Disclaimer: Castlevania belongs to konami not me. I am making £0.00 out of this fic, it is written purely because I have a burning need to create. Although I would like to own Alucard . . . then he’d be mine.
Part: one of one
Setting: Post SotN but AU XD.
Authoress note: After the fall of the castle Alucard goes with Richter and Maria but struggles to adapt to Village life.
Italics = thoughts and flashbacks
They had been walking in the market place for the last few hours.
Maria and her sister Annette seemed infinitely happy to wander among the traders, Richter however had wandered off to the public house a good hour ago. Adrian had always been uncomfortable in close quarters with mortals and had opted to stay with the women, at least they moved from stall to stall. In the public house he would be stationary and those around would be able to focus on him. At least wandering he was slightly safer and Maria seemed to be surprisingly pleased that he had chosen to stay with her.
Yet he had to admit it was slightly dull. Mortal wares were all very much the same. There was nothing to fascinate, nothing to entice, only simple meats and wares. Times like this drew him to remember the things he missed about the castle. He did not regret his decision to leave, yet the castle while evil had held his attention easily while he was there.
Eventually he had begun to wander from Maria and Annette, they fussed and cooed over fabrics and cheep jewellery. He resolved not to wander to far, to always remain within eye sight, but his boredom pressed him forward, until he came to a trader who could hold his attention.
He was watching a man have ink pressed into his skin.
It was done differently to how he remembered it being done in the castle. The man was sitting out in the street, the summer heat preventing comfort in doors so the artist had moved his trade into the street. It was unsanitary but very few cared. The dirt getting blown up whenever a breeze lifted the quiet tapping rhythmic, subtle and long winded. The method was very different to how they did it in the castle. The results were different as well; these men had the ink sit lifelessly in their skin, it stayed forever in the same place, it did not move, nor breath. It was a simple drawing and nothing more.
In the castle it was much more.
It was birth, life and it would live as long as you did. A tattoo was not just a picture it was a life form in your skin, a symbiot, independent from you get dependant, almost like a child, but much less. The man having the pattern tapped into his skin seemed to be suffering and Adrian frowned. Tattoos in the castle had not hurt, not really; it had been an odd sensation but pain was not the word to describe it. It was disconcerting but it was fulfilling, it was something to enjoy in a strange way. When it was finished it was something to treasure.
He concentrated on his hip; he could feel it breathing if he concentrated.
Ink done in the castle was very, very different to the ink done by men. Men’s ink was still and dead, the castle ink was far from dead, it breathed and moved under the skin. Adrian had had a green luna moth done when he was 28, he remembered the way it felt when it was being done, like tiny bites all along his skin. Then when the artist had breathed life into his drawing it had warmed, become so warm that it almost felt like burning. It had fluttered against his skin and struggled, as if trying to break free. But over time it had settled, its warmth had dulled although it was still warmer than he was.
He had asked for it on the shoulder but now 372 years later it mostly dwelt on his hip. It crawled, tiny feet biting into skin and bone, yet not painful. Now that he was conscious of it he could feel it twitching, it seemed it could feel his focus on it and it moved around to crouch on his left buttock, as if hiding from him.
Briefly he wondered what Maria would think of it. This living picture in his skin.
Perhaps one day he would show her, one day soon.