This Endless Masquerade - Chapter one
Title: This Endless Masquerade
Author: alucardt
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Alucard/Richter
Warnings: Yaoi. Angst. Probably a little Alucard brutalization. Nothing worse than what's happened in Moonlight Breaking though. I still don't fully know what I'm doing with this fic, sooo. More to be added later. Probably.
Summary: The Castle of Chaos has found its newest master. A master who swore he would never fall to the level of his father. Once again Richter finds himself tasked with releasing Walachia from its cruel fate, but must he overcome Alucard to do so?
Notes: I'm sorry to say that I'm still taking a break from Moonlight for all of you that are following it. But here is a new fic to hopefully keep you all entertained while I try and struggle along and find motivation ._. This Endless Masquerade was inspired by Michiru Yamane's 'Wood Carving Partitia' and follows Richter all around Walachia. This chapter is also dedicated to cha1n because of all the Drac/Lisa and Random AluRi I promised her for Christmas and then didn't follow through with orz I hope this sortof makes up for it ;A;
IN CHAPTER NOTES: I have a bad habit of starting with reminiscent scenes. Please note that I never finished SotN OR CoD, so if I'm doing a wtf with the cutscenes and history, please forgive. Also, I'm hoping Xander and Rhin can live up to the name that Blackmoore made for himself, though they've got completely different personalities.
... If you've read this far, you have my thanks for taking the time out of your day to listen to me noterambling. Read on and please enjoy. Thanks once again for looking :'D
--
Chapter
Alexandru. Ihrin.
Always together as children, as adults. Always, they said. They grew up side by side and shared all things. Laughter and pain, happiness and sadness. Always together and never apart, though distance and time would spread and span between the two. Though Ihrin would leave the world in the cold, in the desolation. Ihrin would shriek out in fear as a black shadow fell across her. Ihrin would leave to be claimed. Claimed by a cruel and malicious hand.
Alexandru was left alone. To fend for himself in the cold and the snows. It was a terrible winter and so many died. So many more were lost to the demon that lurked in the castle. That ran amongst them like a wolf among sheep. Alexandru would have faced him. Again and again, every time the creature left its dark abode, Alexandru could have, should have been there with sword in hand.
Perhaps that way he would have joined his beloved.
But his anguish and his fear paralyzed him. Alone in the forest, alone in the snow. Ihrin’s corpse cold and still in his arms. His bitterness grew. His anger grew. His hatred washed over him. He disappeared from the ruins of what he had called home, the other refugees calling his name and searching for him night after night. They thought they could understand his pain, his grief at losing his dearly beloved. They too had lost those important to them. Family. Friends. Lovers. Children.
But Alexandru never emerged from the wood and Ihrin’s body could not be found. They were thought to be victims of the wolves. They were mourned. Life continued on, pieces were picked up and the demon in the Castle vanquished by a man named Belmont. Alexandru and Ihrin were remembered, their souls wished safe passage to the heavens, but bodily forgotten and recalled no more.
Those who remember that terrible day only shake their heads. The children that survived say that he still lives on. They saw him walking towards the castle’s ruins upon the hillside, he gazed back at them with cold, solemn eyes as they played and frolicked in the rubble and the snow. Alexandru and a shadow. A shadow of a wife, of a lover. A spirit of bitter intent born of sorrow and anger. They were so truthful in their words, unafraid of the scoldings and beatings such a cruel lie would earn them. Truly, they said. Alexandru and his shadow still lived.
They say that desolation leads a man to do strange things. Some may face the demons that they feared, three years too late. Some may give themselves to the sweet embrace of suicide. But not he. No. His purpose was to find a new way. To make the kin of that demon suffer. To lure the children of Vampires in with his elaborate plan. He would call on the dead. And the dead would aid him.
Ihrin would not go unavenged.
--
It was a night to shine, they had predicted. A night to end all nights with splendor lighting up the skies.
Three years after the fall of Castlevania and Walachia looked as though it had celebrated every day, cherished every moment of new found freedom. Tonight marked that fateful night where the dread Count had fallen, where Belmont and Reynard had emerged from the castle weary, but victorious. No longer would Dracula and his creatures roam the countryside destroying lives as they pleased. The world had avoided slipping into his cruel hands once again... and those who still remembered the horrors could hold this night close. Cherish it. Tonight would be a night of quiet celebration, a night to be thankful for all that they had.
There had been a rumor amongst the folk though. That amongst those heroes, there had been a third; a man who was truly the one to thank for the events that had come to pass. A man who had freed Belmont from the web of discord that Dracula had wound around him. A man who had melted into the night like a shadow, never to be seen nor heard from again. The estranged son of Dracula himself. A demon that would rise again, as cold and pure as moonlight.
He had heard these rumors, yet paid them no mind. Many of the folk did not, some being pig-headed enough to refuse to see Belmont in any other light, despite the seeds of chaos he had sown over those four years while Castlevania stood as a monolith, a memento to the further horrors that would come. Besides, there was no desire in his heart to be reveled in as a hero. He still walked in the land of living, though his was the path of solitude. So it had always been. When the castle had crumbled, he had smiled and shaken his head. He could not go with them. Dracula’s blood coursed through his veins. It was his curse, his burden, and he had to keep it from the world for the sake of mankind.
“This is the last time you will ever see me. Here we part ways.”
Farewell, Maria. Farewell, Richter. He had returned to his crypt to lose himself in eternal slumber and they, no doubt, had moved on with their lives.
Yet lately he had found himself leaving the comfort of the crypt he called his resting place, emerging in the early evenings to stand amongst the cold gray crosses and elaborately carved stone angels in order to gaze up at the night sky overhead. His steps muted amongst the unkempt grass, he had strolled the graveyard like a wraith, his mind troubled and his soul uneasy.
Something was stirring. A faint memory, a faint whisper of a former life. A life he had left behind long, long ago. Orbs of the richest amber turned towards the cloak of stars above, thoughtful and wondering as a breeze stirred the edges of his mantle, lifted the silvery strands of hair that partially obscured his face. It perplexed him. Why would he wake now, in this age of peace, in a time where there was no need, no fear? Why would he wake to remember a memory of long ago, a time where there was always a smile upon his face, where he was young and fresh, barely a child in a moonlit world, walking in a bright, beflowered garden hand in hand with... with...
He shook his head, lifting a hand to flick stray strands of hair from his eyes. That was all so long ago. He often dreamed of those happier times while he slept, but never had he thought upon them in the waking world. He did not dwell on such things. He knew he would never have them again.
So why now? What drew this longing in his heart? Why did he wish to return to a home that would never again be?
His mind would never be at ease if he did not know. He could not return to sleep until this pitiful desire had been laid to rest. His gaze turned towards the distant horizon, towards the empty remains of Cordova town and beyond that, the crumbling ruin of the castle upon the far off hillside. His memories were in the past, behind him. He held no regrets in his heart for what had come to pass those many hundred years ago and had no qualms reliving such things over again, painful as they may have been.
A sorrowful half-smile quirked the corner of his mouth. So be it. Tonight he would walk with his memories while mankind reveled and sang at their freedom. Only a hero would remember what it had cost to free the world this night. His thoughts were with the dark haired hunter and his bright eyed friend.
Spreading his arms wide, he lifted his face to the crescent moon above, a nonexistent breeze lifting his cloak, twisting it about his body as he rose in the form of an enormous black bat, heavy wings beating as he flew towards the ruins of a city long dead, his mind answering the soft, bitter call to walk once again in memories of long ago.
--
His footsteps fell loud upon empty streets, the crumbling ruin of a former city cold and unwelcoming, sagged beneath a burden of sorrow it could never truly forget, the buildings bent with age, labor undone with time. He roamed the silent streets, eyes closed in memories of his youth, recalling how alive this town had once been- this street here! He had walked by it many times and back then it had been filled with the stalls of merchants and dealers hawking their wares, fruit and vegetables, meat and fish... the air had been loud with voices and exclamations, bartering and the making of deals, outright fury at the many urchin thieves that ducked and weaved and survived on their cunning. Children had bumped into him on their way to some playful destination or another, gazes of the curious had followed him as he held a warm, delicate hand and looked coolly back, taking in every sight, every sound.
Back then the city had pulsed with life, and he had walked through it and relished all that he had felt. He was never alone in these travels through Cordova town. He had been smaller back then, but almost as silent, almost as stoic, he mused. But then again, he had been tasked with such a serious matter and with sword at side, he carried out that duty so faithfully, his hand holding tightly to... Abruptly he stopped and opened his eyes. A soft, mournful wind lifted his cloak and stirred the silvery locks of his hair as it howled through the shells of the empty, abandoned buildings surrounding the town square.
And here, he thought bitterly to himself. Here was where happiness became no more.
He had set foot in this square twice to raise his voice. He had been cut down but once. And impaled upon his own sword, impaled upon the swords of fearful and desperate townsfolk, he had watched with wide, horrified eyes as his mother was led calmly to a brushwood pyre, as she was bound and all but crucified to the harshly hewn wood. All around him people were screaming, spitting at her, cursing her, cursing him. Witch, they had said. Spawn of Satan. Destroy her, condemn her.
And even as he fought and screamed and found himself pinned to the earth, she had looked back at him and smiled with tears in her eyes.
“Do not hate them for what they have done to me. They fear what they do not understand... ”
Even now, the smell of smoke lingered in his nose, he could still feel the heat of the mighty blaze upon his skin. He had bled and wept his lifeblood in desperate struggle to join her, to free her, to save her. Sobbing and choking, he found himself unable to look away, unable to close his mind to her screams as her flesh burned, as his own howls of grief tore his throat raw, nails breaking upon the cobblestones and fingers bloodying as he sought to claw his way to her side, broken body tearing as he thrashed and strained against the swords that trapped him until she screamed no more and he, to his shame and sorrow, reached the limits of his endurance and lost consciousness.
He bowed his head, bitterness and anguish so clear upon his features. It made his heart ache to recall it, to stand in this place once more where so many had lost their lives. He had walked in a haze after that terrible day, lost in a fog of painful reality and numbing disbelief. Like a sleepwalker in a dark dream he had lifted his hand once more, and by his father’s command, Cordova’s residents became no more. He could still see the faces of the men who had grown alongside him in those faraway, carefree days, their features twisted with rage, their movements driven by sorrow and anguish, destroying those who had overseen the death of the mother they had all loved so dearly. He had stumbled, choked by the agony. And not long after, he had relinquished himself to the sweet embrace of sleep.
Three hundred years had passed since, and Cordova was still branded as a horrible and unholy place. Some poor soul had tried to rebuild somewhere in that time, but... looking around, their efforts were clearly in vain. Grass and weeds peered and shoved the cobblestones that lined the streets, creeping vines twisting and twirling amidst once sturdy buildings. Gardens gone to seed had grown wild where backyards had once bloomed. Was Cordova to remain like this forever? A crumbling ghost town filled with the sorrowed souls of those who paid dearly for their folly? A testament to grief and anguish, that would forever bear the mark of the cursed, the unforgiven and bitterly hated?
Without realizing it, he had begun walking again, his eyes set upon the misty silhouette in the distance. To the dark, imposing ruin of Castlevania on the hillside. The battleground where he had rescued Belmont and fought alongside Maria only three years ago. And long before that, the castle he had once called home.
His life. His Curse. His purpose. The moment he took Belmont’s hand in friendship was the moment he knew that his memories and his home would be but bittersweet kisses upon the brow of his mind. He would never have them again. Yet here he was, clutching at straws on the eve of Dracula’s defeat. Nostalgia. Three hundred years too late, he was longing to remember those that he had left behind.
He traversed the winding path, slipping from ruin into forest, the remnants of Castlevania’s shell looming over him. But as he turned his gaze towards the yawning maw of the spiked iron arch, he found his footsteps faltering and failing him. The drawbridge had fallen and the path lay open, but such was not what had halted him in his tracks. A figure awaited, green eyes shining in the moonlight like bright emeralds, silvery-blonde hair so like his own cascading over her shoulders. Even as he stared in disbelief her gaze met his own and her lips curled into a smile. A smile he remembered so well, gentle and tender, a smile so beautiful it made his heart ache. Before him stood Lisa Tepes. His father’s wife. His own beloved mother.
“Adrian.” she called softly, lifting a hand. “Come to me, my son.”
The sense of memory had become so strong. That painful, horrible sense of wanting to spend even just one moment longer in those bygone days, though he knew that this had to be a lie, a dream. The dead did not come back, this castle held more sorrow for him than joy. But she stood there before him, as gentle and as beautiful as he remembered her, and that powerful longing became so strong that he felt he could not fight it. Silently, reverently, he approached her, lost in the spell of his own memories of home.
“Mother...”
She spread her arms and embraced him, her body warm, her touch reassuring. Just as he remembered her. His mother, Lisa Tepes. He relived the memories of his time in her arms. Nestled against the curve of her neck, his head upon her shoulder, he felt as though his heart would break. Soft lips feathered his brow, her gentle fingers carding through his hair as though he were but a child again. His hand slipped from the hilt of his sword to wind warmly around her, holding her close and dear.
It was in that instant that he felt a chill creep into his heart. A sharp spike of pain, lancing through his breast, the air around them becoming as bitter cold as winter despite the warm, spring night. His eyes grew wide as the enchantment faded, as the cold crept throughout his entire being, numbing him to the his very soul. Tears brimmed in those golden orbs, his lips parted, soft, choking gasps issuing from his throat. He knew. Knew that this had been a trick, knew that it had to have been a lie. But why...? Why could he not have helped himself, why had he thrust himself so desperately into it? He could have wished upon a star, wished to relive his memories of those long ago days, and the conclusion would still have brought him here.
Nostalgia.
A sliver of a dream from days long past. The terrible force that makes one remember those fond times now departed. Nostalgia. The form that held him close was still that of his mother, and even as he reveled in the sight of her, her familiar fragrance and feel, she drew away, taking his hand warmly into her own, just as she had so long ago...
“You’ve grown so much, Adrian.” she said, gracing him with her gentle smile, hand lifting to brush strands of hair from his face. “Come... walk with me... just like we used to...”
He felt he could do nothing but obey. The silver dart of ice had pierced his heart so deeply, pinning the spell of longing and memory to his soul. Always, he would yearn for this place. Always, for what could no longer be. As golden orbs began to cloud over, his lips curled into a smile, gazing upon the face of the parent he had so tragically lost and now found again. Never again would he leave his mother’s side. Always, he would stay here and care for her. Just as he had in the past.
Ah, Nostalgia.
Alexandru drew his cloak closer around his body, gnarled hand resting upon the perpetually snarling head of a stone gargoyle, his gaze following the silver haired dhampire far below. Thin lips cracked into a grim smile as Lisa led her son away, into the depths of the castle itself, into a place where none but memory could follow.
Reminiscence was a powerful thing indeed. The perfect tool for his revenge.
Author: alucardt
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Alucard/Richter
Warnings: Yaoi. Angst. Probably a little Alucard brutalization. Nothing worse than what's happened in Moonlight Breaking though. I still don't fully know what I'm doing with this fic, sooo. More to be added later. Probably.
Summary: The Castle of Chaos has found its newest master. A master who swore he would never fall to the level of his father. Once again Richter finds himself tasked with releasing Walachia from its cruel fate, but must he overcome Alucard to do so?
Notes: I'm sorry to say that I'm still taking a break from Moonlight for all of you that are following it. But here is a new fic to hopefully keep you all entertained while I try and struggle along and find motivation ._. This Endless Masquerade was inspired by Michiru Yamane's 'Wood Carving Partitia' and follows Richter all around Walachia. This chapter is also dedicated to cha1n because of all the Drac/Lisa and Random AluRi I promised her for Christmas and then didn't follow through with orz I hope this sortof makes up for it ;A;
IN CHAPTER NOTES: I have a bad habit of starting with reminiscent scenes. Please note that I never finished SotN OR CoD, so if I'm doing a wtf with the cutscenes and history, please forgive. Also, I'm hoping Xander and Rhin can live up to the name that Blackmoore made for himself, though they've got completely different personalities.
... If you've read this far, you have my thanks for taking the time out of your day to listen to me noterambling. Read on and please enjoy. Thanks once again for looking :'D
--
Chapter
Alexandru. Ihrin.
Always together as children, as adults. Always, they said. They grew up side by side and shared all things. Laughter and pain, happiness and sadness. Always together and never apart, though distance and time would spread and span between the two. Though Ihrin would leave the world in the cold, in the desolation. Ihrin would shriek out in fear as a black shadow fell across her. Ihrin would leave to be claimed. Claimed by a cruel and malicious hand.
Alexandru was left alone. To fend for himself in the cold and the snows. It was a terrible winter and so many died. So many more were lost to the demon that lurked in the castle. That ran amongst them like a wolf among sheep. Alexandru would have faced him. Again and again, every time the creature left its dark abode, Alexandru could have, should have been there with sword in hand.
Perhaps that way he would have joined his beloved.
But his anguish and his fear paralyzed him. Alone in the forest, alone in the snow. Ihrin’s corpse cold and still in his arms. His bitterness grew. His anger grew. His hatred washed over him. He disappeared from the ruins of what he had called home, the other refugees calling his name and searching for him night after night. They thought they could understand his pain, his grief at losing his dearly beloved. They too had lost those important to them. Family. Friends. Lovers. Children.
But Alexandru never emerged from the wood and Ihrin’s body could not be found. They were thought to be victims of the wolves. They were mourned. Life continued on, pieces were picked up and the demon in the Castle vanquished by a man named Belmont. Alexandru and Ihrin were remembered, their souls wished safe passage to the heavens, but bodily forgotten and recalled no more.
Those who remember that terrible day only shake their heads. The children that survived say that he still lives on. They saw him walking towards the castle’s ruins upon the hillside, he gazed back at them with cold, solemn eyes as they played and frolicked in the rubble and the snow. Alexandru and a shadow. A shadow of a wife, of a lover. A spirit of bitter intent born of sorrow and anger. They were so truthful in their words, unafraid of the scoldings and beatings such a cruel lie would earn them. Truly, they said. Alexandru and his shadow still lived.
They say that desolation leads a man to do strange things. Some may face the demons that they feared, three years too late. Some may give themselves to the sweet embrace of suicide. But not he. No. His purpose was to find a new way. To make the kin of that demon suffer. To lure the children of Vampires in with his elaborate plan. He would call on the dead. And the dead would aid him.
Ihrin would not go unavenged.
--
It was a night to shine, they had predicted. A night to end all nights with splendor lighting up the skies.
Three years after the fall of Castlevania and Walachia looked as though it had celebrated every day, cherished every moment of new found freedom. Tonight marked that fateful night where the dread Count had fallen, where Belmont and Reynard had emerged from the castle weary, but victorious. No longer would Dracula and his creatures roam the countryside destroying lives as they pleased. The world had avoided slipping into his cruel hands once again... and those who still remembered the horrors could hold this night close. Cherish it. Tonight would be a night of quiet celebration, a night to be thankful for all that they had.
There had been a rumor amongst the folk though. That amongst those heroes, there had been a third; a man who was truly the one to thank for the events that had come to pass. A man who had freed Belmont from the web of discord that Dracula had wound around him. A man who had melted into the night like a shadow, never to be seen nor heard from again. The estranged son of Dracula himself. A demon that would rise again, as cold and pure as moonlight.
He had heard these rumors, yet paid them no mind. Many of the folk did not, some being pig-headed enough to refuse to see Belmont in any other light, despite the seeds of chaos he had sown over those four years while Castlevania stood as a monolith, a memento to the further horrors that would come. Besides, there was no desire in his heart to be reveled in as a hero. He still walked in the land of living, though his was the path of solitude. So it had always been. When the castle had crumbled, he had smiled and shaken his head. He could not go with them. Dracula’s blood coursed through his veins. It was his curse, his burden, and he had to keep it from the world for the sake of mankind.
“This is the last time you will ever see me. Here we part ways.”
Farewell, Maria. Farewell, Richter. He had returned to his crypt to lose himself in eternal slumber and they, no doubt, had moved on with their lives.
Yet lately he had found himself leaving the comfort of the crypt he called his resting place, emerging in the early evenings to stand amongst the cold gray crosses and elaborately carved stone angels in order to gaze up at the night sky overhead. His steps muted amongst the unkempt grass, he had strolled the graveyard like a wraith, his mind troubled and his soul uneasy.
Something was stirring. A faint memory, a faint whisper of a former life. A life he had left behind long, long ago. Orbs of the richest amber turned towards the cloak of stars above, thoughtful and wondering as a breeze stirred the edges of his mantle, lifted the silvery strands of hair that partially obscured his face. It perplexed him. Why would he wake now, in this age of peace, in a time where there was no need, no fear? Why would he wake to remember a memory of long ago, a time where there was always a smile upon his face, where he was young and fresh, barely a child in a moonlit world, walking in a bright, beflowered garden hand in hand with... with...
He shook his head, lifting a hand to flick stray strands of hair from his eyes. That was all so long ago. He often dreamed of those happier times while he slept, but never had he thought upon them in the waking world. He did not dwell on such things. He knew he would never have them again.
So why now? What drew this longing in his heart? Why did he wish to return to a home that would never again be?
His mind would never be at ease if he did not know. He could not return to sleep until this pitiful desire had been laid to rest. His gaze turned towards the distant horizon, towards the empty remains of Cordova town and beyond that, the crumbling ruin of the castle upon the far off hillside. His memories were in the past, behind him. He held no regrets in his heart for what had come to pass those many hundred years ago and had no qualms reliving such things over again, painful as they may have been.
A sorrowful half-smile quirked the corner of his mouth. So be it. Tonight he would walk with his memories while mankind reveled and sang at their freedom. Only a hero would remember what it had cost to free the world this night. His thoughts were with the dark haired hunter and his bright eyed friend.
Spreading his arms wide, he lifted his face to the crescent moon above, a nonexistent breeze lifting his cloak, twisting it about his body as he rose in the form of an enormous black bat, heavy wings beating as he flew towards the ruins of a city long dead, his mind answering the soft, bitter call to walk once again in memories of long ago.
--
His footsteps fell loud upon empty streets, the crumbling ruin of a former city cold and unwelcoming, sagged beneath a burden of sorrow it could never truly forget, the buildings bent with age, labor undone with time. He roamed the silent streets, eyes closed in memories of his youth, recalling how alive this town had once been- this street here! He had walked by it many times and back then it had been filled with the stalls of merchants and dealers hawking their wares, fruit and vegetables, meat and fish... the air had been loud with voices and exclamations, bartering and the making of deals, outright fury at the many urchin thieves that ducked and weaved and survived on their cunning. Children had bumped into him on their way to some playful destination or another, gazes of the curious had followed him as he held a warm, delicate hand and looked coolly back, taking in every sight, every sound.
Back then the city had pulsed with life, and he had walked through it and relished all that he had felt. He was never alone in these travels through Cordova town. He had been smaller back then, but almost as silent, almost as stoic, he mused. But then again, he had been tasked with such a serious matter and with sword at side, he carried out that duty so faithfully, his hand holding tightly to... Abruptly he stopped and opened his eyes. A soft, mournful wind lifted his cloak and stirred the silvery locks of his hair as it howled through the shells of the empty, abandoned buildings surrounding the town square.
And here, he thought bitterly to himself. Here was where happiness became no more.
He had set foot in this square twice to raise his voice. He had been cut down but once. And impaled upon his own sword, impaled upon the swords of fearful and desperate townsfolk, he had watched with wide, horrified eyes as his mother was led calmly to a brushwood pyre, as she was bound and all but crucified to the harshly hewn wood. All around him people were screaming, spitting at her, cursing her, cursing him. Witch, they had said. Spawn of Satan. Destroy her, condemn her.
And even as he fought and screamed and found himself pinned to the earth, she had looked back at him and smiled with tears in her eyes.
“Do not hate them for what they have done to me. They fear what they do not understand... ”
Even now, the smell of smoke lingered in his nose, he could still feel the heat of the mighty blaze upon his skin. He had bled and wept his lifeblood in desperate struggle to join her, to free her, to save her. Sobbing and choking, he found himself unable to look away, unable to close his mind to her screams as her flesh burned, as his own howls of grief tore his throat raw, nails breaking upon the cobblestones and fingers bloodying as he sought to claw his way to her side, broken body tearing as he thrashed and strained against the swords that trapped him until she screamed no more and he, to his shame and sorrow, reached the limits of his endurance and lost consciousness.
He bowed his head, bitterness and anguish so clear upon his features. It made his heart ache to recall it, to stand in this place once more where so many had lost their lives. He had walked in a haze after that terrible day, lost in a fog of painful reality and numbing disbelief. Like a sleepwalker in a dark dream he had lifted his hand once more, and by his father’s command, Cordova’s residents became no more. He could still see the faces of the men who had grown alongside him in those faraway, carefree days, their features twisted with rage, their movements driven by sorrow and anguish, destroying those who had overseen the death of the mother they had all loved so dearly. He had stumbled, choked by the agony. And not long after, he had relinquished himself to the sweet embrace of sleep.
Three hundred years had passed since, and Cordova was still branded as a horrible and unholy place. Some poor soul had tried to rebuild somewhere in that time, but... looking around, their efforts were clearly in vain. Grass and weeds peered and shoved the cobblestones that lined the streets, creeping vines twisting and twirling amidst once sturdy buildings. Gardens gone to seed had grown wild where backyards had once bloomed. Was Cordova to remain like this forever? A crumbling ghost town filled with the sorrowed souls of those who paid dearly for their folly? A testament to grief and anguish, that would forever bear the mark of the cursed, the unforgiven and bitterly hated?
Without realizing it, he had begun walking again, his eyes set upon the misty silhouette in the distance. To the dark, imposing ruin of Castlevania on the hillside. The battleground where he had rescued Belmont and fought alongside Maria only three years ago. And long before that, the castle he had once called home.
His life. His Curse. His purpose. The moment he took Belmont’s hand in friendship was the moment he knew that his memories and his home would be but bittersweet kisses upon the brow of his mind. He would never have them again. Yet here he was, clutching at straws on the eve of Dracula’s defeat. Nostalgia. Three hundred years too late, he was longing to remember those that he had left behind.
He traversed the winding path, slipping from ruin into forest, the remnants of Castlevania’s shell looming over him. But as he turned his gaze towards the yawning maw of the spiked iron arch, he found his footsteps faltering and failing him. The drawbridge had fallen and the path lay open, but such was not what had halted him in his tracks. A figure awaited, green eyes shining in the moonlight like bright emeralds, silvery-blonde hair so like his own cascading over her shoulders. Even as he stared in disbelief her gaze met his own and her lips curled into a smile. A smile he remembered so well, gentle and tender, a smile so beautiful it made his heart ache. Before him stood Lisa Tepes. His father’s wife. His own beloved mother.
“Adrian.” she called softly, lifting a hand. “Come to me, my son.”
The sense of memory had become so strong. That painful, horrible sense of wanting to spend even just one moment longer in those bygone days, though he knew that this had to be a lie, a dream. The dead did not come back, this castle held more sorrow for him than joy. But she stood there before him, as gentle and as beautiful as he remembered her, and that powerful longing became so strong that he felt he could not fight it. Silently, reverently, he approached her, lost in the spell of his own memories of home.
“Mother...”
She spread her arms and embraced him, her body warm, her touch reassuring. Just as he remembered her. His mother, Lisa Tepes. He relived the memories of his time in her arms. Nestled against the curve of her neck, his head upon her shoulder, he felt as though his heart would break. Soft lips feathered his brow, her gentle fingers carding through his hair as though he were but a child again. His hand slipped from the hilt of his sword to wind warmly around her, holding her close and dear.
It was in that instant that he felt a chill creep into his heart. A sharp spike of pain, lancing through his breast, the air around them becoming as bitter cold as winter despite the warm, spring night. His eyes grew wide as the enchantment faded, as the cold crept throughout his entire being, numbing him to the his very soul. Tears brimmed in those golden orbs, his lips parted, soft, choking gasps issuing from his throat. He knew. Knew that this had been a trick, knew that it had to have been a lie. But why...? Why could he not have helped himself, why had he thrust himself so desperately into it? He could have wished upon a star, wished to relive his memories of those long ago days, and the conclusion would still have brought him here.
Nostalgia.
A sliver of a dream from days long past. The terrible force that makes one remember those fond times now departed. Nostalgia. The form that held him close was still that of his mother, and even as he reveled in the sight of her, her familiar fragrance and feel, she drew away, taking his hand warmly into her own, just as she had so long ago...
“You’ve grown so much, Adrian.” she said, gracing him with her gentle smile, hand lifting to brush strands of hair from his face. “Come... walk with me... just like we used to...”
He felt he could do nothing but obey. The silver dart of ice had pierced his heart so deeply, pinning the spell of longing and memory to his soul. Always, he would yearn for this place. Always, for what could no longer be. As golden orbs began to cloud over, his lips curled into a smile, gazing upon the face of the parent he had so tragically lost and now found again. Never again would he leave his mother’s side. Always, he would stay here and care for her. Just as he had in the past.
Ah, Nostalgia.
Alexandru drew his cloak closer around his body, gnarled hand resting upon the perpetually snarling head of a stone gargoyle, his gaze following the silver haired dhampire far below. Thin lips cracked into a grim smile as Lisa led her son away, into the depths of the castle itself, into a place where none but memory could follow.
Reminiscence was a powerful thing indeed. The perfect tool for his revenge.