mt-musings

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

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Chapter 15 Drowning

It had been a while since Valion had made the trip to the Mortal Realm, since he’d seen her, nearly a year, for them. Longer than he liked, ordinarily, but things had been unstable Below, unstable enough to warrant his undivided attention. As far as he was concerned, the whole lot could go stick their heads in an oven, could rot and he'd be glad for it.

Still, he wouldn’t let it ruin his trip. It was already bad enough he was late, and for an important birthday, a new decade. He hoped the necklace he’d had made for her would make up for it, just a little. It was a powerful thing, woven with a blessing of protection—she’d need it, if she was to join him, and it was very nearly time.

Perhaps a few more years, if he could manage them. She was happy here, with her surrogate father and he was a good man, better than most. He’d raised her no different from a son, forced no suitors on her, ensured she was better educated than some princes. He was older, too, so it would be better to allow her the years she had left with him. It was the least he could do, for how he’d raised her.

Still—his heart ached at the thought of all he’d missed, Two decades wasn’t even the blink of an eye in the span of an immortal life, but it had been perhaps the most important of them. Children were rare, in the Faewild, rare enough that he’d probably never have another and he’d missed all the tottering milestones. He hadn’t seen her first steps or heard her first word, hadn’t been there to see the first wild blip of her magic. He’d been shorn of all the joys of her childhood, forced to watch in minute moments from the outside, as a stranger.

No matter how many times he visited, she never guessed who he was. She knew in her bones—it had been clear enough in the way she’d unwoven the glamour around the hair he’d touched when she was small, hardly five, already a deft hand. But there was never that sort of recognition in her eyes.

One day she would know, one day she would understand why, understand the sacrifice it had been, the wound it left, the wound he would happily bear a thousand times to ensure her safety, her happiness.

Not today, though. Today would be a normal visit, a perusal of the shop, a quick invisible jaunt upstairs to leave her present—

And perhaps he’d linger like that for a while. He liked to watch her work in the back, so clever and precise, liked the satisfaction it brought her, the pride. He hoped she’d keep it up, when he finally brought her home. She was already quite good, he could hardly guess how skilled she’d be after a century or two.

He froze when he turned the corner and saw the door to his daughter’s shop boarded up, the windows dark. He strode to the front door, nose wrinkling as he smelt blood—old and stale, but definitely blood. Familiar blood.

His daughter’s blood.

It was easy enough to step though to the other side of the door and he froze when he saw the chaos. The little shop was in near ruins, everything knocked over and broken, papers strewn about and smeared with ink and blood. Upstairs was hardly any better, the little apartment tossed about. He crossed to his daughter’s room and stood in the doorway, his throat tight.

Her bed was unmade, her things tossed around as if they’d been looking for something. He stooped as he saw a familiar little doll on the ground, its hair made from strands of silver, its face made to mirror hers.

She’d kept it, all these years, ferried it back from her house in Gresit. It had been well taken care of too, even though she was long past the age human girls played with dolls. He tucked it into his pocket, searching for more signs of his daughter, of his precious Moonbeam.

He’d been foolish to leave her so long in the human world, foolish and sentimental. He hadn’t thought a few more years with her foster parents would pose much issue, especially when it was clear how much she loved them, how much they adored her—

Of course they did, how could they not?

But they had been good to her, and she had been happy and safe and he’d taken that for granted, and now she was gone, long gone, by the scent of her blood.

Someone had hurt her. They’d stolen her away and they’d hurt and frightened her and he would see them flayed, pull apart their muscles strand by strand while they screamed for daring to lay a hand on her. His first duty as her father was to protect her and he’d failed, failed so absolutely that he wasn’t even sure precisely when he had.

He’d find her, though, find her and make it right.

Even if he had to burn the world to do it.

_____ dropped her head in her hands, her head pounding. She didn’t know if it was from lack of sleep, or stress, or simply how much more everything seemed—brighter and louder and more intense, ever since her glamour had been torn away. She could hear Adrian and Sypha murmuring quietly to one another on one of the upper floors of the library, could hear Trevor rifling through drawers a few shelves over. She felt raw, as if her skin had been removed and everything was directly in contact with her nerves.

She wished she knew how to put the glamour back on. They all looked at her so strangely now, and she couldn’t blame them—the face she wore now was unsettling and wrong. She’d be happy enough, too, to have everything dulled once more, to have it once more bearable—it was hard even to think with the amount of information assaulting her constantly.

That and the pain had taken on a new, uniquely sharp quality. She was much more aware of it and it was so much harder to ignore, especially because Adrian had been right, Sypha’s spell had done nothing to prevent the man from coming back, from trying to bury her once more. He’d been able to disrupt the connection again, but she’d spent the rest of the wee hours of the morning coughing up dirt until her throat was so raw it was mostly blood for a change.

All she wanted was to curl up and sleep for weeks, but she was too frightened to even try. She could feel herself getting sicker, growing more and more frail. She could no longer stop her hands from shaking, and it made her light-headed simply to stand.

She was just so tired. If she could only sleep for a few hours, maybe the words on the pages would begin to make sense again, maybe they’d stop swimming across the pages. What she wouldn’t do to fall asleep on her father’s green sofa in front of the window, to sleep in the warmth of the afternoon sun with a book on her chest, to wake with a blanket tucked around her, her father pouring over books at his desk.

What wouldn’t she give for him to be here with her now, to curl up in his arms and know that it would all be okay, that he’d take care of her, just like he always had?

A pang of loneliness his her so hard it knocked the breath from her chest.

Would he and her mother have wanted her, if they’d known what she was? Would anyone have?

Why had she been given away? What about her had been so wrong and wretched that her parents had left her with strangers?

“You look like shit,” Trevor said, flopping down onto one of the couches across from her.

“I’m being buried alive in my sleep, what’s your excuse?” she shot back, turning back to her book even if she couldn’t make sense of the words. To her surprise, Trevor laughed.

“You getting anywhere with all those books?” He asked, laying back on the couch.

“Not really,” she admitted. He nodded, closing his eyes.

“I never met one of you before,” he said, cushioning his head with his hands.

“An Austrian?”

“A faery. I had an uncle who did though. He offended it and they took his voice. Completely mute, until a Night Creature ripped him apart ten years later.”

“I’ll have to learn that one,” she quipped, pretending to read the tome in her lap. Her head pounded, enough to make her nauseous.

“I have a feeling that’ll be bad news for me.”

“And good news for polite society?”

Trevor flipped her a very impolite hand gesture and she snorted despite herself, letting her eyes slip shut. The firelight hurt, too bright against her eyes. She felt sick, her blood pounding too loud in her ears, like drumming beckoning her. If only she could rest, just for a bit, if she could just have a break from it all—

“Oh dear—you’re burning up.”

Her eyes fluttered open and she blinked up blearily at Adrian, who swam in and out of focus. Was he always so bright? He looked like sunlight, all gold and warm…

“_____!” She startled awake again, unsure of when she’d fallen asleep. Surely she’d just closed her eyes? She must have, she could still hear the drumming.

“You must—you must stay awake. Sypha is looking for a way to break the connection. Please,” Adrian said, and he looked distraught—he looked underwater, or rather, she was under water and he was above, peering at her.

That was it, she was underwater, that was why it was so hard to breathe, explained the weight on her chest, the chill in her bones.

Her eyes slipped shut, too heavy to hold open any longer.

Alucard set aside his pile of books on the coffee table as he approached the fire. Trevor was snoring loudly on one of the couches and usually he’d rudely awaken him on principle, but _____ too had managed to fall asleep and he was loathe to disturb her.

She’d been far too frightened to try again after he’d broken her free of her wretched dream the night before.

Still—she was too flushed. He knelt down to check her temperature, eyes going wide at the heat radiating off her. He’d thought he’d broken the fever, but here it was back and worse than before.

“Oh—dear, you’re burning up,” he said, pulling the blankets from her. She was soaked in sweat, enough that he should have noticed she was doing worse sooner, should have checked before now. Her eyes fluttered open, exhaustion and pain clear enough on her face. She blinked back at him, head lolling back as if he hadn’t the strength to hold it up, even a few inches.

She was supposed to be getting better, not worse. He’d broken her tormentor’s hold in minutes, hardly three, not long enough for him to hurt her as he had been, to leave fresh, dirt-covered wounds.

But she was still so sick.

He watched as her eyes took on the tell-tale haziness that denoted an attack and shook her, snapping her back awake.

He’d never taken her from waking before, never even from near-sleep. It had only ever been from deep in her dreams.

Was his hold growing?

“_____!” He cried as she began to slip off again, starling her—perhaps the adrenaline would help her to fight him. Alucard quickly stuttered out the banishing spell he’d used the night before, but it did nothing. He tried again—he’d stumbled over some of the Chaldean, that was it—

But her eyes remained white.

“Sypha! A little help here!” He shouted, returning to shaking her when the spell failed again. Sypha appeared at his shoulder, out of breath, eyes wide.

"What's going on?"

“It won’t dispel. The connection must be stronger, she was—she was awake when he started to take her.”

“Well that’s—that not good. We have to disrupt the connection somehow.”

“What’s going on—oh that’s freaky,” Trevor said as he sat up and took in the scene, _____'s blank eyes. Alucard and Sypha both ignored him, trying anything to break the connection.

He shook her again, harder than he ever wanted, but when her eyes opened they were green.

“You must—you must stay awake. Sypha is looking for a way to break the connection. Please,” he said, his heart hammering in his chest as she stared up at him. He didn’t know what to make of her expression. It was almost dreamy, somehow, even with the panic surrounding her, as if she couldn't see it.

He pulled her into his lap, hoping, perhaps, that the contact would be grounding, maybe it would be enough for her to focus on, to fight whatever was drawing her into sleep, drawing her away where he couldn’t drag her back.

“Please _____, please stay awake. Don’t go, please don’t go,” he said, combing her hair back from her face, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as she tried—he knew she was trying. She was always such a fighter, he just needed her to for a little while longer, until Sypha broke the connection, until she’d be safe.

Her eyes slipped shut, despite his yelling, despite how he shook her, despite the dozens of times he recited the spell that should have worked, should have brought her back, but she just lay limp in his arms. Sypha had located some book and was chanting from it, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything either.

He pulled her to his chest, tears pricking at his eyes at the ragged way she breathed, as if each one was an agony, as if there was hardly any space left in them at all.

She was dying. She was dying in his arms and there was nothing he could do. He’d promised he’d help—and what help had he been? He’d hardly even managed to make her comfortable.

She couldn’t die, he couldn’t bear her haunting him too, couldn’t bear the silent halls, the silence that should have been filled with her heartbeat, or laughter, or witty observations. She couldn’t haunt him when he’d hardly even gotten to know her, when there was so much left to discover, when for once in the face of the eons stretching before him he’d met someone who be around to see what they brought.

Who he’d like to perhaps see them with. Who he shouldn't have to mourn. 

“Please wake,” he begged, voice little more than a whisper. “You must, please.”

He hardly looked up at Trevor’s shout, hardly cared that the wood of the divan had been brought back to life, that it grew into a sort of canopy around them bursting through the cushioned back, that it bloomed in a matter of minutes.

He only cared that she lay limp and unresponsive in his arms, that her shallow breathes were growing further apart but no deeper, that he couldn’t even remember the last thing he’d said to her this morning before he started combing the library with Sypha. It didn’t matter what it had been, it hadn’t been right, hadn’t been any of the things he should have said if it was the last time he’d speak to her. He hadn’t told her how dear she’d become to him, or that he didn’t want her to go back to Vienna, or even that he wanted her to stay, that she was welcome to. 

That he'd miss her, desperately. 

He held her tighter, begging her to wake, because this couldn’t be the end. He wasn’t ready.

The water was black, and oh so deep. It didn’t hurt, though, it was just cold and dark. If she could breathe properly she might not even mind it, it might have been relaxing, a relief. It was so quiet—quiet like the castle before Sypha and Trevor arrived, quiet like her townhouse in Vienna never was. She let her head roll back, basking in the cool water.

She forced another breath, the water rushing down her throat, unafraid that she would drown—shouldn’t she be afraid? No, the water was so cool, so soothing to her ragged lungs.

“Breathe, just breathe, my darling.”

Why was the voice familiar? It rattled around in the shreds of her chest, pulling on heartstrings. She took another breath and her lungs didn’t feel so raw, so full of blood and earth.

“I’m tired,” she murmured, her eyes slipping shut.

“I know.”

She felt slender hands on her cheeks, pleasantly cool against her burning skin, thumbs tracing her cheekbones. She leaned into the sensation—why? Why did she trust it?

“I’m so tired,” she whined, and she could feel tears slipping down her cheeks, if only for their warmth.

“Sleep, sweetling. You have nothing to fear while I’m here.”

She believed him—why did she believe him? Was she simply too exhausted not to? Was his voice too sweet to deny him?

She wanted to believe him, wanted to sleep without fear of choking on the earth in her lungs. She felt fingers carding in her hair, felt herself being cradled in strong arms, held close.

“Breathe, just breathe. The water will help. It will be better when you wake.”

She felt herself drifting, her head lolling back onto an unknown shoulder, fingers still gently combing through her hair, a cheek pressed to the top of her head.

“It will be alright. I am coming for you, Moonbeam. It won’t be long,” the voice murmured, almost lost to the haze of sleep. When it did take her, though, it was dreamless and deep, everything fading away to nothing.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

37. Back from the Dead

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

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“Word around the camp is that congratulations are in order, Aduadar,” Jaheira said as she strode over to the far corner of camp Halsin had gone to take refuge from his thoughts. Lythra had disappeared off with Astarion after Raphael’s appearance, and he’d found himself feeling unmoored.

It wasn’t surprising—the last two centuries of his life had just been branched, re-written.

And it was hardly a nice story.

Halsin laughed, though, at Jaheira’s pronouncement. That was perhaps the only light in the revelation.

“I see that word travels fast.”

“Among this bunch? I am surprised it took until morning for me to hear,” she said, taking a seat on the log next to him, raising an eyebrow. “So how are you taking it?”

“I have...mixed feelings,” he said evenly.

“That is understandable. Your cub is struggling with it. She cares very much for you.”

“Yes, I do think that is part of the problem. She seems intent on assigning herself blame where their is none.”

“She is a stubborn thing. I very much like that about her, but it is a double-edged sword.”

“Indeed.”

Jaheira fixed him in her steely gaze. “And how about you, Archdruid? Have you too saddled yourself with guilt where you have none?”

He huffed a laugh at that, the sound without humor. “It is not fun to be under your piercing eyes, Jaheira.”

“No, but I think the cub is not the only one who needs a little sense knocked back in their head.”

“Oh?” he said mildly.

“Is this your first?”

“I—I suppose. I have raised no others and—I am at a bit of a loss as to what role to play. She is not a child, but only just, and yet she has been taking care of herself for...years. I do not wish to smother her, but my instinct is to shelter her where I am able.”

Jaheira furrowed her brow. “I did not think her so young.”

“Perhaps twenty. She said she’d be twenty in the fall.”

“Oakfather preserve us,” she said shaking her head. “No wonder she was such a terror taking down Ketheric. They are all rather horrifying at that age—reckless and mission blinded. She will do well to have your guidance.”

“I...am trying to be sparing with it, for now. I don’t want to push her away.”

“I assume that is why you have done nothing about Astarion?”

Halsin dropped his elbows to his knees, his head in his hands. “It is a unique torment to watch the foolishness of youth from the other side of centuries. I do think he cares for her, but—she is so very young and has known so very little outside of cruelty and survival. It is a dangerous thing to mix with two centuries of torment.”

“Aye, but, as you say, that is from the far side of centuries. They never do believe that we might know best. Always so bull-headed until in comes time to put all the pieces back in order.”

“I—I am just trying to trust her judgement, for now.”

“While keeping a very close eye,” she said shrewdly. He huffed a laugh at that.

“Yes, well, it is as compromising as I find myself capable of. Even before I found myself most protective of her, ever since I learned of her youth.”

Jaheira stared at him for a long moment. “And how are you coping with the rest?”

“I—I am trying not to think about it, as much as I am able. To learn that I have a daughter, after caring for Lythra and treating her wounds, learning the horrors inflicted on her, and then to know that they are the same that inflicted them, that I fathered a creature so cruel—it weighs on me.”

“I’d be more worried if it didn’t. Still—you both have a chance to start anew, now. Assuming we can deal with the Chosens of Bhaal and Bane and prevent them unleashing a netherbrain on the Sword Coast. Easy-peasy,” Jaheira said in mock-seriousness.

“Well when you put it that way we should be done by the end of the week,” he quipped back. She clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Halsin. And if you need an ear—”

“I appreciate it,” he said sincerely.

“Alright, I will leave you to your brooding. I must sleep if I am to keep up with all these youngsters.”

He watched her go, disappearing towards her tent. He wasn’t sure if voicing any of the things in his head had helped, but his chest did feel a little lighter.

“Are you alright?” Lythra asked, searching Astarion’s face as he pretended to read. He’d retired to his tent earlier than usual. He’d been quiet ever since Raphael’s visit.

Thinking, she knew. It was an awful lot to think about.

She’d already talked to Wyll and the others and made them aware of the increased danger, that Cazador needed Astarion to complete his horrible ritual. They’d need all eyes on the lookout for any of his agents, especially at night.

Still, it was more than just safety—he’d had an infernal contract carved into his back, had been made simply to be tormented and then cast into the Hells.

“I—well, yes of course, darling,” he replied, too fast and in his lying voice. Perhaps it worked on others, but she’d always been able to tell—maybe it took one to know one, though she’d sooner say nothing than speak too much and give away her hand.

Or maybe it was just because too often she couldn’t even find the words.

“Could—could I give you a hug?” she asked, chest tight.

He furrowed his brow, making a face but nodded, reaching towards her. She scooted next to him and wrapped her arms around his waist, her face pressed to his shoulder. He gently shut his book and returned it, holding on perhaps tighter than he usually would.

She wished she had the words to make him feel even a little better, wished she was like Halsin and always seemed to have them right at his disposal. Instead she just held him like the terribly precious thing he was and hope he knew she meant it when she’d said she’d do anything to free him from Cazador’s yoke.

She’d make sure they stopped that Rite, no matter what.

Astarion opted to stay behind the next morning, rather than go out with any of the scouting parties. Karlach had agreed to stay behind with him to keep an eye out. Lythra was half sure they’d burn down the camp if they got board, but she’d jammed everything of real importance to her into he bag, so she wouldn’t be too upset if they did.

Now if they burnt Gale’s books she’d bet he’d be a lot less forgiving.

He, Wyll, and Shadowheart were going out to gather more intel in Rivington while she’d decided to go with Jaheira and Halsin further into the city to gather what they could. She didn’t know why Halsin had decided to come—he clearly hated the city. It was fair, really—when compared with his Grove it was dirty and loud and violent.

Lythra had almost missed it.

At least she knew the city, was sure in her footing. She knew where she could run, where she could hide, where she could turn for a quick job to make some coin—

She’d have to deal with Trelgath. She couldn’t let such treachery stand, though she could hardly go deal with it properly with a High Harper and an Archdruid tailing her, never mind her grandfather.

Yeah, that would go well—hey Aduadar, just hang out here in a really shitty part of the city while I go kill a guy for selling me out to your grandson. She’d have to ditch him—Halsin might be an extraordinarily good person, but she was not and she wasn’t going to to stand for an arrogant shit-heel selling her out.

She had a reputation to maintain, and she’d learned very early that if you let one person walk on you, everyone would try.

“I had hoped there might have been a greater balance within the city,” Halsin said, voice dark. “That it’s wall enable sheltering within it to foster community, peace...yet it is not so.”

“Yeah, not so much a balance as a hierarchy of predators,” Lythra replied almost absently, eyes sweeping the street. “A vicious ecosystem. It’s usually not this bad, though.”

She made a face at a passing Steel Watcher. They made her particularly uncomfortable.

“The cub is right, these Chosen have thrown everything out of balance,” Jaheira said, scowling. Lythra had thought she’d share Halsin’s distaste of the city, being a druid, but apparently she was a proud Baldurian.

“How is anything supposed to flourish in a place like this?” Halsin asked, making a face. Lythra fought the urge to laugh—she knew he was being sincere, but the idea just struck her as ridiculous. There was no flourishing, there was survival, if you were strong enough and stubborn enough. Flourishing was perhaps a privilege of of the wilds or the Upper City, but for most it was simply about surviving, and surviving comfortably if you were lucky.

“Life finds a way, Archdruid, even in the most inhospitable environments,” Jaheira replied. Lythra caught him glance at her at that, reach out and put his hand on her shoulder almost the reassure himself.

She tried to offer him a reassuring smile, but it felt strange on her face.

It was still weird, knowing he was her grandfather. She still couldn’t shake the vice of guilt from her chest, despite what he said.

Maybe part of it was because she’d realized her mother had inherited his eyes. They were the same hazel, warm and bright and welcoming on Halsin, but it was the same hazel she’d grown up loathing. The hazel that had stolen her mother’s inheritance, that made her hate her so, so much, that made her do every horrible thing to her.

She couldn’t count the number of nights growing up that she’d wished and prayed and just hoped they’d turn red like her grandmother’s than she’d be freed from the sin of her birth.

But they were Halsin’s eyes, Halsin, who was perhaps her first true friend in the world, long before Astarion had any affection for her beyond her use. Halsin’s hazel eyes that were perhaps the first to look kindly on her since she’d killed her Kel’nar and Xaryn.

She felt guilty for hating them all these years.

Of course it was just another thing to add to the pile. Another of her sins, her transgressions, her crimes. Small, compared to most of the others, but no less damning.

She felt Halsin give her shoulder a squeeze and looked up, realizing that she’d just been staring at the cobbled street. She was lucky Jaheira was with her and keeping an eye, she was practically asking to get pickpocketed—

“Lythie? Gods, is that—?”

Lythra looked across to the other side of the square to see a drow man at the standing as if frozen, at his familiar curling hair and broad shoulders, the lightness of his eyes that she knew was a silver-green. His skin was freckled from the sun, expression lighter than she’d ever seen it.

She was going crazy, properly insane, absolutely cuckoo bonkers. She had to be if she was seeing the dead, if she was hearing them call to her over the noise of the city.

“Who is that, little one?” Halsin asked, ducking to ask her quietly. She shook, her heart threatening to burst out of her chest. 

She couldn’t make her mouth work, couldn’t pull breath into her lungs. She was losing it, none of it was real, he was, he was—

“Lythie?” He called again and she turned and ran, darting away faster than either of the druids could grab her.

That couldn’t be Xaryn, it was some sort of sick trick, he was dead, she’d killed him, she’d crushed him under hundreds and hundreds of pounds of stones, he was dead and it was her fault, it had always been her fault. He was dead and she was going crazy, the godsdamned tadpole finally eating enough of her brain that she was fully losing it, imagining her dead brother alive and in Baldur’s Gate, alive and enjoying the light of the sun—

“LYTHRANA! LYTHIE, COME BACK!” She heard Xaryn shout and darted down a side alley, and another, changing direction and vaulting over a fence. She downed a potion of Hill Giant Strength and used a drain pipe to climb up atop the roof, stepping lightly across the terracotta tiles. The potion gave her the strength she needed to leap across the width of the alley to the next bank of row houses and keep running.

Was this what the damn devil had been so smug about? That she hadn’t killed her brother, but he was in the city, that he’d been hunting her down and not Kel? Because if he was really still alive then he was certainly furious at her for nearly killing him, and for killing her father and he was here to finally put her down.

She’d deserve it, she knew. Still, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him.

She had home field advantage, after all.

“Where are we going, Fangs?”

“We don’t need to be going anywhere. I’m going to find a shop.”

“Ooooh, I haven’t been properly shopping in ages. Not a lot of options in Avernus,” she said, skipping along next to him. Astarion sighed, wishing she’d just stayed behind. He needed time to think—quiet time, and Karlach was not a fan of silence.

Still...she was charming, he supposed, in a very loud and boisterous way. It didn’t mean he lingered any longer than he needed to pick up what he required.

Still, he retreated back into his tent when they returned, more than done with being social.

He had enough to think about. He wished the devil had brought him the actual terms of the contract, wished he could comb through it, looking for answers.

Lythra was Hells-bent on helping him kill Cazador, but maybe there was a way to do more than that. To highjack the ritual for himself—then he wouldn’t need the tadpole anymore to walk in the sun, he’d have all the power of a master vampire but the luxuries of the living.

And he could keep them safe.

After all, who could touch them then—if he had that sort of power, Lythra would never have to fear her family again. No one would ever abuse either of them again. They’d be untouchable.

He dug through Lythra’s bag and pulled out the lilac dress she’d shoved inside with the rest of her clothes. He wondered when she’d worn it, before the tadpole, if she’d worn it to go out to the taverns at night to watch the bards play, memorizing the songs so she could teach them to herself later.

His stomach twisted uncomfortably thinking of her all alone in a tavern, head hazey from drink—she’d have made a perfect mark for him or his siblings. Sure, she was clever and so untrusting and bristly, but underneath that she was so soft. Sweet, even, and lonely. He’d have wrapped her around his finger just as easily as after the tiefling’s party.

And then he’d have handed her off to Cazador to torture and kill.

He clenched his jaw, fishing out the supplies he’d half-bought, half-filched. No one was ever going to make him a slave again, to force him to do a damn thing. He would never be powerless again—never.

He had to figure out a way to complete that ritual. If he did he could guarantee they’d be safe, have the means to protect them from anything.

He threaded his needle, assessing the neck of the dress.

Yes, he need only figure out how to go about sabotaging the ritual and taking it for himself.

Not just himself. He never wanted Lythra to be afraid another day in her life.

Xaryn swore as she sprinted away, face bloodless and fear in her eyes. Had she already run into Kel, did she think he was looking to drag her back too?

He hated when she looked at him like that, hated that she’d ever be afraid of him like Kel—hated that he’d had to be aloof and distant to remain close enough to look out for her as much as he was able in that horrible House.

He pushed through the crowd in the direction she’d gone, heart hammering in his chest.

She was here, he’d found her, he was going to bring her home. Gods, Elendar would be ecstatic—

“Uh-uh, not so fast Pretty Boy,” said an older blonde half-elf, some sort of druid by the look of her garb. She put a hand on his chest to stop him, despite being nearly a foot shorter than him. “I don’t know about where you come from, but here we do not chase down frightened little girls.”

“I—I‘m not chasing her down. I just need to talk to her, it’s a shock,” he said, moving to side-step her. Really, he quite liked her, quite liked that it seemed some people were willing to stand up for what was right in Baldur’s Gate.

He just couldn’t spend all his time convincing her of his pure intent while she disappeared again. While the knife made her far easier to find, he didn’t know the city and the twisting streets made it all the harder to stay on course in the right direction.

“Yes, that is very convincing, girl-chaser,” she said sarcastically, stepping with him to keep blocking his exit. He ground his teeth.

“Let me by.”

“I don’t think I will.”

“I’m not asking.”

“That is good, then I won’t have to refuse you.”

Xaryn closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. This woman was an innocent bystander and one with enough spine to step in when she saw a scared girl being chased by a large drow man.

“I promise you, ma’am, I am doing nothing untoward. That is my sister, who I haven’t seen in seven years and I have been looking for her since we got separated in the Underdark. She darts when frightened and I’m sure it was a shock after so long,” he said, having to work to keep his voice cordial and even.

Every moment he spent convincing this lady was a moment for Lythie to get farther away, for something to happen, for her to get hurt because she wasn’t paying attention properly because she was scared.

Gods—that was how this whole mess started. They’d finally made it through the city and to the tunnels out, bloodied but mostly unharmed. He’d thought they’d be safer in the tunnels, thought the demons would be too busy wreaking havoc on the city and he hadn’t checked behind them, hadn’t seen the demons that had pealed off to chase them.

But Lythra had, and she’d been frightened and she’d tried to blast them away with her magic, but it never quite worked right after their mother began her ‘lessons’ and it exploded out of her, too strong. He didn’t know if she’d missed in her fear or if it had simply rebounded on the tunnel itself, but part of the ceiling came crashing down in huge chunks of stone.

He’d yanked Elendar out of the way of the rockfall, but Lythie had screeched, stuck in the middle of it and darted to the other side, away from them, trying to protect her head. He’d hardly been able to cast a Warding Bond over her before she disappeared in all the stone.

He and Elendar had been lucky—they’d been at the edge of the cave in, but Lythie—

He’d been staggered by the amount of damage he’d taken over the bond. She’d have been dead without it, but she’d been hurt and badly and they couldn’t move the stones fast enough to get to her.

It had been his job to protect her, and he hadn’t managed it for even an hour.

He needed to fix it, needed to explain, to apologize, needed to bring her back to ilharn so they could finally be reunited.

“That is a very specific story, Pretty Boy, but I’ll not let you chase after her. If your story is true and she wishes to speak to you, where should she seek you out?”

He opened his mouth and shut it. Perhaps this woman wasn’t so much of a stranger to his sister—she was keeping good company then, at least, and it was a fair thing to ask, even if it made him sick to think about just sitting and waiting for her, wondering if she was okay, if she’d come.

“The Blade and Stars. We have a room, it’s under Lunaris.”

“I will tell her,” the woman said simply. Xaryn nodded.

“Th-thank you,” he said, chest tight. “I—”

He broke off, digging through his pocket. He pulled out his favorite, pearl-handled knife—not a dagger, but a thing of utility.

Elendar had given it to him, when he’d turned forty. He didn’t know how he’d gotten the funds to commission it, what favors he had traded, but he’d kept it on him always, since.

Lythie knew that, even if she didn’t know why.

“Give her this. Tell her—tell her she can return it or keep it. I—I am glad she has friends such as yourself. Thank, you for looking after her. I—I will wait at the inn,” he said, handing her the knife, handle first. He stood frozen as she stepped back, still watching him, before she turned and disappeared down the same alley as his sister.

His chest hurt.

He needed a drink. Or three.

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15

Chapter 14 Undoings

She dreamed of choking black earth and thorns cutting into her skin, of yellow sharpened teeth and the familiar voice that made her skin crawl as it dragged her deeper and deeper into the earth.

“He won’t save you. Give up. It will be so much easier if you just give up.”

He called to her and her mouth tasted of dirt and iron, her lungs seizing with it, her fingers bloodied to the bone as she tried desperately to claw herself back up to the surface.

She was too frightened to give up, even if her body begged her to, too stubborn to relax her fingers and allow herself to be dragged deeper into the loam. She knew—she knew—if she did it would mean the end for her, a wretched, screaming end that she would regret far more than her bloody fingers or the dirt in her lungs.

She knew the voice promised ruin, knew it would be absolute—

She wasn’t ready.

“Wake up—wake up!” Alucard cried, sending a bolt of intent at the light switch as he shook her, fear like a shard of ice in his chest. Every muscle in her body was pulled taught, her fingers bloodied as if from clawing her way through something. Her eyes had that same strange milkiness they had the last time and her breath rattled in her lungs as she choked on grave dirt.

He panicked when she didn’t react and shook her harder, though that did little more.

“_____, please! Please wake up!” He shouted, but she didn’t react.

The door burst open and Sypha appeared, followed by Trevor who had a blade drawn, eyes combing about the room for enemies. Sypha, though, darted to his side, hands already twisting into the base for an unfamiliar spell.

A silvery-blue light washed over _____ and something shifted in the air, something almost electric and powerful. He didn’t have long to consider it, though, because she sat straight up, hacking up blood and earth, tears pouring down her cheeks as she returned to herself.

“What did you do?” He asked Sypha as he sat up, tracing soothing patterns on the back of her nightshirt as she coughed.

“It was a spell I found in your father’s library. It’s meant to dispel other magicians’ magic. I thought it might be enough to break the caster’s hold.”

When she finally stopped coughing enough to sit up, Alucard froze, eyes widening. Sypha’s spell had don more than just break the caster’s connection, it had unraveled something he hadn’t realized had been woven around her.

He’d thought her pretty before, with her silver hair and bright eyes, but now it was as if her features had come into focus for the first time. Her hair wasn’t just silver, if was like liquid moonlight running down her back. He realized her eyes hadn’t really registered as any color before, just bright, but they were green, green like emeralds glimmering in firelight.

Her features were more delicate than they’d seemed, eyes bigger, lashes longer, everything somehow sharper and more delicate at the same time. Everything that had been human had slipped away, leaving something ethereal and other in its place, something so striking he wondered how it could have ever been disguised to appear ordinary.

She was something more than beautiful, something so lovely it nearly hurt to look at her. It was _____’s familiar expressions, though, her mannerisms. He reached over to grab her a cup of water from the nightstand, helping her to hold in a shaky hand, her fingers longer and more slender than what he remembered.

“Oh, fuck, this is bad,” Trevor said, eyes locked on _____. Alucard shot him a dirty look.

“Get out,” he snapped at him. Trevor shot him a rude hand gesture but complied, though he only stepped outside the door and out of sight, though Alucard could still hear his heart hammering in the hall.

He was frightened.

“Adrian?” _____ rasped, tears still pouring down her cheeks. “I feel strange.”

“There must have been a glamour the spell undid too,” Sypha said, staring at her, wide-eyed. “I hadn’t thought of that, only of breaking the connection.”

“That is all that matters. We’ll figure the rest out.”

“A glamour?”

“It’s—it’s a type of fae magic,” he said, unable to pull his eyes from her. Sypha cleared her throat and stepped away.

“I—I am going to head back to bed. Just—holler if you need anything, okay?” She said, eyes still wide. Alucard just nodded as she left, closing the door behind herself. He didn’t look up, gently examining _____’s torn fingers, the earth that stained her skin along with her blood. It didn’t make sense—she’d been right here, next to him the entire time. He’d—hell, he’d had his arm wrapped around her, knew she hadn’t left the bed, never mind the castle.

“What—what sort of glamour did she undo, Adrian?” she asked raggedly.

“I—I daresay she undid whatever glamour was placed on you as a child to let you blend in with your human parents,” he said, still struck by the difference.

“You mean I’m not—I don’t look human any more?” She asked, voice barely more than a whisper as she reached up to feel her face. She shoved the blankets off herself and  stood shakily, balancing herself with the edge of the bed to make her way towards the door. He was out of bed a second later to steady her, stomach swooping as she looked up at him with those unfamiliar eyes, the expression the same as the girl he’d known.

“I—I need to see,” she said and he nodded, helping her to one of the bathrooms with a mirror. She just stared, face ashen and eyes wide.

“Are you alright?” He asked after nearly fifteen minutes. She shook her head. To his surprise she turned and pressed her face to his chest, arms wrapping tightly around his waist. He hesitated a moment before hugging her back, pressing his nose to her hair.

“I really am a monster,” she said, voice muffled by his shirt.

“You’re not. Not even close.”

“I kept hoping you were all wrong, that it was a mistake. I wanted it to be a mistake.”

The last word was torn from her throat in a sob, her shoulders shaking. He held her tighter, one hand running soothingly over her hair—it even felt different, finer and softer, like silk from the East.

“We’re going to figure it out. It’s all going to be okay—“

“How can it be okay, Adrian? I look—I look wrong. There’s not a thing remaining of the girl I was, just—just whatever the creature is that I really am.”

“There is, _____. All the important bits are the same, it’s just the outside that’s a little different. Everything that’s you is the same.”

She stared up at him like she was trying so desperately to believe him, like she wanted him to be right but couldn’t wrap her head around it.

“It’ll seem better in the morning. Everything always does,” he said, thumbing away the tear tracks across her cheeks. She nodded, even as her lip wobbled, nodded because she wanted him to be right, trusted him to be.

He just had to make sure her trust wasn’t misplaced.

Sypha was quite sure Trevor was right, which in and of itself was most irritating. He was right about the way Alucard looked at _____, about the way his face softened, about the way he looked at her as if she were the only person in the room. He was clearly fond of her, fonder even, she thought than he realized himself. And she—

It was clear she cared for Alucard, clear he made her feel safe. More than that, though, it was clear she liked him, or rather, perhaps it was truer that she liked Adrian, the young man Sypha wasn’t sure her or Trevor ever really got to know. He was just different around her, different than the man they’d known, though she wasn’t sure she could put her finger on it.

Of course, part of that could just have been when they’d met. She doubted the Alucard she’d met after he’d killed his father was the same they’d met before. She doubted the man who’d staked the bodies outside for seducing and trying to murder him was the same they’d left behind.

Honestly, she wondered why he’d ever let her in, after that.

“How—how did you and Alucard meet?” She asked the girl, trying not to stare at the new face she wore—or rather, her true face.

It was hard not to. It was entrancing in an odd sort of way. Beautiful but alien in a way she struggled to put her finger on. 

She looked up from the book she’d been scouring and swallowed hard. “He—saved me. I’d been kidnapped by these horrible men from my house in Vienna and I managed to get away and run into the forest. He killed them, rather than let them drag me back and he took care of me. I daresay I’ve been a rather poor houseguest.”

“Do you know why they took you?”

She shook her head, making a face. “Not then. Now, I’d guess it was because of what I am. I don’t know how they knew, though. I—I never had a clue. Of course, I never thought such things real, so…” she trailed off, looking away, tears welling along her lash lines. It was clear enough she was replaying horrible memories behind her eyes, no doubt of whatever had been done to her between Alucard’s castle and Vienna. Sypha reached out a hand and took hers gently.

“I’m sorry, for what they did. I’m very glad Alucard was able to save you.”

“Me too,” she said quietly.

“Will you stay, after?”

“What?”

“After you’re better? Are you going to stay?”

“I—I couldn’t. I’ve already imposed enough—“

“I think he rather likes your company. And he mentioned you were a book-maker. I’m sure he could use the help repairing everything here. I mean, unless, of course you have things to get back to.”

“I—I don't know. I’m quite sure Adrian will prefer some peace and quiet once this is all over and I’ve certainly overstayed my welcome.”

Sypha made a face, but didn’t press. It seemed, perhaps, she was the only one who didn’t realize how he felt. She was quite sure Alucard would be miserable if left alone again in the big empty castle, more miserable for her, specifically, leaving.

She wondered how _____ didn’t see how fond he was of her, how he oriented himself to her when she was in the room. Hell—she doubted he had left her room at all the night before. He’d had to have been there, to have heard her nightmare, and he’d been cradling her in his arms as she and Trevor burst in, begging her to wake.

She’d rarely seen him look so frightened.

“Have you tried magic before?” Sypha asked out of sudden curiosity. She shook her head.

“Never on purpose. It always just—it just happened.”

“I could teach you something. Something simple.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. If you could make the bannister grow then I bet it would be very easy for you.”

“I—al-alright,” she said, looking dubious, but excited. Sypha grinned back at her.

“Do you really think you’re going to find anything that’s going to fix any of this?” Trevor asked, glaring at the back of Alucard’s head. He didn’t turn, grabbing another book.

“With your family’s cataloguing system? Not without divining its location from the entrails of a goat or something. It will take decades to put this mess into workable order.”

“Very funny. But really, do you understand what you’re playing at? You know why that blade burned her so badly—“

“Because you’re a despicable excuse for a man with no sense of compassion for a woman already tormented and in pain?”

Trevor ignored him. “Because you know the blessing would hurt an Unseelie way more than if she was Seelie. And by the way, no woman who’s as innocent as you’re making her out to be has that good of a right cross.

“Maybe she’s had the unfortunate luck of meeting quite a few people like you.”

“Or maybe there’s more to her than this fragile damsel in distress act. Maybe she’s setting you up for some trap.”

“Then it would be a truly poor trap since she’s begged me to just let her walk off into the woods to die, rather than chancing my safety by having whoever is hunting her coming here and hurting me in their bid to steal her away. Even more poor since the first thing she asked me was not to save her from the beasts brutalizing her and threatening to cut off her toes, but to kill her too, if only it meant they would rot. Somehow, I think her cleverer than that.”

Trevor stared at him. He hadn’t expected either of those things from the fragile thing that cowered behind Alucard, but then, maybe he should have, he thought, absently rubbing his jaw. Maybe she’d been a different sort of girl before she was mostly dead.

“What are you going to do, then? If you cure her and fix her—what then? What’s you plan?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do, you’re not that thick. What do you plan to do about her? Just sit here and pine for a few centuries? Normally I’d concil against it, but you both have the time considering you’re both nigh-immortal. Have you told her that bit yet? Have you told her anything important?”

“Why should I make this even harder on her?”

“Maybe because some of it’s important? Like, really important?”

“She’s overwhelmed enough.”

“Yeah, and Sypha just unwove the glamour that had been protecting her. It’s not like she can just pretend to be an ordinary human anymore.”

“I’m going to do it over time. There’s no point in dumping it all on her at once.”

“So then you’re planning on keeping her around?” He asked raising his brow. Alucard gave him a dirty look before turning back to the stacks.

“Have you told her you want her to stay? Or that you’re in love with her, or any of it?”

“I’m not—I’m not in love with her,” he spluttered, refusing to turn around, no doubt because he was bright red. 

“Yeah, okay. So then you’re fine with her leaving.”

“She’s free to do whatever she likes.”

“So if she decides to go find her real parents in the Under Court expecting a happy reunion, you’re just going to let her?”

Alucard didn’t reply.

“Thought so.”

“That doesn’t prove anything other than the fact I don’t want her dead.”

“I think you want more than that.”

“I don’t care what you think.”

“You do, or you wouldn’t have called us here.”

“I called Sypha here. You’re an unfortunate side effect.”

“You should be more grateful, I’m the one who figured out she was fae to begin with.”

“By chance.”

“Not by chance. It’s what I bloody do!”

“And you’ve yet to have one helpful thing to say on the matter.”

“I’ve said plenty helpful, the most being that you need to fucking tell her how you feel and what’s actually going on. It doesn’t help either of you to lie, and it never helps anyone to lie to the bloody fae. You shouldn’t need a book to tell you that, you dhamphiric asshole.”

Alucard walked away without another word, the still set of his shoulders telling Trevor that he was highly unlikely to listen.

Alucard paused as he heard a crash as he and Trevor returned to the castle laden with books from the Hold—not from the library, but from the direction of the ballroom.

He paused for a moment before he heard Sypha swear. Belmont must be rubbing off on her.

He sighed, setting aside his pile of books before striding towards the ballroom. Trevor followed after a moment, confusion clear on his face.

“Where are we going?”

“The ballroom, I think.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure yet.

Alucard froze in the doorway as he spotted _____ and Sypha, a great scorch mark across the marble floor, in the midst of the debris from the battle. _____ was perched in a wooden chair, her hands outstretched as she held out a globe of silvery light, her eyes wide. Sypha, too, looked rather surprised, which only made him wonder what it was she’d intended to teach her.

“Seeing what else around here you can melt, Syph?” Trevor called and she shot him a dirty look.

“I didn’t melt it.”

“You definitely did.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Alucard said, almost as a reflex, eyes locked on the mote of light in _____’s hands. It wasn’t anything like Sypha’s elemental fire or lightening, in fact, he very much wanted to know if it even burned hot. It looked much closer to moonlight, than anything else.

Fae magic was strange and incomprehensible. Was this the result of Sypha teaching her an arcane invocation?

_____ looked up and met his gaze, the mote of light flickering out. She smiled sheepishly at him. He crossed to her side, gently taking her hands in his and turning them over, looking for any burns.

Any fresh burns, he thought acidly, thinking of how to best pay Trevor back for his little stunt. 

Trevor conspicuously cleared his throat behind him, which he ignored.

“She did everything right, but she can’t make flame,” Sypha said, brows furrowed. “No matter how much we try it.”

“That’s because it’s fae magic. It doesn’t matter what words you say, it follows different rules,” Trevor said as he walked over.

“What rules?” _____ asked. Trevor laughed, pointing at her.

“That’s the big question, isn’t it? No one knows, not really. It’s tied to nature, maybe, or whatever Court they’re from, or it’s something else entirely. It’s just not human.”

Her face fell at that. Alucard fought the urge to kick Trevor in the ankle. Sypha felt no such compunctions and smacked him on the back of his head.

“You do not have to be so rude all the time, Trevor Belmont.”

“I’m not being rude.”

“You are.”

“Since when is it rude to tell the truth? Faery magic is incomprehensible. That’s why it’s more dangerous than most, because we don’t understand how it works. Do you know how you made the bannister grow?” He asked _____.

She shook her head. “No.”

“See. Even she doesn’t get it. Magic is something you bastards learned,” he said, nodding to Alucard and Sypha. “It’s something she has. Something she is. That’s the difference.”

“Who made you the authority on magic?” Sypha shot back at him. Alucard, though, offered _____ his arm, tired of the argument, of the way it made her wilt.

“How about some tea? I can show you what we found in the Hold.”

She nodded and took his arm He helped her to her feet, serving as stabilization as she slowly made her way to the door with him. He should go about finding her a walking stick, soon. He hadn’t been pressing her to practice walking as he should have been, what with everything else, but she’d need to, to avoid a limp or any permanent harm. It had been a truly awful break.

He picked her up when they reached the stairs and carried her to the kitchen, disappearing briefly only to retrieve his pile of books, which he set beside her before busying himself at the stove.

“Sypha is very nice,” she said quietly as he filled the kettle. He found himself smiling as he lit the stove.

“She is, isn’t she?”

“I like her very much.”

“What was she trying to teach you?” He asked, turning to lean on the counter as he waited for it to boil.

“Well, she made a little ball of flame. And she could make them fly across the room.”

“I was wondering what happened to the floor.”

She laughed, ducking her head. “She’s very good at it. I think it must have been very easy for her to melt the castle.”

“Far easier than I would have thought. So then, what did you do?” He asked, amusement plain.

“Well, I—I tried, but, this is all I could manage,” she said, curling her fingers into one of Sypha’s familiar casting positions. He watched as another mote of silver light appeared, growing brighter as she furrowed her brow. After a moment she gave it a little push up and it hung in the air above them like a miniature star.

“That is quite impressive, especially for someone who didn’t believe in magic a few months ago.”

“It makes me think—“ she broke off, shaking her head.

“What?”

“It just—maybe it’s not all bad. Maybe some of it’s good. I hope some of it’s good.”

“It is. It will be, once we deal with whoever it doing all this.”

“I—I suppose,” she said, though she sounded unsure.

“What—what will you do after?” He asked, turning to pour the boiling water into the teapot. She didn’t answer for a long second.

“I—I don’t know. I suppose first on the list would be finding shoes,” she said seriously, and he found himself laughing. Sometimes she had such a odd way of organizing the world around her--of course she'd need shoes, before she did anything else. Of course, then, that would be the first thing on her mind, before deciding to return to Vienna or to set out somewhere new. She looked up, brows furrowed and he smiled at her.

“I think I could help with that. Depending on how you’re feeling I could probably help even before we get everything sorted, if you wanted. I’d forgotten I’d had to throw yours out. There was hardly any sole left to them.”

“Yes, well, they were meant for cobbled streets, not sprinting through the wilderness. Had I known I was to be kidnapped, I would have dressed more practically.”

He huffed a laugh. “We’ll find you good, sturdy boots. Boots you can do anything in and some proper dresses, what do you say?”

“You’ve already done more than enough for me. More than I could ever repay.”

“I was never looking to be repaid.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t owe you, and owe you tremendously.”

He furrowed his brow. “You don’t. You never will.”

She stared at him, as if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of his words.

“You’re my friend. Do you think at the end of this I’m going to tally up all the beer Belmont has drunk and tell him to cough up?”

“If it would annoy him, probably,” she said seriously and he snorted despite himself. 

“Perhaps that was a bad example,” he said, fighting a smile. “But I mean it. You don’t owe me a thing. I am happy enough with your company.”

She gave him a look. “Oh yes, the hacking up bloody earth and being woken by screams in the night are fine selling points, I’m sure. Or is it the way in which I require your aid to move more than ten feet about this place?”

“No, I’d rather say it’s your scathing wit and rampant curiosity. The fact that you are still utterly stymied by stairs is only a nice little bonus.”

He smiled at her and she smiled back despite herself, though her brow remained pinched. He reached out without thinking to smooth the furrow between her brows. She moved away quickly, anxiety twisting her expression.

“Is Trevor right? Am I dangerous? I—don’t want to hurt anyone, and he is right, about the magic, I don’t have any idea what I’m doing, I just wanted to try. I just—I don’t want to put anyone in danger.”

“You’re not,” he said quickly, and he knew it was a lie. Of course she was dangerous—could be dangerous. “Not like Trevor says. Not on purpose.”

“But I could?”

“So could I, if I was careless, or Sypha. Trevor regularly gets himself into trouble, so he’s hardly one to talk.”

“Adrian—“

“You needn’t worry. Not now, at least. Perhaps after you’re well, you can go back to it.”

“Do you think that Sypha’s spell will make it so they can’t come again?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it just disrupted their spell, I don’t think it will prevent them from recasting it.”

“Oh,” she said, and it was clear she’d hoped it might. Of course she’d hoped.

“I could stay again tonight, if you wanted. I’ll learn the spell from Sypha, that way I can wake you up, no matter what.”

She stared at him, those unfamiliar green eyes wide and round.

“Really?” She asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Of course. I want you to feel safe—I want you to be safe.”

“You make me feel safe.”

He froze, then, something warm blooming in his chest. “I do?”

She nodded, color rising in her cheeks before she dropped her gaze to the stack of books to hide it.

“I—I am glad,” he said finally, the words stilted, not conveying what he really meant, what that sort of trust meant. What those words meant to him, after what had been done to him, what had been taken, what they meant coming from her after he’d seen the cruelty she’d suffered from the men who had taken her—the remnants of their cruelty.

He could only guess at the extent over the months she’d spent in their capture.

“Are these all the books about fae magic from the Hold?” She asked, color still high in her cheeks. He shook his head, glad for the change in subject before he could say something foolish.

“No, I don’t think so. It’s nearly impossible to know, though, with how everything down there is organized. Or rather, not organized. It’ll be a nightmare to put it to rights.”

“Does Trevor have no insight into how it’s arranged?”

“There is something of an index, but everything got rather jumbled up after the Night Creatures tore through it. It will be something of a marvel, though, once it’s in order. I don’t think there’s a collection that could rival it.”

“All about hunting monsters,” she said darkly, fingers trailing up the spines of the books he’d brought up. Books about the fae, about her, about killing things like her. He rather remembered his own revulsion at seeing the Belmont collection of vampire skulls, accented with that of a little dhampir that couldn't have been more than five. 

“The irony is not lost on me that I have become its caretaker. Especially since it is mostly devoted to killing vampires.”

“I wonder what Trevor’s ancestors would think about a dhampir and a faery girl getting their grubby little hands all over their precious monster-killing manuals.”

“Oh, no doubt they’re rolling in their graves. The thought does make its management more palatable, actually.”

She smiled at him, and it was the same smile he’d grown so fond of, even if it was on the lips of the painfully ethereal creature she’d become. There were no more imperfections of humanity, just an alien sort of perfection. It nearly reminded him of the beauty of vampires, of the predatory, practical nature of it, but it was something more wild and untamed.

He wondered how long it would take him to become used to her face, her real face. It suited her, more than the glamour. He’d thought her very pretty before and now—

He shook his head, trying to get rid of such foolish thoughts.

He hated how his eyes lingered on the tendril of hair that had fallen in front of her ear, the way it shone like spun silver, curling to rest in the hollow of her throat. He hated how his eyes flicked to her lips, the bottom one red from all the time she spent worrying it with her teeth. 

She was his friend. 

He shouldn’t be looking at her in such a way, shouldn’t be thinking of the way it felt to have her curl into his chest, to have her pressed against his side, the way it felt to hear the honey of her voice saying his name.

He was being absurd. 

He sat at the table across from her, pouring them each a cup of tea before grabbing the top book. They should return to the library, he knew, but he was rather content with the little bubble they’d created down in the kitchen, knew that as soon as they returned it would pop.

No—for now this was enough, sitting here in comfortable silence as they poured through books. He was quite sure it might have been enough forever, if only it was an option.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

36. Blood Ties

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

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Halsin had dragged her out first thing for a ‘walk’ which she knew was just code that he thought they needed to talk.

Maybe they did, but Lythra didn’t know what to say.

She’d always known her grandfather was a darthirii, knew he’d been kept by her grandmother much like her father. She’d never known anything about him, though, just that he’d been unnaturally large and had hazel eyes. She’d always thought about him with a sort of abstract sympathy, glad that at least he’d escaped where her father hadn’t.

But it was Halsin. Halsin that had been locked in her grandmother’s bedchamber, Halsin that had been raped and abused, Halsin, that had fathered her mother. Halsin, who she was very sure had been her first true friend, long before Astarion had begun to like her for more than her utility.

And she was hurting him, reminding him of that wretched time, of the daughter he hadn’t known he’d had, of what she’d become, of how she’d just continued the cycle of abuse with her father. She was the product of two generations of crimes.

She shouldn’t have told him, it wasn’t fair, it was cruel, especially after—

“You are working yourself into a spiral, little one,” Halsin said in his usual steady way. “You will feel much better if you talk about it and we can work through it together.”

She made a face, tears pricking at her eyes and she looking down at the grass beneath her boots. It made it worse that he was being just as nice to her as ever. He should be angry. He shouldn’t even want to look at her.

“You should hate me,” she said, bitterness making the words sharp. “I don’t know why you’re still being so nice to me.”

“You haven’t done anything worthy of hate, Lythra.”

“I don’t have to, just being is worthy enough.”

Halsin sighed. “You cannot help how you were conceived, nor is any of its blame to be heaped on you.”

“Why aren’t you mad? You should be livid—”

“I am,” he said, voice perfectly even, not a trace of anger on his face. “But not at you.”

“It would be easier if you were mad at me,” she said, voice terribly small and pathetic. She ducked her head so her couldn’t she the tears slipping down her cheeks.

“You only think that because you’ve been shown very little kindness, little one. It is something I hope to rectify, if you will let me.”

She looked up at him despite herself, face scrunched up in confusion.

“I have been alone in this world a long time—I buried the last of my family beneath the Grandfather Tree before my seventeenth year. I have had many dear to me in my life since, but never quite family, however much I longed for it. I meant it, when I said you were a blessing, little one.”

She just stared at him for a long time, trying to figure out what she should say. Halsin was always far kinder than she deserved and she knew he deserved better than her.

She didn’t didn’t have any family left that didn’t want her dead—or maybe her grandmother didn’t want her dead, but she’d certainly see her punished for running away, and punished cruelly.

Any family but Halsin.

And he wanted her. Even what she was, who she was, what she’d done, he still wanted her.

“What—what should I call you? Aduadar?” she asked quietly, wringing her hands.

Halsin laughed. “I think Halsin is just fine. You’ll make me feel very old if you go around calling me Grandfather.”

“You are very old.”

“And you’re very, very young,” he said, still smiling, though there was a sadness underneath it. “You have grown up too harsh and too fast. But you are not alone anymore, will never be alone if you do not wish, so long as I’m alive. There is much joy in the world that I would like to share with you.”

Lythra couldn’t help the way her face crumpled and she was ugly crying and she’d already cried so much but she couldn’t help it. She flung her arms around his waist, burying her face in his shirt to try and muffle her pathetic sniffling. He hugged her back, tight and soothing and warm, hugged her like he was never going to let go.

Lythra hadn’t returned to his tent, last night.

No, she’d spent most of it on the edge of camp, sobbing so hard he was quite convinced she was going to throw up all over the druid, and while usually he’d find that oh-so-amusing—

He didn’t like hearing the wretched way she cried, didn’t like not being able to do anything to stop it. The druid was far more adept at comforting, and he couldn’t manage it.

In all honesty he wasn’t quite sure why she was so upset—the druid was clearly fine, had survived her horrible family with less scars than her. He’d thought at first that she was perhaps furious at him for siring her bitch of a mother, that it was his fault that she’d ever had to suffer in the first place, but after eavesdropping for as long as he could stand—

No, she was upset for him, upset that she’d told him after everything with her mother, upset that she was a reminder of his torment.

As if she had any control over any of it.

Still—she’d told him about her father, a little at least. Told him the sort of things her mother had done to him, how he’d been held, and she was annoyingly fond of the druid—he supposed she didn’t like thinking the of the same happening to him.

She was such a horribly soft thing under all that cold deadliness.

He looked up as she approached where he’d sat outside his tent, pretending to read a book.

“Wyll’s taking a group to go look into the Stone Lord, if you want to go, or this afternoon Jaheira wants to check in on some of her Harpers,” she said. Her voice was perfectly even, her face that perfect mask she wore so well. Her eyes were red and puffy, though, her cuticles picked raw.

“Where are you going?” he asked, furrowing his brow.

“I’m—I have a few things I have to do in the Outer City. I’ll probably catch up with Jaheira after if she hasn’t left yet, it’d be good to get a feeling of the High Harper’s network in the city,” she said in that terribly practical and efficient way of hers, utterly in control and unflappable.

Her slightly shaking hands gave her away, though.

“While I do love a good turf war, I think I’d rather see whatever business you have in the city. You are still wretchedly mysterious, my dear.”

She just nodded, no clever quip or biting remark, no brushing him off to keep her secrets. He made a face.

“Well then, I suppose we should get going if we’re to make it back before our resident senior Harper sets off.”

“She’ll box your ears if she hears you calling her that,” Lythra said, though there was a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Plus, isn’t she like a hundred years younger than you? I suppose that would make you an antique.”

He glared at her, which only made her smile twitch a little wider. She did enjoy irritating him.

“And what does that make your druid, then? A relic?”

“He’s not my druid,” she said, shaking her head.

“Are you quite sure? Because—”

“Halsin! Astarion wants to know if you consider yourself a relic,” she called over his shoulder. He turned to see the druid striding over, brow raised.

“If I consider myself a relic?” he asked.

Astarion made a face, being more melodramatic than usual. It made Lythra huff a laugh.

“I am hardly middle-aged for an elf, never mind an archdruid,” Halsin said, shaking his head.

“Whatever you say, Grandfather,” Astarion shot back. Halsin just smiled, unperturbed.

“Wyll says you are not going out with the scouting party this morning, little one. I take it you have errands to run in the city?”

“I should be back to go with Jaheira,” replied.

“I was hoping to accompany you,” he said and Astarion fought the urge to groan. He was sure the druid would be even more of a hulking shadow now that he’d found out he and Lythra shared blood.

“It’s not going to be anything exciting,” she said and Halsin just laughed.

“I don’t mind. It will be a good way to get the lay of the land.”

It only served to sour his mood.

Lythra’s apartment was not what Astarion expected. 

It was in the attic of a three-story building that looked condemnable, accessible only by a rickety set of stairs built into the side of the building that he wasn’t convinced would hold Halsin’s weight. It was in perhaps the worst part of Sow’s Foot, which lacked even the Guild’s oversight, but she strode up to it without a thought, carefully unlocking the slightly crooked door. 

“Sorry, it’s a little cramped,” she said, leading them inside. 

Cramped was an understatement—it was scarcely enough room to fit the narrow bed and a dresser, the floor warped and the thatch ceiling sagging, but it was clean, except for a layer of dust that had accumulated since she’d been away. There was a faded, patched quilt on the bed, a knitted blanket neatly folded at the end for colder nights. There was a small mirror propped on the dresser, along with a tarnished silver-backed hair brush next to a chipped carnival glass vase full of dried lavender. 

Pretty little things, if obviously second-hand and worse for wear, though it was clear she meticulously maintained them. Next to them was a handful of little bottles of nail polish—he would have never guessed she’d even seen the stuff before, but it looked well-used.

He poked through her drawers idly, finding much of what he’d expect—dark, nondescript clothing of various states of shoddy repair, but one gave him pause. It was a cheap dress, nothing more than rough cotton, but it was a muted lavender and covered in little printed flowers. 

The thing that struck him though, were the instruments sat by the window. They all looked battered, but carefully fixed and maintained. He’d bet she found them discarded or second hand for very cheap. There was a lute, a lyre, and a harp that was small enough to be held in one’s lap, which looked to be the most used.

“Were you planning on starting a band?” He asked as she crossed to the narrow space between the bed and the wall and set about prying up a loosened floorboard. 

“I was planning on stealing a proper harp,” she answered flippantly, pulling a lockbox from beneath the floor. Halsin edged into the room, eyeing the spartan quality of it, the dead flowers and battered instruments that were clearly prized possessions. His brow furrowed, his mouth thinning. No doubt he was somehow blaming himself for the squalor in which she lived, squalor she didn’t seem to recognize. 

Astarion made note to steal the best harp he could manage when this was all over, though he thought her perhaps overambitious in thinking she could fit one in this closet.

Not that she’d have any reason to return to such shabby lodgings, not after becoming the unwitting hero of Baldur’s Gate.

He jammed a pair of the nail polish bottles into his bag while she emptied the contents of the lockbox. There wasn’t much—a paltry handful of coin and a pair of daggers. She pocketed the coin before she took the daggers, staring at them as she jammed the box back under the floorboards.

They were pretty things—pearl handled, light, and intricately designed, but showed clear use, though it was also obvious they’d been meticulously cared for. He was sure there was a story that went along with them, a reason she hadn’t been carrying such fine blades when they’d washed up on the beach if she’d had them.

Hells, he wondered why she hadn’t sold them. He’d bet they were worth a decent amount and it was clear she’d needed it.

“Those were crafted in Menzoberranzan,” Halsin said, stepping closer. She looked up, furrowing her brow. She hesitated a moment before holding them out of him to look at closer.

“How do you know that?”

“Because the pearl on the handle only comes from the Darklake, you can tell by the blue sheen. You can only get the pearls in in Menzoberranzan and they’re highly coveted. They’re beautiful blades.”

“Xaryn gave them to me before we ran,” she said, jaw tight, before she slipped them into hidden sheaths in the drow armor she wore. Astarion’s chest tightened—that was why. They were a momento for the dead.

Lythra scooted around and rifled through the drawers, jamming clothes into her bag without really looking at them—she hardly needed to, they were all shabby and black, except for the simple lilac dress.

“Alright, that should do it,” she said, buckling her bag. He followed her out, still trying to reconcile the woman in the cramped little apartment with the one that he’d met on the road, the vicious little survivor.

He didn’t want her to have to be, anymore.

Kel stared at the bone-handled knife, his jaw aching.

He hadn’t told Xaryn about the second one—he’d have been a fool to—but now he just held it in his hand, staring.

He hadn’t thought much of anything when Mother had given it to him, had just been happy to have a chance to prove himself, to engratiate himself with his grandmother enough that she’d let him train to be the next Head House Wizard.

She didn’t think he had the talent for it.

The handle was curved, like the other one, and it was so small, hardly good for anything of use.

He wanted Xaryn to be lying. He wanted him to be a craven, traitorous bastard who had stolen their sister away just to spite the House, he wanted her to be a spoiled little crybaby that always got everything she wanted—

But it hadn’t been a crybaby he’d cornered in that old abandoned church—Hells, she’d thrown herself through a window pane to the stone below, just to get away from him.

She’d thrown herself into a nautiloid tentacle, rather than letting him take her back home.

He turned the blade over in his hand. What possible reason would Mother have for removing one of her ribs? Or maybe more of them—there had been more of the little knives than the two she’d given him.

He’d always been jealous of the time Mother wasted on his sister, always overjoyed every time the Matron had her try and demonstrate her magic and she failed so miserably. He’d never once considered why, considered how she’d gone from being able to conjure multiple familiars at a time at three, to being unable to produce a simple firebolt.

He hadn’t even wondered why she was so small, small even compared to their Grandmother who was a full-blooded drow.

He didn’t want to think about what Xaryn had said about her when she was small, didn’t want to think about how she’d ask him to do more magic when he’d show Grandmother what he was learning in the Sorcere, how her eyes would get big and she’d clamber out of her chair for a better look.

Even if it was true—which it couldn’t be—it hadn’t lasted long. She’d first stabbed him in the leg with a fork when she was five, after all—though he had pinched her hard enough to make her bleed when Xaryn had gotten up to get another bottle of wine. And that was after he’d told her Grandmother was starving the house spiders so she could feed her father to them.

She’d gotten ten lashes for it, even though she was only five. Mother always insisted they learn discipline and he could always break his sister’s if he only brought up her father.

Had Mother really been tormenting her? Was that why she’d run, why she’d forsaken her birthright for rags and coppers, why she’d chosen probable death over just coming with him?

He tossed the knife to the side, nausea twisting his stomach.

Xaryn had to be lying, or if he wasn’t there had to be a reason for Mother to do any of it. She was the heir, after all, had to be prepared to someday take over the House—

He had to be.

He remembered how scared she’d looked, even before that tentacle had yanked her into the sky.

He grabbed the knife and pushed out of his room, blood pounding in his ears.

“Vith,” Lythra swore as a familiar smarmy-faced bastard strode into camp towards her and Astarion. He looked up, brows furrowing at the sight of the devil.

“Don’t think that I forgot about you, Astarion. I discovered all there is to know about those scars of yours—its a rather grim tale, even for my tastes,” he said as if he were performing a monologue in a play.

Lythra tried very had to not roll her eyes. She hated the pageantry.

“Brace yourself, Astarion—we’re about to unveil your destiny.”

“Bauth ulu unveil nindolen n'abyl,” Lythra muttered under her breath. Raphael ignored her.

“Carved into that ivory skin of yours is one part of a contract between the archdevil Mephistopheles and your former master Cazador. In full, the contract states that Cazador will be granted the knowledge of an infernal ritual so vile it has never been performed. The Rite of Profane Ascension. It promises to be a marvelous ceremony. Very elaborate, incredibly ancient, and entirely diabolical. If he completes the Rite, he will become a new kind of being—the Vampire Ascendant. All the strength of his vampire form will be amplified, and alongside that he will enjoy the luxuries of the living. The arousals and appetites of man will return to him, and unlike Astarion, he will have no need of a parasite to protect him from the sun. But the ritual has its price, as all worthwhile things do. Lord Cazador will need to sacrifice a number of souls, including all of his vampire spawn, if he wishes to ascend. Imagine how he felt then, when one of those precious spawn just disappeared into thin air. The only missing ingredient is Astarion. You are the final piece he requires to complete the ritual—the scars bind you to it. Your soul will set off a very wave of death, bringing Cazador his twisted life. And that—my tragic and toothsome friend, is that. Now, if you will excuse me, I have business elsewhere,” he said with a flourish of his hands, though he paused, eyes locking on Lythra. “You should come visit me, little mouse. It would be more than worth your time.”

With that he snapped and disappeared in a column of flame.

“Fa'la zatoast,” she snarled, narrowing her eyes at the spot where he’d stood. She turned to look at Astarion. He was scowling, disgust clear on his face, but there was something else too, something she couldn’t quite make out.

“Hmmm,” he said, eyes far away.

“Are you alright?” she asked.

“I’m...contemplating. It’s a lot to take in. What do you think I should do?”

“I mean—we have to kill Cazador. If he completes the ritual—” she said, voice breaking. “The ritual will kill you and damn you to the Hells. We can’t, it’s not—” she broke off, throat constricted.

She wouldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t.

“He’ll never leave me alone. I didn’t think he would when I was just one more wretched toy for him to play with. But if I’m the key to this power he craves then he’ll hunt me to the ends of Faerun. I need to take the fight to him. And I need you to help me.”

“Of course. We’re killing the bastard, as vilely as we can.”

He gave her a small smile that didn’t meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“We will kill him, Star. I promise you, we will. I won’t let him harm you again.”

“You are a horribly sweet thing, aren’t you?” he asked, tone somewhere between affection and derision. She just gave him a dirty look and turned on her heel.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“To go get some vampire hunting tips from our resident monster hunter,” she replied, ignoring the fury in her stomach. It would be good for her to plot, now, to take her mind off of how badly she simply wanted to go and track Cazador down and rip him to pieces with her bare hands.

She didn’t just want him dead, she wanted it to hurt, to be an absolute misery for all he’d done to Astarion, for all the lives he’d stolen. She wanted Astarion to be able to walk down the street day or night without fear, wanted him to have as normal a life as he could manage.

He deserved that, after two hundred years of torment.

She crossed to the other side of camp, intent to ask all the worst ways to kill a master vampire.

Notes:

darthirii--surface elf Aduadar--grandfather Vith--fuck Bauth ulu unveil nindolen n'abyl--about to unveil these nuts Fa'la zatoast--Bastard

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

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Chapter 13 Harsh Realities

“You did what?” Sypha asked, smacking him across the shoulder. Trevor stepped back, making a face.

“I just made sure we knew what we’re dealing with! It’s not like we could leave that to Alucard, he’s clearly in love with the little monster.”

“You can’t know that from knowing her five minutes—“

“That she’s a little monster, or that Alucard’s fucking moonstruck? Because I just proved both.”

“By burning her?”

“Yeah. Fae hate iron, it’s one of the few full-proof ways to kill them.”

“You were trying to kill her?”

“No, I’d have to stab her in the heart with it to kill her. They’re hard to kill bastards, harder than most vampires, which is why we’re lucky they mostly keep to themselves. You don’t mess around with them.”

“Wouldn’t that mean it was stupid of you to immediately piss her off and hurt her?”

“I—I might not have thought that all the way through. Though I doubt she has the strength to kill me. Alucard had to steady her just so she could punch me.”

“Yes, well, I suppose its good that they aren’t known for holding grudges or anything.”

“It’ll be fine. Chances are she won’t make it through the month, anyway. You saw her.”

“We’re here to help Alucard save her.”

Trevor didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure that would be in anyone’s best interest, but then again, neither would leaving Alucard all alone to grieve the girl he’d managed to find and fall in love with in the middle of the goddamn Carpathian forest.

God really did like to shit in his dinner.

“She didn’t know what she was. She’s just a girl and sick and scared. It can’t be as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

“No, you’re right, it could be totally worse, considering she has no handle on her powers and she’s apparently important enough to be hunted in her dreams while within the protection of Dracula’s wards. That’s going to go great, I’m sure.”

“Or, we figure out a cure and she’s fine and Alucard’s not left alone. I mean—he’s hurting, Trev. You know what he meant, when he said those people outside the castle took advantage. He can’t just stay here, alone. Maybe it’s not a bad thing.”

“It doesn’t matter, unless you and Alucard figure something out. It’s a miracle she hasn’t died yet.”

“Then start looking. If you’re such an authority on the fae, then find something useful,” Sypha said, stalking back between the stacks. Trevor let out a heavy sigh before following her.

Alucard had rarely found himself so furious. He should have known better than to leave Trevor unattended, to trust that he would have some sort of tact—

And he’d hurt her. Hurt her to prove his point and what she was, told her in the crudest possible way that everything she’d known in her life had been a lie.

He set _____ down on one of the infirmary cots before flitting around to find what he needed to make a poultice to reduce the pain and inflammation of the burn.

“Can you—can you please explain what’s going on, Adrian? Your friend—he was talking nonsense. He was, right? I’m not—I couldn’t be—“ she broke off, shaking her head, her face scrunched up like she was trying to cry.

God, he hated when she cried. He hated more that he couldn't stop it, couldn't shield her from the hurt.

“It’s—it’s more complicated than what he was saying. He—he shouldn’t have said anything, never mind like that—“

“Then I am…a changeling? Some discarded fae child that took too long to die?”

“It’s not—he was being an ass. He’s usually being an ass. You—you are a changeling, they have their own innate sort of magic, magic that would make it very easy for them to help something grow, like the bannister, or your childhood window boxes, something that would be extremely difficult if not nearly impossible for either Sypha or I. But we don’t know why you were given to your parents, that was just…cruel speculation.”

She stared back at him, tears dripping down her cheeks. Alucard set aside the mortar and pestle and crossed to her side, hesitating before gently brushing her hair out of her face.

“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner, I wouldn’t have—this wasn’t how you should have learned—“

“Am I like those things out in the forest? The Night Creatures?” she asked, her voice breaking. 

“No! No, of course not! You’re just—you’re different, that’s all.”

“I don’t want to be different,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper.

That knocked the wind out him for a moment--he knew all too well what it felt like to be other, to not belong in seemingly any world, not really. 

“Neither do I. It’s a lonely thing,” he said, stopping himself before he could say any more, say what had nearly poured out after—that it was less so, with her.

“I don’t know what any of this means.”

“We’ll find some books, we’ll figure it out. I meant it, when I said it’s a lot more complicated than Trevor made it seem, but it’s a place to start.”

She didn’t answer, turning back to stare at the wound on her hand. Alucard ground his teeth at the sight of it, at the look of devastation on her face.

“All of my father’s tools were bronze,” she said finally as he finished the poultice and grabbed fresh linen for bandages. “I never questioned it. Everything in the house was bronze or copper, if it was metal. Do you think they knew?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, spreading the poultice over the burn before wrapping it carefully in linen.

“Is that why they took me, those men? Why I was bought, because—because I’m not human?”

“I—if I had to guess, it would be the reason.”

“How could they know?”

“I couldn’t be sure.”

“If you had to guess?”

“I—I would wager the person who paid them is fae, or at least isn’t human themself.”

She nodded, her face still horribly crumpled. He wished he knew what to say to make it better, wished Trevor could have simply left telling her to him, let him figure out how to best gently break it to her. But nooo, he had to burn her with a blessed iron blade and tell her she was abandoned and unwanted.

Worse yet, the fact that it was a blessed blade, the fact that it had hurt her so badly in a manner of seconds only hinted at a darker truth—that she wasn’t just fae, but of the Dark Court, the Under Court, known for its cruelty and malevolence. Trevor, he knew, would consider this to be some strike against her, some proof that she was dangerous or evil or something ridiculous after knowing her for all of ten minutes. And he, for all his distrust and cautiousness, knew that to be wrong. In fact, he knew better than anyone that one’s parentage didn’t define oneself or one’s path.

Not wholly, at least.

“Does that feel alright?” He asked as he secured the bandage around her hand. She nodded.

“Do you feel up to returning to the library? I’ll speak to Trevor, ensure he does not anything like this again, it was completely out of line.”

“If you’re there too. I can—I can help go through the books,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket just in time as she was overtaken by coughing. He could smell the blood, didn’t need to look at the cloth to know it contained more earth. He crossed to the water spout and poured her a glass, handing it to her once the fit had passed.

He only hoped that with Sypha’s help they’d be able to find something fast.

She made it a point not to look at Trevor.

Her hand still burned, despite the poultice Adrian had made her. She stared down blankly as he finished cooking and placed everything on the table, her jaw tight. She didn’t listen to whatever he and Sypha were talking about, something about ley lines and spell casting or something that made no sense to her. She was too caught up in turning over her new reality in her head.

She wasn’t human.

Her parents weren’t her parents, and though she might have known she wasn’t normal, she'd had no idea that she was some sort of creature. Her real parents hadn’t wanted her because she’d been wrong or sick or something equally unforgivable.

She’d felt strange her whole life, never quite felt that she fit in, and she’d been right. She wasn’t supposed to be there, was some sort of supernatural cuckoo inflicted on her poor, unsuspecting parents. Even now, she was only a danger to her friend, to the only person who’d ever taken the time to get to know her, to treat her kindly despite her strangeness.

She was a disgrace, and a coward.

She didn’t want to leave, even though she should. Clearly, she should, if her mere presence was worth the sort of hostility his friend had leveled at her so far. He was a Belmont, his family had amassed more books than she’d ever seen in one place, all about killing monsters.

Killing things like her.

Would he try and kill her? Would he do it when she fell asleep?

Would he at least do it quickly?

She doubted whoever was hunting her would do her any such kindness.

“Alucard said you were very fond of books,” Sypha said kindly, breaking the leaden silence that had fallen over the table.

“I—yes, I suppose I am,” she replied quietly.

“And he said you’re not from Wallachia?”

“I don’t know where I’m from,” she said darkly, staring at her food. Then she shook her head. Sypha was Adrian’s friend and she’d done nothing to earn her attitude. “I—My…parents said I was born in Gresit. We spent most of our time in Vienna, though. We’d go back and forth when I was a child, but—this is the first time I’ve been back since I was thirteen.”

“And how old are you now?”

“I don’t—what is the date?” She asked, careful to keep her eyes glued on the table. She hadn’t asked Adrian before, hadn’t wanted to know how long she’d spent in that horrid cart, bound and beaten, trying to ignore the feeling of wandering hands and cruel torment. There was a pause before Sypha answered.

“It is the 13th of July 1477.”

She let out a breath. It had hardly been January when she’d been taken. She hadn’t realized how much of the year had already gone by, how long it had been since her life had fallen apart.

It had been nearly a year since her father had died. A year in October.

“Um, twenty, then,” she replied, throat tight. She hadn’t even noticed her birthday pass. Of course, it hardly mattered. She doubted she’d see another.

“Why did you come back? Especially now, shit,” Trevor asked, mouth full.

“She was kidnapped. She had no choice in the matter,” Adrian said quickly, sharply.

“Kidnapping little faery girls in your retirement—?” Trevor retorted, obviously trying to needle him.

“Adrian saved me. He’s never done a thing to harm me,” she shot back, hands curling into fists under the table. It was deplorable for him to insinuate Adrian was anything like the monsters that had taken her, had drugged her and beaten her and worse. He’d been the first person since her father died to actually help her, to show her an ounce of actual kindness and not just empty words of sympathy.

Her father.

He hadn’t been her father. The man who’d so lovingly raised her—had he knew what she was? Had he loved her anyway? Or had he simply been deceived?

She didn’t speak for the rest of the meal, if anything, she tried not to listen. She’d had enough revelations for one day, had enough uncomfortable truths. She wished she could just go to bed and sleep for a week and not have to deal with any of it, but there would be no peace in sleep for her, no respite. No, she was just coming apart at the seams, would continue to fray until there was nothing left or she was too weak to prevent the dream-voice from taking her.

It wouldn’t be long now. She’d never been very strong to begin with and now—

She supposed it was just stubbornness. She’d always been too stubborn for her own good.

She hadn’t realized dinner had finished, or that Adrian’s friends had left. She hadn’t realized they’d stopped talking or that the leftovers had been cleared from the table. She hadn’t noticed anything since she’d retreated into her thoughts, not until she felt slender hands delicately take her own.

“_____? Are you alright? You’ve been very quiet,” Adrian said, and she looked up to meet his gaze. She hated the worried pinch of his brow, hated that it was her fault, hated that she didn’t know what to do to fix it, that she didn’t have the grace or fortitude to just brush everything off like she should have.

“Yes of course,” she lied quickly, looking away. She started when she felt Adrian’s hand cradle her jaw, gently turning her back to face him. She didn’t know what to call the look on his face, the intensity of it, didn’t know what to make of how it made her heart beat against she chest. He stared at her for a long moment before nodding, though she knew he didn’t believe her.

“You should rest. It has been a difficult day and you hardly slept last night.”

“I want to keep looking for something.”

“In the morning. You can hardly keep your eyes open.”

“I don’t—I don’t want to sleep. I want to figure it out—”

“As do I, but—I don’t want you to grow sicker, while we do. Please just—I’ll read to you, from what we’ve found so far. Until you fall asleep.”

“I—I suppose,” she said, dropping her gaze before she asked him to stay after, to not leave her alone. He’d already done enough, was doing far more than she deserved. She pressed her face to the crook of his neck when he picked her up, rather than let him see just how close she was to unraveling, the contact steadying.

Sometimes she wished there was a world where it would be enough, that they would figure out whatever horrible curse she languished under and after—

And after she could stay. That they could just talk about books and science and magic, and she could help him repair the castle, help him fix the books that lay damaged, that he wouldn’t want her to leave.

She was a thing, though. A creature unwanted even by her own.

She doubted there would be a place for her anywhere.

Alucard stayed, long after she’d fallen asleep. He didn’t move from her side to the chair by the bed where he usually kept watch either. He placed his book to the side, instead staring at her sleeping form next to him. He leaned back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling as he idly wished he'd brought a blanket for himself to combat the draft. He'd thought it fine to sit on the bed next to her, so long as he remained atop the covers. He'd told himself it was because she found his presence reassuring, but it was really to reassure himself. 

How had he missed all the signs? He should have realized the moment he’d seen the clearing after she’d been attacked, should have known the moment he’d seen the bannister, but he hadn’t even considered it.

Of course he hadn’t—changelings so rarely made it out of childhood, weren’t meant to. They died, either from whatever had ailed them enough to be passed off or simply from the inhospitable environment that was the human world.

Dhampirs, too, rarely made it to adulthood. Here they were, two anomalies, two creatures left in the chasm of in-between.

What would it mean, for either of them? When she was no longer sick and her bones healed and she was no longer bound to this place—where would she go? Back to Vienna, to the world of her surrogate family? Or would she seek out the Fair Folk and the people of her birth? Or would she forge her own path, somewhere in between?

Why did the thought of her leaving make his chest ache nearly as much as the thought of burying her?

Valion stared at the child in his arms, trying to ignore the pain blooming in his chest. Orlaith had hardly lingered long enough to hold their babe, her eyes dulling as the child nestled closer, automatically seeking her mother’s warmth and affection. Now the poor thing was left only with him and his melancholic darkness, his coldness, his grief.

She was a beautiful babe, her hair a shock of silver curls, her eyes brighter than the richest emeralds. He’d hoped she’d have taken after her mother in every way, but even now he could note the traces of himself woven into her features, the Unseelie traits that seemed to have taken dominance, though they had been softened by her mother’s Court, by that of the sun and surface and warmth of growing things.

If he was darkness and Orlaith the sun, then she was a little moonbeam, was night-blooming jasmine, was silver and lovely and good. There was so little that remained good when left bathed eternal in the dark, especially when it was half born of light.

The little girl gurgled in his arms—his little girl, small and perfect and beautiful and yet aware of the tragedy that already was her life. A motherless babe of two Courts, a little princess set to be reviled and tormented for little more than being his, seen as little more than a pawn and leverage against him.

“What am I to do with you, my love?” he said, gently stroking his finger up the bridge of her nose. “How can I protect you from your birthright? From the foul gift I have given you?”

She cooed back, blinking up at him from beneath silver lashes. His heart clenched, his throat tightening as he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew what he should do, knew what was best, he just wasn’t sure he could repress his own selfishness long enough to do it.

He had to, though. Orlaith was gone, and with it her path to the sun, to the protection offered by her mother’s Court, away from the scheming of his own, of the constant, bloody power struggles that stained the marble floors of the palace. She was too small, too helpless, too innocent to be relegated to its halls before she’d cut her teeth, before she was old enough to hold her own.

“It will not be forever, Moonbeam,” he said, smoothing his hand over her face, watching as her features dulled, eyes turning a muddy color, hair blackening like his own, but without the luster, turning the simple, dull black of mortals, the tiny tips of her ears rounding. It was a strong glamour, one that would last years without maintenance, even as she grew, would hide any fae traits even as they manifested, would hide what she was, suppress as much of her innate magic as was possible. Not all of it, he knew. Orlaith had been particularly gifted and he—

Perhaps he’d have to check on the glamour. He wouldn’t be surprised if she unconsciously worked to unweave it, as she grew. It would be a stifling thing, uncomfortable and and unnatural.

But it wouldn’t be for forever. Just long enough to ensure her safety, long enough for him to ensure he could cement his standing, make sure no one would dare to hurt her, that she would be untouchable. It would be a few years, a few decades, perhaps. A blink of the eye, in the scheme of things.

Why then, did it leave him feeling so very wretched?

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Chapter 12 Old Friends

Alucard stared at her across the little kitchen table, eyes cataloguing the new bandages across her skin. She had woken screaming again, not long after he’d found the strength to scrape himself up from the floor and make his way back down the tower. There had been more briars this time, and more earth to be hacked out of her lungs. She’d sobbed herself to sleep again in his arms, only to jerk awake in terror. He’d done his best to clumsily soothe her, but she hadn’t gone back to sleep, hadn’t tried despite how exhausted she was, despite how necessary it was to her healing. 

“Did you have these sort of dreams before?” he asked, getting up to retrieve the kettle as it screamed. It was a moment before she answered, long enough that he was able to fix them both a cup of tea.

“When I was younger, after my mother died. I was thirteen, I think. I saw him then—he looked the same as now. I don’t—I don’t think I was coughing up dirt then, just—I was just horribly feverish and I don’t remember much. It took two weeks, I think, for the good lady doctor to break the fever and even then, I don’t remember the journey back to Vienna, or much of anything after we returned for a week or more.”

“You fell ill in Wallachia?” He asked, furrowing his brow. She nodded.

“Where?”

“Outside Targoviste.”

“And a lady doctor healed you?”

She nodded again.

“What did she look like?”

_____ shook her head, making a face. “I think—I think she was blonde. She was tall, I remember that, and very kind. I—it is all rather jumbled up. It doesn’t—it doesn’t quite make sense in my head. My father told me there was only ever the lady doctor there, but there was another voice I remember talking to her, after my father would leave for the night. Not—not the voice from the dream. He was—he was there, but he was talking nonsense, or at least I was hearing nonsense.”

Alucard just stared—could it have been his mother that had healed her as a girl? There was certainly not an abundance of doctors, lady or otherwise around Targoviste. And if she hadn’t hallucinated the other voice—had that been his father? It would make sense, seeing as he very much doubted her condition had been natural that time either.

If the Church hadn’t burnt down his mother’s house, he was sure he could have found record of her treatment there—his mother had always been meticulous in her notes.

Of course, if the Church hadn’t burnt down his mother’s house, he no doubt could have simply asked his mother.

But if she had been treated by his parents—that meant she could be treated. That he needn’t watch her die, watch her drown in grave dirt from the inside out.

“Do you remember any of what they did?”

“No, just snippets. Voices, bits of conversation, never enough to make sense.”

Alucard deflated slightly. Another dead end, then, at least until he figured out what it was plaguing her. She shivered, despite the blanket wrapped around her, drawing his attention.

“You should drink your tea, it will help to warm you.”

She nodded, avoiding his gaze as she took a sip. It was a moment before he realized there were tears running down her cheeks.

“_____?” He asked, something in his chest tightening uncomfortably. “What’s the matter?”

“I—nothing, nothing. I’m—I’m being stupid,” she said quickly, brushing the tears away, but they were quickly replaced.

“You’re not, I’m sure you’re not.”

“I don’t—I don’t want to die in Wallachia,” she said, her voice little more than a rasp.

“You’re not going to die, we’re going to figure it out.”

“No, I don’t—all my siblings died here, they’re all buried outside Gresit. I don’t—I just don’t—“ she broke off, overcome by a wave of coughing. Alucard’s brow pinched.

“I thought you were an only child?”

“The only one who lived. The rest—I have six older siblings, all stillborn.”

“I—I’m very sorry,” he said, and she shook her head.

“I just don’t want to be buried here. I just—I don’t.”

“You won’t. I promise you won’t,” he said, before he could stop himself, before he realized what he was promising. Another tear ran down her cheek in response, though she didn’t speak.

“You should sleep, or at least try.”

“I don’t—“

“I’ll stay. I’ll make sure nothing happens. But you need to rest, or you’ll only get worse.”

“I—I don’t want to go back to that room,” she said, so quietly he might not have heard her without his heightened hearing.

“Would the library be more agreeable?” He asked. She nodded. He stooped to carefully pick her up, keeping the blankets wrapped around her. She’d never been heavy, but she was approaching worryingly light. How could she not, when she hardly ate, regardless of what he made?

“Will you—will you read to me? I know I shouldn’t ask more of you when you’ve already done so much—“

“Of course,” he said quickly, cutting her off. When did she ever ask for anything? And when she did, when wasn’t the barest request? “What would you like me to read?”

“Whatever you like,” she said quickly, and he wondered if she thought he’d change his mind if she asked for too much. The thought sent a pang through his chest.

He settled her on the divan before starting the fire, making sure there was enough wood to keep it roaring. He hesitated when it came to picking a book, before picking one on myths of the near East, something informative but narrative, unlike the technical books she usually read.

He sat next to her on the divan without thinking, the narrowness of the cushions allowing for little space between then, though he found himself strangely okay with that.

If anything, he found himself wanting to feel her pressed to his side, to assure himself that she was there, that she was unharmed, as best as he could manage. She fell asleep as he read, despite her valiant effort to stay awake, her head falling onto his shoulder. The contact should have made his skin crawl, but it came with only relief that she was resting, at least until her panic woke her again. He reached up to feel her forehead, her fever still raging.

She leaned into his touch in her sleep and he didn’t pull away.

“What the fuck,” Trevor said, eyes widening as he saw the rotting corpses hanging off pikes set into the earth by the entrance to the castle. “He’s fucking lost the plot.”

Sypha stared next to him, though, as always, she was more forgiving. “I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“What, that he’s decided to follow in Daddy Dearest’s footsteps? That was kinda his thing after all.”

“It’s Alucard. It’s not—“ she broke off, just shaking her head. There weren’t exactly a lot of innocuous reasons for him to have started staking humans outside his door.

It only made him less enthused to meet whoever Alucard’s friend was. Surely they had walked passed the bodies too, but they couldn’t have bothered them all to much if they’d stayed. His hand went unconsciously to the handle of his whip at his hip. Sypha smacked him.

“We owe him at least to listen to his explanation.”

Trevor rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything as Sypha stepped forward to knock on the door. Even he had to admit is seem out of character for the pale bastard.

It took a long time for Alucard to answer the door, longer than it should have, with his dhamphiric speed. When he finally opened the door he looked rather bedraggled, his hair mussed and great shadows under his eyes, his shirt wrinkled and stained with what Trevor suspected to be blood, though the color was wrong. Still, His face split into a relieved smile as he saw them, until his eyes flicked to the corpses on the spikes.

“Ah—yes, I had forgotten about that,” he said, jaw tight. Trevor made a face.

“You forgot about the impaled rotting corpses on your stoop?”

“Trevor—“

“I have been a bit preoccupied. It was warranted if it makes you feel better.”

“And what warranted that? Taking a page out of your father’s book—“

“That had been the idea at the time,” he said, stepping aside to allow them inside. He stepped in, if only to get away from the smell.

“Alucard—what happened?" Sypha asked, her tone much more sympathetic. Still, Trevor made sure to keep himself between her and the dhampir.

“I—they came after you left. They were from Cho’s Court in Japan and they—I took them in, was teaching them how to hunt vampires and Night Creatures and—I’d thought them my friends, perhaps more in a moment of…weakness. A moment they took to bind me with sanctified silver and attempt to murder me in my own bed. The staking, that was—I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking logically, just—just that I wanted no more guests. Though it hardly worked.”

Trevor stared at him, unsure of what to say. The implication was particularly horrible, enough so that he didn’t feel the need to follow his story with a scathing comment of his own.

“How—how long ago?” Sypha asked finally, voice tight.

“They’ve been there four months, maybe.”

They’d only been gone six.

“I’m so sorry, Alucard, I—“ Sypha began. Alucard cut her off.

“It is—it’s not important right now. If you could, just follow me—“ he broke off, turning back to the stairs. Trevor noted the tension in his muscles, the tight curl of his right hand into a fist—he clearly was not comfortable talking about what had happened.

“So this friend of yours—“

“Yes, they’re upstairs.”

“Have they gotten any better since we spoke?” Sypha asked. Alucard shook his head.

“Worse, if anything. I’ve just been trying to break the fever, though nothing I’ve tried has worked.”

Trevor froze as they reached one of the upper landings, eyes locked on the banister, which had sprouted a branch about to bloom. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, the air practically swimming with magic. He made a face.

“What are you doing, mucking around with fae magic? Don’t you know how dangerous—”

“What did you say?” Alucard asked, cutting him off as he turned towards him, wide-eyed.

“Well if you would have let me finish—”

“Shut up. What about fae magic?”

“You have a fucking tree growing out of your banister, reeking of the stuff.”

“Fuck!” he cried, taking off towards the library.

“What are you on about?” Trevor asked, reluctantly following.

“Of course, I don’t know why I didn’t see, it was so plain!”

“What was? Or are you just going to keep monologuing?”

“She’s a changeling.”

“Who?”

“_____! The girl!”

“What girl?”

“The girl I wrote to you about. My friend—“

“You’re friends with a changeling? Have you gone quite mad?” Trevor said in disbelief. Vampires were quite bad enough, but the fae—they were truly ruthless and had never even been human to begin with. They we often so alien it was hard for mortals to even grasp the games they played, though it always ended poorly for anyone entangled in them.

And Alucard had brought one of their discarded spawn into his house.

“I didn’t know she was one. She didn’t know anything, she thought she was cursed.”

“She might as well be! Goddamn it, Alucard! You should know not to get mixed up in fae politics.”

“It’s hardly fae politics—“

“It is if there’s one of them involved! It’s all politics to them, all nasty little games!”

“Well—she’s dying. Fae or not she’s dying and I promised I’d help her—“

“You idiot—“

“Trevor, that’s not helpful—“

“He’s the one making deals with some faery girl!”

“I’m not making deals—“

“That’s not how they see it. You’re fucked.”

“Trevor. Just—let me see her. I don’t have experience with any sort of fae, but perhaps there’s something I can figure out,” Sypha said, shooting Trevor a look that was half scathing, half apprehensive.

Alucard pushed into the library and led them to the sitting area in front of the fireplace, which was pushing out far too much heat for the season. Still, the young woman on the divan in front of it shivered, slightly, despite the heat of the fire and the half dozen blankets piled on top of her.

Her hair was long and silver—not grey, but silver—and her skin was pallid, as if she was already dead. She was frail, her face too thin, cheeks sharp underneath. Alucard crossed to her side and sat on the edge of the couch, gently brushing back a stray bit of hair from her face, fondness clear on his face.

They were fucked. They were more than fucked.

“_____, can you wake?”

“A-Adrian?” She asked as she stirred, voice little more than a rasp.

“Who the fuck is Adrian?” Trevor asked, making a face.

“He’s Adrian,” Sypha shot pack, pointing at Alucard.

“Oh yeah. I forgot you had a normal name,” he said, shaking his head. The woman’s eyes flew open at the sound of unfamiliar voices, fear flashing on her face as she pushed herself up, something in her shoulder twinging enough to make her make a face.

“It’s alright, they’re my friends, they’re here to help,” Alucard said, trying to soothe her panic, hands automatically smoothing over her injured shoulder. She stared between Trevor and Sypha doubtfully with too-bright eyes.

“Oh, um—hello,” she said politely, though she still looked wary.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Sypha said with one of her wide smiles. “We haven’t met many of Alucard’s friends.”

“I doubt there are that many,” Trevor added under his breath. The girl shot him a dirty look.

“Sypha is a very accomplished Speaker Magician, I called her here to help me search for something to help with your condition," Alucard said. Recognition lit up behind the girl’s eyes.

“You’re the one that melted it! The thing that made the castle move,” she said, eyes wide. Alucard laughed, harder when he saw Sypha’s disgruntled expression.

“Yes, she is particularly gifted with elemental magics. And this,” he said, making a face as he turned to face Trevor. “Is Trevor Belmont. It’s his family’s Hold we visited, with the elevator you hated.”

“Hello,” he said when she looked at him, with something of a wave.

“Your family collected all those books?” She asked, something strange in her expression.

“Not all at once.”

“Well—Sypha, if you wouldn’t mind helping me to look for anything that might be relevant, I can fill you in on what I’ve already tried,” Alucard said and Sypha followed as he filled her in on everything that hadn’t fit in his letter. The woman watched them go, brows furrowed.

Alucard and Sypha disappeared amongst the stacks to search for relevant books. Trevor just surveyed the woman, looking for signs of what she truly was, signs that she knew, that it all was a ruse of some sort. She just stared back at him, face pinched. He dug into one of his pockets and pulled out a small, palm-sized throwing knife.

“Here, hold onto this for a second for me,” Trevor said, handing her a blessed iron blade. She gave him an odd look but took it, staring at it in confusion. She held it for hardly a second before she tossed it aside, scalded from the metal. She cried out, clutching her hand to her chest as she swore much more colorfully than he would have expected.

“What was that? What did you do?” She asked, shrinking away from him, eyes sharp and frightened.

“I was proving a point,” he said as Alucard reappeared, too fast, looking murderous.

“What did you do, Belmont?”

“He burned me with something, he put it on that blade,” she said, showing him the angry red burn on her palm, the edges already beginning to blister.

“I didn’t put anything on it. It’s iron.”

“You absolute bastard—“ Alucard spat.

“I thought we should be sure,” Trevor said, hands up in surrender.

“What is he talking about, Adrian? I don’t understand, I thought he was your friend, why does he want to hurt me?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You did, that was your point,” Alucard said, examining her palm. “It couldn’t have just been iron, for this bad a reaction.”

“Blessed iron.”

Alucard glared at him. He’d bet he had a theory, too, why the blessing might have made the reaction worse.

“Adrian?” The woman asked, voice wavering, though it was enough to draw his attention back to her, for his face to soften.

“It’s okay. Everything is okay, I can make a poultice to help with the blistering."

“Adrian, I don't unterstand—“

“You’re a changeling. It was pure iron, that’s why it hurt you, why you couldn’t hold it,” Trevor said, watching her face. She just stared back at him in utter incomprehension, the sort you couldn't fake. 

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re some fae-bastard’s cast-off—“

“Trevor!” Alucard snapped. 

“What! That’s what they do! They have a kid that’s too sick or ugly or whatever and they dump it on some human parents to raise, assuming it’ll die.”

“You’re—you’re saying I’m some kind of faery? An ugly, unwanted faery, so you burned me with a knife?” she asked, anger slipping into her voice. 

“Well, not exactly—“

“You’re mentally deficient,” she spat at him. He supposed it all sounded rather insane. 

“She’s got you there, Belmont,” Alucard sniped.

“I’m telling her the truth!”

“Adrian, help me up,” she said, glowering at him. It was only after she stood that Trevor realized that her leg had been broken, and badly, if the splint holding it in place was anything to go by. Still, the moment she was stable, she hauled back and punched him in the jaw, harder than he’d have guessed her capable.

Judging by the look on Alucard’s face, if he hadn’t been in love with her before, he certainly was after that lovely display of violence.

“Alright, are we even now?” Trevor asked, rubbing his jaw. She looked like she was considering hitting him again so he took a step back out of range.

“No,” she spat back, and he felt maybe a little bad after catching sight of her hand, which was still blistering.

“What did you do?” Sypha asked, brow creased, coming to an abrupt halt as she surveyed the scene, eyes wide over her stack of books.

“Come on,” Alucard said to the woman, stooping to sweep her up into his arms. “I’m sure I can mix something to help with the blistering at least.”

Trevor watched as Alucard carried her from the room without even a glance back before he stooped and picked up the blade from the ground.

“What did you do?” Sypha asked again.

“I wanted to be sure what she was,” he said, staring at the blade which sat cool and unobtrusive in his palm. “And I wanted to see how he’d react. This is bad, Syph. Either way, if she lives or dies, this is bad.”

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

35. Revelations

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

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“What kind of investigator just hangs out in a brothel?” Lythra asked, making a face. She’d been out of sorts since they’d discovered the murders at the temple—the same doppelganger creatures responsible for them as had been for the violence at the circus.

“No doubt a bad one, my dear,” Astarion replied sardonically. His mood had soured markedly since making it to Wyrm’s Crossing—it was one of his old haunts, where he’d lured hundreds of unwitting morons to their demise.

It wasn’t exactly something he wanted to remember. Nor did he want to be here with Lythra, not when his brain kept playing what would have happened, had he met her before the brain worm. That he’d have seduced her and delivered her to Cazador, that she’d be dead and long rotting and he’d never have known what it was like for someone to care about him.

She glanced at him side-long, brows furrowed in question. He just shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do right now was talk about it, especially with the druid tagging along.

He insisted on coming practically everywhere since they reached the city. As if he and Lythra didn’t know it better than most.

Halsin held the door open for them and they slipped inside. It was glaringly clear how uncomfortable Lythra was—she was flushed with uncharacteristic embarrassment and her face was scrunched in a scowl.

“Ahhh—I see some new faces,” the Mamzelle of the brothel said as they strode in, eyes locking on Lythra, of all of them. “I know what you crave—a firm hand, someone to give while you receive, a dab hand with a whip—oh have I misjudged you?”

Astarion made a face, thinking of the nasty priest of Loviatarr that had worked her over, how she’d let him, saw it as a way to punish herself. Lythra kept her face neutral, though.

“I’m afraid so,” she said simply, shoulders tight.

“Perhaps you’d prefer the drow twins, a taste of something a bit more exotic. They’re very popular,” the Mamzelle said, gesturing to the curtain behind her. To Astarion’s surprise she simply walked off and pushed into the room, tension radiating off her in waves.

“That one certainly needs someone to help her relax, she’s wound up tight enough to snap,” the Mamzelle said, shaking her head.

Did she? She’d never asked, never pushed for anything more than what he was willing to give, had seemed content with closeness and cuddling. Or perhaps she was better at disguising her frustrations than he thought.

Perhaps she was getting sick of waiting.

Astarion pushed into the room to find Lythra in front of the drow twins, looking very agitated.

“What are you on about?” the male twin—Sorn asked, making a face. Lythra said something in drow, to which the woman—Nym—shook her head, answering in the same, though she didn’t look irritated. In fact, she reached out a hand to place on her shoulder, her gaze intense.

Astarion cleared his throat. “My, my, what have we got going on in here? What devilish scheming are you up to, my sweet?”

“I’m not scheming, Astarion,” she said, voice clipped.

“Dos phuul feir ichl suingmc natha klez. Xuat eszak, ud'phuul ghil de' udossta ehmtu kahzet,” Nym said, voice soft.

“Udos gumash klath'ra dos, lotha jabbress, ka dos lle'warin lil' pleasures de' delmah,” Sorn said, striding forward, tone far more sultry, reaching up to drag his fingertips lightly up her cheek. “Usstan'bal quin ulu tyav natha szarkai. Usstan'bal natha tejmook'cinkjuu dos phu' ssinjin.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “Gaer zhah naubol usstan lle'warin de' delmah.”

Halsin pushed through the curtain, brows raising.

“Vendui gaer,” he said, the words missing the musical tilt of the drows. “Well isn’t this something. Reminds me of my own time in the Underdark.”

His tone was warm with amusement, but there was something else, something darker lingering underneath. 

“You—you spent time in the Underdark?” Lythra asked, brows furrowing. “Other than under the mountains?”

“When I was a young and foolish druid I wished to see its unworldly beauty. I ended up a guest of one of the noble houses for some three years. Well, perhaps guest is not quite right, somewhere between guest, consort, and prisoner.”

She stared back at him, face pale. She opened her mouth several times before she could force the words from her lips. “W-which House?”

He furrowed his brows, but answered. “House Mizzrym.”

Lythra blanched, what little color in her face disappearing in the span of a breath.

“Halsin—I, I—“ she stammered, eyes wide and welling with tears as she stood, frozen.

“Halsin? Surely not the Halsin,” Sorn said, eyes lighting up. 

“The Halsin? I did not know I was so popular,” he replied, clearly taken aback by the pronouncement.

“I heard you could turn into a bear,” Nym said with obvious interest, stepping away from Lythra and towards the druid.

Lythra pulled up her hood, blinking into invisibility. A few seconds later Astarion heard the front door slam shut. He glared at the druid before taking off after her without a backwards glance.

Astarion stomped out of Sharess looking for Lythra. Whatever was going on—well, he’d decided to blame the druid. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d elicited such a reaction. He tried to convince himself that it bothered him as much as it did because it put their mission in peril, but he knew it was truly because he hated seeing her distressed.

He found her tucked behind a stack of crates in a nearby alley, her breaths coming so fast it was a wonder she hadn’t already passed out. Tears streaked her cheeks and her eyes were blank and unseeing. She looked so terribly small and breakable, nothing like the fierce warrior he’d watched fell Ketheric Thorm, but very much like the little fractured thing he’d seen on the bank of the river. 

Astarion felt his heart lurch uncomfortably in his chest. 

“Oh—darling, come here,” he said softly, not caring about the filth of the cobblestone as he sat and pulled her gently into his arms. “Whatever it is, we’ll fix it, alright? I never was a fan of the druid anyway,” he said, holding her securely to his chest as he traced circles on her back. 

She only let out a sob in response. It took him a moment to realize it was meant to be words and another one to work out what she was saying.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I didn’t know—“

“Sweetness, just breath. Everything’s alright—“

“It’s not, it’s not—“

“Lythra! Lythra—oh, thank the Oak Father. Are you hurt, child?” Halsin asked, jogging to where the pair sat, immediately crouching to check for any injuries. 

“W-what year?” She stammered.

“What?”

“What year did House Mizzrym capture you?”

“Lythra, why—“

“Please, Halsin.”

“1265. I was there for three years.”

She let out a choked sob. “My—my mother was born in 1269. A bastard of the Mizzrym Matron, born with hazel eyes and unnatural height.”

Halsin stared at her, wide-eyed. Astarion stared between the two, mouth open. The whole thing was nearly impossible to fathom. After all, it wasn’t as if they bore any likeness, not when Halsin was a hulking, bear of an elf and Lythra was tiny, still so delicate, if no longer severely underfed. 

“You mean—“ Halsin stared but Lythra cut him off, shaking her head violently. 

“I’m sorry, Halsin. I-I’m sorry—“

“You have nothing to be sorry for—“

“I do! Gods. I have to go, I have to—I’ll see you later,” she said and ducked out of Astarion’s arms only to dart down the alley and disappear into the throngs of people meandering through the Crossing. 

“Kelennar, if you’re here because of the reason I think you’re here, I’m going to cut your hands off and make you eat your own eyes before I kill you,” Xaryn snarled, and he meant every word. He didn’t care if it broke his Oath, wasn’t going to stand back and let his sister be dragged back to that hell.

“How dare you—”

“Watch it, Kel, Mother Dearest isn’t here to save you, and I have no reason to temper my rage anymore.”

“I am not going to stand here and be lectured by a traitor,” Kelennar spat, eyes narrowed.

“A traitor? A traitor to what?”

“Grandmother will see you flayed for taking her heir. I’ve never seen her more furious.”

“For rescuing my sister? For taking her away from the miserable torture Mother inflicted on her every day?”

“Lessons are hardly torture, Xaryn. She was spoiled by mother’s personal tutelage—”

“Do you know what it was? Her tutelage?”

“She was trying to mold her into a halfway-acceptable caster—”

“She was experimenting on her. She was cutting her up and putting all sorts of dark magic artifacts into her to make her use the Shadow Weave. She was beating her when it didn’t work, she was having that damn drider of hers drug her, and she was making her sick and small and weak and frightened. That’s what Mother was doing when she was supposed to be teaching her. Why do you think she was always sick? Why do you think she never grew, even though Mother and Elendar were both six feet tall? Why do you think she all the sudden couldn’t do magic anymore? Don’t tell me that you were so blind as to not see the cruelty.”

“That’s absurd, she was always Mother’s favorite.”

Xaryn laughed, the sound devoid of any humor. “Are you joking? You’re her favorite. She hated Lythie more than anyone else.”

“This is foolish—”

“You were the one that sent the assassin when she was thirteen, weren’t you?”

“What?”

“Weren’t you?”

“I—yes. It was a clumsy attempt, childish attempt that did very little harm,” he said defiantly, though he cowered under Xaryn’s rage.

“You sent them to Lythie’s room in Mother’s tower—had you ever been there?”

“Why would I? I had no interest in the little princess’s room—”

“Ah, yes, the little princess who had a bed, a wardrobe, and two blankets. No pillow, no rug, no window to look out of. You know she drew little pictures on the walls, to try and cheer it up? She painted them in blood. Her blood. What a spoiled little princess.”

“This is all absurd,” kel said, trying to shake him off. Xaryn just pressed him to the stone harder, his grip bruising at the very least. He tightened his hold on Kel’s hands, breaking at least one of the bones in his palm. He ignored his cry of pain, his swearing.

“I am giving you one fucking chance, Kel—one. Go home, and never come looking for her again. She deserves a normal fucking life—she never wanted to be heir, she never asked for any of it, not to be a girl, or a szarkai, or a sorcerer. You know what the worst part is? She looked up to you, when she was little, before you stared being awful to her. She wanted to be like her big brother Kel and go to the Sorcere. She was the only one who gave a damn about your stories from school, who thought you were anything special. Do you remember that? Do you remember before she got sick for the first time and she’d try and copy all your spells and you’d get so angry because it was natural to her, instead of realizing you had the one thing you always wanted in that fucking House, you had one person that thought you were special, that thought everything you did was amazing. And you know what you did? Everything you could to torment her and make her hate you. So stay the fuck away from her, Kel, or I will kill you. Now tell me how you’ve been tracking her and give me whatever you’re using.”

“It’s—it’s that knife. There’s an enchantment on it, it leads to her.”

“What else?”

“What do you mean, what else?”

“What else are you using?”

“That’s all. It wasn’t even working for a while.”

“Then go home.”

“I can’t go home. Not unless I bring her back or she’s dead.”

“Then tell them she’s dead.”

“They’ll know I’m lying.”

“Yeah, well, you know your fucking options. Go home, face Mother’s rage, or go after my little sister and I’ll kill you. Or don’t go home and actually go make something of yourself—I don’t care, as long as you stay the fuck away from my little sister.”

“Our little sister,” he shot back.

“What right do you have to call her that? When have you ever been a brother to her and not just a bully?”

Kelennar made a face. “Are we done, then?”

“Almost,” Xaryn said, and hauled back and clocked him across the face. Kel landed in a heap, stunned. Xaryn ducked down, grabbed the knife and cut off a chunk of his hair.

“I’ll know where you go, little brother, so don’t fucking test me,” he snarled before he stared at the knife in his hand. “Fucking Hells.”

“You’re a fucking brute asshole—”

“Why’s the knife handle curved, Kel?”

“What?”

“Why do you think the knife has a fucking curved handle, you dickless shit-heel?”

“I don’t fucking care, it just matters that it works.”

“You know why it works? What makes that sort of scrying really powerful, makes it break through wards?”

“I don’t need a fucking remediation on scrying!”

“Then tell me what it is, Kel. What did mother give you to make sure you could hunt down our little sister like a dog?” he said, brandishing the handle at him. Kelennar’s face went white.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s not—”

“Then what is it, Kel? Tell me, where does this fit into all though private lessons for the little princess you were going on about?”

Kelennar made a face, shaking his head harder. “It’s not, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t—”

“Look at it Kel. Look at it and know this is what you wanted to drag her back for,” he snarled, and Kelennar scrambled up, unsteady on his feet and horror clear on his face. Xaryn watched him run, hoping he wouldn’t regret not killing him on the spot.

He glared down at the knife in his hand, at the bone handle. It was a piece of a rib bone, a tiny, little rib bone that his mother had removed for some heinous, unfathomable reason.

Perhaps it was good Elendar was unable to walk the city with him, looking for her. He never wanted him to know about it, especially if that was how he found her.

Xaryn blinked back tears as he tucked it carefully away. He’d have to be extra careful to make sure he wasn’t followed back to the inn, to Elendar.

Maybe he shouldn’t have let him go. Maybe he’d gotten soft.

Halsin found her later, on the very edge of camp, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared up at the sky. Her eyes were red and she trembled.

“I came to see how you were doing.”

“You don’t—I’m fine, Halsin. I—I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, it was unfair and pointless and I should have known well enough to keep my own consul—“

“What are you talking about, little one?”

“I—I shouldn’t have told you. It was unkind, especially after what I told you about my mother.”

“It is…a shock, that is for sure. But I am not upset with you, nor do I wish that you kept this to yourself.”

“It is a burden, an unfair burden that I have saddled you—“

“You are not a burden. You are—you do not realize the gift you are to me.”

“Don’t lie, Halsin. I know the sort of person the Matron is, the nightmare the whole family is. I know what they did to their pets. My father—my father was one of them too. I know you suffered and I am just a product of that evil, a reminder and a continuation—“

“Lythra, child, breathe. It is not so black and white—“

“Of course it is! They kept you as a slave, they did horrible, horrible things—I’m so sorry, Halsin. I’m so, so sorry,” she said, sobbing into her knees. Halsin knelt down to draw her into his arms, but she scooted away, crying harder.

“Little one—”

“Please don’t, I don’t—I don’t deserve your kindness. I just—I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Halsin felt his heart breaking at the sight. Had she been this upset without the day’s revelations, he was sure he’d find her pain unbearable, but after—

He had a family, again. He’d had one for much longer than he’d realized and—

He had a daughter. He had a daughter and she had done some of the most depraved things he’d ever seen to someone so dear to him, to a little girl, to her own daughter.

His granddaughter. Lythra Mizzrym, the legacy of his misspent youth in the Underdark. A little life of pain and misery and such deep, deep sadness.

And yet she tried so hard to be good. To be kind. To help others, to free them from chains.

He pulled her into his arms despite her former protest, unable to just sit and watch her sob herself sick.

“Halsin—”

“It’s alright, little one. I’m here, you’re not alone. Never again, not while I draw breath.”

“You—you, can’t, I’m—”

“You are not responsible for the sins that came before you, and they are not yours to bear. You are innocent in all of it—”

“I’m not, it’s my fault—”

“It’s not. It’s not your fault what was done to your father—”

“It is—”

“No, it’s not. You were his child, regardless of how you came to be, you were his and he loved you, and he sheltered and guided you as he was able. He chose to stay and raise you and he did a wonderful job.”

He wondered if he’d known, if he’d stayed and done the same, if his daughter would have still turned out so wretched.

He didn’t even know her name.

He hugged Lythra tighter, hyper-aware of just how small she was. Had his height simply skipped her, or was it because of the experiments that she never grew properly? His sisters had been tall—Naeris near six feet.

Silvanus—she had Naeris’s eyes, abet lighter in color when he’d first met her. He’d thought them familiar—they had been.

He could feel tears slipping down his nose as he pressed his face to the top of her head, a tremendous wave of tangled emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

Oak Father—there was grief, overwhelming grief at what she’d suffered, bitter loathing at the one who had done it. There was fury at the pain inflicted on her, at everything she’d had to do to survive—that she’d been alone for so long, and he hadn’t known. Then there was a suffocating affection for her, a deep adoration and pride at the young woman she’d grown into. And then there was the miserable raw feeling of knowing what he’d left behind, what had festered in his absence, what it had cost one so dear to him.

What a miserable way for her to have put it all together, in a brothel that made her clearly uncomfortable, him making light of the sexual slavery he’d been held in for three years by her grandmother.

Her father’s abuse had left deep scars and a crushing sense of guilt. He. wouldn’t allow her to transfer than too him as well.

“It’s okay, little one. I promise it’s okay,” he said, rubbing soothing circles into her back. She didn’t reply, nor did her sobs lessen until she’d entirely exhausted herself, falling asleep against his shoulder.

He just sat there, cradling her in his arms as he tried to come to terms that—for the first time since he was nearly seventeen—he had a family again, even if it was just one small, brave girl.

It was more than enough, more than he’d ever really hoped for.

Notes:

Dos phuul feir ichl suingmc natha klez. Xuat eszak, ud'phuul ghil de' udossta ehmtu kahzet--You're far too silly a thing. Don't worry, we're here of our own accord. Udos gumash klath'ra dos, lotha jabbress, ka dos lle'warin lil' pleasures de' delmah--We could service you, little mistress, if you miss the pleasures of home Usstan'bal quin ulu tyav natha szarkai. Usstan'bal natha tejmook'cinkjuu dos phu' ssinjin.--I've yet to taste a szarkai. I've a feeling you are sweet Gaer zhah naubol usstan lle'warin de' delmah.--There is nothing I miss of home Vendui gaer--Hello there

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12

Chapter 11 Call for Aid

She was growing sicker.

He doubted she slept much at all at night, plagued by her hacking cough, by the strangely dark blood in her lungs, and now by the fever he couldn’t seem to break. Even if she hadn’t been, he doubted she would have slept—he could hardly convince her to as he watched over her in the library, now.

She wouldn’t tell him what she saw in her dreams, what haunted her. She’d only curl up as small as she could manage, trying to hide her tears from him. She was too tired to make it through her piles of books most days, too tired to do much of anything, though she still forced herself to.

It made his chest hurt, seeing her like that.

After three days he made up his mind—he would write to Sypha and see if she knew of some ailment like this, if the Speakers might know of a cure. Otherwise he was starting to worry he’d bury her before autumn even properly arrived, a thought that now made him feel ill.

“Adrian?” She called, her voice ragged.

“Yes?” he replied, immediately crossing to her side.

“Could this be something?” She asked, showing him a page in one of the tomes he’d dragged up from the Hold to parse through. He scanned it quickly before shaking his head.

“Perhaps, though it would be unlikely. It would be a very unusual, but then again,” he said, trailing off. He could tell that even just drawing breath now was becoming difficult, though she was far better at attempting to mask her pain and discomfort than she had any right to be. He reached out without thinking to smooth back a tendril of hair that had fallen in her face. He froze when she leaned into his touch.

“I—I’m going to make another pot of tea,” he said, striding from the library and to the kitchen before she could protest. He’d see the letter sent today—tonight, at the latest.

His fingers still tingled from where she’d leaned her cheek against them, as if his touch was a comfort. She was such an odd young woman, had to be, to find comfort in a creature like him.

What would it have been like, if she’d stumbled into his life before Taka and Sumi? She so readily called him a friend when in truth he’d been hardly anything but cold to her for the majority of her stay, when in the beginning he’d been very nearly cruel, leaving her alone for weeks on end. What would it have been like if he hadn’t wasted his kindness on them, if he’d never met them, never have been betrayed by them, never been violated and nearly killed? If he hadn’t met her expecting betrayal and hurt?

Might he have known what to call this feeling then? Might he have been able to trust it?

Not that it mattered. Unless Sypha arrived quickly and knew something about what was plaguing her he doubted she’d remain much longer as anything but another ghost in these halls, haunting him.

He shook is head. He wouldn’t allow her to die, for whoever it was tormenting her to win. She was too precious to be allowed to be snuffed out like that.

When had she become so precious? Especially when he still knew so little about her. Did that make him a fool, after everything—surely he’d learned his lesson, hadn’t he?

He sighed, pouring a liberal amount of honey into the teapot, hoping it did something to soothe her throat, to make he feel just the slightest bit better.

She wasn’t the same as Taka and Sumi. She wasn’t afraid of him, wasn’t looking for anything from him, except, perhaps, company. She enjoyed the library, sure, but she seemed to enjoy talking to him more, when she was able.

He’d never asked her how long, exactly, she’d been alone before. Had it been long enough for her to grow achingly lonely too? It must have, for her to favor his company.

He could hear her coughing again upstairs. She did so more when he’s out of the room, when she thought he couldn’t hear, as if she didn’t want to worry him, didn’t wish him to know the extent of her suffering. He hadn’t told her of his heightened senses, hadn’t told her that he could hear her in the night trying to muffle her ragged coughing, or the sobs that sometimes followed. Originally it had been simple, self-preservation—to tell her as little as possible about himself to make it all the more difficult for her to stay him with that knowledge. Though, looking back, even before she’d fallen so dreadfully ill, she’d hardly been a threat, not with a broken leg and half the ligaments in her shoulder torn.

Now though, it seemed cruel to tell her, to tell her all those small moments she’d assumed were private were not, that he’d heard her suffering and done nothing, worried it was a ruse.

He returned to the library and set the pot of tea down quickly on the table he’d been working at, crossing to where she was she was doubled over on the window seat, her head pressed to her knees as she coughed.

“_____—just try to breathe,” he said, pushing away the silver curtain of her hair from her face as he absently traced circles over her back. He could tell she was trying, tell that she was desperately trying to calm herself, even as tears streaked down her face. When she finally settled enough to pull the handkerchief from her lips Alucard couldn’t help but snatch it from her.

The blood was black, or so nearly black there was hardly a difference, but this time he could tell why it was so dark, at least in part why it was so thick—

She was coughing up earth, coughing up thick black dirt from her lungs, as if she was being buried alive horrifyingly slowly.

She stared up at him through her tears, still struggling to breathe. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“No—no you’re not—“

“I can’t stop it, Adrian. I’m going to be buried alive right here, unless—unless they managed to take me first.”

“You won’t, we’re going to find a solution—“

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended to leave you with another body to deal with—“

“You’re not, _____, you not, because we’re going to figure it out. We’re going to, I promise.”

She didn’t answer, but her face told him all he needed to know—she didn’t believe him.

He just couldn’t let her be right.

He left as soon as she had settled into an uneasy sleep, buried under two comforters and half a dozen blankets to try and keep her shivering at bay, climbing the tallest spire to his father’s old study where he kept the Carpathian mirror. It was harder to use by far than the transmission mirror in the Belmont Hold, but far more powerful, too, for it could act as a portal.

The only problem was holding it for long enough.

He hadn’t had much practice with it—he’d never been particularly interested in magic when he was younger, had only really bothered with the basics, something that that was currently coming back to haunt him. He bet his father would have known what—or who—what plaguing her. He’d bet he could have healed her already.

Still, at the very least, he should be able to hold the connection long enough to toss in the letter he’d written—then, at least if he was lucky, which of course he rarely was—they might be able to travel back to the castle in a week or so.

Which would be fine, as long as she could hold on that long, as long as he could keep her from drowning in dirt in his halls.

He didn’t know he could bear the thought of actually having to bury her.

His father had always made using the mirror look effortless, somehow, despite the herculean concentration it took to operate. Alucard stared at the shards on the floor, willing them back into place as he murmured the old Carpathian incantation his father had taught him—an incantation he’d never seemed to need himself. It was slow going, the shards ranging themselves shakily. By the time he’d managed to put them together a bead of sweat ran down his brow.

“Show me Sypha Belnades,” he said, watching as the reflection of the study gave way to a little camp off a dusty road somewhere, a rabbit roasting over a fire. Sypha and Trevor were both leaned against a log, though even more so leaned against each other, something that made his heart ache more than he’d like to admit. They sat up, though at the sight of the portal, eyes going wide.

“Alucard?” Sypha said, mouth falling open—perhaps she hadn’t heard of Carpathian mirrors before. They were exceedingly rare, after all.

“I can’t hold the connection for long. I need—my…friend has fallen ill and I hoped to borrow your knowledge. It’s something—something supernatural and malevolent and I can’t—I was hoping you’d be willing to lend me your aid again. I fear I need it, to save them.”

“Fucking hell—how are you doing that?” Trevor asked. Alucard ignored him, tossing the letter through towards Sypha. His head was threatening to split open with the effort of holding the connection.

“That has—what I know so far. I—I can’t hold it any more.”

“We’ll come,” Sypha said quickly, snatching the parchment from the air. He gave her a weak smile before allowing the connection to sputter out, sinking to his knees as black spots danced over his vision. His stomach threatened to expel its contents as his head pounded.

Still, it was worth it, if Sypha came and could figure out what he could not. If they could finally nurse _____ back to health. If they could figure out the curse haunting her, if she’d no longer be bound to the castle.

He paused, staring at the carpet.

She’d leave, then. He’d have to help her, he’d promised to, promised to help her return to Vienna, to her bookshop that may or may not even exist any longer.

She’d be alive, though. And maybe—maybe she wouldn’t wish to stay in Vienna, not all the time. Perhaps she’d visit, on occasion, come and argue with him about vampire philosophy and pester him about the castle’s engineering and tell him all about the books she was reading and the ones she was making, perhaps she’d come and tell him exactly what she thought of what was happening at the Viennese Court and go on one of her rants about the national tragedy of the Holy Roman Empire being the ever-compounding inbreeding of its royal family.

That would be enough, he thought—brief, shining intermissions in his self-imposed exile, brief recesses of of laughter and spirited conversation. Perhaps it would be even easier if he could master the Carpathian mirror properly—

But he was getting ahead of himself.

He still had to cure her, to rid her of whatever foul curse had been set upon her. Maybe now with Sypha’s help they’d have a better chance at lifting it before it caused permanent damage.

“What the fuck was that?” Trevor asked, staring at the spot where the portal appeared. Sypha ignored him, tearing into the envelope Alucard had tossed through. It was clear enough it had caused him significant physical pain to hold the connection, that it had to be important, whatever he needed help with.

A friend. A sick friend.

“I don’t know which is more shocking—the portal thing, or the fact that the pale bastard has friends.”

“Other than us, you mean?”

“I—“ Trevor started but broke off and swore, no doubt realizing that he and Alucard were, in fact, friends of some sort. Sypha scanned the letter, chewing on her lip.

It wasn’t good news. She hadn’t expected it to be considering how he’d gone out of his way to track them down, but it was far worse than what she’d expected. She hardly knew what to make of what he’d written—coughing up blood and dirt, being bound by briars in the middle of a bed, hunted in one’s dreams? She wasn’t sure she’d ever heard of something like that, not all together, though maybe not even in pieces.

She wondered who his poor friend was, if they’d be able to hold out the week or so it would take for them to return to the castle.

“So what is it?” Trevor asked, craning his head to take a look over her shoulder. He whistled. “They must have pissed off someone pretty bad for that sort of curse, shit.”

“I haven’t heard anything like it, not all together.”

Trevor made a face rather than voicing his thoughts, though they were easy enough for her to gage—whoever Alucard’s mysterious friend was, their chances didn’t look very good.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

34. Chance Reunion

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

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Xaryn couldn’t say he was much of a fan of Baldur’s Gate so far, not in comparison to Waterdeep. The Upper City was nice enough, but from what he’d seen of the Lower so far it was a bit of a dump. It was clear it didn’t take care of its citizens, swaths of displaced refugees without food or shelter, the city’s poor left to fend for themselves.

Waterdeep wasn’t perfect, but at least the temples saw to the less fortunate with greater success, where the government failed. He’d never seen a temple back home close its doors to someone in need.

Here, they were different.

He didn’t voice any of it to Elendar, though. No, it was all about keeping positive, not pointing out that Lythra had been most likely living in a shithole without any Orders of repute to go to for help.

Lythie was resilient, always had been. She’d be fine. He just had to keep telling himself that instead of focussing on the nightmare she’d gotten herself tangled up in.

He still couldn’t fathom what she’d been doing in an illithid colony, what could have possibly possessed her.

Still, she was fine, she was traveling. Elendar still scryed on her every morning and her eyes hadn’t been black since he’d seen her free the Flaming Fists, hadn’t dripped with ichor.

So that was something.

He unlocked the in door and pushed inside, locking it again behind him.

Elendar hadn’t done much exploring of the city since their first two days. His leg was acting up and he’d been too hell bent on getting to Baldur’s Gate to tell him that he needed to restock his medicine. Xaryn should have checked, though, and he hadn’t, and now Elendar could hardly walk without immense pain.

He was glad, at least, he’d been able to convince him to stay behind in their room, though he also knew it was only a testament to the amount of pain he was truly in.

“Ilharn, I brought dinner.”

“Did you find anything?” he asked, unconcerned with the plate of food he put next to him. Xaryn was going to have to start forcing him to eat again—he’d gotten this way the last time they’d gotten close, when they’d found trace of her at that shop she’d bought her amulet of nondetection.

He’d been too focused on anything that could have been a lead, too manic to sleep or eat or even rest.

“Nothing yet, though it is a big city, ilharn. It may take us a few weeks.”

That was generous. He had a feeling it would take far longer, seeing as they didn’t know the city and had no idea where to even begin looking.

Still, they would find her. If she was alive, they would find her.

This was the closest they’d ever been.

“Astarion?” Lythra asked without looking away from the sky. They’d dragged one of the quilts out and away from the camp, to the top of a little hill covered in sparse trees. He couldn’t help but think of how similar it was to his set up after the tiefling party, though everything else was so very different.

He was enjoying himself, this time. There was no fumbling with clothes, no performance, no confusing, tangled up flashes of emotion. No, they were simply enjoying each other’s company, mostly in companionable silence.

It seemed they both had a lot on their minds as they neared the city, though neither brought it up—they’d have to, eventually, but not yet.

They’d emptied a few bottles of wine—Astarion had made sure they were ‘decent’. He’d been trying to teach her the difference, but she seemed content with just about anything, much to his chagrin.

He glanced over, furrowing his brow at her expression—it was far too serious for a night under the stars. Perhaps one of their last chances at a peaceful night for a very long time.

They certainly wouldn’t have one once they arrived in the city.

“What is it, my sweet?”

“I was thinking—”

“Always dangerous,” he quipped, and he watched her mouth quirk up into a smile. She’d stopped guarding her expressions as much around him, at least while they were alone.

She sat up, brow still furrowed. He raised an eyebrow.

“Well, are you going to share? I’m all pointy ears.”

She snorted, wrinkling her nose as she laughed.

“You’re such a dork,” she said, her smile telling him she didn’t mind at all.

“Oh? Have you interrupted my contemplation just to insult me?”

“Not just to insult you. I—I had an idea.”

“Oh dear, here we go,” he said in mock apprehension.

“I want to show you with the tadpole.”

He furrowed his brow but opened the connection. She so rarely used it on purpose. Lythra offered him her hands, which he took.

“Close your eyes,” she said softly and he did after a second’s hesitation.

At first he saw nothing but black, then—

It was him. Him, as he sat in front of her, their hands intertwined. His silver-white hair, his strong, patriar nose and sharp jaw. He had full lips and thick-lashed eyes and—Gods.

He watched her eyes trace over his features, adoration clear in the way she looked at him. He was handsome—he knew that, he’d known in an abstract sort of way, but the way she looked at him—

Surely, some of it had to be simply from the way she looked at him, like some sort of masterwork, like a museum piece to gaze upon with awe and reverence. 

She didn’t sever the connection until he opened his eyes again, throat tight.

“I didn’t think about it, before. When you were upset about not being able to see your face. I just thought—I thought you’d like to be sure you do absolutely have the best hair in camp, because Shadowheart just might be angling for your crown,” she said, voice turning joking as she wrung her hands, no doubt now worrying about overstepping.

He just leaned over and kissed her, soft and unhurried and expectant of nothing else.

“Thank you,” he said when he pulled back, admiring the flush on her cheeks. She blushed so much easier with the Curse gone, something he did enjoy exploiting.

“I just thought you should know. I mean, hopefully we won’t have the brain worms very much longer.”

“Yes, there’s only defeating the remainder of the Dead Three’s Chosen and a godsdamned netherbrain,” he quipped back.

“And we have to kill Cazador before that.”

“I hadn’t realized you were already making plans, darling,” he said, though truly he’d thought he’d still have to convince her and the others to deal with Cazador, never mind make his demise such a priority.

“Of course,” she said, flopping back on the blanket, eyes skyward. “We can’t take a chance that he could pull you under his thrall without the tadpole. It’s a stupid risk and there’s enough unknowns as it is. That crusty old fuck’s days are numbered. We just killed an Avatar of Myrkul—a master vampire can’t be that much harder.”

“Don’t underestimate him, Lyth,” he said, fear coiling in his gut at her pronouncement. It would be foolish to walk in with such arrogance. “You were Weave-drunk fighting Ketheric, hopped up from the Shadowfell, you don’t have the same power anymore.”

“I’m not underestimating him, I’m just—I’m saying we’re going to kill him. Soon. And I’m not useless, without the magic, I’m still plenty dangerous with a sword. Plus Halsin’s helping me with the magic I have left.”

“Why not Gale?” he asked. “He’s the master of the Weave or whatever.”

“My magic doesn’t work like his. He—he tried to help me with some of it. I’m still—I know it’s not fair, I just—wizards make me nervous. He started getting really technical and I nearly threw up on his shoes. It’s stupid, I know it’s stupid—”

“It’s not, not after what your mother put you through.”

She just sighed. “At least when we get back to the city I can pick up some of my clothes. I’m tired of tripping over cuffs.”

“Are we finally going to learn what you spend your time doing in the city?”

She rolled her eyes, flopping back on the blanket. 

Lythra sat on the ground by the fire with her forehead pressed to her knees, head throbbing. Her nose was definitely broken and she wasn’t sure the githyanki monks had left an inch of her unbruised.

She wished she was more surprised to find that their dream guardian was a mindflayer. She should feel more horror, she knew, more betrayal. If anything she just felt resigned—it wasn’t as it she’d expected his help to come without strings or his own agenda. It was the same as the damn devil, they all wanted something, all wanted to force them into a corner so they’d have to take their terms.

At least the devil didn’t spend his time rooting around in her head.

Still, she had to play nice, at least for now. There was at least a new option the ‘Emperor’ had revealed, though she had to be careful showing any interest in it—the githyanki prince was a risky ally to make, but might be the safest option.

Lae’zel wanted to free him too.

It wasn’t anything they could do anything about yet, though. Not before they had more information, had a proper plan.

Failure would be utterly devastating.

“Let me see your face, little one,” Halsin said, crouching next to him. She’d been avoiding his side of camp since they returned—she knew her nose would have to be reset and wasn’t looking forward to it. Even if healing magic no longer hurt her, she still had the urge to avoid it at all costs.

“This will not be pleasant, but it must be done or you won’t be able to breathe properly,” he said, examining the damage. Lythra made a face, letting out a vile stream of curses in Ilythiiri as she closed her eyes and looked up to make it easier for him to fix.

He huffed a bit of a laugh, hardly audible, and she tried not to flinch as she felt him snap her nose back into place, setting it with a quick healing spell.

“Vith—thank you. Hells that stung,” she said, reaching up to feel the bridge her of her nose. It was perfectly straight without so much as a bump.

“Of course. Give me a moment to deal with the rest.”

“You don’t have—”

“Shhh,” he said, probing for more injures as he sunk a high level healing spell into her.

It just felt warm, now, brought relief.

It was an odd feeling, especially when she found herself bracing for pain that didn’t come any longer.

“You’ll get used to it, little one,” Halsin said, squeezing her shoulders reassuringly. “The memory of pain will linger longer than it should, but it will fade.”

“I—thank you. Habit, I guess.”

“Hopefully for not too much longer.”

She nodded, pressing her forehead back to her knees. She felt Halsin settle next to her, throwing off a wall of heat.

“Oh good, I thought I was going to have to drag you over to the druid to fix it.”

She looked up to see Astarion standing in front of her with a wet rag. He crouched, examining her face through narrowed eyes, fingers gentle probing over her no-longer-broken nose. She wasn’t used to him taking an interest in her injuries after a battle, at least if they weren’t life-threatening.

She found she didn’t mind him fussing over her.

“Well, you’re no more hideous than you were before,” he said dryly and she rolled her eyes, pulling the rag from his hand and working off the dried blood. She tossed it back at him when she finished, just staring at the fire.

Tomorrow they would arrive at Baldur’s Gate, their respite over. Tomorrow there would be master vampires and Sharran cultists and a netherbrain to deal with. And, unless Kel had grow exponentially wiser in the weeks of her absence, she’d have him to contend with him as well.

She supposed she just had to decide if she was fully willing to kill him, unsure of where her hesitance was coming from.

Lythra had been growing more maudlin the closer they got to the city.

Halsin wasn’t exactly sure he could blame her—he wasn’t thrilled to be leaving the wilds for the city. He was sure she had different reasons than him, though—he disliked cities at a principle level, disliked how they preyed on the vulnerable and disallowed any life to flourish properly.

He was rather sure she was dreading returning home.

She paused, though, at a brightly painted sign proclaiming the extraplanar circus was in town. She stared at it for a bit too long before turning to continue towards Wyrm’s Crossing. He clapped a hand on her shoulder.

“You know, I haven’t seen the circus in ages,” he said, steering her towards the gate. “I bet we can take an hour to check it out.”

“I—I think we could,” she said slowly, a hint of a smile turning up her lips. He talked their way through the gate, glad that none of the others had objected to the detour. Karlach was delighted and both Wyll and Gale looked pleased with the break. Shadowheart and Lae’zel looked rather dubious, but at least they didn’t complain.

Halsin smiled at Lythra’s barely concealed glee as she glanced around the circus, taking in the performers and brightly colored booths. There was something pure and innocent about her joy, like the other children that darted excitedly about. 

He doubted they had circuses in the Underdark, or that she’d had much time or coin to visit them since. 

Astarion surveyed the whole setup with barely concealed derision, but when she turned to him he forced a believable smile, if only to not spoil her fun. Halsin was glad for it.

“Fuck yeah! I haven’t been to one of these in ages!” Karach said, running off towards a Djinn running a Wheel of Fortune game.

“I haven’t ever been to one,” Lythra said, so quietly so that only he could hear. He gave her a warm smile.

“Then I think we have a lot to see, little one.”

“Oooh, a love test Astarion. Are you going to take it with Lythra?” Karlach asked, far too loud and too interested. He glanced over to where she’d disappeared off to with the druid only to see that she’d found some sort of horrible makeup and had done up her face like a clown.

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly, shaking his head. Still, he couldn’t help the smallest of smiles from creeping on his face at the sight of her giggling in delight. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her giggle before.

He supposed he could endure the circus for a little while if it made her happy. Really, though, it was as if she’d never seen one before, with all the pointing and dragging the druid about. She didn’t seem to mind making a fool of herself, though.

He smiled to himself before turning to watch Gale argue with the djinn. He had the distinct feeling the djinn's patience was wearing thing and was looking forward to watching it all go to shit.

Xaryn headed towards The Wide, hoping to find something to ease the ache in Elendar’s hip as well as the rest of the supplies they needed. He’d quickly realized how spoiled he’d been in Waterdeep, taking advantage of just how much he had easily at his fingertips. Had he known how unusual that was, he would have been sure to stock up on Elendar’s anti inflammatory medicines before they’d left.

He insisted he was fine, but Xaryn knew him well enough to know how he held his pain.

He double-checked his list. They needed more components for scrying, mainly, though it was also a good opportunity for him to start putting feelers out—Lythie was unique looking enough that folks might just remember her. Hopefully she didn’t spend all her time in the city disguised, though that would be the clever thing, and she’d always been bright.

Xaryn froze at the sight of a familiar figure, hair standing on end.

He hadn’t seen his brother in nearly seven years, but he hardly seemed to have changed—he was still tall and thin, face long and severe like their mother, his skin a lighter lavender than his own. He still had his waves perfectly styled, wore one of his opulent mantles decorated with gold and mithril.

He’d be twenty-nine, now, should still be buried under tomes in the Sorcere. Which meant he’d been sent Above by their mother.

He could guess why.

Xaryn followed him at a safe distance down a few streets, until he strode into a narrow alleyway off the main thoroughfare. Kelennar had never been the best at keeping an eye on his surroundings. He didn’t even know he was being followed until Xaryn grabbed him by the mantle and slammed him into the wall of one of buildings to their side.

Kel’s head smacked hard against the stone and his eyes widened in a flash of fear as he recognized him. Xaryn grabbed his hands and held them in an iron grip to prevent him from casting, a small, bone-handled knife falling from his hand.

“Hello, little brother. I believe we have something important to discuss.”

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

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Chapter 10 Searching

They spent the next few days buried in the library, hardly able to see each other over the mass of tomes that lay stacked around them on the table. He was growing frustrated—he couldn’t seem to find a single tome that made the way her magic acted make sense, nor that explained how she had been attacked. 

She pulled him from his thoughts, fixing him with a piercing stare.

“Why do you call yourself Alucard, if your name is truly Adrian?”

“It was more of a title really—the opposite of my father.”

“The opposite?”

“My father was Vlad Tepes. More commonly known as Dracula.”

“Oh,” she said, eyes widening a moment before she dropped her gaze. “I believe I read about him, back in Vienna.” 

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment before she spoke again.

“Was that—the stakes outside, was that him? He was rather known for, well, that , up north.”

“Ah, umm—no, actually.”

“Oh,” she said again, looking back down at the book before her. There was a long pause before—

“Did—did you put them there?” She looked up, eyes searching. She seemed to find the answer on his face, in the uncomfortable set of his shoulders. She just nodded, turning back to her reading. He stared at her a moment, dumbfounded. 

“Are you not frightened?”

“Would you prefer it if I was?”

“What sort of question is that?”

“An honest one. I have not known you to be needlessly cruel—quite the opposite. Having been saved by your hospitality, I am sure they earned their fate.”

“You hardly know me.”

“Tell me then, that you did it for your own cruel joy, and I will agree with you. I shall cower and curse my own naiveté. Go on, tell me you took pleasure in draining the life from them, that you did so without provocation.” 

He stared at her, eyes narrowed. She glared back, mouth in a hard line. 

“I did not.”

“I have known cruelty, Adrian. I do not believe you have the stomach for it.” The words fell bitterly from her lips, a sneer twisting her features as she dropped her gaze back down to the page. 

“I am sorry.”

“Why?”

“That you have known such cruelty. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Neither did you.”

She flipped to the next page, eyes already skimming the text. He turned back to his own, only to glance to his hand, which she had taken hold of with her own. She gave it the gentlest of squeezes. He returned the gesture, dwarfing her hand in his own. 

They continued their research in that way for the next several hours, until the sun set outside the library windows and the fire grew low in the grate. 

He glanced over the table to where she sat hunched over a thick, yellowed tome, head propped up by her hand. Her hair was falling loose from the braid she’d taken to wearing, her eyelids fluttering with the effort to stay open. 

“_____,” he said, marking his page, “perhaps you should take a break. Rest.”

She sighed, not looking up from her book. “I’m fine, really. There’s too much to go through.”

“It’ll be here when you wake, I can assure you.”

“I—I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want him to come back.”

He frowned, brow furrowed before standing. There was a divan in the upstairs sitting room, he was sure it could be made comfortable enough. He returned carrying it, as well as a comforter he’d stolen from one of the guest rooms and an array of down pillows. He set it to the side of the table where they had been working, making it up into a bed.

“Sleep. I will remain right here and awaken you at the slightest sign of distress.”

She surveyed him a moment, face hollow-looking with bruise-like shadows smudged under her eyes. She sighed and nodded, biting her lip.

He helped her to the sofa, propping her injured leg on a pile of pillows as she settled back, twisting the fabric of the blanket nervously as she watched him. 

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Sleep well. I’ll be here.”

He gave her a small smile, turning back to his book. When had it stopped feeling odd to smile? He shook his head. He was being stupid. He’d smiled at Sypha before, hell, even at Trevor.

Somehow it just didn’t feel the same. 

Perhaps there was sense in tracking down the pair of them. There was a chance that Sypha had heard of something similar, that she might know of some solution. She and _____ would probably get along well enough, they were both learned and insatiably curious. And he’d never known Trevor to turn down the chance at a verbal sparring match, though he’d make sure to warn him to toe the line—

“Alu—Adrian?”

“Yes?”

“Could you read aloud to me? Just until I fall asleep?” she flushed, avoiding his gaze. 

“This tome is in Chaldaic, do you speak it? I could find another more pleasing—”

“I do not mind, I only wish to know that I’m not alone when I close my eyes.”

He hated the edge of desperation in her voice, the loneliness that soaked her words—he was far too familiar with the feeling.

“Of course,” he replied, turning so he faced her, propping his feet up on the edge of the divan. He continued in sometimes stilted Chaldean, sometimes pausing a moment to mark a page or jot down a series of notes. He’d not gotten through more than twenty pages before her breathing evened out, her features finally relaxing. 

He wondered if he might had been able to rest those first few weeks after being attacked by Taka and Sumi, if he’d had someone to make sure no harm would befall him if he closed his eyes. 

What might he have been like, had they not broken him so thoroughly? What would she?

Two terribly broken things, tossed aside in the Wallachian wilderness. Perhaps it was fate then, that they’d become friends. 

He put the book down for a moment, watching as her hand tightened around the edge of the blanket. She looked younger like this, without the weight of the world slung over her shoulders. He realized he had no idea how old she even was—perhaps twenty? 

She stirred slightly, drawing his attention as a lock of her hair fell in front of her face. He stooped, tucking it behind her ear, pausing when she leaned into his touch. 

Had his heart always beat quite so loud?

He turned back to his book, finding the words harder to focus on than they were before.

Alucard looked up at the sound of a gasp, a heavy tome tumbling from the girl’s frozen fingers.

He’d moved her couch from the middle of the library to where it overlooked one of the large windows that lined the room’s western edge, looking out over the rolling hills behind the castle and the forest beyond. He’d thought the view might offer a soothing distraction from her otherwise voracious reading. 

Instead he found her frozen in horror, eyes wide and mouth agape as she stared out towards the wood. 

“Adrian, what—what is that thing ?” she asked, voice low and trembling. He crossed to the window, eyes scanning the dusk-painted landscape until—

The thing was grotesque, its skin stretched and blue, great tusks protruding from its distended jaw. It ambled on clawed hands and feet, a pair of misshapen and useless wings protruding crooked from its shoulder blades. He sighed, his own shoulders relaxing. 

“It’s just a night creature. You’re perfectly safe in the castle.”

“But—that can’t be an ordinary beast!”

“It’s not. “

“I don’t—I don’t understand,” she spluttered, staring up at him with eyes welling with unshed tears. She looked so small in that moment, so terrified that he almost wanted to pull her into his arms in that moment, to comfort her and assure her that it would all be alright. 

“You’re familiar with the concept of demons, yes?”

She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. 

“They are much the same. Though, these are created through dark magics.”

She curled in on herself, murmuring something that was nearly lost in the crook of her arm as she turned to stare back out at the night creature.

“I can’t tell if I’ve gone mad anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought—I thought it was all just nightmares. But now there’s magic and demons and—and—” she broke off, rocking herself back and forth as she hyperventilated, her breaths barely more than shaking gasps. 

Alucard took her hands in his own, moving so he blocked sight of the night creature. 

He supposed he didn't have to wonder any longer if she'd been lying about not knowing anything of the army of night creatures or his father's attempted purge of Wallachia. 

He wondered if she'd ever really believed him before then when he'd spoken of vampires and night creatures and demons, or if she'd finally just realized it was real. 

“Where are we going?” She asked as Adrian wrapped a thick woolen cloak around her shoulders.

“There’s another library on the grounds. The remains of the old Belmont Hold. I’m starting to think we might have a bit more luck down there. Their collection is somewhat…specialized.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The Belmonts were a family of monster hunters. Though their favored prey has always been vampires.”

“And your father built his castle atop their hold? That’s rather bold.”

“Not quite. The castle used to be able to move before—well it can’t any longer.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. “The castle could move? How?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out myself, though I’m not sure it will do me any good. I think the mechanism is broken beyond repair.”

“How was it broken?”

“A friend of mine melted it.”

“Melted it?!”

“She’s a very accomplished sorceress. Though it does remain an inconvenience.”

She shook your head, still trying to process the information. How was none of this spoken of back in Vienna? That there were moving castles and monster hunters and proper sorceresses—not just the poor, unlucky women murdered by the church. 

Adrian handed her a stack of blankets before sweeping her up into his arms.

“The hold is still open to the elements, so I’m afraid it will be rather chilly.”

She cradled them close to her chest as he crossed to the front doors of the castle, remembering at the very last moment to hold her breath. She buried her face in Adrian’s neck rather than look up at the rotting corpses that stood mounted to either side of the door. The thought of them alone was enough to turn her stomach. 

“Here we are. I’m afraid I have to put you down in order to operate the lift.”

He set her down on a freshly hewn wooden platform, attached to which was a series of pulleys. She started as the whole thing began to descend, letting out a shriek before she could stop herself and grabbing onto Adrian to steady herself.

He laughed. “It’s alright. It’s meant to do that.”

She gave him a dirty look, though she didn’t let go. She could hear her heart hammering in her ears, feel the uncomfortable swooping of her stomach as she descended further into the earth.

It wasn’t long before that sensation was overtaken by wonder. There were levels of books, shelves filled to the brim with them. There had to be thousands, hundreds of thousands, just lying under the earth. She turned to look up at Adrian as he tied off the lift, face alight.

“This is even larger than your father’s collection!. I’ve never seen so many books gathered in one place before!”

“It took the Belmont clan more than four hundred years to amass the collection.”

“It’ll all be destroyed, if left open like this."

"I know. It's why I had been working on sealing it to the elements."

"Oh," she said, guilt flooding her stomach at the half he'd left unsaid--before she'd ended up on his doorstep and he'd been forced to spend all his time making sure the fragile little human didn't die.

"I hope to find more tomes on elemental magic to see if we can make sense of your affinity for nature, but I thought purhaps you'd enjoy seeing the hold."

"Oh yes, thank you," she said quickly, smiling up at him. "I rather think it might even be worth the misery of the lift."

He snorted, shaking his head before he picked her up and began showing her around.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

33. A New Dawn

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33

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Lythra stared up at the crescent mood through the filigree of smaller branches, her back pressed against the trunk of the old oak she’d found.

Her bones didn’t ache. She didn’t feel sick, or or weak, or shaky. It hadn’t hurt when Halsin had healed her, after Aylin had somehow taken the rot of the Shadowfell from her. The scars remained, those on the surface and those deep in her flesh, but she’d never even realized how much all the things her mother had put into her from the Shadowfell just hurt. Hurt all the time.

But they didn’t, anymore. Halsin had said she’d still need healing, still needed the old scar tissue broken up and reduced, but that was nothing, nothing to what it had been—

And it wouldn’t hurt her to be healed any longer.

Well, breaking up the scar tissue would, but the rest—

She’d be normal, almost. She’d still look like some sort of nightmarish science experiment, but for the first time since she could remember she wouldn’t have to fear using her magic, wouldn’t have to pay dearly for it on the back end.

She stretched out a hand, conjuring a mote of moonlight. It felt warm, pleasantly so, and comforting.

She hadn’t known magic could feel like that.

She hadn’t tried anything more. She’d have been perfectly content to be left with no magic at all, but said Halsin that what was left was truly hers, whatever she’d been born with, whatever had allowed her mother to force the connection to the Shadow Weave.

She hadn’t known she had any magic of her own. She hadn’t been able to use the Weave before, either, not as a child and not even when Gale had insisted in trying to teach her a simple cantrip.

But now she had it. Or, at least, could use it once again.

She wondered if it would ever feel less strange.

She leaned her head back against the trunk, staring up at the stars. How long had it been without them? Weeks in the Underdark, weeks in the Curse—

She’d missed them.

Somehow, now, though, they seemed brighter than before.

“Star?”

Astarion started at the quiet voice outside his tent, hardly more than a whisper. It was early, hardly even down. He scrambled up, shoving the flap open without ceremony.

Lythra stood on the other side in unfamiliar, too-large clothes, looking almost nervous. It was clear she’d bathed, no more traces of wretched black blood smeared across her skin, her hair a cloud of fluffy, frizzy waves around her head from being brushed out—

Didn’t she know not to brush out curls dry?

Probably not, actually.

He stood abruptly, pulling her into a crushing hug.

“You are so wretchedly stupid, do you know that?” he said, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. She hugged him back, hands fisting in the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“You’d better be! That was—you were so reckless, I don’t even know where to start.”

“I don’t—I don’t remember anything after we stepped into the Shadowfell. Halsin—Halsin told me though. I’m—I’m sorry. I put you at risk, I put everyone at risk—”

“You nearly got yourself killed. Again. You can’t—” he broke off, throat tight. He tugged her back into his tent, unwilling to display any more emotion than he already had where the others could see him.

“I’m really sorry, Astarion. I promise I’m sorry,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze. He knew she meant it, even though she didn’t remember what she’d done, hadn’t been in control of herself. Part of him wanted to lay into her, to make sure she understood just how foolish and stupid she’d been, how close she’d been to dying again, to dying for strangers and beasts—

She’d expect that. Hells, it was probably why she looked so nervous—she expected him to yell and tell her off, expected harsh chastisement, had come expecting it.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, cradling the back of her head as he held her.

“I know,” he said simply. It felt odd to hold his tongue, odd to think of how his words might hurt someone else, odd to care. Still, something warmed in his chest as she just clutched him tighter.

She pulled back after a long moment, eyes searching his face. She pulled a small blade from her pocket and sliced it across her palm before he could register what she was doing and wrench the knife from her hand and fling it away.

“What in the Hells—”

“Smell it,” she said, brandishing her hand with an infuriating smile.

“Have you entirely—?”

“Just—just trust me.”

He gave her a dirty look but delicately brought her palm to his nose to smell the welling blood.

He froze.

The smell of rot was gone. There was only the scent of gentle night in her blood, intoxicating and singular. She grinned up at him, eyes watery.

“How?” he asked, thumb absently tracing the delicate skin of her wrist as he stared at her.

“Dame Aylin,” she said, voice cracking. “She—she asked her mother to take it away. She said—she said anything that is Shar’s is equally Selûne’s and she made it go away. All the horrible things my m-mother put in me, they’re—they’re gone. The magic’s gone—the bad magic.”

She grinned up at him, even as tears slipped down her cheeks. Normal tears without any blood or ichor. He reached up to cradle her face, thumbing them away.

“Really?” he asked, voice hardly more than a whisper. She nodded, fresh tears spilling over her lashes. He pulled her in for a hug and she buried her face in the crook of his neck, arms tight enough to nearly hurt.

He couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

Then he suddenly pulled back, remembering how the scythe of Myrkul’s Avatar and clipped her, torn through the base of her ribs and launched her across the platform.

“What?”

“You—your stomach was ripped open in the fight, through your armor,” he said and she furrowed her brows, pulling up the fabric of her over-large shirt. There was a large, new scar slashed across her skin, right above the one from the fight defending the druid’s portal. He reached out to trace it without thinking, freezing when he didn’t feel the bone underneath that he should.

“Halsin could heal everything, after Aylin cleansed the Shadow-rot,” she said, making a face as he stared. “It—I know it’s ugly.”

“You’re missing a rib. Did—was it too damaged to be repaired?”

“What?”

“I don’t understand why the druid would remove a rib—”

“He didn’t. He just healed me, they’ve been gone ages. It’s nothing—”

“They—?”

“Astarion, it’s not—”

He ignored her, reaching out to feel the other side where they were missing too—they, at least three, he realized, on both sides. He clenched his jaw, trying to tamp down the flash of fury in his chest as he gently pulled her shirt back down, smoothing out the wrinkles more as something to do than anything else.

He’d been very sure he couldn’t hate Lythra’s mother any more.

She was avoiding his gaze when he finally looked up, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. He cupped her jaw, turning her face gently towards his. He pressed a kiss to her forehead before pressing his own to hers.

She was okay. The Nightsong had managed to remove the rot and she’d be alright. She wouldn’t lose herself to the Shadow Weave any longer, wouldn’t wretch up her own rotting blood.

He wouldn’t have to worry about losing her to the curse her mother had inflicted on her.

No, just the tadpole or the Chosen of Bhaal and Bane or the giant godsdamned netherbrain they’d enslaved.

Or to Cazador, should he get his hands on her. He’d locked him away in that tomb for a year simply for letting that darling boy go all those decades ago. Should he learn that he truly cared for another—

The consequences would be unbearable. Truly unbearable. Nausea rose in his throat just thinking of what he’d do to her, to punish him.

He wouldn’t. He’d never lay a finger on her. Whatever it took, he’d keep them both out of his clutches.

He pulled away, eyes tracing over her face. “I brought the books back from the Inn, if you wanted to work on your reading for a bit. I purloined a bit of paper, too, if you wanted to try writing.”

She smiled at him hesitantly but nodded. Perhaps now with no dark magic to master she’d more easily take to lessons. He hoped so. She was clever and endlessly, infuriatingly curious. He was rather sure once she got the knack of it she’d be ravenous.

Lythra sought out Aylin at the edge of camp, heart hammering in her chest.

She had to thank her properly—she’d saved her, fixed her, taken away the monstrous thing clawing at her insides, always threatening to take control. She’d freed her from a life of torment, from the last of her mother’s shackles.

She wasn’t sure there was a thing she could do to properly express the amount of gratitude bursting from her chest, though she very much needed to do something besides crying all over her beautiful silver armor.

Dame Aylin smiled as she noticed her coming, raising a hand.

“Hail, friend. How are you this morning?”

“I—far better than I could have ever dreamed. I hope you and Isobel are adjusting to camp? We are very honored to have you join us.”

“Oh yes, we are most looking forward to aiding in the fight against this rancid netherbrain. Isobel is speaking with your Blade of Frontiers—he is helping her narrow down where we might start looking for my mother’s faithful within the city.”

“Oh—he would be the one to ask, I think he may know the city the best out of any of us.”

“Yes, he is most knowledgable. He said he would make introductions with people in the city who may be of further help. Now what brings you over, my friend? Looking for a spar? Usually I would leap at the chance to indulge you, but your friend Halsin did say that you needed much rest to heal. Perhaps by the time we reach the Gate,” she said, eyeing the longsword in Lythra’s hands. She turned bright red, dropping her eyes to the sword to try and hide it.

“I, um—I wasn’t looking to spar. I—I don’t have much, but this is the nicest thing I can offer by way of thanks,” she said, hesitating only a moment before offering her the singing sword. She was sure someone like Aylin could make much better use of it, especially if it was one of Eilistraee’s blades—she was a good goddess and her followers did good things, were good. Lythra wasn’t. She tried, but in the end she did what she needed to survive.

Dame Aylin looked at her strangely.

“What are you doing, little warrior? You will need that blade, for the battles ahead.”

“I—”

“You owe me nothing,” she said, laying her hand on Lythra’s shoulder. “I am glad I was able to help you slip the Shadowfell’s cruelty as well. It gladdens me to see you too free of its fetters. Besides, that is a holy blade—they are most choosy in whom they allow to wield them.”

Lythra glanced down at the blade in her hands. “It can’t be that choosy. I don’t—I’ve never been a person of faith.”

“Perhaps it is calling to you, then. My mother has always been fond of the Dark Maiden. Her call is a worthy one to answer.”

“I don’t think I would be worthy enough to answer,” she said with a humorless laugh. Dame Aylin made a face, brows deeply furrowed. Lythra ducked her head, giving a little bow of deference.

She didn’t know how she was supposed to treat the daughter of a goddess. Surely there were rules she was bungling. 

“I—I thank you again. Please let me know if you or Isobel need anything as you settle into camp. We have much of our spare equipment in the trunk by the fire, and we can try to find anything we don’t have.”

She scurried away, still clutching the sword.

“I thought—I thought maybe we should talk,” Lythra said as she stood in front of Shadowheart’s tent. The cleric surveyed her for a moment before nodding, face unreadable.

“I know you are no doubt angry with me. I don’t remember what I said, but Halsin told me that I told you what I had planned, in—in case. I—it was never something personal. I know that doesn’t make it any better on your part, I just—I really thought you were going to try and kill Isobel and I just—everyone at the inn would have died. Though, I wasn’t okay with you killing anyone for Shar. I—I am glad that you didn’t. I know I have not been very nice to you since we set foot in the Shadow Curse, but I truly hoped you wouldn’t. It would have made me very sad to kill you, after everything.”

“That is not what you said in the Shadowfell,” Shadowheart said, raising an eyebrow, her mouth a hard line. Lythra stared at the dirt. She could imagine a lot of things she might have said in the Shadowfell, drunk on the Shadow Weave and trying to prevent her from killing a beautiful, celestial that had been held captive a century to be tortured by Sharrans. 

“I—I don’t know exactly what I said, but I don’t doubt it was unkind. I am sorry.”

“You—you said there was more than pain and loss to find in the world. You said other things too, far more murderous and rude, but you weren’t without your points. I suppose we shall have to find out, now, what more is out there,” Shadowheart said, though her face had softened a bit by the end. Lythra gave her a small, tentative smile.

“Have you spoken to Aylin and Isobel?”

She took a deep breath, looking away. “I—I did. There is much that was taken from me, besides my memories. My parents are being held by the Sharrans in Baldur’s Gate.”

“Your—your parents?”

“They were taken, when I was abducted. Aylin could sense the bond, awoke the memory of that night.”

“Then—then we’ll find them, Shadowheart. I’ll help, I promise.”

Shadowheart stared at her for a long moment before she nodded. “Thank you.”

“I—I’ll let you get on with your day. I just—I’ll go,” she said, turning and striding off before she could make anything worse.

Halsin sat outside his tent, whittling a new figure. Thaniel and Oliver had run off first thing in the morning, intent to see how the forest was shaking off the vestiges of the Curse. Normally he’d have happily joined them, but he was still shaking the exhaustion off from the battle and from the magic he’d needed to keep Lythra alive. He needed to take what respite he could before they set off for Baldur’s Gate.

He looked up at the sound of footsteps, smiling as he spotted Lythra. Her hair was pulled back in a set of braids, her cheeks flushed with more color that he was used to seeing in them. She looked healthier, even though she still remained far too thin, for now.

He hadn’t realized just how much of her the Shadow Weave had been draining, how sick it had been making her, even before they’d entered the Shadowlands. She nearly looked like a different young woman, most notably because of how much lighter she seemed, her shoulders no longer so bowed, even with the impossible weight still on them.

He smiled up at her, taking note of where she was still holding stiffness—she’d agreed to let him continue treating the lingering scar tissue, to heal what he was able to.

It certainly helped that after Aylin’s intercession, his spells no longer hurt her. Only breaking it up, now, would cause her discomfort.

Lythra sat next to him without a word, propping her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around her knees.

“How are you feeling, little one? There is still much damage left to deal with, scar tissue to break up—”

“I don’t remember ever feeling this good,” she said, eyes locked on the ground. “I—I don’t know how I can ever thank you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Halsin—”

“I am happy you are finally feeling better. That is thanks enough.”

She stared at him, clearly unhappy with his answer, but didn't refute it. Instead she took a deep breath.

“Do—do you really intend to come with us to Baldur’s Gate?”

“I do,” he said and she stared at him, brows furrowed in obvious worry.

“Even with a netherbrain and the Chosen of Bhaal and Bane snapping at our heels?”

“All the more reason to come along. You will need allies, if you are to defeat them.”

“I—I know. I just—I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He smiled, shaking his head. She was still so stubborn.

“I am three hundred and fifty years old, little one. I’ve learned how to pick my battles. I appreciate your concern, but I am set in my choices. You will have my aid. Jaheira plans to join us as well.”

“Really?”

“She will be a most valuable ally—she’s well-versed in dealing with Bhaal’s murderous progeny and I’ve already warned her that you will be plaguing her with questions,” he said, mouth twitching into a slight smile as she made a face.

“I don’t ask that many questions.”

“I am teasing you,” he said fondly. “If anything you keep to your own counsel too much.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“I’m not admonishing you, only reminding you that I am always here, should you need an ear or aid.”

“You’re far too nice all the time, you know that?” she said, giving him a dirty look, though he saw how it hid a flash of emotion, of gratitude.

“Quite the contrary, little one—you are simply far too used to callousness and mistreatment.”

Lythra groaned and rolled her eyes, flopping back onto the grass. He found the display endearingly juvenile—he’d done the same to Naeris hundreds of times as a teen. He’d likely have done it to her hundreds of times more if she’d lived to see his twenties.

He huffed a laugh. “Acting our age today?”

She didn’t answer, instead staring up at the blue sky above, no longer choked by the curse. Halsin went back to his wood carving, simply enjoying the companionable silence.

“That song—the one the sword sang in the Tower—my Kel’nar used to sing it to me, when he was allowed to put me to bed. He said it was my lullaby. I—I never knew it was anything else.”

“That—that explains your reaction, in the colony.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were upset I knew it.”

She nodded slowly. “Kel’nar always said it was a secret—our secret. I thought it was because it was our song, but—he must have been an Eilistraean.”

“I think it very likely. You knew her words, spoke them before our descent into the Underdark. I daresay he was trying to guide you into her light, as much as was safe in your House.”

Lythra took a deep, settling breath, obviously trying to quell her emotions. She could rarely speak about her father without her grief overwhelming her.

He didn’t press.

“Can you tell me about the High Forest?” she asked after another long stretch of silence.

He furrowed his brow. “Why the High Forest?”

“You grew up there, right?”

“A very long time ago.”

“My Kel’nar read to me about it when I was small. It never quite seemed like a real place, more like a story. Are there really centaurs? Have you met them? And is the Grandfather Tree really alive? Like—I know it’s alive, but the book said it was like a treant and could talk and do magic and even move. And it said there are mountains even taller than the Spine of the World and—”

Halsin laughed, smiling widely. It had been a long time since he’d spoken of his childhood home and longer still since someone had asked him about it with such enthusiasm. He was glad to see her keen, glad to see a bit of the darkness behind her eyes fading, even with the horrors that still needed to be faced.

He settled back, spinning stories of his time there in his youth—happy stories, before the sickness had taken his family—delighting in her wide eyes and interrupting questions and wonder even though they weren’t stories of grand adventures or daring deeds—stories, he realized, he’d never really told anyone. Partially because they were nearly banal for anyone who’d grown up in the Forest, or indeed in most druidic enclaves, but partially because he so rarely spoke of his family in any way more than what was needed to brush the conversation off. He hadn’t been ready, when he was young, and now—

Well, it had been so long ago. He hardly missed them any less, but time had softened the edges, allowing him to remember them with more fondness than pain, now.

He hoped one day that would be the case for Lythra, too. That she’d be able to remember the brief, happy moments with her father and brother without being dragged into desolation and the depths of her misplaced guilt.

“Do you need to feed?” Lythra asked as she looked up from the copy of A is for Azuth she was mudding through. She sat crosslegged on the bed as he puttered around the little room in the inn—he’d insisted they make the most of having access to a real bed before having to return to the road. At least once they made it back to Baldur’s Gate they could find lodgings somewhere decent, but there was still nearly a week of travel to get there.

He frowned, furrowing his brows.

“Lyth, you just nearly died—”

“I’m okay though. Better, now, and I knew there hasn’t been much to eat that hasn’t been infected with the Curse. Present company included,” she said with a crooked smile. It might have been funny, but he didn’t find himself laughing. She was right, it had been a rather lean few weeks, but he doubted she had much blood to spare. She’d insisted on spilling it everywhere.

“I’m fine.”

“I asked Halsin. He said the healing spells replenished the blood I lost, if that’s what you’re worried about. He gave me this too,” she said, digging a silver pendent out of her pocket and handing it to him. “It casts Lesser Restoration.”

Was that why she’d sought out the druid today, to see if she could go back to feeding him as she had in the Underdark?

“You—you don’t have to do this. I know—I know before everything had a price, but—it doesn’t now. You don’t owe me for watching your back or for looking after you or—Hells—for the reading lessons, if that’s what this is about. You—you don’t owe me, Lyth.”

She stared at him, brows furrowed as she turned over what he’d said in her mind. He almost had the urge to use the tadpole, to understand, for once, what went on in her head during those long, silent stretches.

“What—what if it’s not because I owe you?” she said finally, eyes on the bedcovers. “What if—what if it’s just because I want to? I don’t want you to be hungry. It doesn’t have to be like before, but—I want to look after you, not for security, just—I want to because I care about you.”

He stared at her, something tight in his chest. Could he remember anyone wishing to take care of him?

“If you don’t want to it’s fine, I just—I’m not offering out of obligation. If that’s what you’re thinking.”

He thought for a moment, staring at the pendent in his hands. If she truly wished to and it would do her no lasting harm—

Had he ever before considered the harm his feeding did to her, besides the clearly disastrous first time? He hadn’t even known there was a spell to combat the bloodlessness. Hells, he’d never even bothered to be particularly gentle.

“I—are you sure, darling? You’ve been rather through the wringer lately.”

She nodded. “Of course, that’s why I offered.”

“I—I suppose I wouldn’t mind a nibble,” he said and sat on the bed, something like nervousness coiling in his stomach—but that was ridiculous. He’d fed on her dozens of times and never once, after the first time, felt the slightest bit nervous.

He scooted back against the pillows, and she watched in confusion. He’d always bit her while she was laying down—it was safest like that, for him, a predator feeding on prey, letting him easily be able to see her hands at any time, make pushing him from her all the harder.

It wasn’t how one took such a gift from—whatever it was they were.

“Come here, my sweet. Lean against my chest,” he said and she obliged, sitting between his legs before leaning back against him, her shoulders relaxing slightly at the contact.

It still astounded him that such simple touch had such a profound effect on her, that his touch brought her such comfort.

He pulled her braid from where it laid against her neck and tucked it over her opposite shoulder with the other. He pressed a kiss behind her ear, something that made her turn, eyes wide. He smiled at her, before trailing a few more to her pulse point, the blood positively rushing through her veins.

He was careful, this time, not to bite harder than he needed to, not to bruise as he’d done before. She hardly flinched, the only sign of discomfort a small intake of breath. He threaded his fingers through hers, thumb tracing soothingly over her knuckles.

Either he’d forgotten just how divine her blood was, or it had gotten better, with the removal of Shadowfell’s Curse. It was richer than the finest wine and twice as intoxicating. He felt her relax back into him more, one hand absently raising to thread through his curls. At first he thought she was trying to get him to stop, but she merely scratched his scalp gently with her fingertips.

He’d had plenty of people pull his hair, knot their fingers in it, use it to yank his head back—but he couldn’t remember anyone offering such sweet and simple affection as this.

He pulled back as he felt her relax back even more against his chest, though it was sooner than he’d usually stop. Like this, though, he could tell he’d been taking too much—she’d be wobbly, if he moved away.

He pulled away, lapping up the stray rivulets of blood from the wounds—it was a crime to waste something so delicious.

“Are you done? You usually need more,” she said, voice slightly breathy. He wrapped his arms around her middle, pressing another kiss to the wound as it stopped bleeding.

“I had plenty. Thank you, darling.”

She hummed in response, letting her head tip back against his shoulder, eyes closed. He reached for the pendent and activated the spell with a flash of pale blue healing light. She smiled, letting out a relieved sigh.

“Thank you,” she murmured without opening her eyes. She dropped her hand and moved to sit up and scoot away, but he tightened his hold, fingers absently tracing patterns on her skin.

“Star—”

“This is nice, like this. Let me have a few more moments,” he said.

“I’ll fall asleep on you, if we stay like this,” she said, certainly sounding nearly tired enough to manage it.

“There are worse fates.”

“I—I wanted to try and read my book.”

“An admirable task for tomorrow.”

She sighed, but didn’t argue, letting her head drop back to his shoulder as he kicked down the blankets enough to pull them over them and shifted them to a comfortable position for her to sleep and him to trance.

“Will you help me with it, tomorrow?”

“Your ABCs of the divine? Surely we can find you a more interesting book.”

“I was trying to find Eilistraee. Like the sword. My—I think my father worshipped her.”

“Are you shopping for a goddess, darling?”

“I—I don’t know. I just—I want to learn more.”

“Then we’ll definitely find you a better book. Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll soon have the whole city at our fingertips.”

She shifted in his hold, murmuring something indistinct as she pressed her cheek to his chest.

“What was that?”

“Said ‘m excited for a bathhouse. With the fancy soap.”

He laughed at that, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She was asleep before he could ask her what constituted ‘fancy soap.’

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

Chapter 9 Fresh Starts

She let Alucard— Adrian— lead her away from the bannister, from the branches she’d conjured, branches that still seemed to be growing even if their rate had slowed. He led her to an unfamiliar room, larger than her own, though they merely crossed through to a second door that, in turn, led to a tiled room, a pair of sinks against one wall, a large clawfoot tub dominating the other. She didn’t react as he set her down on a stool pushed against the wall, nor when he began fiddling with the taps. She could still feel the tingling in her hands, the residue of magic—was it magic? How could it be when you had no idea it had even existed months before?

She was just a bookmaker’s daughter, for Christ’s sake! All she had wanted was to run the bindery and live upstairs, surrounded by her books. Live a quiet, solitary life watching Vienna bustle around her. And now?

Now she was some sort of witch, crippled and bound to the castle, torn apart by her own nightmares. Hunted for reasons beyond her. 

Well, perhaps not beyond her anymore.

“I’m going to undo your bandages, alright?”

It took her a moment to process his words, to turn and find his face, golden eyes filled with worry. She nodded, closing her eyes as she felt his hands at her neck, gently unwinding his earlier handiwork. She held completely still, even as hot tears trailed down her cheeks. He said nothing, just continued his gentle removal of her bandages, of the splint that held her leg together. She only realized he’d finished when she felt his thumb swipe away the tears on her cheek, only for them to be quickly replaced. He sighed, picking her up once more and carrying her to the tub, the water covered with a thick layer of steam and smelling of lavender. 

He averted his eyes as he helped her pull the bloodstained nightshirt over her head, dropping it to the tile before lowering her into the bath. The water was hot, and she sunk down to her chin, eyes still fixed on nothing.

Alucard— Adrian said something of disposing of the gown, slipping out of the bathroom with near-silent steps. She sighed, waiting a moment before sliding down until she was fully immersed, the weight of the water muffling the world around her.

She stayed that way until her lungs ached, until she was forced to break the surface, gasping a breath. 

She heard Adrian return, footfalls purposely audible. She thought of sinking back below the sweet-smelling water, only to turn when she heard him drag the stool from the corner so he could perch behind her, a bar of soap and a cloth clutched in his free hand. 

“Sit up a bit, your hair is a mess of dried blood.”

She listened, wrapping her arms around herself as she did. She felt him lather her hair, working from it the mats of blood, the traces of last night’s torment. It was a moment before she realized he was humming, the same song he had days earlier as he puttered around the kitchen. 

A song his mother had sung him to help him fall asleep. 

She bit her lip, squeezing her eyes shut. Her heart ached, lodged in her throat. She sat in silence as he rinsed her hair, wiped the remains of the blood he’d missed the night before from her skin, as he helped her stand and wrapped a towel around her, eyes glued to the wall. 

It was a long time before she spoke, letting him rub a salve into the wounds of the night before, wounds that were feverish and blistered, wounds that screamed at the faintest touch. 

She took a deep breath, dropping her eyes to the tiled floor. 

“I lied, before. Or omitted, but I supposed it amounts to the same.” When he didn’t say anything she continued. 

“It’s not the first time I’ve made something grow. At least, I think. Never something like that but—our window boxes always had the largest blooms, and they’d be the last to die. I used to play in them as a girl, and my mother would always scold me, pull me away and forbid me from doing so. I think she knew there was something wrong with me, even then. I’m sorry, I know I should have said something before I—I just didn’t believe it myself. Or perhaps I just didn’t want to.”

She hung her head, biting her lip as she felt another hot wave of tears. She brushed them away, angry that she’d managed to cry more in the past two days than in the half year before. She took a shuddering breath, trying to compose herself. She felt Alucard— Adrian —cup her chin, gently, but with enough insistence to make her look up at him.

“There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just different.”

“Then it truly is a curse,” she said, making a face. To her surprise, he laughed.

“Perhaps. But there are worse ones to bear.”

After Adrian had finished wrapping her wounds he helped her to the bed in the other room, disappearing with a promise to return in a moment. She perched on its edge, wrapped in at least three towels, her arms still burning with the lingering antiseptic. She knew by the way his face had darkened upon examining them that there was something wrong with the wounds, something beyond what she could articulate. 

They would scar, she guessed. She wondered for a moment why the thought bothered her—it wasn’t as if she was particularly vain, or had ever cared much about her looks before. Perhaps it was simply the visceral reminder, the reminder that she wasn't safe, even in sleep. 

That she would be forever marked as cursed, as other. 

Adrian returned, drawing her from her thoughts. He carried a bundle of fabric over one arm, looking sheepish.

“I wasn’t able to find much in the way of spare clothing. I will admit that some of it is plundered from my own wardrobe, but it will be warm, at least, until we can get you something proper.”

She gave him a smile, taking the clothes from him with a quiet thanks. He stepped outside to allow her the façade of privacy, which she appreciated, even if he had already dressed her in her convalescence. 

He’d managed to track down a shift and a skirt, the latter of which she might of tripped over if she were able to walk. Then there was a thick pair of woolen socks and a sweater that dwarfed her frame. Still, it was well-worn and soft and kept the chill of the castle at bay. 

“Are you decent?”

“I have clothes on, if that’s what you’re asking.”

She heard him snort, the sound faint beyond the oak of the door, before he pushed it open, carrying a bone comb and a ribbon. He handed them both to her, surveying her with an odd expression. 

She ripped the brush through her hair harshly, matted as it was from weeks of being near-bedbound. When was the last time she’d brushed it? Before she’d been taken no doubt. Perhaps it would be worth it just to lop the lot of it off at her shoulders and be done with it. 

She looked up as the brush was snagged from her hands, Adrian looking at her with distain.

“You’ll ruin your hair if you keep at it like a wolverine.”

“What’s a wolverine?” she asked despite herself as he settled behind her on the bed, working through the ends of her hair, carefully removing the tangles. 

“Keep your head forward. They’re vicious little things resembling small bears.”

“Are they native to Wallachia?”

“No, they live in the far north. We have a book that tells of them somewhere in the library.”

She sat in silence for a while, the only sound that of the brush as he worked free the knots from her hair. The rhythm was soothing and she found her eyes slipping shut. When she finally did speak, her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. 

“Thank you, for being my friend. I never really had one before.”

“You don’t have to thank me—”

“I do. For saving me, for taking me in, for taking care of me—”

“You’re—you’re my friend too.”

He finished plaiting her hair back, tying it off with the ribbon.

“Perhaps that’ll stop it from getting so tangled again.”

She gave him a tentative smile, biting her lip. She hated the warmth in her chest from his words, the way it almost made her feel whole.

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Chapter 8 The Light of Dawn

He spent most of the morning searching for answers in the Belmont’s Hold. He’d fallen asleep sometime in the night, lulled by her rhythmic breathing and warmth curled against him, only to jerk awake in a panic. She hadn’t woken, which was a mixed blessing, and he’d checked her vitals carefully before leaving.

There was the distance mirror in the hold after all, he’d be able to check on her as he searched. 

He found himself wishing for Sypha’s help as he wound through the shelves. Not only was she a wonderful research partner, but the Speakers knew a wealth of oral traditions, perhaps she would been able to even point him in the right direction. As it was, he was having a difficult idea of where to even begin. 

He sighed, adding another tome to the ever-growing pile. Perhaps it had something to do with Chaldean elemental magic, he’d thought he’d heard his father mentioning how some people might have an innate predisposition towards it. That was, of course, if it wasn’t some kind of hex or curse that needed to be undone. 

Perhaps she had been right about that. 

He wasn’t even sure if it was tied to sleep or if the sleep simply allowed something dormant to manifest. Perhaps he should think about tracking down Sypha, if only to see if she’d ever heard of something similar…

He crossed back to the distance mirror, pulling his bedroom to the forefront of his mind. He’d originally been checking on her every fifteen minutes, but it had been close to an hour since he’d first located the Chaldean tome—

The sheets were rumpled and vacant. He swore, crossing back to the table where he’d stacked his finds and shoved them into a bag. 

She awoke alone in an unfamiliar room. Alucard’s room, she remembered, recalling the night before. Had it only been the night? How long had she slept? 

One hand reached up to hold her bandaged throat and her eyes roved over Alucard’s careful bandaging of her arms. They still burned dully, like when she’d burned herself with lye attempting to make soap. The skin felt hot to the touch and she flinched, pulling a face. 

She spotted the wire on the bedside table, hastily coiled and still bloodied. She reached out to examine it further only to wrench her hand back as it burned to the touch. Could it have been coated in some sort of acid? Was it part of the magic of the thing?

There were too many questions and not nearly enough answers. 

Swallowing hurt. She was sure there were bruises underneath the bandages. That ruled out calling for Alucard. She pushed off the covers and swung her legs gingerly out of bed, eyeing the splint fastened to her left leg. It had held up to walking before, granted, not for long distances and not without her leaning heavily onto Alucard’s arm for support. 

Still—she was tired of seeing specks of her own blood on Alucard’s sheets. 

Perhaps she were especially lucky he was only a dhampir. She doubted a full-fledged vampire would put up with her bleeding all over his house as much as she did. Or perhaps they found the scent enticing, like she found the baker’s shop.

She contemplated asking Alucard, half out of curiosity, half out of the twisted desire to annoy him, just a little. She could use a little of the levity created by one of their play arguments.

She swore as she took her first step, leg nearly buckling on her. Still, if she braced herself against the bed, and then the wall, it wasn’t unmanageable. She’d gotten used to pain, she could push past it, banish it to the back of her mind. 

She turned towards where she remembered her room being, though she hesitated. So much of the castle looked the same.

Still, if there were clues to be found in the library, there were at least half as many to be found at the scene of the attack. Perhaps strange sigils or glyphs that could be traced back to the practitioner. Or perhaps the briars that had been used to attack her were unique in some way—she had always been rather good at identifying what flora grew around her Vienna home. 

Yes, perhaps if she could simply bury herself in the investigation she could stave off the creeping terror that filled her, overwhelmed only by her guilt—

She should leave, run far, far away from the castle.

After all, what sort of repayment was this, after the kindness Alucard had shown her? If she weren’t such a dreadful coward—she’d have set off long ago, leg be damned, to meet her fate with her head held high. 

What if it wasn’t only her that was hurt the next time?

What if it was Alucard?

The thought made her heart hammer erratically. She couldn’t bear the thought of it—he was her friend, perhaps her only friend. It wasn’t as if she’d spent much time playing with other children her age as a child, and it hadn’t helped that she'd bounced between Vienna and Gresit so frequently. And even the friends she did make—well, no one took women very seriously, especially on any subject of note. And she wasn’t good at talking about the latest fashion, or embroidery, or who had danced with whom at the last ball. 

But Alucard didn’t care if her tongue was sharp or her wit biting, in fact he seemed to revel in it, giving just as good as he got. He was more than happy to discuss anatomy or philosophy or to simply read in shared silence.  

It would be poor thanks indeed to drag him into her mess. Whatever it ended up being.

She couldn’t get far.

She didn’t have shoes, for heaven’s sake, never mind the fact that her leg was weeks away from being able to support her for any real length of time. Still he listened intently for the sound of her fluttering heart, a sound that had become so familiar in the past weeks. 

Perhaps even comforting.

He caught the faintest of beating from upstairs and made for the noise, only pausing to deposit his stack of books at the base of a staircase to retrieve later. 

He found her on one of the landings, sat in a heap, eyes wide and breaths short and shallow. He was so relieved it took him a moment to notice the polished wood of the banister, which had somehow begun to sprout a thin filigree of branches, tiny green buds at their tips. She stared at it white-faced, clutching her hands to her chest.

“I didn’t mean to,” she stammered without looking away, voice barely above a whisper. “I—I was falling and I grabbed the railing and—”

She devolved into panicked hyperventilating, trembling, curling in on herself as he stood frozen, staring at the branches that had begun to bloom. Instilling life—it was far from easy magic, never mind something he’d ever heard of someone doing accidentally. He wasn’t even sure how he would go about bringing long-dead wood back to life. Had the Speakers heard of magic such as this? Could he even track Sypha down with her in such a state? She was hardly fit for travel, never mind to be left alone in the castle. The stairs alone would be the death of her. 

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, breaking him out of his revelry. He knelt down, reaching out a hand only to have her recoil. “Don’t! I don’t know how I did it, I could hurt you—”

“You won’t,” he said, and he meant it, but she curled further away.

“You don’t know that. You can’t, because I don’t know how I did it or how to stop it. I thought I was just going mad but—you have to let me go. Something horrible is wrong with me and I don’t—I won’t have you dragged into it, not when you’ve shown me such kindness—”

“_____, you can’t even walk yet—”

“It doesn’t matter! If they can reach into my dreams, death will come to me regardless. I—Alucard, you are my friend and I won’t see you needlessly bloodied on my account.”

 Alucard looked away biting his lip. How could she call him a friend when he’d spent so much of her time here ignoring her, pushing her away? When she didn’t even know who he truly was, or the blood that already stained his hands? When she didn’t even know his name.

“It’s Adrian.”

“What?”

“My name—my real name.”

“Adrian—” he hated the way it sounded coming from her lips, like a melody, like a breeze on a warm day, like the spring sun after a hard winter. He hated the twinge it brought in his chest, the ache that begged him to ask her to repeat it.

“Stay. At least until you’re properly healed. Then I’ll hire a carriage to take you back to Vienna, to wherever you want, just—you won’t last a night in the wilderness, not as you are. It’ll give us time to search the library, to figure out what might be happening—”

“I can't—”

“Please. Just give me time to get everything sorted.” He could hear the desperation in his voice but he didn’t care, wouldn’t, as long as she stayed. She stared at him a long time, eyes glossy, still clutching her hands to her chest as if she were afraid of what they were capable. 

She took a deep breath and nodded, curling back in on herself. 

[mt-musings]

Sick of Losing Soulmates

Castlevania, Alucard x Reader/OC

All she wanted was to escape her captors.

She hadn't meant to stumble upon Alucard's castle, nor infringe on his markedly thin hospitality. Still, she had little choice once he decided to take her in, set on nursing her back to health even though he seemed to find the very sight of her contemptible. Are the castle walls enough to keep her past at bay? Or will she become yet another ghost wandering the crumbling halls?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Chapter 7 Nightmares

She was drowning.

She could feel herself being dragged further under the surface, thick, viscous fluid filling her lungs as she gasped for air. Her eyes stung, seeing nothing but crimson around her. She kicked out, trying desperately to claw her way back to the surface, but it was no use.

Tendrils of vines wrapped around her ankles, dragging her further down, until there was nothing but cold and darkness and a set of eyes the color of ice chips. 

“ It’s time.”

She struggled, tearing at her binds. She wouldn’t give in, she couldn’t—She were too stubborn, had made it too far to give in now.

“ It would be easy. Just let go. It’s not as if I won’t find you. He won’t protect you. What’s the point of putting it off? You already know you can’t win.”

Black spots overtook her vision as she took a final, stuttering breath, one handle still trying to claw free of the vines.

She slept for two days, her skin mottled, pale, and clammy. He’d wrapped her arm in bandages soaked in a salve to reduce inflammation, which helped some, but not as much as it should. In the meantime he just sat in the chair next to her bed, scowering books he’d pulled from the Belmont Hold to try and come up with any reason for what he’d found in the clearing. 

Clearly, he’d missed something.

Though, whether it was her own magical nature or simply the magical nature of something very much hunting her, he was uncertain. Had she been lying to him? Had she been hiding these abilities? What had changed?

He wanted to be angry. He wanted to be furious. 

She had obviously tricked him, lied to him. Another wayward human wandering into his life, only to deceive him, to drag with them evil hidden behind pretty features. 

But then again, had she? Hadn’t he been the one to scoff at the idea of her being hunted, of something coming after her, following her into the forest around the castle?

He looked up at the sound of her hacking cough, abandoning his book to turn her to her side, cradling her head carefully as her chest spasmed and she coughed black blood onto the sheets. Her eyes fluttered but didn’t open, her whole form trembling in his arms.

What if she died like this, leaving him with another corpse to bury, another ghost to haunt his dreams? 

Holding her like this, he could feel how frail she’d become, how skeletal, even after nearly two months of proper meals. Had he really not noticed her withering? 

She drew a shuttering breath, her voice a barely audible rasp.

“Al—Alucard?”

“I’m here.”

“You h-have to let me go. Send me away.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t even walk.”

“He’s coming for me. I know it.”

“Who?”

“The man who bought me, I don’t know who exactly. But—” she broke off in a violent coughing fit, blood splattering the pillow, the front of her nightshirt, “Oh god.”

“It’s going to be alright,” he found himself saying, rubbing gentle circles into her back. “You’re safe here. Nothing will be able to harm you—”

She laughed, the sound tortured and broken. “It already has. What’s to stop it now?”

She sat in the living room of the Vienna house, pretending to read as she strained to hear the muffled argument in her parent’s bedroom. They never argued—she couldn’t even remember a time she’d heard her father raise his voice. The sound left the sick taste of fear in her throat.

“How could you not tell me? That she’s—she’s—” he broke off, and sat heavily on the bed. 

“You—We wanted a child so badly, and I couldn’t—”

“I just don’t understand why you lied. About everything, all these years. That you knew and never told me. Never were going to.”

“Just—I never thought he'd come back.”

He laughed without humor. “What—what does all this mean for her, then?”

“What does what mean?”

They hadn’t heard her rise from her place on the sofa or push open the door. She watched their eyes grow round with surprise, the way that her mother’s eyes darted away from her own, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her.

The arguments had started after the strange man had appeared at the window, after the gifts had started to appear. Bright flowers and hair ribbons, a beautiful doll with silver hair and bright green eyes. She stared at the pair of them, tears welling up in her eyes.

“What’s wrong with me?” she asked, staring up at her parents, her whole world suddenly uncertain. Her father was the first to move, scooping her up into his arms and burying his face in her hair as he squeezed her almost too tight.

“Nothing, my darling. Nothing is wrong with you.”

She held on tight, the pit in her stomach not allowing her to believe him. 

Alucard waited until she’d fallen back asleep for the night to slip back into his chambers. He was exhausted, exhausted from nursing her back to health once more, exhausted from the dozens of tomes he’d spent scowering looking for any kind of answer. 

Had his mother or father been here, they’d have been able to help her, at least provide answers—there was something distinctly supernatural to her condition, but he still wasn’t able to curb its physical effects. What if she simply grew weaker and more susceptible to whatever was tormenting her?

When had he begun to care?

He was supposed to be done with humans, done with the whole lying, cheating, murderous lot of them. And yet here he was, nursing one back to health, losing sleep over her condition.

He couldn’t fall into the same trap that he had with Taka and Sumi, give her an ounce of trust only for her to slit his throat with it.

Though she hardly seemed capable…

He threw himself angrily down onto the bed. He wished he could ask his mother what to do, how to move forward after, well, everything. Somehow she always seemed to know what to do, made it seem as if it had been obvious all along—

Maybe it was and he was just horribly obtuse.

There had to be something he could do. He wasn’t sure he could be rid of this new ache in his heart if there wasn’t. No, he thought, turning over and burying his head in his pillow, if that were to happen she’d become yet another ghost haunting the halls of his childhood home, another reminder of his many failings. 

Alucard woke in the dead of night to the sound of a panicked scream.

He was out of bed before he fully registered the noise, down the hall before he’d registered the voices as the girl’s. ______’s . 

Had someone broken into the castle? Had she somehow injured herself further? He wouldn’t put it past her, she was nearly as stubborn as Trevor—

 He threw open the door, eyes darting about the room only to find it empty, ______ still in her bed.

Still, she whimpered, thrashing wildly, her arms bent back at an unnatural angle, her sling torn free. He took a step forward, only to freeze.

Her hands were restrained by black briars, her eyes open and vacant, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow. The briars crept over her chest, around her neck, encircling her as if they wished to pull her down into the mattress and below, into the very ground.

“No…I won’t. You can’t—” she wheezed, her voice like a death rattle, hands grasping at nothing.  Alucard darted forward, tearing at the briars. As soon as he freed one of her hands she reached up to the ones encircling her neck and tugged, ignoring the how they tore into her skin. They seemed the shiver before turning to brittle charcoal and shattering. 

She turned onto her side, still sucking in pained gasps of air, her eyes glinting in the darkness. He made quick work of the briars still encircling her chest and her other hand, sending a wave of intent at the light switch, bathing them in light. 

She was covered in blood from where the briars had dug in, bleeding far more than she would have, had it been ordinary bramble. Her face was a shock of white, the silver of her hair spattered with blood. Tears flooded her eyes as she finally focused on his face.

“Alucard…he—he found me.”

“Who—hang on, I need bandages, I’ve got to stop this bleeding—”

“No!” she cried, catching his wrist with surprising strength as he turned to go. “Please, I—if he comes back—” she broke off, looking so terrified that he didn’t think. He just scooped her up and carried her to his room, placing her on his bed where he could gather supplies and still keep an eye on her. 

“What happened?”

“He found me.”

“Who? Who was that?”

“I don’t—I don’t—”

“It’s going to be alright—”

“It burns! Alucard—” He grabbed hold of her hands as she began to tear into her wounds with a kind of frenzied madness, her fingers stained crimson. She fought to free herself from his hold, thrashing as if being lashed by hot iron.

“______—!” She froze at his shout, eyes wide and fearful. She fell limp, though he could see the effort it took her to do so. She trembled as he cleaned away the blood, the wounds red and inflamed like burns. He paused, looking closer, something glimmering in the slash catching his attention. A bit of wire, impossibly thin, wrapped into her flesh where the briars had been. He pulled it out, finding it present in all the wounds but those on her neck. He stared at it a long moment before setting it aside and wrapping her wounds with a practiced hand.

What sort of magic left physical traces like this? Or could reach through such great distances? Did the caster have a distance mirror, where they able to spy on her? But then again, if they knew enough about her to know her face, to know where to find her, then how likely was it really that she didn’t know them?

Was that why she was so keen to leave the castle, even when she couldn’t walk? Was she running from more than just kidnappers in the forest?

He thought back to the way that her eyes had gazed over, how they’d turned stark white as she’d struggled. Wracking his brain he couldn’t think of a single spell that had those types of effects, at least not with everything else that had happened. Maybe something in the Belmont Hold would have answers, some old and forgotten magic. 

 She stayed unnaturally still even after he finished, as if she were frightened to even breathe. She was deathly pale, the specks of blood on the side of her face standing out all the more for it. He wiped them away with his thumb almost absently, his eyes still locked on her own. 

“I—I heard you scream,” he said, the hair on the back of his neck still standing on end. 

“I was having a nightmare. I thought—I thought I was being pulled into a grave. But—it felt so real and I was being dragged down until—until you were there, you cut me free.”

“That was powerful magic, powerful enough to break through the Castle’s wards. Do you know who could’ve done it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t—I just saw a man, with these dark, empty eyes and he was calling to me, telling me that it was time, that I came to him, that I belonged to him and, and—” she broke off with a sob, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face into his chest. 

“Don’t let him take me, Alucard—please. Please .”

It took him a moment before he wrapped a tentative arm around her, smoothing back the hair from her face as his mind raced. 

“I won’t. I won’t.”

He glanced down at her fingers only to spy the earth still lodged under her nails, black and stained with her own blood. 

Alucard didn’t sleep for a moment. 

Not after her sobs subsided or her breathing steadied. Not after she finally succumbed to sleep, still clinging to him as if he alone could protect her from the ills of the world.

Half of him knew it was because he couldn’t sleep with another in his bed, not after Taka and Sumi. Not even with this broken husk of a girl.

The other half could not even hope to guess what he had to defend her from. She seemed to be being attacked from the inside out, as if whoever was tormenting her need only to find purchase in her dreams to harm her.

He glanced down at her as she took a shuddering breath, her grip tightening on the collar of his shirt. He smoothed a hand over her hair, trying to soothe her as she trembled. 

How long had she been fighting this demon in her nightmares? Alone? Why hadn’t she just come to him, they could have searched the Belmont Hold, he could have placed wards on her to protect her—

But then again, hadn’t he told her they were nothing to worry about, that the nightmares couldn’t hurt her? If only he’d known how very wrong he’d been.

The memory of her being restrained, being torn apart by those briars would haunt him, likely for all his years. The way she had clung to him, as if she trusted him and him alone to save her—he didn’t even know where to start. 

But he wanted to.

He wanted to save her, the broken, infuriating girl that had been chased to his door, that begged him for death, that doubted the existence of vampires and night creatures but didn’t doubt that she would be damned herself. He wanted to argue with her about philosophy and discuss books and share meals in the kitchen.

He didn’t want to be alone anymore. 

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

32. The Moon Will Sing

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32

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Lythra hadn’t woken.

Halsin had sent Astarion away, had Wyll and Karlach take him anywhere else and distract or placate or do whatever it took to keep him from sniping and snapping at him as he worked.

He didn’t have the patience to deal with it any more, not with the way his heart hammered, how the grip of the necrosis of the Shadow Weave refused to loosen, how she kept wretching up black blood. No, if Astarion had stayed he would have pushed his anger to the forefront and he would have torn into him in a way that helped nothing.

He looked up as a shadow fell over Lythra as he worked. Isobel’s eyes were fixed on her face, pale and still smeared with blood, ever-replaced before he could fully remove it. Aylin stood behind, brow furrowed.

“The small one still stinks of the Shadowfell, though she shows much contempt for Shar. I’ll admit, I have never met a spellfilcher—“ she said, voice booming with a paladin’s assuredness.

“No,” Halsin said quickly. “She—Lythra is no spellfilcher. She—she was experimented on, injected with things from the Shadowfell into her very bones to force the connection. She is a shadow sorcerer clumsily and cruelly made, and she has very little control over any of it. What you saw was her consumed by the Shadow Weave.”

Isobel knelt at his side, reaching out a hand to probe with her magic. She made a face.

“It’s—it’s killing her, eating away at her life force.”

“Yes, I’m trying to figure out a way to untangle it. It makes even healing her most ineffective, and it causes her great pain.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Her mother,” he said quietly, loathing coloring every syllable. “I don’t think she intended her to survive it, only—only prolong her suffering.”

Aylin stared at him for a long moment, the expression on her face inscrutable. 

“Healing in ineffective, but does do something?” Isobel asked, brows drown together. Halsin nodded.

“Very little now.”

“But it is something,” Isobel said, placing a hand on Lythra’s chest and sinking a powerful healing spell into her. He reach over to turn her as she hacked op more black blood but didn’t wake. Isobel kept sinking spells into her until Halsin was quite sure she’d exhausted herself of magic.

He just sat next to her, stroking Lythra’s hair back from her face. He wasn’t sure if it was merely wishful thinking, but her breathing seemed easier when Isobel finally stepped back.

“That is all I can do before I rest,” she said, breathing slightly hard. Halsin forced a smile.

“Thank you. I am at my limit myself.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Isobel said, face grim. “I do believe that power of hers saved me and many of the others when Marcus and those horrors attacked. I didn’t realize what it cost her.”

Halsin nodded, jaw tight. Isobel took a deep breath.

“We will check back tomorrow and see how she is.”

“Yes. Tomorrow I hope she will be on her way to recovery,” Aylin said, voice strained. If Halsin didn’t know better he’d almost say she seemed as though she felt guilty. Perhaps she thought proclaiming her a spellfilcher was more of an insult than he had taken it.

Or perhaps she blamed herself for the amount of magic Lythra had used to save her.

He didn’t look up as they left, merely busying himself with cleaning the rancid blood from her skin, making sure the blankets were tucked securely around her.

She was always so cold after the Shadows took hold.

Even consumed by that wretched magic, though, she’d saved whole she could, even the little intellect devourer she’d somehow befriended.

A vampire, an owlbear, an intellect devourer—all things others would readily consider monsters, but she saved them without hesitation. Was it because she thought herself a monster too?

Surely she was the furthest thing.

“Sh-shit.”

Halsin sat up quickly, before he’d even fully broken his trance, even though the voice was hardly more than a whisper. Lythra had awoken, her head pressed firmly to her knees, the extra blankets he’d found pulled tightly around her shoulders as she shivered.

“Praise Silvanus! You frightened me, little one,” Halsin said, crossing to the narrow bed he’d found her and pulling her into a hug without thinking.

He’d begun to worry she won’t wake, this time, that the damage was too great.

“Hal—Halsin?” she asked, voice barely more than a rasp.

“I’m right here.”

“Where—wh-where are we? We—we were in the Shadowfell and then—I don’t r-remember,” she said, fear plain in her voice. “I d-don’t remember—”

“It’s alright, little one. You’re safe. We’re in Moonrise Towers, Ketheric Thorm is dead. Shadowheart did not complete the trials, and you saved the Nightsong.”

“I don’t remember anything, Halsin, and I feel awful,” she said, tightening her grip on him, as if she was scared he’d leave. He could feel her trying to hold back her sobs, feel the rattling in her chest of those that broke through.

“It’s alright. Tell me what hurts.”

“Everything—everything hurts,” she replied, voice muffled and barely audible against his chest. He sunk a powerful healing spell into her and she whimpered, hands fisting in the back of his shirt.

“I’m sorry, little one. I’m sorry,” he said, casting another, just as powerful. He could feel the way it made her lungs spasm and reached over for the bowl he’d procured for her to wretch into. She threw up too much black blood, every inch of her trembling. He just rubbed circles into her back until the wave passed.

He passed her a waterskin to rinse out her mouth and then threw out the fetid blood, quickly returning to her side. He perched again on the edge of the bed and she shuffled over so she could press herself to his side, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Is—is Ketheric really dead?”

“Yes,” he said, not mentioning the fact that she’d dealt the decisive blow. She was having a difficult enough time coming to grasp with her missing memories.

“Will—will I get better now? Can I? The C-Curse should be broken. Will I get better like Thaniel and Ollie?”

“I don’t know,” he said, hating that he couldn’t just say yes, that he didn’t know. “I think so, though. The Shadow Weave is already leaving this place, it should make it easier.”

She nodded, still pressed to his side.

“Where—where’s Astarion?”

“Back at camp. I kicked him out, so I could take care of you.”

She didn’t say anything for a long time.

“I—you were right about the Shadowfell. I was stupid, I don’t—I don’t know how bad it was, but it feels bad. I’m sorry I should—I should have listened.”

“You can’t ever go back—ever. We—we nearly lost you, little one. The sword was the only thing that could get through to you.”

“The sword?”

He reached down to where he’d stashed the longsword, right under her bed. He wanted it close, just in case.

“My singing sword? Why—you brought my singing sword? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a Singing Blade of Eilistraee. I rather think she’s fond of you. You recognized its song.”

“I—I don’t know any of Eilistraee’s songs. She wouldn’t—I don’t follow any gods, she wouldn’t—”

Halsin waved his hand over the hilt of the sword, setting it softly singing. Lythra froze, staring at it.

“It doesn’t, that’s not what it usually—it can’t. That’s not her song, it’s not,” she said, shaking her head violently, much the same as she had in the colony.

“It is. Well known enough know that I know the words, though I was known to travel with Eilistraeeans in my misspent youth.”

“No, that’s—my Kel’nar, he, he said it was—” she broke off, staring at the sword, tears pouring down her cheeks, though they were no longer black. “Are you sure it is one of hers?”

“I am.”

She looked up at him for a moment before turning back to the sword. she picked it up carefully and clutched it to her chest. He ran his hand up and down her back, trying to sooth her as she sobbed, the only other sound in the small room that of the blade’s hymn playing in seemingly endless succession.

“She does not remember anything from after she stepped into the Shadowfell,” Halsin said quietly, the door to Lythra’s room just barely shut. He’d been able to coax her back to sleep, though she’d insisted the sword stayed in sight—she’d wanted it to remain in bed with her, but he’d drawn the line there, instead setting it on the dresser where she could see it, but couldn’t accidentally slice herself in her sleep.

“Nothing?” Aylin asked, aghast. Halsin shook his head.

“Something about the way the Shadow Weave takes control. I do not fully understand it.”

“It does not surprise me that Shar’s foul magic would steal the memories of such valiance,” Aylin said, scowling. “I might be able to do something about it, though. I must commune further with my mother, but I will return when she is awake.”

“Truly?” Halsin asked, heart stuttering in his chest.

Aylin nodded. “I can make no promises, but I owe the little warrior my best effort.”

Halsin gave her a smile, throat tight. “Thank you.”

“Thank you, my friend,” she said back, clapping him on the shoulder.

He should be there with her.

But then again, if the druid failed and she died—

Astarion wasn’t sure he could bear that again. The thought alone made him sick and furious.

She should have listened to him, should never have gone into the Shadowfell, never put herself in such danger. She was always far too worried about the mission and saving everyone else and not at all about herself.

He didn’t know why she insisted on being so utterly infuriating.

She had no sense of self-preservation, no sense of self-worth—

Something he’d found convenient before. Now it only made him furious—

Not furious. Sick. Sad. Filled him with a wretched sort of shame knowing how he’d used it, that she’d thought so little of herself that she’d known and let him, because she was scared and she thought that was what it would cost her for his allyship.

What a mess.

His bedroll smelled like her. Like the awful wrongness of her blood, but still like her underneath. Like gentle night, like starlit summer. He’d daresay lilac would bring it out more. He’d bring out the depth with a bit of lavender and perhaps a base of cypress to add a woodsy quality—

He pressed his hands to his face. Weeks ago he could hardly stand her and now he was absently formulating a perfume to best suit her, thinking of how he missed her pressed against his side as she slept. how he’d just stared at her when he awoke from his trance and she still slept in his arms, eyes tracing her face, the scars that covered every inch of her skin.

She looked so much younger when she slept. Innocent.

And yet it was just another scar, another thing stolen from her—the wretched magic had even made her unable to trance.

He thought of stomping back up to Moonrise, druid be damned. Lythra would want him there, when she woke—he knew it had meant something to her, that he’d stayed while she was hurt, vulnerable, that she hadn’t been alone.

She wasn’t alone, though. Still—

He swore.

Perhaps he’d just wait until the morning. He should have her stable by then, anyhow, would have no reason to grouse at him, no great work to interrupt.

Yes, perhaps that would be best, once she had regained a bit of strength.

Because she would. She’d be okay, she had to be, she’d promised—

She’d promised to look after him and he—

He was supposed to be looking after her.

Lythra’s eyes went wide as a beautiful aasimar woman entered after Isobel, taller than her by nearly a foot, strong and well-muscled—clearly a warrior. She had blonde hair half-braided back and pale skin criss-crossed with golden scars, her wings enormous and covered in fluffy, white feathers. She almost seemed to glow from the inside, something about her mesmerizing.

She realized she was staring and quickly dropped her gaze to her lap, hands twisting at the blankets, heat flooding her cheeks. She started and the feeling of a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find the aasimar woman staring at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.

“Your druid companion told me you’d been inflicted with the Shadowfell’s curse,” she said. Lythra stared for a moment before she nodded, unsure of what else to say—of where, even, this woman had come from.

Isobel must have found her, called her in from somewhere. There were Selûnite sigils on her armor.

“Ah—he did mention that you did not remember. I am Dame Aylin, daughter of the Moonmaiden. You saved me in the Shadowfell and once more came to my aid to help defeat Ketheric Thorm. You are a most brave little warrior, your fury most righteous. I am glad to have such a friend and comrade,” the aasimar woman—Dame Aylin—said, giving her a smile. Lythra’s eyes went wide as she tried to make sense of her words.

“I, um—I am glad to have helped you, Dame Aylin. I am—I am sorry I do not remember—”

“There is no need for apologies. In fact, I come to hopefully express my gratitude properly, for you have saved both me and my darling Isobel.”

“I didn’t—”

“You are too modest, my friend,” she said and laid her hand on Lythra’s forehead, whispering a prayer. Lythra’s eyes went wide as something uncoiled in her chest and dissipated. She took a deep breath, then another, feeling as though she couldn’t get enough air. 

She stared at Dame Aylin with wide eyes, her hand coming up to press against her chest as she tried to make sense of the feeling.

“Try your magic now, little warrior,” she said with a smile. Lythra hesitated for a long time before reaching for her magic, digging for the strength she knew it would sap. Instead a warmth filled her chest and the magic came easier and unfamiliar. 

It wasn’t darkness anymore, it was the smallest, little mote of soft, silver moonlight. She stared at Dame Aylin, tears in her eyes. 

“What did you—“

“Whatever is Shar’s is equally Selûne’s, I merely asked my mother to take back that which the Dark Lady does not deserve. Think nothing of it, my friend. We have both slipped the Shadowfell’s shackles.”

Lythra stared at her in awe for a moment before throwing her arms around the much larger woman in the tightest hug she could manage. 

“Thank you. Thank you a thousand, thousand times,” she sobbed. Aylin froze for a moment before she returned the hug awkwardly. Lythra hung on for too long, unable to let go.

For the first time she remembered, she felt like she could take a full breath, like there wasn’t something festering in her chest.

For the first time since she could remember, she was free from the vestiges of her mother’s hatred, of her miserable childhood in Menzoberranzan, of the evil drilled into her very bones.

For the first time she could remember, she was very nearly truly free.

[mt-musings]

Slowly but surely updating all my masterlists

Hopefully will have them all up to date in a week or two! Maybe longer but I am queuing like a motherfucker. Just learned they only let you add a certain amount of pictures a day, who knew? I'm also halfway through writing the next update for Sick of Losing Soulmates and will hopefully have that up on AO3 tonight or tomorrow.

Got distracted writing some original fiction and kinda falling in love with some new characters. Having fun playing with the concept of a single, 300 year old vampire dad trying to raise his toddler dhampir daughter and having to find a nanny to watch her while he works night shifts in the ER. Meanwhile the nanny is on the hook from the mob for a debt that was never hers.

[mt-musings]

The Last Silverboughs

31. A Song in the Dark

Halsin struggles to put his past to rest, but it's haunting him in more ways than he realizes. He'd thought his time in the Underdark was long behind him, an unpleasant pitfall of youthful hubris, but remnants of his captivity remain, the youngest of which unwittingly stumbles to his rescue.

Lythra can't stop running from her past--hasn't, since she managed to make it out of the Underdark. She has no love for Menzoberranzan, or her House, or anything she left behind in the dark. Or nearly anything.

Still, she'd rather die than return--a prospect all the more likely with a tadpole jammed behind her eye. But perhaps, with the help of a renown druidic healer, she can go back to what remains of her half-life in the sun.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31

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Ketheric Thorm was not an enemy to be underestimated, and yet Lythra charged forth as if she couldn’t die, as if he couldn’t hurt her, as if she hadn’t already been ripped in two by a far lesser enemy the last time she’d allowed the rashness of the Shadows to take over.

Astarion swore under his breath, picking off an intellect devourer from the shadows before it could strike her.

She’d been so frightened in that awful morgue when Gale had begun speaking of experiments and now it was as if she’d never known fear a moment in her life.

Did she feel fear, when consumed by the Shadows?

He shot another of the foul brain-monsters as she strode towards the platform where the aasimar was chained. He’d known that was right were she was going—after all, how many things had she broken out from cages today?

Hopefully the aasimar had a fair bit of smiting left in her—they’d need it to put down Ketheric.

They’d need everything in their arsenal to kill him and keep Lythra alive in this state.

And then they’d have to find a way to get rid of the Shadows for good, to banish them. There had to be a way—had to be a way that he wouldn’t have to spend each day in fear that that would be the day that her mother’s cruelty finally consumed her for good.

He shot a bolt at Ketheric as Lythra scrambled up the disgusting web of flesh to reach the aasimar and release her. That, at least, brought a modicum of relief—with her free, Ketheric was no longer immortal.

And Astarion would see him very quickly dead.

Elendar couldn’t calm the mad beating of his heart. He held the portrait of Lythra to his chest as he and followed Xaryn to the Teleportation Hall. They’d be in Baldur’s Gate in minutes.

Had she been there this whole time? It would have taken her over a month to reach the Gate from Waterdeep, alone out on the road. It would have been so much safer for her to have stayed in the city, he’d thought she’d have remained, never would have thought she’d chance such a journey after she’d already reached the surface.

But then again, she’d always been braver than he’d ever been.

“You remember our deal, though, ilharn?” Xaryn asked for the third time. Elendar sighed.

“Yes, Xaryn. You were very clear.”

He knew he meant well, knew he was trying to look after him—he was always looking after him. He was far finer a son than Elendar could have ever asked for. He wrapped his arm around his shoulders, despite the fact he towered over him by half a foot.

“You will be careful too. We will find her, we’re so close, but you must not be rash.”

“Ilharn—”

“It was never your fault. Your grief must not cloud your judgement. I’ll lose no more children, Xaryn, do you hear me?”

He stared at him, mouth pressed into a thin line and nodded.

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

“Thank you,” he said, throat tight. He’d see his ssinssrigg again, he’d finally be able to start working towards her forgiveness, towards making up for all the ways he’d failed her, all the ways he’d never fail her again.

He’d never let her slip away again, for a start.

Lythra glared up at the avatar of Myrkul, chest heaving. She wasn’t afraid—

She’d never been afraid of Death. It was perhaps the only thing that had never frightened her.

This, though, was an abomination, a monster disguised in the mantle of Godhood and she would crush it under her heel.

“This is where you fall, Lord of Bones, as you always do, as you always will, as it was always meant to be. You will fall, and your bones shall nourish Life as it grows, relentless. And no matter how many of its number you fell, you will only feed it more, and the world will keep turning and growing and living, and you will forever be but a knick in the wheel,” she shouted, furious.

She called up her black flames and it flinched, but didn’t die. It raised its scythe, empty eye sockets trained on her as she heard Astarion yell something from his hiding place in the shadows, but she just threw her arms out in a cross block in front of her, calling Shadows to her to guard her, to spirit her behind the god-beast so his scythe was met with nothing but empty, stale air.

There was more yelling, but she hadn’t the eyes for anything but the supposed god in front of her, nothing but the source of her ire. The shadows wanted to rip and tear, were ecstatic for a worthy target, to rip apart Death itself.

She sent a javelin of darkness to bury itself in its chest, watching it falter slightly as it whirled around, searching for her, but she had cloaked herself in Shadows once more, was practically a Shadow herself, now.

Why, then, should she ever fear Death? Why should she fear anything at all?

She gave into her hunger, blood singing at the prospect of perhaps finally being sated.

Lythra darted about the platform faster than Astarion could keep a handle on her. She’d somehow figured out how to pull the Shadows around her, how to flick between them like some sort of twisted misty step and she launched spell after spell at the Avatar.

It didn’t mean that she was able to stay completely out of his grasp, though. He watched as she misjudged his swing, reappearing too close and getting clipped, the force of it, launching her back, nearly to the back of the platform.

He darted out, shooting an explosive arrow in the things face as she scrambled back up with some difficulty. He was too far away to be sure, but he thought he saw black blood blooming over her armor, right at the base of her ribs.

He must have been right—he saw the druid aim a healing word in her direction before setting a swarm of insects on the Avatar, Gale encasing it in a cloud of daggers before clambering up on of the other platforms for a better vantage point.

The aasimar, too, swooped about, smiting and shouting, but Astarion was only concerned with keeping out of sight and keeping the damn thing from killing Lythra.

The Shadows made her foolish, brazen. They didn’t seem to care at all if she was hurt, if the hideous Avatar of Death itself flattened her completely. They just drove her to blindly attack and keep attacking.

He launched another arrow, this one sending shards of ice to cling to its ribs. He watched Lythra reach out her hand, watched as the Shadows formed themselves into something like a sword, too broad and long for her tiny frame. She took off at a run and leapt into the air, driving the blade into the thing’s chest. She was knocked back as it burst into sickly white flames, landing hard back on the platform, just as Ketheric reappeared, bloodied and mostly dead, beseeching Myrkul to save him.

Astarion didn’t care though, only focussing on the way she struggled up push herself back up, stumbling twice before she managed it, body shaking. He darted forward and he could see there was more blood than he’d thought covering her, more blood than he’d thought pouring from her ears, her nose.

She was hurt, and badly, and last time—

He wouldn’t think about last time. She was going to be fine, she’d be fine and be back to irritating him in no time.

She watched in that strange, detached way of hers as the aasimar swooped in from overhead and began stomping Ketheric’s corpse, viscera flying everywhere. He couldn’t hear what she said when she finally stopped pulvurizing her body, turning and speaking to Lythra alone. Whatever it was though, seemed amenable to the aasimar and she nodded her head before launching herself back into the sky, eager to be free of this place.

He couldn’t say he didn’t agree.

Still, Lythra only stared, her body unnaturally still even as more and more Shadows flocked to her.

Surely they should have released her with the threat gone, should have allowed her to return. Wasn’t that enough of a break to the conduit or whatever the druid and wizard had been nattering on about?

It had to be—it had to be enough.

Her father sang to her as he plaited her hair. She was sure he had the most beautiful voice in the world, even if he never sang loud enough for anyone but her to hear.

She craned her head back to stare up at him as he tied them off with ribbons, making sure the bows were even, even though she was only going to bed.

“Sing me my lullaby, Kel’nar,” she said and he huffed a laugh, shaking his head.

“My, aren’t we demanding ssinssrigg?”

“Please!” she said quickly. He leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead before he scooped her up into his arms. She giggled as he swung her around easily, arms wrapped around his neck.

“Only because you asked nicely,” he lied. She knew he’d sing it for her even if she was rude.

He set her down on her bed, making a face at the thin blankets, the specks of blood she’d coughed onto them from her mother’s last set of potions. He hated her room, she knew—

She hated it too. It wasn’t so bad, though, when Kel’nar was allowed to tuck her in. She crawled under the blankets and grabbed Biter, hugging the toy to her chest. It smelled nice—like lavender, Kel’nar said. A flower from Above.

He perched next to her on the bed, stroking her hair.

“There is a light that I can see, but only, it seems, when there’s darkness in me,” he sang, staring at her like he was trying to memorize her face, something almost sad behind his eyes. She reached out with her arm not clutching Biter and grabbed onto his sleeve, holding the fabric tight in her fist.

Maybe if she held tight enough he’d still be there in the cold light of morning.

“There is a dream that I sometimes see, that only appears in the dark of sleep,” he crooned, and she struggled to stay awake, his fingers in her hair lulling her to sleep just as surely as her lullaby.

“Keeps me awake in the night, crying ‘set me free’.”

Lythra stood as she stared down at the smashed up corpse of Ketheric Thorm, shadows seeming to flock to her even more. She stood, perfectly still, except for her labored breathing.

She hardly even looked like herself anymore, not with the darkness pulled in so tightly around her like a mantle, her face all the sharper for it. There was something wild in her black eyes, something beastial, something that was growing, was taking root, that needed to be pruned and quickly. 

The longsword at his side began to hum, its song muffled. Halsin took a step forward, pulling the longsword from the sheath at his side. Astarion immediately moved to intercept him, dagger drawn until he laid it it flat in his hands, holding it outstretched towards her. Astarion just gave him a dirty look, though he watched him like a hawk.

Eilistraee was calling her again, he was sure of it—he just needed her to listen, needed her to take the hand being offered. He took comfort in the fact that this showed she was favored, that there was hope.

She turned her head, too fast, to stare at the sword in his hands, the sound of the song growing. She cocked her head to the side, brows furrowing.

“That, that’s—why did you take that sword?” she asked, uncertainty and fury mingling on her face.

“It’s your sword, Lythra, isn’t it? Wyll told me you pulled it from the stone. No one else could.”

She just stared at him, uncertainty growing with the song. Halsin knew it—he’d known more than a few acolytes of the Dark Maiden in his time. He’d traveled with them, for part of his disastrous first trek into the Underdark. It was perhaps one of her most well-known hymns.

He’d never been much of a singer, but he could see it was effecting her.

“There is a light, I feel it in me,” he sang, as best he could with the melody of the sword.

“How—how do you know that song?” she asked, faltering. Her eyes were wide, her hands shaking. Halsin kept singing, taking it as a good sign.

“But only, it seems, when the dark surrounds me,” he continued, hoping he could carry enough of the tune.

“You can’t know that song. You can’t,” she said, distraught, stepping back.

“There is a dream and it sleeps in me,” he sang, holding the sword out to her as he stepped towards her, nearly closing the distance between them.

She shook her head violently, black tears pouring down her cheeks. She almost seemed to shrink a bit, features losing the severity brought on by the Shadows.

“Keeps me awake in the night, crying ‘set me free’,” he sang, reaching with his hand not holding the sword to take hold of hers, to place it gently on the blade. She stared at it, her face crumpling, as it trembled atop the steel.

“And I wake every night, crying ‘set me free’,” he finished, voice hardly more than a quaver. The sword hummed in his hands, the only sound in the cavernous room besides their breathing.

A shiver ran though her, her breathing turning labored. They stood like that a moment, a moment that felt like hours, days, that stretched as his heart hammered against his ribs.

She looked up at him, blinking as if the low light was blinding, her eyes once more a pale silver-green. She shivered violently as blood poured from her nose, pure black blood without even a hint of red.

“H-how—h-how do you know that s-song? Y-you can’t, you c-can’t,” she stammered, searching his face, her expression something he couldn’t put a name to, something under the desolation. He watched in horror as all the strength left her body and she dropped limply to the ground.

He shoved the sword away, dropping to his knees, already calling healing magic to his hands. He sunk spell after spell into her, though they seemed to have little grip on her. The only sign that they were doing anything at all was the rivers of black blood that ran from her eyes, her nose, her ears, that she choked up, even as her eyes remained shut.

“Do something! Why aren’t you doing anything?” Astarion spat, dropping to his knees to roll her to her side before Halsin was able. Halsin ignored him, sinking another healing spell into her as he checked her pulse.

It was thready and weak. Still, she breathed, despite the damage.

He’d keep her breathing.

“We should return to the Tower proper. I need my healing kit, and I will enlist Jaheira’s help,” he said, sinking another spell into her, but his strength was failing—there was only so much magic he could expend before he needed to Trance.

He gathered her up in his arms as gently as he could manage, walking towards the portal. He ignored Astarion’s snarling, focusing only on the girl in his arms, on her face under the blood and scars as he strode to the Portal.

She was still far too thin—she looked older for it, too old. Was she twenty yet? Had she made it to twenty?

She would. He wouldn’t let her fall, not after everything—saving him, saving Thaniel, ending the Shadow Curse.

No, she’d have centuries yet, once they dealt with this foul magic and the tadpole. Centuries to live and not just survive, to spend making music surrounded by her ever-growing menagerie of furry—and now slimy—friends.

He stepped out into the carnage of the aftermath of the fight, wondering how such a terribly fragile girl had so surely struck down Death’s own Avatar.

He was frightened of what it had cost her.

Notes:

Once again using Abbey by Mitski--it just fits so well. I've been spending a lot of time listening to Sleeping At Last while I write Elendar's scenes--Light pretty much encapsulates how he feels about Lythra. I'm very excited for a reunion.