Dracula stared at the sky, unseeing. Hopeless, hopeless, the voices clamored, telling him the men had not heard, would not hear, that they slumbered unaware. The sun would rise, and he would have to choose. Death, and oblivion, and the gates of Hell waiting for him, or insanity and the wild power it offered, power he had refused for the centuries of its call. Refused with the help of his mates, his children, with the mundanities of a household and the responsibilities of an existence that had not vanished with his death as a human prince. Those responsibilities, the steady background hum of his wives, daughters, partners, family, had anchored him and given him the strength to resist the call of power and lure of madness.
And now, they were gone. The voices whispered at him, sibilantly hissing in the ear of his mind, promising him power and glee and joy and mindless slaughter and riches and rivers of blood. NO! He had given his soul, promised it to Hell when his body returned to a permanent state of dush and ash, but his MIND was HIS, and he would not give in so easily!
And so, he listened. And with a sense of shock and wonder, he could hear heartbeats. Racing, but strong, and the musk of men came to him on the breeze. His destroyers, the murderers of his family and the reason his existence was ash and rubble and scraps of memory and all pain. And men, with minds, with mortal strength, with companionship and veins full of rich red blood, with minds, yes, minds that were whole and unbroken spirits and the ability to fill that gaping void, to staunch the poison of the whispers falling into his mind.
Would they kill him, destroy him, pass him through to the gates of Hell? Or would they be merciful, as men were famous and infamous for, and restore him? Would they taunt him, torment him, and then leave him to die in the blaze of morning sun? They were there, so close, he could hear them, smell them, and do little but lie there in the prison of his broken body, staring at the sky.
Or not the sky. Something occluded it, some shape loomed against the vast background of the stars, thwarting the moon from reaching him. A few dazed seconds passed before he was able to force his eyes to focus, all his body fighting him and resisting anything but pure inertia, and see the doctor himself glaring viciously at his helpless form.
Helsing and Seward stared suspiciously at the monster. The vampire was not moving, not even blinking, simply sprawled across the soil and snow. Devoid of dignity and poise, sprawled, broken, and possibly helpless. Or, the doctor thought grimly, simply engaging in that lovely American phrase of "playing possum." It was impossible to tell.
"John," murmured Abraham, "I'm going for a closer look. If that thing twitches…" Here he paused, looking at his companion. Both knew that if the vampire was going to twitch, it was probably going to do much more, a great bloody bit more, and both knew what to do, and how quickly it must be done. Shaking his head, Abraham simply check his pistol as Seward did likewise, and then stalked cautiously towards to motionless creature.
The vampire simply stared at the sky, mouth relaxed and the gleam of a fang visible between the parted lips. However, the eyes were not blinking and nothing moved. Abraham edged closer, watching carefully, and then paused in shock. The creature was terribly damaged. The leg, broken by the coffin lid, had the ends of both bones protruding through the gashed skin. The chest, where the Bowie knife and then the stakes had been merciless pounded, remained partially caved in. The broken ribs and shattered sternum were visible through the rents in the tattered shirt. The vampire had appeared damaged and up close, the damage was absolutely undeniable and the extent was extreme. The arms and face seemed intact, despite the mouth that sagged open, and it was entirely possible the vampire still posed a great threat.
However, as Helsing approached and observed the creature, it wasn't very possible. He revised that thought to wildly unlikely. They had not destroyed the monster, but it would appear that they had, indeed, come quite close. The vile creature clung to existence, but as damaged as it was, perhaps that small problem could be fixed with the silver bullets in his pistol, or the stakes tucked in Seward's belt.
The eyes stared upward, and Abraham moved to take one final and almost leering look at the face of their fallen foe. The gun was lifted slightly, angled to deliver a bullet to the forehead of the beast, and yet, Abraham hesitated. The creature just seemed dazed, unaware, and despite the horrors it had inflicted on the company, it just seemed…
"It seems wrong." He thought. "So still, so helpless. I will kill it, but not for vengeance. I can't take vengeance against a creature, even one so evil, when it can't even recognize that vengeance is occurring." So instead, Abraham paused, and stared thoughtfully at the gleaming white face. And the eyes moved.
Long moments passed at the monster and the man stared at each other. One with a grim patience and barely-subdued anger, one with a quiet, dazed sort of desperation. Neither moved until Seward broke the tableau.
"Abraham." Pause, and then a bit more urgently. "Abraham!" Abraham looked up to meet John's eyes, and John was more than a bit relieved to see that his friend's and mentor's eyes were unclouded, uncontrolled by the monster. "Abraham, for the love of God, kill the thing."
"No, not yet. Come look."
Dracula fought against hope and dread as the crunch of the snow announced the approach of the second human. Would they kill him? Hurt him, taking advantage of his condition to extract a bit of vengeance? Toy with him before destroying him as they had destroyed his family? Would they ignore him, leaving him for the sun to finish? His mind, fuzzy and unfocused, scampered from dire possibility to dire possibility, but the background song of hope, of possible rescue from madness and loneliness, warred with those fears. With a mental jar, Dracula realized that both men now loomed above him, though when the second had arrived he could not truly recall.
"John, we have, for the first time, a vampire entirely at the mercy of humans. We can capture it, study it at leisure, determine what other weaknesses a vampire might have. He seems not able to fight nor die, and we have his coffin and a wagon right here."
"Abraham, you can't be serious. Keep that thing? That monster? It should be destroyed, and this ended. He's murdered an entire crew, killed who knows how many poor English souls, and do you forget Lucy? Quincy? What almost happened to Mina?"
"There are other vampires. We have garlic, the Holy Wafer, blessed silver, we can seal him in his coffin. In this state, I'm certain we can hold him. And then we can learn from him. And then there is the most telling question." And here, Abraham looked steadily at John, his piercing blue eyes seeming tired and resigned. "We have seen him die, turn to dust, with stakes and silver in him and his head lying apart from his body, and yet he has returned. I am not certain we can kill him. I suspect that we can, but will we turn him to dust, and then find in a year that he is returned, back in England, and hunting us down? I would want more assurance that he is truly gone, and finding the means to destroy him once and for all may take time and research. If he is destroyed, John, I want him destroyed for a certainty. Last night I would have sworn that we had ended him. Tonight, he is returned. I do not wish to make such a mistake again."
Pondering this, Seward stepped away from the man and the undead monster. True, the monster had seemed destroyed once, but then he had been healthy, and violently, vilely whole and intent on their death. Now, he was a shattered and weak shell. The three vampires in the castle had most certainly died, and Lucy was truly freed as well, but this vampire was most stubborn about dying.
"Agreed, but let us ask the others, too. They might have an idea or two as well." John quirked his mouth at Abraham, well aware of just how vocal the others would be at the prospect of not destroying the monster, or at least attempting it again! With a nod, Abraham motioned to the sleeping forms about the fire, and John went to wake them.