Work Text:
Broken. Finally.
Alucard cannot think past the haze in his brain, all he can understand are the sensations, but he knows that is a good thing.
Red and white, blood and moonlight, coppery-iron and tarnished silver.
The silvered cuffs lie on the bed, each one marred with multiple slash marks and a couple bent pieces around where they are split apart. Red shines on each, around the edges where they were torn and slashed apart.
Alucard can feel the itch on his wrists where the wounds are attempting to close, but there’s already too much damage. The blood slows, but nothing closes.
The red which stains the previously pristine white sheets has started to turn. It is no longer the obscenely bright scarlet from when it first flew through the air--now it looks darker, the oxygen escaping the dying cells to form something closer to maroon.
Two pairs of eyes look up, up, up, past the ceiling, seeing nothing. Alucard can see them though. He can smell them.
His stomach turns over, and he leans over the side of the bed, body protesting the movement immediately with a fierce burning, each wound stretching and pulling, the skin in some places leaking a clearer liquid through the cracks. The sensation and smell make him convulse, bile spattering to the floor. It happens once, twice more before Alucard can get control of himself.
He can't think, but he can’t stay here.
The sheets are dirty, weighted down with the sins of what happened. Alucard grabs a nearby curtain instead. It’s nearly sheer but no one else is in the castle to see him--not anymore.
Each step is agony.
His wounds aren’t healing; He needs blood, but he cannot get it, not like this, not what was readily available. Alucard cannot be a monster. He concentrates on the pat, pat, pat of each step he takes, barefoot on the cold stone floors. Sometimes he diverts himself to where there is carpet, but there’s so little of that left now--Dracula had removed all the warmth from the home.
Alucard is cold.
He isn’t sure what he’s looking for. He’s just looking, maybe. Around and around he wanders, through libraries and sitting rooms and long, long halls. Whatever his mind is searching for, he doesn’t find it. A long buried instinct rears itself in one moment, and is quashed the next--”help” only meant something with others around.
With only himself, he wonders if he can ever find something to stop the pain.
Moonlight streams through large windows in the next room. A stone table is the defining feature, set right in the middle, with scratches and nicks come about through rough use. A few tall bookshelves and cabinets for storage line the walls. Various papers and tools are scattered about. Alucard takes several moments to wonder about the room’s function when a little whimper startles him.
From around the table, a little dog appears. It’s missing an eye, only bone around the socket, and one front leg is just the same. But it doesn’t limp or appear to be in pain as it pads--hesitant, wary--towards Alucard. Fearing to move, either to scare it off or encourage it to attack, Alucard doesn’t breathe as the undead dog sniffs around his feet. It makes a sad sound, spins around, and sniffs him again. After another trip walking a circle around Alucard, it stops and looks up at him again, ears lowered, sole eyes round and sad.
The whines appear to be for Alucard’s sake.
Slowly, slowly, Alucard crouches. He hasn’t gotten used to his wounds weeping, but he can ignore them, momentarily. While the dog accepts pets to the head and scratches behind the ears, it still seems sad, whining again as it noses at Alucard’s wrists.
“You’re sweet, for a night creature,” Alucard mutters.
Leaving such a dog sad would be cruel, and Alucard is not that, no matter what… they… said. So Alucard stands, wincing, and looks about the room. The dog prances over to a specific corner, letting out little yips; Alucard follows. One cabinet there has what appears to be supplies for accidental injury. Since the supplies look clean, Alucard places them on the table in the middle and drags a stool over. The dog settles in at his feet, cocking its head.
The process is slow and painful. The burns are deeper than Alucard expected. While he knows it’s a good thing he can still feel them, seeing the red, blistered skin and feeling the sharp sting when anything brushes over it, even with the lightest of touches, sends Alucard’s stomach clenching again. Luckily, it seems his body’s willingness to vacate an empty organ has passed. His eyes, however, are perfectly full, and show this by dripping constantly as Alucard tends to himself.
Whines and little licks from the dog keep Alucard at least somewhat grounded.
With the burn cream applied and the dressings on, Alucard feels marginally better. The scent reminds him of the ointments his mother used to make; It might have been her recipe, made by his father for the forgemaster who most likely used the room and owned the dog.
He’d used too much liquid to have more tears, but his throat tightens. In response, the dog nuzzles his ankle and lifts his upper legs in a couple bounces. Despite the tightening of his burns and the many dressing restricting his movement, Alucard leans down to pick up the dog. It goes happily into his lap, leaning up to lick at his chin.
Alucard sniffs. He still needed to go get a drink, he still needed to… clean up. But for now, he takes a deep breath and pets the little dog in his lap, glad for the unconditional kindness.