Castlevania: Symphony of the Night Chapter 7
By Aujang Abadi
Simon's grey eyes slowly fell over his former home, the ancient Keep of the Belmonts. The once proud, well-kept stone now lay covered with moss and lichen, silent in its desolation. The great wooden doors that marked the keep's entrance stood as bastions of rot and decay. Crows perched on its high walls, squawking incessantly. His eyes widened at the sight of the flesh-hungry birds. That meant only one thing-they had something to feed on here.
As he approached the walls, the stench of the dead assaulted his senses, flooding his nose and lungs with the putrid smell of rotting flesh. The pungent odor nearly knocked him off of his feet, but also alerted him to a new fact. After a century of neglect, any bodies remaining from Dracula's last attack would have long since decomposed. The tattered whip he held slowly unfurled itself. That had always been a strange quirk with him; instead of wrapping his whip in a simple loop at his belt, he had always corded it around his left arm. A few had tried to emulate his manner, but none could inspire the awe that he did. Simon had the blood of a true Belmont running in his veins.
He looked up to see one of the crows diving towards him, shrieking its protest at his intrusion. He skipped back, the whip lashing out and catching the devil bird on its wing. It spiraled to the ground, squawking in pain. He reached to his belt and flipped up a throwing knife, launching it in one, smooth motion. It split the crow into neat halves, and stood quivering in the soft ground. A few more squawks echoed, at the indignation of one of their own being killed, but no more crows came. They weren't stupid, after all.
Simon knelt and retrieved his small blade. He wiped it clean on the bird's carcass, and then continued on his path to the entrance. It nearly fell off of its hinges as he opened it; so thorough was its decay. He wrinkled his nose; the stench of the interior of the castle was absolutely horrid. Not that it mattered; the aroma of death could not-would not-be a deterrent.
Soft groaning echoed along the hallways, alerting Simon to the nature of the inhabitants of his ancestral home. The sound of their shuffling gait played along his senses. It caused the hair on the back of his neck to rise.
"Zombies..." He muttered under his breath. His hands quickly retrieved a piece of flint and a rag from the pouches at his side. Flint struck the steel of one of his daggers, and caught flame to the cloth, illuminating the hallway. The rotting visage of an unrecognizable Belmont loomed before him, moaning its protest to the firelight. Simon casually searched for an intact torch as he uncurled his whip once more, letting it fall to the ground. Its long leather expanse was thin and tearing at its seams. It did its job well enough, though; Simon flicked his wrist lazily and nearly split the undead creature in half. "This will have to do..." He gingerly picked up one of its legs and set it ablaze. A torch is a torch.
From that point on, it was strictly professional. Systematic elimination, Simon called it. He went from chamber to chamber and purified his home, using the decaying limbs as his source of light. In the back of Simon's mind, a little voice screamed its defiance to his emotionless state. It threw itself against the walls of his consciousness, forcing itself into his thoughts until he stopped, standing before the doors to the Great Hall, and realized just what he'd done.
The leg of his last victim still burned in his hand, and he stared at it blankly. At one time, this had been a Belmont. His blood; his kin; his kind. The leg dropped to the floor soundlessly, muffled by the thick carpet.
He hadn't heard the wailing until now. It had been soft at first, something told him, but now it was loud, screeching, the sound of a thousand souls mourning their own passing. Around him laid the blood of his clan, the blood he'd shed unthinkingly, with inhuman compassion. The choking stench of his own bile, as it splattered against the walls, did nothing to alleviate how much he hated himself. The screeching grew louder still, until it was an awful cacophony that ate his mind and governed his soul. He screamed, clutching his head. The spirits came to him still.
This is your love, Simon? Frigid fingers grasped his neck, lifting him into the air. You black-hearted bastard; you demon murderer! First Dracula rapes our clan, and now you desecrate what's left of our bodies! Burn in hell, corrupted one. God has already forsaken you. You sicken him; you are Dracula's now. Come. Let us begin feasting.
"No! No!" Simon screamed, sobbing uncontrollably. He shook, screaming over and over again. The memories came to him: of his imprisonment, his torture, and his willing sacrifice. He was a child again, a broken child, cringing from the dark, the cold, and the wet, while they took everything from him. His screams shook the foundations of the keep.
And then the world was gone. The screaming faded away; it all melted into a single, glowing sphere of warm light, enveloping him in its embrace. He was shielded again. It dried his tears, eased his pain, and soothed his fear. And then; then… it turned upon the spirits.
"YOU WILL HAUNT MY CHILDREN NO LONGER!" Trevor's voice boomed, dripping with disconsolate rage. His threat hung in the air, freezing the specters around Simon's shaking frame. Clutching his dear descendant in one ethereal hand, he turned the fury of his ghastly form upon the fallen. The pain Simon felt was the prick of a thorn, compared to the hell that engulfed his tormentors. Their shrieking fell upon deaf ears. Trevor turned back to his only son, the last of his cherished bloodline. "Sleep, Simon. They can hurt you no more."
He bore his child out of the darkness in silence, as the walls he'd erected slowly crumbled around him.