Castellum Sanguis

Sunset had begun to fall over the charred carcass of the Manor Belmont, the greyed stone bathed in orange, the vestiges of sunlight painting the crumbled statues a blood red as it melted into the once beautiful greenery of the gardens was now unkept and overgrown, nature attempting to reclaim the rotted, blackened timber, and marble for itself.

Vermin and other animals scurried through the dense foliage, oblivious to all the world about them, with the sounds of crickets and hoots of owls the only noise to be heard.

The sudden crunch of parched grass under heavy boots was enough to startle the creatures away, scampering deeper into the undergrowth.

A young man tall in stature with shoulder length grimey flaxen hair, barely into his second decade emerged from the shadows of the surrounding foliage. Clad in an odd mixture of armour plates, leather and chainmail, a long sword hung loosely from his left hip. And on his right, a coiled chain whip, renowned as legendary among the people and clergy of the nation, known to most as the Morningstar. A burden heavier than even its wielder could ever know.

Simon Belmont ambled towards the ruined remnants of his forefather's home. He knew not how long he had been wandering. It had been perhaps three weeks since he had bested the evil Regina Sanguinis herself after she began her war anew upon her revival , destroying her castle, and watching it crumble before him, and with it, her dream of extinguishing mankind. He had travelled since then, walking wherever the winds took him. Time became an inconsequential blur to him, recalling only flashes of violence, of swinging his whip as though a man possessed, and breaking bones of cultists and creatures of the night alike.

Many did not know whether to call him heretic or hero, as fear of the young Belmont and word of his deeds spread amongst the leaderless hordes of the Queen of Blood, and the dark cult of humans who worshipped her, but in his heart of hearts , the blond warrior knew the truth, even if he would not let it pass his lips. He was lost. Everything in his world had been shattered by a horrifying revelation from the Mistress of the Castellum Sanguinis during their battle; that her blood flowed through his veins. He did not wish to believe it, thinking perhaps they were merely the dying words of an unholy abomination designed to sow doubt. But he could not shake the possibility that it could be true. After all, he knew next to nothing of his true family or of his bloodline.

He had asked of course, growing up, and his aunt Nora and Uncle Ren would always be happy to regale him with tales of his grandfather, and his exploits, speaking of him as though he were a dear friend.. But whenever he tried to bring up his grandmother or his birth parents, they would mysteriously change the topic, or distract him somehow. The desire to know the truth had always burned in him, but it had been one he had thought he had quelled, by focusing on the present and the here and now the malevolent vampire had dredged up more of the questions he had ignored for so long, and he had no way of ascertaining the truth. So he naturally, either by malignant fate, or purest chance, eventually arrived at the one place he felt might have it. The place his family once called home.

Simon stood at last under the pale light of the moon, in the centre of the ruined gardens of his ancestral home, staring blankly at the slanted marble memorial stone before him. He absently noticed a golden dragon, chiseled into its centre. Odd. it certainly wasn't the crest of his clan. And the design…Eastern. He made no mistake of it. His Uncle Ren would often tell him tales of his homeland and Simon had seen similar designs in his books, even if he never did learn to read the strange language within. The question was, why was it here? Perhaps an allied friend of his grandfather? Or perhaps even his parents?

He had grown used to the dirty stares at the crest on the back of his cloak from various townsfolk in the rare moments he left the wilderness for civilisation. He could care less about their feeble minded opinions. It was all he had of his family and, his name. A gift from his dear adopted aunt and uncle, and a memento of his grandfather. That... and his most treasured weapon. His hand unconsciously tightened around the hilt of his Morningstar whip, a silver chain glinting in the moonlight, his thumb absently tracing the angel winged crossguard. All he had, all that was left of his name, of his family…

Simon's strength left him then, his resolve finally evaporating as he fell to his knees. Tears began to fall down his face, staining the bone dry soil.

Was he to be damned along with his kin for all eternity for carrying the blood of a unholy demoness? Was his blood destined to walk alone, hunting the darkness for a thankless world, doing what no other could, reviled by man and monster alike? Rage boiled in the young man at the unfairness of it all. The cruelty of fate, and the sheer injustice that had been thrust upon him and on his predecessors.

THWACK!

Fist struck marble, as he lashed out suddenly in a fit of fury, and immediately regretted it. He fell back on his haunches, clutching his injured hand and swearing profusely, using language that his aunt would certainly attempt to wash his mouth out with soap for saying aloud, much less shouting.

As he was preoccupied, he couldn't be faulted for not noticing that his hand was bleeding. Or the very same blood trickling down the stone and staining the golden dragon, who's jade eyes were beginning to glow.

What Simon did notice, was the rumbling of the ground. He quickly rolled to his feet, one hand going to his whip, and the other for a bottle of holy water. If the night hordes wanted a fight now, Simon would be more than happy to oblige them. But he didn't sense any presences near him. Turning back to the stone cautiously, he was amazed to see the large stone slab sliding backwards, leaving large trenches in the soil. Looking towards the space the memorial left behind, he was confronted by a hollow chamber, and as he took a step towards its edge, two blue torches suddenly sprang into life, revealing the first steps of a staircase.

The wielder of the Morningstar did not know what possessed him to take that first step, but something within his soul told him that it was here, in this place, that he may finally receive his answers.

Gingerly, he descended, creeping forward, his senses slowly beginning to adjust to the meagre light thrown on the walls by the azure flames of the torches, the faint smell of sulfur…

Without warning, the memorial stone above him suddenly slid into place, and he heard the unmistakable click of a lock sealing him within. Cursing, he drew his whip from his waist and descended further into the darkness .

Dust flew upwards with every footstep, dancing in the firelight.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness and torchlight, more details of his surroundings became known to him. The spiralling staircase under his feet levelled out into a vast stone, circular chamber, and tattered white banners hung from the walls, barely illuminated by the torches below. Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of golden embroidery on them, but the shadows were far denser above, and Simon was well aware he would never make out precisely what adorned the banners from where he was. In any case, he had more important matters to attend to.

After what could only be an eternity, the young Belmont reached the bottom of the stairs. A large wooden beam lay in his immediate path, having fallen and being now trapped between the end of the staircase, the railings of the lacquered bannister. Hunching over, he was able to fit his large frame through the modest gap and on his knees, crawl forwards without disturbing the heavy support. He climbed to his feet, and continued on his way. But as he began to take stock of the room, torches on the walls all blazed suddenly into brilliant light startling him and forcing him to momentarily cover his eyes. When he again opened them, his mouth dropped in awe.

He was gawking at a family portrait, hanging above a substantially sized desk. Easily the size of a fully grown man, in an expensive looking golden frame. A man, a woman, and what could only be presumed to be their children. Regardless, the painting had clearly seen better days. The edges had begun to peel, and there were what looked to be scorch marks on the canvas, warping the forms of the subjects of the artwork somewhat, And as for the woman's face, the painting had a long jagged slash through that area, almost as if it had been struck in a fit of rage by a sword or other sharp implement. Unconsciously moving closer, he could establish some of the woman's features, at least those untouched by fire or lacerations . Fair skin, ashen-black hair, and a familiar diadem around what he could see of her neck. Though, try as he might, he couldn't place it. But it pulled Simon's attention no less.

And then his eyes moved to the man next to her. Two pairs of dark cerulean eyes, framed by dirty blonde hair met one another. One immortalised in oil and canvas, the other, of flesh and blood. Simon knew without a doubt, what little there was, that this was his own flesh and blood.

"Who were you?"

He whispered, sotto voce.

"His name was Jaune, Little One. And furthermore… I believe I have something for you?"

An accented voice resounded as if from nowhere, catching the young Belmont off guard. He whipped around rapidly, but saw no one.

"Show yourself, Scoundrel!"

He roared, having long since surpassed the point of peak frustration. He had no desire to be toyed with tonight.

"Peace, Sir Belmont. I am not here to fight."

An well dressed aristocratic gentleman , clad in a fine black suit, coattails and emerald vest, appeared in a flash of light before him sending the young man off his feet and falling on his hindquarters.

He scrambled to his feet, never once taking his eyes off the interloper, who looked…. amused?.

"I've been waiting for you, Simon. It's a pleasure to meet you at last."

The gentleman bowed, doffing his silk hat in greeting, seemingly ignorant to Simon's bewilderment and anger. To any other, a costly mistake. But the newcomer was nothing if not fearless.

"How do you know me? Who are you?!"

"I know far more than you realise, and even more so then I am able to speak of. And as for your second question.."

He took a moment to remove his hat, momentarily revealing short silver hair, absently brushing specks of stray dust from it vigorously.

"Let's see. Last century it was Ozpin. Three before that, was Ozma, and I think I went by Ozymandias for around 50 years at one point, because of a fool's bet I had with S-... But Ah! I do most sincerely apologise. You may call me Saint Germain."

"You aren't one for straight answers, are you? Do you simply enjoy irritating me? Or is there purpose to your inane prattle?"

Saint Germain laughed jovially.

"I can see why you might think that. But I truly am being as forthcoming as I can be. In any case, that isn't the entire reason I'm with you at present. I'm here at another's behest. Pausing, he took a more serious tone here. "Someone who loved you very much."

Another's behest? Loved me very much? Uncle Ren had been gone nearly a decade now, and Aunt Nora had certainly never mentioned someone who looked like this. Besides them, he didn't really have anyone else fitting that description. At least, that he knew.

Simon refused to allow hope to swell within him just yet. This Saint Germain would not be the first to claim he had some obscure knowledge about his lineage and be revealed to be a lying dog seeking his coin..But maybe this tim-.

"Well, this simply won't do!"

The Belmont suddenly snapped back to attention to see Saint Germain observing the room, and clicking under his breath. Broken timber, loose debris, collapsed bookshelves , splintered chairs and other wreckage were strewn around the area haphazardly. The only intact piece of furniture was the desk directly below the portrait behind the young warrior.

.

With a huff of aggravation, the eccentric man tapped the end of his cane to the stone floor.

"Domine tempus e converso!"

Simon was about to question what tripe the annoying older man was spouting now,

When disbelief struck him again.

Before his very eyes, rotten and gnarled wood began to morph into fresh lumber. Stone fissures along the floor pulled themselves together as if they had never been present, and he was forced to duck out of the way of several pieces of flying rubble as they flew to their various places of origin. The once destroyed remains of luxury tufted chairs arose, assembling themselves as if by a master craftsman, as did the various bookcases, tomes flying onto each shelf almost as soon as each layer could be repaired.

Just as suddenly , the man in the silk hat brought his cane to the ground again, and all was brought to a stop. A look of mirth crossed his face upon turning and seeing Simon's expression.

"Ah. much better. One always feels better after a spring clean, no?"

Simon was speechless. Shaking himself free of his awe, he again angrily rounded on his companion.

"What manner of sorcery was that?

"One can do anything if one has enough time, Sir Belmont. Now then. Before we become engrossed in bandying words with one another…."

With that, the gentleman pulled a chair and offered it to him.

He could only nod dumbly, bonelessly sliding into the proffered chair.

Germain sat opposite him, smoothing his coattails, deigning to wait until Simon recovered before continuing. After all, a man like him had all the time in the world.

Silence reigned for a few moments before the man in question eventually found his voice.

"You said you had something for me?"

"So I did! So I did! How forgetful of me! Where is it…? Here we are."

Reaching into the inner pockets of his vest, Germain produced what appeared to be a leather bound book and held it out to the man opposite him. As he carefully took it, from him, Simon noticed a sheet of paper protruding from it. Removing it gently, he read.

"To my beloved son. Walk in the path of the light with all of my love, and without fear... For you are never alone..."

Could this be left to him from parents? Or another parlour trick?

"That book contains the entirety of your grandfather's journal, as well as that of your mother's."

Germain paused, allowing the young man to process the implications of what it was he was being told.

"It was her wish that I bestow them upon you."

"Indeed?" Simon crumpled the note in his fist in frustration."And how precisely am I to know you aren't merely some charlatan? That these writings are not merely convincing forgeries?"

Germain smiled in amusement. He did not wish to appear rude, but the young blonde's skepticism reminded him of times long past, and of another, similar to him, yet different in many ways. The thought made him smirk nostalgically.

"And to what end would I seek to deceive? What would it possibly gain me?"

Simon paused at that. Whoever this stranger had volunteered this information, well before he himself had offered anything in exchange. If he was a cheat, he was a poor one. Though whether he could be trusted remained to be seen.

Sensing his silence as leave to continue, the affable gentleman did precisely that.

"But if you do indeed doubt, then perhaps this may assuage them."

Reaching into his pockets again, he held something out for his inspection. An antique silver pendant, inscribed with a crescent moon, with what appeared to be diamonds lining its diameter. A beautiful article of jewellery to be certain, but it was rather difficult to see how it validated his words.

Simon snorted derisively.

" And this proves your point? I should think you shall have to try harder to gain my confidence, stranger."

"Oh, I wasn't finished quite yet. Turn around and look at the painting, if you would."

"Why?"

Germain sighed. If ever he had a doubt that the man before him was descended from him, then they were indeed dispelled. The childish obstinance and stubborness could belong to no other.

"Humour me."

The younger man growled and muttered under his breath, doing as he asked.

" Now what?"

"Have you noticed the children's attire?"

He observed the young twins at their parents' side. A boy and a girl, both sharing his fair skin and blonde hair. Perhaps it was merely the painter taking artistic license, but their eyes seemed… crimson? Moving down, he finally found what Germain wanted him to see.

Snatching the pendant out of his hand, he held it up to the portrait. And so it was, that the silver in his hand, and the silver around the little girl's neck were one and the same. Not even he could deny that. Then would that mean that this girl was..?

"Your assumption is correct. She was indeed your mother. He placed a hand on his shoulder. "Her name was Selene."

Simon sunk back into his chair, the fight sapped out of him. Finally, he had a name. Selene. But the more he thought about it, the more question it raised. What was she like? Why did she give him up? And how was this related to the Regina?

The only man who could put his mind to rest sat before him, and the Belmont was finally ready to listen.

"Now then." Germain removed his hat, placing it in his lap. "Shall I continue?"