(Warning(s]: Death mentions, possible racism mentions.]
Deus ex Machina–God of the Machine. This is what he had been called once, this weapon of war, fought within every modern war since the Russo-Japanese War. Upon an eve, where the sun reposed upon the horizon and shimmered scintillation that led a pathway unto heaven, the lowing of cattle upon the cresting cliff top was illumined by the last of the sunlight that painted all the last of the verdant grasses in shades of lit jade; the ocean's tumult lifted ionized breezes of dispelling cool upon the crests and clefts of stone, all mantled by Whitby Abbey that struck a jagged silhouette against the windswept sky. The place that he had claimed as his own after the second world war, the carved tenebrous shadows lengthened upon the sweet grasses of cattles' grazing, there was but a lone figure silhouetted against the softened gold of the last of the sunlight, blackened so by the twilight. Here stood the Bird of Hermes, the God of the Machine whom had once fought in all wars. Before assigned the elimination of the threatening supernatural, he made the ghosts of the present by the slaughter of the enemy. Sired them as passionately as millennium had made monstrosities of humans too weak to retain the humanity of their own. He trod upon these grasses, once feet that had walked upon blood and skulls and absolute ruination.
Hands that had carved and etched death of slaughtering and massive scale of death, how tenderly they held the bag filled to the brim with flower bulbs for the multitudes of graves he would plant these tulips at. The plastic lightly crinkled and rumpled with his footfalls, and how he thought! Of once he was a man, Hospodar, and he remembers best the Night Attack. When a last ditch effort had been made from the shadow, the shade, to bring their enemy to their knees. For Alucard remembers too well the skirmish, of the Greek Fire that seared past the waves of his men whom bolted and sprinted betwixt the ornate tents that hampered their movements, the strike of blades and chaos of cannon fire and the ensuing death rang strongest; the glint of sunlight most like the glance of blade and steel upon steel. But of it, he remembers best the clarion call of Brandur, the most stalwart of his Armasi, aged and fighting as truly as a man half his age. Alucard paused before the man's grave, of the inscription he had inscribed himself, only able to recount yet how he had died. before Vlad he'd fought, defending the Hospodar as valiantly as he could, and yet had been assailed by a Janissary soldier whom had felled him where he stood, deflecting the blow and protecting Vlad, but losing his life as result . How he'd roared as his Armasi had been sundered into the soil ! brutally goring through the one responsible…fighting the state of a blind berserker.
Then, Edmundur, his brother, on that night of betrayal by Vlad's brother, Radu. The relaying message had been so delivered by the unconventional means of bow and arrow, exact precision so much so that a candle had been snuffed out. Warning of Radu's attack, yet garnering the attention of those Janissary whom he had assailed such information from. Seeing to his end, they had slashed his gut as Vlad had watched, helpless, to do anything but watch in transfixed horror. That was the night of the most failure. When his heart had been ignited by inaction and grief, unable to do anything at all. Where the moonlight had glossed the earth silver and had purveyed it as truly as the daylight.
Before their graves, side by side as the brothers they had been in life, within the moist earth freshly alleviated as the early frost did he plant those bulbs in the soil, tilled as though intended by God. Alucard saw them so with peerless scrutiny, despite the redness rimmed within crimson gaze. The lowering of lengthened bangs that denied sight of it. He worked, oblivious of the world outside. Upon his knees he was genuflected, until he sat upon his folded legs. The silver of the ring burned with cool intensity, perhaps aggravated by the hushing cool of Autumn. Quietly was the glove encasing it against the skin of his ring finger removed, perhaps the most precious thing of all adorned there.
A signet ring of the Order of the Dragon. But it was not his own; it belonged to Valeriu Diaconescu, perhaps the most precious of his Armasi. The man whom had remained steadfast, whom had his heart after over five hundred years of living without. Alucard gazed upon it. Droplets of the Tears of Judas stained his hands, allowing those tears to finally spill. Oh, perhaps the most cruel of these deaths. The most recent, and yet, not. Would time remember them so? What Vali had done? For him, for his country? How only years ago, Alucard had spent the last four years of Vali's life together until the male had died. They had died together, been buried together to the shock of those whom had found them both together during that last sunrise.
"I'm here to watch the sunset with you, Vali. As I always promise to do," Alucard murmured as he sank beside his beloved Armasi 's grave, the sunlight lengthened as he leaned heavily upon it, a pining, mournful yearning and delusion spurring his actions. "Let me describe it to you." An arm encircled the gravestone's base, he leaning heavily into it as even lips brushed cool and coarse stone. "Today is slightly different, Vali. I came earlier than usual–it must be surprising to you, I am sure, but it is not without reason." And here is a melancholy twitch at the corners of tiers, the meek and shadowy smile. "In America, there is something known as Veteran's Day. To celebrate the soldiers. Perhaps you understand why I am here so early then, hm?" A soft, lilting chuckle. He sighs, pressing cheek against the stone as though yearning, nuzzling into it.
"I wanted to honor my Armasi. You who fought and died for me, for our country. Today is your day, dragostea mea. This is why I am here to describe the sunset to you much earlier than usual…da?" His voice languishes, barely a whisper. How can he describe the sunset is he can barely even see it? Alucard smiles tightly, gazing upon that sunset obfuscated by a curtain of ebony and red.
"It is red–or orange, like flame. And about it, a wreath of clouds—"
Last Thoughts: This is yet another Valicard drabble, based on my Alucard RP account on tumblr and a very dearly-held ship of mine which you've probably seen before. It was written on Veteran's Day, so what better day to crank in some angst than the day we honor our fallen soldiers? Very sad, indeed. ;u;
~Peace, G.