Beside him, Alucard raised his sword. The last son of Dracula and the last heir of Belmont stood shoulder to shoulder on a dying wharf, facing an eclipse made flesh.
Alucard sheathed his sword in one fluid motion and walked to the edge of the dock, standing beside Richter. For a long moment, they both stared into the black water.
"I was helping." Alucard gestured vaguely toward the east. "There are other horrors. The Forgemaster's disciples are digging up the graves of every battlefield from the Rhine to the Pyrenees. While you fight the queen, I fight the pawns. It is... undignified." Castlevania- Nocturne
Richter looked up. The clouds had parted, but not for the moon. For a single, enormous eye of crimson and shadow, peering down at the earth from a rent in the sky. Erzsebet’s face, miles wide, smiled with a thousand fangs.
"I stopped to watch the sun set," Alucard said. His voice was a low, musical baritone, stripped of irony for once. "I thought it might be the last one." Beside him, Alucard raised his sword
"You could have helped us in Machecoul," Richter said, the accusation flat, devoid of heat. He was too tired for anger.
The rain over the Boston wharf was a lie. For a long moment, they both stared into the black water
It felt real enough against Richter Belmont’s skin—cold, sharp, and smelling of brine and rotting wood. But so had the illusion of his mother, Julia, standing in the parlor of their burning home. So had the vision of the Abbot, praying to a God who had already closed His eyes. Richter had learned that his whip could cut through flesh, bone, and even the mist of a nightmare. But it could not cut through memory.