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The Danesti village was one rich with a faith and history that tied back to the ancients. Though all three were not much followers of faith as others in Wallachia were, there was something they started to believe in now.
Neither of the three had much of a faith to believe in, let alone one to call their own. Maybe they did, once upon a time during less heartbreaking times, but it seemed to be more of a beautiful lie for the three of them.
Now, things were different. There was something to look forward to. There were people they could call a community, a permanent home for once and not filled with the shells of tragedies. It was not a church or any institution or religion they pledged themselves to.
It was to the people, to themselves, to each other, and to the newest member of the family that was to be born. That was their faith. The son of Dracula, the son of the Belmonts, and the daughter of Speakers were loyal to each other, and that was all that mattered.
What got them up every day, and kept them as the driving force, was each other. Maybe love was the right word, or maybe it wasn’t. It was something deeper than that. A bond that they felt was only budding, and would last for quite a few centuries if allowed the time to flourish.
On a particularly cold night, the villagers had bunkered down in their homes and beds to stay warm as winter made her way. Even though they were settled closely together by the fire, the dhamphir looked upon the sight that made him warmer than any fire could stoke.
On his right, the head woman of their new village that thawed his heart and reminded him of what it meant to love again. On his left, the Belmont and Speaker magician who gave him the motivation to fight and love with their child, his godchild, nestled safely between them all.