[There is too much work. Alucard has never been so relieved for it in his life.
Not for love of the work itself (he finds little slights every day. The first full day of being back in the kitchen there is a cry of you must be joking only to reveal that their unwanted houseguests have stolen all of the spices he kept on hand. And then he reveals how much all of that cost, and the anger is slightly justified) but for what it brings. Purpose. Focus. Distraction.
Because those things were what kept the memories of imprisonment at bay. In preparing to reclaim home, there had been terrible purpose and weight, the need to keep eyes ahead at all times lest this feeling of total loss swallow them whole. Swallow him whole, the second time being so much harder to escape than the first. Without that, recollection snuck in at inopportune moments.
He had been here before, of course. Patricide and then staying in the house had a way of doing that. But those moments were tied up with grief for family lost, the worst of it weathered in solitude. Now there was not solitude, nor was there grief. There was anger and there was shame and there was still that feeling of helplessness (the worst of the three) that blossomed at the worst times. Nor was Alucard alone now, and it was unfair to give Sypha and Trevor even more to worry about. They had had their full of it before he was freed. The event would no longer darken their minds.
So the feelings came out in spurts. Alone foraging, taking more time than strictly needed. At night, when it took him too long to come to bed. (He slept so little now. He claimed repair work and that he had had his fill of rest on the boat.) In the morning when he rose before everyone else, barely paying attention to any dampness from tears that might have slipped out during his few hours of sleep. Down below with the books of the Hold when he stared at the same spot for a minute or two, before shaking himself loose from some invisible compulsion.
And it was noticed, he knew it was noticed, but that didn't matter. This thing he went through didn't matter because there was Sypha and there was Trevor and they needed to be taken care of too. Easier to do that. Better to do that.
Sypha's caravan was on the grounds today. There was more cooking to do than normal (a protest had been raised against going over the top, but they are guests and I owe them much meant everyone else was overruled.) Somewhere in all the work, Alucard had stopped in front of the fire, looking down at the venison as it turned on the spit. (Automated, of course, his father's house was still his father's house in all the small and miraculous ways.)
Fire hadn't been used as such. But it had been such a threat because oh it would be poetic, wouldn't it? and too many fears had piled into one.
no subject
Not for love of the work itself (he finds little slights every day. The first full day of being back in the kitchen there is a cry of you must be joking only to reveal that their unwanted houseguests have stolen all of the spices he kept on hand. And then he reveals how much all of that cost, and the anger is slightly justified) but for what it brings. Purpose. Focus. Distraction.
Because those things were what kept the memories of imprisonment at bay. In preparing to reclaim home, there had been terrible purpose and weight, the need to keep eyes ahead at all times lest this feeling of total loss swallow them whole. Swallow him whole, the second time being so much harder to escape than the first. Without that, recollection snuck in at inopportune moments.
He had been here before, of course. Patricide and then staying in the house had a way of doing that. But those moments were tied up with grief for family lost, the worst of it weathered in solitude. Now there was not solitude, nor was there grief. There was anger and there was shame and there was still that feeling of helplessness (the worst of the three) that blossomed at the worst times. Nor was Alucard alone now, and it was unfair to give Sypha and Trevor even more to worry about. They had had their full of it before he was freed. The event would no longer darken their minds.
So the feelings came out in spurts. Alone foraging, taking more time than strictly needed. At night, when it took him too long to come to bed. (He slept so little now. He claimed repair work and that he had had his fill of rest on the boat.) In the morning when he rose before everyone else, barely paying attention to any dampness from tears that might have slipped out during his few hours of sleep. Down below with the books of the Hold when he stared at the same spot for a minute or two, before shaking himself loose from some invisible compulsion.
And it was noticed, he knew it was noticed, but that didn't matter. This thing he went through didn't matter because there was Sypha and there was Trevor and they needed to be taken care of too. Easier to do that. Better to do that.
Sypha's caravan was on the grounds today. There was more cooking to do than normal (a protest had been raised against going over the top, but they are guests and I owe them much meant everyone else was overruled.) Somewhere in all the work, Alucard had stopped in front of the fire, looking down at the venison as it turned on the spit. (Automated, of course, his father's house was still his father's house in all the small and miraculous ways.)
Fire hadn't been used as such. But it had been such a threat because oh it would be poetic, wouldn't it? and too many fears had piled into one.
Brooding by the fire. What a damn stereotype.]