miraclewhip | (for cryptsleeper)

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(for cryptsleeper)

[ He remembers- maybe about half of what happened last night. A little more, perhaps. He remembers the comments that initiated the fight. Vaguely remembers being dragged back to the inn. Remembers throwing cold water on his face to wake himself up to do the terrible fucking job of stitching himself back up that he found himself with this morning (if there was ever a chance to keep that fucking cut from scarring, well, he's gone and botched it).

And he remembers telling the fucking vampire things that he probably should not have told the fucking vampire. He doesn't remember the specifics but he knows that he said too much. More than he's told anyone in a decade maybe. All for the sake of a petty victory that he doesn't even remember if he achieved.

He's uncharacteristically quiet today, even for being as hungover as he is. He forces the almost-solid porridge down his throat when it's pushed in front of him. He drinks half the water that he was using to wash himself last night and pours the other half over his head to wake himself up after maybe an hour of sleep. He only interrupts Sypha's long, long 'discussion' when she stares at him for an indication that he's still awake. It's after that that he's dismissed to the back of the wagon, either because Sypha can't stand his presence right now or because she doesn't trust him not to fall off and end up tangled under its wheels.

(Can't blame her, being tangled up under the wheels of a wagon sounds better than being in his own head right now, even without the throbbing pain.)

He doesn't sleep, mostly because he's been told not to and he is, even more uncharacteristically, on his best behavior right now. The day is mostly uneventful until sometime in the afternoon, when a particularly foolish highwayman sees a wagon driven by a single speaker woman and tries to take advantage of the situation. He's driven off within moments, of course, harmlessly to both them and himself, and the worst that happens is that the horses are startled by Sypha's display and the wagon lurches to one side, knocking Trevor onto his side against the wooden floor. It's only after everything has been confirmed okay, once the horses are calm and they're moving again, that he places a hand to his lower chest. ]

Fuck.

[ It's warm. And damp. He's gone and opened his shitty stitches, hasn't he? ]

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I know you have. [And there it is. That grave and serious reminder that this thing that Trevor has to do is shared. They weren't home for it, for that clean up, but he did it and all those ashes are still in this house.]

But...that was hardly an acceptable farewell on my end. And as brief as it was, it...[Alucard breathes out, looking for the right words.] I was very happy to meet her.

[ It's a little much to say that he smiles. But he relents, and nods. ]

I should have guessed she'd have her own plan. The entire fucking family couldn't convince her to finish her training. What hope would a vampire have had at telling her to do anything at all?

[ By which he means- he understands. He understands that shit got weird. He would never have asked Alucard to be the one to kill her if he'd known that she were still aware and in control. ]

You'd have fucking hated her, given a little while longer. She's the one who decided to arrange the shelves by date instead of by topic. And the one who put a list of notable dogs into the index.

...We would have had a very calm intellectual debate about organization systems.

[Alucard doesn't laugh, but the stern words are mixed with a flicker of warmth. And he doesn't have to convince Trevor of much else, so this is what he would consider a victory under any circumstance.]

The dog index has justified itself.

[ He does laugh. And- and words come easily, now, where before he didn't speak about his family in more than little phrases and jokes even in three years of being so close. There's enough to patch together a hazy picture - he's the youngest and the only boy. Three sisters. A lot of dogs and aunts and uncles and cousins and wards all under the same roof, leaving no room to be lonely. A father who had made it to the doors of Dracula's castle once before it moved and never found it again. A mother who had been taken in as a ward of the family after her own was lost to a vampire attack. Whose face, he had drunkenly admitted once, he couldn't remember, lost to years of alcohol.

He doesn't remember telling Alucard that last part. ]

It was before I was born- she was attacked, I think, when she wandered too far from the house, and one of the hounds saved her. After that she just started making lists every time she saw a dog do anything that she liked. When we put her to work in the library, she was furious that there were so many texts on human hunters and none on their dogs. So she started making her own.

[It's not a floodgate opening. But it is far more than Trevor has ever said before, and so Alucard listens and listens closely. This little stream, it might close up. It may be the last it's ever discussed, and what else shall there be of these memories outside of Trevor's head? That is an unfortunate fate.

Alucard's hands rest on the top of the table, one idly rolling the leather of the sewing kit back and forth. In all of this, he's not sure that he should fuss as he normally does. (He learned it from his parents. They were always so close physically, almost disgustingly so.) It feels overly cloying right now, and he knows if the tables were turned he might hiss more than he ever would otherwise. So his hands stay.]

Your family is, and continues to be, deeply unique in so many ways. [And that's said with warmth.] Devoted and...very fond of dogs.

Extremely fond of dogs. Honestly, stinking of blood and stale beer was probably an improvement over smelling of a lot of wet dogs.

[ He's grateful for the space. It's easy to breathe right now. Easier than it has been for a long time. And words come out with the breath. Silly anecdotes. Stories of how she would tease him when she was young. How she'd deliberately failed in her training the second she was asked to use the whip on anything living. How their eldest sister was utterly frustrated by her because she felt the need to nickname everyone and you cannot get a decent nickname out of 'Enid'. How she liked long reading dresses that dragged along the floor behind her, and how the dogs would sleep on the backs of her skirts and get pulled around the house. The phrase 'I miss her' comes out without him even noticing it. By the time Sypha is out of the bath, he's onto the name of that dog. ]

-the litter was born on her birthday, so she demanded she be able to name all of them. And then she named every single puppy 'Dog'. And the names stuck, and they wouldn't respond to anything else. We had to give them numbers. The one she took into the hold was Fourth Dog. We didn't let her name anything after that.

Wet dog isn't terribly bad. But I do have biases.

[Problems when your boyfriend is sometimes a wolf.

Alucard doesn't press for space. He's glad to just hear Trevor talk. Remember in a way that isn't a hot mess of self loathing and self destruction, because those days were the worst. Family legacy has always hung over them like an executioner's axe, something that could destroy them utterly, and this is good. This is beyond living in grief.

When Sypha does join them Alucard's certain to make space for her, and now it's all stories which means she is as home and in her element as any of the three of them. Perhaps more so.]

I'm amazed you let her name the dogs after the second name got uttered. What a nightmare keeping them all in order.

We'd call them First, Second, and so on. She'd just call them all 'Dog' and they would know which she was referring to.

[ But Sypha is here now, and that means it's time. He smiles one last time, swallows back his first attempt at words, and then turns serious. ]

It's time.

[ And he sets off toward that corridor they never use and the forbidden room. He doesn't know if Alucard's actually closed the door yet, and he makes an effort not to find out. Even though the bones are close to the doorway, shrouded in that linen now, he manages not to look at the door at all.

He pulls back the linen slowly at first, plucking the two hairpins from the bones. A choker. A few necklaces and bracelets. Those are Carmilla's. They don't get to stay. And then-

-There are proper ways to handle a dead body. Bundling all the bones and dress into a linen sheet like a child gathering berries in their shirt is not one of them. Trevor almost certainly knows this - even the bodies they've had to dispose of from the battles today he has treated with care. He knows. He doesn't care. He isn't reverent. Because why would he revere his sister, rather than just gathering as much of her as he can into one place and then holding all of it to his chest? ]

[There is a very quiet appreciation that the door and the room do not get much of a look. His father's study is a place for grim work and using family legacy when it is required, and today has proven that it can be less off limits than before. Alucard's not sure how he feels about that fact (or his father, letting anyone else dictate business in that room), but it is a small shift. An important one.

That room however. If it was not such a labor of love, he'd brick it up in full. As it stands, the simple lack of looking is a quiet blessing.

Likewise, Alucard averts his eyes as the shroud is unwrapped. It is an intimate thing here, and while he and Sypha are privy to it, he remembers how he hid the worst of his own grief. And that was with no bones to clutch.]

[ He says nothing, only leads Alucard and Sypha out of the castle. Along the path that they would normally take to get to the Hold, and then further. Through the ruins of the house, into what was once the kitchen garden. It's overgrown, this time of year, all full of the things it used to grow - herbs and vegetables, yes, but also all the things that went into poisons and medicines and incense. There's a slight twist in his stomach as he realizes that Carmilla's men may well have stumbled upon the grave while searching this garden for the ingredients for some new thing to try on Alucard. His eyes settle on the aconite for only a moment before he moves on, pushing aside wildflowers to reveal an open wound in the ground below them.

The bones are there, thank god. Disturbed, but there. And there are so many bones. Humans and dogs. Full-grown skeletons alongside tiny ones. They're- mostly arranged into the right shapes, but the arranging was always clumsy, and they've been knocked out of place when the grave was disturbed. And trevor just sets the bundle of his sister down on the ground for a moment, staring into the grave.

He doesn't manage tears, this time. He doesn't remember if he did last time. He always thought that he must have, because he cared back then, but now he isn't so sure. Because he likes to think that he cares now, and right now this isn't sad. It isn't much of anything, other than a relief. It just is. He is in his old garden, and there are bones here, and he used to love the people those bones were attached to.

He sits there, quiet, trying to feel anything at all. ]

[There's a point along the path that Sypha's taken Alucard's hand in hers. He holds onto it gently, and part of Alucard knows that it will be dropped for Trevor as soon as the time feels right. Which is what should be done, even if he's more likely to shrug the gesture off. There isn't quite a numbness that feels like it has settled, but the texture is so very close.

Exploring the ruins was a one-time thing for Alucard. Finding where the Hold was, and that was it. He doesn't deviate from that path as a matter of respect. He was gifted the hold, not the Estate. It is not his house. At best, the only other time he meant to explore the ruins was back before Trevor had shot down the joke of a marriage proposal (he had meant it seriously, but it really seemed like a shitty joke, didn't it?) Any rings forged would have had metal from the house, framed with white gold.

So they stand there at the edge of the grave. The flowers that were growing there, those would come back. A far nicer thing than all the metal and stone that rested atop the Belmonts in the crypt. (Truly, Alucard expected to move them to the crypt. Wanted to, in a way, if only to prevent this from happening again. Cover each last bone with silver for the safety of everyone, future Belmonts included.) The shovel is there. There's such wild sage off to the corner, and the agonite is so easily stepped around.

It's after Trevor sits that Sypha's hands go to both of Trevor's shoulders. As expected and as is right. Alucard stays so very still, because he doesn't know how Trevor will react. Maybe there's a need for space, still.]

Everyone I ever gave a shit about, all in one place.

[ It's dry, and it's tired, but there's a warmth to it. Sypha and Alucard and a big hole full of bones. Everything he's ever had that was worth being a better person for. He leans into Alucard and Sypha's touch, one warm against the night air, one cool against the summer heat rising from the earth.

And he doesn't notice that tears are running down his cheeks, not yet. There's no reason they should be there. He doesn't feel sad, or afraid, or furious, or hopeless, or desperate, or any of the things he felt when he first dug this pit. The injustice of it all still burns, if he considers it. The loss - to him and to Wallachia. The fact that he never will bear the weight of his eldest sister's disappointment for his vampire-related choices, and that he'll never be able to argue his side. Enid, even for her brief second life, will never adore the two people he loves most, never talk their ears off about the many unlucky black dogs of europe and what they mean and how misunderstood they probably are. His youngest sister will never watch Sypha use her magic with a mixture of seething jealousy and blindingly bright admiration. All of that still aches, but that has always ached. The bones are only bones. ]

I was twelve, when I dug this. [ He is not anymore. ] One eye, half frozen, hadn't eaten much of anything in a week. I think I did fairly well, given the circumstances.

[ It's still dry. But it's a joke about being competent, not more self-deprecation. More than that, it's revealing an old wound rather than hiding one. ]

[There's still silence from Alucard. This moment, it's intimate in ways that to disturb it is to desecrate a grave. The thought isn't propelled by the bones they all look at (too many of them), but by what is said.

Revealed, perhaps. Because Trevor speaks of family the least of all three. Sypha's caravan is a living thing (they pass by at least once a year). Alucard can at least speak of his mother and all her brilliance (his father's the sorer subject, save for a few revelations about yeah the wolf thing? That's pure dad.) Trevor? Drunken recollections early on, and details here and there. And never this.

He dug the graves. Of course he did, the two knew it in their hearts. In that there's still the flicker of injustice that Alucard always chaffs against. Always the Church. Always fire.

This is not the time for those thoughts. They're so quick to chase away. His other hand rests on Trevor now too, no additional movement.]

More than anyone could ever ask.

[In their own twisted, horrid ways, they're both loyal sons, aren't they?]

[ They are. Patricide in the name of a mother. Slow, drunken suicide to repent for failure to family.

It takes a while to move away, but he does. There is work to be done.

Carefully, he lowers his sister into the grave. He makes a token effort to arrange the bones into a shape that looks human-ish, arranges her dress so it looks like she's sleeping, one arm over the skeleton next to her (her lover. He knows that one, from the broken bones. They snapped in the fall, when Enid's grip slipped as she tried to lower the woman to safety out of a high window. They'd known each other since they were young. As far as the bones are them, they'll rest better together). ]

The tradition always was to eat and drink and tell stories through the night, after this. [ Belmont funerals were always as joyful an affair as they were sorrowful. They lost people often enough that they had to be. Nobody was ever lonely in this house. He picks up the shovel. ] But we all need to rest. It can wait. It's waited the better of two decades already.

[In the world around them, there is the stillness of night. The occassional hoot of an owl, the noises from the local wolf pack moving through their territory. Night breeze, making the air smell sweeter for the glory that is just a simple gust.

These are how rites for the dead ought to be, in many ways. Quiet and private with no other prayers save for the thoughts of those gathered at the graveside. The Church's beliefs make it impossible, deny the act the intimacy it needs. Denies the little kindness, like making sure that Enid's bones mingle with who she loved most in life.

Trevor speaks of tradition, and Alucard closes his eyes in understanding. He can put all effort tomorrow into cooking. He had to do it anyway. Let the ashes of all of this burn brightly for such a feast.]

If we are begrudged, then what is brought forward tomorrow shall erase the feeling.

[Someone's going to have to stop him.]

[ Alucard pls he literally just said that it can wait. But it would be nice if it were soon. There are more stories to share, more dead to speak ill of (fondly, of course). He might see if Enid's journals and records are still in the Hold, tomorrow. His father's long texts speculating about the counting thing, if it looks like Alucard needs something to laugh over. Perhaps it would do all of them a world of good to remember that the castle, and the hold, and everything that lies on this stupid patch of land, all of it was filled with love once. Love and also idiots. The way it is right now.

The first of the dirt falls upon the bones. Then more. Sypha steps forward to offer help, but he only shakes his head. Even injured, even exhausted, Trevor is strong enough that this is not difficult work. Even if it were, the earth seems to grow lighter as the bones are covered little by little. As this becomes right. As right as he can make it.

Perhaps Alucard was right about wounds needing to be cleaned. About poisons needing to be drained. That was what the speaking was, or what it felt like. Filling the grave is like sewing it up, and that was never enough alone. The talking is needed as well, the cleaning, the removal of infection, before healing can happen. And it is healing, and not healed, but- it is better. Better than it was.

The last of the dirt falls upon the grave. The flowers will grow back over it before summer's end, hiding it once again.]

Let's go back. We still need to decide where we mean to sleep.

Edited 2018-12-07 21:30 (UTC)

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seems like if u wanna tie this up we can and i will pop on disco after i go for a walk

sounds good!