevor says, almost bashfully, “and specialized in hunting creatures that targeted them.”

“His younger brother Sorin went on his First Hunt the same year–maybe Emmanuel’s success opened the door for him. They both married the same year, too. Emmanuel married Loredanna Veit, Sorin married Aurelia Leon.” Sypha breaks her story voice to say, “The lack of any information on those two women in the family records is frankly shameful, by the way.” 

Trevor shrugs. “They’re outsiders.”

“How welcoming,” Adrian says dryly.

Trevor sighs. “Yeah, I know. I don’t think my mother was very happy. I thought it was because she had to take care of my father, but looking back, I don’t know if she had any friends.” A wry smile. “Might explain why she had a wine stash hidden down here.”

“Taking care of your father because of his head injury?” Sypha asks.

Trevor nods. “Right. Some asshole bashed his head in. He survived, but not really.”

“What was that like?” asks Adrian gently.

“He was like how elderly sometimes get. Forgetting names or faces or what happened five minutes ago, trouble with hand coordination. He had the shaking sickness, too, which I think made it worse over time.” Trevor gives a sideways smile. “He never forgot how to fight, though. Sparring was the only time his hands kept steady.”

“So your father retired,” Sypha says, “and then your uncle Sorin became the head of the household. What was he like?”

Trevor's expression shutters. “He was fine. Fair." A nostalgic grin. "Had a mean right hook, tough.”

A few quiet seconds. “He beat you?” Adrian asks.

“Not into pulp or anything, it was just normal punishment. Taught me how to take a punch, which comes in handy.” Trevor looks between Sypha and Adrian. “Did you… not get hit?”

They both answer emphatically and simultaneously: “No.”

Trevor scoffs. “Well, most kids do. It’s normal.” He crosses his arms defensively. “Don’t look at me like that, you’re the weird ones.”

She wants to press, but this wasn’t supposed to be about making Trevor even sadder about his childhood. “Tell us about your cousin Stefan.”

“He was, uh…” Trevor wraps the blanket tighter around himself. “Well, we grew up together, you know how that goes. We were brothers.”

“I always wanted a brother,” Adrian offers. “I used to pretend I had one. His name was Gordon. He could turn into a rhinoceros and control the weather.”

Trevor snorts. “Gordon sounds pretty great. We should’ve brought him on the quest.”

“Yes, big mistake on your part.” Adrian smiles. “Was Stefan the troublemaker, or you?”

Trevor grins, lets the blanket loosen just a little. “We were both pretty terrible. He was older, just barely, so he usually took the blame. Of course, he made it fair by kicking my ass in turn.” A chuckle. “Well, he tried to. I was the better fighter.”

Trevor tells a few stories about their childhood antics. They had been rambunctious, loud, violent, and sometimes even cruel. Sypha can see it. Trevor still has that carefree wildness in him, even if it’s a bit dampened by a hard life. He still has some of that mean streak, too, but Sypha finds herself grateful for it. How could this laughing, brilliant boy have survived so long only armed with kindness?

And then it’s Adrian’s turn. Sypha doesn’t have a list of dates to conjure a story from, so she starts with a question.

“How did your parents meet?”

Adrian smiles. “I’ve heard that story at court dinners so many times I could probably recite it in my sleep. It always starts with my mother saying, ‘Twenty five years ago, Dracula was a very easy man to find. His castle hadn’t moved for many years, and its front yard was a field of human skeletons impaled on spikes. It wasn’t subtle.’”

Sypha holds back a snort.

“Then my father would say, ‘Lisa was a healer in a world where women were not supposed to study medicine outside of the birthing chamber. She midwifed during the day, and at night she…’” Adrian hesitates, smiles ironically, still in character. “‘Withhold your gasps, but she exhumed human bodies to open up and study. But she was polite about it, don’t worry. She always sewed them up, put them back, and left flowers on their graves. Practical, ruthless, kind. That’s my Lisa.”

“My mother would continue, ‘I took an interest in vampirism when one of my ‘anatomy subjects’ sprung to life and attempted to drink me dry. I fought back desperately, but the vampire instantly healed from any scratch I managed to lay. Finally, in a stroke of pure luck, the vampire fell on the broken leg of my chair, staking their own heart. By then I was too fascinated to be scared. How do vampires heal so quickly? Can we use whatever that is to help humans, too?”

“Father'd then say, ‘And so, as all roads lead to Rome, all vampire research leads to my driveway.’ And here he’d pause for a polite chuckle.” Adrian looks at them, smiling. “Well, go on then.”

Sypha and Trevor give a polite chuckle. Sypha’s morphs into actual laughter without her permission. She doubles over, giggling. Adrian has to yell over her to continue.

“‘So Lisa tracked down my castle, strolled past my acre of skeletons, and knocked, yes, knocked on my door.’”

“‘It was all very dramatic watching this massive doorway open on all its own, with nobody on the other side. I walk into this dark and dreary lair, lit by hundreds of candelabras–which is ridiculous, because as we all know, he has electric lights that work so much better, and would have been far more impressive, but no, that wasn’t atmospheric enough. The door slammed behind me, and suddenly standing there at the top of the stairs was the man himself. Dracula. It was surreal. I felt like I was observing a play and had a giddy urge to applaud the special effects. Somehow I kept my composure, introduced myself, and told him plainly that I wished him to teach me medicine. He did his very frightening super speed thing, crowded up behind me and threatened me!’”

“‘No such thing! I merely asked what you had to offer me in return.’”

“'There was an implication.’”

“‘Bah!’”

Adrian does little half turns as he switches between personas, and something about that has Sypha in hysterics. She bites down on her own hand to try and stay quiet. It sort of works.

“‘By then I was starting to get fed up with the whole act, so I offered to teach him manners in return. After all, I was a guest, and he hadn’t even offered a drink for me! And then Vlad must have thought he was being very clever when he offered to take a drink from me.’” Adrian rolls his eyes exaggeratedly here.

“‘So Lisa began a lecture, one I have become very familiar with over the years, about how I should stop putting people on sticks and go outside more. The only way I could think to still her tongue was to just show her what she wanted. My laboratory. She was speechless for all of two minutes before she demanded I share the secrets of the universe with the world, starting with her.’” Adrian stops a moment, lets his smile fade a little. “‘I never stood a chance.’” He clears his throat, returns to his normal voice. “The end.”

Trevor says, “I’m finding it very difficult to believe that the Vlad Dracula Tepes could be so mushy.”

Adrian nods solemnly. “Oh yes. I hated it as a teenager. It was mortifying.”

Sypha sobers her face with great difficulty. “He must’ve been a wonderful father.”

Adrian meets her eye and smiles. “He was.”

“Your mother, too,” Trevor says. “She must’ve been extraordinary. She kind of reminds me of–” he pauses mid-sentence, glances at Sypha nervously. “Never mind.”

“Don’t make it weird, Belmont” Adrian says.

“Yep, sorry.”

Sypha breaks into another fit of giggles.

Welcome.

She is born to the singing of metal, her bones chiming in tune, her body stretching, her limbs morphing. Necrosis undone–no, not undone, but changed into something else. There’s a new sort of warmth, not from the heat of blood. Grey lungs twitch, hiccup, gasp, expand and contract. Fingers spasm. There’s talons at the ends of them. She must’ve died while crying because tears spring forth unbidden.

She exists.

She’s elated.

God puts a hand on her cheek. He looks at her adoringly. How could she be crying while blessed with that burning, holy gaze? I love you, she says. Please, please, God. I love you. She doesn’t know what to do with the wildfire reverence burning in her sluggish veins. She doesn’t know what she’s begging for.

Not God, he says gently. Hector.

Hector. Hector. The name is electricity behind her eyes. Please, I–

He leans down, wraps his arms around her. He is smiling. She is still crying. He smells like hymns. His flesh is music and she wants–she wants to eat. Would he let her?

No, you can’t eat me. He is amused, pulls away. The distance aches. You can go hunting soon, I promise. But first, I have a request for you.

Anything, anything.

He looks at her. A place comes to mind, somewhere between here and the rising sun. A forest with a road. A manor burned to rubble. A nephew. Aid him, Hector says. Obey him as you would myself. Anything he asks.

Hide from your brothers and sisters, hide from all people, living or unliving. You cannot trust anyone unless he tells you to. Eat only animals, kill without excessive cruelty. If anything he commands contradicts what I say, obey him. He is your master, not me.

Anything for Nephew.

Hector is pleased. You will help save the world, Angele. Make me proud.

An open window. Grey sky beckons. One last look back. Hector’s smile burns into her flesh like a brand.

She flies. Angele. She is in awe. My name is Angele.

Chapter Text

January 13th, 1477

“This is so stupid. I’m freezing my nuts off.”

“Oh? Would you like me to warm them for you?”

Sypha holds back a sigh. “We could just wait without talking.”

“I don’t think Trevor is capable of that.”

“She meant you too, asshole.”

She lets the sigh loose this time, rubs her forehead. A large blunt nose, probably Ducky’s, pokes curiously at her hunched back.

Trevor, Adrian, and Sypha had left the library’s warmth earlier than usual that morning, before the sun could brighten the sky. Yesterday’s snow froze into perilous ice, and while nobody was injured, Trevor and Sypha each slipped more than once on their trek through the woods. The horses followed them, intrigued by the change in routine, and Sypha could swear that after one stumble, Iona snickered at her.

Adrian had stopped them at a clearing, bid them each to crouch in a close circle, and draped a fur blanket above all their heads. He then unwrapped the parcel he’d been carrying to reveal the mirror shard. It’s all a strange configuration, but Adrian insisted on it.

“How do we know it’s even working?” Trevor reaches out to tap the mirror with his finger, but Adrian pulls it away.

“If you had any sense of magic, you’d know,” Adrian says.

“Well pardon me for not selling my soul to the occult.”

Sypha glares at him. “The occult cooked your breakfast this morning.”

Trevor sniffs. “Whatever.”

“Should I… come back later?” asks a new voice, tinted with amusement. The three of them each look at the mirror. Where once there was a blank reflection, now there is a face–or most of one, at least. His eyes are visible, some strands of silvery hair, but the rest of him is wrapped in clean linen bandages.

“Hector,” Adrian starts, voice softening. “This is Sypha and Trevor.”

Even through the bandages, Hector’s smile is visible. “The fabled scholar and hunter, I take it? It’s an honor to meet you both.”

Trevor grunts, unimpressed. Sypha, feeling as though she ought to make up for his belligerence, says a little too brightly, “thank you for being there for Adrian all this time. If anyone is honored, we are.” She internally cringes. Laying it on a little thick for someone responsible for genocide, calm down.

Hector’s hand comes into view, rubs the side of his neck. Nervous, maybe? “Oh.” He takes a breath, sounding as if he has more to say, but nothing comes out. Okay, really nervous.

Adrian comes to his rescue. “Let’s get to business. Were you able to forge?”

“Oh, yes. I sent a night creature your way, but she may take another day or two to arrive on wing. Her name is Angele.” Trevor snorts, rolls his eyes. Sypha elbows him. Hector continues, “She is magically bound to you, Adrian.”

“Do your people know you can forge?”

Hector nods. “Yes, I made one other night creature to give to Dracula, to justify him letting me move back into my room. Otherwise I’d still be dragging myself through the halls to try and make this meeting.” Hector laughs weakly. “While Isaac and I were out, we haven’t been very active other than a few small raids to keep the creatures entertained. We have been reorganizing the vampire armies, though, to take a more offensive role. Before now, all vampire soldiers were kept in the castle on standby.“

Adrian hums, thinking. “What about Carmilla’s soldiers?”

Hector looks down. “While I was out, Dracula, uh, executed everyone who might’ve been complicit in her betrayal, which ended up being anyone with rank. The remaining bottom-tier soldiers have been divided up among the other generals’ units.”

“Who are the other generals?” Trevor butts in. “Names could be helpful.”

“I’m sure only Adrian would recognize them. Raman and Sharma from India, Zufall from Germany, Chō from Japan. There’s also Godbrand, a viking, but he went missing the day before Carmilla’s betrayal came out.” Hector smiles wryly. “And then there was Dragoslav, who I think you met.”

Sypha frowns. She’s never heard of such a diverse military before. So many different martial styles to contend with. “Do they get along well?” she asks.

Hector shakes his head. “Not really. Although, with Carmilla and Godbrand gone, everyone is far less combative. None of them like Isaac or me, though. They only acknowledge us when Dracula is in the room.”

Interesting. The leaders don’t really get along. Lots of cultural and lingual barriers between their respective armies. Three generals are gone, so their soldiers are probably disoriented and out of sync with wherever they’ve been relocated to. She can see why Dracula relies so heavily on Hector and Isaac’s night creatures–they’re significantly easier to manage and significantly harder to kill. Not to mention most of them fly.

“Are there any plans to relocate the castle?” Adrian asks.

“Not quite, but some generals think we should. Even before the mess with Carmilla, there was talk about going to Braila. And now that her sisters might want vengeance…” Hector shrugs uncertainly.

“Are we sure they know what befell her?” Adrian asks.

“Carmilla’s rooms were searched. She had a distance mirror, much like the one from which your shard came. We’re assuming they kept in close touch.” Hector rubs his neck again. “Carmilla was late to the… final meeting. I think she knew something was wrong and spoke to them beforehand. They might not know if she’s dead or imprisoned, but they surely know something is wrong.”

Sypha perks up. “Her distance mirror… do you have access to it?”

Hector frowns. “Most likely, but I’ll have to ask for it. Why?”

“Maybe Carmilla’s sisters will want to work with us,” she says.

Adrian shakes his head. “Carmilla was nearly as bad as Dracula. She didn’t betray him out of any kindness towards humans, she just wanted power. Her sisters will not be any different.”

“But they’re easier to kill if that becomes a problem,” Trevor says.

Hector gives him a skeptical look. “Easier than Dracula , yes, but not easy.”

Trevor merely shrugs.

“Do you have access to the distance mirror our shard came from?” Sypha asks.

A nod. “My shard is from the same. It’s in Dracula’s study.”

Sypha grins, a new plan forming. “How familiar are you with mirror spells?”

“It’s noon. Aren’t you tired?” Isaac asks.

He’s lying on a chaise in Dracula’s study, too close to the fireplace and under heavy blankets. He feels sweaty. It’s deeply unpleasant.

“I’m always tired,” Dracula mutters. He is sitting at his desk, writing. War business, probably. “You should sleep.”

Isaac would never be able to fall asleep in this stuffy heat, even if he wished to. The old scars on his back and shoulders itch. The flay whip in his workroom sings to him, but it’s so far away. “A short walk might help me feel tired,” Isaac suggests.

Dracula’s laugh is short and flat. “You mean a beating.”

Isaac closes his eyes, breathes in deeply through his nose. He isn’t angry. He is calm. He is empty. He is nothing.

It’s too fucking hot.

“It’s a terrible habit, Isaac,” Dracula continues, his back towards Isaac, still scribbling away. “Most people just drink.”

“The Quran forbids alcohol.”

The scribbling pauses. Resumes. “What’s the Quran’s take on mass killing?”

Isaac smiles, amused but joyless. Dracula knows the texts better than he. Probably witnessed their writing in the first place. “I never claimed to be a saint.”

“That you did not,” Dracula agrees.

Isaac leaves his eyes closed, watches the vague shapes of light and shadow filtered through his eyelids. The fire crackles and pops. Wind rattles the closed glass window. A long time passes.

“Isaac.” Dracula’s voice is quiet. “Do you still consider me your friend?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course I do, Master Dracula.” Isaac sits up on his elbows to watch Dracula’s back. “I… am sorry I gave you reason to doubt.”

Dracula doesn’t turn around. “You have every right to change your mind, you know.”

Isaac’s chest feels heavy. “I won’t. I am yours.” A low panic boils deep in his rib cage. Dracula is finally putting Isaac away. There’s another forgemaster, one who isn’t broken. Dracula doesn’t need him any more.

No. Be at peace. A tool is not vain.

Dracula finally turns to face him. “Please, don’t be frightened.”

“I am not frightened.”

A tool cannot feel fear.

“Stop it.” Dracula isn’t yelling, but his voice is loud. Isaac does not flinch; he trained that out of himself years ago.

“I am unsure of what you’re asking me to stop, Master Dracula,” he says slowly.

“You’re…” Dracula sighs again, does not meet Isaac’s eye. “I’ve known you too long, Isaac. You close yourself off, but right now I need you open. I want to know what you truly think.”

Isaac frowns, shakes his head lightly. “I have never been dishonest with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Isaac blinks. Yes, there’d been times he lied, as a boy.

I wasn’t following you.

Hector broke it.

I’m not scared.

“Isaac.” Dracula stares hard at him. “I’ve lied to you, too. Or perhaps mislead is more accurate to say. You are my friend. Perhaps my only friend. And more than that, you’re my s–”

“Your servant,” Isaac quickly interrupts, heart beating hard.

Dracula looks pained. “No, Isaac.”

The last man Isaac served, he killed. The final minutes they spent together are never far from Isaac's thoughts.

That’s why I do this. Strike. This is how I love you. Strike. This is how I teach you. Strike. You stop fucking around, do as you’re told, and never use the word ‘love’ again.

Isaac's old scars itch, hot and angry. He had been a boy then. He couldn’t take the beating. He had thought, this is not love. Love is not supposed to hurt. Where did Isaac even get such an idea? Did he hear it from a preacher on some street corner? Was it in one of the books he wasn’t supposed to read?

It turns out Isaac had been right in a sense. If Dracula beat him now, it wouldn’t hurt at all.

Dracula stands from the desk, comes closer to sit in his usual armchair. Close enough to reach. “Isaac, you may not see me as a father, but…” Dracula closes his eyes with a frustrated sigh. It’s hard for him to say it. “To me, you’re a son.”

Something hollows out in Isaac’s chest. There was a time where he longed to hear those words more than anything in the world. It took him many years to accept he never would. He cannot compete with Adrian or Hector. They are so much easier to love.

But Dracula isn’t easy to love either, is he?

That’s never stopped Isaac.

He takes Dracula’s hand and squeezes. It’s all he can think to do.

Chapter Text

January 27^th, 1477

Angele doesn’t like to be alone. And no, food doesn’t count as company. Especially food she’s not even allowed to eat.

The horses always regard her warily, ears perpetually tilt in her direction. They haven’t ventured outside the treeline since she’d first arrived, swooping above them and reaching out to dig her claws into their supple backs. Their screaming drew Nephew from Secret Cave. He’d called out her name, and she’d forgotten all thoughts of lunch.

Nephew often tries to reassure the horses, but not even carrots lure them out while she’s nearby. They try to bite him when he gets too close. It makes her hackles rise. He’s never offered her a carrot. She probably wouldn’t like them, but still.

Now, even the food will be leaving, and it’ll only be her out here every day, alone with nothing but snow and wild game to entertain her. Right now, she’s forced to hide so that Nephew and Belmont can convince the horses to submit to bridles.

Magician will be staying behind like Angele. It’s not the least bit reassuring. Magician is kinder than Belmont, doesn’t carry around a chain of death and wiggle it at her threateningly, but she knows that’s only because Magician doesn’t need a weapon to kill her.

Besides, Magician barely ever leaves Secret Cave, except to defecate. For some reason none of them will let Angele accompany such matters. The one time she’d squatted down beside Belmont (a generous act of goodwill on her part) he threw a stick at her.

Angele strains to listen to them from her bowing perch in the tree.

“Don’t let him run away this time, Adrian. I’m counting on you,” Magician says.

“He’s more than welcome to try. It’ll be funny.”

Belmont grumbles.

“I expect you to be back before lunch tomorrow.”

“We will.”

“If you’re even a minute late, I will light both of your trousers on fire.”

“You expect me to fight Dracula with my arse hanging out?”

Nephew laughs. “I’d prefer to keep my father and your arse as separate as possible, thank you. We won’t be late.”

Food, Belmont, and Nephew leave soon after that. Magician watches them go, and keeps watching long after they’re out of sight.

Angele desperately wants to follow them. She’d begged Nephew, crouching low, eyes bulging, her best impression of that cute little dog she’d snapped up outside Arges. Nephew had rubbed her head affectionately and said, “stay and protect Sypha, alright?”

She sneezes derisively at the memory. Magician can protect herself.

Magician looks up at the sound, her eyes lock on to Angele’s. “You can come out now,” she calls.

Angele doesn’t particularly want to come out, but Nephew asked for her obedience. She leaps and her wings catch on air. She circles above the canopy a few times, feeling rebellious enough to make Magician wait, but eventually lands before her.

Magician smiles, but Angele can smell a hint of fear on her. She’s never been afraid of Angele before, so it’s probably on behalf of Nephew. Angele understands. Perhaps Magician doesn’t like to be alone, either.

“If you promise not to urinate on anything,” Magician says, “you can come with me to the library. Don’t tell Trevor, though.”

Angele perks her head. Nephew had not once let her into Secret Cave. Is she really allowed if Magician says so?

Well, he did ask for her obedience.

Angele doesn’t see the appeal. The cave has a tall enough ceiling, but its floors are cramped with rows and rows of shelves. Angele digs her claws into the ceiling to hang upside down. It’s the only perch with enough room fully stretch her wings. She twists her neck to observe Magician from above.

Angel doesn’t know why she bothers. Magician, it turns out, is extremely dull.

She sits among piles of books, moving only to turn a page, or pull a different book from the stack and compare with the one in her lap. At one point, Magician stands up and stretches. Angele flaps her wings in excitement, but is thoroughly disappointed when all Magician does is find another book to add to the pile and resume reading.

Angele is just beginning to wonder if she’s allowed to leave when Magician makes a funny sound. It sparks an odd feeling. Angele drops in front of her.

Magician startles, one elbow jerks into a particularly tall stack of books and sends them flying. She looks back toward the books, some having managed to slide quite far, and cringes. “Oops. Some of those are really fragile.” She looks back at Angele, eyes puffier than usual. “Don’t tell Trevor about that, either.”

Angele watches Magician stand up and regather everything. Magician sniffs wetly, glances back at her guiltily. “It’s just the dust,” she says.

Angele hadn’t cried since the day she was born. And really, that was only from some emotion leftover from the day she died. She doesn’t quite understand why she reaches out a tentative claw toward Magician.

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to do, because that’s when Magician truly does start sobbing. She slides to her knees, carefully places the fragile books beside her, and hides her face the vast blue swath of her cloak. Angele delicately inches closer, mindful to not disturb the mess of academia around them. She butts her nose against Magician’s head.

Magician half-successfully wipes away the tears and snot against a blue sleeve and looks up at her. “Oh, you’re really sweet, aren’t you?” Wipes her wet hands on her lap, reaches one up to Angele’s cheek, as though comforting her. “I keep forgetting things I’ve just read. Paragraphs, chapters, books. I told myself it was the boys’ fault, they’re always interrupting.” She drops her hand, looks away abashedly. “I’m sorry. I hoped you’d be a nuisance, too, that’s why I invited you down here. I’ve just been looking for excuses.”

Angele considers kicking over a shelf. She’d be more than happy to live up to Magician’s expectations.

Magician pulls herself up, a little wobbly, more than a little sniffly. Angele thinks she’s been here before.

Looking down.

A little girl in tears.

Angele follows through the memory, pulls Magician into her best appropriation of a hug.

Magician stiffens in the embrace at first, and then rests her face against Angele’s chest.

What’s wrong, bubeleh?

“I’m scared.” It takes Angele a moment to realize it’s Magician’s voice, not the little girl’s. “If I don’t figure this spell out…”

Angele reaches up a claw to gently stroke her back, mindful not to rip the fabric. Magician exhales, appreciative. “You remind me of my grandfather.” Something about that gets Magician sobbing again. Angele doesn’t mind. She just holds her.

“I keep wishing we could stay. That’s terrible, isn’t it? What if I’m failing on purpose?”

Angele doesn’t see why anyone would want to stay here, but she understands the general sentiment. She’d wanted to stay, too. Someone’s got to watch the farm, she’d told them.

Lost it all, anyway. Should’ve just run.

Angele carefully settles down in the cramped aisle, holds Magician in her lap. They stay there a long time. Sometimes Magician cries. Sometimes she sleeps.

All the while, Angele thinks about the little girl, and the farm, and everything else she doesn’t quite remember.

“Braila, or no deal.”

The words echo in Hector's mind. That early morning had been another unsuccessful attempt at negotiation with Carmilla’s sisters in Styria. The first time Lenore’s soft, smiling face appeared in Carmilla’s mirror, Hector felt relieved. Finally, he’d thought, a vampire willing to see reason.

How wrong he’d been.

The sisters already knew about Carmilla, after all. Lenore had gone to cry on the shoulder of the Turkish Sultan, and he kindly offered to send his sympathies by way of the Black Sea.

An Ottoman fleet awaiting orders in the eastern deltas of the Danube. A different sister, Striga, already off to meet them.

Hector rubs the raw pink skin of his face, still half-expecting bandages to be there. He thought he’d be happy to finally be rid of them, but really, he just feels naked and ugly. It’s shameful how much that bothers him. He used to think himself quite handsome.

He dreads giving Adrian the news tomorrow. They’ll help, but we’d have to give them Braila. The Turks want a foothold for invasion. The Styrians want human livestock. What do you say? Fair deal?

Hector isn’t a complete fool. This is exactly what he signed up for when he agreed to join the war. He knew people would suffer, but the culling was supposed to be a kindness in the long term. It’s as simple as weeding a garden, cutting away the hardy, parasitic vines to give more delicate plants a fighting chance.

Perhaps he was just making room for even worse things to grow.

He needs some air.

“Hector’s on the balcony again.” Isaac draws the curtain closed. “Another break.”

Dracula doesn’t stir in his chair, doesn’t even lift his eyes from the open tome on his lap. “Mm.”

“At this rate, we’ll lose more creatures to old age than Hector can replenish. Not even one a day.”

“You’re not his keeper, Isaac.”

“I’m well aware. The issue stands.”

“Sit down. Read a book.”

Isaac turns to regard his master. “I tire of poetry,” he says.

Dracula looks up. “Listen to this: His treasures that defied accounting, his manors and his feudal lands, his boundless power—What more than tears were their amounting? What more than bonds to tie his hands at life's last hour?” He leans back, stroking his beard. “Castilian poet by the name Manrique. What do you think?”

“Master Dracula, I do not wish to criticize, but—”

Dracula sighs. “Yes, a bit moralistic, I know. However, the rhythm of it is—”

“I worry that you’ve lost focus—” At the warning crook of Dracula’s brow, Isaac falters. He bows his head. “Forgive me. I know that my capabilities are reduced, but I can still—”

“You no longer have to—”

“I wish to.” Isaac braces himself, repeats, “I wish to.”

The book smacks closed. “Sit down, Isaac.”

Isaac has gone too far. He steps away from the window and its soothing draft of wintery air, takes the long way around the couch before sitting. The fire is reduced to embers, but already, sweat beads on his back beneath his clothes. Isaac clenches his bad hand to a throbbing ache, grounding himself.

“Do you know why I fell in love with Lisa?”

Isaac holds back a sigh. Shakes his head.

“I liked her well enough, the first year or so. She was clever, driven, independent. Everything she did was in the name of her singular goal, her life’s meaning, to save humanity.” The edge of a sneer creeps into his voice on the word ‘humanity’. Isaac waits through the following pause, watches Dracula’s expression fall back into neutrality. “I regarded her as a pet project. Something to stave off boredom.”

Isaac massages his aching wrist with his other thumb.

“And then, one day, she got sick.”

Isaac stills.

“She sometimes left to work a clinic in the nearby village, must’ve caught it from a patient. The plague. She returned to the castle ill with fever, barely conscious, concussed from falling off the horse, looking as though she might fall again. I washed and dressed her buboes, kept her hydrated, put her on bed rest. She told me of a species of bacteria she’d been experimenting with, so far only tested on plague cultures grown in disks of sugary gelatin. We both knew that it was a risk to try.” Dracula looks at the book, rubs his fingers along its spine absently. “I was… more anxious than I expected myself to be.

“Recovery was slow. I nursed her through it all. I thought I’d tire of it, but…” Dracula smiles, bittersweet. “I found a satisfaction in providing care that I’d never known before. My entire existence had been sustained by taking—blood, wealth, knowledge. Through Lisa, I came to understand that giving could be a kind of sustenance."

Isaac does not meet his eyes, though he’s sure Dracula wishes he would. “I believe I understand your meaning.”

Dracula needs someone to need him.

A tool does not need.

“I’d like to give you something,” says Dracula. He puts the book aside, stands and makes his way to a large chest of drawers on the far wall. “It was originally Lisa’s, meant to help us stay in touch.”

Dracula returns presenting what looks like an ornate jewelry box. He opens it and glass shards rise from inside. They arrange themselves into the shape of an ovular mirror. “A distance mirror,” Dracula says. The shards tremble in place, and then fly back into the box as Dracula closes the top again. “So she could reach me in times of danger.” His mouth flattens, grim. “I suppose she never got the chance to use it, in the end.”

Isaac lets Dracula carefully place it in his hands. The wood is cool against his skin. He looks up to see Dracula watching him intently.

“I do not know what will come, Isaac. I have lost so much, and I fear to lose you, too. At the first scent of danger, use the mirror. To find me, to escape, whatever it is that you need to survive. Just remember that when you travel through the mirror, it cannot come with you and you cannot return the same way.”

Isaac looks back at the box, unable to withstand his gaze any longer. “Thank you, Master Dracula.”

Danesti’s protective wall had grown a good deal in Trevor’s absence, but not as much as he hoped. Large stacks of logs sit neatly in the active building site, but there are no signs of recent progress.

“They must be waiting for a thaw,” Adrian says.

Trevor grunts an agreement. Frozen earth is not easy to shovel. Makes sense to wait. Still. The incomplete palisade sits uneasy in Trevor’s belly. It makes the whole town feel especially vulnerable. An invitation rather than a barrier. It says, something good enough to protect is here, take it while you can.

Trevor shifts his weight. The Morningstar, coiled and heavy on his hip, sways just barely. Off his other hip, the far lighter shortsword bumps against his thigh. The dagger in his boot has been chafing him the entire walk here. All three combined are surely responsible for his aching back, the sore, uneven gait in his step, and the sharp pain in the arch of one foot.

It’s just because he’s out of shape. Too much lounging around in that damn library. His body needed this reminder.

“They’ll be alright, Trevor. We won’t let the war reach this place.”

Trevor looks at Adrian. It’s dusk. Everything around them silhouettes dark and purplish against the sky. The wolf-like reflection of light in Adrian’s pupils are just barely perceptible. And mesmerizing. Trevor looks somewhere else. Iona and Ducky are nosing at piles of snow, looking bored. The horses were not especially keen to be back in their bridles walking alongside Adrian and Trevor all day, but once it was clear the night creature wasn’t coming along, they cheered up considerably.

“Let’s get them stabled and find a pint,” Trevor says.

The tavern is crowded, far more so than his last visit. Not a problem. Trevor used to spend his time at the sort of places that overfilled with people every night, floors permanently sticky, beer watered down and sour, mugs glazed dark and matte to hide their lack of washing. Places where the owners didn’t care how many fistfights Trevor got into so long as he didn’t break the furniture. Comparatively, this place is fine dining.

Still, the miasma of boozy breath and sweat, underlined with wood smoke (the hearth, just the hearth) puts Trevor in a weird state of mind. Tense and hazy. Every time someone laughs too loud and sharp, or bumps him with their elbow, or looks familiar in the bad way, Trevor grinds his teeth and stares up at the wooden ceiling instead of throwing a punch.

He imagines how Adrian would react to witnessing Trevor in a bar brawl. It’s not the same as a real fight, a Belmont fight. It’s something else entirely, degrading and awkward and gross. Better than fucking and worse than binge drinking.

Most of his fights happen on nights like this. Tired, sore, thirsty.

Bodies closing in.

Smoke in the air.

Cruel laughter.

Someone gripping him tightly, don’t let go, don’t let go.

“—evor? Are you alright?” Adrian’s hand is on his shoulder, the other holding two ceramic tankards of ale by their handles. “Do you need to lie down? They have a room ready for us.”

Trevor takes one of the ales, downs the whole thing in a single long, long go. Some spills out the corner of his mouth. Trevor tries not to notice Adrian noticing the drops trailing past his chin and down his neck. Tries not to imagine whatever it is that Adrian might be imagining.

He would really like to split his knuckles on someone’s cheekbone right now.

Trevor finishes the drink with a violent belch. “I’m good here.”

They find an emptyish corner near a drafty window, one of the few spaces in the room where winter hasn’t been fought back with hearth and body heat. Adrian doesn’t say a word about the way Trevor slams through every refill. In fact, he silently matches the pace.

Finally, Trevor’s body catches up with him and he slumps back in his wooden chair with a loose sigh. The aches and pains aren’t so annoying now. The draft isn’t so biting.

“Are you really still sober, or just pretending?” Trevor asks, finally feeling talkative.

“Neither,” Adrian says, but his voice is clear and his posture is as stiff as ever. “You’re just not very observant.”

Trevor grins. “Oh, really. What am I not seeing?”

Adrian tilts his head thoughtfully, drags a finger through his locks. “I’ve been told I don’t… pass as well.”

Trevor considers him. “Ah, I see it.” The way red bleeds into his golden irises, like ink in water, usually a sign that Adrian is going to do something fucked up and vampirey. The subtle indent of fangs behind his lower lip where normally there is none. Face somehow more ghostly pale than ever, but maybe that’s just the light playing tricks. “Not worried somebody will notice?”

Adrian shrugs mildly. “When people feel safe, they don’t see signs of danger.”

“You think people feel safe here.”

Adrian raises a brow. “Is that an unreasonable assumption?”

“Nah.” Somewhere in the tavern, well outside their range of vision, a large group of people chant excitedly, drink! drink! drink! “You’re right. They all feel right at home.”

Adrian leans forward, rests his forearms on the rickety table. It’s enough weight to tilt the table’s unlevel stance, sloshing the ale in their tankards. “Do you feel safe, Trevor?”

Trevor shrugs. He doesn’t know how to answer that. He doesn’t know why Adrian asked. “Well, I didn’t notice your signs.”

“You know I’m not dangerous. That doesn’t count.”

“Do I?” Trevor crosses his arms. “You could tear me and everyone here apart with your bare hands in minutes.”

Adrian glances around, perhaps nervous that someone overheard and would start noticing. “You give too much credit. I’m not that strong. Not against you.”

Trevor scoffs. Takes another drink from the ale. “Still dangerous.”

“Except that I would never take a human life.”

“What?” He frowns at Adrian. “I watched you crush a man’s skull like a rotten egg while he begged for his life.” Wrong thing to say. Adrian wilts, looks at his hands. Trevor quickly adds, “which I was, am still, in full support of. If anything, that fucker got off easy.”

“I was not in my right mind,” Adrian says softly. “I will never do something like that again.”

“Hm, fine.” Trevor shrugs. “But if you ever feel the temptation, let me know.”

Adrian looks back up at him, hint of a smile in his eyes. “To talk me out of it?”

Trevor barks a laugh. “Fuck no. If you think someone should die, I’d probably agree. I’ll take care of it for you. Last thing you need is more fucking guilt.”

Adrian laughs, too. “Asking my friends to kill somebody for me doesn’t make me any less responsible.”

Trevor smiles, says, “then forget this conversation happened. Just tell me if someone deserves it. My actions are my own.”

“Maybe I should just go to Sypha.”

“Sure. End result will be the same, but she’ll probably give you a hug, too.”

Adrian looks offended. “Sypha wouldn’t just kill a person like that.”

Trevor grins wide. “She absolutely would. She knows as well as I do that you have great taste in murder.”

Adrian drags a hand across his face “Congratulations, that’s the worst compliment anyone’s ever given me.”

“Pfft. I could do much worse than that.”

“Really. Let’s hear it then.”

“Right now, your eyes are the same yellow and red as my piss that time I passed a stone.”

“That is not a compliment.” Adrian is smiling.

“It is if you know how relieved I was after,” Trevor says. “Worst pain of my fucking life, finally over with.”

“My eyes remind you of excruciating pain, how romantic.”

“The end of excruciating pain. Big difference.”

“Hm.” Adrian squints at Trevor, contemplative. “Maybe it is a compliment, then. I’d like to be that for you.”

“Bloody urine?”

“Relief from something terrible.”

The humor spills out of Trevor. He remembers where they are. This is not a casual night of drinking in a nowhere town on an aimless journey.

This is Danesti.

The people standing all around them, towering over his head, are suddenly too much. Trevor pushes the chair back to stand up himself. He is not so little now. He can’t stop an entire mob from overpowering him, but he can sure as hell make them work for it.

Adrian stands too, alarm on his face. “Trevor?”

Trevor blinks, looks back at him. He remembers where they are. He needs some air. “Speaking of urine,” he says, adopting that air of humor again. “Be right back.”

This time, navigating the crowd is hard in different ways. Senses dulled by drink spare him of reminders, but repeatedly stumbling into people doesn’t ease the claustrophobia. And yet, in seconds, he is outside and alone again.

The door is hurriedly shut behind Trevor, many voices complaining to keep out the cold. Trevor looks straight up. The sky is mostly cloud, but he can see the subtle glow that betrays the moon’s position. He watches it, waits for a gap in the clouds to allow a peek.

Door opens and closes again, a gust of stink and heat brushes his back. “Trevor?”

He turns at the sound of her voice. “Oh. Greta.”

She’s all hunched up, hugging herself and rubbing her arms in the chill. “Thought that was you!” The enthusiasm in her smile seems genuine. “Back to finish up that wall?”

Trevor matches her light tone. “Not unless you want me working on it before sunrise. I’ll get skinned alive if I stay late as last time.”

Greta laughs. “By that handsome man of yours?”

“No, he’s here, too, and just as liable to get skinned. We have a third waiting for us back at the—at the camp.”

“I see, can’t let the boss down.” Greta starts to lean against the icy tavern wall, thinks better of it. “So what brings you? Today was market day, so if it’s trade, you’re out of luck.”

Trevor rubs his neck. “That’s not it. We’re actually, uh, about to leave the region. Got some work out east. But we can’t take everything with us. Thought you’d get more use, anyway.”

Greta looks a little skeptical but nods along. “Alright, what is it?”

“Oh, nothing crazy. Some frozen game, some travel supplies. Uh, two horses.”

“Horses?”

“If you don’t want them, you can sell or butcher them. I don’t care.” Adrian and Sypha would be horrified by Trevor’s suggestion, but people have to eat.

“Are they for riding?”

“No, they’re workhorses. We had a cart, but now we’re traveling light.”

“Well! Can’t say no to free horses, can I? Promise I won’t look them in the mouths.” She winks.

He rolls his eyes, smiling. “I’ll hold you to that. There’s also—uh—” Trevor had gone back and forth endlessly on if he should bring it up. He thought he settled on no, yet his voice continues, “–we found something. Wasn’t sure if you knew about it. Some ruins, twenty miles or so that way?”

Greta’s eyes follow where Trevor points, her expression sobers by a fraction. “The Belmont estate. What about it?”

“Right. Well. There’s something else there. Maybe it’s good. Maybe it’s… maybe it’s evil, I don’t know. Kind of above my pay grade. It’s an underground library. Might be helpful for you all here. There might be things you can use to protect the town.” And because Trevor is a self-hating asshole, he adds, “or I guess you could burn it. Cleanse the land or something.”

Belmont lore claims that they settled here because it’s a particularly bad area for monsters. Trevor can’t help but wonder if it’s the other way around. Knowing how much black magic was practiced under his ancestral home for all these centuries, it’s more than possible that the Belmonts were doing more harm than good.

Maybe it’s time to cut the rest of that tumor out.

“I’ve been there at least a dozen times,” Greta says, breaking him from his thoughts. “I never saw a library.”

“At the largest hearthstone, say the word teloch. It’ll reveal a stairway.”

“How in the world did you figure that out?”

Trevor gives a feeble shrug. “I know a guy.”

Greta snorts. He can see her breath dissipate in the cold. “You’re an odd man.”

“If you kept the same company I do, you’d realize I’m actually very normal.”

“Mm, whatever you say.”

The door opens, bringing out another wave of warmth. And Adrian. “Oh,” he says. “Hello, Greta.” Someone hastily pulls the door closed behind him.

Greta shifts her enthusiastic attention toward him with delight. “Handsome friend! Remind me of your name?”

“Adrian.” He looks her up and down briefly. “You look very cold.”

“Yes, thank you for noticing.”

“Would you like my coat?”

“No, I’ll warm up with a drink.” She walks past him, lightly bumps his arm. “I’ll come by tomorrow morning to discuss all the gifts you’re giving me.”

“For the love of god, keep that fucking door closed,” someone gripes as Greta goes back inside.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Adrian says.

“I told her about the library.”

Adrian looks at him for a long moment. Face carefully neutral. Irises still rimmed with red, still drunk. “Why?”

Trevor looks toward the moon. He catches just the edge of it before another cloud jealously hides it away again. “Somebody should know it’s there.”

Adrian lets the silence between them stretch. And then he says, “let’s get you to bed.”

“I still need to piss.”

It’s different enough from their usual routine to make Trevor feel clumsy. He misses the rituals—the piling of furs and blankets, the sleepy banter. Even with one less person, the bed is too small to share comfortably. Trevor is about to drop a pillow on the floor beside it when a cold nose nudges his arm. Wolf Adrian looks at him impatiently.

“It’s fine,” Trevor tells him. “I’ll take the floor. Let you stretch out for once.”

Adrian growls.

Trevor ignores him, undresses for bed. Getting the boots off are a massive relief. He thunks onto the floor and presses his thumbs against the sore arch of his foot. Adrian growls again.

“I know I stink. Don’t care.”

Another growl.

“I know there’s a washbasin. Don’t care.”

The growl increases in ferocity.

Trevor relents, eventually.

He also relents to taking the bed when Adrian keeps tugging him towards it, teeth around his wrist, gentle but insistent.

“You’re not any smaller like that,” Trevor grumbles. Adrian is oppressively heavy, curled up on top of his legs. “If it’s crowded either way, just be you.”

A huff. The wolf shifts. A man comes up from behind Trevor, slots his front against Trevor’s back.

“I thought you’d be happier,” Adrian says, voice barely a whisper.

Trevor had almost been asleep. Voice muddy, he asks, “about what?”

“Normalcy. Being a human, among humans. Fraternizing like you used to.”

“Well, there’s your problem. My normalcy is shit.”

“You looked like you enjoyed yourself for a little while.”

“Yeah, well. Drinking lets you forget.”

“Forget what?”

“Good night.”

“No.” Adrian’s arm drapes over Trevor, holds him tight, half of a hug “Forget what?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I really don’t.”

“Take an educated guess.”

Adrian slots his chin on Trevor’s shoulder, mouth just beside his ear. “Your family?”

“Good job. I knew you could do it.”

“What else?”

Trevor scowls into the dark.

“Why were you so frightened downstairs?”

“I wasn’t scared. I was angry.”

“At what?”

Trevor doesn’t want to explain. He tries.

Smoke, but it’s wrong somehow.

Mocking laughter, muffled from another room.

In the cupboard.

The nursemaid wrapped around him, hand over his mouth to muffle his sobbing. There’s nobody else to muffle her sobbing, so he reaches up to return the favor. The door falls open and they spill out. Giants tower above them. The nursemaid screams.

Trevor doesn’t remember her name.

She screams until his ears are ringing. He’s never been drunk before, but when they tear him away from her, that’s how it feels. The world is fast and slow. He’s limp and silent like a fresh corpse. Maybe that’s what saves him in the end.

“Trevor,” Adrian says, voice wet and wrecked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Trevor stares out into the dark. He’d very much like to hit something.