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There was a certain melancholy to the catacombs. It hung in the air like a miasma, heavy and thick. The tension of it threatened to choke lesser men, steal the warmth from their bones and whisk away their spirits.
Rahadin walked those dark, dour halls unflinchingly. They were as much his home as any other part of Castle Ravenloft.
Spirits both real and imagined lurked in the shadows, but their pleas and platitudes did not sway him. He was not so faint of heart as to let himself be swayed from his duty. And there was no solace he would offer even if he let them divert him from his path.
Even in the darkness he could navigate easily. He had learned to eschew light long ago, for all its burdens and troublesome revelations. The dark suited him just fine; he had no need for anything else.
But there was light down here, even if sparse. Grand statues flanked either side of the shimmering veil that guarded the tomb of his Lord’s forebears. The radiance illuminated the stairs descending even further down into the castle depths, though its light did not reach as far as it should; the darkness that enveloped the castle was too great. Once, Rahadin might have stood before it, taken a moment to marvel at the feat of magic and engineering that this tomb guard represented. Now, he merely snapped his fingers to dispel the barrier of light that would repel all who were not deemed worthy.
Such protections were never meant to keep out family.
If not for the faint layer of dust that had begun to gather on the tombs of King Barov and Queen Ravenovia, it would have appeared they were utterly untouched even by the passage of the days since Rahadin last visited. Without the light from the barrier, the resplendent mosaic did not shine, but Rahadin still took a moment to behold the grandeur of the man and woman that had taken him as theirs, as unflinching and steadfast as they were in life, and the dark stone tombs that contained all they were anymore.
A stroke of something akin to melancholy fell across his heart. He knew, in his Lord’s grief, that he rarely visited this chamber where his parents were laid to their final rest. A life of dedication to his father’s war, and he would never get to enjoy the spoils. A grand triumph to finally build this monument to his mother’s brilliance, and she never got to see it. Their bodies offered no solace, no recognition, no approval for their eldest son. Thus he would withhold his grief from them in return.
His Lord had every right to his despair, and Rahadin would always and forever honor that. But Rahadin had his own grief, and his own duty. Thus, he tended to their parents’ graves in his brother’s place. Careful hands wiped away the barest layers of dust that had begun to gather on the stone, polished the glass until the cliffside could be seen clearly even through the dark. There were no riches to account for, no relics to maintain; all had been passed on to their son, as the dead had no use for such frivolities.
He did not pray. He did not speak to them. He knew that no one would listen if he did.
What would they think if they could see what had become of their family? Would they mourn or celebrate the man his Lord had become? Would they prioritize their youngest in his death as they had prioritized him in his life? Would they finally offer Rahadin the atonement he needed for all his failures?
He did not know, and it was fruitless to speculate. There was nothing to be gained by chasing ghosts, by disturbing the rest of the dead, by yearning for a past long gone. All there was left was to tend to their final resting place so that they might find the peace they were due.
This, at least, was something they would be satisfied with. A tomb befitting their regality, and a dutiful son to maintain it as the days wore on into centuries.
The veil of light closed behind him as he made his way back up stairs that had been seen by so few living souls. There was still much work to do.
For all the darkness that Castle Ravenloft held, it also cradled the only place where one could find something resembling sunlight in Barovia. Young Sergei’s tomb was resplendent in its radiance, just as the man himself had once been many centuries ago. And yet even through the brightness there was a softness, a gentleness, as though the marble walls were holding young Sergei’s memory with grief and longing and reverence.
For a moment, Rahadin just stood in the threshold of the tomb, taking in the light and the love and the melancholy the space exuded. The space was full of contradictions, where young Sergei had been straightforward almost to a fault. Somehow it fit him perfectly, and yet it didn’t fit him at all.
Even after all this time, Rahadin couldn’t shake his regret over young Sergei’s fate. For all his faults, he had been a wonderful young man—kind, valiant, dutiful, devoted. If given the chance, he could have done incredible things. He could have made his family proud. But instead…
Instead, he chose love over duty, idealism over faith. Instead, that beautiful, misguided soul found his way to tragedy. Instead, Rahadin was left to tend to his tomb.
Though there was never much work to be done. The white marble walls and columns never lost their splendor to wear or grime; the resplendent coffin never gathered dust. Every time Rahadin entered the tomb, it was as pristine as it was when young Sergei was first interred. If the gods offered such solaces, he might think it was a miracle. In truth, it was likely some strange magic, protecting the tomb from the ravages of time, just as death offered that same protection to the entombed himself.
Rahadin came anyway. He had a duty to fulfill. Tending to young Sergei’s grave was just as much about the ritual of it all as it was about the appearance of the site when the work was complete. It was a show of respect, a way of saying that young Sergei was not forgotten, not even in death. He may not have won great victories in battle, may not have been annointed as a saint, but even if Barovia forgot Sergei von Zarovich, his family would not.
Rahadin would not mourn. He would not wonder what could have been. But he also would not forget. That much, he could offer the man who once may have been his brother.
(That much, and no more. His duty, his fidelity, his bond was always to his Lord first and foremost. Never did he regret where he lay his loyalties. He had chosen his path willingly, knowingly, and would do so again a thousand times over. But sometimes, staring at the way young Sergei’s tomb reflected impossible light, he allowed himself to wish that things could have been different.)
The light, gentle as it was, began to hurt if he lingered for too long. After so long in the dark, the broken promise of something brighter burned. His duty done, Rahadin swept out of the tomb, still pristine and timeless as though he had never been there at all.
The serenity of young Sergei’s tomb did not extend to the rest of the catacombs. Shadows grasped at his feet like clawed hands searching for deliverance he could not offer. The halls echoed with the sounds of mourning, too faint to hear and yet impossible to drown out. Centuries of dust and grief clouded the air, a world of difference from the clean, crisp air of the forests of home. Even Rahadin could not quite call himself comfortable in this harsh place; even he did not like to linger longer than was necessary.
Where young Sergei’s tomb was bright, warm, welcoming, Lord Strahd’s tomb was dark, foreboding, hostile. The darkness in this place was absolute, far moreso than anywhere else in the catacombs, threatening to choke anyone who did not belong. The air was cold, a chill that went deeper than bone, as though trying to seep the life out of any who entered.
But for all the malice that the tomb exuded, for all the great power and station of Lord Strahd, the interior of the tomb itself was simple. There were no grand decorations, no intricate carvings or marble statutes depicting the great deeds of the man who had conquered Barovia. The only hint to the significance of the place was the weight in the air, and the wooden coffin carved with such care and diligence.
Rahadin stepped gracefully onto the dirt floor of his Lord’s tomb—the gravesoil was vital to the maintenance of his eternal countenance, his Lord had once said, otherwise Rahadin would have cleared it out long ago. A slow loop around the perimeter of the space allowed him to wipe away any stray grime from the walls, but more importantly gave him the chance to absorb the atmosphere of the place that was, in a way, most important to his Lord. Despite the way the air was heavy with power and implications, this was the part of the catacombs Rahadin found himself most comfortable. There was a solace here, a familiarity, even through all the grief and regret that made the air thick with shadow.
Once, he had been ready to see his Lord interred, permanently, into a tomb like this. Perhaps he would have served his Lord’s children, or perhaps he would have been released from service, but unless he laid down his life to protect his Lord, his own life would continue far beyond the life of the man he bound himself to. And he had made peace with that. But he could not pretend that he was not happy for this twist of fate; to be able to serve until the end of his days, to see his Lord’s coffin as a source of rebirth and not ending, was nothing short of a gift.
And yet…
He placed a hand atop his Lord’s coffin. The wood was cold to the touch. Even after all this time, he didn’t know where it came from. It had just appeared, after Barovia had been pulled into the Mists, as though a promise and a threat.
Lord Strahd was many things. He was a great and powerful and merciless ruler. He was a genius tactician and a fierce warrior. He was one of the most brilliant mages Barovia had ever seen. He was a devoted brother, both to the brother he had killed and to the brother he had adopted.
And he was also tired. Few even within Castle Ravenloft could see it, but Rahadin knew his Lord better than anyone. Years of darkness and torment and isolation had worn away at him surer than water against a stone. The flame of his heart was dying, slowly but surely, and Barovia as it was had few sparks to reignite it. He may not lie in his coffin, but he was withering as though he was, and Rahadin could do naught but watch.
Rahadin would do anything for his Lord, but he could not set him free.
He skimmed his hand across the top of the coffin before finally drawing it away. There was no dirt to be found, but there rarely ever was. Even his hand didn’t leave a trace.
Tending to the tombs was about the ritual of it, the show of respect, just as much as it was about maintaining them. Rahadin was nothing if not a dutiful servant. He would serve the von Zarovich family, even in death, even if it didn’t matter at all.