As it turns out, there actually is ale in the makeshift home-shed. It's a piss poor brand that's as hard to swallow as cow shit, too warm and just an unpleasant experience overall, but that doesn't stop him from downing all of it in one go. The alcohol hits him like an off track freight train in a matter of minutes, leaving him slumped into the uncomfortable cushion of the dirty futon with an arm slung over the side and the other idly spinning the mason jar the ale was once in.
He's slightly transfixed by the streaks of light curving around the glass, catching glares of yellow light from the candles set on the table stand a couple feet away. His cloak acts as a heavy blanket, draped over his shoulders and bundled tightly to keep out the cool night air. Outside contains nothing more than the howl of wind and waving tree branches, creating a sort of isolation he hasn't felt in what feels like years, yet despite knowing that no threats stalk the small town he still finds himself listening out for any abnormalities.
A too fast brush of air, infrequent shuffling, an animalistic howl, anything to signify the terror of an approaching horde of demons – he can imagine the moon being covered by feral creatures descending upon the town in the silence of night and tearing houses apart, dragging out women and children to slaughter them in the streets. Blood trailing through cracks in cobblestone, the most grotesque of mutilations before his eyes; the Elder, Jericho, and Syphaall ripped to shreds in seconds.
Trevor's stomach flips and he leans over the side of the futon, feeling a rush of vertigo threaten to come out. He breathes in deeply, counting down from three before exhaling, and pushes aside the images of death for the clarity of reality: the rustic floorboards that transition from light brown to almost black; cans of non-perishables on the sink counter; box of crackers; pot of water; set of candles that appear to be close to dying. There's a hand crank generator sitting next to the counter that Trevor assumes is used for heating water.
He stares at these items until his stomach stops doing the routine of a rookie acrobat and he can shift on to his back without a wave of nausea assailing him. It matters not how long he remains in that position, too exhausted to count what may be minutes or an hour, but when he finally feels his body coil back into his control Trevor rubs his palm roughly against his face.
He's still awake when the first rays of sunlight shine through the single window in the shed.
Begrudgingly, he crawls to the floor and just sits there, mason jar in hand and a deep scowl settled on his face. He feels ratty, and there's an itch in his scalp that also presents a problem. When was the last time he's bathed? Days, maybe? Weeks, probably. Trevor lifts his gaze to the sink counter and eyes the can of Spam sitting beside a box of saltine crackers, and his stomach growls hungrily.
"Coulda put some actual meat in here or something but oh well," Trevor grumbles as he pushes himself off the floor, staggering just a little from what feels like a very minor hangover. How strong was that ale, actually?
He crosses over to the toilet (which is nothing more than a funnel dug into the ground and a lever to flush) and spends less than a second debating if he should close the curtain of not, decides to forgo it, and does his business grumbling something along the lines of, "Fuck the Belmont, right? His family too. Not like they've saved our asses a hundred times over." And he's still grumbling when he rinses off his hands and puts the pot of water over the fire pit, crouching to snag the generator's crank from the floor.
He gives an experimental twist and is surprised to find that the crank turns relatively easily. At least the Elder put some consideration into this, of all things. But still, he's glad that he won't have to work too hard to heat up some water.
Soon enough Trevor has succeeded in creating a breakfast worthy of kings: Spam and crackers with canned peaches and boiled water, and while he'd rather not drink warm water he decides that a lack of bacteria and other organisms that could kill is more important than preference – at least when what he's drinking is bland enough that taste hardly matters. And he is in the middle of chewing equally bland crackers when he hears three knocks on the door.
For a moment, Trevor just stares at the door with no intention of opening it. It's too much effort, and he doesn't even want to when he knows that opening the door will begin the day, one that will consist of trudging through the bowels of dirt roads and dirty people with horrible attitudes and little patience. He peeks outside and notes how the sun has yet to even settle in the sky. What if he just pretends to be asleep? Sit still and wait for whoever is at the door to assume he's not awake and come back later.
But he knows better than to place hope in that scheme, and apparently so does the person at the door because he or she persists with three more raps and a shout that reverberates through the shed.
"Trevor Belmont! I know that you are awake in there so just open the door already!"
Sypha. Or course it is. Trevor groans loudly, dragging out the "Ugh" as he shoves the leftover food back on to the counter and grabs the can of peaches for later. He's still holding the groan when he opens the door and doesn't stop until he sees Sypha's eye twitch.
Scratching his beard, he leans against the doorframe lazily and grumbles an exaggeratingly polite, "Good morning."
"You are beyond rude, Belmont."
"I'll take that as a compliment, thank you," he replies, showcasing a cocky grin that Sypha dismisses with a roll of her eyes.
She shrugs him aside to enter the room and stops by the futon, bending over to grab who knows what, and he squint his eyes to get a better look but then Sypha holds her prize out for him to see. Swaying from her fingertips is the empty mason jar. "How long did it take you to drink all of it?" she asks and from her tone Trevor gets the idea that she already knows, but he answers her anyway.
"One shot."
"And you're fine?"
It wasn't that strong, is what he wants to say, but then a sharp twinge in his temple reminds him of the residual hangover tapping his brain. So he settles for a decently vague, "I've had worse," and ignores the raised eyebrow and scoff he receives.
Turning on his heel to press his back against the door so that it won't close, Trevor watches Sypha pace the shed as if doing an inspection, running her hands over every nearby surface and leaning over to look into the pot of lukewarm water. It's slightly amusing to see her scrutinize everything, but at the same time more confusing and after a minute he grows bored of her silence. "Are you looking for something?" he asks.
Sypha pauses with a start and slowly backs away from the 'bathroom' curtain. There's a slight flush to her cheeks when she looks to him, shaking her head. "No, nothing in particular. I was just…" she smiles cheekily, "looking. Um, well then, seems like everything is in order. Are all of your things together? I need to gather some supplies from the shop and Jericho would like to speak with you before we leave."
And while he doesn't comment on her seriously suspicious actions, he does level her with a questioning stare that has her tensing up in discomfort. "Sure," he drawls, "I have everything." Which isn't much, literally whatever is on his person, except for his rifle; he opens his cloak just enough to make the weapon visible and checks it for all of its parts: full magazine, with everything intact, and safety on. "We can go."
"Good," Sypha says all too happily and hurriedly walks past him to leave the shed. He gives the little shelter one more glance (what was Sypha so intent on finding?) before following her out into daylight.
Speakers are early birds; he should have remembered this, but he didn't, so Trevor is mildly surprised to see a rather large mass of people going about their business only a little past dawn. Most of the people filling the town's square are either shopkeepers or herders, and the handful of children in the street are following said men with extra product or tools in their hands. Honestly, it's a nice, lively scene that Trevor hasn't known the likes of in months, maybe even years. Simple life without the threat of obliteration, and how this small collection of Speakers managed to protect their lifestyle for so long is beyond his understanding. He is tempted to ask Sypha about just that — most probable is that a protection spell has been placed over the area — but decides against it for now.
Instead, he lets his gaze drift to the degraded houses and cobblestone, lull over the water well from yesterday, follow the working men and waking women who open windows and send the kids outside to help their fathers. A couple Speakers greet them when they walk past, and he offers them a nod while Sypha is far more cheerful. A minute or so later, they stop in front of the House and Sypha waves at Arvis.
"Good morning, Ms. Belnades. Have you finished your preparations already?" Arvis asks, posture and gaze pointedly avoiding Trevor. Fine by him, Trevor scoffs and makes no effort to hide his smirk.
Pretending not to notice the hostility between them, Sypha kindly answers, "Not yet, I was asked to bring Trevor here before I finished getting what we needed. Is Jericho in there with the Elder?"
"He is."
"Perfect," she says and nudges Trevor forward. "I'll be back in perhaps half an hour, so just wait for me here, okay?"
"Do you have any idea what he may want with me?" Trevor inquires.
"Ah, not really. I assumed that he wanted to bid you a safe journey or something along those lines." She pauses, pressing her finger to her bottom lip, and then snaps. "The Elder wanted to give you something too, but he refused to tell me what, though. I wouldn't be too concerned."
"I'm not," he says, because he isn't, and then, "what kind of preparations are you doing?"
She shrugs. "Just grabbing a few items like food and matches. We're going to be on our own for a while so we need to gather as many supplies as we can carry. Who knows where or when we'll find the Sleeping Soldier."
If we'll even find him, Trevor thinks but doesn't say. He settles for a curt sound of agreement that Sypha frowns at and sighs. And she opens her mouth to possibly scold him for it but Trevor cuts her off before she could even say a word. "I'm rude, I get it, so your scrutiny is unneeded. I should head inside now."
"You should," she practically huffs at him, and if he didn't feel the annoyance tracing the air between them he would have found the pout endearing. However, he probably shouldn't anger her anymore when she's about to buy their food and water so he keeps his mouth shut and lets her storm away without egging her on, watching her disappear into the crowd of blue robes.
Arvis, the fucking weasel, actually snickers. "You can't even treat a lady properly, can you?"
"You would know all about how to treat a woman, wouldn't you ma'am?" Trevor sneers and brushes past him just in time to get an earful of a rather indignant stutter.
There are even more Speakers dwelling in the House than there were the night before, and amidst their folds of silvery blue is a singularity that stands out. Trevor finds Jericho helping a Speaker with some patchwork on the floorboards, and he kind of just hovers above them for a moment before crouching down to their level.
Jericho doesn't lift an eye from his work. "You're up bright and early, Trevor. Did you sleep well last night?"
"Not particularly so, if you can consider lying restless as 'sleeping.'" Something waves in his peripheral and Trevor holds out his arm to keep the standing stack of wood from falling over. The Speaker, a middle aged man with a reticent persona, exhales in what may or may not be relief before moving the stack from Trevor's hold to the ground. Beside him, Jericho shuffles about a foot back so he can nail the other end of the board down.
"I didn't take you as the handyman type," Trevor adds after the first drum of the hammer.
Jericho lines its head up with the nail. "I help out where I can," he says. "Consider it a debt paid for having somewhere to sleep."
"I could have helped, you know. Still can if you want me to."
"Thanks," clang, "but we're almost done and you need to rest anyway. Got a long day ahead of you," Jericho says and that makes Trevor huff a short, humorless laugh. "By the way, how are you planning to get to Gresit?"
"Well," he starts, and then stops because he hadn't actually thought about how they were going to get into town, had he? "I figured that we would, ah," he stares at the hammer hovering above the nail, at the gnarled hand gripping its handle tightly, at the old man giving him a knowing look. "Grab a wagon and mule or two from the stable outside and just go?" That wasn't meant to be a question.
"I'll take you."
"What did you even want to talk to me about anyway-" Wait. "What?" Trevor taps his finger on the board. "Repeat what you just said."
"I said that I'd be willing to take you and Sypha into Gresit."
"Seven threatened against you aiding us any further."
"Do you honestly care about what he told us we can and or can't do?"
No. "Hell no," Trevor says and hardly flinches when the hammer comes down a little too close to his hand for his liking. He slides it away without a word. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, but the question is left unanswered, a rhetorical that Trevor shies away from beaming at.
So much for Jericho not wanting to juggle the wrath of the church, but he supposes that the man must have his reasons. He decides not to question it and his back cracks achingly as he stands, a yawn escaping him when he pops out a couple of kinks.
"Oh, Trevor, you're here," an unmistakable voice calls out to him and Trevor looks across the room to see the Elder beckoning him from his desk. Coming to stand before him, he offers a greeting and crosses his arms over his chest, shifting his weight to rest on one side. "Mornin.' I rested just fine, by the way."
"Before I can even ask," the Elder chuckles and leans forward on his elbows, clasping his hands together. "I would like to present you with a small token of gratitude and safe travels before you depart. I'm sure that it will prove of use," he promises then commands one of the nearby Speakers to grab the 'sack.'
The 'sack,' as the Elder so called it, is not what Trevor was expecting; he imagined a small, brown bag heavy with an equally small amount of coin and perhaps a few preservatives or medicine, but what he gets instead makes his eyes widen.
The sack is made with a fine fabric that stretches with the content put into it: it is a brilliant shade of crimson with a gold band tying it closed (the loop is large enough to fit perfectly around one of his belt holsters). Trevor loosens the band without undoing it completely and cautiously sifts through the surface of the contents.
Glass is what he first notices, and a jostle between the glasses lets him know that they're filled with liquid. He takes out one of the flasks and holds it to his face, shaking the liquid around in a circle. The fluid — which he assumes to be water — shimmers and glows an ethereal shade of blue.
"Is this…holy water?" Trevor's voice is incredulous as he opens the flask and peers inside, inspecting the fluid for any abnormalities, but it seems real. Authentic holy water.
He closes the lid tight, grabs another bottle, and then rustles the flasks so he can grab the bag of something beneath the jars. "Salt," he breathes and a rush of excitement goes through him. It's the first time in a long time that he's been in contact with anything holy.
"Where did you get this from?" He asks, because there doesn't seem to be any priests, let alone genuine ones, nearby.
The Elder's smile is reminiscent of a sunflowers and morning dew. "Not too long ago a group of missionaries visited to ward off devils that had ventured into some ruins a few miles away. They weren't an immediate threat, but everyone agreed that dealing with them while the group was here was better than being surprised later, and the men needed a place to stay and recuperate, too. What kind folk they were," he mumbles under his breath, and then shakes his head as if coming back into focus. "Before they left they decided it would be best to leave some provisions for us in case of emergency. We were told not to open them unless absolutely necessary, in order to avoid possibly warding off the blessing." He tilts his chin up at Trevor and raises an eyebrow quizzically. "This would count as an emergency, don't you agree?"
"You got that right," Trevor declares and ties the sack directly opposite his whip. Their proximity makes the Vampire Killer's vibrating ring louder, more solid, and Trevor rests his hand over it to feel the barely perceivable rumble of energy. No one else can feel it except for him, and the knowledge is grounding. "Thank you, Elder. Your gift is appreciated."
The Elder dismisses him with a boisterous laugh and wave of his hand. "I trust you with the supplies more than anyone else, if we're being honest here. It is in your blood to wield such arms and who am I to deny you of them? You are welcome, my son."
The words are warm, resonating like a fire in a snowstorm, or an echo in a cave. Trevor tries not to show it, but the Elder must catch sight of his change in disposition for he settles into his seat and gazes at him with a translucent stare. The feeling is uncomfortable, unaccustomed to being looked into, but the Elder impresses upon him an air of well intention so he maintains the contact. Although, the jovial atmosphere is gradually pinched with seriousness, and while Trevor does not feel tension he does sense a challenge.
"She does not have to accompany me if you are worried about her-"
"She would refuse me even if I pleaded," the Elder shakes his head. "I may be her grandfather, but I cannot hold her to familial binds. Sypha is not a girl anymore and can make her own decisions. She has in the past."
"I'm sure of it," Trevor agrees. She's a respectable young woman with a level head, focus, compassion, and morality that will get torn apart and smashed to dust in the desolate cities and towns out there. Sypha is a virgin to calamity and that is exactly why she should not go with him. He grinds his teeth over his tongue until it stings. "I cannot guarantee her safety out there," he says.
"But you can promise to do all within your power to aide and support her. She is not as fragile as she looks."
But she doesn't know, he wants to shout, get the Elder to understand that if he can hardly face the horrors waiting for them without being twisted by it than how can someone as pure as Sypha? His body itches to hold something, strangle it, or chug an entire keg of beer all at once and it leaves him exhausted with that headache from earlier threatening to surface. He takes a deep, calming breath before reiterating, "I won't be able to protect her at all times, Elder, I'm sorry but that's impossible. I don't think she even knows what we're going into."
"Are you saying that Sypha is not capable?"
"I'm saying that I don't want to watch a fragment of normalcy get fucking demolished by the shitstorm right outside these doors. How much of the fallout has she honestly seen? A handful of villages and smaller towns? Has she visited a city? Has she seen the sheer carnage left behind the day after a night horde attacks?" He waves his arm to release some energy; the headache thumps just a little bit harder. "I don't think I can protect anyone from that."
"But do you think she's capable?"
"Of what? Not being completely fucked over by it?"
"Of surviving and watching your back as she defends hers," the Elder asserts, his voice like icy water over stone, and it brings Trevor to a pause. He flexes his fingers, stopping them from balling into fists, and averts his gaze from the unyielding watch of a man who's seen the end before it started.
It's a hard pill to swallow, but he chokes it down without hesitation.
"I know that you cannot promise your success, as no one can in their endeavors, but your word is, and will always be, your truth. I am entrusting you with showing my granddaughter the same resilience that she is sure to show you." Unclasping his hands, the Elder holds the figurative olive branch in his palm. "Promise me this truth, Trevor, last son of the House of Belmont."
Yet despite wanting to, Trevor is declined the chance to accept this promise by the opening of the door and a quiet, although commanding, call.
"Elder, I have returned with the provisions. Is Trevor still here?" Sypha asks and scans the room until her eyes land on them. She scrunches her face at the peculiar scene – the Elder with his hand stretched and Trevor looking like a deer caught in headlights – but brushes it off and approaches them with two small backpacks in hand. She lays them on the desk and pats the side of one.
"I hope I didn't take too long, Elder. Mr. Taurus wanted to prepare some more meat for us since he just cut a cow for some travelers who are supposed to come by later. And," she unzips the foremost pocket and takes out a loaded bag. It clinks against wood when she drops it on the table. "Donations from almost everyone! I don't know how word spread so quickly overnight, but I'm really grateful that it did," she beams. "I'm not sure how much 'help' this Seven guy is actually going to be when we're in need of money so having this is reassuring."
"You did good, Sypha," ever so composed, the Elder dials back the undercurrent of solemnity and curls his lips into a reassuring smile, and despite the smile being pointed at Sypha Trevor is unsure if the gesture is actually meant for him.
It doesn't matter, so he picks up the bag of coin and gives it a jostle, and then another one, and suddenly a weight seems to be lifted off of his shoulders. A small one, but one nonetheless and he catches Sypha looking at him in query. Clearing his throat, he sets the bag back onto the table.
"I'm assuming that there's a backpack for each of us?" he asks as a haphazard segue and picks up the pack that looks heavier. It's surprisingly light.
Sypha nods vigorously. "Correct. I've divided some of the meat and nonperishable between us, and my bag is filled with medical supplies, a few maps, and some supplies for my gadgets." She points at his backpack with a snap. "I had to guess around for things that you needed, but there's some ammo and cleaner for your gun, candles, matches, and knives." Suddenly her cheeks begin to warm and she looks away, abashed. "I uh, didn't get much in the way of warmth. Probably should have thought about that, but I assumed that we would face that problem when we came across it."
'Warmth,' Trevor thinks and mentally rolls his eyes. He does, however, shake his head and scoff a little. "Good decision. I wouldn't count on being too warm for a while and bringing a barrage of coats and blankets won't do well for our backs. We'd have to carry it all," he says and after a moment Sypha nods in understanding.
Good intentions, but less is better when they're out on their own, and they seem to have enough coin to pay for a night in a room on the chilliest of nights so for now there isn't too much to worry about. This just serves to prove how green the girl is, and Trevor gives a pointed look at the Elder but the older man ignores him.
Behind them, something thuds against the ground and then Jericho is standing and stretching his back. He yawns loudly before saying, "Sounds like you guys have everything prepared. I'm ready to head out when you are."
"Finally," Trevor grumbles under his breath and turns on his heel, tossing the backpack over his shoulder. He assumes that Sypha is following him to the door, but when he reaches it and makes to walk out she is nowhere in sight. He cranes his neck to scan the room and sees the Elder staring off to the opposite side. "Where did she-?"
"Sorry!" a voice, Sypha's, calls from the side of the room the Elder is staring at. A couple things hit the floor with a clang, as if being knocked off a table or something, and from the clutter of falling items emerges Sypha. She looks a little out of breath, but it's not her face that catches Trevor's attention.
It's her outfit: the Speaker pendant and blue robe has remained the same, but now the robe is open and appears to be more of a cloak than anything else, and beneath the folds of blue is leathery black that reminds him of kevlar. Aside from it using a similar armored material to that of the military, her uniform is not standard Covenant apparel; it's not associated with the church at all, which brings him to wonder where she found gear like that. His gaze travels lower and stops at the belt around her hips. Hanging from it are about a dozen of those glowing, magic grenades, half cerulean half scarlet, and a small notebook.
In a way, it makes her look battle born, somehow older.
Impressive. Trevor leans against the door, shuffling to the side to allow Jericho space to walk out, and watches Sypha talk lowly with the Elder. He can't hear their conversation, but the cheer on her face dissipates once the old man begins to speak. They talk in earnest, quick whispers and sighs and a tension in Sypha's arms that says more about the nature of their words than the movement of their mouths. Eventually, Sypha rakes her hand through her hair in defeat and storms over to her work table, opening a drawer and pulling out two black…gloves? No, there's some sort of plating on it and on the back of the hand is a clear orb.
They're gauntlets, like something he'd see in a medieval set of armor, and Sypha slips them on routinely. He turns around with a whoosh of air, hoping that neither one noticed him staring, but as he wasn't exactly trying to be conspicuous he just tries to put on his best pretense of nonchalance. So he shrugs his shoulders and raises a hand in farewell to the Elder without looking back. He slides out the door and takes a few steps forward, walking slowly to give Sypha time to catch up. When she's by his side, he sneaks a glance at her.
And he knows that he shouldn't, but who is Trevor if he doesn't try to push unspoken boundaries? So he shoves his hands into his cloak and asks without preamble, "You okay?"
She doesn't answer him, not immediately at least. She bites her lower lip and keeps her gaze locked on the humvee coming into view, everything about her coiled like a wounded snake. She chews her cheek one last time, and then, catching the sunlight in her eye, looks up at Trevor with a hardened stare.
"Don't you have more important things to be worrying about?" she says, voice concrete and harsh and, actually, yes, he does have more important things to think about. So he shrugs once more and climbs into the vehicle's passenger seat without another word.