Author's Note: It seems as though I can't escape my love of Vampires, so here I am again tackling the Castlevania series. I've always been a huge fan of the games, and Netflix's show was just excellent! Ignore the dramatic angst in this first chapter. It'll get better. I think. I dunno, let's find out!

One

A Fool's Guide to Emotion in the Apocalypse

I'm going to die here.

It wasn't what he'd expected. Given the lifestyle he lived, he had imagined a hundred ways he would die - fighting tooth and nail in an epic fight, for example, or going out at the end of the blade while taking a hellbeast with him; Perhaps even saving his loved ones and an entire village from Satan himself. Maybe they would even write a drunken song about him to sing in the taverns.

Trevor Belmont. Hero of this village and slayer of monsters.

Or alternately: Damn, that Trevor Belmont was such a drunk troublesome bastard.

Yeah. That last one was more likely.

But this. He hadn't quite expected this; to be bleeding slowly in the open, on his back, gasping for the smallest breath of air. A pathetic death, really. He supposed, in retrospect, given everything that had happened in his life thus far, he deserved this instead. His ancestors were probably laughing in the afterlife.

Yes, for every drunken bar fight, for every apathetic retort to requests for help, for every curse toward every god he could think of, he deserved this.

But they didn't.

His heart clenched.

Get up.

The will was there – Truly it was – But the body had given up long ago. There was a disconnect between mind, nerve, and muscle. Was his mind already trapped within a corpse? Damn, that was a chilling thought. He wanted to scream.

GET UP.

His arms and legs ached as though he had made the move, but he hadn't. They were useless extensions, nothing but flesh and broken bone. He wanted to laugh – or maybe cry? Was physical pain an emotion? Whatever, he was never good with emotions in the first place.

He drew in a deep breath, bringing with it dust and the scent of decay. The sudden jab of pain and tainted air choked him, and he coughed suddenly, harshly. Agony seized his lungs and radiated through his heart, his torso, his damn useless limbs.

Trevor Belmont. God's greatest joke.

Screams were still echoing throughout the air; The nightmarish soundtrack to his demise. He wished they'd stop. And the scent of blood was overpowering, nauseating. God, this was misery. How did vampires enjoy that smell? Perhaps he was smelling his own blood. After all, he was laying in a fucking pool of it. Made sense that he would hate the smell of his own blood.

He drifted, floated, came crashing down between dreams and the present. A flutter of eyelids and his eyes focused on the brick building near his feet. So much blood. Slowly, numbly, his gaze followed the trail of crimson upward to land on the light haired, elegant figure pinned against the brick wall – Conscious, but just barely.

The metal rod had gone through Alucard's chest and embedded itself into the brick wall behind him. His white shirt was no longer white at all; it was red. The violent dye had soaked into his black trench coat and leather pants, dripping steadily from his boots.

They had stretched out his arms and driven nails through his wrists to hold them in place; a mockery of the church and of the prophecy.

Their sleeping soldier.

Their savior.

Please get up.

Trevor would take back every biting insult and sarcastic taunt. He would publicly praise Alucard as superior to him in every way - Make flyers if he had to; Sing songs of the great dhampir.

He would do this, gladly, if only it would save him from this fate.

A choking sound escaped Trevor. An emotion of pain. He was always bad at addressing emotions. Didn't Sypha fuss at him for that? Many times, actually.

Alucard's dull gaze shifted to Trevor's. His eyes were no longer golden; they were a vicious red from the battle. Somewhere, the flittering idea that his eyes matched his shirt. His hair, a golden halo framing that flawless face, as heavenly as a painting of Jesus on the cross, with eyes as red as sin. The goddamn bastard was still beautiful even as he was dying. What an ass. Eat shit and –

You can't die on me yet, you bastard.

The dhampir's bloody stare flickered with recognition; sharp as an execution blade, as though he could communicate something through will alone. No words, just emotions. Why was it coming down to this again?

Please don't, Alucard.

Sorrow, regret – A thank you, definitely. Hunter and Dhampir. Enemies. Traveling Companions. Friends.

Lift the beer in acknowledgement, punctuate it with an insult.

Damn it, Tepes. Don't you dare get emotional on me. I'm not good at this touchy feely crap.

The dhampir seemed to acknowledge this with a slow and steady blink. The edges of his lips curled ever so slightly into a pale imitation of that damn arrogant smirk. Then the stare unfocused, broke, and his blonde eyelashes landed featherlike on bloody cheeks.

Goodnight, sweet prince. May flights of—

Trevor's chest hurt. Shouldn't he be angry? Shouldn't he be raging against the cause of all of this, throwing curses and swearing vengeance in the afterlife? Spitting at the heeled shoe that ordered this execution? Where was that classic Belmont fight? Instead, he felt oddly numb, and it hurt. It hurt more than the bruises and broken bones, more than the torn skin and swollen flesh.

Figures.

His last chance at emotion, and he got it wrong.

Breathe. Focus.

So there was her. Unlike Alucard, who wore blood like a vengeful angel of death, the signs of violence were entirely wrong on Sypha. She was fire and light, ice and endless fields of green grass. She was life.

And there was still life there, hovering precariously in her blue eyes. Her body had landed near his, stomach-down on the grimy rubble. He could see her clearly, close to him, close enough to touch if he could just...

Why was there so much blood on her face? For God's sake, Sypha, wipe that off your face and focus on getting up. Focus on anything but me. Forget me and SURVIVE.

Her eyes were dancing over his face like caresses. Past the pain she tried desperately to hide, she was concerned for him. Guilt and sorrow warred within her steady stare.

God, she deserved better. She deserved to die peacefully, naturally in her sleep or painlessly while laying in a field of flowers. She deserved to live a long life with a loving family and a houseful of healthy kids and a handsome, wealthy man that didn't have an alcohol problem.

She deserved better than him.

Stubborn woman. She wasted so much of her finite time when she could have had so much more.

"One day," he had told her once while gorging himself on an oversize turkey leg, "You're going to regret coming with me."

It was sunset on a much better evening, and the sky bled shades of crimson and purple over the horizon. "You're such an idiot, Trevor Belmont," she had answered with a gentle smile. "Though watching you eat that is making me second guess myself."

They had laughed that evening, basking in the unspoken hope each teasing word carried.

God, he should have left her behind when they defeated Dracula's castle.

Still.

He was selfish. He always had been. His finger twitched with the want to reach out to her, to drag his fingers through that short blonde hair and push her unkempt bangs out of her eyes. He yearned to pull her into an embrace and kiss her forehead, her cheeks, those soft lips. Or just a touch. A simple touch, hand to hand, would be enough.

His dying limbs wouldn't even give him even that much.

So he gazed at her, unguardedly, lovingly, tracking her youthful face, the gentle slope of her jaw, her lips that always seemed so soft. The blood running rivers down her forehead was an unwelcome distraction. Who had dared to hit her like that?

Look, I know I've been an ass, but if there's a God out there...

Whatever accursed spell that bound his limbs hadn't quite conquered her. Slowly, carefully, she forced her arm over the wreckage to reach him. Thin, elegant fingers caught on pieces of rubble, crawling like spider legs over the destruction. Her finger brushed over his pinky first before slipping within his palm. He had just enough strength to curl his hand over her much smaller ones.

It was the end of the world, and Trevor Belmont would not cry. He would rage and tear through his enemies and fight for a world that condemned him. But he would never, not once, shed a tear.

I'm begging you to help her.

He drew a breath to form words. If it was his last chance, he had to say something.

A finite supply of words. What could he say?

I saw you practicing last Friday. Your magick has improved. We're proud of you.

The happiest moment I can remember is when you pulled me into a dance at your family's celebration. I hate dancing, and I hate parties.

You were perfect, Sypha. Your spells, your trust, and your hope. The fire that you put into each action.

You were better than all of us.

What he said was none of these things. Instead, his lips formed around three little words. Such small words. Such strong words. Words he hadn't spoken since his family was alive; Words he expected to never speak again.

A confession.

And it was enough to reach her. At those three simple words, she smiled like sunlight, the happiness shining through the gathering stream of tears in her eyes. She gazed at him as though, if she had to look at something one last time, she was glad it was him.

God, Sypha, you deserved so much more.

His hand tightened around hers with whatever feeble strength he could muster. He would hold on to her for as long as he could.

I'd give up everything to save you. To save Alucard.

Please don't leave me.

He knew the exact moment she was gone. Her expression hadn't changed much. Perhaps her smile had melted just a little. Her hand went limp against his. A sudden, cruel stillness. But her eyes-

I'd do anything.

Yes, her eyes were still directed to him, but they were no longer seeing. The light was gone. She was gone.

The ache in his chest was a weight he despised. It pushed into his lungs and claimed his breath. Slowly, he closed his eyes. A lone tear darted a stinging trail down his cheek.

If a man cries when no one's around, did he really cry at all?

Let all the legends say: Trevor Belmont did not weep in the Apocalypse. He bravely faced down each creature with a swift and strong crack of his whip. He accepted the casualties with a sorrowful grace. But he most certainly did not sob silently and hopelessly at the end of the world.

Somewhere distant, there was growling and screams and terrible crashes, but it was so quiet. So very, very quiet. The silence echoed within his swirling head.

If anyone at all is listening, drag me to hell. Torture me every moment of my infernal life. Take me instead. Just bring them back.

Please.

Please get up.

It was getting dark. Funny that, given the many lanterns and fires surrounding them. It was the end of the world, and someone could at least be kind enough to light a torch for him.

I'd do anything to fix this.

Drifting again. Hovering. It was rather easy, like falling asleep when piss drunk.

"Anything?"

The hoarse, whispered voice pulled him back with a feeble hold. Did someone...? He struggled against his own probably concussed brain, but nothing else made sense; Nothing else was spoken.

The hold was released. With the loss of that tenuous grip, Trevor's consciousness spiraled , and he surrendered to the weight bearing on his chest.

This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but -

A sharp gasp pulled Trevor awake. Pure, clean air filled his lungs, and he coughed through a strong memory of smoke.

The hell...?

It was afternoon outside. A very nice, sunny day, really. The trees around them provided a soft shade from the summer sun. Pleasant, considering the apocalypse had happened five minutes earlier.

Trevor's wide, panicked eyes quickly landed on Alucard and Sypha, who were also sitting on the well-tread path through the forest. They were alive. God, they were alive.

Alive and just as confused and alarmed as he was.

Alucard's hand clasped tightly to his chest as though he expected something to be there. For once, he looked utterly and completely lost.

And Sypha was crying, but her face didn't reflect sorrow exactly. The tears flowed silently from frightened eyes. Cold, numb streaks over her pale face.

In their silence, the wind rustled through the canopy of leaves. Two playful blue birds whistled to each other nearby.

And Trevor Belmont exclaimed, "What the fuck just happened?"

Author's Note: I'm not going to say I got carried away with this chapter, but I totally got carried away. What can I say, I like writing rather tragic chapters. I originally wrote this as a oneshot on my lunch break to kill time. As I wrote, the wheels started turning and a basic plot formed. Trevor was very out of character, I'm sure, but I'm going to blame it on his concussion and blood loss. Trust me, the story does lighten up quite a bit. I hope you all enjoyed this, and if you want to read more, please let me know! Thanks always!