NicetiesLATER
The Cleanup Hitter
Hello! I've decided to post here one of my latest fics, a Castlevania fic centering around Richter Belmont.
Here's the synopsis, for those interested:
Richter Belmont stands before the stairway to Dracula's throne, the lightning flashing, the ghouls fleeing before his presence.
He knows the shining moment every Belmont prays for is about to come, when his chance to immortalize his existence in history as the next orchestrator of Dracula's demise.
But is that enough for him? Discover the psychology of a Belmont, and Richter's reflective discovery to a new stability in the face of a fated familial burden.
Enjoy!
“’Belong’ in this world?’
Ha! You didn’t deserve to take a breath, much less set foot on God’s earth, monster! Tremble!”
Lightning flashes gleamed off the metal rivulets of Vampire Killer’s length. They showed the reflection of a low count and his bared fangs shining fierce before the chains slashed through his chest, a splatter of red painting the cobbles that led up to the grand stairway. A whole corps of ghouls rushed up the muck-ridden steps, the stone visibly worn by age despite the immaculate finish of the material, from the mossy flesh of the zombies to the sandy hide of the fleamen that flocked to Dracula’s throne up above, and the screams of the Medusa-heads that curdled into the night sky. They knew their time was running thin, and that their steel Judgment would soon come! I grinned, pulling out the Whip taut, its shackles teetering at the strength of my arms, calling out once more to the fleeing demons with a fearless swagger to my countenance.
“Go, go! Begone with you! To prolong the inevitable is the favorite pastime of any creature driven to the deathbed!”
I took a breath, angling myself under the moonlight, sensing the drama of the occasion and, as I recalled my youthful spirit, wishing to soak in the pathos of an incoming triumph. From the iron straps of my boots to the hanging satchels and fabric slots on my uniform—the most heralded garb of the Belmont clan, with a Prussian blue finish accented by silver stripes and epaulets—my body was a veritable arsenal of throwing axes, golden stopwatches, shining daggers and holy water bottles that caused every ghoul before me to buckle from first glance. The white of my jabot frills flowed in the air just as the ebony of my hair swayed, and the youthful gauze on my features was emboldened by the twilight.
“I stand here as the deliverer of your reckoning, demons,” I said, puffing my chest as the warm gentility of my tone roared out my mouth.
“It is the trade of the Belmont clan to dispatch your kin through every generation; every Belmont babe salivates at the chance to take arms into the night and bear that mantle of glory—even for just one night.
My path has not been bloodless, nor brainless, I say! For with each red gallon spilt, it is only to pay off the debt of death that you have incurred against the human race! You sniveling creatures, so empty and husk-esque at the innards that all you do is sap the life from those better than you, more worthy to breathe God’s air. I give you mercy when I slay your kind by the hundreds, for only through the gates of Hell can you find yourselves a suitable flat, a den of suffering fit for the suffer-ors.”
While most of the ghouls continued their maddened jaunt up the stairways, some stood for a few moments to take in my words, entranced by the vigor in my prose. Never before had they seen a Belmont so pontificative, so ruminatory on the act of death and pillage perpetrated between the human and demon ranks. It must’ve been quite the sight for them, though I suppose it wasn’t them I was truly playing for.
The man at the castle heights—the demon king, and the Prince of Darkness himself—was my singular audience of the shadows.
“Belmont...”
That voice! Its deep, heart-wrenching timbre could shake a man through his spine, and up his skull. The syllables played like a duet, one after the other, the hammer and the anvil of Dracula’s vocalisms.
I wrangled Vampire Killer backward, keyed-on to thrust it forth even at such a distance, my pulse quickened by the phantom of his presence.
“Why do you still linger? Is the tenacity of your family finally wavering? Stop the games; scupper the speeches! Come and face your death like a true man!”
His cackle filled the atmosphere of the place, erupting out in long, bated notes that struck the ear like battering rams. The pain of it all allured me, ironically, to march up and face the Belmont nemesis—and indeed, the enemy to all mankind—with my limbs hardened, my heart loaded, my head enlivened, and my life heady for the scent of battle!
Gargoyle fixtures stared off towards my advance, my boots chipping off stray stone fragments from the steps, so supercharged was their ascent. Sweat droplets cascaded down the stairway, and my muscles ached to release generations of enmity, cocooned within the Belmont bloodline.
“’Face you?’ I’ll rip that grin right off; how’s that for a face!”
At the same time, even if I broiled with the bile of rage, in a way I savored the moment. Only once every century did Dracula rise; and too was the shining grace of a Belmont’s life a centennial occasion. My history burned into my skin, Simon’s eyes and Trevor’s arms becoming my own, the ghosts of my forefathers cheering my assault.
The twilight painted the blue of my garb in a silvery hue. The lightning bolt of my movement caused the light to curve a bit, a Belmont constellation careening upward to his destination.
“Here I come, monster!
Your last sight shall be at the end of my whip!”
I broke through the doorways, ignoring the finery of the occult brooches and filigree smattered on them, and cast my gaze to the vampire himself.
Just as I suspected, his composure was loungelike, the white of his hand perched at his cheek, the black of his eyes staring out idly toward my figure. If it weren’t for the deep pallor of his complexion and the weight of his cloak, you could mistake him for a member of the Austrian gentry: the fitting on his jabot was immaculate, his lapels sewn outward, and the polish on his boots granted me a blinding shimmer.
His mouth availed itself of the air, his fangs protruding outward, angling at me while contorting to match the posture of his grin.
“So, Belmont, you’ve finally arrived. I suppose it was only a matter of time; your line is infamous, even among the wretchedness of humanity, for being a particularly stubborn sort.
Like a succession of Sisyphuses, you see fit to roll your boulder up my castle’s expanse, with the fleeting hope of crushing me into the ground, forevermore.
Truly, I almost pity you; this fight between us is as immortal as I am, and yet the Belmont ranks rot into the ashes of time, knowing their time is over. And mine?”
He chuckled.
“It’s always just beginning.”
I growled, stringing Vampire Killer out wide, raising my fist.
The words didn’t come at first, in a strange spell of pondering. But soon they ignited under my tongue, and I barked back:
“What you speak of is nothing but deceit and platitude, Lord Tepes! Even as we have battled so long, our two immortal families, every time we clash the Belmonts get their chance to safeguard their communities and sojourn into the halls of history.
Are we deluded to think that there will be one day when the seal on you is eternal, and you may never rise from your grave? Hope is beyond hope, optimism beyond optimism, but more than that, it is in our action, regardless of what happens centuries from now, that we secure our purpose in this world!
Roll up the boulder as we do, it is we who keep it from crashing down into the hearts of humanity. Come at me, and we’ll see what happens when stone meets metal!”
That’s what I thought at the time, anyway. Inured to the party line of my clan, what filled my mind were the valiant spirits of my ancestors, spurring me on to action.
I unfurled my whip, readied my crosses, and loosened the bulbous caps on my holy potions, gazing on with an inferno in my eyes.
At that, Dracula ended his lackadaisical form and stood upright, his face hardening—even the Prince of Darkness grew weary of a Belmont’s insufferable resilience, I wagered.
“Hell is too good for your kind. I should rather you call Narcissus than Sisyphus, for while you pretend to be a selfless crusader, you are nothing but the ill-begotten end-product of human desires.
I’m feeling generous: I’ll send you to Hades personally, and quickly!
Feel my eternal wrath, Belmont! It will stick with you to your grave!”
He leapt down to the center of the room, the whole chamber quaking upon the impact of his feet, his cloak now fastened to his chest, putting a veil over the blackness in his heart. His fangs outstretched, his arms jutting outward, he came toward me just as I flicked my wrist at his gaping form.
Vampire Killer’s rivulets curdled in the air as they approached, and it felt as if I would get a clean shot to start our final duel! But then the light of the room flashed a white color, and I could see words still bearing quill-ink dripping from above!
Everything froze. It was time to leave my own chamber. I screamed as the lights went out,
And I escaped from the deep, dark caverns of my mind.
“Agh!”
I grunted, spooled over my desk, the light hue of my nightshirt glowing orange in the candlelight. I had snapped my diary shut, slamming the pages against my fingers with such force that made them sting with inkened pain.
I put a hand to my forehead, shaking it, breathing.
...What did I truly feel that night? How do I consider it now?
Does it still lord over me, this tiny fragment of the past?
Like a serpent of time, it bites me, inpouring the venom of twisted nostalgia. I can’t surrender to it. I mustn’t!
What I must do is put everything into focus. Come, now. I need to show you something.
To cure myself of the rudderlessness that mars the past, I need to acquire a sort of compass, a scaffolding to keep me upright in the now while I sink into the then.
Perhaps through my writing the cardinal directions will return to me, the dimensionality of my self, and with it, I can divine where the Belmont bloodline has finally led to.
Join me. Feel the essence of a vampire slayer, sans the slaying.
Here's the synopsis, for those interested:
Richter Belmont stands before the stairway to Dracula's throne, the lightning flashing, the ghouls fleeing before his presence.
He knows the shining moment every Belmont prays for is about to come, when his chance to immortalize his existence in history as the next orchestrator of Dracula's demise.
But is that enough for him? Discover the psychology of a Belmont, and Richter's reflective discovery to a new stability in the face of a fated familial burden.
Enjoy!
“’Belong’ in this world?’
Ha! You didn’t deserve to take a breath, much less set foot on God’s earth, monster! Tremble!”
Lightning flashes gleamed off the metal rivulets of Vampire Killer’s length. They showed the reflection of a low count and his bared fangs shining fierce before the chains slashed through his chest, a splatter of red painting the cobbles that led up to the grand stairway. A whole corps of ghouls rushed up the muck-ridden steps, the stone visibly worn by age despite the immaculate finish of the material, from the mossy flesh of the zombies to the sandy hide of the fleamen that flocked to Dracula’s throne up above, and the screams of the Medusa-heads that curdled into the night sky. They knew their time was running thin, and that their steel Judgment would soon come! I grinned, pulling out the Whip taut, its shackles teetering at the strength of my arms, calling out once more to the fleeing demons with a fearless swagger to my countenance.
“Go, go! Begone with you! To prolong the inevitable is the favorite pastime of any creature driven to the deathbed!”
I took a breath, angling myself under the moonlight, sensing the drama of the occasion and, as I recalled my youthful spirit, wishing to soak in the pathos of an incoming triumph. From the iron straps of my boots to the hanging satchels and fabric slots on my uniform—the most heralded garb of the Belmont clan, with a Prussian blue finish accented by silver stripes and epaulets—my body was a veritable arsenal of throwing axes, golden stopwatches, shining daggers and holy water bottles that caused every ghoul before me to buckle from first glance. The white of my jabot frills flowed in the air just as the ebony of my hair swayed, and the youthful gauze on my features was emboldened by the twilight.
“I stand here as the deliverer of your reckoning, demons,” I said, puffing my chest as the warm gentility of my tone roared out my mouth.
“It is the trade of the Belmont clan to dispatch your kin through every generation; every Belmont babe salivates at the chance to take arms into the night and bear that mantle of glory—even for just one night.
My path has not been bloodless, nor brainless, I say! For with each red gallon spilt, it is only to pay off the debt of death that you have incurred against the human race! You sniveling creatures, so empty and husk-esque at the innards that all you do is sap the life from those better than you, more worthy to breathe God’s air. I give you mercy when I slay your kind by the hundreds, for only through the gates of Hell can you find yourselves a suitable flat, a den of suffering fit for the suffer-ors.”
While most of the ghouls continued their maddened jaunt up the stairways, some stood for a few moments to take in my words, entranced by the vigor in my prose. Never before had they seen a Belmont so pontificative, so ruminatory on the act of death and pillage perpetrated between the human and demon ranks. It must’ve been quite the sight for them, though I suppose it wasn’t them I was truly playing for.
The man at the castle heights—the demon king, and the Prince of Darkness himself—was my singular audience of the shadows.
“Belmont...”
That voice! Its deep, heart-wrenching timbre could shake a man through his spine, and up his skull. The syllables played like a duet, one after the other, the hammer and the anvil of Dracula’s vocalisms.
I wrangled Vampire Killer backward, keyed-on to thrust it forth even at such a distance, my pulse quickened by the phantom of his presence.
“Why do you still linger? Is the tenacity of your family finally wavering? Stop the games; scupper the speeches! Come and face your death like a true man!”
His cackle filled the atmosphere of the place, erupting out in long, bated notes that struck the ear like battering rams. The pain of it all allured me, ironically, to march up and face the Belmont nemesis—and indeed, the enemy to all mankind—with my limbs hardened, my heart loaded, my head enlivened, and my life heady for the scent of battle!
Gargoyle fixtures stared off towards my advance, my boots chipping off stray stone fragments from the steps, so supercharged was their ascent. Sweat droplets cascaded down the stairway, and my muscles ached to release generations of enmity, cocooned within the Belmont bloodline.
“’Face you?’ I’ll rip that grin right off; how’s that for a face!”
At the same time, even if I broiled with the bile of rage, in a way I savored the moment. Only once every century did Dracula rise; and too was the shining grace of a Belmont’s life a centennial occasion. My history burned into my skin, Simon’s eyes and Trevor’s arms becoming my own, the ghosts of my forefathers cheering my assault.
The twilight painted the blue of my garb in a silvery hue. The lightning bolt of my movement caused the light to curve a bit, a Belmont constellation careening upward to his destination.
“Here I come, monster!
Your last sight shall be at the end of my whip!”
I broke through the doorways, ignoring the finery of the occult brooches and filigree smattered on them, and cast my gaze to the vampire himself.
Just as I suspected, his composure was loungelike, the white of his hand perched at his cheek, the black of his eyes staring out idly toward my figure. If it weren’t for the deep pallor of his complexion and the weight of his cloak, you could mistake him for a member of the Austrian gentry: the fitting on his jabot was immaculate, his lapels sewn outward, and the polish on his boots granted me a blinding shimmer.
His mouth availed itself of the air, his fangs protruding outward, angling at me while contorting to match the posture of his grin.
“So, Belmont, you’ve finally arrived. I suppose it was only a matter of time; your line is infamous, even among the wretchedness of humanity, for being a particularly stubborn sort.
Like a succession of Sisyphuses, you see fit to roll your boulder up my castle’s expanse, with the fleeting hope of crushing me into the ground, forevermore.
Truly, I almost pity you; this fight between us is as immortal as I am, and yet the Belmont ranks rot into the ashes of time, knowing their time is over. And mine?”
He chuckled.
“It’s always just beginning.”
I growled, stringing Vampire Killer out wide, raising my fist.
The words didn’t come at first, in a strange spell of pondering. But soon they ignited under my tongue, and I barked back:
“What you speak of is nothing but deceit and platitude, Lord Tepes! Even as we have battled so long, our two immortal families, every time we clash the Belmonts get their chance to safeguard their communities and sojourn into the halls of history.
Are we deluded to think that there will be one day when the seal on you is eternal, and you may never rise from your grave? Hope is beyond hope, optimism beyond optimism, but more than that, it is in our action, regardless of what happens centuries from now, that we secure our purpose in this world!
Roll up the boulder as we do, it is we who keep it from crashing down into the hearts of humanity. Come at me, and we’ll see what happens when stone meets metal!”
That’s what I thought at the time, anyway. Inured to the party line of my clan, what filled my mind were the valiant spirits of my ancestors, spurring me on to action.
I unfurled my whip, readied my crosses, and loosened the bulbous caps on my holy potions, gazing on with an inferno in my eyes.
At that, Dracula ended his lackadaisical form and stood upright, his face hardening—even the Prince of Darkness grew weary of a Belmont’s insufferable resilience, I wagered.
“Hell is too good for your kind. I should rather you call Narcissus than Sisyphus, for while you pretend to be a selfless crusader, you are nothing but the ill-begotten end-product of human desires.
I’m feeling generous: I’ll send you to Hades personally, and quickly!
Feel my eternal wrath, Belmont! It will stick with you to your grave!”
He leapt down to the center of the room, the whole chamber quaking upon the impact of his feet, his cloak now fastened to his chest, putting a veil over the blackness in his heart. His fangs outstretched, his arms jutting outward, he came toward me just as I flicked my wrist at his gaping form.
Vampire Killer’s rivulets curdled in the air as they approached, and it felt as if I would get a clean shot to start our final duel! But then the light of the room flashed a white color, and I could see words still bearing quill-ink dripping from above!
Everything froze. It was time to leave my own chamber. I screamed as the lights went out,
And I escaped from the deep, dark caverns of my mind.
* * *
“Agh!”
I grunted, spooled over my desk, the light hue of my nightshirt glowing orange in the candlelight. I had snapped my diary shut, slamming the pages against my fingers with such force that made them sting with inkened pain.
I put a hand to my forehead, shaking it, breathing.
...What did I truly feel that night? How do I consider it now?
Does it still lord over me, this tiny fragment of the past?
Like a serpent of time, it bites me, inpouring the venom of twisted nostalgia. I can’t surrender to it. I mustn’t!
What I must do is put everything into focus. Come, now. I need to show you something.
To cure myself of the rudderlessness that mars the past, I need to acquire a sort of compass, a scaffolding to keep me upright in the now while I sink into the then.
Perhaps through my writing the cardinal directions will return to me, the dimensionality of my self, and with it, I can divine where the Belmont bloodline has finally led to.
Join me. Feel the essence of a vampire slayer, sans the slaying.
