Another night, another full moon.
It rode the sky, a giant copper coin low on the horizon. In an hour, it would be silver, but for the moment, from where Walter Dornez sat on the roof of Hellsing manor, that silver had a bloody wash over its surface.
It matched the young butler's thoughts, a bloody wash of frustration and pain over his normally calm mind.
Walter lit another cigarette from the still-burning stub of his last, the smoke burning his throat after an evening of chain smoking.
"I should quit," he murmured to himself, clearing the harsh rasp out of his throat.
I should quit. Quit what? Smoking? Love? Service?
He'd known it couldn't last forever, his tryst with Dracula. It simply couldn't. The request had been bound to come eventually.
"Help me."
Those were the two words the young killer had dreaded hearing from his lover.
"Help me win free of Hellsing, Angel. As you love me, help me."
Dear God, how he had not wanted to hear those words. How they had struck a spike of pain in his chest when Alucard had uttered them.
Help me.
"And who's going to help me?" he asked the night air, blowing the words out on a cloud of smoke.
Hellsing's charge was to protect England from all supernatural threats. Walter was not so blinded by his love and lust for Alucard that he did not see a freed Dracula as a threat.
When Alucard had uttered those dreaded words, "Help me," Walter had felt the ground crumble under his feet.
He couldn't do it.
He could not turn away from Hellsing for love. As much as he did love the vampire, he could not betray Hellsing and England for him. There had to come a time when his priorities were truly tested.
And in the end, his response had been unequivocal, ending both the request and his relationship with the one and only love of his life.
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.
The final lines are from the poem, "To Lucasta, Going to the Wars" by Richard Lovelace.