#-my tone as that of soft awe. i am barely forming comprehensible sentences out here dear god

[polycrews]

ddcds. for u (hopefully ur day will b a bit better!)

had to take a second to respond to this because dear GOD this made me lose coherent thoughts. ahem

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

Fangs, Horns and Halos: Part 1

Fandom: Castlevania Type of Fic: Continuation from end of Season 3, with some OCs. Contains: Angst, fluff, smut, violence all the good Castlevania stuff. Will attempts be made maintain cannon characterisation? Yes. Will I feel the need to Karen because I’m a purist? If you have to ask this question then the answer is a definite, yes. This is my fic and I’ll do what I like - you don’t have to agree, but I’m not interested in your haircut or your nastiness. Can I, or an OC of mine be in it? It’s possible, I write my friends’ OCs into stories all the time. Maybe you should drop me a note and say hi!

Should I comment and reblog? Um, yeah, because that’s what keeps my interest and inspiration high and continuing writing. I’m also open to ‘wonderings’ and ‘suggestions’ so by all means, talk to me!

If you would like a tag, just let me know.

<3 B

@loverofdeath666

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Hector was used to the monstrosities his gift created - after all, one could not expect dead flesh imbued with a hell-soul to resemble perfection. That is why he now found himself paralysed, staring at the creature on the stone slab before him.

Not twisted.

Not teeth and claw and scale.

Not slime and acid and brimstone.

She laid in perfect proportion, not a single blemish upon her naked skin, with a crown of mahogany waves draped about her head. The generous round of her breasts rose and fell with steady breath, and though her eyes remained closed her long, dark eyelashes trembled with the suggestion of dreams.

When her fingers twitched he scuttled back, his Forgemaster’s hammer held in a bloodless grip.

It didn’t make sense, but there it was.

In a growing panic, he looked to the door, expecting Lenore to appear. She would sway across the room, disapproval if not rage hidden beneath the pale of her face and demand to know the meaning of such a creation.

This was not a warrior, a machine of war; how could he possibly explain the presence of this vision?

Destroy it?

Again he considered his hammer, but in this next moment of pause the woman sat, and blinked, her lips slowly parting.

“Say nothing,” he told her in a sudden fluster.

If he had forged her, she was bound to him, bound to loyalty and obedience as he was to Lenore.

“What is this?” she asked, demanded, her tone quiet yet somehow enraged.

Without waiting for him to respond, she swung her legs to the floor - but they seemed to lack strength and she wobbled.

The moment Hector’s fingers came into contact with her skin - a reflexive attempt to prevent her from falling - he was struck with an almost overwhelming sense of ecstatic dread.

Paradoxical joy and impending doom.

She was not cold or clammy like the death he knew, nor torrid and feverish as he knew Hell could be; no, her temperature was mild and pleasant, that of any woman waking from a pleasant nap.

Except she was obviously not any woman.

“What is that?” Lenore’s voice cracked from the foundry door, her normally placid expression a sharp reflection of venom.

“Ah,” Hector fumbled, his palm still flat against the woman’s hip, his grasp lightly holding her forearm. “I just…”

Before he could make a sentence resembling comprehensible, the unclothed woman pulled ree and stepped away from him, a little closer to Lenore.

“Did you forge this thing?” Lenore barked, peering through to Hector as if the brunette was transparent.

“This thing is unimpressed by your demeanour,” the woman announced, coldly glaring at the haughty vampire.

Not at all used to being reprimanded, let alone by a night creature - however it looked - Lenore blinked in shock: shock that a night creature bound to Hector, who was bound to her, could even be so insolent.

With all the speed of her ilk, Lenore lashed out, pointed fingernails going for the throat; but she let out an unflattering and most undignified cry, she found her wrist caught.

As if in slow motion - so unfathomable was what occured next- Hector watched Lenore be flung across the foundry like a spineless ragdoll. Awkwardly, she crashed into the stab, her head cracking solidly against the bloody stone as she cartwheeled over its gorey surface.

A panic exploded in Hector’s chest, though his thoughts remained his own on that matter of what Lenore deserved, he was compelled to fly to her assistance. Not that she really needed it.

With an inhuman shriek, she sprang toward her foe, a flash of heavy cloth across Hector’s field of view that…

… suddenly stopped…

… and dangled…

… in the grip of the woman, awe inspiring and majestic with the wide spread of black-tipped white feather wings spread out behind her.

“Wretched,” she growled into Lenore’s face, dark eyes flashing with terrible promise, “and accursed.”

Though astonished, Hector’s body was compelled toward Lenore, but he could not reach her before an impressive spray of blood painted nearby walls. A strangled croak emerged from Lenore’s crushed throat, ribbons of vitae winding down the naked woman’s arm until she tossed the vampire to the side.

“Bu… how?” Hector panted, his pallor more blanched than usual as he drew Lenore’s gasping body into his lap.

No answer was forthcoming.

The angelic woman darted for the window and did not pause; she leapt through the glass, a spray of glittering shards against the stormy night sky.

Then she was gone.

It was a long night.

Though Alucard told himself, over and over, he was better off alone because people simply could not be trusted, the betrayal by Sumi and Taka truly left him more lonely than ever.

As dawn extinguished the stars, he made his way out of the dilapidated castle and wandered through the forest with a fishing rod over his shoulder. Light began to filter through the trees, and animals awoke to provide a peaceful accompaniment to his morning trek to the river.

Upon reaching the gently sloping bank, however, his attention was drawn to the nearby growl of wolves and the harsh caw of crows. Against the green and grey, a white figure laid face down and half submerged - headless, no, head obscured by a tangle of hair and leaves.

The animals looked to Alucard’s first step in their direction, then fled the superior predator by his second. It seemed an unlikely place for a corpse to wash ashore, but Alucard noted the beginnings of a beaver dam had altered the river’s flow: but even over the water’s soft chatter, he could hear the faint sound of something not belonging to the forest. It might have been voices, or chimes, a choir in full song in a language he could not understand; it was beautiful, incomprehensibly divine and yet every now and then the Devil’s chord struck out a sinister whisper.

This caused him to hesitate, to be furtive and suspicious, but he could not deny the curiosity that eventually drew him within arm’s reach. It had the form of a woman, but Alucard had known enough monsters in his time to understand that shape alone meant nothing.

On high guard, he carefully crouched and touched against her shoulder blade.

He gasped, filling his lungs almost to the point of bursting.

With significantly greater urgency, he rolled the figure over and her limbs limply followed. She did not open her eyes, but now he could see the slow movement of her bare breasts - amid scratches and bruises, bite-marks and gashes. The map of her skin told him she had faced many attackers, and traces of congealed filth beneath her fingernails suggested monsters had been her foes; and yet she was still alive.

Silently, Alucard fought with himself.

The last people he had welcomed into his home had turned on him. Their skeletons - now picked clean by birds, insects and time - still adorned the steps of his castle.

But his mother flickered in his mind’s eye, looked out at the dishevelled woman, and he knew he could not just leave her here to die of her wounds or exposure.

That didn’t mean he was going to lay her upon a bed of roses nor give her the run of his abode. No.

With great caution he settled her in a room with slender windows - too narrow for a person to squeeze through - one with a fortified door. It was not quite a cell, it was not in the dungeon, but it was secure enough Alucard believed he would not have to worry about being unexpectedly pounced in his own bed.

Diligently, he tended to her wounds, then tucked her beneath warm blankets - always with the call to his sword on the very edge of his consciousness. During the whole process she did not stir, but the soft, compelling sound that lingered around her like an aura, became stronger, more certain.

“But no heartbeat,” he thought, though she was definitely not a vampire.

There were other things in the world.

As he sat by her bedside he contemplated what he’d do when she woke. Of course this depended on what and who she was, but even then the question remained whether he should send her on her way immediately.

But the ridiculous little effigies of Trevor and Sypha he’d made, reminded him how there was a part of himself that needed others now - if he was not to become like his father. He was not stupid, not blind to the traps laid out before him by loneliness.

Those that Dracula had fallen into.

“I ferried him to Hell,” a voice declared, soft but sure, and Alucard focused back in on his ‘guest’.

“Who?” Alucard frowned, his muscles tensing in readiness for confrontation.

“Your father,” she replied, peering up at him with eyes that cast back only his reflection.

Finally she blinked, and as if released from a spell, Alucard rose slowly from his seat.

“Who are you?” he questioned, tone edged with warning, but the woman remained still.

“I… don’t have a name,” she answered, frowning in consternation. “I am just one of many… and yet…”

Her frown became a scowl and she seemed to be in some pain.

“Perhaps you remember what you were doing naked fighting night creatures?” he offered, not moving to offer her sympathy or assistance.

“Fighting back,” she corrected through her teeth, then threw back the blanket. “And nudity is such a… human concept.”

In line with her statement, she didn’t seem the slightest bit abashed at her unclothed state, and was on her feet to inspect the bandages wrapped around her torso and one thigh.

“Hmm, I suppose I should thank you,” she murmured, flexing her fingers, watching them curl toward her palm and then extend again. “You’re the first to not try to kill me since I…”

She scowled again and massaged her temples, eyes half closed.

“Ugh, this body is so… so…”

Alucard bit his tongue to withhold the way he would have finished her sentence.

“No thanks needed,” he said instead. “I try not to kill everyone I come across.”

Her movements were graceful, she had a distinct poise and yet, she was studying herself like she was confused.

“Well that’s reassuring to kno…”

The end of her sentence broke off, her expression one of significant affliction.

As she crumpled, Alucard lurched forward to offer support before easing her back onto the bed.

“Why can’t they hear me?” she cried out, as pain ripped through her skull.

“Who?” Alucard prompted, half-couched before her with his hands at her elbows.

“My brothers. My sisters! Why don’t they come for me?”

Frustrated, Alucard found himself no more knowledgeable of the woman or her circumstances than when he’d found her - everything she uttered was only part of a whole, and he couldn’t fill in the blanks alone.

“I cannot answer that,” he admitted, softening his tone in an attempt to mitigate her distress. “But you are safe here.”

“Am I?” she exhaled, her following inhale slow, like she feared the expansion of her lungs. “Everything is in chaos,” she expounded. “My thoughts, my memories, not meant to be contained by this… this mortal flesh.”

“If not mortal flesh, then what?” he urged, and again she planted her gaze in his, a stare from which he could not look away.

“Death,” she answered, and as she spoke the word that inexplicably melodious choir thrummed in Alucard’s ears. “Souls conveyed to Heaven, souls condemned to Hell.”

“You said you’d ferried my father to Hell,” Alucard recalled.

“Yes,” she answered, her chin dropping a little. “For all the carnage wrought upon the world, born from his insatiable hatred,” she elaborated. “As you drove a stake through his chest. The fall of his head to the Belmont’s blade. The combustion of his body in the Speaker’s fire. I was there, Alucard, to judge his life, sentence his soul and escort him hence.”

Alucard’s eyes widened.

Of course the specifics of Dracula’s demise was not public record, nor had he shared his name with her - but she recounted his father’s death just as it happened.

“Are you suggesting you’re an angel?” he queried, and his hands fell away as she moved to stand once more.

“I was an angel,” she spat, a disgusted sound accompanied by the stretching rustle of wings.

Unfurled, they spanned the entire length of the room, brushing the brickwork with their dusky tips.

“Now… I....” she stammered, her eyes welling. “The Forgemaster has bound me to this plane… how?”

“Forgemaster?” Alucard repeated, his expression darkening, and the woman’s wings slumped, forming a cloak of sorts that seemed to hang from her shoulders.

“He keeps reaching out,” she sneered thickly. “I feel him, pulling at me, desperate to bend my will to his.”

“Forgemasters draw souls from Hell into dead flesh,” Alucard pointed out.

“I know what they do!” she shouted, her body pulsing with a suddenly light that caused the half-vampire to back away. “But here I am! And everything is so… so… broken!”