Relic of the Past
by DomaDragoon




Theyíll be here shortly. To assume that the pitiful defences Iíve put up will stop them is foolish and vain. Rest assured, I am neither.

No, you shouldnít leave. It wonít take long to say what I need to, and youíll be gone before they arrive, if you so wish. So please, sit down. Iíd offer you some tea, but needless to say the kitchen is in a mild state of disrepair - it crumbled over three hundred years ago, and there was no need to replace it. You donít find too many guests willing to come here, and those that do have an unpleasant habit of killing their host.

You, though... youíre different. What did you say your were? A biographer? Rather peculiar that you would choose a subject whoís been dead and reborn so many times. But I digress - this meeting is to talk about me.

Of course, youíve heard the tale about Vlad the Impaler. Brutal fellow, killing his enemies without compassion or a clean death. No, I wasnít the legend behind that figure - he lived and died such as any mortal would. He was my father, and I hold it as a measure of personal pride that it was I who killed him. He was a monster, a kind even worse than myself - he chose to become what he was.

I grew up in Transylvania, unaware of anything but pain and suffering. Wherever my father went, such things followed. Is it any surprise then that I became what I am today? He was a brutal man to me, and even worse to my mother.

Your eyes flickered for a moment there. You want to know about my mother. To be honest, so do I. From the moment of my third birthday onward, I never saw her. But I could hear. Her screams. Her begging. And eventually, her death. To be honest, I never knew her name. But I can remember.

My father was ruthless, but a fool blinded by bloodlust. He never saw the revolution coming, and he definitely would have been shocked to see me at the head of it. That is, if I hadnít stabbed him in the back first. He trusted the one person he shouldnít have, even when he didnít trust anyone else. I was sure not to make the same mistake, although the end result was the same. Pardon me, Iím getting ahead of myself.

The true story of my origin comes at that moment. My father knew he was dying, and quickly let loose a powerful curse upon the one who had killed him. I thought nothing of it at the time, as quite a few peasants had done the same to him and nothing had happened. Of course, no peasant ever dabbled in the black arts as he had.

The people rejoiced at the fact that their oppressor had been vanquished, and were uncommonly grateful to me. They willingly built Castlevania for me, so anything the other sources youíve contacted say about slave labour is completely false. Could you honestly see me lording over a group of peasants, cracking a whip at them to get to work? An ironic picture, to be sure, but false.

After Castlevania was built, I contented myself with solitude. There was no need to involve the lower classes with my life, and the peasants were content enough without the yoke of tyranny upon them. For the next twenty years, life went on as it did in all other regions of the world - simple, but fulfilling. The farmers sowed their crops and harvested. I suppose that in my own way, I was doing the same.

There was a darkness within me, one that I could barely feel at the time. Slowly my mind began to become not my own, but instead of a ravenous creature out to feast upon the living. While my body kept on living, my soul started to wither away. In short, I was being transformed against my will.

I donít remember the first time that I abducted a peasant to quench my thirst, but I can still remember his face as it gazed in horror at me. Perhaps he was a farmer, or a merchant. If I still had any control, I would have tried to save him. No, perhaps not. I was always the sensible one, and I couldnít have allowed him to escape after he saw what I had become.

He was but the first. Over the next ten years, I would add to my collection with countless travellers who stopped for the night, or unlucky peasants who were around at the time of my hunger. As my army of the undead swelled, it seemed as though I was living my fatherís life all over again.

And then I met her.

She was beautiful in body, mind and soul. To this day, when I close my eyes I can see her smile brightening up even the darkest corners of these dreary walls. She was the only person I have ever truly loved, and gave me a son for whom my respect can never end. In all ways, she was an angel. Angels, though, have no place with devils, least of all one such as me. The Lord above deigned to give her to me for a time, and then cruelly yank her away with mankind. I may never know whether my time with her was a gift or a torture.

No, I wonít talk about her here. One such as I should not deign to remark upon her beauty and radiance. If you are truly interested, and must include her, then talk with my son - he shall be here shortly. Adrian is with the group who even now has reached the front doors of the castle. I suspect that he would wish her story to be told as well, even if it involves myself as well.

After her death, I grew embittered with life, and strived to put an end to it at any cost. Rather than let people come to me, I would march out on them. Any strides I had made towards reclaiming my humanity were wiped out. For me, there could be only revenge. I was little better than an animal at that time - an intelligent animal, to be sure, but an animal all the same.

That was when the first Belmont came to put ďan endĒ to my reign of terror. She was truly powerful for a mortal, especially surprising considering that unlike her descendants, she had no supernatural blood running in her veins. I underestimated her power, and she destroyed my body. She thought that she had ended my torment - but death would not come so easily for me.

Through the years, I would rise again and again with my castle, and my minions. Each time, courageous vampire hunters would come to put an end to whatever schemes I would have planned against the mortal world. There were some occasions where my son took up the fight himself, though he hasnít done so alone in nearly a century. Eventually, I grew tired and gave up on petty revenge. Now, I just sit and wait for them to come. I fight, but my heart is no longer in it, so to speak.

Take a look outside that window there. Four hundred years ago, you would have been able to see a beautiful courtyard and garden below, and if you looked far enough a quaint township over the walls. But times change. Now you see broken cobblestones with weeds peeking out between them, no wall to block your view of the neon lights of a medium-sized town. The hunters used to come with whips and crosses. Now they carry firearms and explosives.

I, and Castlevania with me, have become relics of the past. The life we once had, even the death we once had, no longer apply in this world. One day we may simply fade away, and never return. I await that day with great joy, for it will be an end to my torment.

They shall come soon. If you want to leave, then go. There is nothing left to say that has not been said. But I implore you - let the world know the truth. Perhaps then, when no one is left to wish for my death, can I finally die...