You Will Answer For All You Have Done

by death-in-the-orchard

Alucard during Abraham Van Hellsing's time, where punishment and a faint glimmer of what is to become of the Count are contained in one cold cell, encased in indifference.

The hardness of the stones was crippling to a body damaged by hunger and weakness, which gave the utterly indifferent objects an air of malevolence about them. The stones themselves did nothing, but what the creature experienced as it lay upon them could have given any mind the impression that the stones wished to torture it. They were cold, and for a body that feeds off of warmth, that alone could have made the stones its enemy, for draining the little strength it possessed. But the hardness seemed to be a different assault, a meaner and coarser character that would add to the misery of a hungry sufferer, hardness that bruised his bare protruding anatomy - the most immodest parts covered for the comfort of any observer rather than to preserve a fraction of the sunken beast's dignity. There was nothing left to save, nothing left in the creature that had once been a king, had once been a creator, a lord and master – no, nothing was left in the creature except its undead existence which nailed it down to its earthly cross, its cross of stone beneath it, its cross of confinement pressing down upon it, the cross of life upon its bones as its dead heart lay on the hardness of the stones.

All the world was his enemy. All of life and death. Man punished him now. The devil would punish him soon. And God had never ceased to punish the vampire since the beginning of his first memory. For this moment, the stones punished him, and so they were his most loathsome enemy. As soon as the iron door opened, casting light into the cell as if casting life into a long forgotten tomb, and it heard the confident and willful step, the boots of a man who now presided over the creature in the tomb as a king, a creator, as a lord and master – as soon as Van Hellsing entered, his weight pushed the stones below the surface of the damaged creature's mind, and that man became the vampire's most loathsome enemy.

The wrath of God does not burn, but sweeps away the offensive existence, to dust or to banishment in the place carved and fueled by the sins of the wicked. For one as horrible as the beast who lay on the stones, the vampire's wrath was of the wicked sort, so as his crimson eyes opened to the boots, to the legs, and then to the face of the man he so hated who now crouched beside where he lay near the wall, his eyes blazed with flames that were ever constant and could not flicker and suggest that its fuel could possibly waver. Hate burned below as the brightness of a blue gaze shone from above, and the demon and the mortal watched one another.

The light that the man had brought with him burned singly in the air between them, smoke rasping to its ancient self of the fondness it had of the two forces it viewed on either side of it and the destruction that must always rise between them. The light illuminated the features of the living and the dead, shadows defining the face of Van Hellsing and allowing him to see the face of what had once been called a Count as well as Dracula. But now the pale visage of the damned was to be called Alucard, and Hellsing pronounced that name as he lowered a metal pitcher, specifically a sauce boat, he had been carrying, the sharpness of the sound distracting the vampire. Afterwards, the demon's gaze would not move from it.

The door remained open behind Hellsing and two men, equipped like soldiers and each carrying something in their arms, stood watching in the doorway. The humiliation of a fallen king would always have an audience in attendance.

A bottle was uncorked after the light had been placed on the stones to free the man's hand, and a sickening substance came from it. But it was one Van Hellsing had forced himself to become numb to, so he was able to look on with eyes that said this was merely a trivial chore as liquid flowed out in a repulsive, often broken stream and congealed lumps made little splashes in what became a nauseating soup of gore. The pouring of the blood was done here for the sake of using the vampire's hunger against itself, so that the fragrance would be stronger – falling through the air, the scent, to the vampire's nose, would fill every crack and crevice in the cell and it would hang about the demon like an invisible fog, sometimes impairing its judgment. Abraham Van Hellsing let his eyes watch the pitcher he was now filling to make sure that he did not spill the blood. However, a light spray from the splashes the lumps made speckled his thoroughly stained gloves – which were white, perhaps, in order to intimidate the man's inmates, the various specimens and breeds of monsters which were kept below in his dungeon where he ran tests and experimented, devising and improving the ways in which he went about destroying them…and the ways in which he punished them. They were all to be punished somehow while they dwelled in the darkness, in which, for once, man reigned supreme while the monsters quaked in fear.

Or, perhaps, he wore the soiled gloves as he roamed the depths of the Earth to show that his hands were stained by his deeds of justice only there, and above he would remove the soiled cloth and don gloves of the purest white to show that his soul was spotless, never to be tainted by the foul substance that leaked from the bodies of the demons. He was all Goodness, a brightness that swept the evil creatures away and turned them to dust that fell between the crevices in the Earth to descend into the destined pit of fire. And he fed the flames with a steady stream of wicked souls, all of which he cast down with his blood stained gloves and pure fists of judgment.

Van Hellsing now observed the monster he had named, while Alucard continued to stare at the pitcher of gore with a disturbing display of obsession, as if the blood and metal were the body of his Messiah, the Savior which would free him from his hunger. There was nothing in the human's face, but he had too much feeling and heat in his chest to show only coldness. Hellsing watched as if he were a member of the audience, like the two men by the door. But he was the punisher, a key participant, and so he interacted with the vile scene. His glove gripped the handle of the sauce boat, but did not lift it. He allowed hunger to torment the dark sufferer for a while longer.

"Alucard." The demon, who recoiled from the voice, could only bear the name as a curse; he was angered enough to glower up at the man and bare his fangs, to hiss like a serpent and so damn the name's maker. As the blue gaze bore down on him with no varying strength, Alucard's features wrinkled and twisted with a snarl he himself had often seen on the faces of his wolves when they fought for dominance, though the beasts had been lost from his thoughts eons ago. The slave's appearance only made Abraham's face darken, and the man's stare remained strong as his lips parted once more, but now with a question. "Can you tell me what creature once owned this blood?"

Alucard hissed, hating the man, hating the stones, hating everything but the blood. The blood was spared because he could not hate it for the same reason a starving man could never hate his bread, though both were capable of hating the means by which their sustenance had been acquired and the situation and manner in which it was consumed. The demon despised his shameful position – his lack of power - because he had no other choice but to answer. "A Werewolf."

Abraham had already known where the blood had come from, having extracted it himself, but he reserved the right to force Alucard to respond to his questions despite this. His hand always remained attached to the handle of the pitcher as he spoke. "What is the age of this Werewolf?"

Alucard hissed again and looked at the stones, his jaws snapping with malicious intentions but forbidden to close upon the man's flesh. "It has lived out forty-seven years in its present form…and had lived out twenty-eight years as a man."

Hellsing's face showed nothing as he took in this information, his mind well-disciplined and able to record every detail without the chance of obscuring or forgetting them. "What is its state? Is there anything else to be found besides the blood we see here?"

A growl reverberated in Alucard's throat, but he continued to respond obediently, while the red eyes continued to burn. "Nothing but blood. No poisons. Untainted by your banes. The Werewolf is weakened, but, even now it contains enough strength to shatter a human femur in its fist and rip through the stomachs and spines of your men with its claws -and I hope it has torn a good number of them in half already. It has digested human flesh not long ago… Yes. This monster is fresh and unbroken, Van Hellsing."

A scowl bent the man's mouth though he had wished to keep it flat, and the observant vampire sneered at the expression, its fangs glistening with ivory glee. The glee, however, fell from the demon's fangs when Van Hellsing lifted the container of blood and held it suspended over the stones, away from Alucard. Hellsing's eyes were narrowed, as menacing and merciless as any virtuous being could be. "Would you like to feed tonight? Or should I pour this outside your cell and let you drown in the scent of what you have lost and could have easily enjoyed…if you had behaved a little better? …I know what you would do, Count." He used the name as hatred contorted the pale face of the creature he had bound to himself, to slight the remembrance of what the demon had once been, saying that the vampire had always been this weak and had always been waiting to be defeated by a man. "You would be overwhelmed by desire, Count…there is no doubt in my mind. Starvation prevents you from resisting the power temptation holds over you and your sinful children. And so, you would be heard snuffing and snorting at the door of your cage like any other four-legged beast, only to catch the scent, Count. Down on your stomach; lying in the filth that you lie in…even now."

The monster could not hate the man more than he did this instant - as pillars of fire rose, skewering his insides while scorching the remnants of his soul. The dark sufferer dug his claws into the stones, carving immortal scars into their hardness, as his body mimicked the will of the monster within it which demanded to carve such wounds deep into the mortal's body – deep into his muscle, tissue, and bone. Death. The vampire would one day taste this man's destruction in the blood his claws would spill.Death.He saw himself lapping the gore off the hateful stones.Death.He tore out Abraham's beating heart.Death. He consumed it.Death.The nosferatu's glare rung out the tolling sentence that proclaimed the mortal's doom, and Abraham's reflection burned deep within the irises of fire which showed him his slave's bloody fantasy.But Alucard finally revised his answer, wrestling with rebellious urges to keep his tone in check as he spoke through gritted teeth. "The Werewolf…is…not...much…weakened."

"Good." Abraham spoke in a low voice, a murmur that had enough strength to fill the cell. "So you are learning, Alucard. Gradually, you are learning…"

He hated this man. He hated him, hated him more than even the God that had always punished him.

"-Yes, and this is why you call me Master. Isn't it?" An undead glare resented the question, resented the clearness and brightness of the blue eyes it viewed. The pitcher of blood again rested on the stones.

But the demon did not look at it.

Appeased and unsuspecting, Van Hellsing continued, "Alucard, now can you tell me how this Werewolf has been weakened?" The question had been put in a relaxed, but commanding, tone. However, the confidence the human had in receiving an immediate reply faltered. Abraham paused and then blinked, surprised to find that an abrupt change had overcome the expression of abhorrence that had so far dominated the pale face below him. His head leaning forward slightly to bring himself insignificantly closer to the face - while the first knuckle of his fist rose to rest against his lips - Abraham studied the expression with a look of profound scrutiny, as if a raw and fading illustration of the conclusion to a conundrum relevant to understanding the minds of his own species, lay before him.

If murder could be embodied in a face, Van Hellsing imagined it would bear the emotions that were now exposed in his slave.

"You know how it has been done-Whymust I remind you?" Alucard's fangs flashed as he snarled, hissing through the exposed daggers while the crimson irises sparked in the gloom and turned to the darkness, away from the light in order to cast a shadow over his expression. He fought and struggled with himself, his face, his eyes and mouth – twitching; his muscles constricting and stiffening his body as he felt he would go mad with all the fury that pounded in his starved veins, as if it had revived the dead organ in his chest. All his agonizing frustration, all his consuming hatred, roaring and writhing, beating within him! Then the pulsing veins burst, the red passion poured into him, flooding his body…so that the creature shook with the tumbling waves of his rage. "Bedamnedandgone, you insufferablefool! -Be gone! I won't see you! I won't stand to see you! Let you rot- Let you burn! …Burn!…Burn in Hell! And wait for me…Wait, and I will come! I will fly at you! I willcatchyou! …I will tear off your skin and strip you to your bones! I will rip off those hateful limbs! I will drown you in a vat of boiling blood! Your own blood, Van Hellsing! I-! I…! Hellsing! I will… I will-Oh… I will-"Panting breathed upon the threats that carried on at the end of this torrent. And then his voice quivered, as if he were moaning – deep and slow - tearing his chest open. "I...will…kill…you... Ohh- …I…will…kill…you..." Still trembling as he seethed with the draining passion, Alucard's chest heaved with the feelings he battled and choked but could not relinquish, while he refused to look at the man, pressing his forehead into the cold stones. But Alucard soon glared and panted at the man's shadow, and then he lifted the glare to the boots. For the blood was at risk. He had to calm himself and mask his outburst with obedience or – or the semblance of it – whatever he could manage. He had to. He had to. …He had no choice. He needed… He thirsted… Hunger…made him…"It has been wounded by a bolt to the chest…and the wound has not healed." The forced reply split through the vampire's scowl - a low growl, low…low and quiet. "I guess…silver. …Its limbs are damaged. Bones are broken, fractured…and some are shattered. All organs…are fine. …It can move and attack, but it is crippled…all limbs are weak, but…under attack…the Werewolf would be able to defend itself." Alucard was quiet.

As if the fit of rage had never been enough to catch his interest or touch him in any other way, the man was silent on the matter. He ignored it. Or he was waiting to ponder over it at some other time, and then he might return and punish the creature, if he saw that it was necessary. Abraham's next question would have been 'Where has the werewolf been injured?', but, as he often put these questions in a regular order, Alucard had answered two questions at once to decrease the total number. Hellsing paused. His blue eyes narrowed at the sight of the matted hair, grey – almost silver, but lacking the needed luster - and covering the part of the pale face he would have otherwise been able to see.

With a motion of his hand, Van Hellsing gestured for one of the men at the door to come near him and present a small chest. Abraham opened it and drew out a lady's bonnet, dark cloth that was decorated with a startling array of fake flowers that almost glowed in the gloom of the tomblike cell, so dead while the imitations seemed falsely to be so much more alive. The life of this lie was stronger than that of the setting surrounding it. Articles belonging to victims were only brought to the vampire in certain situations: when the remains lacked a head or were otherwise mutilated beyond recognition, when multiple pairs of limbs and miscellaneous parts had been left jumbled together or uncovered individually, or when nothing at all remained of the victim. Abraham held the bonnet close to the matted hair, and finally ordered Alucard to look at him. His frowning mouth was as hard as the stones composing the cell. "Is this scent in the blood?"

Alucard resisted, glaring and hissing, turning his head to scowl at a distant wall, anything that had no hint of the man. Eventually he had to obey, so he shut his eyes and smelled what was held out to him. The vampire pulled his face away from the bonnet. He shook his head.

Abraham seemed not to have expected this, so he hesitated before returning the bonnet to the chest, too aware of the fact that the demon did not possess the power to deceive him. Next he pulled out a folded scarf Alucard perceived to belong to a gentleman by the lingering scent, which only he could distinguish, of scented soap and the man himself. The woman's scent was also on it. This time, after referring back to the pitcher of thickening soup, Alucard growled in the affirmative and the scarf was placed in the chest. Now a doll was taken out, and Alucard examined it with a lidded gaze of indifference, as if meaning to copy the stones. "…A family then?" The dead voice uttered the words plainly.

Abraham's features hardened, but he gave no further response. The face of the man holding the chest, however, reacted to Alucard's callous tone, and so the vampire got his answer. The expression had been one of reproach, suspecting the vampire of wishing that the deaths had wiped out a small family. But they were undeniably related to one another… There was still something that inclined the demon to believe that a deeper mystery had yet to be solved concerning the dead. What he did know was that they shared a similar scent and two of them had died together. He had picked up the scent of the child in both the doll and the gory pool.

Alucard growled again, and immediately his mind released the distraction that had snagged his thoughts.

Hellsing showed more emotion for the confirmation of this death than he had for the death of the male relative, the lines of age beneath his eyes showing sadness, and he carefully placed the doll in the chest before shutting the lid and dismissing the man who left soon disappeared down the hall to see to the grim business that was his profession.

Next, the second man came to them from the door and presented a suitcase. Alucard smelled each article of clothing or dearest possession when it was offered to him, and shook his head or growled his answers before the man with the suitcase was also dismissed. Now only Abraham and the vampire remained in the cell, the only cell in the dungeon with a door that was left open without the occupant first being restrained in some visible way. Alucard had chains. He had layers of chains and ropes and bindings covering him and tying him down, but none of his restraints could be seen by the naked eye.

There were no more questions to be asked, and only the task of feeding the vampire presented itself. And yet, Abraham took his time before proceeding. By now significantly more of the blood had congealed, which aggravated the vampire who hissed at the unappetizing effect and growled at the part both the man and the stones had played in making the blood thicken - one taking too much time, and the other sapping away the blood's warmth by chilling the metal sauce boat.

Abraham and Alucard shared a distaste for the method in which the feeding was carried out; too much closeness, too much intimacy for two beings that hated one another as vigorously as the man and his slave hated, but it was always done in the same way. Because Hellsing meant to keep Alucard weak. And in this condition, Alucard was incapable of feeding himself. So Hellsing slowly shifted his weight, pulling his legs from his crouch, until he was on one knee. His hands being familiar with the actions, Van Hellsing did not have to think about the motions he must perform to lift and support the vampire's head with a stained glove, as if he were nursing a sick or elderly man, and he did not have to think about how he must touch the metal lip of the pitcher to the demon's mouth to feed him the blood of another living creature, though that creature was a monster. But his eyes could not help seeing how it was done. His muscles would not help feeling the weight of the pitcher, the weight of the vampire's head. But the gloves spared him from feeling the coarse and matted hair.

When the blood was tasted on the vampire's tongue, he ceased to hate the world. The world became nothing, and there was only the blood and the ecstasy of feeding, of filling his body, of taking strength and nourishment. The dead body was rejoicing as it tasted life again, singing praise to its feelings of pleasure. Hellsing did what he could to detach himself as he performed this duty, but the vampire's mindless state often kept him fastened to the moment, watching the desperation, the hunger of a wasted thing that would emit broken purrs and groans, sounds of relief and of wanting more - more, more blood, quicker –nowmoreitneededmorenowplease feedmefeedmeplease. It still hungered, but there would be no more, no more blood. The pitcher would be tipped until the last drop traveled down in a nearly vertical line. Then the last of the blood had fallen, though remnants remained in the vessel and might have eventually reached the vampire's lips if Van Hellsing's patience had endured - or the blood might have still only dried on the sides of the pitcher. Hellsing did not withdraw the sauce boat and instead watched as the vampire licked at the metal spout, catching whatever it could reach.

The man decided to leave the sauce boat with the creature. Setting it down, he grasped his light and got to his feet, walking some ways to the door before glancing back while his steps continued. The nosferatu was hunched possessively over the pitcher, licking it clean in a way that was unrestrained, unmonitored by his consciousness, and which left no room for self-respect. The man paused while closing the door to watch for a moment longer, and then he shut it sharply and turned a large key.

Some time later, before retiring for the night, Van Hellsing returned to the cell and opened the heavy door. As he entered, a glint to his side called for his attention. Abraham discovered, and then stared at, the mangled remains of the pitcher that had been polished by the demon's tongue in his presence and had since been smudged with grime and dirt. Not bothering to pick up the fouled object after recalling how he had left it, Abraham turned his narrowed gaze on the vampire, which was lying much closer to the wall than before and now had a bare back turned to the entrance that contained Van Hellsing. "If you do not want me to indulge you in the future, you have done well to turn me against such inclinations."

"Don't leave it for me!" An enraged snarl rebounded off the walls it struck, given power by anger and hatred. "Never leave it for me again! Never!"

Hellsing, at first astounded by the behavior, cooled when he understood the meaning behind Alucard's demand. Van Hellsing had allowed the creature to humiliate itself, to act like an animal, to cast off its identity and bring itself lower than the man himself could have brought it if he had ordered the demon to act the way it had. And Alucard had done this before Hellsing's eyes, in his very presence, and now the vampire could not forgive himself. His behavior, the moments in which his control had vanished, tortured him internally.

Abraham watched the pale back, still starved and boney, suffering beneath the weight of its crosses…its many, many crosses. And a change overcame his face which made the man seem older than he was, though he was by no means young. "I almost feel pity."

"DON'T!" Roared the creature that twisted and writhed, clawing at the wall, mindless with rage once more. "Never!…Never! …Feel nothing! Nothing!Van Hellsing, feelnothing!" The vampire had pushed himself against the wall and his body hid the hands that gripped the stones, bleeding from the abuse, losing the blood his veins needed. Alucard' forehead was pressed into the rough surface of the wall, his jaw clenched, his eyes shut, his features frozen in a violent cringe, as if Hellsing's words and feelings continued to cause him much pain.

Van Hellsing observed it all as it occurred, and saw the muscles in the starved shoulders which whispered to him subtly…and told him that the dark sufferer was punishing himself, working together with the men and the God who also brought their fists down upon him. Alucard pressed himself cruelly into the indifferent stones that bruised his bones.

And Abraham stood before the door, pity clear upon his face as it adjusted his features.

It was also in his voice. "I feel it, Count…though I try not to."

A strangled cry broke from the demon which then keened and howled as it twisted its fingers into the crevices that were found blindly, cracking bone, peeling back skin - the body seizing with the assault that forced it deeper into the stones. The monster kept its teeth clenched in the frozen cringe, painting the torment it suffered. Finally a forehead smashed itself against the indifferent stones as another whine broke free, together with a drawn out moan of agony –

And that was how Van Hellsing left the Count.