By the way, this is my first Hellsing fanfiction and I do blame to insert some stories about Vlad Dracul. They might not be completely historically accurate so don't hurt me! Lol enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing nor do I make any profit from it
Red. Everything seemed to be painted the color red now a days. Why? Why would this little faction be present? Battle had rung out? A crime had taken place? Over five hundred years ago, something did take place to cause such a faction to appear before the man's eyes.
Age of thirty, at least almost. Dark raven-colored hair; wavy at that and down to the edges of his shoulder blades. Blue eyes that seemed dark in color as though he had seen many of years, which was not the case. His chin and parts of the jawline were covered in a slight stubble; a beard already trying to grow across his rough features.
A threat towards the Turkish people going by the name of Vlad the Impaler. Vlad III Dracul, a lost soul from Wallachia. Having been held by the Turks for years, the young child had grown in education but also in hatred towards the Turkish people.
A man having once been close to God had only grown far from the higher-up being of his religion. Many reasons could have caused such a torn relationship for the man only growing to be known as a mad king. His young childhood experience or even the very experience of his love dying could have been the cause of such madness, but who was to know of that.
A man known by a horrible name; a man whose actions were more or less about fighting and revenge; no one was able to understand how he could have had a woman love him so. Even he himself could not understand it and yet, it had happened. It had been something.
This man, raven-colored hair and features that looked like a man with many years on him, was currently in his study at the castle within the Hungarian Empire. His castle, his home of which was empty without the excited voice of the beautiful woman. His dark blue gaze wandered from the book he had in his clothed lap. There was a painting above the fireplace, a little something that he kept from his time with her. The other memories of her were placed in the basement alongside her coffin.
This painting was one of few the woman allowed to have been painted; rarely did this woman allow for herself to be painted. She was beautiful, a rare sight to see among the race of man, and yet she hardly allowed for herself to be painted in a portrait. She was more about the beauty in the world and other people than the beauty she had within and outside of her.
Her features were flawless as though she was made from the smoothest marble ever found in this world or the next. Her eyes were a light hazel color; at times looking a gray and blue color in the correct lighting. Her hair was wavy near the tips and was a dark raven color. Within the portrait, she was wearing a silk dress of a silver color. Around her neck was a silver necklace with a cross hanging down the middle of it all. She truly didn't move away from God even when she was on her deathbed. Her loyalty killed her, at least that was how the raven-haired man thought of it.
Her deathbed, the actions that had happened there was something that the man didn't want to think about. Yet, the memories trickled into his mind at the least expected time. Her already skinny body was even more so skinny. Her ribs would show on the sides; her stomach was practically nothing. Her hazel eyes had lost their shine to them; her hair was the same. She had starved to death. She hadn't felt like eating anymore. She hadn't want anything. The ravenette constantly told him that she always felt sick to her stomach whenever she ate anything. She told him that she was always feeling a dull pain where her stomach would be.
He had stayed by her side practically every hour of the day and if he could not do so, the man had luckily enough called upon his love's sister to stay with them long before his love had truly started starving herself. It was for only if the man had somewhere else to be; that usually meant if he had to stay at the King's court or at some other lord's castle for a week or two.
Her sister had been capable of making something for his love to eat; something every simple and did not make her too sick to her stomach. It was enough to keep the woman alive for a while longer, but the pain was still quite present. In the man's eyes, he had seen this as a horrible way for such a kind woman to die; starving to death, pain every day and hour. This placed the man's hatred in the higher being known as God completely over the edge.
Still gazing at the portrait of the beautiful woman, the raven-haired lord's right hand balled into a fist. His left hand moved away from the book and placed itself over his blue gaze. His head suddenly hung low, looking down towards his lap. Tears could be seen trickling down his cheeks. "Elisabeta… Elisabeta, I miss you, my love."
Standing up, the book on the man's lap fell to the floor with a loud thud. His blue gaze stayed fixated on the portrait of the woman. Reaching a black gloved hand up, the man had finally placed the hand on the painting. "If I can find a way to bring you back to me, my love, I will. I swear it on my life. You deserved to live longer than this."
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