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Even if Adrian had been fully human, with no abilities to offer him aid, he would have noticed the disturbance that ripples throughout the woods surrounding the castle. He has so grown accustomed to the quiet sounds of wildlife, the low hum of the wind, that the sudden silence, despite its brevity, wrenches his attention from the book he holds. He closes it and sets it gently aside, then walks to the doors, knowing he will meet the source upon throwing them open.
What he does not quite expect, as the doors creak in response to his will, is to be rushed and shoved inside not by human or vampire, but by animal —by a very large, vicious wildcat with claws that sink into his skin before he can react. Of course, a wildcat is no match for a dhampir, especially one that can match its animalistic behavior with his own. Adrian transforms as the wildcat’s teeth attempt to sink into his arm; the cat gets a mouthful of fur, and that allows Adrian the upper hand. He lunges forward, clasps the cat’s neck in his mouth, bites and begins to tear, when —
“Stop!” The word is hoarse, low, not nearly as commanding as the speaker intends it to be. “Don’t hurt her!” Adrian knows better than to listen to such commands in mid-fight, but he pauses long enough to notice that the wildcat has been kowtowed by the voice. She shrinks against the cold stone, ears back, averting her gaze. Adrian opens his mouth, releases the cat, who pulls back and despite the teeth marks in her neck, drips no blood onto the floor. She slinks back to her master, revealing that there is a large, old stab wound in her side, a mortal wound for certain, and yet the cat does not seem to be in pain.
A necromancer, then.
Adrian shifts back so he can examine his visitors in full color, and when he does so, he takes in the nuance of the man before him — matted hair, torn clothes hanging off of a too-skinny frame, the ghosting of green and yellow across his exposed skin, and a thick collar with a broken length of chain hanging from it. The man stands tall, but it is clear that it is more bravado than strength, which is confirmed when the large wildcat brushes against him and the man rests a hand — as well as much of his weight — on the animal, hunching forward weakly, but keeping an angry, defensive glare on his face.
“Alucard,” the man correctly identifies him, far from surprising, as word travels quickly in this land. The name, however, seems to be too much for him, for speaking it sends the man into a fit of coughing, the crackling in his chest reminiscent of trying to unearth something that has been buried for far too long. The cough transitions, catches in his throat and the man’s hand curls into his wildcat’s fur in response. He turns away from the beast, but not dramatically enough that Adrian is spared the image of his face crumpling in a wince before he releases a breathy sneeze that he follows up with a pained groan.
The whole demonstration is so pitiful that Adrian doesn’t speak. He merely raises his eyebrows and waits for the man to recover enough to attempt whatever suicide mission he has planned.
As if on cue, whether summoned by the sneeze or merely arriving just in time, the man is joined by a hoard of creatures in varying degrees of decomposition — a beakless vulture, a half-eaten stag, a house cat without skin, a dog with only bones for legs, and even a rat, small and unassuming, but ghastly in the way its body is contorted. The man’s ragtag band of protectors is as pathetic as he is, and were Adrian not ready to punish the man for whatever threat he has planned, he might feel sympathy for them all. All of them were long dead, and it seemed the man was keen on joining them soon.
For none of them were formidable against the son of Dracula.
“Well?” Adrian asks, more curious than he should be. “What is your plan?”
The man does his best to straighten. The way he moves indicates he might have a broken rib or two, his free hand approaching his chest, then thinking better of it, and dropping at his side. “I…” his words drift in conjunction with his expression, only for a moment, and then he regains control. “I've come for what is mine.”
“Yours?” Adrian repeats. “This is my home. There is nothing of yours here.”
The man meets his stare with every ounce of defiance he has left, which Adrian can see, is not very much. He has the distinct impression that this man isn’t so much man on the inside, but boy, lost but scrappy enough to try to go down fighting. Perhaps, if Adrian is being honest with himself, not entirely unlike where he found himself months ago, on a journey to destroy his father.
The man clears his throat and tries to say his next words with dignity, but when he speaks, he sounds more as though he is accepting a final death sentence than offering a challenge. “My hammer.”
It is then that Adrian knows who he is, and the recognition is met with a morbid series of growls, hisses, and squeaks from the menagerie. Darkly, no longer curious but rather furious with the devil forgemaster who betrayed his own kind, Adrian offers only one mercy: “If you care for your pets,” he states, knowing full well he does, “You will send them away.”
The man doesn’t waver in the face of Adrian’s justified rage. He offers a weak gesture to his horde, and they exit the castle obediently, but slowly. The wildcat hisses one final time at Adrian before passing through the doors. Adrian wills them shut, and they close with a loud bang.
“You should not have returned,” he says as he approaches the man, who reaches a hand to the stone wall to help keep him upright. Adrian walks without assistance from his abilities, because this man is not deserving of a death decorated with fanfare. He will die a quiet, unceremonial death, as pathetic as he deserves.
When he is close enough to feel the feverish heat radiating from the man’s body, to hear the whistle of a wheeze in his chest, the way congestion forces his lips apart in strained, shallow breaths, the man does his best to offer his body for punishment, puffing his chest outward in a motion that could almost be called practiced. This close, Adrian can see the scars and old bruises well enough to note that there are many, that this man has presented his body just like this several times before.
It isn’t his concern. He summons his sword to his hand, and presses the tip to the man’s chest, where his heart beats within its final moments.
“I ask,” the man attempts to say, but he wrinkles his nose and whips his head back with such drama that it could almost be comical, given it is in the face of death. “Only…” He tries to continue, but cannot, and does his best to shield Adrian from what follows in a gesture of absolute useless politeness, shaky hand raised to his face as he sneezes. The man’s body jerks forward despite his attempted restraint, and presses into the tip of the blade, fresh blood leaking through his shirt, renewing the old stains.
Somewhat dazed, as though surprised he isn’t yet dead in the aftermath, the man blinks and wipes at his nose with his hand, he tries again. This time, his voice is all-but gone, more whisper than spoken, and his constants are hardly enunciated. “I ask only that you find Carmilla.” He manages to speak the full sentence, then bows his head as best he can with the uncomfortable collar hindering the motion, and waits.
Adrian waits too. He expected many possible last words, but Carmilla’s name had not been among them.
He does not lower the blade, but he does not finish the job, either. He schools himself, and asks simply, blankly, “What do you know of Carmilla?”
The question seems to take what little dignity remains from the man, and he finally slumps back against stone, sliding into a graceless sitting position. Adrian follows with the blade, but the man doesn’t seem to care. He coughs for a long moment, body quivering, and then gasps for air to respond, “I know she has an army.” A pause, another cough, and an added, “I created it for her.”
The man cranes his neck to the side, showing off his collar, and then he laughs. There’s no mirth in it, barely any strength, it’s more wheeze than anything else, but it is laden with so much bitterness that Adrian is nearly tempted to put the man out of his misery. “I am her pet.”
It is only now that Adrian allows himself to consider the gap of time between when this devil forgemaster worked for his father and now, the weeks that stretched into months, and how the old wounds and bruises on this man’s skin could act as a map of his life since then.
He struggles with sympathy. He feels cold rage at this man for being so close to his father, for betraying his kind, for being everything that Adrian was not. He is still angry, Adrian realizes, his own wounds reopened by the mere sight of this man.
But Carmilla — and talk of an army. As much as Adrian considers driving the blade into this man’s heart for his several betrayals, he needs to know more. He releases the sword and wills it away.
Only then does the man finally look at him with fear, as though being granted life is a fate worse than death. When Adrian reaches a hand to help him stand, the man flinches, all of his bravado drained away, and he curls in on himself and falls silent save for his rattling breaths.
“Come,” Adrian says firmly. “I need to hear what you know. You need food and medicine. Then we can discuss your fate.”
The man doesn’t move. From beyond the door, Adrian can hear an animal wailing.
“Stand,” Adrian orders. “Now.”
The man does not move. For a long moment, neither of them say anything. The man merely sniffs, a liquid sound far stronger than any of his words, and falls quiet again.
“You did not come here for a hammer, did you?” Adrian asks, easing some of the tension from his tone. “You came here to die, and now I will not do you that favor.”
Yet again, he is offered no response, so Adrian grabs the man’s arm and forces him to his feet. “Unfortunately for you,” he murmurs, shoving the man forward, “Death is only one form of punishment.”
It turns out that in this man’s mind, kindness is far worse a punishment than violence or death. Adrian reflects on that as he removes the thick collar from the man’s neck and cuts away his clothing to examine the pattern of old injuries across his skin, pressing his fingers against his ribs to feel for what is broken. Each gentle touch is met with a flinch or a groan, as though Adrian is beating him with his fingertips. It would be disconcerting, were it any other man than a devil forgemaster who attempted to bring about the end of humankind.
“Two broken ribs,” Adrian informs him. “Not much we can do for that.” The illness that resides in the man’s chest is an easier problem — he just needs to follow his mother’s instructions to make him something that will boost his body’s ability to fight it.
Without a shirt, the man shivers, eyes set firmly on the ground. His skin is filthy, caked with dirt and dried blood, and yet clammy with a sickly hue. He needs a bath, and Adrian guides him there next, to a hot tub. The sight of it causes the man’s eyes to widen in near disbelief, only momentarily, before he casts them down again, sliding back into passivity.
“Bathe. Then you will give me answers, and if they are satisfactory, perhaps I will grant you your death wish.”
Adrian does not shut the door, but he affords the man some privacy, taking a seat with his book just outside the room, another kindness in the form of punishment. The man is not captive here in theory, but if he were to try to escape, Adrian could easily stop him. He hopes the empty gesture of privacy nags at the man just as the kindness of a warm meal had earlier.
For several moments, Adrian reads with the sound of slowly sloshing water in the background, until he is interrupted by the sound of harsh, productive coughing. The steam of the bath seems to be loosening the man’s congestion, which would help him breathe in the long run, but with his ribs in their current state, offering only pain in the immediacy.
After the man falls silent again, Adrian resumes reading, but his attempt is short-lived. Again, he hears a cough, this time followed by two painful sneezes. The whimper that follows is lower this time, but significantly more strained.
He closes the book in time to hear the man shift in the tub, and after a pause, a rather loud splash. He sets the book aside and goes to the door.
The man is cleaner, but somehow no less a mess. Adrian watches as he struggles to lift himself into a standing position, grasping the edge of the tub tightly, only to lose focus as his eyes shut and his head tilts back, lips parting in a desperate expression before he sneezes again, slips, and slides back into the tub.
“Pathetic,” Adrian declares. “You came here to face me, and you can’t even get yourself out of a tub.” He retrieves a robe, then grabs the man’s frail body and hoists him upward, draping the fabric over him. The man steps over the tub and trips into Adrian, who holds him firm.
“I’ll tell you everything,” the man whispers, trying to pull back to stand on his own, raising red-rimmed eyes to finally look at Adrian again. “But I have a request.”
“You are in no position to make requests,” Adrian reminds him.
“It’ll…make it easier for me to talk,” the man replies. “Please.”
Though not in a giving mood, Adrian asks, “What is it?”
The man tells him. It is an odd request, but it doesn’t come as a surprise, not with the little that Adrian knows of him.
Despite the amount of strength it takes to maintain, Adrian is even more powerful in his wolf form. He tells himself that is the reason he agrees to this silly request. And because the man doesn’t seem to equipped to deal with his response, because he looks afraid all over again when he receives his reply, and doesn’t stop looking as though he has been beaten even after he is dressed and sitting in a chair, coughing into a handkerchief instead of his hand, afforded all the luxuries of the living.
In truth, however, Adrian has to admit he agrees because he understands. He understands what it is like to be stuck between and beaten down by two worlds, the living and the non-living. He agrees, because it is easier for him to be a wolf than it is to be a human or vampire, at times, just as it is easier for this broken man to confess his sins to an animal, rather than human, vampire, or hybrid of the two.
In wolf form, Adrian sits before the man, who sniffles and coughs for several moments before finally beginning with, “My name is Hector.”
He loses his voice as he tells his story, and Adrian is forced to move closer to hear the whisper — at least, he wills himself to believe that is the reason, despite his wolf form’s excellent hearing. He denies that it has anything to do with Hector’s tale, or his uncanny ability to draw animals to him, or Adrian’s own conflicting feelings about his situation. Eventually, he is leaning into Hector’s leg, and Hector’s hand opens as though he wants to pet him, but keeps its distance.
Finally, with the conclusion of his tale, Hector falls to his knees in front of the chair and grasps Adrian’s fur, giving in to the desire to touch him. “You’re warm,” Hector tells him, and maybe he has forgotten that Adrian is not truly a wolf. “It's been so long since I've felt warmth.”
Adrian should transform back, but the touch startles him. It has been months since anyone has touched him in any form, and he doesn’t think anyone has ever called him warm. It’s unsettling, and once again he comes to identify with Hector in a strange new way, thinking about how kindness can be a weapon, if utilized correctly.
Hector’s arms wind around his neck, gently but with a desperation. “I’m sorry,” Hector whispers, voice thick. “I’m so sorry.”
Adrian knows that outside of the castle, there are several once-dead animals crying out into the night. He joins them in their chorus, lifting his head in Hector’s weak embrace and howling to the ceiling, to the moon, to the way their stories have played out and intertwined to find them here, two lost boys, victims of their upbringing, scarred and alone.
He howls, and Hector holds him tighter.