Litost

(Warnings: Grief, mentions of child death.]

The rain fell in copious amounts upon the sudden withdrawal of the sun, distilled by the ramifications of the fog settled in dulled hues upon tenebrous expanses. Swaths of cloven-tressed hills rolled in gentle succession upon the emerald isle, rising in crests like the undulations of the distant sea roaring in the dissonance, wind tearing upon the plain to abrasively buffet the land. But no such winds were present; only the mist disgorged from the nearby waves enshrouding the earth with a translucent, opaque pall like a funeral shroud thinly laid upon a body of the beloved dead. Upon two grooves worn from the passage of time, clearly denoting the ruts of transportation's passage, a luxury car swathed in a veneer of ebony ghosted in phantasmal silence and driven by a faithful retainer. Today, they were keeping with a time-honored tradition. For today was Children's Day, at lest within the Nosferatu's homeland that was being honored in annual tradition. Instead of the garish boldness of crimson, the trump card of Hellsing merely donned a black suit, well-tailored to his lithe and gangly form, staring out the frosted window with detached interest. Seated adjacent to Alucard was Integra, his master, and ahead of her in the driver's seat was the graciously aged Walter. All donning ebony raiment as requisite of the somber memorial to be conducted all on Alucard's behalf. And it pained him. Though he hid it well, pale physiognomy framed as ever by his concealing midnight-black mane and deadpanned, failed to reveal the chaotic tumult of anger incumbent within him. Integra noticed this as well, and allowed her servant to mourn however he did, leaving him be. Though azure orbs were cast in a cursory scrutiny, she could feel herself sympathizing with the creature. To have a parent die was normal for a woman such as herself—it was expected of nearly everyone in her business to have lost one or both. But to be a being cursed with eternally long life, to live beyond the years of your children and never see them grow to fruition—to never join them in death. It had to be anguish. She could imagine, but she never intended to discover. For neither did she intend to succumb to immortality's wiles, nor bear children of her own. And she intended to honor this pact she'd made with herself long ago.

"We're almost there," she remarked monotonously, the incursion of her voice almost too intrusive in the meditative silence. But it was merely a remark, failing to elicit a reply from either of the two men. If Alucard gave any indication of having heard her, she missed it, or it was simply too imperceptible to trace. A narrowing of the eye, a twitch at the corner of the lip, or a slight of hand that belied any sort of unconscious reaction. Or there simply was none, for she knew her servant to possess remarkable self-control. The pervasive scent of the bouquets resting between them finally seemed to grace her attentions, the blonde grasping one to gently set it upon the vampire's lap, the slightest of caring gestures she rarely displayed. "We're almost there," she repeated, though it the void of the preceding strength of before. Alucard fixed her with a temporary gaze, nodded, then returned his crimson gaze to the world outside void of any perceptible death of thought—a gaze as blank as death's, one could say. The brooding sky bored into them, rain beginning its steady trickle, light and swift, pattering in a somber beat. As the car eased to a stop at the side of the road, the fjords bearing upon the sea within sight, dulled yet present within the thickening fog. The brine of the sea greeted them in full as Walter dutifully opened the door for his mistress, she doing so while Alucard simply saw to his own release, clutching the bouquet with blanching knuckles. Upon the side of the road, the boughs of a Lavender Twist, cherry blossom tree, and lilac bush weaved together to form a natural shelter against the elements. Perhaps it was fortunate that spring had arrived unsteadily and pragmatically in the United Kingdom, allowing these to remain in bloom for as long as they had. Grown from seeds retrieved from the cliff-faces of Castle Dracula situated upon the Arges and the courtly gardens of the castle at Targoviste, chosen so by Alucard himself. Patiently, Integra gestured for Walter to stand-by while Alucard trod slowly towards the graves, head inclined as the fixed upon the small trio of tombstones darkening from the saturation of the storm.

Here lies Mihnea Dracula, Son of Elizabeta and Vlad III Dracula.

Born 1459, Died 1459

"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom."

-Isaiah 40:11

The other two were scripted similarly, for his second lost in miscarriage, Mircea III (named for his deceased brother, Mircea II), and Vlad IV, having died as a young man during the last attempt at reign when he'd been assassinated as well. But all three created within him pain. That they were his only legacy with Elizabeta, his beloved, and despite how long ago it had been these pains never ceased to decrease. Every thought was a wound reopened, a saline blade thrust through his heart. For he still bore a great weakness: love that remained for his sons, his wife, and his countrymen and homeland. To think that their mother was kept from her embrace in heaven, for his youngest and only surviving son to burn in hell. For such anguish to exist while he was allowed to persist, his mission stilted by the Cromwell seal binding him to the Hellsing family—it arose within him pain and even sadness. An emotion rarely felt, but when it arose, it stabbed swiftest and in his weakest points. Perhaps that's why he sank to his knees, genuflected before the concentric formation of his sons' gravestones, sodden earth seeping within and against his ashen skin. "It's been too long, hasn't it, băieții mei? A year. And another year…without here. Without all within their proper place. I will have us reunited… I am so sorry for keeping you waiting, băieții mei," the vampire swore in a voice abrasive in a growl and choke, hands curling into fists as blood began to stream down his angular visage, voice emitted as a gravelly low. Drops of carmine liquid seeped from his eyes and his teeth clenched in a vicious snarl, face twisted by an insurmountable rage as his shadows thickened into shadow matter and sizzled the droplets of rain in their black flames.

The fall of rain was interrupted as the distinct pattering upon a slick surface denoted an umbrella hovering above his head as Integra stood next to him, holding the umbrella above his head. Alucard limply elevated his features towards her like a plant stretching for the sun's sheltering and nurturing rays, face etched still with anger and a strange transcendence of peace and lined with thinning trails of blood sourcing from his eyes. "Will you still fight for us, my Servant?" Integra demanded directly and assertively, aware of Alucard's life mission. The Nosferatu numbly lowered his head, mouth slacking into a relaxed frown, a gloved hand moving to brush across all three, closely clustered gravestones. Nodding slightly, the vampire rose to stand and took the umbrella from the stoic blonde's grasp, though not before they lowered a bouquet before each tombstone, Walter gracing the third himself with a bouquet. As he walked alongside her and held the umbrella as she returned within the car, with detached focus, she heard him murmur a series of nearly indistinct words.

"Yes, my Master."

Last Thoughts: This is a drabble I wrote last year on my Alucard rp blog, calisvol, for Children's Day. People see such a heartless monster, when I think there's so much more to him than that. There's a lot people don't know, and I don't like the thought of Alucard being superficial to any degree. Ah man, I could go on all day, I'm just so passionate about this character. But I won't and spare you the time, eh?

~Peace, G.