If These Walls Could Talk

"Happy"

"I had entirely different books under my childhood bed. My father was a polymath, my mother was a doctor, and I grew up very fast."

******

The castle doesn't like the crying.

This new being is here, alive, and apparently 'alive' means 'up at all hours bawling.' The castle is used to a general tone of sorrow, of people screaming, and wolves howling, but this incessant wailing, for no reason, certainly not a good reason—(are there any 'good' reasons here?)—is not something that it enjoys echoing within its halls all the time. The room is not empty, isn't cold, or dark, but 'warm' and 'light' and 'full' would be pushing its luck. Letting the woman and her new life in, setting this room aside, changing that reflection, building this little universe, may just have been a mistake. Life is far more foul than death, the castle concludes; at least death is quiet.

But then there's another sound: sometimes, if they are very lucky, the child laughs.

...and the room fills with the sound, like air in its lungs.

It isn't just the room anymore. It belongs to someone. It has a master. It's his room. It's Adrian's room.

Centuries went by when there was no laughter in these rooms. Not a single word, nor note of song, how could their ever be laughter? Dracula's castle was not a place for it, Dracula was not the creature to give it—(unless you count the maniacal kind). It was something neither castle nor master lamented the absence of—(aside from that of his victims, there was little lament here. The place was hollow, and that means there was no emotion here; no joy, nor real sorrow. Happiness is only real when sadness is too). But now that Castlevania knows the sound, a little of 'happy'...it may just melt all its gears to fill every hall with that tiny, shimmering sound.

And when Vlad smiles, laughs in return, bouncing this little golden boy on his knee—(so unlike how he treated the sons and daughters of others before)...the castle thinks it might just be able to handle the crying.

There's a painting here too, now. The walls in this room are not stagnant and bare. The three of them left one day, and when they came back—smiles on their faces, laughs in their throats—there was a painting in their hands, which they gave to the room.

A reflection of the family. Of 'family.' Of 'happy.'

There was no need for paintings before. The only master of this castle was here, in the blood—why depict him why you could just meet him? The castle didn't need brushstrokes on canvas to remember what Dracula's face looked like.

The castle may not have watched kings and queens reign and wither, may not pay homage to them with its walls, but it has three inhabitants now—the boy has two ancestors, one a king, one an ordinary woman—and well, they may as well reside on the walls too, just in case they're not always here; God knows it's too easy to lose anything living here.

Just to make sure the boy remembers their faces. What 'happy' looked like.

Soon the castle will understand that living things grow, and that perhaps the painting is not there for remembrance after death, but to remember when he was a tiny, smiling, crying ball of giggles...because he won't be like this forever.

The painting isn't the only thing on the walls either; the mirror. As they predicted, it is not empty here, though not magical, it isn't purposeless. It sits, watching all that goes on, and it holds the boy in its silver grasp, as well as his mother. They are real. They are alive. Two drops of sunlight.

Sunlight.

That's the other thing; the windows in the room are open now.

Humans seem to hunt, to find joy in, the sun. Vampires cannot even live in the sunlight, much less enjoy it, so Dracula has no choice but to keep his castle dark.