The shadows dance. This is their domain. The sun dares not show its face in this place. Perpetual twilight caresses ancient stone, marble and wood.
The groan of old masonry and warping wood is absent, for this castle is alive. It was not wrought of mortal hands. It is a creature of Chaos, eternal and yet ever-shifting. It is as much a symbol, an idea, as a fortress.
In his throne room atop the castle keep, Dracula sits and broods. A storm rages outside, buffeting his walls with wind and rain. Malevolent thoughts and festering hatred permeate his very being, and only his will keeps them from manifesting in some raging spell. It is the year 1691.
Death is there, also.
He comes, says he.
Dracula says nothing. The shadows skitter away from his burning gaze, not daring to meet it.
He rides from valley to valley, they say. I hear them ramble as I come to collect their old and sick. No beast is there or creature of the night that may best him.
Dracula makes a feral sound, somewhere between a snarl and a snort.
"That claim thou put to test as I have asked thee? Hast thou brought forth the fighting dead to mangle and crush him, to oppose him at his every step?"
Soldiers dead a hundred fifty years marched from their graves, many miles, to find him in Bresov. None could best him.
"Feh! Italians. Worthless fighters, in their scores and in their legions. Hardly a surprise that death improves their skill little." His frustration makes him sound almost human. But if one listens closely, one can hear, or rather, feel, the rumbling malice that backs his every word. A demon in man's guise, speaking a man's words. "I know full well he comes! I could smell his accursed blood on the wind the moment he stepped on Transylvanian soil!"
Death might be grinning, but there's no way to tell.
Simon, he is called. Simon of the Belmonts. He cuts a swathe through your legions with his whip and his crosses and blessed water. He was well prepared for his destiny by those that came before him.
Dracula bares his fangs in a triumphant snarl, wide eyed. "THEN LET HIM COME!" His roars echo through the keep. "I WILL TEAR HIM TO SHREDS WITH MY BARE HANDS, I WILL MAKE FIRE IN HIS BONES AND DANCE ON HIS REMAINS!" He is on his feet now, his eyes alight with an infernal glow. He strikes out with his fist for emphasis, and finds marble, which crumbles.
He will kill you, says Death.
Dracula turns to face Death. He is wary now, despite his fury, for Death is not like his other servants. He will not defy him needlessly. And Dracula has learned that when Death speaks, wise men listen.
"He is but a man, for all his vaunted heritage. A miserable little pile of secrets! Flesh and blood and bone tied together with fears and doubts. He will not best me." No more roaring, rather, a threatening growl that would run chills down the spine of any man. Such theatrics are wasted on Death, though.
He will kill you, he repeats.
Dracula makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and grins. "Man cannot kill that which is immortal. Thou should know this better than anyone, old friend." He sits down on his throne once more, his temper calmed. "And I shall snatch his victory from him, should he grasp it. Simon Belmont meets his doom in Castlevania, win or lose."
Funny, that one who has lived so long should understand so little. Death drifts closer. You did not cheat death, Mathias Cronquist. Vlad Tepes the third. Dracula. On the contrary. Where a mortal may suffer but one death, you will suffer many. And each one will unmake and remake you, yet leave you as you are. A cold light fills Death's empty sockets. Bony fingers tighten their grip on the scythe. And I shall be there every time, to sever your thread so that you may again be made flesh.
Dracula's anger is gone from the surface of him, but simmers underneath, deadly and waiting. It is rare for death to speak so of the terms of his service. He is not a proud creature, or prone to losing his temper. He is content to leave Dracula as master, and himself as servant.
There is silence, for some time.
"The curse is made ready," says the vampire, at last. "An incantation of the blackest sorcery. Should this Simon prevail, it will rend him asunder in a fortnight's time. The Belmont line will die with him."
Death does not answer.
"There will be an ending to this foolish cycle. I shall rise again, never to be stopped. And Chaos will remake this world." The words are spoken matter-of-factly, a statement that is all but affirmed. He does not doubt for a moment the truth of his words. He considers Death. "And what then of thyself, Grim Reaper? Nevermore shall thy touch fall upon me. In a world fallen into chaos, no law shall stay thy hand. You may reap as you wish from all that lives." A casual wave of his hand brings a crystal glass, filled with crimson, to his hand. He sips thoughtfully from it. "Answer me this, Spectre. What wilst thou do, with thine hands unbound?"
Death floats closer to his master.
Men have always feared death. And always they shall do so. Were I to take every man for my own, soon there would be no fear left. And then I would be no more, for what need is there of death in a world without life?
The Scythe appears in his hands. He strokes the edge with bony fingers, caressing it lovingly.
Men will always fear me. But when chaos rules all, and their world falls to ashes around them, then I shall teach them...I shall teach them...
Dracula raises an eyebrow. It is unusual to hear Death at a loss for words.
I shall teach them...to love me.
Lightning strikes. Shadows flinch from the sudden light, and finally decide to head for more hospitable climes. Utter darkness remains.