Trevor 'The Bear Situation' Belmont (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
miraclewhip) wrote2018-11-23 08:39 pm
miraclewhip) wrote2018-11-23 08:39 pm
Entry tags:
(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? ]
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? ]
no subject
His legs twitch but don't flail. Silver rolls down his shoulder in it's horrible little rivers, burning the skin for but a moment before the wine (once beloved, once rejected, now neutral) works it's miracles. Because that's the right word for it, Alucard's metaphysical musings aside. A miracle, still performed with the Blood of Christ, still functioning to heal and to redeem.
None of this parallels the very first experiment though. If there is any consolation, it is that fact. Alucard's still alert, and as the last of the silver leaves from his shoulders, he manages a muffled:]
How much wine is left?
[How quickly can they remove all that remains?]
no subject
[ If nothing else, once he's recovered more they can at least allow him some privacy for this.
The next injuries would have been fatal on a human. Most of them would have been, but these in particular. Stakes. Even if he hadn't been the one to pull the things out of Alucard, he knows that injuries from stakes look like, though he rarely ever sees them for long. None of these are anywhere near the heart, and he suspects that that was deliberate. They weren't intended to kill. They were intended to try out all of the things that Carmilla's human servants found in the Belmont hold. Each hunter had one kind that they swore by. Different types of wood. Metal. Glass wrapped in leather. Some plain, some carved with runes or patterns. Some blessed by a priest, some made only from trees where mistletoe grew, some carved into shape with knives of silver. One of them he recognized as one of his grandfather's - a small, decorated one carved from the wood of a frankincense tree. That one would have been the worst, he suspects.
He takes his hand away from Alucard's for this one, instead putting a bundle of blankets into his palm for him to squeeze. He suspects that holding on might well result in a broken hand. And with that, he resoaks the cloth and holds it over the great puncture wounds. ]
no subject
He remembers the stakes. There was an actual debate about if any of them would be effective, until Carmilla bluntly pointed out that stabbing anything through the heart with a great big hunk of wood would result in death, and the heart wasn't the point anyway. The death wasn't the point. It was the stupidest exchange Alucard had ever witnessed, and he had seen some stupid arguments in his life. Been involved in a healthy chunk of them.
There's no single stake that has gone all the way through. Most were stuck in at odd angles and then left in for a few hours, then removed. There hadn't been too much gained from the stakes, the pain of impact had permitted Alucard to black out quickly, and that just killed the fun of it. A small mercy.
The blankets shred under Alucard's hands, long fingernails responsible for fraying fabric. He buries his head into Sypha's shoulder, further muting everything that has managed to escape from his mouth.]
no subject
On second look, now, he curses himself for missing it. The black twine was a gift from another hunter family across the sea. Something terrible (and he catches himself there, because none of this is terrible. these are all holy weapons, simply turned to dark purpose) has been seeping into Alucard's veins from it this whole time. ]
Shit...
[ He takes his knife and slices open the threads. Hopefully they'll burn away like everything else once the wine is in the wounds. He takes a deep breath and the remains of the bottle, soaking the cloth one last time. ]
This is the last of the wine. We'll be done after this.
[ Last time. Then they dress any wounds that remain, lift Alucard back onto the bed and lie with him until he can sleep.
He pushes the cloth against the cuts, this time having to move it against them to cover the whole area. ]
no subject
Instinct means that Alucard kicks. Through the gag he manages to beg Sypha to grab his legs and keep them down, and around Alucard's ankles is a sudden thick rim of ice to try and make it all easier. The cold feels good and soothing but it's still a terror to be pinned down again. It's for a greater good. He will live with the temporary fear.
The threads fray, thin little whisps of the stuff getting everywhere and trying to seep into what open flesh there is from their being cut out. His legs still thrash and this time the smoke that comes up is worse for all the small little bits that are clinging to his skin. Steam comes up in a horrifying wave, burning alcohol and flesh strongest it's ever been from this solvent.
But the steam clears. The threads are gone. The blackness rubbed into them is no more. Nothing on Alucard's legs suggests that there was ever anything there in the first place. For all intents and purposes, he is whole.
He gasps for air. Tries to slow his breathing. He wants to play all of this off like it's no big deal, like it wasn't terrifying, but there's no point. Sypha's the one who removes the gag, and Alucard flops bonelessly against her.]
...My mother would be very proud of you both.
no subject
He skips right to the last step, just lying on the floor, combing his fingers through his hair as he had a few nights ago.
And he laughs, because that's all he has it within him to do. ]
So I don't get kicked out of the bed if I try to call that shit medicine?
no subject
[So no. Not at all. But on a more serious note, he continues.]
You were clever. [And you used your faith for it. He'll speak of that later, for there is a time and a place for that discussion and it isn't right now.]