Another village, another stable. Trevor sighed. This time, there might be people at home. He got off the coachman's seat after pulling the reins with his aching arms and knocked on the door of the place. The middle-aged woman who answered made an effort for sympathy, in spite of everything, and he noticed that there was a twig behind her ear, among her blonde hair. He counted the remaining coins to give her, already together with the ones found in the empty house; as he got the coin bag back, the lack of weight did not please him. It might last for about five days. If I'm even alive till then.
The road, however had been an easier, drier one, as the seasonal rain called for a truce. No wonder, either. The wagon is about eighty kilograms lighter. He coughed lightly, feeling a perennial itch in the back of his throat, one he tried to push away by scratching with his tongue.
After the first woman and a younger working woman helped him accommodate the horses, he called the owner in a corner.
"I have an ill old man with me," Trevor whispered, "where can I take care of him?"
The woman shook her head at the inevitable. "I know where you can try. But it's good that you've put the horses to rest already. You'll have to go on foot."
They crossed the village without looking around much, heading to a steep dirt road that crossed a grove. After ravines, ups and downs, roots and slips, the terrible path showed them a glade with a decrepit cottage and a fenced vegetable garden, sided by a well and everything surrounded by an aromatic plant. It's rosemary. The bush was a rare sight among the people, a hard thing to grow in the Wallachian land and weather. The same plant the woman had on her ear.
Trevor put the old man on his feet, supporting him with an arm, and heard his cough in a funeral choir with Sypha. As she first coughed, Trevor jumped in fear, but her fit did not end in shortness of breath. He knocked twice on the door of the cottage without an answer. They waited until a woman appeared from the grove, another middle-aged one, with suspicious eyes and a basket full of harvested mushrooms.
"What do you want here?" she inquired. "Don't tell me you've got the plague."
Trevor shrugged his shoulders. She let out a heavy sigh, lowered her head, and entered home without inviting them to do so. They followed her anyway. She can expel us, if anything.
He gently pushed the door to close it. This is so-called Madam Marisa. According to the woman in the stable, she did not like the "madam", as well as crosses, horses, or children; any of those things would get them out of her property under broom blows. Marisa had deep dark circles under her eyes and cascading black hair, which began to lose their color. She hid part of her hair in a kerchief. Can she save lives with that face? Trevor avoided a somber laugh.
The house smelled like so many herbs it was impossible to decide which one had a stronger scent. It lacked light and there was a profusion of objects in that two-room space. Marisa headed to the stove, stirring one of the cauldrons. Trevor had time to see that she dismissed any dresses and wore pants. The healer turned herself to the kitchen table and began to take the paraphernalia out of it. With a head tilt, she told him to put the old man there, and when Trevor let him go, he had a coughing fit that seemed endless.
Marisa turned her nose up. "The payment," she said.
Trevor handed her a bag in which he used to carry coins, now full of seeds of all kinds. Marisa opened it and spread the seeds on a corner of the table, examining them with some precision before putting them back in the bag. She seemed satisfied, turning to a wooden jar with a lid.
"It's going to have some ants in it." Marisa chuckled bitterly. "You can't see, right, sir?"
"It's been almost a decade, proudly," the old man replied.
"So, open your mouth," she said.
She uncapped the jar and stuck a spoon in it to gather some sort of syrup. She gave the same to Trevor and Sypha, after noticing their cough, and they coughed some more as they swallowed the overly sweet flavor.
"It shall go away." Marisa pointed her hands at two chairs. "Please, don't stay there on your feet."
They both sat. She turned to the stove again, poking the cinders, and stirred the content of a pan full of leaves.
"That was the good part. The bad one is this one." She got a spoonful of the liquid with a ladle and poured it in mugs.
The first sip on the tea made Trevor want to chew on a whole white willow.
"How long has it been?" Marisa asked.
"That we're ill?" Trevor replied. "It began today, ma'am, for us both. To the gentleman over there, it's been some days."
"So, I shall see you alive a bit more." Marisa looked at the old man, who began coughing. "Or maybe not."
Trevor rested his arms on the arms of the chair. "We don't really intend to die."
Marisa chuckled. "Now that I began to like you."
Trevor frowned. "It's not something I hear every day."
Sypha gave him a mean look. What? He retributed without understanding what was that about.
"Is he you guys' father?" Marisa pointed at the old man.
"No," the old man replied when he stopped coughing. "I'm not so lucky to have such good children."
The woman seemed to care very little about the answer and put the house a bit more into order. In a corner covered by a sheet, Trevor saw her discreetly pulling the fabric down, dusting it to cover it up. Those are books.
Sypha also seemed to notice. "Do you read as well?" she asked.
Marisa reacted grabbing a shining knife from somewhere and wielding it. "You're not taking me from here, you devout bastards."
Trevor and Sypha raised their hands in peace.
"I'm excommunicated, ma'am," he said as if he would tell her he had calloused feet. "It's been a good ten years I don't step inside a church." If you don't take into account the short trip to one back in Gresit, of course.
"Prove it," Marisa ordered, without changing in the slightest.
"I'm taking off my belt and throwing it on the floor so that you see it. Calm down. Don't stab me." Trevor unbuckled and threw it carefully.
Marisa stepped forward, still looking at them with a piercing gaze. She lowered her eyes just to peek at the belt with the Belmont crest. "Who could tell?" She laughed, not letting go of the knife.
"Isn't it?" Trevor rested his raised hands.
The healer took a while pondering if she trusted them until she stabbed the knife onto a wooden cutting board. "A Belmont here, and what else?" She frowned at Sypha.
"A Speaker, ma'am," Sypha replied.
Marisa stared at her as if she expected no response. "I thought your kind lived in flocks, girl."
"Actually, we do." Sypha also lowered her hands. "I'm an exception."
Old Trevor coughed. "And I'm just part of the scene, if it pleases you."
Marisa ignored the jest, turning herself to another mysterious jar that contained something like powdered plants. She got some boiling water from a cauldron, threw it into a metal mug, stirred it with the powder, and gave it to the old man, whose cough began to happen just once every ten minutes.
"It'll make you sleep," Marisa explained. "It won't kill you, don't worry."
"Even if it killed." The old man shrugged. "It'll take away this horrid taste in my mouth."
"You don't look like you're locals. Are you travelers?" Marisa asked Trevor.
He straightened his back in that small chair. "We're going to Bucharest."
"To do what? Not pilgrimage, I guess." She smirked.
"We were delivering a letter, at first." If the damn letter had not disappeared in the forest.
"At first?" Marisa put a hand on her chin. "Letter? You're telling me that story."
Trevor sighed and looked at Sypha. "You do the honors," he said.
With the same tired face, she told Marisa of the curse of Ploiesti in details and the sad fate of Leo Alexe, whose suicide attempt disguised as an accident had been registered on paper. Said paper was with Alucard, wherever he was.
"You didn't tell me a thing about that," the old man complained.
Trevor giggled. "It could make you run away."
"Running, with these two legs?" The old man laughed and coughed some more.
Marisa stepped forward to assess everyone's temperature. "You'd better drink some of this, too." She pointed at the tea for sleeping. "It'll help you rest, and maybe the fever."
She found another mug to give to the other two. As she approached them to give it, Sypha began to cough and her breath was short. Marisa opened the windows and stood by her side, holding her shoulder, in a way that almost seemed affable.
"Does she have something with her lungs?" Marisa asked Trevor.
"No." Trevor buried his nails in his palm. "She's never had it."
Sypha gasped some more until she could breathe again, one hand on her chest and the other brushing away some tears. Marisa closed the windows against the drizzle that began to fall and offered them the tea again.
"Which other strange stuff have you done?" The healer put both hands on her waist.
How should we begin? The two exchanged looks, then stared at the old man on the table. He slept peacefully and without a warning, coughing just a bit. Marisa kneeled in front of them to listen to the story about the slaying of the wolf, meeting Pavel, and the event in the crypt. The woman listened to everything making faces and with unmatched attention.
"Is it what you do for a living?" She pointed at the two. "Getting in trouble?"
"No," they replied at the same time. "Well, yes."
"I'm jealous." Marisa got up and stirred a cauldron. She pointed at Sypha with the spoon. "Especially of you. Word has it there is Speaker blood running in my veins. I can't barely levitate a cup, though. Everything I've got are herbs and fire. Now, I don't think you've got the plague."
"Uh, don't we?" Trevor frowned.
"Doesn't seem like it. No one has had this shortness of breath before. And the symptoms get worse by the hour. You're not looking like corpses." Marisa turned her back on them and shrugged. "It might be many things. Something from the crypt. Getting in touch with that dead man. Did the wolf bite you?"
"It didn't bite us." But it did bit Alucard, he thought. Where would he be by then?
"Well, another possibility to discard." Marisa began washing the mushrooms in a bowl. "You told me that the dead man was already a skeleton. I think it's not very likely that it's his fault. The crypt, then, is more probable. Every kind of bug and pest lives in those places."
Trevor coughed, feeling his sore throat. I wonder if it's another thing. His head also hurt, and he pressed his forehead until it went away. Maybe I'm not a dead man.
"There was another one of you, that's what you said?" Marisa asked. Sypha nodded and the healer went on, "And he showed no signs of sickness?"
Trevor drank the tea, which tasted tremendously better than the first one. "Not even a single cough."
"Hmm. And he's…" Marisa approached to whisper, "just half human?"
Sypha nodded again behind her mug.
"What kind of half is the other?" Marisa inquired.
The kind to make a fuss about stuff and deserve to be grounded, he thought. "The kind that drinks blood and isn't fond of crosses."
Marisa pointed at him. "The kind that you Belmonts hunt."
Trevor nodded. "Exactly."
Marisa stood up and was back to the cauldron. "And why do you even work together?"
"That's a long story, ma'am." Trevor held back calling her "Madam".
Marisa opened a fret of the window to peek outside. "It's not too late yet." She closed it. "Tell me your long story and I'll allow you to stay for the night."
Sypha and Trevor looked at each other and she left her recent silence to recite the memories. She began by her own journey and also from theirs as a trio, since the stop in Gresit up to her rescue, meeting the Sleeping Soldier from the prophecy, their travels, their visit to the Hold, conquering the castle, and the final battle. You're so beautiful when you speak. He held her hand tighter in the difficult parts, and filled in a detail or another without arguing about who was right. And now, God knows where's our dignified sidekick we went to pick up more than once. Sypha finished her report as if she descended and landed from a flight, and Marisa slowly clapped after her perfect silence under the sound of the rain.
The healer smiled a bit, with a respectful look. "I like to believe I'm among heroes."
"There was no lie." Trevor looked away and scratched his head. "No part of it."
"Not even the story about the stick?" Marisa laughed. "Please."
He laughed as well. "I swear, ma'am."
Marisa got up from the stool and began to serve them the food, a mix of roots from the garden with mushrooms. "To think I wanted to stab you without listening to this." She handed Trevor his bowl.
He threw a piece of the roast in his mouth. "You don't intend to keep up with that plan, right?"
Marisa chuckled sinisterly. "Carrying a dead body has to be worth it. About the runaway guy, though. Why is he gone?"
Sypha rolled her eyes. "Do we have to answer?"
Marisa frowned, with her mouth full. "It'd be good."
"Because I doomed us." Trevor sighed. "I saved the old man from the streets on an impulse."
"Don't be foolish." The healer put her hands on her waist. "The people bring their ills here every single day. Don't you think I'd be the first one to drop dead if it was contagious?"
How didn't I think of this before? Trevor felt a spark of hope in his chest, despite the sleepiness from the tea.
"Also." Marisa got up from the stool and approached the old man, who slept with a weak breath. "I know what I'm talking about. No one has had a shortness of breath as the girl over there. You guys' coughing is too weak and inconsistent. It can only be something else."
"Are you sure?"
I'm not. "I am." Sypha leaned in to kiss him. "Stay here and help her."
She pulled the hood over her head to protect her from the drizzle, both at Marisa's doorstep. Trevor looked at her with a worried expression behind a severe semblant. She took a deep breath and let out a long sigh, looking down.
"I'll go," he insisted, holding her shoulder. "Stay here."
"It's slower if you go by land."
"I can track."
"I can fly." Sypha smiled gently. "Also, do you think he'll want to see you?"
"He doesn't want to see anyone. Your charming presence is not going to change that."
"That's not about me." Sypha frowned and coughed. "That's about facts."
"Let it go. He'll find us sooner or later, even if just to play the know-it-all role again."
"Sooner is better than later, Trevor. Before he goes too far."
"I'm in serious doubt if we should waste our time."
Me too. "Let's give him a last chance."
"And he'll have to prove himself, or he's out and can go take a nap in the coffin."
"Deal." She kissed him again and was pulled in a heartwarming hug, one that lasted as if the world around stopped. They let go; she stepped away and flew over the trail, without looking back.
The wind from above hurt like razors, and the high speed was bone-freezing. She floated over the surroundings of what she supposed to be Marisa's property and the bumpy path they had walked, finding no more than trees and an empty road. Closer to the village, a wizened old lady pulled a horse under the same rain.
If I were him, where would I be? She headed north in a turn, to the way they came from earlier. I don't think he's in any tavern. Nor in a market, if there's even one in this weather. Flying over the deserted farms, with the land marked by grooves, Sypha sighed, the gust bringing more water to her face. He might be in the forest… or somewhere like that. She descended, losing altitude without landing, and flew low near the roof of a cabin, few meters away from the ground. What if…? She increased speed. It's worth a try.
Marisa removed the sheet from the bookshelf to rummage through the books, got some volumes, and put them on a second table. The one by the kitchen was occupied by the sleeping old man. Trevor thought about asking what she was doing, but she was quicker than him.
"I know I gave you a sleeping tea." She dumped another pile of books. "But I'll need you awake."
"Easier said than done." Trevor sighed, with a hand on his forehead against some dizziness. "What do I have to do?"
"Oh, a bunch of things. You can start by fanning the flames."
Between a profusion of "grab this", "fetch that", "not this one, the one by its side", and "dust the books", Marisa also worked all the time to turn the chaotic house into an ordered place.
"Every day, at least two patients come." She climbed down from the stool after hanging a cooking spoon on a nail on the wall. "I feel like I'm living inside an old chest."
Trevor looked around, barely recognizing the environment. "I thought that was the natural state of things."
Marisa stared at him with a quirked eyebrow. "I hope you're kidding, young man." She picked up the chair where Sypha sat before and sat herself around the second table, that was way smaller than the biggest one. "Now, come over here, bring a candle, and help me find out what you two have."
Heavier drops began pouring on the roof of the cottage. Trevor got a book from the table and opened it in whatever page. To begin with, the best person to work with books isn't even here. He looked over the piles and saw Marisa writing on a volume with a poorly kept quill. Back to the pages, he made a conscious effort not to think of Sypha under that rain. Marisa's handwriting surprised him, as it was meticulous and pretty much readable. "Patient: male, eighteen years old, blacksmith apprentice. Problems or symptoms: foot crushed by a hot anvil in the smith. Broken toes, loss of blood, unableness to walk…" Trevor felt his stomach turning. He skipped the treatment to the end of the text; there was a big X on the bottom right corner. He flipped some more pages without reading them and about a quarter of them had the same mark.
"What is this?" he called her to show said mark, ponting at it. "I've come across some of these."
Marisa got her eyes off of what she was writing and replied without a second thought, "They died."
"Oh." I should've figured. "And where are the books with reports on the plague?"
"That one you've got in your hands might be from a year of two ago. They have dates on the first page." She handed him a book by the same size, but with a better aspect. "Check this one."
"What have you found so far?"
"Nothing that sounds like a conclusion." Marisa frowned without removing her eyes from the quill. "The symptoms seem like a common cold at first, or something that afflicts the lungs."
Trevor checked the year on the beginning and flipped to the most recent pages until he found the first X from October. "Patient: male, twenty-eight years old, city guard. Problems or symptoms: intense cough, weight loss, weakness, fever. Treatment: honey and licorice three times a day, nettle tea three times a day, raw garlic cloves once a day, chamomile and valerian tea for sleeping once a day on sunset. Results: quick worsening and weakening." The next page began. "Patient: male, twenty-six years old, city guard," and the rest of the text was identical. On the third page, also a report of a man of similar age and profession. He called Marisa, and she replied with a face of someone who did not want to be interrupted.
"Why did three city guards die with the plague?" he asked.
"My first impression was that they infected one another." She rested the quill on the table. "Until their families didn't die, and neither did I."
So, it's something else. Trevor rested a hand on his chin, feeling his sore arm. He blinked slowly once; sleepiness from the tea began to affect him. How I love working under pressure.
"If I may ask," Marisa said, "Haven't you dealt with no other ill person lately? Beside the one sleeping right there. Anyone. Any illness."
Trevor scratched an eye. "None, ma'am."
"Don't hide anything from me."
He yawned. "My underwear has holes on it."
"Hide some things."
Trevor put his elbow on the table and his face on the hand. "Well, we've come across a giant raven's feather." He shrugged.
"Birds' feces can make someone sick. A feather, though?" Marisa scratched her chin. "Wait, you said 'giant'?"
"Flesh-eating, people-devouring giant."
"That's adorable." She chuckled.
"It rained that day, though. If there was something on the feather, it was well washed."
"You know, I doubt a bit that you guys have a common cold or something." Marisa got up to close the window properly. "You're not sneezing. I mean, you especially could have something like that, but the Speaker girl has that shortness of breath…"
"Do you think we have the same thing?"
"If you've walked around together all the time, you'll hardly have different sicknesses." She sat again. "Can you assure that?"
"We're rarely apart from each other."
Marisa had a disgusted face. "So, you're that kind of couple…"
Trevor looked down as if the table could give him answers. He began tapping onto it with his fingers. I think I'm missing something. What is it? He closed his eyes, trying to brush away the sleepiness unsuccessfully. A nap will do no harm. He rested his head on the books, using them as pillows. Marisa protested, but he had no strength for a rebuttal.
His sleep was light and uncomfortable, with his senses awaken. The rain was still audible, as well as the crackling firewood in the stove, the quiet snoring of the old man, the flipping pages. His dream, however, was like a barrier that stretched when he tried to break it; images of the forest and the wolf, the destroyed camp in flames, screams he did not hear, the bell of the monastery, the voices of the monks in a choir. Alucard resting on the bed, sweating in his sleep, Alucard in the crypt, holding hands with them, Alucard with that expression that was not his, under the candlelight and the fire from the straw pyre in the middle of their circle…
Trevor opened his eyes with the image of the red, incandescent stone staining his retin. He blinked several times and could not get rid of it. With a brush of his hand, as he whisked away a bug, he felt strangely awaken.
"The Stone," he suddenly said.
"Stone?" Marisa asked, frowning.
Trevor looked at the old man, just to be sure that he was in his deepest sleep. He checked around for nothing and gestured so that Marisa would come closer. She dragged her chair to his side, leaving the opposite side of the table.
"I'm going to ask you to keep silent about it," Trevor said.
Marisa smirked. "Don't mention it."
"There's a kind of stone that can make a person immortal." That's not the only thing, but let's go with that. "It's called the Crimson Stone. A weak version of it can cause smaller absurdities."
"What kind of absurdity are we talking about?"
"Like turning a person into a wolf. Our currently missing person is immune to that sort of thing. He carried said stone, and, well, nothing happened to him." Nothing serious, at least. "As for us both…"
She put a hand on her chin. "Your friend must be immune due to his peculiar origins."
Friend? Trevor snorted. "That might be it." He shrugged.
"And why are you talking about it now?"
"Because there was a day in which I and the Speaker came in touch with that Stone for a moment. On the night of the crypt."
"That one where the girl set fire to the crystal and it became dust?"
"Exactly."
Trevor felt his throat itching and began coughing, tasting blood in the back of his tongue. Shit. Without hesitation, Marisa gave him another mug of the horrid tea, already cold, that he drank in a single chug in order not to recognize the taste. He coughed some more, choking a bit on the liquid.
"What should we do, then?" she asked. "The problem seems way out of my reach."
"I'll pay whatever's needed."
"You know that alone won't heal you, right, Belmont?"
I do. He sighed, feeling sleepy again. Marisa tapped on his shoulder.
"Get some rest," she suggested, "I'll make you a bed and ask the girl to wake you up with a kiss of true love."
He had no strength left to laugh. Marisa walked from a side to another until she found and spread a blanket on the floor. Another one was folded for a pillow. Trevor lied down on it and heard very little from his surroundings until he fell asleep.
Sypha arrived at the first unoccupied village, finding its weather to be a downpour that disturbed her flight. She put the already soaked hood back on her head, almost uselessly. Walking among the houses midtown, she took a while to recognize which one was the right one, having seen them covered in fog. This one. She pushed the door, and the smell of old petals remembered her that she was right. Fire was lit in her hands, and only when she saw the flickering flame, she noticed how much her body trembled.
A trace of water was left wherever she roamed, on the floor and the wooden stairsteps she climbed. On the steps, there was a forgotten posy of some white flower already with withered petals. As she raised her head to see the bedroom doors, her fire showed Alucard waiting for her, sword in his hand and a surprised semblant.
He sheathed his weapon once more and untied the cord that tied her cape to her neck, letting it fall on the floor. He took off his jacket and put it over her shoulders, as he held them with both hands, and pulled her in for a silent hug. He's warm. Sypha smiled as she corresponded the hug. I can't believe it. He's warmer than I am now.
"Why did you come?" he whispered.
She split the hug to stare at him. "Because we're not going to die."
"Don't lie to me."
"There's a woman in a cottage, southern from here," she said. "Marisa is her name. She treats the ills."
"And how many has she saved so far?"
"None of them"
He grabbed her shoulders and shook her lightly. "Then what are you telling me?"
"She's alive, Alucard. She's been taking care of them every single day until they die. And she's alive."
His expression softened and became indecipherable in the dark of that empty house. They held hands and Alucard pulled her to the bedroom where they had found the coin bag. From the same chest, he pulled more than a blanket, old rags for them to wrap up. Closing the window and the door, they sat on the mattress and Sypha lit up fire in her hands. I've never been so thankful for a skill. She tried to take a deep breath and felt her inspiration to be shallow. Oh, no. She put out the flame and began suffocating in the dark, gasping for air as her lungs did not obey her, one of her hands on her throat and with wide open eyes. As she finally coughed and could breathe again, she noticed that Alucard still held her other hand, caressing it with a thumb.
"Better?" he asked.
Sypha cleaned the corner of her eyes. "Better."
"Thank goodness." He sighed. "That's a strange story, though. If you're not sick because of that old man, what is it, then?"
"Marisa thinks we have something else. Trevor stayed with her, trying to find out what might it be."
"Why didn't he come?" He frowned. "I bet he's in much better state than you are."
"I volunteered to come. He wouldn't be as fast."
"But you can barely stand up." He pressed her hand some more. "You should've stayed."
"Aren't you happy to see me?"
They stared at each other until Alucard lowered his head. "I don't want you to do this anymore."
"I shouldn't have to if you hadn't left," Sypha rebutted. "Would you come back? Would you, if I hadn't come now?"
"That's no reason for this."
"This what, Alucard?"
"I mean…" He stopped to look for the right words. "Putting the others before yourself like that."
"That's not what matters."
"It does matter," he raised his tone.
"No, it doesn't," she did the same, coughing a bit. "If you do that again, we're not looking for you anymore."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I'm being practical. I don't want to work with someone like that. Someone who won't even be there when I need it."
"You've got Trevor for that."
It's not like I don't need you as well. "And I want to have you the same way."
They went quiet, staring at one another until they digested that sentence. With his remaining hand, Alucard touched her face, which was back to being warm and colorful. He grabbed her chin and bottom lip with his thumb. Sypha felt like freezing.
"I'm still impressed about how good with words you are," he said.
Anything she could say died in her throat when they hugged tighter than before, pressing their foreheads. Before we mess it up…
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Don't go away again."
"I won't."
With her eyes closed, Sypha heard the sound of the storm that poured and poured and saw no end. Little by little, it was no longer daytime and they were in the dark, without any fire lit and the rain not as noisy on the roof. They let go of the hug still with hands on one another. Alucard was the first to search for a sound outside that dragged their attention. He got up and signed for her to stay; he went up to the window and opened it, checking the outside.
With a hand gesture, he called Sypha and whispered, "Lights, please."
Sypha approached with lit flames and shot them in the sky. Something's there.
"What is that?" she asked.
She shot a stream of continuous fire, and they saw the creature more clearly.
"A moth!" Sypha quacked out of a jumpscare, retracting her hands and interrupting the fire. "It's the size of this bedroom."
"Alucard banged the window to close it and she jumped again.
Sypha crossed her arms. "Why that?"
"It's venomous. One should not breathe the powder it releases from its wings. It causes an intoxication-"
"That's it!" she exclaimed. "That's what's making people sick."
Alucard opened his mouth to say something and gave up, looking at the floor. Feeling guilty, huh? Sypha smirked. Where have I seen it before? She shook her head and held his arm.
"What are we doing now?" she asked.
He got his face up. "Let's wait for it to fly somewhere else. Then, take me to the woman you've met."
The wind whistled in his ears. He held Sypha harder in his arms, with his hands slippery from the raindrops. After they left behind the two occupied villages, turning around them to avoid them, they entered a poor, steep trail. Given that the road is deserted, no one's here as well… Alucard skipped and leaped, propelling himself faster in order not to walk on land. The storm beat them until his skin would hurt, and the dark of the night demanded attention. Flying high enough just to avoid the trees, Alucard shook his head to remove locks of drenched hair from his eyes.
"Are you sure this is the way?" he asked over the sound of a thunder.
"I am."
Alucard accelerated and kept the high speed until he head her coughing. He braked his flight and landed on the roadside, beside a tree that seemed big enough to protect them a bit. He put Sypha on the ground, holding her by her shoulders. She made a desperate sound, trying to breathe with her mouth open and widened eyes. He held her tighter and felt himself shaking, strengthless. Looking around in search of a better shelter, he heard her gasping being interrupted.
"Let's go." He pulled her to help her on her feet.
Sypha fell to the ground like a ragdoll.
Alucard lit up a spark in the air and noticed her face with changed color, turning purple. No, no, no. He grabbed onto her again and leaped in his highest speed to the end of the trail, looking at nothing else but its end. He landed near the doors of a cottage. This might be it. He knocked on the door twice. Answer it! Without a reply, he pushed it, breaking the lock. Water invaded the room and he saw a middle-aged woman inside, holding a candle and a knife.
"What did you do to the Speaker?" she asked.
"Take care of her."
The woman left the knife aside and got Sypha from his arms with some difficulty. Sypha began coughing like never before, grabbing onto the clothes of the other woman. As she finished coughing, a red powder left Sypha's mouth and spread in the air. The woman pushed away her face with a clever smile.
"Crimson, huh?" She looked at the floor, where Alucard saw a sleeping figure. Trevor? "It seems pretty crimson to me."
The unknown woman handed him Sypha, who could breathe again, and spread blankets on the floor, asking him to put her there. He laid her carefully.
"Are you the missing guy, young man?"
Alucard took a second to notice that the woman spoke to him. He opened his mouth to deny and ended up going quiet.
"You were lucky to come on time." The woman put the back of her hand on Sypha's neck. "You could've brought a corpse if you had taken longer. Now, I'm taking off these soaked clothes of hers. Look the other way."
Alucard turned his back on them, sitting on the floor. He looked at any spot in the space, hearing the woman's movement from a side to another in the house. She murmured something to Sypha and seemed satisfied with the answer. He set a hand on the floor and felt Sypha's cold hand looking for his. He held it back. Sleep now. Alucard held back a tear. Because I won't.