A GUTTING THING , LOSS ; A beast with many facets and forms , few of which Dante is privy to . The compulsion to reach out is there , an endless tingling at his fingertips , but he remains still , allows words to begin what comfort will continue soon enough . “ You did something nobody should’ve ever been forced t’ do . No matter what . It takes guts , Adrian . ”
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐎 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐎 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐒; 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐄'𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐄𝐒, 𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐒 𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐘. void. there is a hole in his chest where he’s certain a heart once beat, not so terribly long ago -- and now it is gone, torn from him the same way life’s essence had been torn from his father, and by HIS OWN HANDS, no less. he means well -- of course he means well, and of course alucard knows this. even so, any such wisp, any such semblance of sentiment eludes him, all in place of the icy, devastating well of his own sins, his own sadness. ( ‘ adrian ‘, dante calls him, as though they were still children / BUT ADRIAN DIED LONG AGO, AND ALUCARD WAS ALL THAT REMAINED OF HIS ASHES. ) ❛ guts, you say. tell me then, dante, why it is that i feel so -- hollow. ❜ a hand falls over his chest, over the place of his heart, as though to ascertain whether or not it still truly beats, or whether or not it still truly resides there. it isn’t long before those fingers curl into his palm, nails near-cutting into the skin, leaving perfect crescent-moons and almost drawing blood. ❛ they would call me a savior, you know. savior of the people, of all humanity. the courageous hero that cut down the harbinger of demise. but i feel nothing of the sort. in fact -- I FEEL NOTHING AT ALL. ❜
