Chapter Text
Human
Hooves hit the mud harshly, repetitively, and ushered forward with such urgency that the ground shifted under the comparable weight. So small, bundled in cloth, clutched close to a labored chest. An arm wrapped protectively trying to keep the rain and any other outside forces from touching the little life already so close to death. The rider could feel the heat from the baby’s fever and hear the whimpering of a small voice, not yet capable of language, desperately trying to communicate the pain it was undergoing. There was a minuscule hope, a myth really, possibly closer to a fairytale, pushing the rider up the slope against the storm and the sliding earth. There was no way of knowing if it was even still there, but one could not falter now. The baby wouldn’t hold out until morning, and no physician would make a call in weather capable of destruction. Thus, the two lifeforms pushed on, fighting on, with no other alternative.
Despite the rain and mist shrouding the environment, a tall looming monstrosity of a building started coming into view. Renewing the riders' stamina, they pushed their stead harder, faster, the distance closing between them and the building before a leg slipped, bringing the riders tumbling through the mud. The horse slid whining, but the rider clawed at the dirt, digging in their nails with one hand while shielding the bundle with the other. Abandoning the animal, the rider crawled the rest of the way, pulling themselves up one slippery step at a time.
Visions began to blur, limbs succumbed to numbness, strength was leaving their body quickly, but they couldn't stop. They. Couldn’t. Stop. The ground beneath them gave way to stone as they dragged themselves up the stairs leading to the structure supposedly housing a savior. Breaths became shorter, the whimpering quieter before tapering off completely. The rider felt their body cave just a few feet before a large set of doors. No. No. No. Please. Please. Pleading falling on ignorant ears, they couldn’t even get the words to rasp out of their throat. They were going to die, the baby was going to die. They didn’t even have enough effort to sob. They felt their eyes dropping, darkness encircling, before a sliver of light slid over the bodies, barely breathing.
“It is okay,” came a voice, soft and deep, pulling the two quaking youths into the castle. “You are safe here.”
Hunter
"I am only going to ask you one more time." Blood dripped onto a steel rusted table, and it took Trevor a moment to realize it was coming from his own nose. His hands were tied with scratchy rope behind his back and his legs to the metal chair. One sole light shown above them on a swinging lantern illuminating a small abandoned room.
How utterly cliche. Trevor scoffed before he felt a hand grasp his hair and slam his head back down into the table.
"What's so funny?" Trevor groaned, lifting his head and trying to see through the haze of his limited vision. He's unsure if the fuzziness is from the head wounds or the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed earlier that night. Come to think of it, considering his current predicament, alcohol probably wasn't the only thing in those drinks. He rolled his neck up, squinting at the woman in front of him. He wished he could say he was memorizing any details of his environment or captor, but damn, the pounding in his head was winning out.
"Huh?" Clever, Belmont really. The woman sighed, inspecting her nails before getting up and rounding the table. She propped herself up on the table before taking Trevor's hair in her hand one more time, yanking it back and forcing his eyes up.
"I will not repeat myself a third time, Trevor Belmont. Where. Is. Alucard?"
Historian
“Can you actually believe they had the audacity to laugh?” Sypha’s voice wasn’t tinged with anger; it was full blown furious. She had her phone pressed to her ear via her shoulder and was carrying everything containing her ten plus years of research precariously between her hands and hip. Somehow, she managed all this while storming out of her dissertation defense presentation.
“I mean I did everything right, had all my evidence, all my knowledge, all my research, practiced for months, and they laughed before I even had the time to actually defend my claims!”
“Sypha, darli-”
“So, of course, I wasn’t going to take that lying down. I didn’t work this hard for some old white men to tell me whether all my dedication was worth more than a disbelieving chuckle.”
“Love, mayb-”
“Then, after I rightfully put him in his place, he claims that I’m 'unfit' to pursue academia in a professional setting! Like what does that even mean? Have I not done as much, if not more, than my male peers?” Sypha attempted to make air quotes despite the man on the other side not being able to see it, leading her to crash everything in her hands onto the concrete. Sypha was aware people had been staring, but now they completely avoided her on the busy sidewalk as she sank down on her knees. Suddenly, the anger slipped from her as the gravity of her situation came to rest on her shoulders.
“You furiously told him off, didn't you, sweetheart?”
“Of course I did,” she said, some of the hardness still in her voice, “I had every right to!” They heard their grandpa sigh on the other end.
“You always did let your anger get the best of you.” The voice wasn’t admonishing, just resigned.
“It isn't fair, and you know it! If I had walked in there as a man, no matter how outlandish my claims may be, they still would have at least listened. But instead, I’m a 'foolish girl chasing fairytales'." This time, she didn’t even have the energy to do the air quotes. “What am I meant to do now, grandpa?” There were a few beats of silence, followed by another sigh.
“Come home, sweetness. You can figure it out here.”
🕂
Sypha did not, in fact, figure it out here. She spent most of her time aimlessly exploring the familiar paths of her village. She'd traveled the long journey back to where it all started. Their village was lively, full of chatter, children playing, and people farming. Filled with endless history found in every structure, every talent, and every pulse. She thrived in a community she couldn’t find anywhere else. When she was young, all the energy fed her anxious, fidgeting need to explore. She was inspired by the tales her grandfather told the village on their monthly potlucks. He never ran out of stories to weave and string made of their myths, legends, and histories. Her grandpa wasn't against paper or technology, per se, but he held onto a strong belief that stories were only fully expressed from one mouth to the next.
“They lose a bit of themselves once written, Sypha. You can’t glean everything from your books.” And he was right to some degree; she had studied numerous epics, fairy tales, and historical findings on paper, but nothing felt quite as authentic as hearing the stories first hand. Sypha had dedicated her life to oral history and linguistic anthropology. It was no easy feat double majoring in such complex, broad disciplines. She had traveled, interviewed, and studied for days upon weeks upon months upon years. But there was one thing that stuck to her since she first heard of it all those years ago.
She had been fresh into her undergrad on her very first trip surrounded by students all hungry for the world outside of their own minds. She had sat down with this teen brimming with excitement over the interview. Sypha found that she preferred talking to the youths of a place over the older folk. Sure, the elders had the most history memorized, but there was something so spiritual about hearing the emotion in a child's version of things. How their language affected their development, and how their stories shaped their personalities. Of course, Sypha knew that with any oral tale, it often got reshaped in each mouth it found itself in, especially in regards to kids. But that was the best part; they made it their own. So when this teen began enthusiastically telling her the story of a moving castle housing a miracle bringer, Sypha became transfixed. At the time, she chalked it up to being some version of numerous other tales. So many cultures had stories of moving architecture and even more about some kind of savior.
But…
Well, then it came up again, years later into their masters, a similar tale; however, this time on the other side of the planet. A completely different language, a completely different culture, and yet the story was eerily similar to the first one she had heard. Now, she didn’t jump to conclusions. She didn’t know why it unsettled her so, she knew that stories traveled and they adapted to fit the new people telling them. Everyone had a Cinderella or a big bad wolf, or vengeful ghost, or unforgiving curse. Every religious tale had a great flood. So why had this one sat with her long past the flight home? She shifted her focus a bit more during her graduate program, narrowing her area of study. She started looking into castles. How the word was pronounced in different tongues, how it was portrayed in different lands, in different times. Looking for any kind of connection between each new description she found. She used her findings to write her thesis, completed her masters, and went straight into her PhD with a single track mind. It was not uncommon in her field to pick a specific, small aspect of language or history to concentrate on -- hers was just one of many recorded subjects.
That was until the photo.
Sypha had been cataloging through an archive when she stumbled upon the picture. A castle, large and looming, almost mystical in nature. Black and white, dated to have been found in the late 1800s. It had not only matched descriptions in the stories she had found, but it also matched sketches given to her by villagers telling the same tale. It was a massive, grotesque example of architecture that seemed to deny the laws of physics, and upon further research, the castle was no longer in the location depicted. How did something of that size just disappear? No ruins, no proof of ownership, nothing. Stories and drawings were one thing; it's easy to describe and conjure up art, but a photo? That was evidence hard to contradict. They were set on figuring out this enigma. She just needed a chance. One that her PhD panel was unable to give her.
Sypha helped the farmers, played with the children, cooked and ate her village's delicacies, listened to her grandfather's stories, and tried her damnedest to map out her next steps.
It was weeks into her miserable planning when she received the call.
🕂
“Sypha, this is a terrible idea! You cannot be seriously considering this nonsense.” Her grandfather’s protests were rudely ignored as Sypha hastily packed her belongings. "You have no idea who these people are, what they could really want. This is clearly dangerous!"
"I don't need to know the specifics! They have the means and the funds. Even if their reasons are nefarious, I cannot risk this chance grandfather." Sypha spins as her grandfather places his hands on her shoulders, bringing her in close.
"Child, I am worried about you. About this!" He sweeps an arm, gesturing to the mess of her room. Covered in books, loose pages, relic copies, maps, and clothes. "I believe in you and trust in you. I know how much of yourself you've put into this. But Sypha. Love. Rushing in head first could lead to catastrophe. I need you to think this through." Sypha steps into her grandfathers embrace burying her head in his neck, wrapping her arms around him tightly.
"I know. But I have. I cannot pass this up." Sypha feels her grandfather sigh before kissing her on the head.
"Okay. Go. Find the castle. Find the savior. Fulfill the prophecy of your own making."