Integra found no joy in celebrating holidays – no matter what they were or what they represented. The knight even dismissed the annual celebration most would screech and plan for even months prior; that is, her birthday. There was one however, that she always gave some contribution and recognition to. Once again, Integra found herself seated upon a thin blanket near her father's gravestone. A bouquet of white lilies and baby's breath had been set before the marker, fresh to replace the old. Hellsing's director made sure that a fresh bundle of flowers were brought and set at the grave – but not personally. The only time she did so herself was on Father's Day; or if the heiress was feeling especially conflicted and downtrodden.
Ever since his passing, Integra made this her little routine. It was her tradition; to visit the ground Arthur was laid to rest under, and have a small picnic – just the two of them. She would inform him of how things would be going back at headquarters, share tidbits of less important matters, ideas for Hellsing's upcoming enhancements and so forth. But almost every time, it was the same. The blonde felt as though she was talking to empty air; chasing after her father like a child would a lost glove or hat caught on a gust of wind. Usually her attire would be formal; a black dress even, with a hat and sheer veil. This time however, the knight was garbed in her suit. Gloved hands were tightly clasped on her lap, arctic orbs fixed upon a glass not even half-full of wine. Rarely did the leader drink and she planned to do so back at the manor come evening. That was something else the blonde did with her tradition. She would find something more suited toward her father's tastes and have a drink or two despite finding it difficult to swallow.
A breeze caught golden tresses and she looked up, sparing a glance at the name upon the marker. Today, the woman felt no need and no desire to talk. Instead, Integra carefully moved the glass out of the way and made to lie upon the blanket. Her hair spilled around her as she lay on her side, one gloved hand almost casually and expectantly positioned toward the grave. It was as if the woman were waiting for someone to take her hand, for her father to be there and change the heartbreaking dream that was reality. Her eyes closed, if only for a little while. Here she was more at home than in the spacious manor filled with paperwork, vampires, soldiers and memories. Here, where she was alone, Integra could openly display whatever it was she felt. Her walls could drop without raising alarm or question to her strength and position. In the half hour she had laid there, simply listening to the wind play along the trees and whisper in the grass, only a single tear was shed. There might have been a time where she had dozed off; but the heir couldn't be certain. A sort of heaviness had fallen over her and every movement seemed to take more effort than was truly needed. Cobwebs clung to her mind, making a coherent thought process a bit difficult. Finally, she gathered her bearings, stood and adjusted her suit. Once she was finished gathering all that she had brought, the heiress paused for another goodbye.
The rest of the evening went as planned – stiffer drinks than she was accustomed to and cigar smoke to hang line transparent wisps of tinsel. Journals Arthur had written and recorded things in were also open in both her lap and across the study's desk. As painful as the evening was, Integra would wind up lazily but carefully sprawled on one of the couches with a journal open in one hand over her stomach. Perhaps, she may even rest without so much as a troubled twitch or thought.