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“Good night, Master Alucard.” Lyudmil says, taking a half-bow at Alucard who is already lying in bed.
“Good night.” Alucard responds, not sparing him a glance as he turns onto his side.
With that, Lyudmil closes the door. He exhales softly before turning away, now walking towards his own room.
The moment he pushes the door open, a familiar scent greets him—the faint, lingering fragrance of the white flowers that he has once weaved into garlands.
Nobody knows this, of course, not even Alucard. It is but a secret, for he knows that a servant like him doesn’t have the right to love someone like Alucard, at least in that sense.
But love does not obey the rules of status or reason. He was only human when he fell in love, and he knows very well that humans cross boundaries even when they know they shouldn’t. And now, even as a vampire, even after everything, that love remains. It has already cultivated deep in his heart, and it cannot be erased and uprooted that easily.
Ever since that incident, however, Lyudmil has stopped making those garlands. It’s been a long time since he visited the grassland, too. And so, the scent in his room has faded, though traces of its sweetness still linger.
Lyudmil closes his door and walks towards his small bedside cabinet where he hung the garlands. As he opens its small door, the sight has confirmed his suspicions—most of the flowers have withered. The ones at the bottom are brittle, their petals crumbling at the slightest disturbance. Only those at the top still hold on, though they, too, are already fading.
He sighs, his shoulders slumping. It really has been a while. He only ever made these garlands when his love for Alucard weighed too heavily on his chest, when the feeling became too much to keep bottled up inside.
It’s not that he has forgotten, nor the feeling has dulled. It’s just that…
He blinks.
Why had he stopped?
Had he truly been too busy? Did he not have time?
His thoughts are interrupted when he hears a faint rustle of wings, followed by soft tapping sounds by his window sill. He turns his head to look at the source, and he sees a small bird resting on the edge of the window, its feathers ruffled from flight. His gaze then drifts beyond it and into the night. The darkness stretches out before him, vast and starless. Only the moon, which barely peeks from behind the clouds, offers any light.
“Ah.”
That’s when realization strikes him. It’s not that he doesn’t have the time—his mind was just preoccupied at the thought that he can no longer stand in the sun. And because he is a newly turned vampire, his habits as a human still remain, so the idea of going to the grassland at night had never crossed his mind.
He exhales softly, a small smile forming on his lips.
How foolish of him to have not considered it before. This time, he can go without fear, because he has now become the very thing he once feared when walking out in the open at night.
And so, he gathers the wilting garlands and steps out of his room. The castle halls are silent, his footsteps barely making a sound against the stone floors as he makes his way outside. The night air greets him with a soft, gentle breeze. His path then leads him toward the grassland. Along the way, his gaze catches on a small pile of leaves gathered along the path, making him slow to a stop.
After a moment of thought, he kneels down, gently placing the garlands among the leaves before covering them with another handful. There is no lingering touch—just a quiet farewell to the garlands that accompanied him when he was still human. Then, he rises to his feet and continues forward, traversing to the dense trees to get to his destination.
The night breeze brushes against his skin, gentle yet cool, as his hair stirs with each step. When he arrives, he finds the white flowers swaying with the wind in a rhythmic dance. He stands still for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the vast field.
It is nothing compared to its beauty during the day. At night, the sky is little more than an expanse of darkness, with only a faint tinge of blue if one looks hard enough. But tonight, even that is absent. The clouds stretch endlessly above, swallowing the stars, leaving behind a dull, lifeless atmosphere—a stark contrast to the golden hues of sunset, when the sky bathes the land in warmth, complementing the green and white colors of the grassland.
But to Lyudmil, this will do. He isn’t planning to stay long anyway. He’ll just spend enough time to gather a few flowers, weave a single garland, and return to the castle.
Well, that’s what he thought.
Before he realizes it, he is already sitting on the ground, plucking flowers within reach, fingers deftly intertwining their stems. From time to time, he hums softly, his voice carried away by the breeze. The wind touches his skin, and he tilts his head back, watching as the full moon slips in and out behind the clouds.
And after a while, he begins to think that this… isn’t so bad. There is a quiet serenity in the grassland at night, even with nothing but the shifting moonlight to guide him.
The darkness does not suffocate. The wind does not bite.
He breathes in, then he breathes out.
Yes, this will do.
“Lyudmil?” Alucard calls outside his door as he knocks lightly. “Are you still awake?” He frowns at his own question.
Of course he’s awake. Vampires don’t sleep at night, after all.
No one answers. He then knocks again, listening closely for any rustle, any sign of movement inside.
When he hears none, he exhales softly and reaches for the doorknob. “I’m coming in.”
He is then met with an empty room. The bed remains untouched, the chair and study table left exactly as they were. Everything is in place, except for Lyudmil. However, he catches that faint, sweet smell of something familiar that lingers in the air. He inhales deeply, trying to take it in.
Alucard frowns slightly, the scent drifts into the corridor as well, which is… strange.
Why would the smell of the white flowers be inside the castle?
He had come to Lyudmil’s room because he couldn’t sleep. He wanted Lyudmil to accompany him to the castle’s library, since even after all the years he had lived in the castle, there are still books in his father’s collection that he has yet to read.
But now, his curiosity is piqued.
With Lyudmil not in his room and the unmistakable scent of white flowers lingering in the corridors, he feels compelled to follow it.
And so, he does—the scent leads him through the halls, down toward the castle’s large doors. As he steps outside, the night air carries it further, guiding him along the familiar path toward the grassland where he and Lyudmil used to visit.
Alucard exhales, his gaze drifting ahead. “Used to visit, huh.”
After a while, the scent grows fainter, stopping abruptly near a small pile of leaves beside the trail. He slows, tilting his head as his gaze flickers between the leaves and the direction of the grassland.
With the tip of his boot, he nudges the pile aside.
Dried petals scatter in the wind. Beneath them, several withered garlands lie abandoned. Some are brittle, their petals curled and lifeless. Others, though faded, still cling to the remnants of their fragrance.
Alucard blinks.
Why are there garlands here?
There is only one person he knows who weaves them—only one person who once told him of the festival where young boys give garlands to young girls to express their love.
And it was none other than Lyudmil.
But several questions stir in his mind: why did he make them? Why had he made so many? How long had they been left here? Why are they even discarded like this?
His thoughts are interrupted when a gust of wind sweeps through the trees, stirring the abandoned leaves, and carrying them toward the grassland. Alucard watches them go, then follows without a word, leaving his questions behind—at least for now.
When he arrives, his golden eyes search across the field for a familiar figure. It doesn’t take long for him to spot Lyudmil, who is sitting on the ground, his side facing Alucard. Though the distance between them is not far, it seems that Lyudmil is not yet aware of his presence. And so, Alucard takes this as an opportunity to observe the man as he leans against a tree, his arms crossing over his chest.
It appears that Lyudmil is busy weaving a garland, his hands meticulously working with nothing but the flowers and their stems. Alucard watches as he picks each flower with care, selecting those with long, flexible stems. His movements are deliberate yet effortless, proof that this is something he has done many times before.
The sight is almost… peaceful. Something about the way Lyudmil focuses on his work, the way his hands treat the flowers with such care, stirs a strange feeling in his chest.
Then, the wind blows once more, the rustle of the trees, the grass, and the flowers fills the air.
Alucard does not miss the way Lyudmil stills, his hands pausing mid-motion as he lifts his gaze toward the sky. His eyes flutter shut, and for a fleeting moment, he simply breathes, letting the wind caress his face, with the strands of his hair dancing against his temples and brushing lightly over his forehead.
Lyudmil is a handsome young man—one who could have easily captured the hearts of many young women his age. But after what happened to him in his village, perhaps he never even had the chance to love, to reach out, and to be held in return.
And now, he is here. Stuck in the castle and bound to him as a servant—as a vampire.
Guilt resurfaces, heavy and unshakable, as it settles deep in Alucard’s chest, making his fingers curl into fists.
As Lyudmil opens his eyes, he catches something in his peripheral vision, drawing his attention to the side. There, he sees Alucard leaning against a tree, watching him from afar. His master’s presence immediately makes him stand up, the petals and the unfinished garland falling from his lap.
“M-Master Alucard!” He calls, “You’re here!”
Now that he has been discovered, Alucard straightens and walks toward Lyudmil, his steps light and careful not to step on the delicate flowers. “I should be the one saying that to you,” Alucard replies, now standing in front of him. “You’re here, Lyudmil.” His eyes then flick down, seeing a collection of garlands resting on the grass. “I see you’ve been busy with something.”
“Eh?” Lyudmil follows his gaze, “I-I was just—I was just killing time.” He answers, his words coming out rushed and laced with an underlying panic. He knows Alucard remembers the festival he once told him about.
If Alucard starts asking questions… If he pieces things together—
He swallows. No, he can’t let that happen.
But before he can think of something to redirect the conversation, Alucard sits on the ground, making himself comfortable as he picks up the unfinished garland Lyudmil had been working on.
“I know I refused when you first offered to teach me,” Alucard starts, turning the garland between his fingers, “But now, I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to learn how to make one.” He then looks up at Lyudmil, who stares at him, clearly dumbfounded at his words. “I can’t sleep anyway,” he continues, “So let’s make use of this time. You can teach me.”
Lyudmil blinks, totally not expecting this turn of events, but he doesn’t need to be told twice.
“Alright, if you say so, Master Alucard.” He says, sitting down beside him with a respectable distance, their knees barely brushing. “I am not the best teacher,” Lyudmil admits, giving him a small smile, “But I will do my best to demonstrate.”
“It’s okay,” Alucard replies, studying the garland in his hands, “I learn fast. You don’t have to worry.”
Lyudmil chuckles softly as he plucks another set of flowers, carefully removing some of their leaves from their stems, “Of course, Master Alucard.”
And so, Alucard watches intently as Lyudmil holds two flowers and starts to wrap the stem of one flower around the other. Afterwards, Lyudmil continues to add another flower and repeats the process. With that, Alucard proceeds to follow with the unfinished garland in his hand. Once they reach a certain length, Lyudmil speaks. “To connect the two ends, we line them up–” he says as he puts one end over the other, “and we take one more flower to tie them together using its stem.” He says, securing the tie with a firm knot.
Alucard follows, doing the exact thing Lyudmil did.
“Perfect.” Lyudmil says as he watches him, “Now, try making one from the beginning.”
Alucard nods, shifting in his seat as he reaches for the flowers on his side of the grass.
“Make sure that the stems are long, it would be easier to twist them that way,” Lyudmil comments as he watches Alucard pluck the flowers.
“Alright,” Alucard responds. Now satisfied with the amount of flowers in his hand, he begins to weave, following Lyudmil’s earlier demonstration. True enough, Alucard picks up the technique with ease, even without Lyudmil repeating the instructions, and it doesn’t take long for him to weave the next ones as quickly as Lyudmil.
“Well, look at that.” Lyudmil remarks, looking at Alucard’s work, “As expected of Master Alucard.”
Alucard exhales softly as he finishes off the garland, “You flatter me. The steps are just easy to follow.” He then holds up his creation to examine it. “And my teacher is good at teaching,” he glances at Lyudmil, “So it’s only natural that the student will learn fast, is it not?”
Lyudmil freezes, feeling the heat rise up to his face as he registers Alucard’s words. He then turns away, embarrassed at his master’s praise. “Y-Yeah. I guess so…”
Seeing his reaction, Alucard chuckles in amusement before putting the garland down on his lap. “We’ve made quite a few.” He says, looking at the pile of garlands beside them. “We’ve also plucked the flowers in this area,” He glances around the now-bare patches of grass, “We’ve practically made this place bald.”
With that, Lyudmil can’t help but burst into laughter, “Well, at least they’re made into garlands and not trampled upon.” He gathers a few of the garlands and weighs them in his hands, “We can use them as decorations in the castle, if you want. We can hang them in your room, or in the library. They will serve as natural air fresheners.” He lowers his head, inhaling the scent of the flowers, “They’re fragrant, and they take a while to wilt. What do you think, Master Alucard?”
Alucard hums in consideration, “I think I like that idea.” Then, he decides to tease, “We can also put the extra ones in your room, since you seem to like them so much.”
Lyudmil blinks, stiffening at his words. Panic starts to set in again, thinking that Alucard might have come to his room.
Alucard watches his reaction, then he sighs. He stretches his legs out in front of him and leans back slightly, propping himself up on his hands. “Yes, I went to your room.”
Lyudmil’s breath hitches.
“To be fair, I knocked several times, but there was no answer.” Alucard continues as he stares at his black boots, “So I opened the door, and you weren’t there. I wanted you to accompany me to the library to pass time.” He then looks at the flowers on his lap, “Then I caught the scent of these flowers.” His fingers brush against the petals, “It was faint, and it lingered in the corridors, actually. Then I followed it, and found the wilted garlands along the path,” his gaze then shifts to Lyudmil, “Which then led me here.”
At that moment, all Lyudmil wanted was to bury himself under the ground and never appear in front of Alucard ever again. He can’t help but to look away to hide his embarrassment once more, the heat now spreading to his neck and all over his body. He silently thanks the cover of the night for hiding this, and he can only hope that Alucard doesn’t notice.
However, with the way the blonde chuckles, the sound soft and knowing, tells him otherwise.
“You seem to be fond of making these garlands.” Alucard says, a teasing smile still present on his lips as he tilts his head, “Do they remind you of someone you could’ve given them to?”
Lyudmil inhales sharply, still looking away, refusing to meet his gaze.
Oh, if only Alucard knew.
“What is the date of the festival, anyway?” Alucard continues, oblivious of the turmoil his words stir. “Is it drawing near?”
It takes a moment for Lyudmil to find his voice. After taking a slow, deep breath to gather himself, he finally turns to face him, “No–”
As if time has slowed down, the moon slips free from the clouds, casting its pale light over the field, over them—over Alucard, who lifts his gaze to the sky and watches the moon. And, as if on cue, the wind blows, weaving through the grass and brushing through Alucard’s hair, making it sway with it, the strands lifting and falling in fluid, graceful movements.
To Lyudmil’s eyes, the scene unfolds in slow motion—the way Alucard’s golden irises faintly glow, the way his lashes flutter gently, and the way the moonlight softens against his face.
Despite all the betrayals, the loss, and the weight of grief that he carries, there is still that love, gentleness, and kind nature in Alucard’s heart that lingers quietly in his expressions.
It is a sight that is so achingly beautiful, so utterly mesmerizing. One that Lyudmil will never get tired of seeing. One that keeps reminding him over and over again of a truth he cannot erase.
He loves Alucard.
With that, as if he has finally gathered every ounce of courage, Lyudmil lifts one of the garlands steadily, though there is a subtle tremor beneath his fingers.
“Master Alucard…” he says, his voice gentle.
Alucard turns to him, golden eyes meeting his own, filled with silent curiosity. The night air feels thicker now, charged with something unspoken.
Lyudmil exhales softly, then offers a tender smile—the kind that barely lifts his lips but carries a world of meaning.
“This is for you.”
Carefully, reverently, he lifts the garland and places it upon Alucard’s head. The flowers—the one he wove together with him, rest lightly in his golden hair.
Lyudmil’s hands linger for just a moment longer than necessary.
“I…” he begins, but the words falter on his tongue. There is so much he wants to say, but how could words ever be enough?
His fingers twitch, then curl slightly as he finally forces the words out, his voice barely above a whisper.
“I hope you accept it.”
Not just the garland, but everything.
Including himself.
Lyudmil then lowers his hands and pulls back slightly, but his eyes never leave Alucard’s.
The blonde’s expression is just as he expected—his golden eyes wide, his lips parted slightly, and his body frozen in place. A reaction that makes sense, given what the garland signifies—given what Lyudmil has just done.
Even if the festival is still far away, even if this is unexpected, Alucard knows—he understands its meaning.
Yet, silence lingers between them.
With Alucard’s lack of response, it coils unease in Lyudmil’s chest, tightening with each passing second.
Maybe…
Maybe Alucard doesn’t feel the same. Maybe it is foolish to hope. Lyudmil just got caught up with the moment, after all. It was never his intention to… confess—not now, not ever.
His gaze then lowers, settling on the garlands beside them.
“It’s…” Lyudmil starts, his voice quieter now, forcing something—anything, into the heavy stillness between them. “It’s getting late.” He now shifts, trying to stand, retreating before he can make this any worse. “Let’s go back–”
But as he rises up, he feels fingers wrap firmly around his wrist. He barely has time to react before he is yanked back down, landing unceremoniously on the ground.
“Ow!” Lyudmil exhales sharply and blinks in surprise, “M-Master Alu–”
“You can’t even wait, can you?”
The words cut through the night, the voice steady and firm, making Lyudmil’s breath still. His head then snaps up, and this time, it is he who is caught off guard.
Alucard’s expression is no longer one of stunned disbelief—his brows are now drawn slightly together, golden eyes searching, feeling, something stirring behind them that Lyudmil cannot point out what it is.
But he is certain that it is not rejection.
“Master Alucard…”
And then, just like what Lyudmil did, Alucard reaches for a single garland. He then turns to face him, his movements unhurried and deliberate.
With a gentleness that makes Lyudmil’s heart ache, Alucard places the garland upon his head.
Lyudmil blinks, his breath hitching as realization settles over him.
Now, it is his turn to be speechless.
Alucard exhales softly, as if he’s releasing something that he has kept locked away.
“If I accept yours,” Alucard murmurs, “Will you accept mine, too?”