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A thunderclap roars through the air, and all Simon can do is cling to his cloak as the harsh rain pelts him further.
Careful, keep your eyes alert and scanning the floor, the sky, the ground. He knows he should be relieved that he hasn’t encountered many monsters this night. That does not clear up the feeling of looming wrongness in his heart. There have never been this little foes in his path. Do they aim to ambush him? He tightens his grip around Vampire Killer, trying to ignore the unpleasant heat in his gloves. His nerves are causing him to sweat. That is all.
There- something at the edge of his vision moves. An enemy? No, just an owl. It stares at him with wide, yellow eyes before taking off again. He wonders if his eyes have the same piercing properties as the animal. Simon has only been able to catch his reflection in murky ponds or puddles. There is no time to stare at how the curse has warped him. He feels he wouldn’t recover if he had to see it closely. Still, the image of last time nags at his mind. Red hair, so close to the color of blood drying for a couple moments he wondered if he had suffered a head wound without realizing it. Yellow eyes, almost starting to slit like a cat’s. And his teeth…
He prays it is just a distortion of the water when he thinks his canines look almost sharper. The persistent ache in his gums is working hard to prove him otherwise, but Simon cannot stop to think about that. He is on a time limit, and if he succumbs to his curse he does not think Death will be severing his soul from his body. He thinks he will get back up, and that makes him force his decaying body to move just a bit faster despite the way his muscles protest.
The rain is a small mercy. It soothes him, if only slightly. He should be more on guard, but the sound of drops landing rhythmically has always caused him relaxation. Still, he dares not take his hand off his whip, even if his hands would benefit from the cool water. Only to clean them from the dirt he’s accumulated while traveling, of course.
Maybe the rain is masking the sounds of threats? That must be why he thinks he’s alone, and the sound is also hiding him from them. A happy coincidence. He has never been eager for combat, but the thought of walking for so long uninterrupted causes fear to worm through his mind in a slow trickle. His stomach aches in hunger.
There is an explanation for that, and an explanation for why all of his food tastes like ash on his tongue. It is the curse, plain and simple. It was designed to make him sick, and certain sicknesses make it hard for you to eat. Another layer in Dracula’s plan to make him suffer.
Sometimes he wonders if Dracula was ever a man. The origin of vampires is unknown, but the fact that they could turn humans into one of them had to say something about their reproduction. It is always a sad day when someone has their humanity wretched away from them, souls rendered forfeit by a creature who cares not for who they are hurting. It is the duty of the Belmont clan to lay those poor souls to rest, and is that not what they’re trying to do for their eternal enemy? It might be more like putting down a rabid dog, but even that was a mercy to the animal and the others around it. Better to die swiftly than waste away. If anyone knows, it’s Simon.
There is something about the former humanity of vampires that has haunted him for quite some time. The thought of being ripped away from a normal life, doomed to lurk in shadows and leech life from those you once knew has been bothering him recently, although he couldn’t tell you why. He doesn’t think he wants to know why. Foolish Simon, getting wrapped up in his thoughts. He just needs to focus on getting to shelter for now.
Shelter… it has been quite hard to find recently. People are not too keen on letting a man like him nearby, even before the curse began to tear through him. He tries not to begrudge them for it. He understands, really. They just wish to be safe. So does he, and if that means he has to flit through towns like a ghost, pausing only to ask for information and purchase goods it means he will. A couple kinder people will recognize his whip and offer rooms for free. It is those pockets of mercy that let him continue on.
Simon tried to visit a church just this evening. Night was approaching fast, and the soft drizzle was beginning to come heavier and faster. If there was any place that could offer him sanctuary, it was here, yes?
And so he had knocked on the door, feeling heat seep through from the wood. It was so very cold outside. He was cold. Someone’s voice had come through, croaking about how they couldn’t take anyone else in and they hoped he understood. He asked if they had anything to help, and the voice tentatively cracked open the door, revealing a warm, golden light. It fell harsh on his eyes. He had spent too much in the darkness, so they were not used to it. As expected. The voice had gasped at the sight, dropping a bottle of holy water before slamming the door. Mercifully, it did not break. He had scooped it up and carefully turned it back and forth, looking for any cracks. Phantom warmth seemed to cling to the bottle, pressing through his gloves. It must have been boiled for… some reason. Maybe it was a local tradition? Yes, that seemed right.
Another crack of thunder through the night. A tentative look up at the tree canopy revealed slight patches so dark it seemed as if any light would be swallowed whole, not that he had a lantern with him. He was able to see relatively well for so late in the night. The lightning, illuminating the forest for him with its lingering glow. Distant strikes must keep it at a visible level, even if he cannot see or hear them. The rain had begun to seep through his cloak. How unpleasant.
Even when he had found shelter, whether that be an inn or something sparse like a cave, Simon did not sleep easy. The curse would not allow for it, tormenting him with strange dreams in the night. During them he felt famished and desperate with an almost animalistic desire to tear into something and slake his thirst. He ran as fast as he could, furiously pursuing his quarry through a dense forest much like this one. They were a cunning foe, but they had such glaring weaknesses. He could see them from a mile away and hear the pathetic rabbit-quick beat of their heart in fear of their pursuer and the pump of blood in their veins. He was like a shadow, ever-shifting to catch up to them. A frantic swarm all flapping and shrieking before he hit the ground on all fours, snarling and howling after his prey. Eventually, they would be able to run no more and he would lunge no matter what form he took, before being sharply jolted back to reality with the ache being stronger than ever. He had taken to sleeping with the Vampire Killer wrapped around his wrist once they dreams started, and that seemed to help somewhat. The curse is taunting him. He is they prey in this situation.
But if he was, something seems to protest, then why would he feel the triumph of a good hunt still pounding in his chest when he woke? Why would he feel the hunger lessen for just a moment, briefly causing the rich, heavy taste of blood and meat to fill his mouth before leaving him behind with the ash? Why don’t they ever fade to the back of his mind like normal dreams do, carved into his memory? Why does he seem to almost look forwards to them when he lays down to sl-
He swings Vampire Killer, rendering a single, wandering skeleton into nothing but bones. He strikes at it again, even though it is a pile on the ground. Again. Crack them open. See if any marrow remains inside. Something hums. Is it Vampire Killer, pleased to be used for her intended purpose of purging the monsters of the night? Or is it something much sicker that has taken root in the hollow of his chest, warping him from both the inside and outside? Something drips down his face. Has the rain seeped through his cloak fully? Simon pauses his brutal swings to reach a hand up and touch at the liquid.
Blood? But he isn’t wounded, so surely it cannot be that. Then it must be tears. But would tears gather like this in his hand? Maybe if mixed with rain? But then wouldn’t they roll off? Not if his body blocked the rest of the rain. It strikes him then that he cannot tell what they are, even when the sky lights up with a blinding flash. He does not know which one disturbs him more.
He looks down at the bones, broken apart by… what? His frustration? His righteous anger? His bloodlust? It was not right of him to do this, not even to a creature of the night. He uncorks a bit of his holy water and pours it over the bones. May whatever soul those used to belong to find peace, and if they do not then at least soothe their wounds.
He had once attacked any monster with nothing more than the knowledge that they were wretched beasts seeking to slaughter blindly. Alone in the woods, he wonders if they feel guilt for what they do.
His tongue touches the ends of his canines. They are sharp, and thankfully not much longer than they used to be. Simon makes a promise as he wades through puddles and leaf litter: if by some miracle he makes it out of his quest with his humanity intact, he will make Dracula a grave. Perhaps it will do nothing to stop his resurrection, but it is the thought that counts.
Another howl of thunder. Simon might be a hunter, but he does not think he could live the life of a vampire. He owes it to the Belmont clan, and if not them then to his home. They do not need another threat menacing their land. He would find a way to return the Vampire Killer; she would hate being stuck with who she was meant to slay, and then find a nice patch of sunlight to curl up and die in. If that did not work, a stake through his heart would surely do the trick.
It is not that Simon wants to die. He wants to live so badly it hurts in a thousand small ways, even when it would be kinder to his battered body to just lay down and accept his end. But if his life comes at the risk of others then what reason does he have to keep going, especially as a parasite constantly hungering for blood?
He wonders if God would grant him mercy if he ever ended up like that. Strike him down in a brilliant blaze of lighting like the ones around him, grant his charred bones peaceful rest. He doesn’t think he’d care if no one remembered him. Simon has never been one for martyrs anyway.
The downpour continues. So does Simon. Indeed, it is a terrible night to have a curse.