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Dracula’s Castle was held together only by the shadows of its Lord’s energy and the despair of the people of the land.
Gone was the pomp and splendor that the entrance displayed to its visitors, the rich carved marble of the columns and the thick crimson curtains protecting the creatures from any light outside. The air reeked of dust and death, the walls showed cracks, the torn curtains decorated the floor covered in the grime left behind seven years prior. It was only the shell of the place that it used to be.
The shell of the man Simon used to be dragged its crumbling body through the halls.
Silence weighed all around him, on his purulent back, around his neck, for he was the only creature still daring to cross those abandoned corridors. Yet, if Simon strained his ears, he could nearly hear it.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
His time was running out. His body screamed the truth at him, the same way a dog finds a corner to die in peace when it senses impending doom. Simon would sink his fingers in his hair and pull at it, if he had the stomach to see how much of it was falling out.
Perhaps it was a blessing that Selena and their child were not there to witness his final moments. Even they would be repulsed at how low he had fallen, and he couldn’t bear that thought.
Simon didn’t know what gave him the strength to march on, breaking the marble floor to descend closer to Hell. Every step on the stairs sent him a jolt through his brittle knees, yet he did not stop, for he knew that he’d keel over and never rise again if he did. It certainly couldn’t be God’s helping hand: He would not approve of what Simon was set to do.
But what choice did he have? It was either doing Dracula’s will, or succumbing to his wounds, never to see his family again.
The Count had him tightly wrapped around his fingers, and he was making Simon dance on his tune from beyond the grave. Were his flesh not sloughing off his bones, he would let the fury coming with the realization fuel his journey and steel his resolve. But Simon’s entire willpower was focused on taking a step, and then another, and then another, down the dark corridors of the basement, where he no longer could tell if the stench of rot came from the walls, or himself.
He just wanted to be done. Please, I beg You, he prayed, knowing that his voice would never reach His ears when he was so far from Him, I just want to rest.
Then, it was with selfishness that Simon trudged to the altar, kept pristine and presented to him like a mocking gift from the Count; there, he unceremoniously dropped the body parts that he had been carrying for days, eager to get rid of them.
Only one thing to be done, and then, he would be free at last.
The power of the Sacred Flame would purge the world of the Count’s earthly remains, and Simon’s body of the curse gnawing at it.
But a glint in the darkness stopped Simon in his tracks.
It was a long fang, floating in the air to join the other relics, itself pulsating with dark energy that gripped his chest and heart.
And he would recognize it among thousands, for he bore the scars of it on his neck.
From the altar, a tall pillar of fire emerged from the six remains of Dracula’s body, burning and blinding Simon’s weak eyes. He quickly shielded himself with an arm, until the heat subsided; only then, he dared to glance at what he had done.
And from high above, the monstruous figure of Count Dracula towered over Simon.
But he looked nothing like the regal man that he had battle seven years prior. He was covered in nothing but a black cloak, and gone were the deceptively fine features: his white hair was thinning and his wan skin stretched over his skull and sunken eyes. He looked for what he truly was: a corpse unearthed from its grave.
Dracula, too, was but a shell of the monster he used to be – and were the clock of his life not ticking faster, Simon would have perhaps felt joy.
“Belmont,” the vampire called in the silence, and the name sounded unspeakably filthy coming from that demonic tongue. “It seems that you and I are more similar than I thought.” A lurid smile creeped on his face, exposing the very teeth that had allowed for his return. “We refuse to bow to Death.”
It spoke of his gauzy mind that Simon hardly had the will to protest. Were he whole and untainted, he would have balked at the mere suggestion of sharing anything with that creature.
But he was as pathetic as the thing standing in front of him, so there was no point in wasting a drop of the little energy he had. Perhaps yes, they were similar. And so, a similar fate they shall share.
It was not with righteous desire to protect the world from evil that Simon cast his vial of holy water, and watched it burn through the Count’s cloak and flesh, as he screeched in surprise and pain.
No, may God forgive him, it was the simple, primal desire of feeding on that creature’s suffering that moved his arm.