Chapter Fifteen: An Interloper
Near a year prior to this day, he had swore to himself he would never deign to return to this place. Never.
And yet it is here in which he finds himself, against his own good judgment, breaking the vow he had swore himself.
For in the end, the alternative was far more treacherous.
He traverses long, marbled halls, under guise of… investigating unforseen goings-on—it would seem the vampire cannot be prevented from playing his games, he thinks with malice, even under such circumstances; though, in truth, he merely needs away. Away from the others, their palpable distaste for him, as though he were lesser than them simply because he is not as they are.
Away from his watchful eye.
In truth, he no longer bears reason to find himself in this place; would that he could put such dealings behind himself entirely, yet it would seem the past would remain insistent on dogging at him. His every step.
He cannot so much as be left to mourn in peace.
And for what purpose? As a mild source of entertainment, to be dispatched as soon as the vampire finds entertainment in him no longer?
What utterly pathetic lengths has he fallen to?
Within his own head he finds himself wandering the great halls of this castle halls as he hears a resounding, earthrending shatter from one of many ballrooms within this castle.
My, but he had not expected the tales of interlopers to be true.
Hand upon his sword, he quiets his steps as he approaches, ever cautious.
He finds his way toward the source of the sound, readying himself for confrontation, and as he rounds the final corner he sees… not a living soul.
The large, ornate chandelier which once made its home upon the ceiling of this room now lay slumped upon the ground, glass glittering, showered across the marble around it.
As he observes the shards of broken glass, careful to avoid each and every sharp edge, he catches the merest glimpse of crimson against the beige of the floor.
How very intriguing.
He ambles toward it, spotting another.
The interloper hardly took precautions to remain undiscovered. How very unwise, if this is indeed a human interloper.
He draws his sword, following the trail the blood seems to leave, the water-colored splotches upon the marble leading into a narrow hallway.
As he finds a corner, he hears hitched breaths—human indeed, then, and brandishes his sword, preparing to strike.
And as he rounds the corner, readying to strike, he catches glimpse of the would-be victim of his attack having drawn a bow, pointed at his face, before coming to note—
“Madame Trantoul?”
She lowers her bow, a look of utter puzzlement plastered upon her features.
“Mathias? What… what do you here?”
As he resheathes his sword beneath his heavy cloak, he considers what falsehood he might answer with.
It is as he hesitates, however, that an avian form flutters over his shoulder, landing upon the girl’s finger.
“Clea… you…? You brought him here?”
The bird, expectedly, does not answer this query.
As the girl eyes the pigeon, fretting over her, assuring she is unharmed, Mathias finds he has not once in his life been so grateful to some other’s common pet.
She turns to once again address him.
“Thank you, Mathias.”
Her solemnity does ill to sit well with him.
She continues what she had been attending to prior—apparently, removing the shaft of an arrow from her leg, and tearing linen free of her shirt-sleeve to bind the wound. Much as Mathias would once have done in battle.
“You know the proper treatment for an arrow wound?”
The girl’s face affects a soft smile, a lovelorn look across her face.
“Yes, Leon—he taught me.”
Rage simmers beneath his skin. Who is she to speak of Leon, of his dearest friend, of one she purports to love, in so blasé a tone? As though she had fought beside him as Mathias once did, as though she knew him as closely?
As though he were not—
“Ah. I see.”
It should have been her.
The girl finishes binding her wound, and comes to a stand, the bird fluttering about before coming to perch on her shoulder.
As she heaves a breath, she snaps Mathias from his seething thoughts.
“Shall we continue on, then?”
———
The girl fills the time by chattering aimlessly of things Mathias knows much of already, as though she were informing him of some newfound information.
He hardly heeds the girl’s words, though he does catch some as she trails on.
“—lack of practice, the time necessary to prepare myself was much greater, nearing the new year as we now are.” She hesitates for a moment. “I… have no doubt Leon knows even the month—”
His response comes clipped, “Madame… Trantoul. While I... Admire. Your commitment to the hope that Leon lives, if you have made it this far, even you in your naïveté must realize the possibility that he yet lives is near nonexistent.”
The girl’s eyes grow wide. “Mathias. Leon—”
Her words are cut short as he catches sight of a Dullahan, which makes to carve into her with its blade.
Mathias blocks the incoming blow, as the girl leaps without its path and unleashes her own weapon—the Whip of Alchemy, it would seem—and leaps into battle with the Dullahan with no hesitation.
Curious that Rinaldo should entrust her with such a thing, but the old man always has been quite sentimental.
Mathias, for his part, though he tends to favor his magic over sword, is hardly a mere infantry knight. He does not prefer to be confined to mêlée, though he should hardly wish to utilize his family’s Secret Arts in such battle.
They two dispatch the Dullahan with greater haste than Mathias would have expected of the girl, and regaining their bearings, as a Gaap flies in behind her, claws primed to wrench her head from her shoulders—
As a rather familiar longsword slices cleanly through the beast, viscera coating the very air as a painter who might flick his brush at his chosen canvas, a mop of pale blonde hair and eyes showing a razor-focus become visible through the carnage.
The beast, now in halves, falls limp to the floor, as Mathias stares aghast at the man who would carry out such a maneuver.
Leon Belmont, in the flesh. Alive.
Mathias finds himself rooted in his place, unable to move.
“Mathias!” The man exclaims as he dashes toward him, and he embraces Mathias in a way which is all-too familiar.
And entirely unfamiliar at once.
He finds he is, at last, no longer immobilized, and wraps his arms about Leon, cradling his head with one, and holding tightly around his torso with the other.
Leon breaks the embrace, holding his hand upon Mathias’s shoulder.
“Leon, I thought you dead.”
Leon smiles softly, and Mathias finds he cannot help but share his smile. Leon tilts his head, looking down upon the ground, before responding, “you of all people should know I am hardly so easy to kill.”
“And I am glad for it.”
The two separate, and it is only at this point that he catches sight of one Joachim Armster. The vampire floats, distant but near enough, with ire in his gaze as he meets the eyes of Mathias, a protective air, a possessive air, radiating off of his person.
Mathias is hardly a fool. He can assemble a puzzle whose pieces have been made plain to him.
He only wishes he had been the one to usher Leon into such a life, had Mathias himself not still been so very damnably human.
The girl dashes toward Leon, greeting him with a hand upon his arm, “Leon, you—you look far better.”
“I… tired of wearing bloodsodden bedclothes. I had assumed a change might… lift my mood.”
“It is not only your clothes which have improved, Leon—you near glow.”
Color rises to Leon's cheeks.
Mathias narrows his eyes.
“I thank you, Sara,” Leon states with a smile which threatens to burst through his closed lips.
———
Mathias guides the quartet toward the armory, under guise of previously making record of its existence upon his initial search of the castle. He, of course, would never deign to enter this castle underequipped, given Walter’s capricious nature, specially so after tale of Mathias’s treachery had been discovered.
The girl, however, appears to have acquired quite a multifarious mélange of armor, all of varying quality, and Leon and the other… well, they would hardly be considered well equipped for such battle.
The girl herself would seem to know little of armor and the use of various pieces, as Leon assists her as he looks for pieces that would aid him.
As they plunder the armory, Mathias finds himself lost in thought yet again.
Joachim refuses allow Mathias without his sight, gaze weary and distrustful.
One single year ago they two, with Walter, had collaborated, before Joachim had found himself... entrapped. He is the one other who knows of Mathias’s plans, and as such he could ruin much of Mathias’s planning. Mathias mustn’t allow him speak of his own knowledge of Mathias to Leon. More than like Leon will heed Mathias’s words over this vampire, yet should Leon lend him an ear, should he trust in his words…
And so Mathias keeps an equally close eye upon the vampire.
Leon, for his own part, has hardly so much as looked his way since they initially embraced; he toys with his hair about his ears to hide their point; he opens his mouth to speak only when he is certain Mathias cannot see his fangs.
Why attempt to hide what he has become? Certainly he must know Mathias to be above such judgements?
Unless there is more to his worries.
There is also the scent of iron intermingled with his entirely futile charade at breath, the blush which spattered his cheeks when Sara made comment on his glow.
Mathias has spent time around vampires enough to know when one has recently… indulged.
“…and you and Joachim, Leon? What is it you did while we found ourselves separated?”
“Hardly of as much interest as your duel with the Doppelgänger,” Joachim is quick to cut in. “We found ourselves amongst the wing of guest bedchambers, and Leon expressed to me that he wished to find alternate clothing.”
Leon pauses, though it is hardly a hesitation of shame so much as… confusion. Leon looks lost. “Y-yes. Yes, I had… yes.”
Fascinating. He had appeared rather nonchalant for one who recently killed… likely many, the aforementioned “guest bedchambers” having held the night’s feast, the family of Walter’s most recent victim, after all.
Specially so considering that Leon had always mourned any civilian casualties during their campaign quite heavily.
The girl’s face twists as her brows furrow. “Surely… surely we had been separated for a prolonged length of time, surely it wouldn’t take—”
Joachim gives a look of wroth as he answers, “it did. Leon found himself to be quite… indecisive.”
Mathias smiles, just slight.
It would seem that, perhaps, he may have leverage against the vampire after all.
The girl makes to strap a small breastplate of leather to the front of her gambeson, a final piece to compliment her assortment of armor, when Leon holds a hand afront of her, and holds for a moment.
“Someone approaches, Sara, hide—”
“Well, well. It appears some writhing worms have happened upon the web of the spider,” comes the voice of a tall, comely woman.
“Lady Octavia—” Mathias whispers breathlessly, unthinking. He speaks then to his comrades, “do not trust the woman. She is a vampire—”
“And you, Lord Cronqvist—I should have expected better of one such as yourself.”
He finds himself seized by a momentary panic, and places his hand upon his sword, though Octavia acts faster; seizing hold of his face within her palm, eyes aglow in crimson red, before speaking to him yet only one thing, before simply taking her leave.
“Kill.”
He combats her compulsion, to begin, as he feels it cloud his thoughts and mind. It clouds his every moment thought action intention.
His mind wavers, if for but a moment, to his compatriots. He need not worry after Leon; he has ever been the more skilled fighter of the two.
The others—well, he hardly has need of them—
His mind numbs.