Chapter Text
It’s a chance meeting, on a random evening. Painfully still.
Since Trevor and Sypha left him, to clean up the residual mess of his father, to rid the world of the remaining night horde and to find Sypha’s clan, Alucard’s world had become so painfully still.
Like the castle, forced to a halt. Stagnant. Held down by a singular purpose.
He tries not to let bitterness claw around his chest and yank at his ribs. They had saved the world, or at least, the nation, for a time—and they managed to unearth a wealth of ancient knowledge from the Belmont Hold—it should feel good, even if not great… good. And it does.
But beyond that, Alucard finds himself drowning in loneliness, unnerved by the banality of his days, the lack of constant conversation that forces his mind to create voices—and recreate old ones.
Sypha’s mostly. Teasing. Chastising. Joking. And Trevor’s. Gruff. Sneering. Weirdly encouraging.
He even found himself acting out these voices like characters in a play pulled entirely from his mind, projecting them onto his lips, then onto dolls, hearing them whisper in the hallways the same way his mother’s voice used to—and that’s when he truly figured he was going mad.
He was trapped in an all-too-perfect painting. A quiet countryside to his front, with a giving forest that supplied all his physical needs, and a gothic graveyard behind him—the castle representing too many things at once; his childhood, his mother’s thirst for knowledge and human betterment, the family he once had, his father, before and after the madness and grief, and the legion of bloodsuckers who wanted to slaughter and herd all of humankind—the other half of himself.
It’s a chance meeting. Painfully still. A night like all others, post-Dracula. Nothing but typical nocturnal animals fluttering about, above and below the forest brush. The quiet flow of a nearby river in which Alucard usually did his fishing. Hooting owls with eyes even brighter than his own, ever-present.
But also… the sound of breath. Guarded. Gasping. A slip, an ankle rolling clumsily, tripped by the thick root of a tree—then a grunt.
The bushes rustle.
The man finds himself… amused. His interest piqued. Something from deep within told him this wasn’t a threat, despite the clear attempt at stealth. Perhaps it was his own desperation, though, forcing his mind to shut off its protective faculties and lower his guard.
“Show yourself,” he demands, quite gently.
He waits expectantly and after a moment’s hesitation, the figure emerges from her hiding spot. The moonbeam dazzles against her dark skin, almost bluish in the cold night.
Alucard blinks at the sight of a spiked metal orb, pointed at him with a vicious scowl to match, deep-set and irate—but underneath all that, nervous, jittery.
Clearly, the small thing hadn’t wanted to be seen. Alucard was a dhampir and this forest was completely in Țepeș-Belmont territory; there was no way anything was going undetected in his domain.
The wind rustles the moist leaves. Alucard ignores the glint of her bludgeon, instead giving her a once-over, ogling not at her form but her peculiar attire.
She looked like a nun. Or some odd bastardization of one. Though, maybe that wasn’t the right word. Something about her expression displayed pure sincerity, even though everything about her was so obviously contentious. Her habit was dyed pink, a rosy, blushy color that seemed haphazardly sprayed rather than meticulously colored onto the fabric, which was almost certainly a plain white before. Between that detail, the hefty lead mace secured in her grip, the leather belt around her waist packed with hunting knives and religious paraphernalia, and her foreign features—well, the dhampir had no shortage of intrigue!
Calmly, the blond narrows his gold eyes, wanting to finally be freed from the deafening silence, yet somehow knowing he’d have to be the first to break it.
“Miss, are you going to tell me your business here or are you just going to keep pointing that mace at me? Quite rudely, might I add.”
She glares, her grip on the handle only tightening, “Why are you out and about in the forest at this hour?”
“My home is only a few paces back. I should be asking you. It’s not safe out here, especially for somebody of your stature.”
She, who was just barely over five feet, frowns. She lets out an exhausted noise. Alucard can see her legs trembling through her long garb. He wonders how long she’s been wandering. Did she have somewhere to go or was she totally aimless?
Venturing out alone at night wasn’t a smart idea for anyone, especially a mortal, and even more so, a nun.
What the devil was going on here?
“I don’t have to tell you anything, vampire,” she snaps icily. “I saw your eyes glowing.”
“Alucard. People call me Alucard,” he corrects softly, unshaken by her bravado. It only portrayed weariness. She wasn’t a fighter; she was someone who fought out of necessity—and neither of them had the energy or desire for it.
If anything, Alucard was feeling charitable. And opportunistic. He’s been wanting someone to listen to him for what felt like ages—though it couldn’t have been that long; only a few weeks at best—and now, a lonesome traveler had practically been dropped into his lap. He couldn’t wait to hear what stories she had to tell. He knew she had many, both to learn from and to entertain. He wanted it all.
The maiden hissed, “So you don’t deny being a vampire?”
“There’s no point in denying what I am. Though I’m only half,” he admits with a shrug. The river water rushes lowly in the background. The moon seems to shine starkly onto every dewdrop that fell earlier in the day. They twinkle on the ground and in the treetops, like stars. “I’ve told you my name. Will you tell me yours?”
She hesitates for a moment, then grits, “They call me Clara.”
“Clara,” the man repeats. He tries it out, chews it, stretches it. It was nice. It seemed to fit well enough. He bows his head slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, then, Clara.”
“Will you kill me? Is this how the Lord has decided I should meet him, my mortal end?”
Alucard chuckles. “Oh, no. I certainly don’t wish to be your demise. I do not have the taste for human blood and even if I did, I wouldn’t attack you. If anything, I have questions. So many…” Then he tries the name again, and it feels more like an alias on his tongue, a shield hiding some other layer—and Alucard wants to get there. Maybe if he does manage to chip through that outer shell, then he could unveil his too. Again. With a person. A real, breathing person. “Miss Clara.”
He was becoming hopeful.
Too quick.
“How do I know you’re not lying?”
“Because if I wanted to kill you, there’s a hundred ways I could have already done so,” he says plainly, unmoved by his own certainty even as he catches the woman suddenly stepping back, aghast. “You’re tired. Please, rest in my home. I have far too much excess space. It would be improper for you to lay outside, considering there’s no other lodging around.”
“You… will not hurt me?” Clara says, voice cracking, confusion whirling in her tone.
She didn’t know much about vampires but from what she’d heard, they had an insatiable bloodlust. Even the smallest of them had the appetite of an elephant and the fearsomeness of a gorilla. Even the pretty ones, perhaps especially the pretty ones. The dignified, well-read ones too, were still wild beasts underneath. Yet… this one, this man, had a logical point. She was exhausted—tired enough to get teary-eyed, a trait of hers since childhood, being the type to whine when fatigued yet do everything except sleep. He could extinguish her in an instant and not only would it be swift but it would go unnoticed. He didn’t have to go through the trouble of earning his prey’s trust due to some special circumstance—unless he was some sort of exceedingly cruel emotional sadist. If he wanted her dead, this moment would probably be one of the easiest kills of his undead life. Yet he didn’t take it; so Clara is forced to consider his offer, and weigh it in her heart as true kindness, legitimate decency. A Good Samaritan. It’s not too often she received such grace, especially from a white man. She lowers her mace.
“I will not harm you,” he reassures with a small, close-lipped smile, as if worried his teeth would make her scurry off like a startled antelope. His voice has a subtle rasp that she finds pleasant, warm like a blanket, like false security. She’s still acutely aware that this could all be a devious scheme—an illusion of one of the Devil’s own agents, to draw her into his lair—but she is tired, hungry, and too drained. Today’s consequences could be faced tomorrow, whatever they may be… And as if Alucard had read her thoughts, he lays out the itinerary for the next day. “I have some fresh fruit already picked for breakfast. We can hunt for lunch later on. I’ve been craving roasted rabbit and I’d, um, be delighted to share.”
Somehow, Clara can only find herself responding with one word—terribly incredulous, mistrusting even in the face of accommodation. “Delighted?”
His eyes drift to his right, away from her, towards a speckled frog on the ground. Shyness.
This wicked vampire—dhampir, half-man, she reminds herself, noting how he fearlessly spoke of walking in the daylight—was shy.
He leads her to his home. She follows, a few steps behind.
He tries not to feel bruised by her hypervigilance.
Clara gawks at the gigantic building, the spires pointed at the clouds as if to pierce through them, like a giant tabernacle of gloom, like the most beautiful cathedrals she’s ever seen, but rendered empty and emotionless. Gutted from glory.
But not without that sliver of magic; still there, unable to be shaken off even if reduced.
When Alucard guides her to a room, one of many needless guest rooms—rooms for siblings he never got to have—she clears her throat and thanks him meekly.
Once he’s away, she yanks off her veil and undoes her belt, letting the hefty sound of metal hitting wood act as a word of comfort to her. Finally, she was free to rest. Thank God.
She prays for mercy, hoping to not regret such a patently foolish decision, and she crawls under the comforter sluggishly, as if she was wounded, shivering as her body goes from cool to warm. She rubs her feet together, thighs squeezing her palms, her entire body properly cocooned. She hadn’t seen a proper bed in far too long. She nearly forgot how good it felt; it was as if she’d been craving it much longer than she’d ever experienced it.
With minimal effort, she fell asleep, the dull, throbbing ache in her soles only aiding her drift away. To another world. To peace.
𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵
Alucard smears some homemade peach jam over a dry slice of bread before plating it for his guest.
He has nothing exotic for her to drink—besides wine, but that’d be improper first thing in the morning—so he gets a cup of water instead. He tries his hardest to splay the rest of the sliced fruit in a visually pleasing manner, the blackberries and apricots suddenly looking a whole lot more colorful since he picked them, which shouldn’t have been possible. Maybe he was idealizing. He thinks he may be experiencing the rose-tinted lenses again, too enticed by the thought of another warm body in his home, another voice.
When she emerges from her room, momentarily getting lost in the jungle-like halls before arriving at the kitchen, drawn by the noise of his light footsteps and mumbling, she looks… well, rested, primarily. But still tense, still irritable, still walking on eggshells, but at least, noticeably stronger in her stride. Alucard can even smell it on her.
“Good morning,” he tries, after clearing his throat. He sets the plate down on the table, wordlessly inviting her to take a seat.
He sits on the other end, for her sake, still sharply aware of the utility belt strapped to her person, an eerie contrast from the piety her clothing portrayed otherwise… even with its eccentricity.
“Good… day,” she replies, voice rough from sleep and misuse. She stands frozen for a moment, internally debating whether or not she wanted to eat with a monster. Her stomach growls lowly, however, Alucard’s supernatural ears can hear it, in all its distress. The woman hadn’t had a proper meal in days; and it seemed to be her norm. She pulls the chair out with a screech of wood grinding against wood, and sits. Her body was feather-light and her clothes floated for a moment in the midst of her brief motion, like the plumage of a bird taking flight. It was a… somber, almost defeated motion, accepting his hospitality both out of necessity and fear, bathed in apprehension, but there was an undeniable majesty in it—in her countenance especially.
Ah, but there he was decorating the mundane again, making things more beautiful than they were, so he could be wounded later—a mortal sin of his.
She whispers a small prayer—as if worried Alucard would somehow intrude on her blessing—and eats in small bites and chews for what felt like minutes on end. But overall, she was unbearably quiet, almost ghostlike, which bothered the observant dhampir nearly as much as being alone, since it was practically the same.
“You have questions, I’m sure,” he prompts with a light shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Ask.”
She puts the fruit down and licks the juice off her thumb quickly. Without looking at him—too uneasy to—she asks, “Which one of your parents is the human?”
“Oh.” The man utters a bit dumbly, genuinely taken aback. Of all things, he hadn’t expected that to be the thing on her mind. He quickly regains his wits. “How bold.”
“Was it… too bold? If you don’t want to answer, it’s fine. But you prompted me.”
“That I did,” he agrees before sighing, gazing at the button-eyed dolls on a nearby shelf, his only companions after the pair he tethered himself to finally detached once more. He blinks rapidly, a bit ashamed of the tears, brewing hot like liquor. He doesn’t let them fall. Instead, he smiles, shakily, pretentiously. “My mother was human.”
“Was?”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh. I see. My… condolences,” she muttered, unsure if her empathy could be extended to such a creature yet still being compelled to say something. “God rest her soul.”
“She was a doctor, a woman of science. Both of my parents were. They instilled the love of discovery and the reverence of ancient magic within me. They often said they were two halves of a whole.” The science and magic? Or the two of them? The thought lingers between the pair, unsaid, unchecked. Alucard continues tersely, “People feared what they could not understand, and even more, they feared what they couldn’t control. Despite her medicine and knowledge of the human body curing hundreds of their ailments, people began accusing her of witchcraft which led to… the Church,” he said it carefully, like a trigger word—the institution held with contempt in one regard, but also not wanting to offend this innocent, uninvolved stranger in the other. “They investigated her, which led to the obvious conclusion. There was no way a lone woman could be doing such unbelievable acts of healing without the counsel of the Devil. They burnt her at the stake and celebrated her demise… and, my father… Dracula… could not bear to witness it. A devil was unleashed at that moment.”
“Dracula? As in… Dracula, King of the Vampires, Dracula? That is your father!”
“Yes,” he says dourly, his eyes moistening again. Like clockwork, he adjusts his expression. “They call me the Alucard, as in, the inverse of my father, Dracula backwards—the one meant to clean up the carnage and restore peace…”
There was a pronounced silence, a vacancy, and then...
“Well, did you do it?”
“The answer’s quite plain to see,” he rasps, with an edge of ire cutting through the sadness and heaviness. “I am alive and he is not.”
Clara stands. The force of it knocks her seat back and it tumbles onto the floor. Her heart thumps in her chest like a war drum, each rib feeling like it could crack on impact. She feels like she could vomit. How much of what this man was saying was true? Was it an elaborate ruse, using the name of a real, legendary threat to gain her trust? Or had this happened and was this man forced to slaughter the one that raised him, for humanity’s sake, like some sort of twisted inversion of Jesus’ own messianic duty? Either way, he was dangerous, and in revealing his history, all he had taught her was that she needed to gather her energy and run faster.
“Wait,” Alucard says, standing too. “Don’t leave. Please. Let’s talk.”
When he reaches out, she shrinks back, her right hand reaching for her waist, the many small knives stashed there.
Alucard pleads.
Something unseen, unknown, makes her sit back down.
“Very well.”
Her own desire to understand; the human urge to see everything for herself, instead of just letting some things stay mysterious. She takes a sip of water to combat the growing nausea. Alucard takes a breath of relief, glad to have not scared her off even with his gory story.
“A nun in pink. I’ve never seen such a thing. Then again there’s a number of things about you that stand out, isn’t there?”
“Your point?”
“You’re from Ethiopia, yes?”
Clara narrows her eyes. Alucard realizes her glare is the most menacing thing about her. He feels sliced with a million knives. He doesn’t mind it, though. In fact, he likes it; being contested, talked to, even without words.
“And if I am?”
“I mean no offense, I swear. I’m just wondering how you got here from all the way over there.”
“It’s a long story.”
“My kind have no shortage of time.”
“I do not… wish to tell it.”
“Then I will not pry… Can you at least tell me, if not where you’re from, where you’re going? And why the pink habit?”
Clara huffs, brushing a stray loc behind her ear, tucking it back under the veil.
Her fingers press into a spike on her mace, tied awkwardly onto her belt of tools, now seated heavily in her lap. The pain helped her concentrate and brought her back to reality, instead of floating through her imagined paradise.
“The pink is from... all the blood. I’ve… had to wash blood off of myself more times than I’m comfortable with. And my clothes. I was sick of it, so I dyed it with beet juice and it became like this.”
Alucard doesn’t waver. He nods attentively, wanting more. “Is that so?”
“On my journey, I’ve, regrettably, had to fight a lot of people. Men. Mostly men… A lot of your kind are sinister and stupid,” she says, in no way referencing vampirism—but instead the cruelty she’s experienced in real life, up close and personal; not hearsay, not legend, nor fable. “Technically, a good Catholic is supposed to be devoted to a life of nonviolence—we are not supposed to draw blood because blood speaks, it cries, like Abel’s blood did when Cain shed it—but I had to protect myself—and I only pray the Good Lord has mercy on me. Hopefully, every time I raised my hand was justified, and every time I struck someone fell under the banner of holy war.”
“Mm, holy war,” Alucard repeated the oxymoronic phrase, unwilling to delve into the many human problems he found in that concept because it didn’t apply here; this was the case of a female traveler trying to protect herself from bandits and rapists, both menaces who’d see her as easy bait.
“I will tell you this… after facing my own amount of suffering, I found God in Aragon… and the comfort that brought me was immeasurable. So I couldn’t let go. I can’t. Even if his people disappoint me time and time again.”
Alucard furrowed his brows at that. What did she mean? How many people had disappointed her and in what way? The followers of the book, of the Church, were experts in propagating harm, under the guise of holiness and order. But the way they hurt him and his family wasn’t the way they hurt her; he knew that intrinsically. What did they do? He felt lost… like facing a book in which he could only read the title but none of the actual contents. He knows this feeling; he felt it occasionally, when venturing through the Belmont Hold.
He kept his voice level and cool as he queried, “So then, is it fair to assume that with finding God you also found the name Clara? Is it in reference to Saint Clare of Assisi, the woman who renounced her wealth for a life of poverty and prayer?”
“Yes.” Clara answers curtly, through bitten teeth. She, for some reason, hadn’t expected him to be so aware of the details of her faith. A ghoulish creature such as himself had no business with such things. But, then again, the phrase ‘know thy enemy’ could be applied both ways… and Alucard, a vampire, had an abundance of time. Learning was inevitable in his state. Snippily, she retorts, “Yours was found as well. I doubt you were named with the destiny of slaying your father in mind.”
Alucard, again taken aback by her bluntness, actually chuckles at her statement. With all her subtle cowering and her unwillingness to speak, feeling a jab from her was a welcomed change of pace, even if it was towards a sore spot that he knew would never fully heal.
He nods, “No it was not. So does that make us both liars, then?”
“Sin runs in the blood of every human. Even the half-breeds,” she side-eyes him. He chuckles again. It was a sly acknowledgment of his humanity, and in turn, their sameness, so he’ll take it.
“Why a mace of all things?” The blond pivots.
“A sword is too bloody,” the maiden cringes. The reaction seemed out of place, squeamish, as if her natural disposition involved an innate aversion to blood, but circumstances necessitated that she be surrounded by it. “Again, priests, monks, nuns, the lot of us, we’re not supposed to be warmongers. We’re not supposed to draw blood—and things like swords, pikes… that’s their only use, to sap life out of people. At least with blunt weapons, there’s a level of... deniability. Escape. The chance for restraint. If I must fight, it would be sinful to intentionally go until death. That’s malicious. Wrathful. You swing your mace, hold your ground for as long as you must, and flee. Flee from violence the same way you should flee from lust.”
“Then why the knives?” Alucard prods lightly.
Clara scoffs, hiding a sudden wave of bashfulness. “A girl can’t eat? It’s to hunt. Rabbits and squirrels and the like.”
“You chase them on foot? With such close-range tools, I’m surprised you would burden yourself like that. Those creatures are skittish ones. On a bad day, they could even give me a challenge.”
“I grew up chasing chickens. I have a knack for it,” she shrugs, and tries not to smile with pride.
Alucard tucks that information into his back pocket for now, waiting for the next opportunity to dive into her past.
“You never told me where you’re going. You’re from Aragon, you’re a devout Catholic, and you grew up catching your food with your bare hands. I know all of this, yet I still don’t know what I originally asked for. Where are you traveling to?”
Clara recoils, “I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. It just means you’re an amazing conversationalist. Even when you don’t quite want to be,” he grins again, close-lipped, eyes crinkled with genuine contentment.
“It is… not so much a place I seek, as much as a people,” she reveals wistfully, her hands fidgeting in her lap, palms pressing into the spikes of her mace even harder. The pain pulses through every nerve of her hand, like fire in her veins. It’s a pleasant ache; a grounding, familiar one. “I seem to lack… proper complexion for selection. I’ve been in search of a convent, of true sisterhood in Christ. But the few places I’ve been to have… outwardly rejected me. Not for my lack of piety or zeal or efforts… but for my looks. These are places that are supposed to be filled with the overflowing warmth of God’s love and charity but, so far, it seems like none of them wish to extend that charity to me, as an equal, inside their doors. The best case I had… was one. But they treated me like a beggar, gave me coins, bread, and pity, outside their abbey. And when I expressed a desire, a calling, to join as one of their own, they made excuses and turned away. Even in the best case scenario… the holy houses I’ve been to do not want me as a sister alongside them. The best ones saw me as a wounded animal and the worst ones saw me as a savage animal, polluting what was holy—what was decidedly theirs.”
“And yet, you still think people like that can give you the love and community you desire?”
“There must be a good one somewhere. The world is too large for there not to be. I want to be in a house where sisters of all kinds pray, commune, work, and live together. I want… freedom from the outside world.”
She wants an egg. A cocoon. A home. Consistency.
Safety.
“You want safety.”
“Family,” she corrects suddenly, conviction heavy on her tongue. “I want sisters. That is where my peace resides. And it is the only way I could possibly be able to help others. I know it.”
“Well, I… sincerely hope you find it someday. Sooner, rather than later.”
“I… appreciate that,” she hums, brows furrowed, once again unsure of her response.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
Clara blinks. “No?”
Her cluelessness was enchanting. It made something in the man’s chest flutter back to life. He would derive great pleasure from teaching her, he’s sure.
“Would you like to learn? I promise, it’s one of the most optimal ways to hunt a rabbit.”
“Ah. Sure…”
𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵
Clara peeled her finger off the string, releasing the arrow.
For what has to be the ninth time, she misses.
Alucard snickers behind his hand. It doesn’t sting like an insult; it does something more akin to a flitter, settling in the nun’s gut like the words of a friend.
She reels at the perverse thought.
Why was she even entertaining this?
She tosses the bow onto the ground in a petulant fit.
“This is more difficult than I anticipated,” she complains, wanting to use that as her excuse to retreat, away from his presence.
He takes her frustration as a joke, laughing lightly. “No need to get huffy. You’ll get it eventually with practice.”
“I do not wish to practice.”
“I thought we would hunt together.”
“I do not wish to do that either,” she admits, standing stiffly, her back aching slightly from the posture she had to maintain with each failed shot, trying to mimic Alucard’s perfect, dancelike form. She steps back. “I have to pray.”
“I see,” the blond mutters before waving his hand. Permissive. Understanding… or at least, docile. “I will not stop you, if you must. I’ll be out in the woods. I’ll nab a hare for us and see what I can forage. Do you like stews?”
Clara’s eyes widen a bit when he asks about her preferences. Such a small thing, but a deliberate consideration. Meaningful, even without intending to be. When was the last time she could choose what to eat?
She croaks, smoothing down her skirt, feeling the weighty mace dangling, scraping against her thigh through the fabric. “I’ll eat most anything.”
“Noted.”
She then does the most insane thing ever, instead of running from the horror house, full of history, demons, and war she couldn’t even begin to conceptualize, she runs into it, up the steps and straight into its empty, gaping maw, to pray, to run away from the very steward of this building; this symbol of terror.
The Alucard.
She takes refuge in the room that had been assigned to her, falls to her knees, and lets crumbly Latin spew from her mouth.
She prays for a way out of this illusion, prays to have the strength to burst out of this situation unscathed. She prays for clarity, and she prays that Alucard’s wish for her comes true—that she does find a clan of people willing and happy to accept her.
In the meantime, she must wait, lick her wounds, and recalibrate.
As she prays, she rubs along the beads of her reddish rosary. She kisses the cross affectionately, and prays for the wisdom of an apostle to fall onto her like a storm.
Alucard was placating, pacifying... dare she say, peacemaking. For a while, she could be too.
To survive.