Chapter Text
There must have been something wrong with him, Alucard decided.
Sypha had said so herself. Even though she thought he had been out of earshot, he wasn’t, not for a dhampir, at least. He heard her describe his sadness as a bottomless, icy well that swallowed up anything dropped into it. He was a lonely, cold spot in a room. How utterly dreadful.
The statements had brought about a twisted feeling of discomfort, the discomfort typically associated with overhearing someone speaking frankly about him. On one hand, he wasn’t sure what she meant since he was just being himself and not trying to seem overtly melancholy. But, on the other hand, he knew exactly what she meant.
He stood there, trying his best to feign a smile as he watched Trevor and Sypha ride off together, but none of the feelings that had amassed inside him could be described as pleasant. For that, he felt guilty. He knew he should have been happy for them, excited for the adventures they would have, but he was frozen over. He was that icy well that Sypha had described, but he’d accidentally thrown everything he had down into it, and now he felt like he’d been hollowed out from the inside.
No wonder they had wanted to leave so quickly. He must have been awful to be around.
That didn’t mean he didn’t want to go with them, but he had a duty to take care of the castle, to take care of the Belmont’s library. Maybe it was better this way after all. He certainly wouldn’t be bothering anyone with his sadness when he was all alone.
(The thought was almost enough to make him flinch.)
Alucard stood amongst the damage, the debris, the chaos of the castle. Everything was such a mess. Even though there was a stillness and a peacefulness to the ruins, it all felt absolutely monumental. He couldn’t bear to look at it, let alone deal with it. But, fortunately, he had all the time in the world to work on cleaning up. Yes, he could work on it for all of eternity if no one killed him, as haunting as the idea was.
Everything was upsetting, but it was even harder to think about the tasks ahead when he still hurt from their battle. His father had gifted him the ability to heal much faster than full-fledged humans, but his father also could hurt him far worse than anyone else. His head had been aching since it was slammed into concrete a few too many times. Everything felt bruised, inside and out. And, worst of all, he was exhausted. Just so, so tired. How he was still standing, even Alucard wasn’t quite sure.
While he managed to ignore the echo of his shoes clicking on the steps, he wasn’t able to ignore the vague outline of what was probably supposed to be his father walking down the opposite staircase. He couldn’t decide if the castle was haunted or if the parallels between his own life and Dracula’s were too ironically similar for the universe to pass up offering its own commentary. Either way, something twisted in his chest and made his entire body tense.
“Is this how you felt before she came…?”
What a lonely existence. Nothing but himself and this place. It used to be home, but now, it felt nothing even remotely close to that. It was just a castle, one he used to live in.
(You killed your own father.)
The outline faded, and he continued walking up the stairs, shaking his head so the thought would leave him alone.
He walked down the stretches of hallways and peered into each room, seeing how much damage had been done to them. Every single room he passed had all but been destroyed. It forced him to think about the sheer immensity of what had occurred, of what he had done.
(You killed your own father.)
Maybe that was why he found himself in his father’s study—(everything was a mess)—and felt the urge to at least prop up his chair. But, even that simple action exhausted him—(there was so much for him to do, and he was just so tired)—so he sat down, staring at the hallway in a daze.
This place was littered with memories. Every time he let his mind wander off, there was a different figure in his vision. He could almost see himself running down the halls, frolicking with his mother. He remembered a time when she would smile and laugh at him and he would smile and laugh back.
(But, those years were gone—just like his mother and just like his father.)
It hit him, then. All at once. His grieving and anger and despair clashed together in a cacophony of emotion, tears streaming down his face. They pattered on his hand and on his lap, soaking into the fabric of his tunic. Tears, and tears, and tears. When was the last time he let himself cry like this? When, if ever, was the last time he felt the immense weight of his sorrow crush him flat against the earth? He couldn’t remember. Maybe he had never cried in his life, and this was the first time he had done so. Maybe he’d never felt pain until this moment.
He’d been badly injured before, but somehow, this pain was worse. His chest ached—an ache that couldn’t be relieved as easily as a physical wound. It ached so painfully, he wondered if he was going to vomit or if he was going to rip open and all of his organs would fall out and roll around on the ground. But, the only thing that came out of him was water from the faucets in his eyes and the sound of a grown man trying to hold back his sobs.
How pitiful. Truly pitiful. He’d been reduced to a truly pitiful being. If Sypha had thought he was a cold spot in the room before, what would she think of him now? Had the well completely frozen over, trapping himself inside it? Or, was he a cyclone that sucked in all the happiness in the world and lay waste to it all?
(He wished she was there to tell him instead of having to put words in her mouth.)
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair. He hadn’t asked for this life. He hadn’t asked to have his childhood ripped out from underneath him. He hadn’t asked to lose his mother, to be practically maimed by his father, to return and maim his father back. Why? Why, why, why was this happening to him? Must he be punished for his father’s sins? Or, was he born to suffer? Was his existence so horrible that he must feel nothing but pain? Was he destined to be tortured by the universe for all of eternity?
Once he had buried his face in his hands, he gave up on trying to muffle his voice. He cried loud and disgustingly. He cried until he felt delirious, until he could barely keep himself from slumping in the chair and becoming a heap on the ground. But, he didn’t do that. He didn’t need to resort to that sort melodrama when he was already so pathetic. Even though he was alone in this estate, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he succumbed to his lesser instincts to throw a fit on his father’s study floor.
Eventually, he didn’t have any more tears to cry, and even though he felt exhausted and used up, more constructive thoughts entered his mind.
His father’s death—he had to do it. He had to kill him. He had to. There was no other way. So, this was the last time he would cry about it.
His mother’s death—that wasn’t his fault. There was nothing that could be done. And, although it was sad, dwelling on it was of no use either. So, this was the last time he would cry about it.
This was the end of his mourning. No more. He would not waste his life being weak. He had an obligation to attend to, and if there was one thing that Alucard would never do, it was shirking his duty and sacrificing his honor. He would restore this castle—his childhood home—even if it pained him.
But, before that, he decided he should get some rest. He would probably be more productive that way, and he could barely keep his eyes open as it was.
When he entered his old bedroom, he had almost forgotten that it, too, had seen its fair share of damage. And, of course, this was the place that—don’t think about that. His bed had been knocked off one of its feet due to—well, he didn’t really want to think about that either.
The more pressing problem was that if he tried to lie down to sleep on his bed, it would certainly collapse under his weight. He approached it, ignored the half-burnt carpet and the wedding ring on the ground, and put a hand on the mattress, pushing it down slightly just to make sure. The wood made a horrible creaking noise. Just as he had suspected.
He stepped back and crossed his arms, staring at it as if the bed would give him any ideas.
(Instead, an outline of a boy appeared as he was curled in his blankets, looking up at the woman tucking him in. He was either crying because he had a nightmare or he was begging for a bedtime story because sometimes there were sounds outside the window that scared him and a fantasy could make that all go away.)
Alucard wished for some sort of veil that could keep memories from creeping into his brain and imposing images onto the world around him. He’d been alone for maybe an hour or two, and he already felt too emotionally exhausted by all he was being forced to see, forced to deal with.
He dug the heels of his hands into his forehead and took a deep breath. When he looked up, the outlines were gone, and all he saw was a destroyed bed frame. Wind from the broken window blew through him and sent a shiver up his spine. He thought for a moment that he should find a room that didn’t have its windows blown out, but realistically, they probably had all been broken when Sypha burned all that was left of him.
He laughed because it was all so ridiculous. Never had it crossed his mind that his goals would drag himself down with them. Never had he thought he would feel worse after his father was dead than when his father had tried and failed to kill him the first time.
But, it wasn’t worth thinking about. These were his circumstances, and there was nothing he could do about it.
The only thing he could think to do was drag his mattress onto the floor, which was definitely not a respectable arrangement, but anything would do at this point. He just needed to get some sleep and forget any of this ever happened.
(As if that was even possible.)