[If it wasn't this moment, with how Jaskier feels already, the outburst from his friend may have actually surprised him. Perhaps even frightened him, in small ways; not in fear of his own safety, but for where Alucard's mind has gone.
But here, he almost wants to indulge in it. He wants to destroy these bushes and revel in the fact he, for once, can let go of some obligation he took on himself because -- fuck, he's not even sure why he grew them in the first place. To practice his magic? It may have been a selfish desire from the very beginning. Now they are simply another eyesore in this desert, which is always so dead and hot and dry that some days he can barely stand being in it, the days where he spends the entirety in the bathhouses or his own tub at home, soaking in water and oils.
He listens as he dives his hands into the bushes, letting magic flow. It reaches out and chokes the remaining life out of the plants, the final green leaves curling in on themselves with a brown-black hue.]
Just because your father would have taken it too far doesn't mean the first idea was a terrible one. [He shakes his hands from the bush's branches, standing, stepping past them to look at the broken soil, the shifted sands. All the tombstones Alucard repaired, cracked once more.
Well. Not all of them. Only a few. But the dead, destroying what was placed to honor them. It's so... frustrating.]
I would pay to see a bunch of reanimated corpses rip Ellya limb from limb. Believe me. And if some part of me did not know that the dead from Libertas deserve better, I would ship their bodies myself.
[And it's once the words leave him he feels a little sick, and a little sweet, both at the same time.
His hand presses to a grave that looks undisturbed. I don't mean that. His tongue curls up on itself, throat tight. And where his palm rests, a plant begins to grow. Unfurling, bright green leaves; especially bright now that the blackberries have died.
And as he stands up, staring at the plant, taking a step back, this one too begins to grow black berries. But he knows them for what they are.
Nightshade.]
You should let them go. [He says quietly, curling his fingers in.] You're not your mother, and you're not your father.
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But here, he almost wants to indulge in it. He wants to destroy these bushes and revel in the fact he, for once, can let go of some obligation he took on himself because -- fuck, he's not even sure why he grew them in the first place. To practice his magic? It may have been a selfish desire from the very beginning. Now they are simply another eyesore in this desert, which is always so dead and hot and dry that some days he can barely stand being in it, the days where he spends the entirety in the bathhouses or his own tub at home, soaking in water and oils.
He listens as he dives his hands into the bushes, letting magic flow. It reaches out and chokes the remaining life out of the plants, the final green leaves curling in on themselves with a brown-black hue.]
Just because your father would have taken it too far doesn't mean the first idea was a terrible one. [He shakes his hands from the bush's branches, standing, stepping past them to look at the broken soil, the shifted sands. All the tombstones Alucard repaired, cracked once more.
Well. Not all of them. Only a few. But the dead, destroying what was placed to honor them. It's so... frustrating.]
I would pay to see a bunch of reanimated corpses rip Ellya limb from limb. Believe me. And if some part of me did not know that the dead from Libertas deserve better, I would ship their bodies myself.
[And it's once the words leave him he feels a little sick, and a little sweet, both at the same time.
His hand presses to a grave that looks undisturbed. I don't mean that. His tongue curls up on itself, throat tight. And where his palm rests, a plant begins to grow. Unfurling, bright green leaves; especially bright now that the blackberries have died.
And as he stands up, staring at the plant, taking a step back, this one too begins to grow black berries. But he knows them for what they are.
Nightshade.]
You should let them go. [He says quietly, curling his fingers in.] You're not your mother, and you're not your father.