Last of the Moonlight

(Warnings: Gore, blood, mutilation, torture.]

Here in the forest, dark and deep

I give to you eternal sleep

November 6th, 1893

There was a cry, unleashed from the throat of maiden so fair as Mina plunged towards Quincey as the last of strength was uttered in this final farewell, she clutching to him fast as the light faded from his eyes. But she did not only mourn for Quincy, no; her tears were for My. Hawkins, Mr. Swale, the late Lord Goldalming, Mrs. Westenra, her beloved friend and nigh-sister, Lucy Westenra. She wept for what her husband had suffered through, the torment that had prematurely aged him when his countenance was still so undeniably young. Tears for those whom had died all because of this monstrosity that had tried to take England in unholy crusade. Brunette locks spilled over thin, sobbing shoulders as like the last of the curse that had evaporated from her very being. Abraham and Jack, withdrawing some to allow their very heart to mourn as she so heavily could, pain ushered into all their hearts as the last adrenaline of battle receded from their veins and was eschewed instead for a burdensome heaviness. That in their success, in their striven efforts, the darkness that held been held at bay finally came to surge throughout. Just as the snow ceased to abate its torrential drafts, neither did this grief that was apparent upon them all. Sordidly, and with great reverence, did Mina unfurl that fingers grasping the bowie knife that had been plunged into the heart of the Count. Abraham, rising heavily in his old age, collected the Winchester rifles and leave Mina to mourn, her husband holding her close while the wretchedness of her sobbing tore them all aghast internally. "Friend John, Arthur; our work is not yet finished. We've something yet to complete at the castle," the Dutchman murmured lowly, "though we cannot have either Madam Mina or Jonathan present. They will return to London with Quincey's body, and undertaker in Bran will carry out those final arrangements before their departure." Hooded suspicion at first marred Jack's countenance, but the doctor so moved by all that had transpired saw fit to only trust his mentor and dearest friend. For the elder was to he as Mr. Hawkins had been to Mina and Jonathan. Arthur, azure hues so misted and moved by the sight of his deceased friend, turned away and daubed his eyes with a handkerchief and trembling hands. With such heavy hearts did they inform both of the arrangements, Mina trembling and shaking in her sadness and despair as she weighed herself against Jonathan and watched as Jack and Arthur reverently moved Quincy's body to the litter of the remaining carriage, wrapping him in thick sheets and bequeathing a story to explain his death; a hunting accident. Or rather, in defense against the wolf did he die, and with that satisfaction did Abraham and they two friends remain as their drive became naught but a blackened pinprick to be consumed by the maw of winter.

Three horses did they mount, one of which had been Quincy's, and in a trio of unison did they spur these horses with urgency after the Dutchman who seemed so hellbent upon a task. A task that eluded both men and set a clench of fear to grip their throats and hearts. The castle that only Jonathan had been within, had suffered in torment and unholy incarceration. Through sleeting snow and trusted silence did they follow, hoof-beats soon to tread upon cobbled and ruined stone chafed by ice and snow, a tremulous shiver not to spare the spine of any of the three present. So they gazed upon the enormity of the firmament; soaring spires, ruined battlements, crumbling stoned that cascaded like trickling water unto the courtyard below: the Count's hold was waning. "This way," Abraham ordered shortly, a determination set upon his features that neither man had witnessed before. Jonathan's journal had been correct in many ways, but incorrect in orders. They wouldn't need to descend from the window of the Count's decoy room at all; no, for somewhere, hidden from sight— Abraham dismounted hastily and tapped along the ebony stone, grooves deepening until a particular recess caught his attention. A stone set apart from the rest was pressed upon, and as soon it released a shrill whinny of collective distress emanated from the horses, eyes rolling and half-rearing despite the calming placation of the men astride them still. There was a heave of stone and slight cascade of rubble as a stone entrapment fell through and revealed an ingress in which they might proceed, Abraham nodding sharply upon its revelation. "Tether the horses—we go!" he ordered brusquely, swift to light a torch ensconced upon the wall nearby, heedless as he continued undeterred despite the slowness of the other two. Into the tunnel did he descend, a roving portcullis that raised so that they might be allowed entry. Exchanging glances of concern, upon tethering the horses did both men dash after the descending torchlight as Van Helsing continued forth without the hesitance and seeming fear that gripped the hearts of both younger men.

"Why are we here?" Jack demanded at long last as they came to a fork that split in twain, Van Helsing's shoulders tensing as his vehement hold upon the torch became slightly lax, lowering so that the mystifying light waned some and the shadow resumed their hold upon craven stone. Winds howled through the three aperture, a seeming audience to the explanation of the elder of them soon to follow: "The being we saw turn to ash: that was not Dracula. At least, not in truth. I should have told you all, but…I know you would object to my was merely a clone. The real Dracula, the Son of the Devil stymied within his own weakness as his curse seeks to be broken—he is but nearby. Nearby he is, and nearby shall he be claimed and bound to my line. And so shall he serve as weapon against evil in reparation for all he has done." There was shock to truly register upon the countenances upon both men, and if they hadn't been pale and haggard from months of this battle, then they were now. Pale as death, whiter than sheets, with all the frost upon the ground to be frozen with their expressions. Their jaws seemed to clamp shut in unison, knowing that there was no turning back, and neither could think to abandon the Professor when the truest means of victory was entirely to be attributed to the aging man. Seeing no possibility of convincing the Dutchman to turn back, with eerily resonant footfalls did they press forwards in wan pursuit of the illumination that would be their only guiding light from this wretched place.

There was a gasp of stale air that buffeted the olfactory sensitivities of each man, Arthur blinking and screwing his features some while Jack, more acclimated to such foul odors, merely wrinkled his nose slightly. Abraham was the only one fully unafflicted, seeming as though he'd been here before. And it was obvious that he had been. For in the time he'd spent slaying the Brides, there in another Holy Circle lay the true Count, raven strands cascading in beatific splay. While Van Helsing moved to ensconce the torch in a bare holder, Arthur and Jack sidestepped along the periphery of the circle, features working in vexatious reasoning as comprehension was struggled to be grasped, observance and scrutiny unblinking. "This is it? This—it—he," Arthur struggled, conscience unwilling to place even gender to such to a being he could deign only as a monster, "…Beautiful." The conclusion was lame as he crouched before the splayed Dracul in the circle, thin frame weakly curled into himself and chest heaving coarse and ragged with breath, flank of cheek ground against the dust as it rubbed in a fashion seeking air of one submerged in water. The Nosferatu's physiognomy, so unearthly in its beauty, was obscured by midnight tresses that seemed inhumanly long. Jack couldn't help but see that Dracula's blackened talons weakly clutched at a stake embedded deeply within his chest, Jack crouching at the point with eyes transfixed and almost unbelieving. "You didn't kill him," came his observance, flat in accusation as he glared at the Dutchman who was rifling noisily through his medical vassalage, doing so with oblivious attention directed upon the others. "Did I not tell you my intent, friend Jack? He cannot die. Even should I go through that which would be ascribed, he would and cannot die. In light of that, this is the best that I may do. Now," came Van Helsing's frank and unrepentant rebuttal, the man's voice traveling as he handed off a long nail, thick and pointed sharply with signs of new carving, to both Jack and Arthur along with a large parchment of paper wrinkled from use and age, "we've work to do." In the times Jack had seen his mentor school himself and classmates in times past, would he be directed in such a fashion. But from his lapel did Van Helsing procure a Bible and begin a chant in officious intonation, in Latin and with a power unabated—removing from there an object of several shrouded in thin cloth.

"These are the Nails of Helena. The very nails that nailed Christ to the cross, and with these nails shall we do God's work. Are you prepared, Dracula, firstborn of the Devil and first of the Dracul, truest and only son of Lucifer, for this which shall cleanse you and place you within man's control?" Van Helsing announced aloud, vaulted ceilings projecting his voice mightily while the immortal seemed wrenched from unconsciousness, hissing viciously at he who tamed him. A blithe smirk placed upon craggy features, then did Van Helsing remove attention from the Bible and unto both men, a nod in which implored them to investigate the parchments, a flagon of holy Water extracted and to pour upon the Nosferatu who writhed in agony and weakened beyond what was already possible. Arthur unfurled his first, pale brow furrowed in befuddlement as his mind so stricken grasped to make sense of the parchment, waiting for Helsing to elucidate its contents. An ornate seal that bespoke of the Occult elicited a shudder of revulsion from the God-fearing man, crossing himself with trembling precision as the sheaf fluttered haplessly, earning a reproving glance from Van Helsing. "That is the instrument of our salvation, friend Arthur. You will take the nails of Helena," He pinched a thimbleful of black dust between forefinger and thumb, sprinkling it and allowing it to descend upon the prostrate Count, a feral hiss and grotesque moan of pain to emanate, "and carve into his chest, back, backs of his hands, and fores of his feet the Cromwell Seals inscribed there. He's perfectly harmless now. This beast will be tamed, and even when his true prowess released it will be controlled." As though in installation of confidence, Van Helsing cruelly jutted the toe of his boot against Dracula's side. There was a weak hiss, but nothing more. It were as though Dracula were reduced to an infantile state. And to think what they'd faced was a bare expression of his truest power…

"If I pierce him, will water drain?" Jack Seward commented wryly, finally motioning to crouch and alluding to how a spear goring Christ himself had beget water and not blood, clearly questioning the placement of these Seals. The urge to cross himself again was mounting, and when flaring titian of the Count's eyes fixated upon him, he did. There was the avarice of faint chuckling before a violent spasm of coughing ensued from Dracula, Van Helsing apparently having enough. Visage brutally stern, the Dutchmen cruelly wrenched a hand of Dracula's and placed upon its cusp a blessed Host, foot pressuring the wrist while Dracula groaned, a mournful, almost sensual sound that might excite men of that inclination. As though tramping through slob, Van Helsing blatantly placed heavy weight upon the Nosferatu's chest as he stepped across to the other hand, repeating the motion. Arthur and Jack seemed inwardly bolstered with confidence, Van Helsing carrying on oblivious to their silent awe. Again, with the hamstrings of the feet, till Dracula lay before them as though affixed to a crucifix of his own. Dracula labored in breath, a voice finally finding hold beneath the weight of weakness and holiness. "You seek to make tame a Dragon? Oh, you will rue such a thought!" he admonished in modulation abrasive and confident, though it was soon stifled upon sighting the Nails of Helena, tremulous shivers wracking his form. "Where did you get those?!" breathed terse horror, back arching as the Count's speech clipped with an uncharacteristic whimper. Abraham lessened his severity, one of four nails within his grasp as he held it before Dracula, then smirking blithely and triumphantly. No explanation was afforded to the creature all present so surely hated. Only one had contrived enough mercy to spare him thus.

By some medium of courage delivered like divine providence upon Arthur and Jack, Dracula knew now that no one would save him; not his Brides—known as his Childes—who were so like daughters, nor the Szgany that he thought would serve him so faithfully and relentlessly. His Childes… Pain of their passage manifested as the Tears of Judas, wept silently and disregarded. Ivory lids closed, and his fangs bore in silent torment that would never compare to the work of these holy relics. Through the blur of blood that sluiced and cut haphazard trails down his cheeks, there was a dull and unperceived instruction granted in low tones to both men, the spirit of sadism truly incumbent upon them now for all the suffering Dracula had caused. For before coming to England, scores of thousands within and without Romania had died by the Count's infernal hand. In England he'd only claimed the lives of Lucy and few others, the intent being to destroy the morale of the Band of Heroes. And how he'd failed! They'd only returned with a tenacity sparked by ire, and how wrong he'd been. And now, unable to be destroyed by them, this was their only option. To tame him. "The Bird of Hermes is now your name, consuming your wings to make yourself tame," came the initiatory chant on part of Van Helsing, nodding sharply as an inhumane resolve steeled the hearts of both men who no longer saw fit to confer any iota of mercy upon the monster they so abhorred. And so, at the chest did Arthur begin, he so like Abraham's son, piercing flesh as the Seal was wrought upon his skin. A broken scream issued from Dracula's throat as it seared his skin and drew forth heavy rivulets of blood that began to pool into broadening meres. Jack, with acuity and surgical precision, worked upon the hand opposite Arthur, grateful that the nail bestowed upon him was truly sharp enough to incise such markings. While they worked, Abraham circled the Holy Circle, gaze intent upon the Bible he recited from, surely one used in exorcisms. At this point, Dracula was far too blinded by mortal pain to even conceive what was being spoken.

Hours passed before the first two Seals were wrought, Abraham gazing upon them impassively before taking a large decanter of holy water and pouring it upon Dracula's body, cleansing it of dirt and viscous blood but eliciting a blood-curdling scream that would haunt them. Dracula convulsed violently, body rippling as pain controlled him and blinded all senses entirely. Though it seemed to truly fuse the Seals, they dissipating great moats of steam that fumigated hotly before evaporating away completely. In their wake, no scars were remnant; merely black and immiscible Seals that seemed as though they were tattooed upon his skin. Abraham, wishing to hasten the process, resumed chanting as Jack took a foot, Abraham sharing his flank, Arthur upon the other hand. The chanting seemed to only grow more fervent, Abraham's stormy hues whisking between the rumpled and soiled pages to his work upon Dracula's left foot. Again, for further hours did they work, now truly into the depths of night as blood marred their clothing and Dracula became utterly silent, pain numbing his mind and senses blurring reality into some sick, utterly weakened indistinct rendition of such. An oblivion addled by pain, and the solemnity of the Heroes' silence aside from Van Helsing's chanting. For all the ages of the world could pass, and the Count would have absolutely no recollection of such. And yet, when the virulent inscribing upon him ceased, did again the holy water pour to make permanent their indelible marks. As the younger men had each carved two, it seemed as though equivocal succession was necessitated, Abraham deigned to carve the final upon the Nosferatu's back. Carefully did Arthur and Jack turn the immortal, a dousing of holy water, again, to cleanse it of sediments and accumulated bloodstains. Upon a canvas being ripe for painting, did the chanting continue with more fervency and the carving with fresh zeal it seemed.

November 7th, 1893

It was done. After hours of sweat and turmoil, they sensing that the dawn was upon them, though there was a grim note of victory that hung with a heavy linger upon the air. Dracula was once again saturated with holy water, the tears seeping blindly as the final seal was rendered for eternity upon his back. With words exchanged between them, soft and unintelligible to the Count, so too did the younger two hoist Dracula upon their shoulders with finality, head hung limp with raven cascades to trail upon cobbled tread. So bold were they now to have tamed the monster of their absolution, of the destruction of so many dear to them. For it was for vengeance of Lucy did they do this, and their hearts were rendered cold as the wintery drafts wafting from the world outside. Even Dracula could scent the dawn, a terrible despair hanging upon him as the sun so should the horizon. An arm wound upon each man's shoulder, with a murmur of, "It is done," with heaving finality as he led them forth with meager torchlight that would soon be rendered unnecessary soon enough. And so it was, and so should it be. From the crypt of a chapel they arose, the catacombs sealed by Abraham upon them leaving with the welcoming relief of sunlight's cresting rays to greet them amid the voluminous obfuscation of winter clouds colored so lightly. It was hope, and ushered a smile weighted by struggles conquered upon each other visages. Yes, it was done, wasn't it? They continued forth through the courtyard and into slight plain expansive before the castle as Van Helsing closed the castle gates and freely loosened its portcullis to forever guarantee such. So was his hope that the castle would one day be destroyed and all traces of Dracula's enmity against God and man forever lost in the annals of history and condemned to be forgotten. For it was by holy victory and divine providence that he was resolute for history to remember this time as.

"Lay him there," Abraham ordered brusquely, nodding curtly to withered grasses barely withstanding the press of inexorable winter. "Friend John, Arthur, rid into the village and bring us a suitable carriage for travel. Covered, if you please. You should have my coin purse which should cover it and more. Provisions as well; I don't intend to remain here for long." There was a bated, exhaustive pause as Jack gazed reluctantly between his mentor and the vampire lain so limply within no snow, far too weakened to retaliate or liberate himself, struggling ti seemed to even remain conscious. "And leave you alone with…that?" came such supplication, brow knit anxiously at their crux. Abraham merely nodded, and Arthur patted Seward's shoulder, lips thinning pensively but conferring silently that they best do as was commanded of them. So they did, the trilling whiny of their horses sounding that soon faded in the distance along with the staccato of hoof beats that so churned the snow. Abraham waited until the bliss of silence was assured, dull burgundy hues of the Count merely waiting for the reception of pain further, unfailing in his correct assumption. There was a violent cough of blood that spattered upon himself and the hand that had so impaled the stake into his chest by brute strength alone, worming through the chest cavity as it had before in the means that had utterly subdued him. Van Helsing withdrew to gaze upon Dracula impassively, their eyes matching. "Have I been bested…Ser?" came the trickle of luxuriantly Romanian accented English from Dracula's lips, oblivion staring at he and he into it, seeing only the man he would soon deign as Master.

"Yes, you are bested. This will not be a nightmare you will be awaking from. Your castles plundered, your dominions in ruin; your servants destroyed. And the girl has fled this place forevermore! She will never be yours, Count!" Mina, he spoke of Mina. The woman Dracula had tried to convert; she, their heart and pillar of strength, the morale that had led this far that he'd hoped would destroy them upon her turning. For there was no love, no romantic sentiment here. Merely a tactic that had meant to be their downfall that had only beget his own. The stake was driven through with harsher application, enough so that Dracula was sent hurdling a ways away by its very force. Yet, he was caught by the throat of his collar, wrenched violently by the Dutchman who so threw profanities into the fore. "You are charged and found wanted, Vampire King. You have nothing!" came the vitriol of sonorous hiss, Dracula's own mouth slightly agape and absolutely weak before this man.

"You are nothing!"

There was a toneless growl issued from the Count's throat, but nothing more in response.

"Nothing!"

What music they make, Children of the Night!

Listen, and they will tell you how

The Blood is the Life!

Last Thoughts: As some of you might not know, this drabble comes from my Alucard roleplay account on tumblr, which goes under the URL calisvol. I wrote it as a reflection as to how I view the binding after the last battle might have gone, and as a result came up with headcanons and whatnot that do predate this publishing, but I thought it might be fun to include here.~

~Peace, G.