Dress

(Warnings: Alucard/Elizabeta, memory. one-shot.]

You have nothing, you are nothing!

Words. Words that contained the enmity of reflection within the concentric orbs of carmine volumes do herald forth the apparition, the beast behind all nostalgia as such words weigh the encumbering shape of a long-dead heart tarnished in the visceral coal of charred resign. Noted passage is entombed, enshrined within the hollow bastion of icy entrapment, the piercing lances of harrowing cut and facsimile become jagged entrenchment. There, it is deigned. The monster, entombed within merciless vicissitudes of darkness of which his Empire is nominally betrothed, knows not the escape. To think that he, Monster of monsters, should be allowed to perish the infallibility of such strength that garnered no remorse or proclivity of such. No, for he not the right. And yet, in such moments of destabilizing weakness, there was the perversion of sentiment. Loneliness. The sensation of being crowded by others yet unable to escape the sensation of being but a ghost. This is what the Monster of monsters ruminates upon as he treks through abandoned corridors, mind wandering into rooms, until one nondescript one catches his attention. But there is something unique. Something that sets it apart from the others he passed so obliviously.

But as he lingers upon the threshold, there is something upon the four-poster bed that attracts his attention. A dress, splayed upon it. But there is something familiar about this dress; or perhaps disturbingly reminiscent. Then he knows. Of beautiful azures like oceans he'd never seen, of raven tresses like midnight itself had found home within those locks. Of a beautiful visage that was sadness and the still waters that ran deep beneath the earth, beneath the frost and ice. And without thinking, he enters the room and is assaulted by a shaft of sunlight, one that strikes even more familiarity within him. "Eupraxia—Prasha. Elizabeta, then? A beautiful name, my Lady," the Nosferatu murmurs and smiles sadly, forlorn and distant. The sleeve of the dress is raised and a kiss graces the cuff as though it were snow-white knuckles he'd graced with such a kiss centuries upon centuries ago. Yes, my Lord. And you must be Vlad III Draculae. I didn't think one of your line would be within Janos Hunyadi's company. Alucard smiles fondly, and chuckles in good nature. He remembers that he was but a lad, but a few years older than the beautiful Transylvanian noblewoman he was attempting to court. Elizabeta. "You simply must honor me with a dance, Elizabeta," he murmurs, smiling suavely. Her smile. It was so sublimely beautiful that it blindsides the teen prince for a moment, displaying upon the Nosferatu's. There is affection there, between them; between a memory and an immortal ghost reminiscing on the past.

"Mas—" The tone is cut in twain as Seras balks and then hides herself, gulping as she contemplates how her Master would reprimand her for interrupting…him—

Azure orbs widen and she stares, transfixed, as she stares at him, knowing that it mattered not. In this room, he is lost. Alucard had taken the dress into his arms by then, one secured around its waist and the other delicately holding an extended sleeve. Seras shivers as she becomes more engrossed, the elder Dracul twirling with the dress in a flourish, speaking Romanian to it—a name, Elizabeta, is all that registers. He swallows, her throat closing up, when she sees something through the obfuscation of long, black bangs. Something past the slight smirk that spans despite of it. Something that causes her to tremble slightly; out of fear or concern or the laden atmosphere of melancholy, she cannot say.

Tears.

Red-stained trails he called the Tears of Judas.

Cascading down his cheeks, and she stares.

"You are indeed so very beautiful," Alucard murmurs, grip upon the dress waning as his arms lower and he pauses, reality creeping upon him. Then, the laughter comes, a bitter, melancholy sound that truly scares the Draculina outside of the room. Eyes marred by five centuries stare into oblivion as he stands, blankly, head hung and grin still apparent once he sobers. The tears still fall, dripping from the convex of his cheeks and platter to the ground with the resonance of a pin dropping in a hollowed cathedral.

"So very beautiful…Dragostea mea," his voice drops, broken, and he collapses to his knees, a sudden thud that elicits a re-emergence from Seras. But this time, she freezes entirely.

There is the sound of muffled sobbing as Alucard embraces the dress in a vice, upon his knees and curled inwards, back hunched and shaking with profuse sobbing. The dress is crumpled into him, and he grips it, clinging for purchase at intervals.

Seras watches

and she stares.

She can't move.

Barely breathe.

The only thing she can do

( is stare. ]

Last Thoughts: Again, like all of my Hellsing drabbles thus far, this is a cross post from my tumblr Alucard rp account, on calisvol. Just a little Alucard/Elizabeta number I wrote quite some months ago. Hope you like it!

~Peace, G.