Van Helsing stared around him, curiously aware of the dullness of the scene that met his eyes. It was not dull in the sense that it was black and white, devoid of color. No, there was color. All around him were rolling, green hills and the sky was a pale blue with white wisps of clouds. No, he was painfully aware of the lack of something which had filled even black and white scenes such as this with beauty incomparable. As he sat on his knees wondering, he became slowly aware of another thing his world lacked. Memory. Oh, he was not devoid of any memory, hardly. After all, innately he had identified all the elements around him and, yes, even his name. Gabriel Van Helsing, whatever that meant. He stared down at his hands, covered by black, leather gloves. He yanked one glove off, discarding it in the tall, swaying grasses, and then the other followed. He fingered his palms, brow furrowed. What had these hands done? What had he accomplished? Where had he failed, for he knew innately that he had? Clenching one hand into a fist, he struck the ground, crushing blades of grass and denting the ground underneath. Yet, even this did not surprise him, for though he felt quite human he knew he was not ordinary. Grabbing his gloves and slipping them back on, he rose to his feet. Just ahead of him, he could see a small valley in which a black horse stood patiently. Throwing his pondering from him, he strode towards the horse, oblivious of time or distance. Reaching the horse, he mounted, his black coat flying about him awkwardly. Settling himself, he dug his heels into the horse's side and hung on, allowing the horse to choose the path to take. Scenery flew by him but he took little heed of it, staring between the horse's ears instead. The horse's mane whipped his face and his head itched where his black duster rested. Discomfort plagued him. This too seemed normal. He regarded his world so dispassionately that he did not even take note of the glares and hatred of the people he passed while galloping through a town, much less the town itself. In time his horse slowed to a canter and finally to a casual walk, catching its wind the best way it could when its rider did not care to dismount and rest. Sleep stole over Van Helsing and, though it was still early in the evening, he slumped in the saddle, scarcely aware that sleep had taken him far away.
Van Helsing watched the soldiers around him, noting the chi-rho on their shields. He marched with them, though they seemed to take no notice of him. As they neared the Milvian Bridge he could see Maxentius' army waiting for them, spread out in front of the bridge. Van Helsing worked his way to the front lines, passing casually between the lines despite Constantine's watchful eye. The two armies met and Van Helsing strode back and forth, protecting Constantine's army from the blows of the other army. As Constantine began to push Maxentius' army back, Van Helsing strode to the wooden bridge that spanned the destruction inflicted upon the stone Milvian Bridge. In the midst of the fleeing army Van Helsing strode onto the bridge and brought his blade down on it, causing its collapse.
Van Helsing woke abruptly to the sensation of falling and found himself being dragged off his horse to the cries of 'Murderer!'. Struggling vainly, he found himself stripped of any weapon to protect himself and flung his arms over his face. As makeshift weapons found their marks, Van Helsing's vision blurred and he finally blacked out, feeling no relief in the sensation.