Maria Renard makes a fate-altering decision, and so begins the first night of the rest of her life. Symphony of the Night one-shot with Richter/Maria undertones.
Did he mean nothing at all to them?
The more she thought of it, the more disgusted she became by their inaction. Here was a noble man, an honorable man, one who’d proven his devotion to the family time and again. Yet, they remained paralyzed by seeming indifference.
Well, she was not going to remain still. Taking the lamp from the shelf, she crept downstairs like a thief in the night, so as not to wake her sleeping sisters. Down she went, into the cellar, and set the lamp upon a box, her thoughts turning once more to him. As long as she lived, she would never forget the terror that gripped her heart when the monsters came for her and her older sister. And so long as she lived, she would never forget the resolve that shone in his eyes when he broke down the door of the chapel and scooped her into his powerful arms. She would never forget that feeling of warmth and security.
It was why, ten years later, she would not—could not—abandon him to fate.
She reached into her mass of blonde curls, pulling out a pair of slender hairpins. Carefully, she picked the lock on the enormous armoire, in precisely the way her father taught her. Of course, It was a skill meant to be used on crypts of the walking damned, and not the family weapons cabinet. The lock opened with a satisfying “pop”, and she flung the doors wide open, revealing racks of crossbows, swords, and holy objects—all manner of implements used in the hunter’s trade. Crosses, wooden stakes, holy water and blessed daggers were quickly lifted out and shoved into her rucksack. Even with this formidable arsenal, it wouldn’t be enough; she could have strapped the entire armory onto her back, and it would still have been woefully inadequate.
After all, what on Earth could possibly prepare one for the dark and accursed halls of Castlevania?
The girl shut the cabinet and raced upstairs, out the back door of the quaint country cottage, and readied her horse. If she moved with all haste, she could make it there before dawn. All she would need to do is take the high road through the forest, and find the woodcutter’s trail she often played on as a child.
She burst forth on the chestnut stallion, leaping the fence, and before long sped at a full gallop. Her father would be furious, naturally; her mother, hysterical. They would not possibly understand. All they would see was their precious daughter once more casting her lot—and with it, her very life—to one of those wretched, troublesome boys. That family was nothing but trouble, her father often spoke bitterly, their destiny was as cursed as the demon they were pledged to fight. Neither of her parents could fathom the deep and abiding love she felt for him, the love that drove her flying across the pastoral French countryside like a banshee in the night. She felt no fear, no doubt, so strong was her determination.
“I’m coming, Richter,” Maria Renard whispered to the darkened night.