Chapter Text
Leon Belmont grits his teeth, burying his face into a red muffler as he struggles through a snowstorm back to his party’s stranded carriage. He is hunched over from the weight of his unconscious travel partner swung over his back. Tucked into his coat is a bundled child: his son Séraphin. Each step he takes jostles the baby, and Séra squirms against his chest, but he’s grateful for the disturbance as it leaves him with no doubt in his mind that his son is alive.
Leon knows that, perhaps, he should have left Séra in the carriage where he’d be insulated and not exposed to the elements, but the thought of wolves or other creatures finding his son before he could return with Trefor in tow? That was too much for Leon.
The ex-Baron shouldn’t have taken the Celt’s word for it when he said their horses could handle the Romanian cold (later that Trefor could retrieve the runaway horses with no problems), that the weather couldn’t be that dastardly, that Leon should trust his well-travelled companion and stop worrying.
If Trefor endures through frostbite, he won’t survive Leon’s hands wrapped tightly around his neck. The rusty-haired man’s travel prowess is matched only by his gross overconfidence. That and perhaps his friendship. Leon supposes he’ll miss their conversations if he kills Trefor, but he’s far too cold and bitter at the moment to reflect on any of that. Despite his morals and virtue, he allows himself to fantasize about enacting petty vengeance on his unsuspecting friend, even if he has to nurse the man back to health before doing so. It would be a waste of resources, but it would be worth it to tell the Celt: “I told you so.”
With each step the blond takes, the snow gets higher, reaching above his knees and soaking the fabric of his trousers. The cold seeps into his bones, threatening to slip past his boots and gloves to attack his extremities. Trudging through the ice, Leon swears he can hear a voice calling out in the distance. He tightens his grip on Trefor’s legs around his waist and steels his nerve. No one but them would be foolish enough to be out in this weather. Desperation and anxiety are leading him to hallucinate.
Each time he closes his eyes, his tears from the harsh winds threaten to freeze his eyelids shut. Exhaustion makes it awfully tempting to keep them closed, to travel blindly for but a moment if only to rest his eyes. Without realizing it, he does just that, and his fatigue takes hold of him. He staggers through a few more steps before collapsing on his side in the snow. Séraphin squirms and cries as his father’s consciousness fades.
Leon hears a voice once again, closer now. It calls to him like a siren song, promising warmth and sanctuary in a tongue he doesn’t have the time to recognize. His awareness is quickly fading as he feels something drape over him and Trefor. Nimble hands sink into the snow beneath the fallen travellers to lift them from the ground.
Coiled safely on his belt under his coat, Sara screams.
Chapter Text
As Leon slowly rouses from a dreamless sleep, he hears voices discussing something. He recognizes a few words from his limited knowledge of Romanian, but the younger of the two repeats a phrase he’s never heard.
“Îl iubesc,” it says in a lilting whine. The voice has an accent that Leon would call Germanic if he were more confident with Romanian. “Îl iubesc, Vater.” Ah, so they are German. At least two Germans, a father and a son.
When Leon opens his eyes, he finds a young man hovering over him, eyes alight with manic excitement. Dark brown eyes - almost red - gaze down at him like a cat eyeing his meal. The young man’s platinum blond hair is pulled back tidily with a ribbon. The stench of death permeates the room, and in his efforts to calm himself down, Leon breathes in far too much of the smell.
“Close,” the blond murmurs, too stunned to communicate what he was thinking, which was: “get away from me.”
“Look at the way the snow clings to his lashes. It shines like diamonds on golden thread.” The young man reaches out to paw at the blond’s face. Leon recoils from the touch.
“Manners, mein Junge.” The other figure in the room makes himself known. “We wouldn’t want to frighten our guest.” The man’s gaze is as cold and hungry as Walter Bernhard’s had been when the hunter first met him; of course, of all the creatures to save Leon from the cold, it had to be the coldest predator of all.
Leon takes a deep breath as the young man backs out of his personal space with a pout. “My name is Leon Belmont. I am traveling through Romania with a friend and my son. Are they safe?” Despite his apprehension, Leon doesn’t forget his manners. Such noble instincts aid in diffusing conflicts before they can begin, but they also mean he has to reveal information about himself to receive any back. Such was a frustrating game of give-and-take.
“Welcome, Sir Belmont, to Schloss von Krolock,” the elder of his two hosts says with a flourish, sensing Leon’s noble lineage, it seems. “I am Count von Krolock, and this is my son, Herbert.” He gestures to the young man in question, but instead of glancing at the garishly dressed son, Leon keeps his eyes on the man addressing him. All features of the Count are sharp and defined, lending themselves to a chiselled look that makes him… handsome in that way only monsters can be. A smirk creeps onto the Count’s face as if he can read Leon’s thoughts. The ex-Baron hides his concern under a mask of aloofness. “Your companions are accounted for.”
Herbert punctuates his father’s statement by thrusting his hand into Leon’s face. Social norms say to accept the son’s hand and plant a kiss on his knuckles. Instinct tells him to cast holy water into his eyes. The young man giggles as Leon’s lips brush his hand.
“Herbert was the one to find you in the snow with your companions.”
The young man preens upon receiving the credit. “You were frozen to the bone, mein Freund. You nearly caught your death.”
As if on cue, an infant’s cry cuts through the air. Leon jumps. “Séraphin-” Hands steady him as pain shoots up his abdomen. “Mon bébé-!” He thrashes in Herbert’s arms, uncaring for politeness and hospitality.
“Herbert, keep our guest calm as I get the child.”
No! Leon wishes to scream. Stay away from my baby boy! The pleas refuse to come out, and he chokes on his panic. The Viscount shushes him, and Leon can hardly contain the urge to break the hand brushing through his golden locks.
When the Count returns to the room, the ex-Baron cannot help a flash of horror upon seeing Séraphin still in the creature’s arms. However, his fears are dashed when Krolock returns his son to him. Leon pulls Séraphin flush to his chest immediately, crooning to the infant in unintelligible French. The baby giggles and beats at his father’s chest with tiny fists. “Apa! Apa!”
Leon plants several kisses on the baby’s crown, chuckling in relief. “Apa’s here.”
Then, he remembers himself and where he is. When he looks up, he finds the amused gaze of the Count burning into him. Beside him, the Count’s son looks at his Séra with unbridled jealousy. Leon cradles his baby close to his chest. “Pardon me. I-”
“I understand, Sir Belmont. I am a father as well.” Krolock punctuates the statement by running a hand through Herbert’s long, platinum locks. The young man appears to be placated by the act, and Leon does his best not to show his relief.
An infant is an easy meal for a creature of the night. In fact, from scholars he’s met on his travels, he’s learned of vampires in the East feared best for their infanticidal cannibalism. However, if Séraphin is safe… and he has yet to have seen Trefor-- “My travel partner,” Leon blurts. “Is he well?”
“Ah, him.” The Count shares a smirk with his son, and Leon is filled with immediate dread. “Yes, he is well. I could have Herbert escort you to his room.”
That will make throwing Trefor over his shoulder and sprinting from this godforsaken castle much more complicated; he’d like to pass. “That would be nice,” Leon says instead, standing out of bed with Séra cradled close to his chest.
“Oh, but we need to get you into something more presentable,” Herbert posits as he draws Leon in by the lapels of his jacket. Those cold hands trail up to graze his neck - thankfully obscured by his turtleneck.
Leon shifts to hold Séraphin with one hand and grab Herbert’s wrist with the other. With an ingratiating simper, he suggests: “Let’s be patient. I’d very much like to save that until after I check on my friend.”
The Viscount stills, cheeks flushing with blood Leon wasn’t sure he would have. With the ex-Baron’s hand still clamped around his wrist, Herbert rushes out of the room, pulling Leon along. Leon relinquishes his hold once they’re out of the room, causing Herbert to pause and look over. With a nod of acknowledgement, Leon sets a much calmer pace, and Herbert follows suit.
“What a gentleman you are. Could it be that you want to savour the moment with me?”
“I would hope that this isn’t a time-sensitive matter,” Leon states, ignoring Herbert’s flirtation.
The absence of fear or reciprocation does nothing to drive the platinum blond away. Instead, Herbert links his arm with Leon’s own, leaning on him as one would their lover. “It isn’t! We have all the time in the world to get to know each other.”
In a gamble to take his mind off his predicament, Leon looks down at Séraphin cradled in his arms. The child stares curiously at the young man practically hanging off of his father’s shoulder. Herbert gives the baby a scowl, sticking his tongue out childishly. Séraphin giggles and makes grabbing motions towards Herbert, and- oh no.
“It appears he likes you,” Leon grits out. That makes everything regarding this situation all the more difficult.
“Likes me? He mocks me.”
The blond scoffs. “Don’t you remember being a child?” he asks, though he figures the young man must still be one mentally. “They’re incapable of mockery at such an age.”
“Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve been that young, Leon.” The hairs on the back of Leon’s neck bristle as Herbert breathes coldly into his ear. It takes every ounce of restraint to keep his hands from inching closer towards the vampire killer whip hidden under his coat. However, first and foremost, his focus is on maintaining a firm but not restrictive hold on his child.
“We’re here,” Herbert giggles into his ear, relieving the blond of his presence for just a moment as he steps forward to open the door. Immediately, Leon spots Trefor sprawled across a large bed, mouth hanging open in a snore. “We put you in separate rooms figuring that you might be more comfortable without…” Herbert gestures towards the intolerably loud sleeper.
“How thoughtful,” Leon muses. He steps into the room, stalking towards the right side of the bed. “ATTENTION!”
Trefor shoots up immediately, hair a mess and mouth smeared with drool. He groans, pulling out a handkerchief to make himself more presentable. “Did I find the horses?”
“No, you did not find the horses,” Leon answers, unimpressed. He doesn’t want to think about what may have happened to them. “Awaken and greet our host,” he instructs his friend tensely.
“Oh.” Trefor’s eyes drift toward Herbert. “Oh.” He wastes no time, taking the young man’s hand and planting a kiss. Herbert looks less impressed with Trefor than the ginger is with him, though his pupils seem to dilate at the sight of the Celt’s rosy skin. “Thank you for your hospitality,” Trefor drawls with a grin. Leon shoots him a glare to communicate the dire truth that this man is not to be trusted, but Trefor readily ignores the warning. “We’re in Romania, finally. And who is it that I have the pleasure of meeting today?”
“I am Herbert von Krolock. My father is the master of this house,” Herbert answers with a smirk.
“Herbert von Krolock,” Trefor repeats. “That’s a fitting name- very regal.”
“And you might be?” With each compliment Trefor pays, Herbert’s smirk grows, and Leon wants nothing more than to violently shake the Celt by the shoulders.
“Trefor Llewelyn. If I had known we’d be meeting nobility, I would have dressed better.”
You have nothing suited in your wardrobe for such a meeting, Leon doesn’t say. He turns to leave. Let the fool flirt with the Viscount for all he cares.
“Oh!” At the mention of better dressing, Herbert is pulling Leon out of the room. “You promised!” he sing-songs.
“What in hell did you promise?” Trefor calls out, following behind the pair.
“Nothing,” Leon grits.
“We must get you out of those clothes, mein Freund!” Herbert cheers mirthfully, and Leon can't discern whether or not the innuendo is intended.
“Oh.” Trefor pauses for a moment before running again to catch up with them. “Oh!”
If not for the child in his arms, Leon would smack the Celt.
Chapter Text
After being roughly shoved into a dressing room, Leon sighs, laying his son down on a cushioned seat. He coos to him in French and smiles when the child’s eyelids droop. To be able to fall asleep so easily had to be a blessing. He imagines the only reason he was able to sleep through being brought to this castle was exhaustion.
Remembering why he is here, he shrugs off his coat. He’d had the foresight to wear two, a heavy winter coat he bought especially for this journey, and the sleeveless coat that was his signature. Undoing the belt around the second coat, he lifts the vampire killer whip to his lips, planting a soft kiss on the leather hilt. Sara hums in contentment as he sets her down. Leon then takes off the second coat, and after folding it neatly and placing it near Séraphin, he pulls off his chest plate, gloves and turtleneck. While he’s relieved of his shirt, all his scars from battle are revealed. He resists the urge to trace each one; he has no time for such sentimentality. Under his shirt, he wears a leather neck-guard as another layer of armour against vampire attacks. The result is him looking like some strange upright pet with a collar, but the extra protection suggested by Liza is much appreciated.
Liza… they need to reconvene with her in some way. He and Trefor should have never left the village that day. They should have stayed per Liza’s suggestion, or Leon should have entrusted her with the care of Séraphin. He can blame Trefor’s poor planning all he wishes, but he’s the one who went along with it. Damn men and their pride.
Just then, the door to the small room opens, and the ex-Baron spins around to find the Viscount staring at him. Those predatory eyes scan his body before settling on his neck. The young man’s lips part in awe at the sight of the collar.
“Yes?” Leon asks. “Have you selected what you wanted me to wear?”
Herbert jumps, snapping out of his trance. “Ja! Ja! Here.” He presses a shirt against the blond’s chest, smoothing it out in a motion that Leon knows is an excuse to touch his body. “This shirt…” he trails off, looking at that black leather collar again. “... and a coat!” He rushes back out of the room, and Leon catches the shirt before it can fall. The blond pulls it on, and before he can do anything else, Herbert returns with a cardinal red coat. “I had picked out trousers, but that leather…” the Viscount purrs.
Leon keeps a neutral expression as Herbert steps forward, hands hovering over his waist.
“May I?”
Leon frowns, bemused. “May you…?” The platinum blond doesn’t wait for a decisive response as he grabs the end of Leon’s shirt and tucks it into his trousers. The hunter tenses, feeling clawed hands so frigid that they threaten to suck the warmth from his body. Gritting his teeth, he responds: “I could have done so myself.”
“Oh, but it’s so hard to get it even on all sides,” Herbert explains as he spins the hunter around, tucking in the back of his shirt. “Like here,” he breathes into Leon’s ear, pinching his backside gently.
The blond stares at his son, lying peacefully beside his abandoned clothes. And though she’s far away, Leon can sense Sara’s presence in the whip, crying out for her love to come to her and vanquish this creature. However, Leon knows he can’t do so without putting the lives of his child and Trefor on the line. As he silently prays for Sara to understand, her cries peter out into a dim hm. In his sleep, Séraphin leans closer to where the vampire killer whip is stashed away.
“You don’t talk very much,” Herbert tells him with a pout, helping the blond into the red coat.
Straightening himself out, Leon grunts. “I’m afraid my conversational skills falter when I’m under duress.”
“Well, that just won’t do! We must talk!” The Viscount attempts to take his hands in his own.
The ex-Baron pulls away, making sure to do so as gracefully as he can. Then, he regards the noble with a gracious smile. “Don’t feel so compelled to speak with me. Once the opportunity poses itself, my party must be on its way. My recommendation is that you don’t get too attached to my company in the meantime.”
The smile Herbert gives him in return is cloying. “That’s perfectly fine, for you see, the storm you lost yourself in hasn’t let up.”
This horrific news is said to him in such a cheerful tone that Leon can’t help but feel whiplash. “Is that so?”
“Yes, what a misfortune. I assume you rode here, and your horses were lost? Your carriage must be buried. I wonder what other clothes you had packed with the intention to wear.” Herbert stalks around to Leon’s front, placing himself between the father and his sleeping child. “I’d love to see- oh!” Despite himself, Leon panics, hands grabbing Herbert’s hips and holding him in place to prevent him from threatening his son. The platinum blond squeaks before throwing his arms around the ex-Baron’s shoulders. “How forward of you, sir. What would Vater say?”
Leon freezes up, realizing the unfortunate placement of his hands. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” he attempts to backtrack, pressing gently at Herbert’s chest. “You’re a nice young man, I’m sure…” or you would be if not for… numerous reasons.
The Viscount presses against the hands on his chest as if accepting a caress, grinning lasciviously. “How chivalrous! But there’s no need to worry about tainting a blushing virgin while you’re with me, Sir Belmont.” He leans in as if to share a secret. “Your friend told me you were a Baron. That allure of honour clings to you.” The only thing clinging to Leon at this moment is Herbert himself.
Leon’s so angry with Trefor’s indiscretion that he shoves Herbert back without a thought.
The young man falls away with an offended huff. “If I’d known that would turn you off--”
“What did Trefor tell you?” the blond demands.
“I don’t think I want to tell you,” the platinum blond huffs, crossing his arms bitterly. “I’m afraid you have to beg, Sir Belmont.”
“Leon.”
Herbert looks at the ex-Baron with surprise and intrigue. “Hm?”
“I relinquished my title; I feel you should know that.” Leon despises needing to explain this to every person they come across on their journey. “Though I’m sure Trefor already disclosed such information?”
“Perhaps,” Herbert responds coyly. “He refused to reveal the reason why- as if he wasn’t allowed to speak of it.”
“He isn’t,” Leon confirms. Unfortunately, discretion is not a word in his Celtic friend’s vocabulary, yet “Leon Belmont is of noble lineage.” is.
“He also said you were travelling with a woman.”
If Leon weren’t a pious man, he’d find Trefor right now and defenestrate him. “We were.”
“And your connection to this woman?” Herbert asks intensely, leaning far into the blond’s personal space.
“I’m afraid that is information I’m not willing to disclose,” Leon responds with venom in his tone. There is no chance he’d threaten Liza’s wellbeing by pulling her into this.
“How unfun,” Herbert pouts, stepping back. “You’re affianced.”
The statement is true, though not in the way Herbert intended. Leon doesn’t care to correct him if this could stop the platinum blond in his advances. “I apologize if I have disappointed you.”
The Viscount grins like a predator. “Au contraire, Sir Belmont,” he purrs, and all Leon can do is restrain a shudder.
If he closes his eyes, he’s returned to the Succubus’ den or the sodden dungeon he’d found Bernhard’s head lieutenant wasting away. Or, even worse, in a military tent on the front lines with his closest friend and superior officer shivering beneath him. However, he doesn’t close his eyes and instead gazes into those mahogany eyes that regard him hungrily.
“You’ve done nothing but impress.”
The praise does nothing but strengthens Leon’s inner conflict, and he worries that the Viscount knows that. What horror would it be if this man could read his thoughts and know that he once preened at such compliments when they were paid to him by a man he now swears to kill? Herbert struts forward, closing the distance between them again. The ex-Baron forgets to bite back his gasp as the seemingly younger man’s freezing hands caress his chest again. Herbert smirks smugly, leaning in to--
There’s a knock at the door.
Chapter Text
A woman with short pale hair and honey eyes treks through the woods. She feels hapless as she stomps heavily through the snow, walking for hours and having to manually pull her feet from the ground every few steps.
The last thing Liza wishes to see on her journey to reconvene with her small travel party is one of the horses that had been used to draw the carriage wandering listlessly in the frigid Romanian woodlands. Panic floods her senses as she calls the mare to her, brushing shaking hands through its mane. “Shh, girl. Where have the boys gone?”
The mare sighs, pressing its face into Liza’s gloved touch. Then the horse turns, looking off into the dark, snowy distance. In the distance, Liza can see a glimpse of something buried in the snow.
The carriage!
Liza rushes forward, cursing as she finds the doors sealed closed with ice and snow; she doesn’t bother with that, hanging the lantern on a hook to have her hands free to dig the wheels out of the snow. She only manages to uncover one before she reels away from her task, hissing and clutching her now bleeding hand. Something sharp must have sliced into her glove. No matter, no matter, Liza continues with her work, for she knows that if she were to leave their carriage in this weather, she’d never find it again. Trefor and Leon had taken their food, clothing, and weapons. It was morbid to consider, but such supplies would be worth more to her at this moment than two men and an infant who could very well be dead already.
After what feels like an eternity of clawing at the ice with torn-up gloves, Liza finds she can push the carriage and nearly cries with relief. She calls the mare back to her and fastens the horse to the coach with trembling, bleeding hands. With her luck, one has already become food for wolves. Gripping the reins tightly, she sets forth on her journey.
Liza comes to a castle as dark and foreboding as the one she had entered months ago in search of her betrothed. She clutches the crucifix around her neck as well as the engagement ring that accompanies it on the chain. As far as she’s seen, this castle is the only mark of human life in these mountains for miles. As such, this could be the haven her party took shelter in or their prison.
The gate opens when her carriage approaches, and her trepidation increases by the second. “Whoa,” she commands, bringing the horse and carriage to a stop. As she steps down and surveys her surroundings, she finds that architecture is unlike any she has ever seen. Perhaps all Romanian castles are structured that way, but she can’t be sure.
“Willkommen.”
Liza spins around to find a tall figure at the gate.
With a flourish, he introduces himself, flicking his cape back in such a way that its rustling sounded like the beating of wings. “I am Graf von Krolock, and this is my castle. I welcome you to join me inside.”
Despite his distance from her, he seems to loom over her. In nature, he resembles… that man. The huntress curses herself for not having her bow gun at the ready. She steals her nerve and addresses the Count: “Have you met with any travellers lately?”
“That I have,” the man confirms with a coy smile. “Could it be that you know them?”
“Yes, it could.”
“Hm,” if the Count is perturbed by her noncommittal answer, he does not show it. “My son Herbert found two men buried in the snow not far from our home. With them, there was a child, the son of one of the men… Séraphin, I believe, was the babe’s name.” Liza jerks forward, and the Count chuckles. “It seems you are familiar with them.”
“Where are they?” Liza demands. The men could hold their own, but poor Séra… if this man touched even a hair on the infant’s head, Liza would--
“Why, the Celt was washing up just a moment ago, and the Frenchman is accompanying my son in search of something to wear.”
“And the child?” she asks, suspicious.
The Count seems none-too-phased. He’s played this game before. “With his father.”
“Take me to them. I have an urgent message that needs to be delivered.”
Chapter Text
The knocking that disturbs Herbert and Leon serves as a warning rather than a request to come in as the door opens before either man can say a word- Leon steps away from the platinum blond as the Viscount’s father steps into the room. The Count regards him with a knowing look, and Leon wonders how much the man knows.
“We have another guest,” he announces.
Herbert bounces on his heels, clapping at the idea of more company. Leon doesn’t know whether to be endeared or put off by his enthusiasm. “Ooo! Another one!”
“Yes, mein Sohn. This woman claims to have been travelling alongside our friends.”
Herbert’s face sours at the mention of a woman, but Leon perks up. “Liza,” Leon says without restraint. He steps forward as the woman barrels through the door.
Herbert glares at Liza, and the huntress returns the sour look.
“Come, Herbert. Let us give them a moment of privacy,” the Count says, gently ushering his son from the changing room and closing the door behind them.
“Liza, thank goodness you’re-” Liza cuts the ex-Baron off with a fist to his jaw. Leon chokes on his surprise as he bites down on his tongue hard enough to bleed. The blond groans, falling to the floor in a heap. “That is fair,” he grunts.
“Sir Belmont?” the Count calls from just outside the door, sounding quite alarmed.
“Have no concern, I am well!” Leon assures him. The pair of hunters wait for footsteps to clear from the door in silence before carrying on their conversation.
Liza gasps at the sight of blood now dripping from the corner of his mouth. “You’ve bit your tongue, you fool!”
Leon throws up a hand to keep her from lunging at him. “You punched me!” he retorts, his voice muffled by his hand as he wipes away the blood.
“They found you dying in the snow,” Liza grits, her voice dire.
“The horses got startled, and Trefor ran after them and nearly caught his death.” At the woman’s sour expression, Leon maintains: “It was freezing, Liza.”
“First, you ignore my advice and go out into the night, then you get kidnapped!”
“We’re safe now,” he assures her despite his own apprehension.
“Are you?”
“Liza, if I weren’t convinced of such, I would not have undressed in this place,” he retorts.
“Undressed…?” That gives Liza pause, and she gives him a once over. “They gave you clothes,” she acknowledges.
“That they did.”
Liza scoffs. “You can strip the Baron of his title but never of his fancy clothes.”
“Can the same be said of a Marquise?” he asks rhetorically. Liza huffs in disdain, straightening out her dress on impulse. “Save your energy for something other than scorn, Liza.”
“Give me something incapable of holding my scorn, then.”
There is no such thing, so he decides to simply change the subject. “Have you met with Trefor? Have you given him the same treatment?”
“Yes, I had very many things to say to him, but most important was-”
“I told you so,” the pair of hunters say in unison.
Liza sighs. “If there is only one thing that we can agree upon…” she trails off, fondness in her voice.
“Indeed,” Leon replies.
Chapter Text
Leon sits alone with his son in the middle of the bed he had awoken in when he was first brought to this castle. His belongings from the carriage have been moved into this room, perhaps by whatever servants the Count might have employed. Liza has decided to stay with Trefor, and Leon can’t help but feel grateful that they will have each other.
Séraphin, the blessed child he is, has had the luck of being able to sleep through most of this ordeal, unaware of the threat this castle and its residents pose.
Just as Leon thinks this, Séra stirs in his arms. “Mama…” he murmurs through tiny lips. His hands cling to the fabric of Leon’s shirt as his feathery black eyelashes open to reveal eyes much like Leon’s own. “Mama?” Confusion colours the infant’s youthful features before turning to fear. “Mama?! Mama!”
It’s then that Leon realizes Sara isn’t with him. The vampire killer whip lies in his pile of clothes, humming louder as Séraphin cries to the soul bound to the leather. Leon quickly retrieves the whip and sits down with his son and weapon cradled in his arms.
“There’s Mama,” he assures the baby with the bitterest of fondness. “Mama hasn’t left. Mama and Apa will protect you.”
Séraphin giggles, grasping at the whip with tiny hands that barely circle the handle.
“How curious.”
Leon jumps, looking up to find himself in the company of the Count, who he certainly did not hear enter. “Excuse me?” Trepidation fills him as he meets the man’s cold, inquisitive gaze.
Krolock’s eyes are ice, and Leon wants nothing more than to shield his son from that threatening blue. “Your son sees that weapon as his mother?” the man’s deep voice lilts with curiosity and suspicion. The corners of his mouth seem to lift as if he were amused somehow.
“It belonged to her,” Leon explains quickly, forging a story. In his head, he pieces together a full one in case further questioned. The whip is a family heirloom of his dear Sara: a part of her dowry. Most of its value lies in sentiment that Leon never got the chance to learn about. It is a decent enough lie. “As it stands, this whip is the last thing either of us have of her.”
Pity crosses the Count’s features, and the ex-Baron doesn’t know how to feel about his host’s concern. “My condolences,” the man offers. Leon nods and means for that to be the end of it, but Krolock goes on: “I too am a widower. Herbert’s mother passed away when he was just a boy.”
“My condolences,” Leon echoes the Count’s comfort, bowing his head in respect. If Liza were present, she’d ask with the utmost audacity if the death had been at the Count’s hands. He can’t blame her, but Leon, despite all suspicions, doubts the possibility of such a thing being the case.
Death comes swiftly, and much of its nature is derived from the reaction it inspires. Men like Leon and Krolock are softened by their grief, blessed enough to have something remaining of their love. Liza is not so lucky with only her fiancé’s writing to remember him by. However, the loss has sharpened her wit, and she hasn’t let herself fall into the pit of despair Leon feels himself dangling over each day.
“It was very many years ago, as you might tell by Herbert’s age.”
Leon can’t possibly guess the Viscount’s age. Although he appears younger than himself, the blond knows that appearances can be deceiving. “To you, that must be no time at all. Especially having your son to worry about.”
“I do not know how it troubles him.” Regret takes up the Count’s expression as he confesses such things. “It is pleasant to know that at least your own son has something to remember his mother by.”
“I’m grateful to still have her in this regard,” Leon admits, looking down at his son. Much to his chagrin, the boy stares at the Count much in the same vein he had Herbert. The blond can’t repress his apprehension towards his son’s interest in their hosts. He realizes that it frustrates him to no end because that fascination parallels his own.
“I have questions, if I might be permitted to ask?”
“You may.”
“Your accent… you are French nobility, yes?”
“Keen ear,” Leon remarks.
“One of my rank must at least know the highbrow tongue of other kingdoms.”
“Ah, but I must admit that I can’t discern Romanian dialects.”
“We’re getting off topic, Mein Herr.” Krolock’s amusement tells Leon the Count knows how desperately he wishes to avoid the question. “Am I right to guess that you are a French noble?”
“Indeed, I was.”
“Was?”
“I was a knight; however, I abandoned my title and my nationality along with it.”
“And why is that?”
Oh, nothing. There was a flamboyant vampire with a plot to create an endless night who kidnapped my wife at my best friend’s behest. “There are… there are evils in this world far worse than what my superiors would have me face on the battlefield. That is all I can disclose.”
“Ah, a mystery,” Krolock drawls with feigned wonder.
“Yes, how quaint.”
“What compelled you to travel to the Carpathians?”
“We are here for a new start.”
“How strange of you to choose a less…” the Count takes a moment to pick his words, “...developed area than where you previously lived. The people here are awfully superstitious. And these mountains couldn’t possibly hold more value than Paris.”
“Au contraire, there’s an immediate charm to this area,” Leon counters. “Particularly with the people.” He’d thought he’d escaped the need for flattery when he abandoned his noble title.
Krolock grins at him. “I’m blessed to hear such lovely praise of my lands.”
“I hear far too much praise for my own home,” Leon interposes.
“Oh, but you must tell me of your journey,” the Count insists.
“Perhaps…” the blond yawns. “Perhaps at a later date? I am weary of the journey now, tired as I am.” He hopes that his travel party can leave before that later date comes. That, or they can get their stories straight before they’re questioned further.
Krolock, the gracious host he is, relents with a nod. “That is acceptable, Mein Herr. I shall not keep you from your rest any longer.” He exits the room with a flap of his coat.
Leon falls back with a sigh, laying Séraphin on his chest. The weight is comforting, though he knows he will have to return his son to his cradle to avoid the risk of rolling over him in the night. The father wants nothing more than to fall asleep right here, with Séra’s tiny breaths assuaging his fears. Instead, he grunts, sliding off the bed to carry his son to his crib.
He lays the child down, draping a blanket over his tiny body. After a moment of deliberation, he decides to leave the vampire killer whip in Séraphin’s hands. Any unholy entities will be kept at bay, and Séra will be soothed by his mother’s presence. Pressing a light kiss to his son’s forehead, Leon returns to bed, drifting into unconsciousness the moment his head hits the pillow.
Chapter Text
Liza sighs, running her hands through Trefor’s ginger curls. He leans into her touch like a pup might, endearing himself to her. “You smell of soap,” she muses.
“Don’t you remember spooking me in the bathroom?” Trefor punctuates the question with a laugh. “I’m hurt that it wasn’t a memorable sight.”
“Don’t be,” Liza replies. “You aren’t the only man I’ve seen undressed.”
Trefor chortles. “You tease me with that, but it doesn’t matter to me whether I am the first or not.”
The woman pauses. “Truly?”
He casts a mischievous glance over his shoulder. “Why would I chase after a widow otherwise?”
Liza snorts and slaps the man on his arm. “I never married.”
Trefor nods. “But you had a fiancé.”
The pale-haired woman rolls her eyes. “That isn’t the same.”
The Celt shrugs. “Leon makes it seem that way.”
Melancholy falls over Liza. Leon, for all his mournful doldrums, is a competent knight. “He is different.” She faltered and nearly perished at the hands of Bernhard’s starved servant, arriving too late to save her betrothed from the clutches of vampires and daemons alike. Meanwhile, Leon rescued his beloved before her soul had succumbed to darkness. He and Sara’s souls are now bound to that whip of his by a promise to hunt the night; one could describe it as romantic, in a tragic sense. “He and his love have joined in holy matrimony.”
“Alchemical matrimony,” Trefor corrects. While not privy to the finer details, he knows that alchemy ties together the wretched fates of all parties involved. “Not quite holy.” Despite being acquainted with an alchemist, the Celt’s Catholic heritage leaves him tense about such heretical things.
“It is a great deal more holy than-” Liza cuts herself off before she can finish, knowing that if she lets herself continue, she’ll say something cruel that can’t be taken back. Trefor has done nothing to earn her suffering, yet he’s willing to aid her through it. Liza dare not insult the one man inclined to have her as she is.
The ginger reaches back to squeeze his friend’s hand before pulling it to his mouth to plant a kiss on those calloused fingers. “I’m sorry you lost him. I’m not quite the charming poet, am I?”
Liza rests her head between Trefor’s shoulder blades. “Dante would be happy I’m pursuing happiness so soon.”
“I know I’m happy.”
Liza laughs. “I’m glad.”
Chapter Text
Leon has never feared temptation. Such worries are ill-befitting his rank. To ensure the fortitude of a kingdom’s people, the best of them must also be the strongest. A weak ruler said enough about the state of their subject’s education and ability. So, it isn’t fear he greets his dreams with… but bewilderment.
He’s in search of Sara, though in the wrong castle. He wanders winding corridors where no ghouls or gorgons are to be found. The knight hears his love’s voice, and though he wishes himself wise enough not to fall for a succubus’ tricks once more, he follows the light melodious sound. Perhaps unwisely, he doubts the presence of creatures capable of such trickery, even in this gloomy place.
This is not Castlevania, as Walter Bernhard had dubbed his home, but Schloss von Krolock.
He stumbles while surveying his surroundings, falling forward into willowy arms. Sara. She smiles at him sweetly, green eyes alight with affection. When he opens his mouth to breathe her name, no words escape, only warm breath. She giggles at him, tracing her lithe hands up from his arms to his neck. Sara. He can’t even manage a whisper as she tilts his head away. Instead of meeting his own, her lips dance over his pulse. Leon is in heaven as his lover’s canines caress his neck. He lulls his head farther back to give her even more. His skin becomes her canvas as she plants bloodied kisses on his flesh. Sara. He still can’t find his voice.
His companions will despise him if they learn how desperately he wants this: to fall into Sara’s arms and let their combined humanities fall away, if only for the sake of spending eternity with her.
Sara would detest him.
But now, her lips are on his own, and he tastes his life lingering on her lips. The flavour is too pleasant for comfort. He ignores the sweetness and the heat to focus on the harsh metallic tang.
Is this how he’d taste?
In his waking moments, Leon never allows himself to consider such things. However, in his sleep, in this castle, in Sara’s arms, he feels his resolve slipping. After all, it wasn’t Leon’s choice to let his beloved die. She sacrificed herself for the sake of humanity, but what would Leon have done if it were his decision?
Suddenly, Sara disappears, and Mathias stands before him, his once grey eyes gleaming red, extending a taloned hand in offering. The blond smacks the hand away. Leon could have never accepted his betrayer’s offer, even if the tactician hadn’t callously boasted about his role in Sara’s demise. A life with Mathias would grow into a loveless existence; the Swede hadn’t the room in his heart to consider the wants and needs of anyone besides himself.
But Sara… she’s behind him in an instant, arms curling ‘round his waist as she raises herself onto her toes to kiss his neck again. If it were his betrothed to ask for his hand in such an unholy union, he’d crumble in an instant.
The hunter’s eyes slip closed, banishing Mathias from his sight; however, when they open again, there’s another figure to replace him. Mahogany eyes that are far too red to be human look upon him with hunger. Herbert surges forward to catch Leon’s lips in a kiss that entirely consists of the Viscount scouring his mouth for the taste of blood.
Leon’s tongue is heavy with fatigue as he feels consciousness return to him. But as he escapes sleep, he remains lip-locked with–