Castlevania: Genesis and Revelations

I.

Richter yawned noisily.

His wife Annette, standing at the stove in the kitchen, looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him.

"I didn't sleep well," he answered simply from the kitchen table.

And it carried over to the morning. His usually well-groomed chestnut brown hair was in a long tangled shock, his otherwise intense steely eyes dull gray as a fog. Even his strong jaw couldn't hold itself up. It had been a long night, one that had worn out him over its length. He hadn't slept, and after the clinging, haunting nightmare he experienced, he didn't even try to.

However, it did give him a chance to think.

To remember. His past, his dark memories, from a lifetime ago had stormed into the forefront of his mind with a vengeance -- and a message. The same loathing he knew when he stumbled through a roomful of a stinking carpet of demon and undead humans he'd just turned into corpses, the same horror when he faced an abomination like the Slogra, was what he felt within the nightmare and felt it ebb from him after he awoke. It was a raw fear he still recognized, and it was conquered only by courage to have the will to live even amidst all the death. Seventeen years since his last encounter with Castlevania and Count Dracula and his servants, that fear remained. Even victory over them hadn't been enough to overcome it.

Such fear was a blessing, though, he reluctantly admitted to himself. It was a warning. If all he knew was bravado in battle or in life, he'd never have had the good sense to turn and run when he was outmatched. These same instincts had motivated his grim curiosity and drew him to the shutters last night. Quietly he'd unlatched and opened them. His stomach had sunk as if he'd swallowed a millstone: Through the skeletal tree branches, a bloated harvest moon shaded in crimson hues presided over the night. A sanguinary moon. It was a not a good sign. Then his suspicion that his nightmare had meaning had become certain fact to him. It too was a sign. And there were others outside his own whose significance suddenly came into greater focus. This year he'd heard crops throughout Transylvania had been blighted, miscarriages were as frequent as births in some towns, many daughters on the threshold of womanhood were committed to asylums, and some even to the grave, after fits of raving insanity. Witch hunters, he'd heard, had moved quickly to purge these places of unclean elements. Even so, the stories had continued. Much of these stories were hearsay, but collected together in light of the bad omens the sanguine moon and the nightmare represented...well, they were more than could be ignored. Especially by a Belmont.

He'd seen this twice before.

Richter's callused mind at last forced his unbelieving heart to face what it did not want to see: Castlevania would be returning from Hell once again, the third time in his lifetime. It may already have returned.

He looked at his favored hand, the use and abuse it had taken through the years of training and more. It was still strong as it ever was, but like him it had seen forty-one long years. He silently asked God, Haven't I fought the undead often enough in the Church's name? You will bind up the Devil himself for a thousand years at the end of this age, so why can't these lesser demons be bound for just one hundred years as they once were for my ancestors? Of course, he knew it wasn't for him to question. He also knew this fight wasn't--

A light touch on his shoulder interrupted his troubled thoughts. "Richter, what is on your mind?" Annette asked. She gently set down a silver tea service on the table, and poured two steaming cups of Oriental tea. He gazed through the gossamer veil of steam between them, at her beautiful golden hair and the delicate face it framed, at the wisdom and years in her sapphire blue eyes, and wondered how he could ever lie to her.

He did not. "How beautiful you are, for one thing."

She smiled as she sipped her tea. "You'd looked so distant and serious. I just wonder if there's anything bothering you."

"Let's not spoil this morning with my problems. They can wait." At least Richter hoped they would.

Annette stared at him a moment, looked like she was about to say something but didn't. She shrugged slightly. "Very well."

The silence thereafter was too long and a touch awkward.

"Do you have any plans for today?" she abruptly asked.

"No, nothing that can't wait."

"Then perhaps we should visit Veros."

"Oh?" he replied blandly. Inside, however, he was relieved and pleased she'd mentioned the idea. It was a half-thought he'd been courting last night through this morning, for a course of action for him to start taking. "Why?"

She shrugged. "I know it's not the best time to visit. Prince Nikolae has placed the city under curfew again, because of threats of Protestant uprisings...but still."

"Yes, there are many reasons we must go. Never mind the rest of that. It's just the Habsburgs tweaking the Protestants, to remind them who's in charge, nothing else. We'll still be careful, of course."

"I guess you're right. Well, I can't say why you might wish to go, but I have to look for supplies for the winter and I also should visit Maria."

"Your sister? So do I. I have to see Gregor as well. I haven't seen my son for too long."

"I have to admit I thought you might want to." Annette poured herself another cup of tea and blew the steam from it. "You read the letter Maria sent me, didn't you?"

"Yes, about how much Gregor has learned at the convent. I didn't think it would be much of a help to him at all, but from what she says, he's come a long way in the last two weeks. Learning about sacred weapons, the Church's Codex Diabolum, and so forth. Who'd have thought Maria could've taught him that as well as she says?"

His wife smiled. "He has an uncommon nun for a teacher."

Richter returned the smile. "Uncommon, yes."

"'He's becoming more and more a Belmont every day', she'd wrote, too. I just pray he won't ever have to prove it."

"We can hope," he replied, his grin all but gone.

Richter excused himself then, certain he couldn't continue the conversation. She was getting too close to his fears. There was an answer for him: distraction, which he had in abundance in preparing for their trip to Veros. With a wagon drawn by a two-horse team it would take the rest of the day and into the next to arrive there, and that agreeably required him to prepare, to work. There was nothing like good, hard work to clear the mind. Or to focus it. Outdoors and alone, as he packed the saddlebags he came across many reminders of his worries over Castlevania, Gregor and Annette. In fact he was going out of his way to accommodate those old worries by himself.

Before he went outside, he'd spirited from the attic his weaponry he'd kept in a locked cedar chest, a family heirloom. He hadn't looked at them at all in years, thinking long ago he'd finally left his war against the Geschöpfe behind. Now he had no choice but to; he paused from his work to inspect the time-honored Vampir Killer whip crafted for him by his father and the Church. He brushed off the old, rusty blood from himself and demons from the handle. The Latin benediction carved in the otherwise brilliant silver by the Pope or one of his scribes was worn and unreadable -- though he knew it by heart. May God by your hand tame all unholy spirits. Looking further down the length of that magnificent weapon, the iron links composing its length were as new as if they had come straight out of a smithy's forge. The condition of the whip was in its own quiet way another miracle. And it still felt right in his grip. Someday, though, he would have to pass it down to his son...

He carefully packed it away in his personal saddlebag. If the signs he'd seen and heard were altogether heralds of Dracula's return, and even if he and his castle weren't here already, he'd need the whip in case he and his wife were ambushed by his followers on the way to Veros.

Richter removed from the saddlebag the less remarkable leather armor he'd worn into battle and looked it over. Unlike the whip, it wore its years rather badly. The armor was cracked, flaking and brittle, and scarred from claw and sword cuts. Even so, he had no less a fondness for it than the whip. Both had served him equally well through the years, so out of deference to the service it had provided him he placed it in the bag as well.

Now, if only he could equip the strength and agility of his long-ago youth so easily. He sighed in rueful reply.

Then Richter redoubled his efforts, and without interruption or distraction, finished readying the horses and packing. Quickly, too. He was finished faster than he thought he would be. He parked the wagon outside the house and waited for Annette, but not for long. She presented herself in her best traveling wear, and he helped her into the wagon. They did not leave their remote, secluded homestead often, and when they did, they dealt with it like an event.

Despite the bumpy dirt road, Richter urged the horses into a lively gallop. They wouldn't make it to Veros by sunset, but by God he was going to reach the Carpathian Inn down the road before then. His warrior's instinct warned him not to chance being outside after dark. One way or another, he was going to see to that. It didn't matter that the sun was shining brightly, or that this day was chilly even for a Transylvanian October, there was something wrong in the air. Outside the relative safety of his homestead, he felt it especially strongly. It was the tense silence in the air when two opposing armies faced each other across a great gulf, or the calm before the storm. Even the tall, elderly pines flanking them on either side of the road seemed to hold secrets behind their boughs, and every rise in the road seemed rich with potential ambushers on the other side. He might've dismissed his worries as baseless fear, but he remembered an archbishop once telling him that if he weren't a Belmont, his perception of evil would've made him a fine exorcist.

"Richter?" Annette interjected.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you." he replied, glancing at her. She looked disturbed. It was a pity that he couldn't perceive his wife nearly as well.

"You're wearing your thoughts on your face again, love."

"I am?" He flickered a smile. "I was just thinking, that's all."

She adjusted the brim of her white hat. "Don't tell me you're thinking about how beautiful I am. You already said that this morning."

"Very well, but it's still as true now as it was this morning." He winked at her. "Maybe more true."

Her face flushed and then she frowned. "Don't change the subject. If you're hiding something important from me, do you think that's fair? I am not fragile porcelain that breaks if you look at it the wrong way. I have been captured by Count Dracula and lived to tell about it. I have seen many of the same things you've seen." The longer she talked, the more forcefully certain about herself she seemed. "Our marriage came from those experiences we shared. And our trust. And our love."

Richter blinked. "I know, I know. You're right. It is important and you should know. I only ask that you wait until sunset. Please."

She looked mollified. "I can." She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.

Richter left her to her smiling self-satisfaction, loving all of her. The fire, the spirit and her beauty. For that reason he didn't want to be the one to inform her what he believed to be true.

He returned his attention to the road, noticing the more numerous grim hallmarks of Habsburg rule along the way. Burned remains of wagons, buildings and homes that looked worse and worse whenever he passed by, peasants become vagrants. Such was the arrogance of the imperial Austrian overlords over their province, and in truth, the reminders of their presence were only different from highwaymen because they were out in the open. They were Vampir in their own right. One part of him wished he could lead a revolution against them, even though they were Catholic, but that was impossible. The Church forbade any Belmont from joining any mortal conflict for any reason. The reason for that, as he understood it, was that as much as humanly possible was to be done to ensure the continuation of the Belmont bloodline. In fact, the Church even lined the pockets of the Transylvanian government to leave the Belmonts alone. They were never conscripted for service, never taxed, and arguably lived more comfortably and securely than the boyars. Yes, the nobility would probably be jealous if they knew. Their status was more remarkable still being that they were native Transylvanians, who were otherwise on the whole stamped underfoot as serfs.

They rode past another burnt shell of a wagon. It was a real shame he couldn't repay the advantages he'd had over his lifetime by helping to free Transylvania from tyrannical Habsburg rule.

However, Richter thought, allowing himself some leniency; however, his family alone was commissioned to prepare for and take on Dracula and his army of Geschöpfe and demons before they spread their chaos and death like a disease. The Belmonts were the one and only sure defense against this force of Hell. No one else. It was not arrogance, it was truth as far as he knew. Everyone else had been too fearful and superstitious to challenge Castlevania every time it reappeared -- a feeling justifiably reinforced when anybody or number of people dared venture inside, because they never came out. The luxury of time he'd been bought was to determine how to do once more what no one else was prepared to do.

If Castlevania returned.

If.

How he hoped he was wrong!

The Carpathian Inn appeared in a clearing around the next bend. It was just as well. The sun was descending toward the horizon, setting it the color of flame. Besides that, his backside was sore from the bumpy trip, reminding him why he preferred not to leave his homestead. But if he had to leave, this was as good a home away from home as there ever was, even if just for the night. He stopped the wagon in front of the cozy, well-lit veranda and helped his wife off, grabbed the bags, and left the reins to a stablehand.

The proprietor, a roundish, balding man, met them at the door. "Ah, my favorite customers! Richter, Annette, it's been too long."

"Hello, Jakob," replied Annette, smoothing the wrinkles from her traveling mantle.

Richter was too busy balancing the several bags under his arms to add to what she said.

"Where are my manners?" Jakob exclaimed. He quickly opened the door and relieved one or two of the bags from Richter, and escorted them inside. It was pleasingly warm after a day riding through chilly air, a fire already burning in the hearth. The delicious smells of dinner were mingled with those of people after day-long travel. "There we go. I take it you're here for a room for the night?"

"Yes, and any room will be fine," Richter said.

The other man nodded. "Very good."

Richter and Annette followed him upstairs and down the hall. He unlocked the door and showed them in. The room was, to say the least, fit for a boyar. The walls were mahogany with inlaid panels of marble and the floors were carpeted in royal blue velvet. Dominating the midst of the room was a stately canopy bed with curtains that matched the carpet. All about them were meticulously crafted statues. The couple slowly ventured in as though it were a cathedral to secular opulence. Jakob beamed with no small amount of pride. "Do you like it? I just improved it last summer. It's yours for the night."

"I-I don't know if I brought enough to pay for this," Richter murmured. "Surely there must be another room."

"No, no, it's my gift to you. I added this room last summer for wealthy merchants and nobility, but I think these surroundings would be graced by your presence. It occurred to me that I've never properly showed my appreciation for what you've done." He dropped his voice. "You know what I mean. Twenty-one years ago? I still remember."

"Veros...yes, how could I forget?"

"You saved my life. The gesture of thanks has been a long time coming, but this is the least I could do."

Richter shook his hand heartily. "Thank you."

Jakob sighed mightily, as if to ward off a tear or two. "Well, come down for supper when you wish. I'll have plates warming for you." He abruptly turned on his heel and left.

Annette turned from studying an oil painting to offering a look of plain admiration to her husband, echoing what she showed when he'd rescued her twenty-one years ago.

"What?" he asked, ill at ease being looked at with childlike admiration from his own wife.

The moment passed, and she closed her eyes, seemingly swept up in her own memories. "Nothing...just surprised that someone still knows what you've done, fighting against Dracula and all. I'm moved." She opened her eyes and smiled. "I can't help it, I love you."

"I love you too, Annette." A moment of deep knowing passed between them. With it, a shadow of concern passed over her face. Richter turned away. "Let's change and get something to eat."

"Yes. You had something to tell me at sunset, didn't you?"

"I do."

They took their bags, Richter taking special care to take the one that had the whip in it before his wife might see it. She didn't need to know about that yet. He shoved it under the bed toward the back. It wasn't the smartest thing to do to leave the whip unattended, where someone might somehow find it and steal it. That was not the foremost concern for him, though. Nor was changing. He called to the boudoir and told Annette she could meet him downstairs.

Alone, he let the worries running amok in his mind drive him downstairs in a hurry. He barely acknowledged Jakob as he almost ran into the dining hall, ignoring other patrons who were too busy eating to notice him. There, in the large front window. Sunset had passed. He had an excellent view to see if his dread would be met by a different reality. The horizon was aflame in crimson in the wake of the setting sun, the approaching twilight closing in fast to claim its rightful place in the sky. Lengthening shadows consumed the Transylvanian countryside like a dusky wildfire. Only the tallest skeletal trees of October still caught the fiery light of the horizon, and all things beneath were eclipsed in grey. It was an evening like any other autumn evening, it seemed.

"Richter, what are you standing there for?" Annette suddenly spoke in his ear. "Come, take a seat."

His eyes were fixed upon the sky, while he unthinkingly felt his way to the nearest chair. She sat across from him, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and worry which the candle on the table made ghoulish.

Then, through the wind-whipped shreds of burning clouds a bloated harvest moon rose. And a bloody hue tainted the face of it.

His heart sank.

"Now, what secret were you going to tell me?" she asked.

"Look," he told her.

She turned and looked. Her face went white as milk. "Oh, my God," she whispered.

"Yes, if you see it too. I can't be mad."

Jakob interrupted the thick atmosphere, two plates in hand. "Here you go. Our specialty. Veal cuts in a secret sauce only the chef knows the recipe to. All that matters is that I've never had any complaints from my patrons," he said brightly.

"No thank you, not right now. I don't think we're hungry. If you have any strong red wine -- no, white wine, rather -- I'd appreciate it."

"White wine? I'm not sure if we have any more, but I'll see if I can find a bottle for you."

"Thank you," Richter returned wearily.

After they were alone, Annette asked, "Is it a sign that it is happening again? Already?"

"I believe so."

"How long did you know?"

He glanced again at the sanguine moon. "Since last night, maybe longer, except I didn't want to admit it to myself."

"Ah, I see." She searched out Richter's intensely blue eyes. "If what you believe is right, then one of us will be called upon to face this threat. Youth is no longer on our side. I'm not sure we can wage this war."

"I know."

She shook her head, as if she were trying to shake off a terrible memory. "I thought all of that was behind us."

"It may not be." He sighed. "We must be prepared if Castlevania returns, if it hasn't already."

"How?"

He forced himself to steady his voice and be strong for her. "You're right, it can't be either of us. There is only one Belmont--"

"But he's only fifteen!" she exclaimed through a hiss, a terrible truth dawning on her.

"--who can face Castlevania," he continued, measuring his words. "He's already adept with the whip, and what he doesn't yet know can be learned quickly enough."

"Our son Gregor? Our only child?" His wife trembled with upset. "How can you suggest such a thing?"

"We have always found a way before to prevail. Together, you and I, we will make certain he's no less prepared than any other Belmont before him."

"He is too young to fight. No Belmont has ever fought Dracula that young."

"You said we were too old for this. And you were right."

"There must be someone else," she insisted.

"It is the commission of the Belmont family to fight Count Dracula." The words sounded hollow even to him, though they were no less true. Hundreds of years ago a pope himself had ordained the Belmont clan as a secret order, an order even more secret than the Knights Templar, of warrior-priests solely dedicated to preparing for and neutralizing Castlevania. It was a high calling that had always been met with the greatest level of service. This would not, could not, change now. Generations of parents before them knew the same sorrow of sending the eldest of their Belmont offspring into battle against Dracula and his legions, and it was merely their generation's turn. They would not fail God, the Church, their ancestors, and humanity by refusing to risk the sacrifice of their son in a righteous cause. Their extraordinary advantages in everyday life carried a price in facing the horror of the supernatural. Annette understood this as well as he did, though seeing the torment on her face reminded him that Gregor was more than the property of a long legacy. He was their son.

She suddenly clutched his hand. "What about Alucard?" she asked frantically. "Yes, Alucard. He will certainly act to prevent his father from trying to establish himself here."

Richter winced inside. "No. There's almost no chance that will happen. He has sworn he will never see us again, and I believe he is one who keeps his promises. At least during our potential lifetime, he will not chance crossing paths with us. That especially means anything having to do with Castlevania. He has separated himself from the human race forever, and I believe would sooner choose to be dead than have to fight his father yet again."

Annette was frozen, her nails ground into Richter's hand like anchors. Tears began to run down her face. "God's will be done," she whispered, as tears began to run down her face. Richter gently blew out the candle, to give her the intimacy of darkness to mourn all things that were and those things that could not be.