A/N: This is my first attempt at fanfiction of any genre; I generally shy away from writing about other people's characters. So if you enjoy the story, leave a review and wish Andleeb a happy birthday, because this wouldn't have been written if not for her.
Disclaimer: Hellsing? Not mine.
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The Hellsing manor was an intimidating fortress of stone and mortar, glass and steel. It was the sort of place that would make a perfect backdrop for a good ghost story, and was likely rumored to be haunted. Even in a place as castle-rich as Britain, it exuded a sort of dark menace that made innocent passerby hesitate to draw near. Their fears were not unfounded. Yet if, just for a moment, you could be as formless as one of the ghosts in those walls and slip unnoticed into the high-ceilinged rooms, what strange and awesome things would you see? You would float down to the dungeons, perhaps, for that is where all the best bloody tales begin; and blood aplenty you would find. Century-old bloodstains brown and maroon on the stones, wet crimson splatters and everything in between. But far more fascinating is the figure that sits alone in a darkened cell, clutching a white leather glove. He does not move or blink, merely stares at the glove as if hypnotized. Upon closer inspection you see that the glove too is bloodstained. Given the state of the room it hardly seems worth noting. What is so special about this glove, then? What holds the silent figure spellbound? After a moment you begin to understand. Though the figure wears white gloves of his own – indeed, is never seen without them – this glove is not his. It is too small to fit his hands, a delicate thing. Feminine.
And it is stained with blood.