Warning for depiction of illness, angst
Alucard glances down at the man's face as the hunter tilts his head left and right, groaning with his eyes scrunched shut. He removes the compress from Trevor's burning forehead and dips the cloth in a bowl with water set on the nightstand.
Sypha watches his movements, sitting with her knees folded beneath her in bed by Trevor's other side. "Well?" Her eyes are wide and pleading, seeking answers he does not have.
"The fever hasn't subsided," Alucard says instead, watching as she pulls the covers over the hunter, now wracked by shaking chills. He looks at his mother's traveling doctor bag, to the few utensils he used to find nothing of aid except confirmation that Trevor keeps burning up and talking nonsense, caught in the throes of delirium. He's been calling out names he never mentioned to any of them, coughing on the syllables before falling back into a sweaty mess. "There… there's little I can do while his body tries fighting off the ailment that weakens him."
They both wince when Trevor moans, then coughs again, ragged and garbled as though his throat is being raked through with a pitchfork. They've been here a while, working with few words exchanged to make him as comfortable as possible while the night settled and the storm raged against the stone walls.
Sypha wrings her hands, hunched over and looking so much smaller bathed in the amber light of the hearth. A forest fire, dwindled to candle-flame. "I've tried everything my people know when it comes to fever, I've tried it all, but…"
But nothing works; nothing works, and it's driving him up the walls when time is of the essence to humans in the onset of illness. Looking at Sypha, unimportant details catch his attention, like the curls of her windblown hair or the little crease between her brows that never really goes away; but the frantic unease in her eyes overcasts all, and the dark shades beneath are telltale signs of a body pushing itself to the limit. He remembers this weariness, has seen it often in years past on—
"My mother," Alucard swallows, "taught me the basics of her craft, but I don't…" He looks away. "I don't know enough about practical treatments aside from what I witnessed during some of her sessions. In the end, human diseases are…" he sighs, and Sypha bends her body towards the hunter like a reed beneath a strong wind, until her forehead touches Trevor's arm. "... not a specialty of mine," Alucard adds over the foreign murmurs that leave her lips; she'd whisper them to him, too, during nights traveling together, and he'd wander on her voice and her warmth and her fingers in his hair. That was before they—
Before.
Before he—
He palms his cheek where hot ash still burns his face. His body seizes; gives an involuntary jerk. A shudder wracks him and burning blood sluices down his arm, thickens at his feet, pooling and pooling until the floor is a dark mirror; and in it, that first fight.
Fingers once lovingly tracing his face are talons that stab, his reason is taken as defiance by one who tolerates none and there he is, slipping in his own blood, hands keeping his innards from spilling at his feet and still struck dumb by disbelief he flees and then, nothing.
Until they found him.
He grits his teeth so hard it feels like they're cracking. Alucard presses a trembling palm to Trevor's sternum, where the threadbare signs of life leap beneath his touch. That familiar, unending lub-dub as blood flows in and out of the heart's chambers becomes thunder in his ears, and, to his wonder, an oddly stabilizing force. The red mirror fades to gray, giving way to the present, to the reality where Trevor's ill and weak and his shirt is drenched again — the second they've had to change him into since they brought him up here.
Alucard stands and reaches for another tunic out of many set in a pile of clothing he's fished from his own chambers. Sypha lifts her head at his movement, hedging strands of clinging wet hair out of Trevor's eyes. Like the last time, Alucard props him up while she peels off his soaked garment, then dresses him in the fresh one and back under the covers he goes. "You're saying," she sighs when they're done, "there's nothing we can do but keep an eye on him, and… wait?"
The worry in her voice is palpable, pressing. Doing nothing was never Sypha's modus operandi, and this must be hard to accept. Alucard had dropped everything as her cries reached him beyond the castle doors, and found the hunter toppled forward in her arms, found Sypha kneeling down and supporting him as she could. Now he's much too pale, rasping and struggling to inhale, and there's a sweaty sheen to his skin.
Fear throws a noose around his neck and pulls until breathing is a chore, and he recalls, yet again, the truth of why his father had always been so protective of Lisa. Alucard stands to his feet. "Keep him warm and if he wakes, have him drink more water," he urges, walking towards the door. "I'll search through my mother's writing for causes of the symptoms."
Sypha nods, looking more tired than before. "I want to help, Alucard."
Alucard looks over his shoulder at her, gives a silent nod. If nothing else, they still work well together. "I'll bring you her notes."
The lamps flicker as the storm whistles through the cracks in the walls, the sounds reminiscent of screeching forest spirits, as though nature is lashing in fury against the castle's very presence. Somewhere, a window shatters. Alucard sharpens his hearing, can detect nothing but the myriads of critters scuttling beneath the floors, between the stones, and two human heartbeats: one sluggish and one desperate. They're the loudest sounds leagues away, beating stubbornly through him and louder with every passing day, or so it feels; he would know them anywhere.
His steps lead to the laboratory, a space arranged beneath the high domed area that hosts a vast library and observatory once maintained by his forebear, and like much else here, it has fallen to ruin. Alucard walks among debris he hasn't cleared yet, avoiding the shards, and it's increasingly difficult to stifle the silent stream of memories that beckon, crowding him like living shades. He turns to the corner that has seen many experiments, even more failures, has burst with the joy of eureka moments dotted with scholarly satisfaction. The corner where he spent hours upon hours with her, with… with him, learning, trying to behave, to be good and inconspicuous so Lisa would allow his attendance again. And she always did, she always did. Her laughter would chime off the beakers and flasks when he did something right, would glitter amid the science of ages forgotten, through the glass dome and into the night, and Alucard had seen nothing like the smile on his father then.
Having reached her workspace, he finds most things are still as he remembers them. He retrieves all her journals, the medical treaties — ones written based on her observations, others in collaboration with her husband. Night creature anatomy, vampire anatomy, dhampir…
His fingers press into the leather cover for a moment before setting that particular study aside to look at the next: a series on the anatomy of the human body and a number of associated medical conditions of the bones, muscles, head, teeth, heart, lungs.
Alucard pages through the fine scrawl of her hand, the opus of her life and yield of her efforts; it's all he has left, like much else that's scattered through the place that was his home before it was a battlefield and before it became a tomb. He skims through it all, brushing a thumb over the inked fingerprint smudging page corners now and then; her touch, immortalized on parchment. The lamps spill their pale light over his figure and her words until finally he stacks all the tomes and notes and finds his way back to the lower level where Sypha and Trevor are. When he enters the room, Sypha's still awake, and there is no change as far as Trevor is concerned.
The Speaker raises both hands, and his gaze falls on a piece of cloth. It's stained reddish-yellow. "He… he's begun coughing this up. Alucard, it's…"
Alucard places his burden down even as his legs give way and he falls heavily into the chair by the bed. "... lung sickness," he murmurs.
Worry creases the corners of her eyes and mouth. Outside, the wind swells. The rain still patters against the windowsill like millions of tiny, restless heartbeats.
He mulls the symptoms over in his head. Of course. Though not a rare affliction by any means, survival chances are either slim or strange.
"What are we going to do?!"
Her question is shrill, laden with a latent hysteria that settles in his own marrow and flares tenfold. Before today, his answer to that question in any other context would have been 'Leave'. He'd tell her they've fulfilled the prophecy, such as it was, that nothing was keeping them here, in a place they must be eager to leave behind. And if, if he were less of a coward and had enough presence of mind, he'd question why they lingered and if her reasons lay in those few moments shared at the back of that wagon cart, then...
Then, what?
He smothers the heaviness of that thought right back down and reaches for the books. "These list out various treatments my mother was preparing trials for, but there's no table of contents. I thought there might be something here to help. Do you still want to—"
"Yes," Sypha's already dragging a book from the stack into her lap. Then, "Why do you think he fell ill? He was more than used to life on the road, in the wilds. I never saw him falter, but…"
"I can't say for certain," Alucard mutters, paging through the bound notes splayed over his knees. He knows the truth to her words and can think of many situations where he'd been forced into grudging admiration seeing the hunter's survival tricks, his resilience and iron will; even his disdain for bathing hid apparently practical reasons. "I'd wager exhaustion played a role. Belmont pushed himself overmuch, we all did. It's possible that…" he shoves aside the budding memory of that night, "... that his body became more susceptible to infection and illness."
The air is thick with heat, and Sypha shrugs out of her outer robes, leaning back against the headboard to card slow fingers through Trevor's hair. "There has to be something here," and she casts herself upon his mother's writing with that ever-present zeal that always drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
He follows suit, still in his chair by Trevor's side, and when the hunter wheezes again, when his eyes flare open, gaping at him without a trace of recognition and he chokes the name 'Amelia' over and over, Alucard can only watch as Sypha interrupts her reading, cradles and soothes him with her sparrow chants. Clutching his mother's work, he dares to hope, just this once, that she's right. Just this once.
Because the hunter in a prophecy had found him, challenged and uprooted his perception of allegiance, and somewhere along the way broke the unintelligible code enabling meaningful connection. Because Trevor Belmont had confronted him with stubborn bravery at the height of his skill, had stood by him to the end — or what they thought was the end — without a second thought for his own life and safety. He was insane, no doubt about that. An ancient enemy of his House had seen him raw and helpless and on a frosty night by a dying fire, the hunter held the soldier to him and pressed his face against his tears and told him he was not alone.
He cracks his fingers. His hand is shaking as it finds and curls around Trevor's warm one splayed on the bed.
Sypha groans, turning her head, stretching the stiffened muscles in her neck. She must have fallen asleep in the most crooked position known to man, and groggily pushes aside a tome still lying in her lap before turning to light a candle on the stand.
Trevor wheezes and moans, and she lifts his head and props him up a little higher against the pillow, turning him on his side when the coughing begins anew, holding the cloth to his lips, hugging him close when he shivers.
She already knows Alucard is gone.
Out of old habit, she hums melodies she'd sing to the children during nights gathered around the fire with members of her caravan, sharing lore and histories of the world. Her life was another then, and she wonders how they're faring, if Grandfather is well. Drawing on pleasant moments aids in keeping the nagging question at bay, if only just.
Where is he?
When Trevor stops sputtering and coughing, she wipes his mouth and hedges him to lie back down, then casts her blanket aside and stands.
She crosses the room, the soles of her feet meeting the softness of a woven rug, but the air has grown cold since the contents of the fireside are dwindled to a dark smolder. She bends down and feeds it more wood, then coaxes the flames back to life with a snap of fingers.
Sypha rubs her palms together, walking over to the window, propping her hands on either side of the frame. Late into the night the skies have cleared and what greets her back is an endless expanse pricked with smatterings of distant, silvery stars. Her sigh mists the glass.
Where?
Deep inside, she knows; still hopes she's wrong this time. He's been doing this for days now, and as always lately, she can't fathom his reasons, if there are any at all. His grief rises between them like a specter, barring her way, stronger than any wall. Immaterial and deathless, how does one fight such an enemy? The only way she knows how doesn't seem to be good enough.
Lost in thought, she nearly misses the ghostly apparition speeding like an arrow across the clearing away from the castle. Her gaze follows the wolf until he disappears among the dark limbs of trees, eaten by the night.
She waits, curls around Trevor, watches him closely and listens to his ragged breathing. He opens his eyes just as she dozes off, mumbles and squeezes Sypha's fingers where they lie on his chest and she starts awake, hovering over him. "It's me," she tells him. "I'm here," she props him up.
"... Feel like…" A gasp, another string of coughing. "... a frozen cow turd."
"Oh, Trevor," she murmurs, hedging sticky hair strands from his face. "We're here, we're here." She turns for the jug of water near the bed and carefully brings the rim to his chapped lips. After he drinks — and dribbles some of it onto his shirt — Trevor falls back against the pillow, watching her with tired eyes.
A long, winded cry echoes in the distance; a wolf's cry, slithering up her spine like ice floes.
"What… the hell?" Trevor rasps.
"I don't know," she tucks him in. "Are you hungry?"
Trevor shakes his head minutely, and it's obvious he can't continue, the weakness claiming him again as he wheezes and his eyes close.
She arranges and layers the blankets around his body, and when another distant cry severs the silence of night, she decides this has gone far enough. Sypha looks out the window. It must be dawn soon, judging by the shy brightness budding over the horizon and the last shivers of the Morning Star. She reaches for her woolen shawl, then her sandals. "I'll be back soon," she says, gnawing on her lip when there's no reaction, no reply. Looking at him, seeing him this way rends her, but what else can one do but wait, but try?
Trevor merely gives the faintest nod as she kisses his brow and smooths his hair. Squaring her shoulders, Sypha steps towards the wooden door and leaves the room.
She walks through the emptiness, cast in lingering darkness. Sypha places a finger to her forehead, closes her eyes and focuses; the sconces set in the walls burst with flame, lighting her path. She remembers the way, remembers this way. The cries of battle wheel through her mind still, the savagery of it. When she reaches the ground level, Sypha stops before the vast enclosure that is the great hall. There's a tall throne there, once a symbol of everlasting might and pulsing with power. Now, it's spotted with browned blood and scorched from her fire. Sypha makes her way to it, carelessly falls into its dusty embrace; and waits.
It's only her and the stone gargoyles leering down with frozen rictuses, the medusa heads and the serpents coiling up the pillars, the dark flares of sorcery that linger like old malice and forces itself through her pores, suffocating like physical manacles.
When the pressing quiet is broken by the turning of iron, she stands and steps down the stairs, flames dancing about her fingers for more light. Closer, closer.
The wolf pads forward, and her eyes sting with warmth as Sypha takes in the lolling tongue, the blood-soaked maw; prays it's not his. Please don't let it be his.
He regards her briefly, tries to move past her, but Sypha only shuffles in his way. The wolf stares, lowers his head, then gives her a wide berth as he swiftly lunges forward.
This time, she can't let it be.
"Alucard!"
She follows him with determination and brimming with unease, thankful he's not using that beaming speed. The restless night has tired her out enough that she falls behind, but finally Sypha reaches the area housing the laboratory and stops just short of witnessing the shapeshifting; the whirl and intensity of his supernatural abilities melts her senses as it does, but there's something off about it.
"You — you're wounded!" She wants to demand he stops this but it's not her place, not their place, even as she rushes to be closer, watches the healing wounds and scrapes and bruises on his face and neck.
He leans heavily against the desk, sifting frantically through tomes and drawers.
"Alucard, please—"
Alucard turns to her suddenly, and Sypha swallows her words. His eyes hold meaning, clear and sharp and for a moment, the weight of guilt and suffering is lifted from his countenance and for the first time since they completed their task, she espies a glimmer of… of hope.
"I've found it," he says, clutching at a bound tome. "I know what to do."
"Go on," Sypha says as Alucard urges Trevor up gently against the pillows. She sits on the edge of the bed facing them both, fingers worrying at her robes. Fresh morning light infuses the room with a soft stillness and birdsong, but also highlights Trevor's sweaty pallor and Alucard's drawn, gray features.
"It all began with my mother sieving through the medical knowledge housed in the old library," Alucard reaches for a small bottle he brought with and removes the seal. He lifts it up before his eyes, and they both stare at the unassuming liquid within. "I remembered this as I was out."
Sypha shakes her head, looking outside the window, bites on her lips to keep from commenting.
"She did a series of experiments, pursued not long before she was arrested," Alucard lowers the bottle and retrieves a spoon. "She found that certain types of mold had some inhibitory power on the growth of specific animalcules she'd categorized as harmful to the human body."
Sypha looks at Trevor, who's breathing heavily again, his face crinkled in discomfort and muscles jerking. She reaches for his hand, massaging gently into the knuckles. "Animalcules… oh. I've read about this in Marcus Varro," she muses, a finger to her chin. Her eyes cut to Alucard, who again watches her with that cold serenity steeped in pain. How she wishes, she wishes… "About creatures, invisible to the eye. They can reach the inside of the body, causing diseases."
"Precisely. It's groundbreaking, really."
"And you think something like those things might have caused his illness?" She frowns in thought.
"I'm not sure. But my mother isolated the substance, purified it with my father's help, but had no time to test it properly or pursue further demonstration." He pauses, grinding his jaw as he does so often recently. "She tried it on herself once after a wound infection and recorded the results. It was effective."
Dracula, the self-proclaimed enemy of humanity, contributed to a revolutionary cure that would help humans in the long run. The immensity of this irony, the gap between what seem to have been essentially two different people in one, is not lost on her. And it serves to deepen her understanding of what Alucard is going through. Sypha takes in his appearance, the face she holds so dear. How does one come to terms with one's father being both a genius with such potential to do good, and a raging lunatic bent on ending all human life? She has no answer, never will.
Alucard sighs as Trevor murmurs again, shivers again. When he glances at Sypha, he looks defeated, as though they shared the same thought; as though the memory of it all is salt in a wound. "It's not the only likely cause for this sickness, but one possible cause."
Sypha scoots closer despite herself, closer still, until their knees are touching. She places her hand on Alucard's forearm, and a twinge of pain blooms when he flinches, but it's too late now, and she can't but grip tighter. "I trust her. Let's try this."
Alucard regards her beneath those long black lashes, with those eyes of sunflare that see into the depths of her. He nods slowly and, determined, proceeds to spoon-feed Trevor of the solution, urging him to swallow, then helps the hunter back down. "Now, we wait."
Time passes. They each rise and leave the chamber at intervals, tending to different tasks and taking turns in watching over Trevor. Sypha disappears for a longer while, and when she returns, Alucard is struck by the scent of… warm bread?
"That oven of yours is a stubborn thing," she says. "But it succumbed to my will, eventually. I found some flour in your pantry. Flat cakes. Eat." She extends the plate she's holding towards him. "And Trevor should, too."
Alucard's just fed Trevor more of the medicine, and helps him lie back down. How long has it been since someone made anything here? It seems laughable now, and he smothers the illusion of domesticity it causes, even though he could fall to his knees and kiss her fingers, but his pitiful thankfulness is misplaced, considering…
He watches Sypha nibble on a flat cake before she bids him take one from the plate again. Alucard shakes his head, to her obvious disappointment. He regards Trevor, who's in no state to eat anything and is still barely conscious.
"His fever went down," he announces.
Sypha's eyes widen, bright and glistening. "Alucard, that's… that is good, that is amazing!" she moves closer, setting the plate aside, but her burst of glee fades gradually to the subdued mood from before.
"Trevor will feel better," she states with conviction, "and once he does, we can prepare to… we can go," she says, running fingers down Trevor's arm.
Alucard watches the motion, and so many feelings are roiling, too many thoughts, too many — "Go?"
"If we must," she meets his gaze. "If that's what… if that's what you want."
It sounds like a capitulation, something he's never heard from her before, and it would be the right choice, but he never expected it to hurt so much upon hearing it from her lips. "It's not about what I want," the words escape before he can stop them.
Sypha stands, not looking at him as she takes to pacing through the chamber. "Then what is it about?"
"Sypha, the lord of vampires is gone."
"Your father is gone." She's reached the window, staring out into the world with her back turned to him.
"Indeed." Something pulls him to his feet. He shouldn't, he really shouldn't, but seeing her restlessness, her misery, draws him out of that murk of self-deprecation weighing on his heart. Alucard steps closer until he stands behind her, and places his hands on her shoulders; he craves her closeness far more than he has a right to, but she doesn't pull away; neither can he. "My father. Who had enemies. My father. Who ruled over vast lands beyond Wallachia, over generals and regional leaders of the vampire court. All of whom are now leaderless. All of whom will know," his gloveless hands run down her arms, "the throne is empty, the position ready to be taken, and the castle itself is one of the most powerful weapons in any despot's hands, even crippled as it is now. And once they learn I'm the only one standing in the way..." he slowly turns Sypha around to face him, sees her staring at her feet. "Do you understand?"
Sypha is silent. Her hands have balled into fists, and the corners of her mouth tremble.
"You helped me far more than I ever hoped, ever expected. You've done your part. No, Speaker, I do not want you here, but not for the reasons you think."
She still won't look at him. "You want us to leave so you can face whatever hordes may come in assault alone?"
"Don't you see? You owe me nothing, least of all your lives," he insists. "Involving yourselves in such power struggles, were they to happen, will lead to nothing good. You've seen what they're capable of."
Her lips part, but nothing comes out at first. "You are a fool, Alucard of Wallachia."
He expected that. "I don't deny it." He waits. "Sypha…" She shakes her head, one hand clutching at his shirt, crumpling it between her fingers. "The thought of you leaving here kills me," he says, even as she rests her head against him. There, it's out. "But every day you stay, you expose yourself to more danger and I can't…"
"Stop being so damn selfish!" Sypha hisses, looking up at him with such fierceness the words die on his tongue. "You say you're thinking of us, but you're not considering my feelings, or, or Trevor's, and it's as if you don't know us at all!"
The blow is sudden, short but swift. Speaking of this is like climbing up a mountain using fraying rope. "Sypha."
"No! You're alone now, and so miserable don't deny it, and it kills me to see it, and I'd do anything to make it better, and I respect your need for... for space in coming to terms with it. But do you really think we'd leave you to fend on your own before impending peril, after everything?"
His mouth is dry; her heartbeat is speeding, stumbling against him and drowning out the tattered remains of his will. How can he ever fight her like this?
"After everything," Sypha stresses, and there's that light in her eyes, the remembrance of their shared closeness, of softness and belonging.
But he can't—
"Don't push us away before…" she stops, as though realizing something. "Is that why you've been going out at night? To check the grounds?"
Alucard sighs, nods. "Making rounds. Ensuring there's no one watching, no intruders. Only stray night creatures, for now."
He starts when her warm palms cup his face. "We can try to help, Alucard. We have no other place to go, no goal. You brought us together. Let us help." She buries her face against him, and before he knows it, his arms are winding around her, and he's crushing her to him like his life depends on it. Falling, falling, and the past and present and future are one, and his family is here and gone, and they're here, the constant, the present, the future.
Sypha grips him tighter, her arms shackles around his neck, her cheek pressed to his collarbone.
"We want to be here, with you. If you'll have us."
Resistance is wise. He has more arguments. He has the definitive 'No' that rolls on his tongue and would be the final say. But she's so warm, so wonderfully present and needing him — when, in recent memory, did anyone need him in this way? — and Trevor needs them both.
"Not sure you can speak for Belmont over there, though," he murmurs after a long while as they sway slowly together, though the intended lightness fails to come through.
"Oh, you supreme idiot…"
They both start, turning fastly towards the bed. Trevor is watching them, eyes blue slits of light, half a smile on his lips softening his weakened features.
"Trevor!" Sypha's peeling herself off Alucard and already making her way towards him, and Alucard follows, wonder changing his face. They both sit on the bed, crowding the hunter, their hands to his pulse, his chest, his forehead.
"Stop being a jerk, will you?" Trevor grumbles, gazing up at Alucard briefly before his eyes close again.
Relief courses through him like endless, flooding rivers. When he speaks, his voice is strange to his own ears; choked. "I'll try." The muscles in his face rebel, twist into a pale smile. "No promises, though."
AN:
Random facts below
Pneumonia was not fun, added to a list of ailments that were mostly a matter of 'wait and hope' before the advent/discovery of antibiotics. The discovery of penicillin heralded the start of the antibiotic age, and while I cheekily attributed it to Lisa here, it was actually discovered by Alexander Fleming in 1928. His initial findings (not yet concluding that it's efficient in treating the bacteria causing pneumonia) are in 'On the antibacterial action of cultures of a penicillium, with special reference to their use in the isolation of B. Influenzae'.
Animalcule (Latin for 'little animal') - an old term for microscopic organisms invented by 17th-century Dutch scientist Antonie van Leeuwenhoek to refer to the microorganisms he observed in rainwater.