[ That is Dracula. That is the pale shadow of Mathias Cronqvist, the truest ally of Death, the king who reigns between dusk and dawn. That is the thing his family fought for four centuries. He is real. He wants to pretend otherwise, but every part of him screams with the certainty. And Trevor is terrified. Not of the fact that there is a very angry, very large vampire in the same room as him, but of the implications.
If Dracula is real, perhaps his family's word could be trusted. Perhaps he can trust nothing he knows to be true. And perhaps there are no witches in Lupu. Perhaps he almost put the torch to an innocent woman.
Perhaps the ones who came before were innocent, as well.
To his credit, he succeeds in not collapsing to the ground until after Dracula dismisses them and attends to the work of tending his wife's injuries. The strength leaves his legs the moment the door to the laboratory closes and he falls forward, knees slamming against the stone of the castle's floor, pale and trembling. ]
no subject
If Dracula is real, perhaps his family's word could be trusted. Perhaps he can trust nothing he knows to be true. And perhaps there are no witches in Lupu. Perhaps he almost put the torch to an innocent woman.
Perhaps the ones who came before were innocent, as well.
To his credit, he succeeds in not collapsing to the ground until after Dracula dismisses them and attends to the work of tending his wife's injuries. The strength leaves his legs the moment the door to the laboratory closes and he falls forward, knees slamming against the stone of the castle's floor, pale and trembling. ]
He is real.