#this can also be read @aquilaofarkham on ao3

[aquilaofarkham]

title: judith & holofernes rating: teen and up (canon-typical violence, blood, coarse language, child harm) word count: 5,829 summary: a long one-shot detailing Trevor’s life following the destruction of his home and how he learned to fight from a retired, disgraced swordswoman.

For a boy so determined to face his own death, Trevor has always been good at running. Whether down the stone corridors of his home or throughout the dense forests surrounding the Belmont grounds. He’s won competitions against his friends and outran vengeful cooks after he stole their pastries from the manor kitchen. He even outran the fire that consumed everything and everyone he knew for twelve years. Everyone he loved.

Now Trevor runs from a man who wants nothing more than to slit his throat.

He pulls himself up a steep hill overlooking the riverside city of Pitesti. It’s a nice place to visit when you’re not an orphan with a temper that far outweighs his own stature and body mass. Trevor looks over his shoulder and sees the same merchant who chased him through the streets, still heavily armed, still red faced with anger.

“Get back here, thief! I said get back here!” Trevor didn’t listen the first dozen times so why should he listen now?

“Fuck off! I said I didn’t steal anything!” It’s true, he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. And said all the wrong things. Mistakes that could cost him his short, tragic life. The two of them make it up the hill, short of breath yet neither willing to stop. Before Trevor can gain his second wind, something hard and fast hits the back of his skull. He falls to the ground, cursing while holding the throbbing, bleeding wound. There’s no time to recover or crawl away. The merchant turns the boy around, pushing him against the dirt with his hand gripping his collar.

“Listen you shit stain...” Trevor spits in his eye before he can say another word. Another mistake. The first punch hurts. It leaves him with a thin stream of blood dripping out the corner of his mouth. Trevor grits his teeth, kicking and throwing his own punches even when he receives much harder ones. The merchant has had enough. Holding him down by his neck, he withdraws a dagger from his belt.

“No one will come looking for a rat like you.”

“Let the boy go.” A third, unknown voice commands. Trevor raises his head and tries looking at whoever decided to stand up for a runt like him. A few feet away stands a woman with thick black hair and eyes darker than night wearing a man’s tunic, trousers, and boots. She keeps one hand on her horses’ reins and the other on her belt, where Trevor notices the hilt of a sword and the shine of a large ring.

“Let him go.” She repeats, staring down at the merchant with distain. “And leave. You’re in my way.”

He sneers, standing to face her. “Why should I? Are you his mother?”

“Why should it matter whether I know him or not?”

“Then leave this criminal to me.”

“He’s proclaimed innocence. Or do fair trials still not exist in Wallachia?”

“You’d believe a brat like him?”

“I’d believe him over a man like yourself. Go back to your home and your precious bags of coin. Leave the boy to me. I’ll deal with him.” She walks towards Trevor while hoping the merchant will cooperate.

“Don’t turn your back to me! We’re-!”

The woman’s calm demeanour turns furious as she whips around and backhands him across the face. No hesitation, no second thought. Falling to his knees, he holds his cheek as his eyes go wide with shock and pain. Trevor sees the ring dripping with blood.

“I was going to let you walk away. I was willing to settle this peacefully. But now that you keep pissing me off...”

“You... you bitch...” The merchant weakly lunges at her but the woman throws him back down before bringing the heel of her boot onto his arm. Trevor’s interest in all of this deepens the moment she unsheathes her longsword. When she places the tip in the grass and swipes it across his fingers, the merchant is given something far more than a slap across the cheek to scream about. Dark red mixes with green as what’s left of his hand bleeds out.

“I think I’ve made myself clear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

He’s lost a fair amount of blood and the world keeps spinning, but the merchant has more than learned his lesson. After tripping over himself, he manages to flee back to the gates of Pitesti. The swordswoman watches until he’s out of sight and glances at Trevor. There’s still blood on his lip and a hardened look in his eyes.

“You didn’t need to do that.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m not a little boy. I can look after myself.”

“Yes, I can clearly see that.” She begins tending to her horse.

“So, is this what you do all day? Travel around, looking to be a hero to people who can already fight for themselves?”

“Do you go from city to city trying to get yourself killed by the next merchant or lord you come across?” Trevor’s far too stubborn to agree or even answer her question. “And you don’t know how to fight.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Fuck you.”

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“If I don’t know how to fight then teach me. You look like you know better than anyone how to fight.��

“You’re pushing your luck, boy.”

“Just teach me what you know. Then I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”

“A moment ago, you were telling me to fuck off.”

“I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry. Please!”

“Why should I train you?”

“I’ll do anything you want. Whatever I can do to earn my keep.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I can cook my own meals and wash my own clothes.” She says, lifting herself up onto the horse. “Now go back to your mother and try explaining to her that bloody lip of yours.”

“I have no one!” Trevor suddenly blurts. Thankfully, the swordswoman doesn’t get very far. “You probably have no one either.”

“… you’re a perceptive little shit, aren’t you?”

Tense silence passes. The boy is rude, violent, and has a rotten mouth. He reminds her of someone she knew a long, long time ago. A person she tried burying when it was time to grow up. She looks closer and notices a raveled rope attached to his loose-fitting belt – or is it a whip? Why a simple whip and not a sword of his own? She then sees the curve of a silver chain peeking out from underneath his tunic collar. She still believes his innocence, but there’s no doubt about it; heirlooms made from that material aren’t so easy to stumble upon. He must have come from a noble family then.

The swordswoman lets out an exhausted sigh; a silent way of saying “damn your softening heart”. That little niggling conversation will have to be saved for another time. “What’s your name?”

“Trevor.”

“That’s it? Just Trevor?”

No answer. It seems he might reveal a family name, that something might roll off his tongue, but decides against it. “Alright, just Trevor. My name is Judith. There’s enough room on my horse for two. Don’t fall off and for all that is holy, keep quiet. Think you can do that for me?”

“Yes.”

Her stern expression cracks. “Good.”

--

ONE WEEK LATER

“Dead.”

Trevor holds his quarterstaff so tightly; his nails leave scratch marks on the wood. He attacks Judith only for her to dodge each one of his blows before striking the side of his stomach.

“Dead.”

The sound of his heart pounding in his ears fuels Trevor with more adrenaline, but it doesn’t make him a better opponent. Judith knocks him to the rain drenched ground in one swift movement. He grabs something around his neck and quickly tucks it under his shirt. “Very dead.”

This has been going on for quite some time now. Judith believes she’s teaching him valuable lessons. The student thinks he’s learned nothing except how to fall down and get smacked around with the tip of a blunt object. Much can be gained from mistakes and better Trevor makes them here behind her house instead of on the battlefield. She hopes he’ll realize this. Eventually.

“Enough of this. Try defending yourself.” Judith waits as Trevor gets back on his feet. He raises the staff, his frustration near its limit. He does well at first, blocking her assaults, dodging at the right moments albeit slowly, and protecting himself. She can tell that every muscle is aching for him to strike back, but Trevor resists. It’s an improvement. If they weren’t in the middle of sparring, she would congratulate him.

That is until Judith’s staff bruises his cheek and his defensive facade breaks. Rage boils back up towards the surface with no incentive to control it. Control is the last thing on Trevor’s mind. As his weapon is easily struck out of his hands, falling against the ground followed by himself, Judith wonders if he even knows the meaning of the word. Either way, she’ll make sure the boy learns.

“Well, today was better than the others.” She offers her hand only for Trevor to strike it away. Once again, she notices him clutching something close to his chest.

“Just say exactly what you’re thinking.”

“And what am I thinking according to you?”

“I’m weak. Weak, stupid, and a disappointment.”

Judith is caught off guard by these bold statements. There’s little trace of Trevor’s spiteful or vicious fury in his tone. He doesn’t shout or curse up a storm. Instead there’s apathy and disheartenment above all. Laying her staff in the grass, she sits down in front of him.

“True, I was disappointed but only because I saw a glimpse of your potential before it was gone.”

“What potential? All I did was fall on my ass over and over again. That’s the only thing you’ve been teaching me.”

“You managed to defend yourself for a little while.”

“How am I expected to win that way? What good will it do me in a real fight?”

“A lot, actually. If you’d listen to me for once you would understand that.” Judith can feel her own temper rising but catches it and gently pushes the mounting emotions down. It won’t do either of them any good. She takes a deep breath and continues.

“Trevor… you have promise and I know it, but during a fight you let your frustrations bury it. I want to know why this happens. What is making you so damn pissed off? Is it me, your own skills, that merchant from Pitesti, what?”

“Everything. If you want to know so badly, it’s everything.”

Well, that narrows it down. She stares at Trevor, his face battered and his gaze avoidant. Then Judith sees it again – the subtle gleam of the silver chain. She wants to find the root of it all; the reason for his anger, how he lost his family, and why he keeps hiding that chain. But Judith doesn’t exorcise personal demons while Trevor never asked her to. She’s here as a teacher passing down her skills and whatever might be considered wisdom. That’s all he expects from her, that’s all she can give him.

“Fine then. Keep that anger. Use it. You can be in an absolute fucking rage and focused at the same time. Control all that spitefulness, use it to your advantage. Even if you’re out of a fight and just trying to survive one day to the next. But don’t let it control you.”

“That sounds hard.”

“It is. Everything is hard, but you already know that. You said it yourself.” Taking both staffs, Judith makes her way back to the house. “Come. You’re weak because you don’t have any food in you.”

Trevor doesn’t dispute this. His stomach heaves with every movement not because of the lesson or any oncoming sickness, but because of emptiness. He’s too defeated, too exhausted to deny it any longer. He follows Judith into their small shack that always smells like smoke and fresh meat. It’s big enough for the two of them, but the fur pelts and half-skinned rabbit carcasses hanging from the rafters turn the cozy space claustrophobic. At least it’s warm.

Supper is the same as it was since Trevor arrived here: meat stew with root vegetables. Yet he hasn’t grown tired of it, better some food than nothing at all. And he’s in no position to complain about his current living conditions. He sits on the floor, legs crossed with a hot steaming bowl in his lap while Judith sits across from him. Like the food, every evening is the same; they eat in silence before retiring to their ratty beds. They could talk about anything. Their thoughts, pasts, things that normal households talk about over dinner. Most of all, Trevor could tell the truth about who he really is. But no one needs to know about that.

“Stop playing with that thing and eat your food.”

Trevor’s head perks up. He’s so lost in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice how cold his stew has become. All his attention is on fiddling around with the necklace like a nervous tick. His protective wall goes up as he hides it from Judith’s view. “It’s not a toy.”

“Then can I see it?” Her request is immediately greeted with more suspicion and slight hostility. “I’m not going to keep it. You’ve had that thing since the moment I met you and I just want to see what it is.”

The boy’s tense shoulders gradually relax. Finally, after all her curious glances and personal assumptions, Trevor removes the chain, slowly dropping it into Judith’s palm. Now she’ll see for herself the one thing he keeps so far away from the outside world. It’s lighter than she thought and easily tangled. As for its pendant, it’s no family crest or jewel or lucky rabbit’s foot (though lord knows the boy needs something like that). What Judith is presented with instead is a silver six-pointed star compounded from two interlaced triangles – a Magen David.

She knew Trevor would surprise her sooner than later. She never thought it would be through a revelation like this. “Where did you get this?”

“I’ve had it since I was a baby.” Trevor responds, his tone just as defensive as it was during their sparring match. “My mother gave it to me.”

“Then your family was Jewish.” Whoever they really were. Judith keeps this thought to herself. Trevor sits up and suddenly grabs the necklace out of her open hand.

“Half.”

“Half or full, doesn’t make you any less.”

“How would you know about that?”

Judith places her bowl off to the side. If Trevor won’t tell her more about his past, then she won’t tell him about hers. What she can do on the other hand is tell him a story, one that might help him understand. “Do you know the tale of Judith and Holofernes?”

“… not really.”

Her gaze wanders off. “Supposedly a thousand years ago, a Jewish widow named Judith tricked an enemy general named Holofernes who was terrorizing her people and land. She snuck into his tent and sliced his head off then paraded it around as proof of her victory. She did the one thing that so many armies and soldiers couldn’t do. Guess my mother thought I was going to become someone great just because she named me after some fairy tale.” Judith brings her attention back to Trevor. “But now we at least have one thing in common, don’t we?”

The look on Trevor’s face softens; subtly and easily missed, but it’s there. Even if it takes time, he might grow used to living here. He may even like it now that they’ve finally found some common ground.

--

SIXTEEN

Trevor sits in front of the crowded fireplace, warmed by the dancing, crackling flames. Draped over one hand is his old shirt. Once far too big for his scrawny back, looking more like a nightgown, but is now a close enough fit. In the other hand, he holds a needle and yellow thread, weaving them in and out through the beige fabric. He’s gotten better at it; he pricks his finger only on occasion as opposed to every single time the needle emerges.

This homely, smoke-filled shack feels so much smaller than it did when he was twelve. Trevor notices the change more than ever, but he doesn’t leave even when remembering what he said all those years ago. Judith would teach him how to fight and he would go, never to bother her again. Here he stays, carefully and patiently embroidering a symbol into the breast of his tunic. His strength has improved, his focus grown keener, and his mouth fouler. Judith is grateful for two out of those three developments. He’s grateful – perhaps even surprised – that she’s still willing to put up with him.

Once the needle tip leaves its last prick, Trevor examines his handy work, moving his palm over the elaborate design. The Magen David dangles off his neck as he lowers his head in order to get a closer look. Half or full, doesn’t make you any less. It’s been so long since he heard those words from Judith, but they still ring loud and true. Years since Trevor decided to take them seriously, now he can hold both halves of himself close to his heart.

His attention is broken when he hears the front door open. Judith walks in, her heavy boots thumping loudly against the wooden floor, while bundles of rabbit and wild goose hang from her belts. “Ah. Right where I left you.” She huffs, dropping her coat, crossbow, and bounty on a nearby table. “God’s sake put something on boy. You’ll catch your death.”

“Fire’s been keeping me warm enough while I work.”

“And can I ask what it is you’re working on?”

Trevor hesitates, understandably. There’s the possibility that Judith won’t know where the symbol originated from but even if she doesn’t, she’ll still pester him about it. And what if she does know? What will she say? Will there be sympathy, revulsion, or indifference? Trevor’s tired of all the what ifs and his own paranoid assumptions. It’s been long enough, he can’t hide it forever. Not from anyone, including himself.

“I should tell you the truth about my family.”

“Well, this is a surprise. Especially since you’ve waited this long to tell me.” Judith smiles in anticipation as she pulls up a stool. “Go on then.”

Trevor pauses before showing her his shirt. “This was… is my family’s crest.” She stares at it with more careful thought than he expected.

“So you really were from a noble family.”

“Do you recognize it?”

“… the Belmont crest.”

He feels his chest tighten at the sound of someone else saying his name out loud. A name he tried erasing only because of his need to self-preserve and survive. “What do you know of them?”

“I know that they were a family of warriors who hunted vampires but were accused of dealing in black magic. Then the church and witchfinders all but wiped them out.”

“Do you believe it?”

“In vampires? Certainly. As for whether your family actually dealt in black magic? I don’t believe anything that comes out of the church’s mouth. Neither should you.” Trevor can’t help but let out a chuckle. Judith needn’t worry about that; he never did to begin with. “Is that why you didn’t say anything after all this time?”

“I’m still just Trevor. Same as when you picked me up. A family name doesn’t change that.”

“Why not? If your family was wrongly persecuted, then why be ashamed of the name?”

“There are no ifs. We were wrongly persecuted.” Trevor snaps before reverting back to his quiet demeanor. “And it’s not what I think, it’s what others think.”

“Fuck what they think. They don’t get to define the Belmont name, only you do.”

Like with everything, there’s truth in what Judith says. Whether Trevor accepts it or not, it’s always been up to him. He’s still young, maybe there’s enough time for him to clear his family name. Wipe the slate clean and bring the Belmonts back to their former glory. It would have been far too much pressure to place on a lost, wandering child. Trevor might have more of a chance now.

Or maybe he’s being a fool. Maybe time is running out. Too many maybes for one day. Too many for one short lifetime.

“What about you?” He asks, deflecting as quick as he can. “You still haven’t told me about where you came from.”

Judith stands up and walks into the kitchen. When she speaks, she doesn’t look at Trevor. “I came from a backwoods shithole village. That’s all you need to know.”

“What about how you learned to fight? Where you got all your weapons and pieces of armor.”

“Can’t remember. Must have picked those off a dead soldier I found lying by the side of the road years ago.” She’s as good at deflecting as he is.

“You’re such a bullshit liar.”

“Respect your elders, boy.” Another laugh escapes her lips. “Now put on that shirt and help me skin these.”

--

EIGHTEEN

The Wallachian countryside can be a beautiful place; it can also be miserable. Especially during the coldest, dullest winter months. Trevor can’t help but notice this while he and Judith ride through a farming village. Both their horses are heavy with newly acquired goods that should last them until the first thaw of spring. He buries his mouth and nose into the thick fur collar of his cloak in an attempt to warm himself. His teacher keeps her head up, seemingly unfazed as the falling snow blends with the grey in her dark hair. While her eyes remain focused on the road, Trevor’s attention wanders from house to house, frozen field after frozen field. It must be hard for the people who work them.

“Wait…” Judith holds her arm out, stopping both horses. “Shit, not this again.” Down the road not too far from them are two shepherds yelling at each other, one on either side of a crowd of sheep and goats. Every time they try to clear the way for other travelers, their corrals dissolve into more insults as the two herds grow more chaotic.

A common occurrence, but an annoying one nonetheless. “Might as well go help,” Judith groans. “Stay here with the horses. This shouldn’t take long.” While she heads off to lend her assistance (or her own strong words), Trevor waits, his thin patience soon giving way to boredom. The cold wind and lonely silence don’t help. His eyes continue to stray before they settle on a nearby farmhouse. Quaint, humble, like all the rest. Standing by the front door are two women, one clearly older than the other, and a man. Among them, their expressions range from frantic, to scared, to furious. Trevor assumes they’re just another family arguing about the state of their crops. Until they begin to shout things that should never be said within a family.

“It’s been weeks already and I still don’t have the full amount!”

“Please, just calm down.” The eldest woman tries telling the man as she holds onto her daughter. “We’ll have the rest once it’s easier to farm.”

“Stop making excuses!”

“The grounds are too hard, nothing can be grown!”

“I’m not waiting until spring to get the rent!”

Trevor furrows his brow. Not a father, but a landlord. All the more reason to intervene. After making sure Judith is still busy with the shepherds, he begins his trek towards the house. He keeps his whip and sword at the ready, though he hopes he won’t be needing those. Strong words, that’s all he needs.

“We’ve already sold as much as we could.”

“You knew the conditions when I sold you and your fatherless brat this plot of land. Now pay what you owe, or I’ll take it back and give it to someone who knows how to pay their rent on time!”

“Keep screaming like that and soon only dogs will hear you.” Trevor stands behind the landlord, arms crossed while trying to seem much older than he actually is; a trait he’s held onto since the very beginning. “Leave them alone. They’re right, the soil’s too cold for anyone to farm anything. You’ll get your money eventually.”

As the mother and daughter gaze in confusion, the landlord spits next to Trevor’s feet. “This doesn’t concern you. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of and learn to mind yourself.”

“If it’s pissing you off so much, then let me pay the rest of their rent. Just stop harassing them.”

The women’s eyes go wide, thinking this is too good to really be happening. They expect the young man to take back his word or waver from it, but Trevor remains firm in his proposal. If only the landlord were just as willing to take it.

“You’ll pay the rest? You take me for a blithering fool?”

“Yes, but the word I have in mind is a lot harsher than just fool.”

The landlord ignores his quip and carries on with his tirade. “Have you even looked at yourself? You’re a filthy loud-mouthed boy trying desperately to be a man. You probably haven’t got a single coin on you. What makes you think you have the gall to stick your ratty little nose into other people’s goddamn business?”

Years ago, Trevor wanted a chance to dig the Belmont name out of the dirt. He always thought of it as another fleeing wish, a hope that would never come to fruition. But he’s waited long enough. No more second guesses or worries of what others might say. Staring the landlord dead in his eyes, Trevor reveals the symbol upon his breast. “Does this answer your question?”

“… so you’re a Belmont. Is that supposed to impress me?”

“You asked why I stick my nose into other people’s business. This is why.” Despite his composure, there’s anger in every syllable Trevor utters. This man who screams about money, land, and everything else that keeps his pockets heavy will only make it worse.

“Isn’t that the very reason why all your kin are gone? Belmonts shoving themselves into places where they aren’t wanted, causing a big noise about make believe creatures when they’re the real monsters.”

“Bold words coming from a man threatening a mother and her daughter’s livelihood.”

“What about my livelihood? What about how I make a living? And you? You’re nothing but a back sore with a noble family’s crest. Nobility that was only achieved through murder, fear, and dark magic. What makes you think I should listen to you?”

One terrible, hateful statement after another. The landlord quickly pays for it with Trevor’s fist ramming against his cheek. The blow is hard enough to draw a stream of blood and the rearrangement of a few teeth. “You’ll do as I say because I’m the only one in this shithole of a country that knows how to protect arses like yourself.”

Both women shriek and back away as the daughter clings to her mother’s dress. Grabbing the man’s collar decorated with spots of red, Trevor pays them no attention. Not even when he drags him behind the house. They’ve seen enough already. Before the landlord has a chance to stand up on trembling legs, he punches him twice again. The last Belmont, no longer a boy but barely a man, ignores the pain shooting through his knuckles.

“For centuries, my family defended you from creatures that would make you piss yourself to death in fear, and this is how you repay us?” Trevor’s fist collides with his gut.

“By telling lies?” Then again.

“Chasing us out of our homelands?”

And again.

“Burning down our homes?!”

Again.

“Trevor, what the fuck are you doing?!” The one thing that can stop him is the sudden sound of Judith’s voice and her arms pulling him away from the violent scene he created. “Stop! Goddamn it, stop!” He wrestles out of her grip and turns with wild, rage filled eyes. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Only when Trevor sees his handiwork does he find the strength to calm down. The landlord, cowering against the stone wall. Trevor’s hands covered with splatters of blood, shaking in the cold. A revelation hits him harder than any of his punches were. He did exactly what Judith taught him; used his anger to his advantage. But did the man deserve it? That merchant from so long ago did. Are they the same?

“Let’s go.”

“Trevor, wait-”

“I said we’re going!” He rushes back to the horses, his hands so cold and so bloody. The things he said about himself all those years past echo in his head. Weak. Stupid. Disappointment. Is this how he reclaims the Belmont name? Is this how he makes his teacher proud?

--

TWENTY

“I’m leaving.”

Judith thinks about the last thing Trevor said before walking out the door, not too long following his incident at the farmhouse. After two years, it’s the one thing her failing mind refuses to let her forget. Lying in bed, her frail body deteriorating with every ragged breath, what else can she do? Perhaps it was time. Whatever made Trevor stay had finally worn out. She remembers waking up every morning wondering the same thing – will today be the day that boy grows tired of me? That day did come, but Judith felt no relief as she watched Trevor disappear from her long, raging life. Only a sense of emptiness that spread throughout like the twisted roots of a tree.

It’s a shame, really. He never did find out who she really was.

Judith tries focusing her blurry vision with little success. Even the walls of her own home seem like a strange, foreign place. There are no other sounds apart from her gasps and coughs; she can’t stand it. She always knew that eventually she would die alone; it was expected of people like her. Then why is it so unbearable? What cruel force is forcing her to stay in this world?

The front door opens with a loud, drawn out creak. All Judith can see is a large hazy figure making its way towards her bed. “What do you want?” She croaks out. “I’m a sick, old woman. I have nothing of value for you to take.”

“Judith? Judith, it’s me.”

Her head stops turning from side to side in a frantic motion. Though the voice is deep and soft, she recognizes it. Her eyes blink in disbelief until they at last come into focus. “Trevor? Is that really you?” Judith reaches out until someone grabs her hand and squeezes it. Trevor gives her a tired smile; his hair is longer and now wears upon his jawline something that can barely be considered stubble, but it’s him. She’d know those ice blue eyes and silver Magen David anywhere.

“I’m right here.”

“Where have you been? Kill any vampires while you were gone?”

“Some. Also been drinking more than I really should.”

Judith lets out a violent cough mixed in with a laugh. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I came to say I’m sorry… though I think it might be too late for that.”

“Apologize for what?”

“For why I left. After what I did out there on that field, I…” Trevor pauses, thinking about his next words very carefully. “I knew I let you down. That’s why I left like a coward. That’s why I think it’s too late for apologies.”

“Boy…” Another coughing fit. Trevor holds a cloth next to Judith’s mouth and winces when he sees the drops of blood.

“What’s happening?”

“What happens to everyone when they grow older. They grow sicker. Now listen to me – you’re the first person I’ve ever known to say the words I’m sorry… but the fault should be on me. I shouldn’t have pulled you away and screamed at you like that.”

“You would have let me brutalize him?”

“Well, only one or two punches would have done the job better. But you were defending those women, just as I was defending you from that merchant.”

Trevor looks down in a contemplative manner. Has he further sullied the family name of Belmont? Perhaps so, and he’s accepted that possibility. The greater population of Wallachia certainly has. He can try and fail as much as he pleases, but Trevor knows that it will take far more than one decent act to bring about redemption.

“You know…” Judith begins, her voice hoarser than before. “I always wanted children of my own.”

“What stopped you?”

“I knew I would be a shit mother. After what I did… killing and fighting other people’s wars for money with all the other mercenaries… no child deserves a mother like that.”

Trevor gives Judith’s hand another soft squeeze. Under his breath he whispers, “you were never a shit mother”. Too quiet for her to hear.

“There’s one last thing I need you to do.”

“What?”

“Stay with me. Stay until I close my eyes and never open them again. Don’t let me die alone. Then leave this place a little better than you found it.”

He wants to dispute everything she’s saying. Tell her that she won’t die, not for a long time. Trevor can’t deny the truth; it’s useless to even try. The only thing he can do is agree to stay.

--

THE NEXT MORNING

He buries Judith behind the shack beneath a patch of grass where they always held their sparring lessons. Wrapping her body in blankets, Trevor carries her outside and gently places her inside the hole. He doesn’t cry, not even when he says a small prayer and begins covering the body with dirt. He shed enough tears when he found her in bed, still as the autumn winds outside.

The last Belmont has never been afraid of death. It is natural, inevitable, and inescapable. There’s some comfort in knowing that Judith left this world peacefully, unlike so many others he grew to care for. He feels no regret in knowing her; she was his mentor, his friend. The only regret is now that he’s alone in the world, he might disappoint her once again.

Trevor holds his fur cloak tightly around his shoulders as he saunters away. Before he can leave, he looks back at the front door of a home that will in time eventually crumble and give itself over to the elements. Thinking, he touches the Magen David resting against his chest.

Leave this place better than you found it, he tells himself. Walking forward, Trevor removes the necklace and hangs it on the door.

[ao3feed-lams]

To Your Soul And Deeper Still

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wrz2M6

by PepperSeeds

ConLaf oneshots I’ll post whenever. NSFW chapters will be marked with a *. Obviously this work is not canon compliant because fuck that. This is everything I wanted for this ship.

Also both TH_Writes and aquilaofarkham can be blamed for getting me into this ship in the first place. How dare you both make me have feelings for a fictional man and a very real and also dead man.

Words: 2793, Chapters: 2/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Alexander Hamilton (mentioned), John Laurens (mentioned), George Washington (mentioned)

Relationships: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens (mentioned)

Additional Tags: PWP, Anal Sex, Riding, Here To Cater To The Author’s Interests Only, Top Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Bottom Marquis de Lafayette, its what they DESERVE, Soulmates, because fuck canon and also it’s what they deserve, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Language of Flowers, Gift Giving, Hair Braiding, laf brushing connors hair makes me weak, stopping in the middle of a retreat to sort of confess your love to your homie, Historical Inaccuracy, as in paying close attention to history so I can redo whatever I dont like

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wrz2M6

[ao3feed-assassinscreed]

To Your Soul And Deeper Still

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wrz2M6

by PepperSeeds

ConLaf oneshots I’ll post whenever. NSFW chapters will be marked with a *. Obviously this work is not canon compliant because fuck that. This is everything I wanted for this ship.

Also both TH_Writes and aquilaofarkham can be blamed for getting me into this ship in the first place. How dare you both make me have feelings for a fictional man and a very real and also dead man.

Words: 1500, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Alexander Hamilton (mentioned), John Laurens (mentioned)

Relationships: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor

Additional Tags: PWP, Anal Sex, Riding, Here To Cater To The Author’s Interests Only, Top Ratonhnhaké:ton | Connor, Bottom Marquis de Lafayette, its what they DESERVE, Soulmates, because fuck canon and also it’s what they deserve, Not Canon Compliant

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2wrz2M6

[aquilaofarkham]

title: the ghosts’ moonshine rating: general word count: 4,182 summary: during a snowy night, Trevor, Sypha, and Alucard celebrate their first Hanukkah together at Dracula’s castle.

--

The fire destroyed everything above. Yet everything below – all those books, weapons, artifacts, and morbid trophies – remained untouched. Centuries of a family’s legacy preserved for future generations. So why must it be this difficult to find a single menorah? Trevor isn’t asking for much, nothing made out of pure silver or gold. If there are any left, where else would they be hiding besides down in the Belmont Hold?

He’s come across everything from smoke bombs, a talisman constructed out of reindeer bones, even the odd petrified head of a gorgon. Things that would make a simple Wallachian serf lose control over their bowels. But Trevor wants the other side of his family; the side that gave him comfort and pride during his loneliest, darkest moments.

Carrying on with his search, he rummages through more glass caskets, cursing to himself. “Come on… there has to be at least one down in this shit hole…” He doesn’t mean it, not really. It’s only his mounting frustration shining through. With little to no time left, they could always make do with the right amount of candles on their own, as Alucard suggested earlier today. Trevor refused then and still does. This is his first Festival of Lights in years where he won’t spend it alone or in some cold tavern corner with only a pint of ale to warm him. He’s determined to make it special for himself and his loved ones.

No luck – onto the next section of the archives. More of the same, old rusted trinkets and even older pages that could fall apart if handled carelessly. Until Trevor at long last spots a particular object tucked away behind a bookshelf. “There you are.” He murmurs, reaching as far back as his arm will stretch. He grabs hold of the brass menorah by its shaft and pulls back triumphantly. As expected, it’s covered in cobwebs with remnants of candle wax caked onto each holder. So much time has passed, the wax is now solidified. It’s certainly seen better days.

Perfect, Trevor thinks to himself. This will do just fine.

--

Sypha wipes her forehead, unconsciously smearing more flour onto her skin. Raising her arms above her head, she lets out a groan when a few kinks in her back are finally stretched out. She’s been standing over a table with a slight slouch for hours now (a decision she knows she’ll regret later on). That’s not taking into account the amount of times she’s bent over to place food in the large oven with a heat that rivals Hell’s own fire.

When Trevor said he was going down into the Belmont Hold to look for a crucial element to this grand family tradition, it peaked Sypha’s curiosity. But she expected him to be back by now. Even if she’s confident in finishing the task herself, they did start cooking together. It’s only common courtesy. He must have gotten distracted by an even gaudier whip than the Morningstar.

Despite her pessimistic thoughts, Sypha knows that Trevor isn’t being avoidant, especially on today of all days. Never on this day. She used to poke fun at his lack of passion over certain things. Perhaps it was because of apathy or simply because he was too tired to exert more energy. However, when Trevor explained Hanukkah including how the Belmonts celebrated it, she and Alucard had to physically calm him down.

Sypha always thrived off stories of hope, resilience, and miracles. It was for personal comfort – what every child deserves – and a vindicating sense of spite. Those who basked in ignorance constantly told her there was no place in the world for those stories. She already held a vague understanding regarding the importance of the small amount of oil that provided warmth and light for nights, but it felt different hearing that tale from Trevor. His enthusiasm was unexpected yet infectious.

Still, he could be around to lend a helping hand in preparing a few of these meals he adores so much.

Then the heavy door of the castle’s kitchen opens with a loud drawn out creak. “Sorry for taking so long.” Sypha turns and sees Trevor holding what he described as a menorah. “Trying to find a single thing down there would drive anyone mad.”

“It looks beautiful.”

Trevor’s expression softens. “As do you. I especially like how you use flour instead of blush.”

“What?” Before she can touch her cheek, Sypha notices each fingertip covered in light dust. “Oh.” She wipes her hands on her dark skirt, leaving behind white streak marks. “I managed to get a lot done… no thanks to your absence.”

“I did say I was sorry.” Trevor chuckles, safely placing the menorah off to the side. “But it does smell amazing in here.”

“The levivot and brisket should be ready soon. I’ve been wrestling with this dough for the suf… sufga…”

“Sufganiyot.” Trevor joins Sypha by her messy table.

“Right. I’m especially excited for these.”

“You’re going to love them. Not my favourite dessert, but they’re really good. Did you find any jam?”

“No… was I supposed to?”

“Well, they’re meant to be filled with some sort of raspberry or blackberry jam. Let’s take a look.”

He starts opening up various cabinets while Sypha does the same on the opposite side of the room. Dracula might have been undead, but Lisa was human the same as her son (well, half human son). Not to mention, when it comes to cuisine, the new occupant of the castle indulges in the human side of his heritage far more often than he does with his inhuman side. If they were able to find real food like potatoes and cow meat alongside all the untouched blood vials, there has to be something that resembles jam.

“Any luck?” Trevor asks after his search inside a small pantry proves unsuccessful.

“Yes!” Sypha exclaims. Her head and arms emerge from out of a cupboard before she reveals a dark jar in her hands.

“What kind is it?”

“I don’t know…” She sniffs the inside after briefly struggling with the lid. “It still smells sweet.”

“Let me try.”

“Wait, Trevor it could be poison-!” But Trevor has already dipped his finger into the cold jam and popped it inside his mouth. Sypha waits with nervous anticipation. She hopes it’ll be fine or that he’ll spit it out if it’s so terrible.

What happens instead is worse. Trevor swallows and after an uncertain pause, his face twists into a distraught expression. His arms cross over his stomach as he bends over, trying to steady himself.

“Trevor? What’s wrong? Trevor!” The only answer he can give is a series of pained gags that turn more and more guttural. He collapses onto the cold stone floor with Sypha kneeling over him.

“No! Please, no!” She cups his face in both hands. “Just hold on, Trevor! I’ll…” Her voice slowly trails off when she hears his retching turn into laughing. Trevor looks up, putting on as much of an innocent front as he can.

“It tastes like blackberry.”

Of course it was one of his terrible jokes. It doesn’t make Sypha any less furious. Reaching up onto the table, she grabs a handful of floury dough and throws it into his face. “You are horrible! Don’t ever do that again!”

Trevor’s snickering dies down, catching her off guard. “You’re right. I didn’t mean to scare you so much, I’m sorry.”

Sypha’s cheeks are still flushed bright red, so warm she almost mistakes it for a fever. Yet she’s not mad at him, not for very long. It’s all thanks to her own fondness and Trevor’s growing maturity. A trait Sypha says he should be proud of, remarking on it often while they traveled. It’s slow, as his most recent attempt at humour has thus proven, but growing nonetheless. She lets out a sigh, still straddling Trevor’s hips. “Alright, I forgive you…” Before he can pull her into an embrace, Sypha attacks him a second time with even more flour, turning his auburn hair white.

“But your jokes are still awful, Treffy Belmont.”

Trevor acts surprised until his eyes become devious. Wrapping his arms around her waist, his hands wreak havoc on Sypha’s most ticklish areas, causing her to erupt into uncontrollable laughter.

“Call me Treffy again, I dare you.”

“No!” She responds, her eyes welling up with tears of merriment. “I’ll never surrender!”

He doesn’t stop; neither of them does and neither wants to. They only cease their playfulness and rolling on the floor covered in flour when they both realize the latkes might be burning.

--

Too boring.

Too romantic for his tastes.

Too… intellectual.

Alucard hovers in front of the shelf and flips through yet another book, trying to discern its contents from just a few pages. He chastises himself for not doing this earlier, but it’s not as though Trevor gave him much time to prepare in the first place. The announcement came before any of them had a chance to finish their breakfast. We’re celebrating one of my family’s oldest holidays. When? In a few days. The hunter holds many skills under his belt; time management is not one of them.

Despite his annoyance, Alucard wants to throw himself into this celebration just as Trevor and Sypha have. Which is why he’s spent the better part of today scouring the castle library for the right gift. Had he been the same man he was months ago, he wouldn’t have cared so much. One book picked off a shelf on a whim, barely a glance at the front cover, and that would have been good enough for him.

Now Alucard cares, and Trevor does deserve all this effort.

He puts back the book with a disappointed huff. It’s tempting to gift yet another weapon or instrument of vampiric death, but he’s determined to give Trevor something that doesn’t have a sharp pointed edge. He’ll have to keep looking, though finding a book from Dracula’s library that a Belmont will enjoy is a difficult task both in theory and practice. A detailed history of Celtic vampires? Unlikely. Manuscripts of ancient mathematics and geometry? Perhaps not. Alucard puts his faith in stories that span across space and time, hoping one might peak the hunter’s interest. Tales he himself used to read in the dimming glow of his bedside candle, too tired for his usual studies yet too enthralled to stop at one fantastical story.

His perseverance wins out. Hidden in the corner on a shelf occupied by much larger and heavier hardcovers, Alucard stumbles upon a book no bigger than his own hand. He opens it, noticing how thin the pages are – poetry, neither from this country or era. Admittedly not his first choice but as he reads on, his interest deepens. It’s romantic, yes, but also dark, sinister, with an unexpected sensual aura. Many entries would no doubt shock the Wallachian scholars of today. Alucard traces the title engraved on the cover with his fingernail – Poems Bewitched and Haunted.

He might like this.

Alucard lowers himself onto the floor, feeling rather accomplished. He exits the library and almost bumps into Trevor – at least he thinks it’s Trevor. If not him then a pale, ghost-like version of him. “I… trust things are alright in the kitchen.”

“We’re fine. Food’s almost ready.” Trevor stops himself when he sees Alucard’s hand. “What’s th-“

“Nothing.” In one swift movement, the book goes behind his back. “Nothing you would be interested in.”

“Really?” Trevor raises an eyebrow while Alucard decides to leave before the hunter gets nosy. However, there is one last thing he needs to do. A simple favour for his friend. Walking closer, Alucard uses his free hand to tousle Trevor’s hair, patting his chest and shoulders. Clouds of flour fly up into the air between the two men.

“Feel free to use any of the baths before we begin the festivities.”

Trevor searches for a witty retort in his mind. In the end, nothing comes out and Alucard is already gone.

--

Evening. Fresh snow blankets the grounds surrounding both houses as white flakes descend from the darkened skies. It’s strangely quiet, both inside and out. Plates filled to the brim with food line the dining table – potato and onion cakes called latkes, slabs of juicy brisket, a roast chicken, and bowls of small pastries called sufganiyot. Trevor lights the first candle of the menorah while Sypha and Alucard watch, their faces illuminated in the fire’s soft glow.

“Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Hanukkah.” There’s bittersweet nostalgia in Trevor’s voice as he recites the prayer. He no longer struggles with the words, having practiced them for years until he fell asleep in whatever alleyway he called home. Yet Trevor wishes he knew everything. All those lessons he took for granted as a child, skipping more often than he should have just so he could climb in his beloved tree or learn how to carry a sword double the size of his body. Thinking he would be given all the time in the world to learn a language held in such high regard by his family.

He sets down the piece of flint with an unsteady hand. Silence fills the dining hall. This is supposed to be a night of celebration. Now this sudden revelation has left Trevor with a sense of inadequacy. Disappointment. Less of a Belmont, in more ways than one.

Until Alucard interjects with a comment so genuine, so sincere, the hunter never thought he’d hear from anyone in his lifetime. Not directed towards him. “That was wonderful. Beautiful, even.”

Sypha agrees and turns to Trevor with bright eyes, eager for the festivities to continue. A smile edges along his lips. All the things he could and should have done to keep his heritage alive in the past will never leave him. Though for now, he keeps the flame of this tradition alight, and that is plenty.

The three of them eat, drink, laugh, and enjoy each other’s company – as all loved ones should on an evening like this. “Can we do this every night?” Sypha asks, sliding more brisket and vegetables onto her plate.

“I was about to ask the same thing,” Alucard adds.

“Actually, the way we did it, we only threw a dinner like this for the first night. For the rest, all we had to do was light another candle and say the same prayer.”

Sypha slouches back in her chair with an almost serious pout, but Alucard seems a bit more understanding. “Perhaps you can teach us so that you don’t feel as alone.”

As Trevor tops up his cup with more of the good wine he and Sypha bought from Black Sea traders, he strongly considers Alucard’s suggestion. You just had to go and word it like that, didn’t you… He wants to deflect, claim he’s not a good teacher. But as much as he talks himself down, a thought comes to Trevor, one that nearly slipped past him – he’s already been acting as their teacher. They both listened with keen attention while he taught them the customs, recipes, and history that revolve around this Feast of Dedication. This Festival of Lights. His thin smile grows.

The amount of food on the table begins to dwindle. While the snow continues to drape over quiet, peaceful Wallachia, Trevor reveals that it’s about time they open presents. Carrying their plates, they move from the dining hall into a comfortable study room. They gather around the already warm fireplace, surrounding themselves with cushions and blankets. Everyone is anxious to unveil which gifts they chose for one another, but the moment all three are seated, Sypha pulls out a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Sorry we couldn’t get any silk or lace,” Trevor quips.

Alucard resists the urge to roll his eyes off to the side. Hard to tell whether it’s another unfunny joke or if the two of them really did attempt such an elaborate and expensive feat all for him. He tries discerning what his present might be by prodding at it with his fingers. Cushy, thick, yet light as a feather. The dhampir tears through the wrapping and is presented a long scarf the colour of striking red amidst the crumpled parcel paper. He lays it on his crossed legs, running a hand over the wool; a cloud could very well be the only thing softer.

Though not entirely necessary, Sypha and Trevor appreciate his gentle gracefulness with the article of clothing. “We got that at a marketplace in Transylvania.”

“Do you like it?” Sypha asks. Alucard drapes the scarf over his shoulders and around his neck, savouring its cosiness.

“I adore it. Thank you both.”

Sypha is next. Trevor hands her a velvet box as Alucard looks on. She lifts the top and her eyes fly open. Inside is a necklace made from polished lapis lazuli gemstones, held together with gold encasings. “Trevor found the stones while I assisted with the construction.”

“You made this together?”

“Well, I only bought the lapis on the road while you weren’t looking since you told me they were your favourite. Alucard just made sure all the pieces fit together.”

“We wanted to make something unique and especially for your tastes.”

Sypha isn’t speechless, she knows what she wants to say. The question is what to say first. How to show her gratitude for their actions. “I’ve never had anything like this… thank you so much.”

“Want to put it on?”

“Yes, I do!” After adjusting the thick collar of her Speaker robes, Trevor moves closer, helping her clasp the necklace in place. It sits perfectly around her neck and upon her chest. Sypha wears it proudly, showing it off at every opportunity. “You like to make jewelry, Alucard?”

“I was shocked by that too. Care to tell us where that interest came from?”

“Everybody needs a hobby.” The hunter sits back; maybe one day he’ll manage to pry that story out of Alucard. “Don’t you want your present, Trevor?”

“Course I do.”

With a coy smile, Alucard gives him the small book. “It’s poetry about hauntings and ghosts.”

“And just so you are aware, it was originally my idea to give you a book.” Sypha adds.

“You both know I don’t mind all things supernatural but… that’s a bit dark for this time of year, don’t you think?”

“It was always a winter tradition in my household to tell ghost stories around the fireplace.”

“Why does that not surprise me.” Trevor runs his thumb over the title. He admires the gift, yet something is weighing itself down on his chest and the last thing he wants to do is offend. As they always say, “it’s the thought that counts”. Perhaps in this case, he likes the thought more than the final outcome.

“I appreciate this. Honestly, I do. But I won’t be able to read anything in this book on my own.” The words leave a shameful aftertaste in his mouth, despite them being the truth. He braces himself for his friends’ inevitable disappointment and downwards glances. They never come; Alucard and Sypha’s cheery expressions haven’t changed.

“We know. That’s why Alucard and I are going to teach you.”

“Really?”

“No one else is going to give you the lessons you so desperately need.” Even Alucard’s comment, hard to tell yet still said with the best intentions in mind, doesn’t bother Trevor. Not so much so that he feels the need to one up it. It might be all the wine, the food, or the warm, comforting energy of this intimate gathering, but something is making a lump form in his throat.

He swallows it down and gives his thanks.

--

The fire burns late into the night. Sypha lies curled up surrounded by empty wine goblets and plates covered in crumbs, having completely given herself over to sleep. Her back rises then falls at a slow pace, her breathing peaceful. Trevor drifts somewhere between consciousness and sleep while Alucard is quiet but wide awake. They share one blanket draped across their legs and watch as the flames dance with the cascade of snowflakes just outside the stained-glass window.

“Someone should clean that up,” Trevor mumbles.

“You should.”

“Why me?”

“It’s the food you made and the drink you brought along.”

“But it’s your house.”

“Technically it’s yours as well.”

“Since when?”

“Since you joined both our homes when you gave me the Belmont Hold.”

“Then that means you should clean up too.”

They could go on all night if either of them wanted to. However, Alucard decides to end this barely serious argument with a laugh and change of subject. “Your cheeks are very pink.”

“Hm? What was that?” Trevor slurs.

“I’m saying you look very drunk.”

Trevor leans his head back, letting out a snort. True, there was plenty to drink and he certainly took advantage of that. “You haven’t seen me really drunk.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Me neither. I’m done with that.”

Four short, simple words. Four words Alucard swore he misheard. “Are you really?”

Trevor nods. “Tonight was a special occasion. But while Sypha and I were traveling, weeks would go by without a single drop touching my lips. I still enjoy it and there are the occasional lapses, but… the need is nothing like it was before.”

Alucard reaches over and places his hand upon Trevor’s warm cheek. Now he regrets all those things he said concerning his control coupled with sobriety – or lack of both. “You should be proud of yourself. You should also sleep.”

“Yes, mother…” Trevor thinks for a moment, wondering what sort of reaction his next request will garner from Alucard. A strange look, a curiously raised eyebrow, or another witty remark. “Can you do… one thing for me?”

“Well, I expected you to at least wait until tomorrow to ask for your second gift.” A low laugh escapes the dhampir’s mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you read a poem from my book? I’m curious about what’s written in it.”

“Is that all?” A simple request and an even easier wish to make true, but one that is uncharacteristic of Trevor. It could be the wine speaking for him. “Alright.”

Trevor hands over the book. While Alucard combs the pages for the right sonnet, the hunter’s upper body starts learning to the side until his head softly lands in the dhampir’s lap. Alucard raises his hands, then sighs. He had a feeling this would happen, especially now that Trevor’s eyes are closed.

“I’m not sleeping.” Trevor says, his voice slightly muffled. “Just shutting my eyes for a bit. I’m still listening.”

Another exasperated yet endearing sigh from Alucard. He finally settles on the right poem, suitably dark and eerie.

“It is midnight, my wedded;

Let us lie under the tempest bright undreaded,

In the warm thunder:

Tremble and weep not. What can you fear?

My heart’s best wish is thine…”

Alucard reads on, slowly and carefully with the open book in one hand, his other hand drifting above Trevor’s head. He strokes it, delicate fingers weaving in and out of his strands of hair. With every gentle movement, Trevor nestles his head further into the dhampir’s lap. Alucard wouldn’t be surprised if he began purring like a cat. He’d also never let him hear the end of it.

“Thou hast strangled me and slain me, lover,

Thou hast stabbed me, dear,

In the ghosts’ moonshine.

Is that the wind? No, no;

Only her goblin doth blow

Through the murderer’s ribs to and fro,

In its own moonshine.”

The book closes; Alucard waits for Trevor’s thoughts if he has any.

“It’s sad.”

“Not scary?”

Trevor lifts his head away from the blanket in order to speak more clearly. “Ghosts don’t scare me. Never have but they are sad. Even the angry, spiteful ones. Especially when they’re bound to a single place, like a castle or old ruins, and can’t move on. What do you think?”

That’s the first profound statement Alucard has heard from Trevor in months. And it’s true. Of course he’s seen his fair share of ghosts – they both have. Lowering the book, Alucard thinks about his own encounters with spirits roaming the corridors. Those who come and go as they please, blurring all possible lines which divide life from death. They’ve made the empty castle their home, just as he has. Or are they actually memories? Is there really a difference?

“I think you may have a point.” Alucard blinks slowly, wary of the direction this conversation might take itself in. Although he might need to wait, for Trevor has already passed out. The dhampir shakes his shoulder. Nothing, just a sleepy groan in protest.

Alucard’s own tired gaze shifts between Sypha then down at Trevor. He could carry them both back to their bed… in due time. Until then, he watches over his two humans, keeping them close, and waits for the fire to fade into cinders.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: varulven rating: teen and up word count: 5,717 summary: After being bitten by a werewolf, Trevor, knowing he doesn’t have much of a choice, accepts his fate following a painful transformation during the full moon. He quickly gets used to his new body with the support of Sypha and Alucard, who uses his own wolf form to better connect with Trevor. Part two of this piece.

read on ao3 at aquilaofarkham

--

The forest overwhelms him; too many new sounds, new scents, and new sensations all happening at once. The newly born lycan can hear everything from the smallest mouse digging into the frozen dirt, readying itself for hibernation, to the subtle crack of an owl’s talons clawing into tree bark as it moves from branch to branch. It watches and waits, ever so patient for that very same mouse. 

This assault on his senses continues. All things previously closed off when he was human have suddenly been opened. Through his eyes, the world is closer, more intimate. No moment to breathe. His thoughts are bursting with excitement and uncertainty, confusion and fervor.

He lifts his head and sees a white wolf upon a nearby hill. Sitting on his hind legs, head raised high and tall, staring back at the lycan. The skies are dark, save for the full moon, but thank god it’s not snowing else they’d never find each other. He knows the wolf will stay there all night if he has to, but the lycan won’t keep him waiting for much longer. This is a comforting sight; one that compels him to move forward. To join his friend, now that the two of them share more similarities than ever before (unconventional as they are).

Contrary to what most people believe, vampires and lycans get along very well.

Trevor doesn’t know if he will make peace with this form. It’s too soon to tell. But joining Alucard on a run through the snow-covered woods seems to be a decent start. White fur and dark grey fur move quickly against a sea of pin straight black trees. Their swift paws kick up snow as one tries running just an inch faster and further than the other—whether either of them realizes it or not.

When Trevor arrived home a month ago with claw marks gracing his shoulder, Alucard and Sypha did their best. All of them did their best. The two consulted books, legends, and remedies while their hunter prepared himself for the worst. Trevor will forever be grateful to them, despite their failure to stop the lycan’s curse. After the pain of transformation ended, he suddenly felt nothing. He could see nothing, only blood red and an emptiness surrounding him. It was dark inside the wolf. A realization that his body was no longer his own. He had lost control over it.

The first thing Trevor heard was his name. Faint and very weak, not strong enough to pull him out of the darkness. Whatever force held dominion over his body, its immediate instinct was to bare its fangs and violently lash out.

“Trevor, it’s us. You remember, I know you do.” The second thing Trevor heard. Clear and recognizable, even in his state. Sypha’s firm, unwavering, yet calm voice, a voice he always hoped to hear again, was able to cut through the prison that trapped his human thoughts and sight. Another problem solved, another victory she could hang off her belt. Sypha needed one of those, yet she also knew it wasn’t time to celebrate. No premature smiles or breaths of relief.

Trevor vaguely remembers what happened next; low to the ground, he crawled towards the two human creatures in front of him. Uncertain of how much personal control he had regained. Nor was he sure of how easily it could slip away again. Then same another familiar voice, like a candle in a dark corridor leading him to someplace brighter. Trevor Belmont is always in want—or rather, in need of brighter things.

“Trevor...” Alucard was never one to reveal his true emotions especially in the way he spoke. Neutral, steady, and blunt. Most often rude if he were in a foul mood, yet he raised his voice sparingly. But if Alucard was attempting to hide a certain emotion in that single word, he failed. All Trevor could hear was a desperate plea for hope.

He put their fears to rest when the front of his head gently pressed into Alucard’s outstretched palm. Trevor didn’t move beyond that; too ashamed, too scared of this new form that dwarfed his friends. Alucard cautiously slid his hand up between the lycan’s eyes before scratching his ears. Something Trevor did to those old grey Belmont wolfhounds of his long gone home. A shockingly pleasant sensation, making him feel akin to one of said large, gentle beasts he misses so dearly. Large is obvious, but gentle? Trevor wants to try his best.

It was a good decision to leave the cellar with the now broken door. Trevor would have otherwise cowered in a corner come sunrise. Out here, deep in the snow and cold air, adrenaline rushes through his veins just as easily as blood. Mixed with his habitual tendency to compete against the dhampir, it’s enough to propel him forward, matching Alucard’s speed.

This forest is his. Theirs.

--

One should never underestimate Sypha Belnades. She’s sent demons back to hell in flames of her own creation. She stood against the vampires’ mad lord and burned him to ashes which flew off into the night sky, their final resting place unknown. She played reluctant peacemaker between two men, more like children despite their own abilities. A minimal accomplishment compared to others, but an accomplishment, nonetheless. All those moments when she held her bright fingertips close against their temples saying, “Grow up or I will light both of your skulls on fire”.

Keeping track of two wolf-like creatures seems easy compared to everything else. Stay close, stay watchful, and never stray too far from the fresh set of paw prints in the snow. A real-life Ariadne with her precious red thread. Sypha adored listening to those stories from her childhood, begging to hear one more before bedtime. It didn’t matter if they were real or not, though she always believed they were.

Belief is a powerful force; just as if not more powerful than her spells. She still believes in many things that cross bearing men reject; things good and bad. Of magic, vampires, and the myths that give life to both. Sypha loves her myths—even the unsettling ones. The ones that unearth truths that no one wants to hear. She once hoped some of them would help spare Trevor from his eventual fate.

She sat on the floor of their library, surrounded by piles of books like stone walls. A momen in time that feels long ago but in reality, happened only a few short days prior to the full moon. The words in front of her blurred together as she rubbed her aching eyes, yet she kept reading.

Sypha studied the lycan’s many origins: they came from a scorned lover of Gilgamesh, having been turned into a wolf against their will. No, they were punished by the god Jupiter for eating the remains of a sacrificed boy. Actually, they were merely by-products of the oldest vampires. On and on an on. She read of the symptoms: nightmares, vomiting, lack of an appetite. Increase in agitation. She wanted to scream, “I know that already” into the pages of those particular books. What she needed from these myths were cures.

While it made her hands twitch and her heart pound with anxiety, Sypha did what she promised Trevor: she kept searching. She kept reading.

So engrossed in her reading, Sypha barely noticed Alucard as he sat down beside her. A silence grew between them every time her fingers flipped over another page. He watched her eyes move from line to line, scaling down. A warm light filled the library; it would be dark soon and he wasn’t about to let her go through yet another sleepless night. Sypha’s sharp mind needed rest, but then again, they all did.

“You have that look again.” Despite how softly he spoke, Alucard noticed her jump. Sypha glanced at him briefly, then returned to her book, burying her nose in even deeper.

“What look?”

“The one that says focused yet angry. Calm, but disturb me and I will separate your head from your neck.”

She hid her amusement at Alucard’s dark brand of humour. “I am not angry.”

“Are you certain?”

“... perhaps a little. More frustrated. These books have nothing that can help us. There are apparently plenty of ways to tame a lycan after they transform.”

“But no methods of curing them.”

Sypha closed the book; Alucard took that as a yes. “What about you? I’ve seen you held up in that laboratory. Sometimes for hours on end.”

When they started rebuilding the Belmont manor with its library, bedrooms, armoury, and kitchen, they added a new room. A mirror image of the laboratory and clinic Alucard remembered so fondly. Full of medicines, glass tubes, and other devices neither Trevor nor Sypha fully understood but were willing to learn. He used it more often than them, carrying on important, irreplaceable work.

A local rumour began spreading amongst the neighbouring villages. Talk of a stranger dressed in black going from door to door, giving remedies to the sick while refusing payment. They never did manage to catch this good Samaritan.

Sypha once saw Alucard with his hair different. Still loose but tied with a simple hairband and hanging over his breast. When she mentioned it, innocently enough, Alucard went quiet. She hasn’t seen him like that since.

“Did... did your mother’s notes say anything?”

“Unfortunately, she didn’t have very many patients afflicted with the lycan’s curse.” Usually Sypha could recognize the sarcasm in Alucard’s tone; this time proved more difficult. “But I had more success reading the notes she and my father wrote together. I’ve started concocting a tonic using distilled wolfsbane.”

“And...”

Alucard didn’t want to give Sypha false hope. “It still needs work. With its current state, it will most likely kill him.”

“Maybe...” Sypha stopped herself. Never in her life did she want to admit defeat. Always too stubborn, too proud, tasting bile in her mouth if she even thought about it. Yet she told Trevor and Alucard to grow up. Perhaps it was time she did as well, especially if the life of someone she loved was at stake.

“Maybe it would be best if we let Trevor transform. We can use your tonic to ease the pain when he changes and then try taming him afterwards. These books annoy me beyond anything else, but I found a manuscript about northern lycan myths.” Shoving aside everything else, she grabbed a flimsy set of brown papers held together by thread and sheer perseverance. “It stood out the most. I think it may assist us.”

Alucard stared at the so-called “book” in Sypha’s hand. Its ink scrawls were barely legible to his eyes. “We would have to tie him down. Or lock him somewhere secure.”

“We have that cellar. I know you don’t like this plan.”

“I don’t think either of us does.” Sypha nodded in agreement. “I will tell him.”

“You do not have to.”

“No, it’s fine. I want to help him.”

“He won’t like what you have to say. He’s barely gotten any rest.”

“No one living in this house has.” He placed his hand on her back. “Don’t worry, Sypha. I will talk to him.”

“Gently. Remember to be gentle with him.”

“I shall.”

“Before you do that, we need to finish that tonic. I will help.”

“That won’t be necessary. You should—”

Sypha pushed the manuscript against his chest. “I said I’m helping. And you should read this.”

Alucard smiled. “There’s not much I can say that would convince you otherwise, is there?”

“Nothing at all.”

Deep in her memories, Sypha nearly trips over herself. Alucard was right; she hated that plan. It worked, but she hated it for making her think the worst. For making her feel as though she had willingly doomed Trevor to his fate. That she had been defeated.

Her feet begin to ache. She keeps reminding herself of one thing: this is not defeat. Only another obstacle to overcome. A door opening to a new way of life. Sypha is used to walking through those. She scales up another hill, her two boys off in the distance, still in sight.

She should have worn better shoes.

--

Wolves cannot run forever. Even those of supernatural origins must stop, which is what Trevor and Alucard do. But one still has mountains of energy to burn. His head is a flurry of different thoughts. Some take root while most leave just as fast as they entered. No matter where they came from or what they entail, they all succeed in contradicting each other.

One thought manages to rise above the rest: what else can this new body really do?

Alucard takes his rest not far from Trevor, who seems to be in his own little world. Not content enough to run around in circles, he takes to rolling about in the snow, attacking it the same way a pup would pounce at everything in sight, animate or not. A pup... yes, that’s what Alucard is reminded of. He watches in amusement as Trevor trips over his legs, too long and cumbersome for his liking. No normal wolf would be able to handle such abnormal bodily proportions of a lycan’s.

It takes some trial and error—more error than trial. Only when Trevor actually stops to think does he regain some control over his limbs. No more flopping around; now he can revert straight back to his playful demeanour, this time on much steadier footing.

—Quite the beacon of terror, the dhampir thinks. Villagers must be quaking with fear underneath their bedcovers tonight.

Alucard lowers himself against the ground. Let Trevor have his fun. Lord knows he deserves it after a month of hell. This might even count as a valuable lesson. There’ll be plenty more to come.

Trevor rolls off his back and makes brief contact with golden eyes against white fur. Gold like amber or the cinders of a well-used fireplace. He looks at Alucard and wonders if the dhampir’s transformation is ever as painful as his own. No, Trevor realizes the longer he stares. Not painful or ugly at all. A few gentle, graceful wisps of smoke and the deed is done. Seems everything Alucard does is gentle and graceful, no matter what form he takes.

A mischievous thought worms its way into Trevor’s head. Alucard maintains his statuesque posture; beautiful, regal, and boring. At first, he ignores the other wolf, occasionally glancing in his direction out of curiosity and confusion. Packs of snow get thrown into the air with every wag of Trevor’s shaggy tail. Alucard’s head tilts slightly, his ears pinned back.

—What are you planning? Why are you staring at me like that?

What can barely be described as a tense standoff ends when Trevor shoves Alucard. Despite being larger and arguably stronger as a lycan, this action does nothing to faze his companion. Trevor repeats the gesture; still not enough to crack his hard exterior—but not enough to deter his scheming counterpart. Trevor charges headfirst into Alucard, more a ram than a wolf.

Alucard, if he so wanted, could overpower the lycan. Push him off or knock him flat on his own back. Yet he stays in a somewhat defeated pose with his limbs bent and dangling. Trevor continues his attempt at what Alucard can only assume is... bonding? He nuzzles his snout into the white wolf’s fur while his oversized front paws push against his exposed belly. Another jovial act between his family’s cherished wolfhounds.

Trevor also recalls riding on their backs as they took him up and down the halls of the Belmont manor then outside through the gardens when he was still small enough. Sypha might be able to ride on his back, maybe even Alucard as well. Wouldn’t that be a sight to behold.

Trevor becomes lost in this new, break-neck pace of thinking, one thought after another and then another. He doesn’t notice that the playful bites he’s been giving his friend have unknowingly turned aggressive. Alucard retaliates by baring his fangs and letting out a deep, guttural snarl.

—Not so rough.

Trevor instinctively backs away. As an apology, he lowers his head and tries making his body seem much smaller than it really is. The same action he attempted in the cellar following his change. Lycans simply take up too much space. Too large, too obstructive, and too rough, even towards similar creatures. He huffs out a frustrated breath into the frigid air.

Alucard ceases his growling when he sees this abrupt shift. He didn’t mean for his reaction to be so harsh. He’s supposed to be helping after all. Days before the full moon when Trevor quietly wept out of fear—fear of himself—Alucard showed his own vulnerable side. He let Trevor rest his head upon his chest, wiping away the tears and offering small words of comfort until he drifted off into a desperately needed sleep. How could either of them forget that evening?

His father taught him that even those most experienced in transfiguration often have difficulty controlling their emotions. Too dulled down or too impassioned, exploding at any spontaneous moment. It would explain Trevor’s excitable behavior.

Softly, he treads over to the curled-up mass of thick fur. Trevor pouts as though he were still human. He really is just a newborn lycan on his first night out; an overgrown pup. His playfulness should be seen as a blessing in disguise. Alucard gives his snout a couple gentle pats, apologizing himself. To which Trevor merely grumbles.

—Stick in the ass you are.

Alucard has no way of telling if that’s what he’s really thinking, but he can come to his own conclusions. He knows the Belmont well enough. He responds with a frisky bite to his ear, eliciting a surprised yelp from Trevor. Rows upon rows of fangs snap at Alucard, who always dodges them at the very last second, before getting pinned down.

They continue like this, chasing and wrestling each other, causing their own little intimate chaos. Even their growls sound happier. It took some time, but they’re finally playing the same game. All is well again—or as well as things could be.

It comes to an end when a sound off in the distance catches Trevor’s attention. He raises his head; ears perked up, and listens. It’s not Sypha, no doubt making her way across the rolling landscape, closing in on her two boys. It’s no human at all. Something else, perhaps an animal or more, scurries through the frozen underbrush. A certain primal urge suddenly rises within Trevor, one that all beasts share: the need to chase and hunt. He stands up, nose pointed in the direction of the noise, ignoring the white wolf’s yips. Before he can run off, Alucard bites down and pulls him back.

—For once in your life, wait. 

Trevor does pause. but not without growling at him for leaving teeth marks on his tail. He begrudgingly lets Alucard take the lead. They begin their hunt.

--

Somewhere, a clock hand strikes past midnight. Trevor and Alucard huddle together, their eyes fixated on a small flock of wild pheasants. Not quite the prize they were hoping for, but decent practice. Like before, Trevor allows the white wolf to go first, all while trying to tell himself that as a human, he’s still the better hunter.

However, he must admit, it is mesmerizing to watch Alucard hunt as a wolf as it is watching him fight as a dhampir. Every step is deliberate and creates no sound as eyes never leave their prey, inching closer. A calculated, flawless leap forward, the panicked scattering of pheasants except for one thrashing around for freedom under his paw, and then finally, the wolf twists the bird’s neck in his jaws. He makes it all seem so easy.

Alucard carries the lifeless, slumped prize over to Trevor. So quick and barely even a drop of blood. He finds the rest of the flock a few feet away. They continue pecking at whatever berries and frozen grub they can scrounge for, unaware or having already forgotten that one of their own is dead. Trevor enjoys a challenge in all aspects of his life, but for now he’ll a dumb prey over a clever one. He start by mimicking Alucard’s movements and everything seems to be going well. Cumbersome due to his size but after some adjustments to his stance, the dhampir feels optimistic.

Then Trevor loses his chance to strike by half a second. The pheasants begin to disperse, and he rushes into them, striking one with his claws. It tries escaping; Trevor tries catching it. There’s a struggle as both hunter and prey put up their own fight. Jaws clamp down on the bird’s neck, but instead of a clean snap, splatters of blood and feathers cover the white ground. Trevor stares down at his prize, mangled and torn beyond recognition.

—Too rough. Again.

Alucard expected something like this would happen and, in the end, Trevor was successful in finishing his first hunt. So, he isn’t disappointed. Yet Trevor dully paws at what used to be a pheasant with dejection in his eyes. Alucard tries cheering him up by licking his bloody snout clean. It helps.

They come across a drove of jackrabbits with their guard down, a rare but lucky sight. The second hunt goes much smoother. Alucard catches two, Trevor four, all of which hang out of his mouth intact. If Sypha were here right now, she would have a good laugh at the sheer ridiculous sight of such a beast with his jaws stuffed to the brim with rabbits. 

Speak of the devil. Out of the corner of Alucard’s eye, he sees Sypha in the near distance, two pheasants hanging off her hip. He motions for Trevor to follow him.

Trevor doesn’t acknowledge him, nor does he notice Sypha. If a new sound or smell no matter how faraway demands his interest, then he must comply. All else, even close friends, fade away. He can’t help it in this form. He meanders over the hills, leaving Alucard and Sypha to do little but trail behind him. Something tells them that this is not just simple curiosity pulling the lycan.

Silently, Trevor leads them to a clearing in the trees. Out of the darkness, shapes and silhouettes come into view. Not particularly large, but substantial. Some far apart, some close together. Houses, few of which still have candles inside, burning the night away. The softened lights illuminate each frosted window like small drifting halos. It’s deathly still in this hamlet; they might have never discovered its existence had it not been for Trevor.

—Trevor. Alucard joins his side, fearing the worst. His head is lowered as he violently bats at it with his paws, agitated by some unseen tick. Every breath comes out as a growling rasp while streams of saliva drip off his fangs. The look in his eyes, the one Alucard and Sypha know so well, is gone.

It’s happening again. Even the idea of being so close to other humans is enough to reawaken the hunger. Not to hunt or feed, but to rip and mangle and leave nothing unscathed. Trevor loses his balance, stumbling from foot to foot, shaking his head. God knows he’s trying to gain back control, and it hurts him. Alucard barks in his ear, deafening him.

—Fight it. Trevor, or what Alucard hopes is still Trevor, responds with a fierce snap of his jaws. They snarl, and bark, and brandish their claws. Sypha tears her eyes away, despite not wanting to. She can hear voices within the houses, villagers stirring from their rest at what they believe is the sound of two wolves tearing at each other’s throats. She pleads for them to stay inside. This doesn’t concern them.

—Fight it. God damn it, I know you can. Fight it!

Trevor doesn’t care for Alucard’s thoughts. With another swipe, he sends him skidding across the ground and into the base of a tree. The pain is sharp but quick. Alucard stands, thankful that he is no ordinary wolf. Before he can charge at Trevor, Sypha moves between them, her hands raised.

“Trevor, stop!” She’s not afraid, not anymore. Or rather, she doesn’t look afraid. Her expression is firm, brows furrowed. All concentration on this one spell. It needs to be performed without any uncertainty. There’s no fire or ice emitting from her fingertips, yet Trevor howls bloody murder.

Spells that can change the mind and its contents are dangerous. In the hands of a less experienced practitioner, too much can go wrong. If one doesn’t succumb to an early death, then madness. Which is why Sypha has always preferred to manipulate tangible elements. But she’s never been above taking risks. She focuses every bit of her energy into restoring Trevor’s conscience. Hopefully it will shift itself in the right direction and neither she nor Alucard will be forced to commit the unthinkable.

“Look at me... keep your eyes on me. It will be alright, I promise.” Sypha doesn’t make promises lightly. Trevor huffs, gritting his fangs, but his gaze never leaves her. He waves his head from side to side again, as if trying to shake off a terrible headache. The growls quiet until they disappear. Sypha breathes a relieved yet trembling sigh when Trevor’s eyes soften. She steps forward and wraps her arms around his head, so large her fingers barely touch. Her forehead rests against his.

“Shh, none of that. You did well. I told you it would be alright.” She strokes his fur, listening to every whimper.

As his senses return, so too does his memory. Trevor wriggles free from Sypha’s grasp and runs to Alucard, still whining. While shaken up, his body bears no serious injuries, only some out of place fur. That doesn’t stop Trevor from licking and nuzzling him like an overbearing mother wolf. Alucard appreciates the concern, but he can stop now. After a moment of calm respite between the three of them, he decides that this night should come to an end. Before Sypha can follow him, the tip of her hood gets caught in Trevor’s teeth.

“What is it?” He lets go and lowers his underside against the snow, gesturing to his back. He knows Sypha came here by foot, all on her own; he can’t just let her return the same way. “Oh... well, this is...” Does he really want her to...?

Trevor gives her a nudge before she can stutter out another syllable. Alright, then. When in Rome and all that. Grabbing handfuls of fur, Sypha climbs aboard. She fumbles a bit then finds a comfortable position. Moments like these make Sypha thankful for their isolated, self-contained life. How would she explain this to her grandfather or the other Speakers? Even so, she can’t help but bury herself deeper in Trevor’s warm fur.

They catch up to Alucard with his mouth full of dead jackrabbits. Using the light of the moon as their guide, a lycan, a dhampir in the shape of a wolf, and a Speaker magician retrace their steps back to their home. Back to their bed.

--

The next day arrives, bringing with it the sun as it crawls over the Wallachian mountainside. Sypha stirs awake and forces her sleep heavy eyes open. The hazy light of early morning shines through the snow-covered glass of the bedroom window panes. Curling into the fetal position, she holds her knees tight against her chest. Both hands massage her bare feet, alleviating some of their soreness after her midnight excursion.

Is it possible for a single night to feel stretched out to its limits? Lingering for longer than a few hours at the most? Sypha remembers the set of events that occured last night, despite them feeling like a dream. All of them tumbling into place one after another without rest. The last memory is of her in bed, safe, warm, and guarded. A bit suffocated but sleeping better than she did for the entire month. She knows who to thank for that.

Sitting up (a feat much easier said than done), Sypha believes she’ll look down at two wolves who are fast asleep. Just as she did before closing her eyes in the darkness, their bodies cuddled around her. One has white fur and a sleek build; the second, a lycan with thick fur and a mass that might have broken the bed in half.

She sees the white wolf, but in place of the other is a large blanket spreading out. As though the lycan had been neatly skinned and stripped of all its fur. The most curious thing about it is the human-esque shape protruding from underneath. Sypha lifts up one of the corners and with wide, bright eyes, she smiles. None of the books mentioned anything about this.

Trevor lies on his side covered by the fur blanket (or what must have been his skin), naked and in the grips of a deep, comfortable sleep. His breathing is gentle and every so often, a soft snore escapes. Sypha thinks she’s staring at an entirely different man. The tired, dark circles under his eyes are gone and his skin looks softer, healthier. Those years of turmoil and loneliness since he was twelve, all faded away after one night.

Tenderly, she runs a few fingers through his tousled hair. He will be fine. The fear she had when his fangs sharpened, and his eyes grew vicious was only momentary. Sypha wants to be hopeful, her most cherished emotion right after belief. She wants to hope and believe that Trevor might find the strength within himself to live with this curse. She also wants to bend down and hold him for the rest of the morning, no fear that he will disappear the next day or even in the next hour. But Sypha won’t wake him just yet. She slips out of bed, hurrying across the cold floor, a blanket wrapped around her shivering body, until she reaches the manor kitchen.

The lasting effects of a night well slept soon dissipate as Sypha abruptly stops, staring with surprised eyes at Trevor and Alucard’s midnight spoils. Namely, a pile of dead pheasants and hares complete with bloody feathers strewn along the wooden table where they have their meals together. They were all so exhausted, she almost forgot about those.

Sypha walks past the pile and begins preparing her breakfast.

--

Alucard is next to wake up. He opens his mouth in a wide yawn, licking dry lips, before giving his back a good stretch. After a few smooth wisps of mist rising into the air, he returns to his normal form. Fully clothed, wearing everything from his high boots, tight black pants, and the white shirt with the plunging neckline. He remains splayed across the bedsheets, straightening out the rest of his limbs. Letting out a tired yet satisfied moan, Alucard props himself up on his elbow and turns to Trevor. His reaction is just as pleasantly shocked as Sypha’s. Reaching over, he nudges him awake.

“Good morning,” he coos. Once Trevor’s eyes open and he gains an awareness of where he is, his cheeks go slightly pink.

“I didn’t expect this.”

“Did you feel anything transfiguring back?”

“No, nothing at all. If only the first transformation went this way.”

“So, you remember everything we did. Hunting, running...”

“I do... more than I remember most things when I’m human. I don’t think I’ll ever forget what it felt like to run that fast. Then there was... when I almost—”

“Nothing happened. It wasn’t your fault, and no one was hurt. Remember that as well.” Aside from a brief lapse in contentment, Alucard is relieved at how well Trevor is taking everything. He stares at him for a bit longer. His blue eyes, normally so tired and worn, look so much brighter in the winter sunlight. “How do you feel?”

“Good. Actually, I feel better than good. I felt so heavy before. Everywhere I went, even when I met you and Sypha, I was constantly carrying around all this extra weight. You could never see it, but it was there, beating down on my shoulders while I rotted from the inside out. I don’t know, it sounds like I’m being too dramatic. But now... I feel lighter. Newer, I guess. It’s as though I’ve just taken the longest fucking bath of my life.”

“Interesting way to describe it.”

“But, be honest with me.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“How hideous did I look? When I was... you know, in that form?”

Alucard doesn’t answer right away, preferring to keep Trevor in mild suspense. “It was not that terrible of a sight. You might actually look better as a lycan than a human.”

Trevor feebly tosses a pillow at his face. “Shut up.” Then comes an exasperated groan as he shoves his face into what used to be his “skin”. “Christ, that was a long night.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to go through it again?”

A valid question, and an important one. Trevor thinks about it at length. He can’t decide whether he wants his answer to be optimistic or his usual of reluctant acceptance. “I guess we’ll have to see in about a month’s time. Not like I have much of a choice.”

Alucard reaches over and grazes a couple fingertips along his stubbled chin. “You should know that I’m proud of you. We both are.”

“... don’t think I’ve heard that word come out of your mouth before.”

“Which one?”

“Proud. Of me in particular.”

“I’ve been proud of you many times in the past. I simply never vocalized it.”

“Well, my life’s purpose as been fulfilled. Guess I can die a happy man now.”

Grabbing the very same pillow, Alucard brings it down upon Trevor’s head again and again. “That was a horrible joke.” But the hunter, turn lycan, then turned back into a man only laughs.

Real laughter; it’s been too long since Alucard heard that sound.

[aquilaofarkham]

title: mercy mirror pt. 1 rating: teen and up (strong language, mentions of violence, mentions of abuse) word count: 2,796 summary: Trevor helps Hector improve his sword fighting skills while they discover that there are more similarities between the two of them than differences.

read on ao3 at aquilaofarkham

Curiosity is what brings him underground. Scaling down the almost fully rebuilt staircase, minding where he places his foot every step of the way, Hector’s hand slides along the fractured bannister. His eyes wander between each blood red flag hanging off the walls, proudly displaying the Belmont crest in gold. He’s not sure how to feel about the sight of them yet. He’s not even sure how he feels about working beside a wearer of that family emblem.

A month ago, they were on opposite sides of this conflict between humans and vampires. Yet Hector can’t help but ask himself: suppose there could be a sort of kinship between him and Trevor? The church wants them dead, the common people hate them for their ties to occult magic, and they both spent their adolescent years quietly alone. 

Still, there are glaring differences including where they started in the war. The most formative moment in their early lives might have been forged in fire and death, but it was forced upon Trevor. Hector created it with his own hands, willingly.

It’s a fleeting thought, one that is soon forgotten. Pushed to the back of his mind to make space for more important, more concrete matters.

Hector arrives at the bottom, his only light being the scattered wall bound torches and the sunlight from above. As he walks towards the doorway leading into the archives, he notices how much red coats the walls along with the way his boots stick to the floor every time he lifts them. Blood. Old enough to start drying but not by much. Hector thinks about that group of special night creatures sent to nip Dracula’s most threatening opposition in the bud. He should have let them loose on a certain member of the lord’s court instead.

He’s made several poor decisions both in the past and present; perhaps that’s why he brought himself here. Not all the way down to the Belmont Hold per say but back to the castle itself, now under new occupancy. To try and rectify those poor decisions. Maybe if he can help end this war for good, it will bring him something close to redemption. A sense of good after enduring the worst and the uncertain for so long.

Upon entering the massive room filled with multiple levels of shelves and suspended walkways, Hector is struck by an odd feeling. These books, artifacts, relics - they seem so familiar. Like the ones found in Dracula’s library, his study room, and even the forgemaster’s own workspace. Not everything, but enough to be this noticeable. For a clan so hellbent on destroying such a supposed evil, the similarities are difficult to ignore. 

Hector’s train of thought, along with his leisurely pace amongst the bookshelves and cabinets, is interrupted by a sight just down one of the aisles. How unexpected, even amusing. Despite being surrounded by so many oddities that seem more likely to pique his interests, a rack of weapons is what captures his full attention, drawing him closer. They’re displayed so plainly, so out in the open, begging to taste fresh blood. 

At the very least, Hector is now presented with a variety of options, which he didn’t have before. His hammer? Too small and light. It can give life easily enough, though taking a life requires more effort. His creations? A possibility. They were quick to answer when he called upon them to rip apart that silver clad vampire who guarded his shit hole excuse for a room. But Hector knows he can’t always rely on his creatures - he cannot cower in their shadows forever. Now he stands before flanged maces, throwing daggers, small axes, and common broadswords, trying to make a decision.

He reaches for a longsword with a thick grip and cross guard. Using both hands, Hector lifts it off its hanger, grunting at its weight. The muscles in his arms and fingers strain as he raises the blade. How many lives did it take? How many were human? Inhuman? His grip on the hilt tightens, taking the first few swings at nothing. Again, and again, changing his stance and intensity with every strike.

Swords were largely absent from Hector’s life. His family, being farmers, had no use for them - they didn’t have much use for anything or anyone apart from their animals, crops, and tools. However, there were the occasional convoys of soldiers that passed by his isolated home in Rhodes. He watched from his window as they made camp until it was time to move on. They never asked him for shelter.

“They say a necromancer lives up on that hill. Best stay away.”

No one ever bothered Hector and he never bothered them, which was better for both parties. But he remembers catching glimpses of the soldiers sparring with one another in the nearby fields. With his own longsword, Hector mimics their movements as best he can.

Suddenly, he turns around at the slightest noise. “Who’s there?” No answer, but it doesn’t put Hector’s nerves at ease. He listens to his intuition, still feeling the presence of someone else close by. Stepping forward with an angered expression, he keeps his weapon at the ready. “Come out. Show yourself now.”

“You’re not holding it right.” A faint yet recognizable voice replies. Hector lowers the sword ever so slightly and frowns. What an odd thing to hear out of nowhere.

“What?”

Several seconds pass before Trevor’s head cautiously peeks out from behind one of the bookcases. He joins Hector, staying clear of the sword’s tip. “The way your hands are positioned. You’ll never land a decent blow if they’re so close together like that.”

The forgemaster watches and listens in utter confusion. So casual, so informal; the Belmont speaks to him as though they’ve known each other for months instead of days. “Were you spying on me?”

Trevor raises his hands in defence. “No, I wasn’t. Honest. I just came down here to look for something when I noticed you swinging around that thing. Your form’s pretty good, I’ll tell you that much... can’t say the same about your choice in weapons.”

Hector’s attitude changes from suspicious to irritable. He seems to be doing that a lot following his return to the castle, constantly switching between those two emotions. Not that he can help it. “Say what you mean, Belmont.”

“I mean that sword’s not right for you.” Trevor’s eyes briefly scan the rack before he settles on a different longsword with silver and golden accents along the cross guard. “This one looks more suited for you.”

The two men trade swords while Hector is still unable to shake his apprehensive nature, even as he gets a feel for his new weapon. First in one hand then in both. “You know so much about a sword just by looking at it.”

“Learned it from my family. They taught me as much as they could given the... limited time they had. Everything else I mostly had to teach myself. Watching other masters certainly helped.” Again, so casual and informal, it catches Hector off guard. Was it ever this easy for Trevor to talk so naturally about his past? “How did you learn?”

“By watching others as well. Obvious, isn’t it?” There’s a hint of bitterness in Hector’s voice.

“A little.” Trevor is nothing if not honest. “But I already said your form was good. And the way you fight is so raw, I could see how angry you were from all the way back there.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Far from it, actually. You just need some pointers and guidance, that’s all. Sparring with someone else would help.”

Exactly what Hector expected to hear. Trevor doesn’t need to say it outright for him to realize what the Belmont is really offering him. “You’re being nice.”

“Well, Sypha once told me I needed to be nicer.” Trevor adds a chuckle to the end of that statement. Was it meant to be a joke? Hector can’t tell, nor is he amused.

“And it doesn’t bother you that we were on opposing sides on this war before.”

“If it did, I wouldn’t be talking to you right now. But we all share the same enemy and you explained yourself when you showed up at the front door.”

“I already said I don’t want any pity.”

Trevor crosses his arms, stung by the feeling that they’re getting nowhere together. “Look, if you don’t want my help, that’s fine. It’s your choice. I at least want to give you that.”

Hector stares at him then down at his sword. He needs to be better this time, they all do. He’ll perfect his skills as a fighter, but perhaps he’ll also find that possible kinship between him and the Belmont. The one that still keeps nagging at him like a tick that grows stronger every time he pays it any attention.

“Where would be the best place for us to practice?”

Trevor’s eyes aren’t particularly ablaze with happiness, though they are filled with accomplishment. “That went easier than I expected. Bring that sword, I know a decent spot.”

--

Hector wants to enjoy the outside. Bask in the sun’s rays, breathe in the fresh air, and listen to all the sounds of the surrounding woods. Everything he took pleasure in whenever he spent just a few moments of respite away from the dark castle. Then too much happened. The forgemaster wishes he could still enjoy the outside the way he used to. He wishes for a lot of things.

Everyone is occupied with something; if it’s not one task, it’s another. Sypha and Julia are a flawless match, devising spells that can be used for battle and defence, having a bit too much fun in the process. The truce between Isaac and Alucard has quickly strengthened as they work tirelessly to bring the castle back to life. “Un-break it” as Trevor so eloquently puts it. Hector follows him down the road, patient enough to not ask questions yet impatient enough to start feeling twitchy. Memories of the last time he walked along this dirt path aren’t helping.

He thought he would be taken to a patch of grass somewhere close between the ruins and castle, not deep in the forest away from safety. It starts happening again, the switch from mere annoyance to skepticism and distrust. Trevor eventually leads him off the road towards a tall tree with spindly branches and a trunk that seems like it’s twisting in on itself. Bearing right down its center is a large crack big enough to house more than a few animals. Hector never noticed it before. That night when he ran, he was more focused on what was ahead of him. Not off to his sides and not behind him, where he left all the hurt, lies, mistakes, and manipulation.

“I think I spent more time climbing this tree than I did actually living in my own home.” Trevor runs his hand over the tough bark in an almost sentimental manner. “My mother and I used to have our training matches at its base.”

“It looks dead,” Hector comments. Trevor can’t feel offended because it’s true.

“Probably been dead for a while. Ready?” He unsheathes his own sword, thinner than Hector’s and with ruby embellishments on its grip. They take their positions and prepare themselves, their eyes fixated on each other. “Remember, I won’t be ruthless, but I also won’t let you win too easily.”

“Good. I would have been disappointed in you otherwise.” It’s not a joke, but Trevor laughs regardless.

They begin slowly, carefully. Taking enough time to better understand each other’s level of skill. Never glancing away for a second. Trevor wants to see how much Hector knows on his own. The forgemaster wants to see if all those stories boasting about the Belmont family are true, especially for its last surviving member. After all, this is the man who had a hand in destroying Dracula.

Trevor is the first to attack with more force, aiming his sword towards the upper body and head. Hector blocks each of his blows with speed and effectiveness. The sound of steel singing against steel can be heard throughout the woods. Trevor takes a step back and adjusts his stance, as does Hector. He almost compliments his opponent on how fast he is, but there’s no room for talk, not now.

Amidst all the clashing and scraping, the constant moving of bodies and every heavy breath, the two swords suddenly lock in place. Trevor pushes but Hector holds his ground, matching the hunter’s display of strength. Both waiting for the other to make their next move. It doesn’t take long for Hector to become aggravated with this standstill. With the right combination of quick thinking and impulsiveness, he forces Trevor’s sword to the side, using his elbow to land a blow in the center of his face while there’s still a window of opportunity.

“Fuck!” The Belmont stumbles back, holding his nose and hisses in pain. Any sense of personal victory is gone once Hector realizes what he’s done.

“Shit... shit, sorry! I didn’t mean to do that, I wasn’t thinking-” His apology is interrupted by an unexpected sound - laughter coming from Trevor. Genuine, not done in a mocking fashion.

“Christ, that actually fucking hurt.” He removes his hand; no blood and nothing seems to be broken but Hector still stands in place, holding the weapon uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? It was a good hit.” He says through a smile.

“It was fighting dirty, though.”

“So?” Trevor tosses his sword in the grass before collapsing onto his bottom with his back against the tree. “Sometimes it’s necessary in order to win. Besides, the concept of fair fighting is a myth. Everyone fights dirty. I’ve done it enough times to stop keeping track. Come on. Time for a break.”

Another awkward pause. The brief surge of adrenaline he felt while sparring fades as Hector’s heartbeat returns to a normal pace (or normal enough). He sits down, back towards Trevor, and brings his knees close to his chest. They pass the time in silence, catching their breath, while every so often Hector glances over his shoulder at the hunter. He seems content, almost too much given the larger situation they’re playing a part in.

This moment would be the perfect chance to ask Trevor something that’s been on Hector’s mind for quite a while. Something he cannot or has difficulty understanding. Still, he hesitates and second guesses himself. He never used to do that so often as he does now. It never used to be so bad.

“How can you defend them?” Hector finally asks.

“Who?”

“... humans. The people of Wallachia, I suppose. After what they did to you and your family. Don’t you hate them?”

Trevor gives his answer some thought. His chest rises and falls as he lets out a huff. “I did. Maybe I still do. In a way, I guess I never really forgave people for those years filled with lies, rumours, and... well, torment.”

“Then why do you still protect them? Why did you decide to stand up and fight back against Dracula?” Hector still feels a sharp sting of discomfort after saying that name out loud - like a small knife or a hot needle to his chest.

“Because I actually found people who were worth protecting. Then I found even more while Sypha and I were traveling. Not just from vampires, but from the church and the same bastards who shat on me my whole life. I don’t have to completely forgive all of humanity. Neither do you, in case you’re worried about that.”

The forgemaster crosses his arms on top of his knees. Same lonely life, same... conflicted feelings towards humankind. Different yet similar, him and the Belmont son.

“So, should we do this tomorrow?”

“Sorry?”

“Another sparring match. Your form is a bit stiff and I always need the practice. It’s up to you, though.”

“Will you be offended if I decline?”

Trevor laughs again. “Actually, I’ll be more offended if you say yes. I’m not the greatest teacher, but I’ll try my damnedest.”

If a sense of unification and god knows perhaps even camaraderie will help them win, then Hector might as well accept. But after some thought, he realizes it doesn’t have to be begrudgingly. He always believed that being alone was better. Alone, no one could hurt you. No one could use or tear you down. Alone, no one - not even one’s own self - would ever get hurt. Trevor must have understood that way of thinking at some point. Now here he is, offering companionship.

“Tomorrow...” Hector begins. “Alright. That... that would be alright.”