Calesvol

(Warnings: Grief, death, gore, mutilation, Alucard/Arthur, one-shot.]

And oh, poor Atlas

The world's a beast of a burden

You've been holding up a long time

And all this longing

And the ships are left to rust

That's what the water gave us.

November 19th, 1944

Strains of music wafted throughout the tenebrous expanse of night, the abrasive dissonance of a needle upon an ebony lacquered record upon its turnstile that proliferated a milky tune, clouded in clarity and repressed from full appreciation. Within a leather-bound, wing-back chair sat the current head of Hellsing contemplating the nocturnal expanse above and seemed to be riveted by undermining concurrent of fear and aggravation. A cigar is extricated from within a tin box and set ablaze at the tip, allowed to idly fumigate before the milky, voluminous cloud is disrupted by a shaken exhalation. The man rose from his seat with the creaking of treated leather and stood before the reflectional pane of glass, pressing his forehead to it and exhaling another cloud of smoke while letting his cigar hang at a crooked slant. It was of no surprise that the current head of Hellsing was stressed witless. Composure was a rare creature in his home, and while the cocky and brash facade was always seen before others, in his own company his worries became tantamount and overtook him. For the first time in nearly fifty years, Hellsing's Mithridatum was being awakened in lieu of Hellsing's postponed involvement within the war. Her men were stretched thin, tributary armaments in service of the Crown, reduced to a ramshackle band of mercenaries, a few qualified men and women, and lastly himself alongside the Round Table. He hadn't wanted to resort to using Alucard. The last time his family had, destruction had been wrought upon London when Alucard had attempted to foil the Cromwell Seals and conspired against the Crown to take her people once again under his control as part of his mindless, immortal rabble and mete his revenge upon his captors through all levels. All while they had been none the better. It had been his father's crowning moment of humiliation and his family's shaken legacy. After so long, he felt as though this were truly a risk.

"Sir, please—we're in need of your assistance; it's Alucard. He's going on a terrible rampage," a stuttering orderly informed him, Arthur's golden hues snapping open and his visage becoming immediately stern. Striding firmly and with clear-cut resonance upon tiled flooring slanted upon by the silvery gloss of moonlight, he was guided through the halls for only a moment before the sound of infernal and tortured screams rampaged through the nightly silence. And it was no lone cry within the chilling dark; a chorus conducted by Lucifer cresting with a blood-curdling crescendo that escalated the cacophony of his mind. Arthur reacted in panic as he shoved past the quaking man and sprinted until he came before the mirror framed by meandering vines stamped in gold, heaving it open and feeling the color drain from his countenance before he schooled his features into a facade of seriousness. Inching steps were taken, though they resounded and mingled with the desperate chanting of a Latin hymn while ear-splitting Romanian was roared in defiance of it. Arthur felt the nearly imperceptible pin-prick of gooseflesh and the hairs upon the nape of his finely hedged neck stand on end, swallowing thickly, feeling as though a far more viscous liquid was sliding down his throat like a snake consuming asphyxiated prey whole. Before him was a sight he thought he'd never see.

Within crudely handled bindings, merely blessed with holy water and Chrism oil, Alucard was free and surrounded by a morass of corpses of newly dead. Blood whirled throughout the air, riding on preternatural currents of wind while Alucard was feasting upon their warm flesh and entrails with the voracity of a lion and the cruelty of the Dragon he was. And like any Dragon disturbed within his lair, Alucard was far less than receptive of being awakened after having been forcefully forced to sleep, by a means passed down from head to head. "Alucard, drop him and come to me—as any good servant should for their Master," timorous modulation resonated throughout the chaos, firm in the light of the Abyss General before the Knight. Sir Arthur he was, though he was no knight of the Round Table or king in possession of the holy blade of Excalibur. Alucard was no holy blade, nor an instrument of God despite fighting in His honor. Alucard merely whirled about and pivoted his leather-clad body towards his master, the flare of carmine orbs fixating upon the man now his master as he gnawed greedily at the corpse's muscled bicep. Arthur, mounted upon the final stair, simply sighed and murmured, "Calesvol, Calesvol—please, calm down. I'm here." The man then raised his thumb to a sharp canine, a pin-prick of blood allowed to form before descending, instantly absorbed by the Nosferatu. The cadaver clamped upon was released with a sickening thud, Alucard's angular physiognomy registering absolute shock. The vampire listlessly strode before the man, halting just paces away.

There was a stricken tensity between monster and master as the silence spanned between to the point of interminable measure. The Lion of the Helsing family suddenly released the tensity upon his features, taking a handkerchief from his breast pocket and smiling kindly, a shadow of such. He approached the monster, cloth in hand, cupping the beautiful physiognomy with a hand and wiping away the blood as best he could. Listless carmine facets arose to hone upon the Helsing heir's features, disbelief beginning to color the Nosferatu's own as he straightened slightly at the action, so deceptively tender and human. Sable lashes descended with ivory folds and the True Vampire simply allowed himself to relish in the action, wanting more. This man…was his master. A brilliant peon of light, already. Courageous enough to approach him without fear—almost with the puerile naivety of a mere child. Alucard merely stood there, enraptured, not having felt such a sensation in centuries. "There we go. This will be cleaned up later. Come…Calesvol."

"Why do you call me that?" the Nosferatu rasped as Arthur pocketed the handkerchief, eyes once again subsumed beneath their glaze of diffidence and distrust, the vampire remaining where he was, guarded. Like an animal backed into a corner did he remain, impassive, waiting for the mortal's reply. The mortal had carried the stench of sin, alcohol, and fornication. Tempestuous vision met a horizon aflame in ethereal glow, the Englishman extracting a cigar and promptly lit it, the match used cast away to fizzle away in a mere of blood. "My mother—she was Cornish. Calesvol is another name for Excalibur. Seeing as I'm Arthur, you'll be my sword, won't you, Calesvol? This name shall just be between you and I, eh?" His grin, so brilliant within the darkness—it was almost arresting. Visionary fixation was consumed by them, Alucard lost in him, devoured by that light greater than the sun… Yet the monster didn't understand it. He searched, wondering why, why, why… A word, a face; they came into his line of vision and intoxicated him. There had only been one other before him that evoked the exact same character:

Hamza Agha.

"Come on now, Calesvol. We have work to do."

…Even their voices were the same.

January 13th, 1969

"He's too powerful a drug to be used more than the occasional medicine."

Arthur's gloved digits were entwined together, countenance graven as he was seated before the Round Table, Penwood and Irons at his flanks, almost silhouetted within the dim, barest plays of light enunciating their somber visages. A meeting of the twelve was gathered, the din of mild conversation stirring as they spoke in fervent and worried tones that chilled him, but only mildly. This had been his decision. Alucard—Calesvol—was too powerful. He'd proved to be an enormous asset to the Hellsing Organization, to the point that the United Nations had consigned him past his duties during World War II in the elimination of the ghoul factory within Poland and the complete termination of Unit 731 in Manchuria. They had enlisted him during the Korean War, this time not to eliminate the Undead or supernatural, but normal insurgents and the enemy. They had ordered that Alucard fight among their ranks, and they had—for about several months until a disturbing discovery has been made. "The reason I'm considering this is because Alucard has learned how to control the Cromwell Seal and can access all of the levels. Even when I instate controls, he's been able to release them. Knowing the invocation isn't enough; he's mastered it entirely. I simply cannot allow him to be utilized in war with this deficit present," Arthur explained above them, their pregnant silence extending into a lengthening pause. His thick brows knitted together.

"It's because of this reason that I've decided to have the sealing ceremony performed tonight and put Alucard to sleep."

There was an unnerving pall of silence, but a grim understanding. There would be no vote, for this was something they'd known; a unanimous decision to be made as Arthur had simply spoken what they'd all known. The Head of Hellsing was brought to attention when Penwood lay a soothing hand upon his shoulder, a tight smile upon his visage. "You know what needs to be done, Arthur. Send that old brute off well, eh?" he murmured fondly, Arthur returning it with a grim smile of his own. Despite how brutal Alucard was, he'd grown on them. Maybe not as a friend, but as a fond fixture that would leave an inexplicable emptiness upon this happening. "I'll be sure to do that, Penwood." Nothing more. Nodding towards his fellow knights, the aging male arose from his seat and allowed his right-hand men to preside over the preceding. He was to find Alucard, and inform him of the decision made. It would be hard, yes, seeing as the Nosferatu had been acclimated to being active for over twenty years…but it had to be done.

Within the confines of his study, the blond sighed within the contemplative silence, rubbing his temples and pouring for himself a few shots of hard liquor—fine whiskey. When grasping digits sought the shimmering glass vessel, consternation brewed as the fluted throat was pulled away by an unseen force, Arthur growling lightly in annoyance. "Absolutely charming, Alucard. Are you done?" Despite the abrasive connotations within his tone, there was a grin upon his face as the hand holding it manifested into a white glove, a sable extrusion forming, joined by a smartly suited vampire with wild, cascades of raven framing an extremely comely visage—beautiful as Lucifer, it could be said. The vampire in question decided to recline upon an easy chair clad in leather, gnawing upon the stopper with sharpened canines, ever playful it seemed. "Planning for another night of heavy drinking, my master?" the Nosferatu implied with a smug grin, arms sprawled on the arm rests, the metallic stopper clinking between jagged ivories. Upon what the night would entail, Arthur seemed to pause, mouth drawn into a thin line as he sat next to the vampire, a small end table graced with a doily between them. Pouring another shot, the alcoholic sighed slightly. Alucard drew notice and his own expression faltered, extricating the stopper from between his jaws and placing his hands upon his lap, physiognomy becoming instantaneously somber as the man's thoughts entered his mind.

"…I see," Alucard surmised finally, an opaque gloss coating his vibrant crimson spheres as a hollow within his chest expanded, the phantasmal palpitations of mortal heart resonating within as he hung his head, words upon his tongue that couldn't be spoken. How could he, when this would be his last time seeing his Master? How could he possibly quantify how blissful it had been to relive years as though Hamza were still alive? That perhaps God had granted him an opportunity to make amends from his mortal life? Even more…Arthur. The Sun to his moon. If Calesvol was indeed the sword, than let he reflect all the brilliance of his master, the King Arthur. And now, his King was mired in shadows. If this was meant to be good-bye, then let it be a fond farewell. …He couldn't repeat his past transgression. Not again. Rising to stand, Arthur was imparted from his own grim reverie and gazed upon Alucard with a shocked countenance as Alucard descended upon one knee in supplication and reverent genuflection. The vampire took the man's hand, freed of its grasp on the shot glass as Alucard raised it to his lips, a fleeting gracing of pallid tiers upon the calloused hand so beautifully aged to the Nosferatu. But, there was desire as he lingered, boring intense crimson optics into Arthur's golden hues that hadn't lost their brilliance, a stormy gold in this later age. "It has been an honor to serve you, my master…" the beautiful immortal said at long last, a hand held to his heart, constricted. By God, he wanted the man before him—all for himself. He had for too long, and now it felt as though their parting was too soon. The pain was immense, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing but take Arthur on his death bed like an Angel of Death and allow him to live forever within him. He wouldn't allow separation to occur again. He'd made the mistake once before, and didn't intend to allow it to happen again.

"As it was for you to serve me, Alucard," Arthur murmured as that same hand raised, the mortal hunched over in the gluttonous cushion he was seated upon, cupping concave quarter profile and holding it there, the vampire leaning into his touch with an exhaustive sigh. He was tired—the vampire was exhausted from centuries of strife. Sleep…perhaps not so terrible a fate. But he wanted to remain awake for as long as this man was alive. His touch was comfort, a sanctuary. Arthur was the only sun that warmed him in this period of his Un-life, and no other could be that for him. For Excalibur would only recognize one King, and one alone. None other would have him again. Arthur's thumb stroked Alucard's cheekbone, and that sent the vampire into a sublime bliss. Let this remain.

Dear God, let this remain.

November 25st, 1989

"He's going to listen to you, Sir. You've got nothing to worry about, hm?" Walter encouraged as a comb raked through lengthened flaxen locks, the girl in question seated before a vanity and scrutinizing herself, willing and demanding herself to be strong. Tanned digits played with the fringes of those not in attendance to the aging butler, a thick swallow sounding as the young Integra felt a lump grow in her throat. Already it had only been a few days since her father's funeral, and the assault but the night before. She was shaken. Yes, she had to be strong, and stalwart and like a Queen—like her father had always said. "But what if he doesn't?" she voiced feebly, modulation tremulous. She was struggling. Integra's father had died but days before, and she had the night before…and Alucard… The young blonde emitted muffled sobs, shoulders hunching and blonde-tressed crown lowering as she began to sob quietly. Walter took notice and placed the comb down gently, visage somber as he pulled the young heiress into his arms and let her cry. Yes, she was supposed to be strong—but she was only a child. She needed as much comfort as she could receive. Goodness, to have lost much at such a young age…

"Walter, where is…the girl's father?" a voice from the darkness rasped softly, Alucard appearing to their flank, Integra scrubbing her eyes raw and dry. She pinned him with a valiant glare, but Alucard seemed to stare through her. Blackened tresses marred most of the vampire's visage, eyes glazed with darkness that stifled their usual effulgence. A pall of deadly silence settled upon them as it answered for them, a graven realization weighing his heart as Alucard sampled their thoughts, chest clenching and phantasmal heart seizing. "No…" Fists clenched, and blanched, though form began to fade into temporal airs.

"Alucard!" Walter cried in languishing protest, though it wasn't heard in the slightest by the Nosferatu.

A grim melancholy was omnipresent within the Hellsing Manor's private cemetery. It was a modest plot of land, but it was expansive. Peals of thunder before the storm rumbled within the open plain, coloring the atmosphere with the depression of gray. Umbrages of trees dipped and crested within enlivened currents of wind, tearing through with howling candor within the night. But a being darker than it all emerged from the shadows. Bound still in the suit from ages ago, tresses of midnight billowed of their own accord within the wind. Strides were taken, lengthened, done with detachment and aimlessness. He could scent it—the unmistakable scent of whiskey. Alucard followed it, feeling grief within well, listless as a ghoul yet knowing what waited for him. And in but a few minutes, he found what he'd sought.

Here lies Arthur Van Helsing

Beloved Son, Father, and Husband

July 7th, 1920 – November 21st, 1989

Alucard read the inscription. He read, and then re-read, so many times he couldn't keep count. Fists shook and visage marred by cascading raven locks revealed the vicious clench of jagged ivories, crown lowered before it ascended suddenly and a wild roar tore from the Nosferatu's throat. The virulence of talons were engaged as devestating blows of magic were utilized in creating an enormous crater within the Earth, digging with all the feral might of a monster and dog and he tore through sodden Earth. It flew in his wake, desperate and blind as eyes were a living, raging crimson, amassing at his flanks as the hole rent within the earth deepened. Alucard came upon the lid to a coffin as eyes surveyed with madness, mouth twisted into a viscous snarl. With a roar, and a mighty application of force, he wrenched the lid off to sail into the air and land clamorously a short distance away, clipping another few tombstones. Alucard's frenzied delirium was suddenly ceased as what he sought was suddenly before him.

There, amid a bed of pristine white cushioning, was Arthur, aged, in the semblance of peaceful sleep. Alucard, kneeling within the litter of the coffin, was immobile as he stared and drank in the vision of the elderly man, handsome and like the mythical King of Avalon himself. Trembling digits sought the man's wrinkled countenance, so peaceful, free of pain, stroking the contours with tremulous contact. Drops of blood began staining the achromatic dress shirt of the former head of Hellsing, sobbing emanating from the vampire shrouded by cascading locks of raven black. There was a seizure as Alucard embraced the cadaver within his arms, his beloved master, with all the force of one who would never let go.

"ARTHUR! MY KING! MY MASTER!" Alucard howled with grievous, heart-wrenching tone that rivaled the rain in all its gloom and sadness. He held his master impossibly close to his breast, arms twined about his back and shoulders, sobbing grossly and wildly, wailing with all the tortured screams of a banshee into the night as rain began to cascade and drenched both monster and master as though heaven itself was mourning far more, dying black blacker still, matted locks weighed and clinging to ivory visage buried in Arthur's neck. Alucard then flung his head back and unleashed an agonizing, soul-tearing cry. "YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO HAVE WAITED FOR ME! WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME TAKE YOU? HOW COULD YOU?!" The vampire unleashed several cries, roaring all his anger and grief into the night sky profuse with thunder and rain. Lightning streaked across the sky, brightening the entirety of the world before letting it fade to darkening grey, the vampire lowering his visage and burying into his King's chest, allowing himself to sob quietly.

"Te iubesc. Te iubesc! Regele meu, de ce nu m-ai aşteptat? Te-am vrut langă mine mereu. Acum dumnezeu şi Lucifer te au pe tine. De ce mi-ai făcut asta?" Alucard murmured against the heart no-longer beating, embrace tightening in all obsession and clinging worth, unable to release his King. He couldn't—not for anyone, not the world. "Why didn't you wait? I didn't want…you to end up like Hamza. Why, Arthur? Why?" he murmured, poising fangs with shaken aim upon the man's neck, sinking them in deeply yet with deliberate tenderness. Cold blood spilled into his maw, and he drank, greedily, memories spilling into him as they at last became one in some fashion. There was no soul—he couldn't become a familiar. But his master's memories were his, and that gave him a sense of peace. Peace rarely and never truly attained.

Oh, how long did they remain like this? This last, final, cold embrace of death? One who'd been taken by it, and the other who was it? He didn't know. He didn't care—all he wanted was to embrace his King and revel in his master's memories, in their rapture, a morass of master and darkness itself. "Alucard!" Master, master, master... "Alucard!" My King, my King, My King… "ALUCARD!" There was a jolt as small arms embraced him around his neck, flaxen locks spilling over as a prepubescent body collided with the Nosferatu's. A reluctant wrenching open of crimson orbs, faint and without expression. "Alucard, please! What are you doing?" a feminine voice pleaded, buried within Alucard's neck as she clung to him for dear life. This brought the Dragon to his senses, but it wasn't until a crimson piece of raiment was draped over them both did the vampire come to his senses. This was…Arthur's red duster. A gift from his father, but nothing the man had considered seriously, much less worn—well, except on particularly drunken nights. Alucard loosened his vice on Arthur, craning his neck to brush cheeks with Integra, shaking like a leaf and clinging to him for dear life. "Master…" he breathed, focusing on the girl, sodden and buried beneath the crimson coat, both of them sheltered beneath a suspended umbrella keeping them from becoming any more drenched. Walter gazed upon them with eyes heavy and clouded, though not shining. "Alucard…Sir Integra…why don't we return to the manor? It's growing terribly late." A crew of uniformed men were quick to join them, Alucard blearily coaxed into relinquishing Arthur's exhumed body, working to make the proper reparations before the rain could soil all of it.

Placing Arthur tenderly within, a last stroke to his cheek in farewell, Alucard pivoted his body to lift her within his arms, her drenched appendages wound about his neck. He held her tenderly close, the crimson duster still draped upon his shoulders. It billowed lightly in quelled winds and drizzling rain, the young girl finding solace within his presence. "Alucard…am I your master, or is my father?" she asked in a choked sob, azure orbs still raw and reddened about the eyelids. Alucard suddenly stopped, taken by surprise, rivulets of blood cascading as vestiges down his cheeks. Sighing and pressing his cheek against her crown in a gesture of comfort, they remained within the darkness and in the rain.

"Yes, my Master."

Lay me down

Let the only sound

Be the overflow

Pockets full of stones

Last Thoughts: Arthur and Alucard, shipped together-I remember when I wrote this, I received somewhat surprised responses from others. They liked it, made them experience a metric fuckton of feels, but it was unexpected. Here, in a fandom that has its OTPs I honestly don't ship, and then there's this unexpected number. It hit me in the face, suddenly, too, but it's here. Hell, a year later and I still ship it like nobody's freaking business. Maybe subtly, but dear lord is it still there-

Again, a repost from calisvol, my rp account for Alucard ala tumblr.

~Peace, G.