DracDeath, palm kiss uwu
Types of kisses | A kisses B's palm
It's nigh-impossible for any to truly grasp what the Dark Lord desires beyond humanity's destruction. Many try, innumerable fail; all but three in existance have miserably botched their predictions of the Castle's master. Even the famed Alucard cannot comprehend his vile Father's twisted yearnings. Death prides himself on this seemingly simplistic fact. For his own selfish, mortal-like reasons...
None can deviate the Master's attention away from Death, if they don't know how to retain it. A fact that rings true in this moment; tis only them in the Throne room afterall. The Dark Lord's patience runs thin today, otherwise he'd have tolerated and hosted the vampiric council for several more hours. Everyone and everything were ordered to leave the agitated Lord, post haste. Naturally the gathered crowd took their leave, but some amongst them dared to glimpse at Death. The envy was obvious; what did they have to do to earn even a slither of the Master's attention? Why does the Dark Lord's words of dismissal not apply to Death?
An easily answered question; because Dracula is HIS.
Death continues to ride the high of mortal pride when Dracula, still seated upon his throne, places his hand tentatively over Death's forearm. Lord and Master he may be, but when only they stand, Dracula is no lord, no master. He is but a man whose humanity has long since been abandoned.
"...Grant me strength, beloved Death." The God's head turns. He peers downwards at Dracula, gaze locked onto his Master's tired expression. "It is tedious work, these audiences with the nobility... Mortal or immortal, they remain insufferable." Death has no reason to argue against Dracula's words, for they ring true, but even the Prince of Darkness cannot achieve his goals alone. He turns towards Dracula, to face his master properly. He savours the cold weight of the hand that weakly clings onto the reaper's inhuman arm; a purposeful anchor Dracula uses to keep himself in the moment.
"Yet you handle them masterfully and with grace, My Lord." He leans partially over the thrones' arm, unheld arm outstretching until exposed fingerbones cup the far-side of Dracula's face. Dracula leans into the touch, crimson eyes closing briefly in this moment of respite. The tension in broad shoulders seems to melt away at the touch, signs of his building frustration evaporating swiftly. Only Death could bring him such wonderous peace amongst the chaos. "You were only resurrected a few hours ago. I shall ensure all goes according to plan, whilst you rest."
That's not a suggestion. Dracula knows its not. Perhaps if he were anyone else, he'd argue, but he's not. Rather than experiencing contempt, relief floods through undead veins. He turns his head, briefly facing away from Death. Cold lips softly touch the smooth ivory of Death's palm, a simple kiss but one that screams of true, distinctive devotion. Death draws closer to his exhausted devotee, wordlessly drawing Dracula closer to his disembodied person.
"I will do anything for you my love. My God... My dearest God, absolve me this night. Please." Mathias utters his prayer into Death's palm, pouring his foul heart into each whispered word. If Death had lips, they'd bear the loveliest of smiles; he and he alone may see the man that Dracula had once been. "Of course I shall, dear Mathias. Always. Forever."
When God did not answer, Death did. Death has always answered. He shall continue to answer, for eternity. None will take Dracula from him, nor him from Dracula.