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The sun shines bright up in the sky, when they return home.
It has been a long, sleepless, nerve-wracking week. Simon’s teeth have been on edge ever since Juste’s best friend, Maxim, showed up at the door staining the porch with his blood and muttering about their friend’s disappearance. The urgency of the matter, and Juste’s utter panic at the terrible news, halted Simon’s hand and put a damper on his spiraling fear, but he felt it, deep in his old bones, the pungent stench of evil that he and only he was familiar with.
Juste did not depart on a normal rescue mission. His fate had called him.
For a week, Simon steeled himself. He was the patriarch of the family. His wife, son and daughter-in-law looked up to him for strength and courage – his grandson, too, although in his heart, Simon wished the boy knew that he could look inward. So during the day, Simon spent his days vigil, at the gate of the household, and reassured his family, and the Kishines and Erlangers, that Juste was a formidable warrior, and with both the blood of Belmont and of Belnades flowing in his veins, there is nothing in this world he could not prevail.
It was only at night, with his beloved Selena at his side, that Simon genuflected and prayed, sacred crucifix held so securely in hands that it left red grooves on his palms, begging God and begging the Matriarch to protect the children like They had protected him, decades and decades ago.
Keep them safe, I implore you. Lend them Your hand. Lead them back home. Allow them to live the long, happy life they deserve.
Simon had not held the Vampire Killer ever since Mathieu’s sixteenth birthday, yet he could be sure that, alongside Selena’s, the Matriarch’s hand was placed on his own, a gentle protector through time.
And on the seventh day, in front of the gate, he and his family witness proof that They had heeded their call.
The sight heals all of Simon’s worries like medicine on a wound. The closer they approached, the more his clouded eyes can draw comfort in the details. The young Lydie, her hair left loose down her shoulders, sits elegantly on her treading horse. Juste and Maxim follow suit dragging their feet, with tears in their clothes and worn out to the bone, but safe and sound and most importantly alive.
The smile that blooms on his grandson’s face the moment he recognizes Simon may be brighter than the sunlight reflecting from him.
Were Simon younger and his body not marked by a lifetime of hunting, he too would have sprinted towards his grandson and his friends to lift them in the air and celebrate. Instead, he watches, Selena’s head resting on his shoulder, the joyous spectacle of their families reuniting, parents hugging children and sobbing in pure cleansing relief – Lydie cries too in her mother’s arms, Simon can hardly fathom what the poor girl has gone through, Maxim limps with his long bangs obscuring his face and an arm around Juste’s shoulders, and Juste…
Simon does not speak yet. He recognizes, like an old reflection, the glassy look in Juste’s eyes. No words can encompass the warmth swelling in his chest, the pride knotting in his throat, and the priority is now allowing his grandson to rest and heal.
A hand clasping the shoulder of the young man carrying the Vampire Killer will have to speak for him.
The dinner is a long, lively affair, with food and drinks and chatter cascading all evening without stop. All the attention, naturally, converges around the youth, who seem just as overwhelmed by the attention as Simon is by the noise.
Even when he asks to please allow the guests of honor to breathe, he knows that their happiness will not be hampered. He still remembers the feast that he received when he returned from the ruins of that castle, how the whole town forgave him for the sins of his fathers at last and how he longed for nothing but his wife’s embrace: how could he ever forget?
However. Simon struggles to eat with gusto, when his eye is caught by his grandson and his friends.
Something’s not right.
Juste’s voice is the one that resounds around the table, attracting the attention of everyone like he has always done. Simon catches, if he strains the ear among all the noise, tales of a nightmarish castle that seemed to have sprung from a fever dream, one where iridescent crystal caves lead the way to a room that opened to a volcanic inferno and the skies split into colors that don’t exist in this world. His tone is chipper, bearing no trace of strain, but his eyes shift around the people surrounding him, fidgety.
Holding the reins of the conversation, he answers all questions without missing a beat. Even those directed to his friend Maxim, who sits with slumped shoulders to his left and appears to be stunted by more than simple fatigue. Ah, but Simon does not hold that against him: the boy had been gravely injured in his journey, hadn’t he? Juste mentions that his friend suffered from amnesia; as Simon himself had quickly blocked any memory of his fights with the Count, he can only nod in sympathy.
Lydie sighs that Maxim has been very brave, in rushing to save her despite all the hurdles he had faced. The boy does not so much as crack a smile.
It will take time before the first scars start to form.
The familiar darkness of the night is what welcomes Simon as he opens his eyes.
(No longer due to the evilness embedded in his flesh. Just old, old age. He has to remind himself.)
Sleep no longer weighing his limbs, Simon refused to toss and turn in his bed and chose to rise on his feet, to not wake up his Selena. He had an inkling on the case of his unrest, after all.
Simon has never been one able to sneak around stealthily and peer from crack in the doors, but thankfully for him and his heavy step, exhaustion seems to have won against Lydie, who is sleeping the sleep of the angels in her own spare room, and Maxim, sprawled on Juste’s bed face down.
Juste himself, however, has not succumbed yet. With his white hair and skin illuminated by nothing but candelight, he appears like the visage of a ghost. Simon is only mildly surprised to spot him sitting near his friend, playing with a lock of hair between his fingers and leafing through a tome crackling with magic. He has not so much as changed into his night robes: he is still wearing his combat clothes, and next to his crossed legs, the Vampire Killer dangles.
It is hard, after swinging it, to convince yourself that you can place it elsewhere.
Senses as sharp as befitting of a vampire hunter, Juste snaps his head towards the door, and his eyes flash in embarrassment at being caught. Taking care to not make much noise, Simon beckons his grandson to step outside the room; after he fumbles to find a good marker for his book (he was taught well), Juste obliges.
“You shouldn’t read in the middle of the night,” he jokes conspiratorially, “or you’re going to lose your sight before I did.”
Juste huffs in amusement and rubs his eyes as if to delay the onsets of age. “Did Lydie fall asleep?”
“She made herself right at home. And so did Maxim, from what I’ve seen.”
“Thank God,” Juste sighs. “Yes, Maxim didn’t even hit the bed before he started snoring. I was worried…”
Simon does not ask why he hasn’t followed suit, as much as it pains him to see the boy up and alert and with shadowed eyes.
With Simon leaning on his grandson for support, the two slowly make their way towards the study – where tomorrow, Juste will be asked to recount his journey from beginning to end, no detail spared, so that he will earn his place in the history of the family.
Simon will be with his grandson in every step of the way, that day. But for now, he only wishes to spend his time with the boy away from the noise and celebrations.
Juste throws himself on a comfy armchair, but he himself does not look too relaxed. He twitches, rubs his nape, throws glances at the pile of books meticulously hand-written through generations and the bust of Trevor Belmont that observes his descendants through its scarred eyes. Simon’s grandfatherly desire to not put any more pressure on the boy than what is already crushing him clashes with his role as the Belmont patriarch, responsible for the whole town’s, and his family’s, safety.
“We have been too busy welcoming you back, that I did not have the chance to take a proper look at you,” Simon says, putting a hand on Juste’s arm. “Are you alright? Are you… hurt, in any capacity?”
“I am fine.”
At that clipped answer, Simon has to stop himself for forcibly exposing Juste’s neck. His grandson has not been himself since he returned: he lacks his sanguine disposition that brightens up the house, and he slumps as if he’s shouldering a burden. To a degree, Simon fully comprehends the state he’s in, and it is not in his desires to push him to the breaking point. But now, a inkling of worry is creeping up his neck…
“Juste, don’t—”
Make the same mistake that I did.
According to the annals, Simon defeated Count Dracula only once.
He blows air from his nose and fixes his glasses. Surely, Juste is smarter than he was at his age. “If anything happened, you should tell us straight away. I, your father, we can help. You know that, right?” A lump, perhaps his own hypocrisy, prevents him from saying You’re not alone.
“Nothing happened.” And yet, Juste’s eyes are fixated on his own hands, tormenting one another. “That thing I killed was too weak to even touch me.”
The boy spits the words as if they taste foul. Simon is not surprised: legend says that the Count rises once every century, and as far as he knows, his second encounter that he wishes to dwell on as little as possible has been the only exception. Is that what is upsetting Juste so?
“A monster’s claw is not the only thing that leaves a scar,” he insists, as softly as he can. Simon used to be thankful for the exceptional strength that God has granted him, but with time he realized that brute force is often a poor tool, least of all with people.
That seemed to have breached Juste’s defenses, judging by the way he worries his lip. Resting his bones on a nearby armchair, Simon awaits, hoping that his grandson will chose to confide in the older Belmont and knowing that he might not. Simon himself would have sooner spoken to the tombs of his ancestors than his own grandfather, after all.
And then, Juste speaks, in the tiniest murmur.
“I thought… I would be prouder of myself.”
Ah. That is precisely what Simon prayed would not come to pass to his grandchild. He hums, not willing to interrupt him with platitudes such as You should be. There is hardly any room for mere pride, when you survive Death himself by the skin of your teeth.
“Perhaps it is because,” Juste continues, muttering, “what I fought was not the real Dracula. Just a phantom. A counterfeit…”
Then, Simon must have assumed right.
“How did it came to be? How are you sure it was a phantom?” he questions.
“Well, he had no recollection of our family. It almost didn’t make it worth it,” he laughs, a bitter sound, that he covers with a hand. “And… Death used… Lydie’s blood in a ritual. B-b-but she’s alright now!” he hastens to add the moment Simon grips the armrests. “You have seen her. She has not so much as a scratch on her.”
Simon falls back on the armchair, scratching his jaw. The thing that had met him in that cursed crypt was very much the family’s old enemy, brought back to existence by his sheer hatred. And the relics that Simon had been forced to collect, used, like a follower of darkness…
His blood freezes in his veins. The relics! Could it be? Simon was positive that he had burned them all, and buried the vampire’s hand in an excuse of a burial. Did Death recreate them, in his endless quest to never rid the earth of his Master? If so, why would Juste not mention them?
No. Now he’s simply assuming in bad faith, and insulting his grandson in the process. He had studied himself how Death has a predilection for human vessels. His deplorable attempt to use Lydie to infuse life to the Count would have been enough, had it not been for Juste and Maxim’s swift thwarting.
“I see, a sacrifice,” he nods with a lighter heart. “We have been blessed, that nothing worse happened to our Lydie. She is lucky to call you two her friends.”
And at long last, a corner of Juste’s lip twitches, and for a moment, Simon goes back to when the young man sitting in front of him was a baby that fit in his hands and nothing mattered more than making him laugh. With a smile, Simon leans forward towards his grandson: “Then I will say, if you cannot, I am more than proud of you. That creature could have grown into something deadly, hadn’t you stopped it. Perhaps, even become the real Dracula. There is nothing you should feel ashamed of.”
Juste, overwhelmed, bows his head, until those unruly bangs of his obscure his eyes.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it? Regardless of what it was, I did what I had to do. I’m a hero now.”
That… doesn’t sound right. Nor does the hollow tone in Juste’s voice. Who put those ideas in his grandson’s head?
He spares a glance at Trevor Belmont’s bust above them.
“It’s not about glory, Juste,” Simon furrows his brow, returning his attention to the boy. “It’s about fulfilling the mission God has given to our family.”
It makes for a terrible lie. Juste was never meant to even see Dracula’s visage, not when Simon himself has done so for his sake. He was meant to learn the history and techniques of the Belmonts passed on from father to son, and practice his magical talent, but nevertheless live a life of peace in the village!
Perhaps there is no such thing as peace for their family. It is not up to Simon to question God’s plan for them, of course, but… He only wished to make a happier world for his children to live in.
“No, that’s not…” Juste stammers, and now not even the whip at his hip is spared from his twisting and tormenting. “I meant that Maxim and Lydie are safe, and nothing happened to them. That is more than I can ask.”
But if that were the plain truth, why does Juste sink into himself as the words stutter out of his mouth? His friends are safe and sound. His grandson himself spent the last two years worrying and fretting and wringing his hands over Maxim’s disappearance. Why is he doing everything in his power to hide the obvious burden on his back?
Did Simon fail as a guide?
(And why is he, now that he thinks of it, acting like Maxim himself during dinner? What could they both have done? He considers, for a moment, to wake up the other boy and shake answers out of him.)
“Juste,” he calls – pleads. “I will ask you one last time, for the peace of mind of us both. Did something happen in that castle?”
He waits, in the silence that follows. In the faint moonlight, Simon strains his eyes to observe Juste, the way he plays with his hair, the way he seems on the verge of falling into a confession, before pulling back at the last second.
“No.”
Simon’s heart drops.
“Everything is fine, really,” Juste insists, straightening his back with exaggerated confidence. “I… It’s just… it all felt like a dream. I still can’t believe… Well, you understand, don’t you?”
Trying his utmost best to not give a sign of his disappointment, Simon nods gravely. Going through Dracula’s castle makes for a harrowing journey, impossible to forget even decades later. He may have not witnessed precisely what Juste did, for the vampire’s realm is a chaotic one, but that stench of decay and evil still follows him all that time later. No one else alive can understand the impact of stepping foot into the antechambers of Hell itself.
“There is one thing.”
Simon perks his head at Juste’s tiny admission.
“The phantom said another thing. He said… With the cursed powers of yours, destiny calls you to hunt for all eternity.” Juste, too, raises his head, to meet Simon’s gaze – and his pale eyes shine with a watery plea. “Is that true, grandfather?”
The creature seems to share its progenitor’s wicked cruelty. Simon scoffs at it, glad that Juste was able to destroy it, yet… he has no rebuttal to soothe him with.
There is no point in sugarcoating Juste’s fate, now that he’s knee-deep in it. No matter how young he looked to Simon, still not carrying the scars of manhood. He, too, has hardly found peace, ever since he had managed to pull his body back from the brink of death.
“I am afraid so,” he murmurs, for Juste’s ears alone. “As long as you draw breath, you are still a hunter of the night, until your child inherits our sacred heirloom; then, you will be a shining light to them.”
How miserable of a sight it made, Juste hiding his head in the collar. It brought to the surface painful memories, a concoction of dread and misery and panic in the attempt to bury it all: back when Simon’s flesh first started to rot on his bones, and he knew, he understood at once, that a Belmont was not owed an easy life. Juste was bound to learn the moment he wrapped his fingers around the Vampire Killer, that much was written in history, but nevertheless…
“But that,” he puts a hand around the boy’s other shoulder, in a half-hug that hopefully simmers as warmly as a full one, “is in the far future. For now, Juste, you can rest, enjoy your well-earned victory, and spend your time with your friends.”
Juste doesn’t return the embrace. However, his muscles relax under Simon’s palm, like a breath being released.
“I intend to do nothing else, for the time being,” he smiles the smile Simon has always known. “They still need me, I fear.”
That sounds more like his Juste, and is enough to relieve some of the pressure in Simon’s chest. The matter is not settled, far from it, and tomorrow, Simon will have no choice but to be the Belmont patriarch and dig deep into what Juste has experienced, as much as the prospective doesn’t thrill him. But right now, crouching in front of the newest Belmont hero and looking at him straight in his eyes of that characteristic Belmont sky hue, he is not the patriarch of a long family of warriors: he’s a grandfather who only hopes to lift his grandson’s spirits.
“I wasn’t joking, earlier. I am proud of you, of your strength, and how deeply you care for your friends. Please, allow yourself to celebrate who you are: a Belmont, a savior, and the best companion and son anyone could ask for.”
And it is now, under Simon’s praises, that Juste at long last topples forward, in his grandfathers arms; his pride and joy mutters something in the crook of his neck that resounds like a broken Thank you, grandpa, and no matter how tall he will grow, no matter how many creatures of the night he will slay with their whip, Simon will be there to hold his boy until his limbs can support the both of them. That, will never change.