Work Text:
"Here, my friend," says the Count, motioning to the long black coffin sat open in the back of the crypt, "this is where you shall spend your days, while the sun his high, and you are left powerless."
And it isn't that the thing is dim and damp and dirty, the satin lining – once brilliant red, by the look of it – gone moldy and blackish with age. It isn't the blood stains scattered over it besides. It isn't the way the inscription at the foot reads DEARLY BELOVED.
It's the realization, frank with shock: "You mean—in there—with you?"