The first time it happened, Integra was confused. She'd never actually given much thought to purgatory or hell, or even heaven. The knight of course, had spoken or hinted a few times about rejoicing with her father – and perhaps the mother she remembered so little about. But never had she taken it directly to heart. For all of the things Hellsing's director had done whilst alive, an afterlife wasn't something she imagined to be her own. The manor was silent as only the dead could be, and at this hour it was no wonder. Night had fallen like dark, heavy velvet curtains with only sparing sparks of light dotting the endless sky. There was no chill and no warmth. Nothing.
She was alert, alarmed by her surroundings. When a hand made to touch the front door to her home however, it slipped through the wood. Withdrawing the appendage, Integra gave herself a once-over. There was no better description for the Iron Maiden now than transparent. She could see through her body, her clothes. They seemed almost ethereal; she, herself, seemed impartial to this world. That's right….Now that her thoughts weren't as fuzzy, it was all made clear. She'd died, ripe with age, her body and internal systems alike having grown delicate with time. Smoking those cigars really hadn't been much help; but they certainly weren't the death of her. A chuckle was given, and it seemed to echo faint though it was.
For some time, Integra roamed familiar corridors, peered into rooms. They had all been refurbished, as Hellsing had been decimated in the war. Even so they held a note of nostalgia – the whole place did really. Memories good and bad flooded and overwhelmed the woman's senses. Or rather, she imagined they did – that they would have were she alive. There was no need to go into her own chambers; she knew exactly how the room would look. The bed would be large, simple, one pillow and papers scattered about it. Very little décor would be present; the curtains would be open to filter in moonlight, as she always preferred. But something made her give pause. A strip of light implored her, beckoned her closer. It wouldn't have been left open, whether she was alive or not. It was always shut. Stepping through the door, the spirit searched for the source of such a disturbance. A woman, clad in red sat there, holding an ascot in gloved hands as if it might have been a lifeline. Her ascot. How long had it been, then? Certainly not even two years. No…Exactly one, on this day. She edged closer, seeing the traces of blood trickle from the No-Life-Queen's eyes, staining alabaster cheeks.
It broke her, to some degree. Integra figured the Nosferatu couldn't see or hear her; and that was for the best. Though the Englishwoman made no sound, she felt a weight in her chest despite her lack of form. Her Servant, though free, was mourning her still. How many nights had Alucard crept effortlessly into her Master's chambers to sit or lie on the bed she once occupied? To hold onto the red ascot in hopes of being the one to put it back with its small, silver pin at the knight's neck? One of her hands rose, tracing midnight locks, probably cool and similar to the gesture of a small breeze toying with fabric or hair. She hoped some effect might be had." This isn't the Queen I knew to be so bold and mighty… Move on, Alucard. You can't linger in the wretched manor forever…" Naturally harsh features softened with the gesture; the small, doting affection she couldn't actually, physically provide to comfort her Servant – her friend.