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You should have died.
You should have died in your mother’s womb, rejected by the world before you could root yourself in it. You should have died torn apart by wolves in the forest, the same wolves who whined and licked your hand, finding kin in you. You should have drowned in the raging river when collecting water, paying due for your existence.
Somehow, bafflingly, you lived on. Like a plant shut in a dark room, you grew. Stunted and crooked, but grow you did – a pitiful child, with wan skin, and hair whose moonlight glisten did not belong in this world, and dull eyes that saw what humans could not.
God must want this child alive, sighed the man who gave life to you, his gaze passing through you.
Surely, we are being punished for some sin, hissed the woman who forced you into the world, all tight tendons and anger at the thing that ruined her life.
The blanket of stars and foliage kept you warmer and safer than your house’s ceiling and bed.
You were no child of God, that much everyone knew. Yet, while He turned His back on you and your hot tears, you were dragged by the maw of the beast to kneel at His feet. No matter how hard you strove to repent, to be forgiven, covering your head in ashes did nothing to attract the gaze of Christ, bleary with agony that did not touch you.
Killing is an affront against God, the village priest bellowed perched atop of the pulpit. You kept your eyes to your feet, knowing that you did not have the right to gaze at His words. But taking a life may be justified, if that life is wretched, you spoke the unspoken in your soul, with clenched fists and copper on your tongue.
You were going to die. One day, a stone would hit your head and you would be left to stain the earth with your cursed blood; or your mother’s fingers will take away the breath that she mistakenly granted you; or God will make your body rot from the inside out, and no one would be around you as you return to where you came from.
It was what you deserved, for bringing bad weather and killing crops and being an affront against God. You should have died, for causing so much unhappiness to the people around you.
Then, don’t others deserve to have their life taken, too? your friends smiled, with their fangs and their bulging eyes and their horns, and you cannot speak the answer that burns hot in your chest.
They hurt you, just as much as you hurt them. Then, then it would be fair, it would be only fair…
You were never meant to live. You could not be redeemed for the sin of surviving. Surely, He would not hate you any more.
He is not your God. Your life has not yet begun, child.
The flames did not lick you.
You should have died, devoured by the raging fire together with your parents. But you stood, unscathed, for every enemy of humans is your friend and ally.
You chose the blackest, most loathsome sin. You freed yourself from the shackles of Christendom. You should rejoice: you would no longer be allowed to exist in this world.
(Why didn’t you rejoice?)
This is not your world, dear.
So you ran, stumbled, limped and crawled, following the voice that beckoned you, deep, deeper, deeper still in the twisted forest, where not even wolves dared to venture. Where a twisted castle rose, to the East, its spires so tall that they blocked the sun.
The sharp winds lashed across your face, and you nearly retched, assaulted by the stench of putrescent flesh; your eyes, covered in soot and smoke, could hardly grasp what was happening; but you could sense it, deep beneath your skin: you found what you were craving.
The drawbridge lowered with a loud thud, welcoming you like an expected guest.
We brought you a lost lamb, the demons cackled excitedly, screeching in the most melodious hymn.
The monster that rose from his throne was unlike anything your eyes had ever set on. You, whose heart never thawed at the sight of the dying God, trembled and nearly crumbled on your knees. You sobbed, and from your lips ashes rolled out, and from your eyes fire seared you; I implore you, Lord of all that is repulsive to God and his followers. There is a terrible darkness inside of me, and I wish to not quell it anymore, for it is what I am destined to be. I am unworthy of living, but if you wish for my soul, it is the most I can offer to you…
He tended his hand, caked in the blood of humans, and with the utmost care, he stroked your hair. It was the first time that you knew a gentle touch. May he forgive you for breaking underneath him, like a brittle little thing; but he would, there was no doubt in your heart, no room for anything that was not deep, encompassing, rending devotion.
I can smell pure potential within you, the Lord smiled, fangs peeking from his mouth. It was fate, child, that brought you to me. Follow my path, and you shall be granted anything you wish: strength, power, knowledge.
A home.
You finally found it, your world, your place, your very own heaven. Lord Dracula allowed you to live.
You should have died.
It was what filthy traitors deserved, Isaac’s scream rang in your ears.
Coward! Come back! Finish me already! Don’t you dare…
As you dragged your cracked bones on the soil dampened by rain, teeth clattering from the shivers shaking the ruins of your body, your sword left at your friend’s side while he drew his last breaths, you could not help but agree with him.
Where would you live? There was no place for you in the human world. Not with your back heavy from your sins, far more damning than what you could have ever imagined. The blood of the innocents you slain weighed you down. You sold your soul to the Devil, and to Hell you shall return at last.
You should have died, and your body knew it, as it collapsed nearby an old tree, its branches crooked in the shape of a crucifix. But, if a sinner like you could claim one victory, it was that the air you were gasping was the rich, earthy one of a free man.
You stared at the ceiling of a cozy room that did not belong to you, surrounded by the faint scent of flowers and that of food wafting through the door, while every torn muscle and broken bone in your body yelled at you in rhythm with your heartbeat, punished you for insisting to be alive.
But it wasn’t your fault. That woman… dragged you out of Charon’s boat before you could pay your fee…
Wrapped in warm bandages, you sneered. That fool must have thought that she had picked up a kitten to nurse back to health and return to its litter. In time, she would notice your fangs, and your venom, and recoil from you, as you deserved. She would regret giving you refuge from the inevitable.
The woman was diligent in her self-imposed mission, undeterred by your unsightliness. With hands smeared with your blood and infection, she cleansed the wounds that nearly pierced your heart. She stitched you back together, like a torn doll. Wherever her touch passed by, she mended wounds, and not only those that bled and scarred.
Day and night, she changed your soaked bandages: you let her, as you forgot how to be master of your own body, and behind closed eyelids, the brush of her tender fingers on your feverish skin was novel, and therefore frightening. You braced yourself for slaps if you winced too much, or claws in your flesh because you were in her hands; instead, each day your limbs ached less and grew stronger, and sleep took you more easily.
(No medicine could chase away the demons assaulting you in your sleep. Isaac’s spirit dearly missed you and did not wish to depart from you, it would seem. You had no God to beg forgiveness to: you turned your back to both of them.)
All while never so much as asking for your name. Your past, your nature, your sins, none of that mattered to her. You were, in her eyes, a man in need: and that, that was the worst condemnation of them all.
Why? you asked with gnashing teeth. What do you wish from me? Money? My gratitude?
You did not offer your body, for it was already defiled, nor your soul, for it was too tainted for the likes of such a pure being.
She only blinked, as if you had proposed to carry the sun on your back for her. Nothing? To get better, I suppose.
You turned your head towards the window. Your eyes, used to the dimness of eternal night, watered at the bright sunlight. On top of the rolling hills, amidst green grass and wild flowers swaying in the wind, a small church was perched, as a guardian protecting the village and its townsfolk below. I cannot. Not here. You shouldn’t live.
And the woman placed her tray that carried a bowl of steaming soup, sat gingerly on the foot of the bed as if she could break you any further, and took your hand in hers, so smaller and softer than what yours had become after years of wielding weapons and infernal energy.
If you need a place, I would appreciate if you stayed, her smile shone like a star, and her candor tasted of absolution.
She did a fine job putting you back on your feet and dusting you off. An even better one, in giving you a reason to stay standing.
In time, your arms grew strong enough to lift you from the bed, and you accomplished the victory of limping around the house. In time, you learned to serve, chopping wood and drawing water and hunting – not to pay the price of being alive, but because you desired it from the bottom of your beating heart, and because the brilliance of her smile put a spring in your step. In time, you walked around your new home, starting each new day in your wife’s embrace.
Despite your best efforts, you had time: your tattered life had unfurled in front of you, uncertain, but worth experiencing. And you’d do it with your head high, for her, the reason you could for the first time see a human being in your reflection. Rosaly gave you the strength to live.
You should have died.
A part of you, the one that is dragging the soles of your boots on the dry grass and dabbing the blood trickling down your throat, is still reeling from it. You should be dead and buried in the castle that you resurrected, you pawn of a plan beyond the vision of your petty revenge. No mere mortal could survive Dracula’s wrath (no longer a Lord, you owed nothing to the man): it is as factual as the sun rising from the east and setting to the west. Only four legendary heroes still live to tell the tale.
You have no idea what you’re supposed to be, since you are no mortal nor hero.
You cannot share that title with the Belmont who aided you. Not after tethering so close to the edge of darkness, ready to plunge into the abyss with your heart clouded by hatred and despair. Not with the blood of the man you used to call friend staining your armor, the one that carries the emblem of the past that you, foolishly, thought you could run away from. Not when his sister has her arm under yours as a makeshift crutch and her gaze fixed forward – she has Isaac’s nose, you think, and then push that thought into a corner.
You try to peer into her smile, but you find nothing. Perhaps it is for the best. Your eyes sting at the sight of her.
What now? Where will you go? she asks.
What now, indeed. You think of Rosaly’s cottage, for sure by now ransacked by the mob who had witnessed and cheered on her execution that you were too weak to prevent. You think of Dracula’s castle, laying in ruins after the death of its master that you allowed to take course. You think of your parents’ home, crumbling under the scorn of the fire that you sparked.
God, you muse, must have a sick sense of humor.
In lieu of an answer, the witch is dragging you to her shop, hidden between the mountains. There is no way you can burden her with yourself. She hears none of it, and marches forward with long strides you struggle too keep up with: and that familiarity weakens your resolve.
However, you are forced to concede a point. Her shop is the best place where your children, the few who survived the grueling battle that you have forced them to die in, can live in peace. She has tended to them with the utmost care when you could not, with a gentleness that you, their creator, were in no condition to give. You are no longer that stone-hearted man who would slaughter innocent life: it would be a new beginning for creatures that know nothing but your will. With time, you might find a way to free them.
But what about you? you ask yourself, while the kind witch rubs the wounds on your throat with salve. Are you going to depend on the undeserved charity of women to survive? Some warrior you are.
No. No, you are no longer one. You are a man, and a worn-out one. The journey that took you across the country, the dark powers that have gnawed at your fingers once more, the curse that consumed your soul and nearly devoured it, the visage of Rosaly’s hanging body that haunted your walks – not a week of sleep would be enough to shed off the deep exhaustion in your bones. You close your eyes, letting your mind sift through its thoughts.
And yet.
You realize, not without surprise, that you feel no desire to die. God, for reasons unbeknownst to anybody other than Him, is adamantly refusing to allow a sinner like you to return where you came from. Perhaps Rosaly was right about you: you have turned out to be a poor judge of character, so nothing for you to do but to place your trust in her. You don’t know what you are supposed to do with this life you keep returning to: you have been left rudderless, adrift, now that the raging inferno within you has been smothered to ashes.
You have kept treading on for simple reasons: devotion towards the ones you loved, and spite against the ones who wanted you dead. They have consumed you to the sinew, until you no longer resembled a human. What pushes you to accept a healing potion in your hand, now? Why would you still persist?
You cannot find an answer, no matter how long you mull it over. But your heart is still pumping blood. You are breathing, your nostrils filled with the pungent scents of concoctions. You are rocking in a wooden chair, lulled by the motions and the witch humming a tune that had grown familiar to you. Hence, you decide, and no decision has ever felt more right, you are not going to squander this new opportunity.
You are in no rush to rejoin Isaac and Dracula. You will meet them again, one day, and the three of you will spend eternity tearing your souls to shreds. The realization does not faze you.
Rosaly would be saddened if you thwarted her sacrifices because you cannot love yourself as much as she loved you. That, you cannot bear to consider. You will carry a torch in her name until you can no longer draw breath.
And Julia…
You crack an eye open. Your heart still jolts in the vain hope that your Rosaly is still here. But you have come to know her during your journey, and as your vision clears, the differences both settle in your stomach and soothe you: Julia carries a pendant made of stones and feathers where Rosaly would don a crucifix; her smile is crooked on one side; she holds the ladle with a tighter grip. And her eyes. Her eyes are hooded, downcast, with a turbid gloom flickering in them. Rosaly has never once stopped shining, but you are all too familiar with that expression. Those are the eyes that followed you in mirrors.
You may be a deplorable sinner, but you cannot abide by this. There is no way you will abandon someone who shares your grief.
You rise from the comfortable chair, to approach the woman. You put her through so much hardship, and for what? You swore and spat vengeance against her brother, and she sold you weapons at your request to do the job. You killed her only family – don’t lie to yourself and hide behind the curse, you have always been Dracula’s best protégé – and she comforted you under the rays the dawn. Not once she has left your side. And even now, she was the one who stretched her hand, and pulled you out of your mire.
Julia gives you a tired smile, curiosity alit on her face. You still cannot quite grasp what flutters behind it, if she harbors resentment or merely sorrow and what in the world drew the both of you together. You have been granted the opportunity to find those answers.
Will you allow me the honor to spend more time with you, my Lady? you ask, only half facetiously. That coaxes a giggle out of her, and for the time being, that is enough.
How could I refuse such a charming gentleman? You’re more than welcome, Hector.
Her fingers brush against yours.
You can be hurt together, and lick each other’s wounds, until they too will fade.
Julia wants you to live.
And so do you.
