Fleshforging

I am an ugly sight.

 

I expected as much, when I had planned my trip. The previous month by the full moon, a demon had been called to vengeance by the death of His mortal love.

 

I wish to meet that demon.

 

I understand His path of terror. Mortals have stolen from Him, as they do from me. I am rejected from every corner I dare to huddle in. I am the blasphemer; the warlock; many other cruel things.

 

He is ruthless, I know. No innocent spared. I fight similarly, carving my own path of destruction. The creatures that guard his stronghold are a test, metaphorically speaking.

 

The real terror would be diplomacy. I am to be his prey, and ally; to study the boundaries of life and death and snap it in my mortal hands. This I long for. This has always been my blasphemy; what got me thrown out from the monks' retreat that awful winter.

 

Necromancy.

 

I have ideas. My colleagues didn't like them. And thus, I deserved to die in the cold, according to them.

 

I did not die.

 

And I want to continue studying.

 

That is what has brought me to Lord Dracula's doors, the massive gate to Castlevania. He can teach me, as rumors of His great knowledge and power are greatly rumored in occult circles: that He made Himself immortal with alchemy. The boundary I crave can be broken with His assistance.

 

I suppose we both fear death, even as we dabble in it. We come closer to it, to becoming its emissary, in trying to find a way to never face it ourselves. I want to turn death to life. Dracula wished to never die.

 

Wordlessly, the gate opens to me. An interesting detail, I notice, is that the Count does not seem to lock others out of His home. Vampires must be invited inside, but humans receive a splendid amount of courtesy.

 

Even hunters- though almost all of them die in the confounding labyrinth, I later find out.

 

The entrance hall is eerily quiet, even as I prepare my weapon for more blood and viscera to paint across my shabby robes.

 

"I've been expecting you," heralds a voice, smooth as snakescale. "The Count spotted your approach from across the cliff. Who might you be, traveller? Do you wish to challenge Him? If so, I am your first-"

 

"No, I wish to join His war, and to learn from Him," I answer, truthfully. "The secrets of life, from an immortal man."

 

"Then we are kindred," he responds, stepping into a silent ray of moonlight. It sets his hair alight, and in a moment of shock I am certain he has been set on fire. Red! What a deep, vibrant red his hair was.

 

"My name is Isaac Laforeze, human protegé of the Count. Who may you be?" His eyes glimmer with a sort of wiliness. He reaches a hand to me, and it is nearly skeletal, and with the oddest complexion, almost as if his skin was desaturated and grey like a corpse. His black robe falls around him, but beneath that cloth he is clearly far too slender.

 

"My good man, I am Hector Frankenstein," I clasp his hand in mine. "I seek to undo death, to create new lives from it. 'Twould set mortals free from their sole confine, into a new age of endless knowledge. And yet, they detested me for it. So now all I can turn to is you, and your lord."

 

"The forbidden arts! To forge a hellish devil, then," Isaac responds, gleefully. "You have come to the right place indeed. I'll bring you to council with Dracula as soon as I can."

 

What an education this would be! It thrills me, to be met with such welcoming enthusiasm from this, the most dangerous of places. Those innocent mortals were never so kind to me. Not once they knew...

 

Isaac returns quickly, and takes my hand insistently; he hurries me through corridors and up stairs to a private throne room suspended in air.

 

Legends and hushed rumors do not do Dracula justice, I think as I stand before Him. He is thrice the size of a normal man, His hair as silver-pale as snow. His cape spills around Him like darkness and shadow, and instinctively I am compelled to bow- an instinct not quite my own. 'Tis it his mind that calls me to give my respects? I am not certain.

 

"My lord Count," I speak, as I feel His fiery crimson eyes boring into me. "I have heard of your tale of revenge, your war. Know too that humanity has cast me aside, and I seek to learn from you. I want to create life from death."

 

"Speak your name."

 

"Frankenstein. Hector Frankenstein, my lord. Laforeze says you hold the knowledge I seek- devil forging. To cross the boundaries between hell and the living. Your alchemy-"

 

"Indeed, Frankenstein. I can teach you such things. I ask one thing in return, the same I asked of Laforeze."

 

"Yes, my lord?"

 

"The creatures you summon from death are to kill for me each night. They will be drafted to my army of the night."

 

"That was never in question," I answer.

 

"Good," Dracula grins, exposing rows of razor teeth. "Know it will take a long time to reach Laforeze's proficiency, Hector. I began tutoring him when he was but a child."

 

This is curious to me. Dracula's war had only begun the previous month, and yet He readily admits to training a forgemaster for such a purpose. And for years! Isaac looked about twenty-five, gaunt as he was. I wonder if He had been planning ahead; I make a note to ask Isaac himself.

 

"You shall start by creating an innocent devil of human flesh; Isaac will help you with this as he is a master in his own right. He shall pass his knowledge to you as I did to him. You will have a month. When next the moon is full, I will observe your progress, Frankenstein," the Count explains. "Laforeze?"

 

"Yes, my lord?" Isaac's head snaps up expectantly.

 

"Show him to the alchemists' quarters."

 

Isaac bows, then takes my hand in his long bony fingers once more. As it turns out, he and I are the only two forgemasters who dwell within these walls. Each monster that stalks the countryside by night bears his mark. He had created so many! I can only aspire to such proficiency, and learn from my gracious tutor.

 

My own cell is too much like the one I had while I stayed at the retreat, so I put off going to sleep for the time being. Besides, the night wind-chill, carrying the scent of rot, is suddenly becoming a comfort. Isaac is understanding of my insomnia, gesturing for me to sit by his side, after he had undressed for bed. I have the feeling he has much to discuss, and so too do I.

 

"Sir Laforeze-"

 

"Just Isaac, dear."

 

"You're- You're my tutor."

 

"And your friend. We're to work together, after all? I'd advise you to get comfortable in my presence." He giggles a little. "You look so stiff."

 

"I haven't had a proper bed in some time," I reply.

 

"Worry not, dear Hector. My back has not ached in years," he says, despite the arch of his spine poking through his skin and the cloth of his nightshirt. He looks not healthy, and I wonder if he has not seen the sun in some time. I notice how tired he looks, too, for the first time.

 

"And the food...?" I try to look away from his skeletal frame for fear of offense.

 

"We are well fed. He learned well the cooking of mortals, when His lover still lived. A feast every night," Isaac licks his lips.

 

How strange! Exhausted in a comfortable bed, starving in a feast-hall. Isaac's appearance is curious and worrying, but I do not dare to ask why he resembles death. I embrace the practices of the dead, after all.

 

"May I ask you about your upbringing? The Count spoke of your childhood briefly. But why should he have raised a forgemaster before the execution had provoked him...?" I ventured.

 

"We weren't trained for war initially. We simply wanted to learn. We were young, and unfortunate souls, pursued for witchcraft. We begged to live in his great castle, a home of protection for those who work in shadows and he accepted. He taught us magic, and only now did we gain a purpose for which to use it for- what I had hungered for so long. Revenge against the humans who mistreated us!" Isaac's expression lights up with passion.

 

"You say we. Were there others, once?"

 

"My sister was with me at first," Isaac muttered, his eyes clouding over. "She left last month, I'm certain you can guess why. And all the drama with the Count's son..."

 

"Do you miss her?" I ask.

 

He spits. "I hate her. Traitor. Dracula is the only one who ever cared for us. She was ungrateful when asked to do something in return for His love. I detest her."

 

"That doesn't answer the question."

 

"Doesn't it?" He grins without joy.

 

We are silent for a while.

 

"I do not wish to sleep alone tonight," I finally admit. "I've had too many nights spent in hateful solitude."

 

"Of course," he nods, and makes room for me beside him. His body is cold and sharp against my own, but it was the greatest warmth I had felt in some time.

 

We are to study by day, and Dracula shall rule by night. It is a great relief to me and my still-diurnal schedule. The sunlight barely comes through the thick clouds as Isaac leads me to the laboratory. He instructs me in the matters of devil-forging.

 

"...If you wish to revive the dead, then we'll need a corpse," Isaac takes on a new tone of authority, as though last night we had not spoken so casually.

 

"That seems to be easy enough, no? So many are killed each night," I reply.

 

"Not an intact corpse," he grins ear to ear, and I know my companion's true nature had returned. "My pretty little demons get a bit excited when they maul, heehee..."

 

I laugh as well. What strength he commands... What strength I shall have, too! But I have my own solution to that little issue, of course. "Why not stitch multiple together?"

 

"Why have I not considered that, Frankenstein?! We really did need new blood in these castle walls... I may be stupid." he chuckles. "But, yes, a body is merely a vessel. Put a new soul in... And it will change to fit the new presence inside it. That is devil forging."

 

"I see."

 

"Stone, too, can be used as a vessel, to have more control over what forms, but it requires carving-work, and I don't think you are much of a stonemason," he jokes.

 

"No, Isaac, I am not," I reply. "Do I have any control over what soul is called?"

 

"Summoning magic does not have that level of specificity. Magic- mana- is an untrained, wild thing. We merely direct it, not control it," Isaac explained. "It doesn't matter. The innocent devils become entirely obedient, I promise you."

 

"Shall we begin, then?" I look around, and there is a distinct lack of corpses in the laboratory.

 

"We have no material right now," he says, euphemistically. He claps his hands, and a silver-colored angel flies in through the window. It seems to have been watching from the roof, as I recognized its humanoid visage. I had taken it for a stone gargoyle when I approached Castlevania, but it had been living this whole time.

 

"Abel, dearie?" he speaks as though calling a little terrier over. "Bring our friend Hector some corpses tonight." Wordlessly, the demon nods, and flits out silently.

 

He continues his lesson: "Now, I must show you the incantation necessary, and how to summon your magic. Everyone has mana, really. Some just never reach within to find it."

 

'Tis simpler than I first thought, though. I clear my head and speak the words, and accept whatever phenomena occurs as it rushes through my veins. I am easily shaken from my casting by distraction, but with practice, my clear and empty mind becomes resilient. Cold blue sparks at my fingertips as I speak.

 

"Immaculate being..."

 

"Yes, that's it," Isaac grins as the magic forms visibly around my hands. It is consuming and frigid, threatening to drown me within it, but I am the one who holds the power.

 

We continue in this manner until I become proficient. Isaac is seemingly impressed. I have indeed summoned souls, ghosts without form chilling the air around us ephemerally before being called back behind the veil.

 

I, who believes in no Gods, shall create in my own image.

 

Our work will continue the next day, when we have material to work with. I am eager to create my makeshift humans, to create from bloody severed bits something entirely new. The Count has sent for strong thread, as well, which I am glad for. It arrives the next morning, as does Isaac's familiar. I wake exhausted though, more exhausted than I had ever been before, even in that terrible winter in the mountains. Perhaps the new magic has drained me.

 

Abel dumps a pile of broken limbs and torsos onto the floor with a snarl. I thank Isaac's familiar half-heartedly as I peer at them all- no right arms, or at least not any that are in good condition enough for my project.

 

So. Two left arms he shall have, I think, grumbling to myself. I try not to let it put a damper on my first creation.

 

My good friend works by himself, in his own corner of the laboratory, and I work in mine. I sew carefully, picking the most beautiful parts for my creature. He would be the most wonderful of them, the most ideal parts of each human life combined into a greater whole (even with the situation with his arms...). My Adam, my first man. I toil for many days, and Isaac eagerly inspects my work as I continue. The deadline of a month comes nearer swiftly, though, and I grow anxious in anticipation.

 

"You're an awful perfectionist," Isaac tuts. "I think he is ready."

 

"Do you?" He does not look ready for life to me. Still, I suppose I'll only learn when I cast the spell. We have worked until evening set in, and thus we take him to the highest tower together, wheeling up the operating table carefully.

 

Here, close to the sky and the sickly night air, I feel tied to my mana and the land of the dead so closely. It will be here that my creation shall take his first breath. Rain pitterpatters angrily outside, as the dark grey clouds had been threatening all day. It always seems so overcast around the castle.

 

"Immaculate being," I chant the words as Isaac had instructed me, "Appear before me now!" He smiles as he watches, pride in his eyes. His tutelage has paid off, I am certain.

 

Theatrically, lightning strikes above me, all the windows in the tower turning blinding white. Thunder crackles immediately. It's ever so close and briefly I fear electrocution. My hands grow cold as the River Styx as though reaching inside to pluck something from those rushing waters.

 

He twitches. He lives. He looks around in wonderment at the moonlight seeping in.

 

He is an ugly sight.

 

The creature, the man, paws at me with his two left hands, babbling like an imbecile. Somehow I expected something a little more beautiful, almost godly, to have travelled from hell and broken free of mortal death.

 

This is no Adam.

 

This is a fetus in a man's mangled body.

 

I had created him in my own image. Is this mockery a reflection of me, this misshapen thing? He stares at me with empty blue eyes, and I swallow back vomit.

 

Well, tomorrow he shall march to his first battle. I can only wish the misery of my first creation shall end swiftly.

 

It does not. He's speaking now, having overheard some conversation in the villages he was sent to attack, I'd wager. He smiles at me with cracked, bloodstained lips.

 

"Papa, papa. I fought."

 

"So you did," I respond, a bit coldly.

 

"I tire."

 

"Sleep, then. You have all day."

 

"Do I have a name?"

 

"Creature," I respond absentmindedly. "And I am creator, not papa."

 

"Alright," the dead thing says, and shambles away to sleep. "Good day, creator."

 

"He's brilliant, isn't he?" Isaac gushes, once he's left. "I have never seen one speak before. He learned fast. You're a genius."

 

"I wish he wouldn't," I grumbled. "Papa! Can you believe it?"

 

"Oh, Hector. I think it's cute," Isaac replied. "Like a baby."

 

Dracula is similarly impressed, and we are approved for the next project. We work faster now, without Isaac needing to stop to explain, and with my new knowledge. I am learning quickly, more than Dracula expects of me. I prepare a new cobblecorpse, I bring it a soul, and to my surprise, it twists and changes shape as it comes to life, gnarly horns erupting from its skull and too many eyes opening to look at me.

 

Now, this is a devil.

 

I continue, faster and faster, as the days wear on, and more and more they become inhuman and demonic. I find my exhaustion and fatigue worsening, though I try to pace myself. We receive a few attacks from hunters, angry humans who seek vengeance for their punishment. Our forces silence those attempts, swiftly. However, when a small makeshift army rises over the hill, that is when I worry. This wasn't like the lone warlock who found his end turned to stone by my Cyclops, but truly an attempt at resistance.

 

"Aww. They brought out the old torches and pitchforks, eh, Hector?" Isaac cooes, condescendingly. "That's adorable."

 

"I heard Dracula Himself got off the throne to go deal with it," I reply.

 

"Hmm, that's atypical. He's normally lazy as a lion... Wants us lionesses to do the hunting for Him," he snorts. I lean close to him, peering over the edge. They've ventured through the gate, and though the wargs try to pick off their weaker ranks, they have barely made a dent before they are slain.

 

"You think we ought to do something?" I ask, pointedly.

 

"Ha! Just watch. I'll be getting a good look at the action, though, don't you worry your pretty silver head about it," he replies. "The Count has it handled."

 

I tire of his flirtations sometimes.

 

The night wears on, and I stay on the balcony, white-knuckled as I gripped the balcony. Were my hands always this bony? I dread to think that I might look like Isaac now, haggard and skeletal. The Count has barely any mirrors in His castle, as He has no need for them- perhaps I should check for the rare few. I'm interrupted, though. Isaac returns far too hurriedly.

 

"The Count wants you. He says it's a test. Exciting!" He leans forward to meet my eyes.

 

"Where is He?" I look around, hurriedly.

 

"The clock-tower. Right at the top."

 

I hurry up the shaft of twisting gears, as I cannot disobey a direct order from the Count. Bodies trail up to its pinnacles, destroyed and wrecked on the massive cogs, and at the top stands Dracula, holding a tiny human man captive in his massive clawed hands.

 

"Our little rebellion stops here," he hisses down at the man. "Grant Danasty."

 

"You can't kill me," Danasty spits.

 

"I won't," Dracula says, ominously. "You should be glad I called the forgemaster."

 

I swallow and look solemn. I don't think I am supposed to formally introduce myself to my prey.

 

"A forgemaster? Then you're... You're human. You look dead, but-" the thief sputters. "Please."

 

"Frankenstein," Dracula smiles at me. "I am certain you know what is to be done with foolish mortals."

 

"Immaculate being," I begin, feeling the Styx around me once more. I have never attempted to forge the living before. "Contort before me now."

 

He screams, bones twisting into something monstrous; shaping himself for the demon-soul that now dwells alongside his own.

 

I don't watch. It is... nasty. But he, too, has become another of my innocent devils. My power has no limit! I even begin to fear it.

 

"Impressive... Leave him to guard the tower," Dracula says. "He can be of use."

 

"Yes, my lord Count," I reply, though I am somewhat shaken by his agonizing transformation. What was he fighting for? He wanted to live. He fought for life, for his own life and others.

 

Do I, too, not strive for life in my own way?

 

Something limps up behind me. Creature! He must have been involved in the fight with Danasty's army. He's bleeding from open wounds. One of his legs trails uselessly behind him, nearly entirely detached from the rest of his mismatched body.

 

"Creator. They broke my stitching," he breathes down my neck. "I wish for repairs."

 

I want to deny him. My failure to create a man in my own image still disgusts me, as much as Danasty's transformation does. I want something perfect. I want to send him away, but Dracula raises an eyebrow. "We want our forces strong and hearty, don't we, Frankenstein?"

 

"Of course, my lord," I bow.

 

I do look in one of the few mirrors, as I had thought to do earlier, once everything settles down. I do not like what I see: cruel, sharp, hardened bone covered by a thin sickly sheet.

 

Dracula grows more paranoid in the weeks that follow. He wants more, more armies, more monsters. I am happy to oblige. My devils are becoming stronger with each forge, twisting further and further away from their initial human form. I grow more tired with each day, bones aching for sleep.

 

I miss the sunlight. The cloud cover never leaves. Everything's dark and grey, day and night blurring together. Creature keeps standing over my bed when I wake. He's come back more violent and covered in blood each night, his corpse-face leering. "Come and hear what I did last night," he always asks, excited as a child.

 

"I killed. I killed. I killed."

 

("...But they were so strange and fascinating. Their books! The poetry. I brought some with me...")

 

I regret to say that I regret.

 

I cannot even dedicate myself wholeheartedly to the blasphemy I am hated for. What a wretched thing I turned out to be! But I cannot leave. Dracula would kill me. I recall how Isaac speaks of his sister; he would kill me too. My transgression was already complete, anyway. Dracula had His army. How many had I already killed? I saw something in Danasty's eyes, and I hate how I dream of it.

 

I dream of humanity. It becomes more and more alien each night. It has two left arms.

 

Another hunter has come. He freed the warlock from his statue-prison. He's strong, Dracula tells me. He's a descendant of an old enemy. A blood feud, then.

 

Secretly, I hope he kills me. But there is no way. He does not stand much of a chance against the army Isaac and I have created.

 

He'd need to face half of it to have a fighting chance.

 

Half of it.

 

Of course! I have utter control over all of my devils. I can compel them to gather in one place, where I shall slaughter them. And the Belmont would be able to win. I would undo my crime against humanity.

 

Isaac would hate me for betraying the vampire who so kindly raised him and his sister.

 

Isaac would hate me for betraying him, too. Some part of me too regrets that.

 

...To hell with Isaac.

 

I gather them all, commanding with my mind; thousands, behind the castle and across the moat. They stood, like expectant puppies, waiting for command. Sit, speak, retrieve.

 

I slit their throats one by one. I don't even have to fight.

 

My sin, laying in a massive red puddle before me.

 

"Creator! What have you done!" That familiar voice came from across the scene of bloodshed. He had come late. "My siblings... You have destroyed them," he wailed, two left hands reaching up to not-quite-cup his face as he shook and sobbed.

 

"They went back to hell, where their souls belong," I spit.

 

I had felt nothing when I killed, and I would have killed my Creature too. But I hesitate. Why now does he look more hearty, more alive than I do? I am little more than a shambling decay. I am a grave.

 

"Why?"

 

When I look in his eyes, I see the kind of humanity I had forgotten about. The same will to live as within Danasty.

 

"I... I regret. I regret," my voice comes out ragged. "I was so cruel to you. I created weapons for war. I wanted... Oh God, how many innocents have died?" I shudder, my breaths coming in heaves. "Kill me, Creature. I am beyond redemption."

 

"I can't, creator."

 

Does an innocent devil not take all commands from its master?! I ask myself this, and yet I know. This is no monster or demon. He had learned, and yearned, even as he killed.

 

"What, then? Take me to Dracula?"

 

"No. He'll kill you for this. Leave."

 

"You're sparing me..."

 

He is more human than I am! Even with every ugly stitch across his body, even with his uneven, asymmetrical self. He is human.

 

"Run," he implores me. "There is new life for you yet. Life can always spring from death. You showed me." He points with his second arm. "They heard the commotion. Leave."

 

I nod. I meet his sad eyes.

 

"Farewell, my Adam."

 

I go before he can respond.

 

I run, breathlessly, from the ocean of gore I had created, into the trees, into the trees... 

 

Sticky rose-crimson covers my frame, half dead and pallid. I am the very image of a lich-sorcerer. I have nowhere to go, as my appearance heralds my sin and necromancy. Who should even take me?! In seeking to create new life, I had killed some part of myself. My heart, my life and vitality. My compassion.

 

I collapse in the tiny creek, the border between night and sweet day, exhaustion taking over. I try to push myself upwards, to make more distance between me and that wretched old rotting castle, but to no avail. I am rotting, too. I faint.

 

I am an ugly sight.

 

Rosaly, however, does not think me so, when she finds me, a wretched creature of a man in the morning.

 

Somehow, she thinks me beautiful.