Trigger Warning: There is further (and some graphic) description of the abuse from earlier chapters.
Also, if anyone's interested, I now have another fic, And So We Dare To Hope, that is solely for Castlevania. So if you like what you see here, I'd love to see you guys over there.
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Chapter 10: The Die Is Cast
By the time the war council convened, the raiding party to Argeș was still missing, save for a lone demon that had barely limped its way back to the castle, only to expire from its grievous wounds just as it reached their front gate.
The affair did not quite induce a panic, but the Generals were nonetheless unnerved by the horrific burns the creature had suffered. Nor could Seras blame them for that. No torch wielded by a terrified peasant could have inflicted as much damage as it did, and had she herself not been privy to what the Mirror of Fate had revealed to her, Seras would have been quite on edge herself. Where things stood now, she wasn't even entirely certain what had harmed the poor creature. She knew Adrian often made use of magical weapons and like artifacts and he did possess some abilities that came naturally to vampires, but sorcery itself was a field in which he'd shown aptitude but never any particular interest. That left either the Belmont or the Speaker girl, both of which were possible. Every vampire knew Speakers were drawn to knowledge like leeches and many of them would pick up magical skills wherever they could. On the other hand, magic, learned and innate, had made its way in and out of the Belmont line since the Progenitor. Although it was, more often then not, a skill utilized moreso by the women in the family, as use of magic had long been deemed a 'feminine pursuit.'
Seras snorted. Womanly talent or not, it certainly hadn't stopped Trevor the Elder from knocking her out of the sky with a blast of wind, and Arthur had been one of the rare clairvoyants in the family who hadn't gone insane. And then there was the Mad Belmont…. Shaking herself, Seras brought a hand to her chin. One way or another, my brother's party has a mage, and between the three of them, they have a head for strategy, in which case—
"Lady Seras," Schrödinger's voice brought a halt to her steps and she turned to glare at the werecat standing in the hallway behind her. As she narrowed her eyes and bared her fangs, he raised his hands and smiled, black ear twitching. "Warten Sie, meine Dame. I just wanted to congratulate you for your discovery," he crooned. "As I'm sure it's quite the great burden off your shoulders."
Seras remained silent, not even snarling a wordless warning as he sauntered lazily toward her, a sly grin on his face. A great burden indeen. "You knew, didn't you, Schrödinger?" she said as she tapped his nose with her forefinger. "You knew all along my brother was alive. That there were Belmonts still alive after all these years. Just as you knew the Bishop of Targoviste had come to take Lisa away that night. You naughty thing."
Her page's grin widened. "Only the one Belmont, meine Dame. Just the one."
Seras smiled back…
…and then she put her hand through his skull. The werecat's limbs spasmed and jerked like a river trout as the soft brain matter within his cranium crumbled in her fingers. Seras clenched her fist, squeezing the soft pulp without restraint, and then she tore her hand away. The corpse, being dead and alive, vanished completely, blood and brains and all, as she retracted her arm. "Just remember that between you and Pip, if word of this gets out, I'll know who let the proverbial cat out of the bag. And you're not as indestructible as you think you are."
"Neither are you, my lady, neither are you."
From there, Seras made her way into her sire's throne room and immersed herself into the Generals' company so seemlessly and so quietly that only Cho-hime seemed to notice her presence. As she came up alongside her and murmured a polite greeting, the vampire princess of the East turned her head and answered in a long, drawn out hiss that Seras could neither decipher as amiable or hostile. She nodded all the same and fixed her attention on Dracula's throne, bristling a little when she saw him seated their, his baleful, red eyes focused on the assembled vampires. Isaac stood beside him, silent as a shade, but he did acknowledge her with a nod when they made eye contact.
I wonder how he liked his gift, Seras wondered as she swept her gaze over the rest of the assembly. Hector and Godbrand were arguing off to one side, Cho turned away from her to hear Dragoslav's words as he waved his hands in irritation and bickered with Zufall and Sharma, and behind them, Seras caught a glimpse of Carmilla speaking quietly with Raman. However, in consideration of the space between them and the half-dozen overlapping voices, Seras was unable to hear what was said before Hector's voice won out over them all, "Taking Argeș is bloodshed for its own sake. There is no strategy here."
"Argeș has no real importance," Carmilla argreed imperiously as she stepped away from Raman's side. "You should have counseled an attack on Brăila."
Seras flicked her eyes to the Countess. That was interesting.
"Why Brăila?" Godbrand demanded.
"If you were serious about serving our lord's war, you would have realized taking the largest river port in the principality was important," Carmilla snapped. "If you take Brăila, you cut off escape from Wallachia.
Then Dracula spoke up, his voice like ice. "Any city built over running water is a danger to Nosferatu and therefore must be approached with caution."
Surely Carmilla had to have known that, Seras thought as she frowned at the floor. Her argument for securing the river port was sound, but something wasn't right about this. The Blood Countess had her own agenda in this business, so what was it about Brăila that really held her interest?
"Running water," Isaac commented as he made his descent from the dais. "I have never heard of that having an effect on vampires."
"Death by running water hasn't occurred in centuries," Godbrand answered and cast a calculating eye toward Seras, who ignored him. True, there had been an odd occasion or two when she herself had fallen into rivers and streams whilst fighting other vampires or hunters, but the only thing running water seemed to do, like many other vampire detriments, was piss her off. Like sunlight, if it sapped her strength at all, it was a minimal loss and easy to recover from.
On the other hand, she shuddered, saltwater was the absolute worst.
"You seem troubled, ma chére,"
Seras flinched and her neck jerked around to see Pip had come up behind her left shoulder. "You are late," she growled.
The librarian snorted. "And it appears all I've missed is the Generals' quarreling. Has anything productive actually happened yet?"
She left the answer to his imagination.
"I fail to see how taking Brăila instead of Argeș is of greater importance," Isaac said. "We should consolidate our power as the Lady Seras recommended in our last meeting, and then slowly bring new territories under our authority."
"I must respectfully disagree, Isaac." Seras turned to Hector in surprise, as did Pip. The youngest of the three humans in Dracula's service raised his hand and continued, "Taking Argeș brings only terror and scatters the humans. If we were to take Brăila, we could seal off the one side of Wallachia."
From his throne, Dracula graced him with an almost approving smile. "Interesting, Hector."
"There is no absence of strategy in an assault on Argeș," Seras countered as she took a step into the open, staring down Carmilla in suspicion. It's no coincidence that sweet, little Hector and you are of one mind. What are you plotting, madame? "The city is old, yes, but along with Gresit, it has strong walls and high towers. When the Ottoman or Hungarian forces invaded Wallachia, the people of the surrounding villages would seek shelter in these great fortresses. In destroying them, we cut off safe havens before they can be fortified against the Undead. As for the port city of Brăila," She returned her attention to Hector, "It may be the easiest way out of the nation, but then the people contend with the Ottomans on the other side of the Black Sea."
"Why should that matter?" Carmilla asked peevishly.
"Because the Ottomans are of the Islam faith and Wallachia has been Christian since the fall of the Roman Empire. And humans can be frighteningly stubborn when it comes to matters of their religion." Seras shrugged. "Holy men on both sides of the border preach to their people how the other side is the land of heretics and infidels who will kill the faithful given the chance, and soldiers on both sides will gladly die for their beliefs. Trust me, human superstition is a powerful enough wall in that quarter."
"She's right," said Raman, gold bracelets jangling as she waved a dismissive hand. "We can let Brăila alone."
In the corner of her eye, Seras smiled at Carmilla's frustrated scowl. I don't know what you're up to, Countess, but I doubt it's for the genuine advancement of the war effort. You may have Hector and Godbrand under your thumb, but you do not rule this court.
Sensing a pause in their debate, Isaac abruptly cut in and stated grimly, "I must disclose that I revived the creature that returned."
"Did you discover who attacked their party?" asked Zufall.
Seras bit her lip.
"No, the assailants are still unknown," Isaac answered. "However, Argeș is close to Gresit, and I believe that is where Alucard sleeps, in his private keep under the city."
Shit.
"And," the forge master continued. "There have been reports that a Belmont was there recently."
Shit, shit, shit! Seras exchanged a glance with the Master Librarian, then glanced around the room. By invoking the name of the night's greatest hunters, Isaac had awakened a primal fear in the court. In the corner of her eye, Sharma and Raman moved close together to whisper. Decades ago, they had formed a pact with her in that they would serve Dracula as vassals in exchange for protection against the Lady Integra Belmont. Their palaces lay in the north of India, along the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains, and would have been the first to fall had the Cast-Iron Bitch of Wallachia turned her vindictive eye southward. Behind Seras, she heard Dragoslav muttering curses. Since Leon Belmont's rise, the Slavic vampire had lost dozens of friends and fledglings to the him and his progeny. The other Generals were no different, except perhaps Cho, whose remote territory had left her relatively unknown to the rest of the world.
"A Belmont?" Carmilla snarled. "I thought they were extinct."
This isn't good. Seras grit her teeth.
"It's possible," Isaac continued. "That Alucard and the Belmont may have worked together to repel the Gresit assault."
"The other night you said it was the doings of a Speaker mage and Christian priest," Pip crossed his arms. "So which is it, Isaac? Adrian Țepeș is neither Speaker nor priest. Belmonts aren't Speakers either, but a priest…."
The assembled vampires shuddered at the reminder of the Mad Belmont who had ended entirely bloodlines. Seras herself shivered and glared at the Librarian, who only shrugged carelessly. It had to be said, his single eye told her. All the same, she thought as she pressed her knuckles to her lips, if Adrian had been recovering under Gresit, then it was plausible the Speaker girl and the unknown Belmont the Mirror of Fate had shown her had been the ones to revive him. It made sense.
"If there is a Belmont alive, then should we not observe the ancestral Belmont home?" Carmilla hissed, and Seras was surprised to see the normally serene vampiress so unsettled.
"Why?" asked Godbrand and Carmilla immediately rounded on him.
"Perhaps on the general notion that the Belmonts hunted the likes of us for fucking centuries! And if there is one left alive, then it may have access to the trove of weapons and magical materials talked of across generations but never found, which they used to hunt us through fucking centuries! Am I clear now?"
Well, now, Seras thought. Who have you lost to the Belmont scourge?
"This is your war council, my lord?" Carmilla turned to their lord and master, her hand waved at them all in disdain.
…
A hundred years ago, and then some, a peasant girl died a pointless death atop a lonely hill in a village called Cașcaval under the light of a full moon. She died when Dracula, the notorious vampire of legend, put his hand through her, shattered her ribs and mangled her heart, to slay the vampire holding her captive. She knew he was going to do it. The disdain in his eyes made it plain she was expendable, one more human among millions, and her life meant nothing. When the Cașcaval vampire fell, so too did she. The grass beneath her was soaked with blood and her vision blurred and wavered with every shuddered breath her lungs begrudged her.
"In piercing your pursuer's heart," the legend said in a voice as heartless as winter. "I was forced to go through yours as well. I am sorry, but you're dying and you have little time left in this world."
With the taste of blood on her tongue, she raised a trembling hand to him. Was it a desperate plea for her life? Or was she angry this monster had stolen what was left of it? Or maybe it was in hope that this person, the only person who had not spoken to her in contempt in so long, would comfort her as she died.
She'd had a promising life once. Her father had been a captain of the city watch where she'd been born. Her mother had a respectable position as a local midwife. Both of them were illiterate, or knew very little of written language at the very least, but they were a happy family. There always food on the table. Had she been allowed to grow up, she'd have been apprenticed to her mother and earned for herself a decent living. There'd have been no need to turn to begging or theft. Or prostitution if she'd ever been unfortunate enough to resort to that. When those thieves in the night stole her parents' lives and what little they had, they stole her already meager prospects. Had she never wandered into Cașcaval, what would have become of her then? She had no worthwhile skills, villagers rarely trusted outsiders, and without a dowry, no man would have her. What other path would have been left to her but that of a vagrant or a whore? What fate would have greeted her in the end? A thief's knife? A venereal disease? Consumption?
Witch burning?
Everything she had, she owed to Vlad Dracula Țepeș. The master, caretaker, and father who'd raised her from destitution and gave her a life beyond the limitations of a poor, human woman.
But now the peasant girl was out of time. The road cleft in two: One path that condemned her brother. The other would betray her master with no hope of calming his rage and grief, no hope of redemption or healing. Nothing.
"Master…about the war…are you certain Lisa would have wanted—"
He broke her jaw the first time she spoke out. It took her entirely off guard. Master hadn't raised a hand to her in years, and in the space of a heartbeat when she saw his eyes, she saw he was just as alarmed by his own actions against her. She fell against the floor, heard something snap, and the pain was resounding. Dracula did not speak. She could not speak for the pain, so she fled. Walter didn't know. Nor did Pip. Unless Schrödinger had passed along the information out of pity or amusement; in which case, neither of them confronted her about it. Or perhaps there had been no need. The second assault would have made the first irrelevant anyway.
"These humans you persecute…how can we justify the death of innocent—"
Snap. Her wrist bones folded under his grasp and he did not let her go, no matter how many times she cried, "You're hurting me, you're hurting me! Let go, you're hurting me!" Pip had to help her reset the bones after they refused to align right.
"If we eradicate the human race, what would—"
Crack. Broken bones, her legs this time. Wolf found her huddled in the wine cellar, and as he'd done so many times when she was in the north, he bundled her up in his arms and brought her to her bed. Walter gave her blood. Pip held her as she wept.
"I miss her, too, but we can't just—"
Crush…. The sound of her throat, neck bones and all, yielding to his powerful, and deliberate, fingers. She clawed at his hands as he lifted her off the floor, beat at his arms and shoulders, and kicked her legs…and then she couldn't. Her limbs dropped like severed marionette strings and she hung like a broken doll from his hand. She felt nothing but the throbbing pain in her head, the pressure behind her eyes, but the damage to her nerves and spinal cord had induced a horrible numbness throughout the rest of her, as though she were nothing but a head. When he dropped her, she lay crumpled on the carpet, terrified he would crush her underfoot. And even worse things came to mind as she lay helpless, mouth gaping like a fish. Things she had punished human men for.
She was entirely at his mercy.
Yet it seemed her father's regard for her had not diminished so much as to consider enacting such an abhorrent crime. He left her there on the study floor. She heard him leave the room, footsteps receding down the hall. For hours, she lay there, waiting for her body to remember it was alive so to speak. Waited to recover.
There was a part of Seras that knew, had always known, Pip was right—that the sire she loved wasn't coming back any more than Lisa was—but she stayed here anyway. No matter how savage Dracula's maltreatment, no matter how harsh his words, no matter how grave these nights became, she could never bring herself to leave him. As the year wore on and the forge masters and librarian raised all manner of hellish beasts from the abyss, her resistance flagged and failed and retreated into shameful submission. She herself had led the charge in Targoviste and drove a poisoned knife into the heart of Wallachia. She had seen the festival the city's people were holding in honor of Lisa's murder, and it enraged her.
But she knew Pip was right.
How many thousands would die before Dracula realized the futility of it all? How many more would die before she accepted the inevitable? How much destruction must they wreak upon the world Lisa had loved? The world she had sought tirelessly to better. Medicine and science, ancient arts long forgotten by mankind, progression. A way out of an age that had suffocated Seras' human self and kept her vampire life in a perpetual cavalcade of war and death and suffering. Seras thought of Godbrand's outdated battle tactics against her own weaponization of steel and gunpowder, and of his own hypocrisy in attacking humans who had no hope of fighting back. Of Cho's decadent court where she made an art of playing with her prey and killing them slowly. Of her own household always bickering amongst themselves because she refused to led them raid freely across the country. And her own cruelties.
"You are a vampire with ancient knowledge, Seras," Lisa had told her once. "Think of what the world could be if you spread everything you know to mankind!"
What could it have been had Lisa lived?
And what could it be still? she wondered. Adrian was alive. The Belmonts were alive. Isaac and Hector and Pip were here now. If she continued this path in hope of saving her father, she would lose everyone.
But if she saved Adrian…Lisa's legacy would live on, and the world that could be better was still possible.
A kind world.
Seras closed her eyes. Count your losses. Cry your bloody tears. Move on. Move on. Move on. She looked to her father as he glared still at all of them, and she dipped her head in a slow, mournful nod.
The way of Carmilla then.
…
"Your information is incorrect, Isaac," she declared, loudly and silencing the Generals. "There are no Belmonts left to hunt us."
"But Lady Seras—" Isaac began.
"I believe your scouts saw what they saw," Seras interrupted gently, placing a hand on the young man's shoulder. "However, we have seen pretenders in the past. Charlatans after the renowned glory that came with the Belmont name. I don't expect this claimant to be any different from the others. Bishop Maxwell's mob burned the entire estate to the ground, and those who weren't inside were slaughtered with pitchforks and scythes in the yard."
Nods of agreement broke out across the court, and Dragoslav spoke, "That was over fifteen years ago. Surely we'd have seen evidence of a survivor much sooner?"
"Family heirlooms and weapons can be stolen," Sharma added, eyes closed. "Sigils can be faked. And night creatures can be misled."
"Nevertheless," said Isaac. "I would think it a prudent course to exercise caution. Belmont or not, this individual and his companions did kill an entire party of night creatures."
"This is Argeș we're talking about," Pip said with a shrug. "Argeș was Belmont land at one point and fifteen years isn't so long a time. Perhaps some of the villagers remember the old ways. Anyone with the know-how can potentially fight off a low-level night creature, and a gargoyle and a couple demons aren't exactly top-notch."
"There was a Slogra and Gaibon pair in that party, you ill-bred water snake." The forge master glowered at him. "And let's not forget the obscene lack of night creatures your rituals have managed to draw up from the darkness."
"Quality is a virtue, mon copain. Mine can speak, at least."
"Yet Blue Fangs still died in Gresit."
Seras made a low growl in her throat. "That's enough, you two."
Pip only smirked, but in his lone, green eye, Seras took note of his serious demeanor as he looked at her. So what happens now, ma chére?
Now. She turned the Blood Countess, who was still scowling nervously at the idea of Belmonts abroad. Now we play Carmilla's game.
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Author's Notes: On a hilarious note, in this episode Godbrand states he's 'been on boats and had baths,' to which Isaac replies, "When?" Historically, the Vikings bathed regularly and were mindful on the whole cleanliness thing compared to other cultures around the same time. Ironically, Godbrand might be the cleanest one in the room.
Stay awesome, stay safe, and see you all after Season 4.
I don't own this series.