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ruiniel · 7 months

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Prickly thorns, tender roses

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Rating: Mature🔞

Relationship: Alucard/Original Female Character

Characters: Alucard, Original Character(s)

Summary:

Set after the events of Castlevania (Netflix) Season III. After the betrayal of his young apprentices, Alucard feels barely alive in his lonesome castle. Days wear on, chipping away at his mind and sanity. And what is the son of Dracula to do with this unwanted visitor, suddenly come at his doorstep? Often the prickly thorn produces tender roses - Ovid

Chapter tags & warnings: Dark Romanticism, Inspired by Castlevania, personal interpretation of post-season III Alucard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Castlevania Season III, Illness

V. Once was enough

She was being carried purposefully into an unknown direction by a stiff and grim lord of the castle. When he had removed the manacle trapping her ankle and leaned over her, the first impulse was to cower away in afeared suspicion. But her weakness was so great Ravenna could do nothing when his hands slipped beneath her, lifting her off the bed.

“Where are you taking me?” That he was not dragging her away in chains partially pacified her. It meant she may not be heading to her death after all.

“To a place with fewer odds of killing you,” his voice vibrated against the side of her face.

She tried breathing evenly but crumpled in on herself, her head falling heavily against him, despite her unease. “There is such a place here?” Ravenna asked, another bout of coughing the punishment for her wit.

A stubborn smile made its way to his lips, one she thankfully did not see. “Believe it or not,” Alucard replied.

Ravenna fell silent, aware that she would be incapable of fighting against him even if she tried. And so the woman renounced any thoughts of bravery and let her body go soft in his hold, feeling weaker as time wore on. She discerned a flat, repetitive thrum; the beating of a heart? She faintly wondered if vampires functioned as humans did. Were they not undead, by all means? A scientific explanation for their traits must exist, but unfortunately, it lay shrouded in mystery. In the minds of most denizens of the world today, these undiscovered laws of existence were the makings of arcane and loathsome magic, to be feared and destroyed.

They reached a spacious room where flames burned in an enormous stone fireplace, and Ravenna saw a few pieces of furniture scattered across the chamber. Most of it was in disarray, as with everything else she had seen so far.

He laid the ailing woman onto a long divan and turned away. Ravenna listened to his footsteps receding as she lay there, facing the flames. She had to admit this place was better indeed, and the warmth was welcome, the fire drying to her damp skin.

When the stranger returned, she heard objects being placed onto a table somewhere behind her in the fire-lit study. He neared her again, running up the sleeves of his white shirt, his gaze sweeping over her with utter indifference. The strangest being she had ever met then went and washed his hands in a basin placed on a table in one corner before he approached, carrying a bowl. He set it down on the floor within reach of her and stepped back, crossing his arms.

Ravenna looked to the contents, and what appeared to be strips of wood shavings.

“Willow bark,” she rasped, finding his gaze.

“For the pain and fever.”

“I know,” she coughed. Her shaking hand reached for the bowl, and she brought a few pieces into her mouth, chewing slowly.

“And do you know what you have?” came that same, unnervingly calm voice as he turned away again, only to return, holding a wet cloth.

“Short breathing, harsh cough... and pain in the side... fever,” Ravenna counted weakly. “… pneumonia. As per Maimonides… estimated year... 1200 AD.”

“You know your books.” Somehow, he succeeded to make that sound insulting. He placed the wet cloth on her forehead. “Then you also know you may die from it, and I am no physician on human ailments.”

“You know of physicians?...” The surprise was great.

He nodded, then looked towards the window, clearly not disposed to say more.

“Why are you helping?” Ravenna had to know, searching his face for any changes.

The scourge turned his blank gaze on her then, and it was so empty she felt a different type of chill, deep in her bones.

“I asked myself the same only moments ago. Is it your wish to be left to die?”

“No, of course not—” Ravenna managed, too weary to be incensed by his manner. But all of this came in such contrast to the... adornments set before his gate.

“Then rest,” he said, “And there is water.” He pointed to an ewer placed at the foot of the divan.

Ravenna was so depleted all other questions drained from her mind, and despite her fears, soon enough her eyes were closing. She fell into a long, troubled sleep.

When the young woman awakened, the burning had subsided from what she could tell, and her limbs felt less heavy. Ravenna reached for the water by her side and drank heartily. Once she was sated, her red-rimmed eyes flitted across the room, finding its other occupant. He had taken his place in a high armchair facing the hearth some distance away, on the opposite side of the divan. Silent, motionless; his elbow propped against the armrest, his face resting in his palm.

This was quite the turn of events. First, he prevents her demise, then he frightens her, threatens her, and now that she fell ill, he is… tending to her? This volatility was distressing, but what other choice did she have now? Here she was, trapped at the whim of a moody vampire. It was possible her previous thought would ring true. Maybe not for long, came the stab of doubt, if her newly gained affliction had anything to say in the matter.

“How are you…. how are you immune to the threat of daylight?” A good start as any to a conversation, considering the circumstances of their encounter. Or so she thought.

There was no reaction or response, as if her question went unheard. Ravenna looked at him, still sunken into his seat, looking utterly tired and worn. She seethed, retreating into silence. Hours passed, and the woman drifted in and out of awareness, coughing on her side from time to time. She felt the compress being changed, and the renewed chill on her forehead felt like a blessing each time.

Ravenna opened her eyes, late after another bout of fitful rest, to see the vampire crouched before the fireplace, stoking the fire. The light of red flames crawled up the chamber walls and gleamed on his pale-gold hair. No more than a ghost, he seemed, though Ravenna could not deny the distracting nature of his appearance. He was… perhaps about her own age in years? But she knew that with vampires these things were relative and deceiving more often than not.

“Well,” she broke the silence anew, “Since you are attempting to help me, or at least I think you are, I don’t suppose your design includes spiking me before your gate?”

He stilled his movements, if only for a breath, and looked over his shoulder at her. “That depends.”

“On what?...” Ravenna decided to bite.

“On whether or not you cease asking questions,” he grumbled softly, rising to his feet.

Ravenna scoffed. He had settled on being the fifth wall in the room. So be it. Her eyes roamed over the enclosure for anything of use, for any answers as to this place and the nature of its owner. She noticed a peculiar object, propped against a desk close to the armchair. A painting. It was the portrait of a young, golden-haired woman. She wore a violet dress and carried a bouquet of white lily flowers, her face fair and joyful; there was a strange familiarity to it, but Ravenna could not place it. Not the usual furnishing to be found in the lair of a vampire.

The woman watched him retake his seat, allowing the armchair to swallow him. His shirt was still rolled up to his elbows, and a pale forearm fell lifelessly over the armrest.

He appeared young, but then so old as if tied to an ancient sorrow that reminded the woman of certain Greek tragedies of old she read in lonesome seminars, during her formative years. Was this the burden of age, or that of the malice these dangerously superior creatures carried about them? Her eyes were closing on the last thought.

“You said you sought something here.”

Her eyes snapped open, but it was her turn to be silent now. He would not even give her his name, and now…

Moments passed before she heard a long-suffering sigh, and Ravenna turned her head to see him pinch the bridge of his nose, frowning as though he were utterly spent. Perhaps he was.

“Adrian is my name.”

An unwieldy smirk made its way onto her tired features. One step forward. “I come from Styria.”

“Styria?” he asked, gazing into the fire with a thoughtful mien. “You speak the local language well.”

“I was fortunate enough to have access to the right resources.”

“Reading is a powerful skill,” Adrian murmured absently. “I believe this world would do much better if it were a widespread practice.”

“Maybe someday,” Ravenna chimed, before catching herself. It was strange how disarmingly open he had been mere moments ago. Perhaps there was a way.

“I answered your question,” the vampire drawled with a slow flick of his wrist.

Ravenna was taken by a cough again - a long, throat-hissing endeavor that left her gasping and shivering. She barely felt something soft and warm cast at her feet and rose slowly to reach for the thick throw he had placed there, dutifully pulling the material across her frame. When she calmed well enough, Ravenna continued as he retook his seat.

“I seek a prominent family of monster hunters. They call themselves the Belmont Clan.” She watched him for any change in his expression, but there was nothing. “Surely you must have heard of them? We think they possess vast knowledge gathered through the ages in their trade, and I need their help. By word of mouth and research, I discovered my way into this area on my quest.” She paused, waiting for any sort of acknowledgment, but there came none. “… as I left the inn from the last village, a score of those insane traveling monks roaming these parts of your land pursued me. They must have overheard my questions, though nobody would answer them, which was strange to me. They thought me a witch or who knows what else. It was then I learned the Belmonts are not so well-liked here. The rest you know.” She waited.

For a good while, there was no sound but the crackling hiss of the fire as the flames of the hearth danced lazily in his golden eyes.

“The Belmonts are dead, and their home was destroyed. Your journey is in vain,” the soft words struck her, laced with icy bitterness.

Ravenna frowned. Trust a vampire to say such things. “What... what happened to them?” she asked, either way, fearing the answer she was already suspecting, her hope stubborn in the face of his dismissive manner.

“People happened.” Sharp words, like shards of broken glass. “As usual.”

“I do not believe it.”

“That is your folly,” he muttered, his head falling back against the armchair.

Disgruntled and disappointed, the young woman cursed it all. She cursed her long journey and her eager hope, she cursed the group of waylayers who had chased her to kill her for values they were unwilling to understand, and she cursed this vampire, who sliced through her purpose with his careless words. Pressure grew in her chest, up her throat, and stubborn tears of frustration beckoned but were blinked away. Her body and mind yearned for more rest, and so Ravenna slumped into the divan, sighing as her eyes rolled back, surrendering to another bout of restless sleep.

It was the middle of the night when he rose from his place. Slow, hesitant steps took him to where the woman lay abed. He bent and lifted the fallen throw at the foot of the divan, carelessly throwing it back over the sleeping stranger. She looked less feverish, and her breathing sounded marginally better.

Once again, at the crossroads, he thought, the memory of pleading faces and hopeful eyes causing a wrenching tug. The one once calling himself Alucard stood still for a mere second turned endless moment, watching the only other soul trapped in the shell of the past that was his home. Just then, her lip quivered and Ravenna frowned in her sleep, wrinkling her nose at a rebel strand of hair tickling her face. When he failed to rein a smile, he shook himself.

Fool.

He had learned a costly, no less important lesson well enough the first time. And once was enough. His gaze strayed to the window; not too far away, the remains of the Belmont estate loomed wretchedly among towering trees, the ruins kissed by the light of a grey moon.

Yes, once was enough.

#alucard x oc #ruiniel:fanfiction #prickly thorns tender roses #not rewritten has my 2020 style rip

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