Does it come with grief, with joy, with funerals, with celebrations? Does it come with victory or defeat? Does it come with money, corruption or something more discrete? Does it come with age, battle, experience, decisions or denial? When do we lose ourselves to that which molds us to what or who we become; and how?
Ten years; and now stands a woman of great honor.
Gloved hands were clasped behind the woman's back, covered by a curtain of blonde hair. Frigid blue eyes glared beyond one of the large windows in her office, taking in the vista. It was familiar, dark, and memorized. She swept her gaze across the estate, the treetops, London, and the sky. Stars blinked and the moon's silver radiance washed over anything in its reach. They were resolute; always present. Their light pierced the darkness like a silver lining — like hope that would never fade and could never be crushed.
Ten years, and she felt stronger, more confident, and wiser. She felt empowered, respected, loyal and prepared. But all of these things could not quell her worries. They could not override the sense of unease, uncertainty and numbness that often slipped over the Iron Maiden. Integra had earned her position as a knight among those of The Round Table. She had earned the Queen's trust and become one of her most loyal subjects. She took orders directly from Her Majesty even. Time had passed and a little girl whose eyes had been forced to witness the harsh reality of things had quickly become a woman of ice and steel. She commanded grown men, held conferences, filed reports, bills, invoices, hired new soldiers, buried the dead, stained her hands, and possessed perhaps the most powerful creature of all time — a true Nosferatu; the No-Life-King himself and Hellsing's trump-card, Alucard.
It was always enough, more than enough; and yet, Integra still felt inadequate. The commander was well known and respected, even admired and had been deemed by most as a formidable leader and opponent. But she only ever truly felt that way when pushed. Only when forced to take action, make decisions. When people questioned her authority she rose to the occasion, when Alucard pressed the boundaries and stressed the bond of Master and Servant. It was only in those times that Integra ever felt that she lived up to her name and title. Was any of it ever hers?
Day after day and night in and night out; it was all the same. A routine that had been played since the age of twelve. Very little changed. It was all a game really, and the rules indefinite. Winning was the only option. But what did one learn without loss?
There came a time where Hellsing had been attacked. A conference was held and the knights present, all waiting for their demise. More than half of Hellsing's men were killed, eaten, and the others in the conference were anxious. They demanded an explanation that Integra couldn't give. Walter had devised a plan; he and the police girl would use the ventilation system as Integra had done to get to the conference room. Alucard would greet the enemy and rid of it. The plan worked to some extent and in the end the pair of freak-chipped artificial vampires were destroyed. Hellsing's men however, were as well. Excluding Alucard and Seras, Walter and Integra were the only to survive of the organization's forces. The knights escaped and returned to their homes; and the clean-up process began. Information from the enemy was scarce and all they received was one little clue; one hint, "Millennium."
It was only the beginning.
The Wild Geese had been hired in replacement for most of Hellsing's forces and within time, the organization's ranks filled out once again; flush with new recruits. Mercenaries and soldiers alike would due the bidding of Hellsing's commander. Their lives were, in some odd way, in her hands. Fate had a cruel way of working and everything was fragile; life especially. They depended on her, and she on them. It was a vicious and demanding cycle.
A series of events followed, each gifting the heir with decisions and moves to make. It was barbaric in some ways; but fitting. They had run-ins with the Paladin Alexander Anderson. the re-generator of the Vatican's special forces; the branch titled as Iscariot, Section XIII. There was a messenger from the ominous organization known as Millennium and with it came a realization — a reunion of sorts as both butler and monster recognized its leader; The Major. Soon to follow came war.
War, war, war. Everywhere you looked there was death and carnage in its wake. Corpses were stacked and the numbers only growing. Enrico Maxwell lead a crusade to "cleanse the earth" and The Major invaded England with the Last Battalion. Nazi soldiers flooded London's streets, buildings burned and people were feasted upon by the damned. It was Hell on Earth and even as Hellsing tried, their numbers were few. Everything smelled of blood, decay and fire as it all turned to ruin. Those killed were denied access to Heaven as they rose again to serve the undead.
The mercenaries hired were killed and had dyed bravely in the line of duty, protecting Hellsing. In the end, all sides had suffered great losses, but Hellsing had risen triumphant. But to what? At what cost?
Pip had died but Seras drank his blood to keep his memory. She had lost her arm and a dear friend. Integra gave orders for Walter to return alive; but for what? Her words were empty and hollow - his promise to do so just the same. Later they had all come to find out that the butler had been on the enemy's side, all of it premeditated. Alucard had been reduced to practically nothing and everything all at once — "ridding" of his "existence" as Millennium had planned. Both Draculina and Master had been riled by this happening. Integra however, had lost but an eye. The battle had been won, but the war lost. Their troops had fallen and without merciful, deaths. While they hadn't died in vain, Integra still felt as though she were to blame. They had been ill prepared; but then, how was one to brace themselves and their country for such an unsightly and unpredictable occurrence?
England was in ruin, looking like nothing more than an upturned graveyard. Buildings had collapsed, fire spread like a plague and blood coated everything like fresh and old paint alike. Had they really come out victorious?
Thirty years; and now stands…?
Smoke rose and curled through the air like a serpent. A cigar, freshly lit was carefully poised between lips. A single arctic orb gaze almost absently beyond the glass. The scenery was the same and yet, alien to her. The restoration process had been a long one; and nothing would ever be exactly the same — no matter how peaceful it all looked. The scars would remain and the memory of it all was like a wound left to fester. So much had happened from the age of twelve all the way to her present state of fifty-two. It was all like a distant nightmare; and yet, Integra still felt like a child at her core. Perhaps that was all she had ever been. A child playing a game better fit for monsters, and Kings and Queens. It was all a jest.
She wondered, as she stared at the same stars that had blinked at her for so many years, when it had all come to this? Everything was fresh, every memory crisp and vivid. Climbing through the vents to find Alucard, avoiding her uncle Richard as he hunted her down, determined to kill her; and her father, Arthur, on his deathbed. She could still hear the sound of her men being eaten through the intercom during the Valentine brothers' invasion, the sounds of London crying out in agony as it was torn apart and its people made into appetizers for vampires. What was she now?
The soldiers lost in the battles had not been replaced. Integra and Seras were all that remained and what had the knight become now? She found herself being a mentor to Sir Penwood's grandson and Seras reduced to a simple escort or guardian. The two of course, had grown relatively close in their company together — even enough so to be considered friends. They kept one another company, mocked lightly and still kept their skills sharp. Neither spoke however, of Alucard or anything else that happened.
Standing here now in her office, looking out the window as she had done countless times before, Integra wondered just what she was. There were no duties left to fulfill — not for now, and Hellsing was practically nothing but a memory; an idle existence. The legacy would end in due time as Integra had not produced an heir and then what? Even the Englishwoman didn't consider herself a knight any longer as her duties and England as a whole had been stripped bare. There was nothing but the new and what did that entail? Papers were no longer scattered about the leader's office as they were now about her bed and floor. In the midst of sleeping, a certain vampire made his return. He was greeted with bullets and Seras soon came to the commotion. Blood was drawn and gifted to the No-Life-King, and a small reunion was had.
It was all familiar, and yet, new. The routine had been broken and repeated, and broken, and repeated. The stars had all survived, but now seemed filled with a light no longer meant as a blessing. Eerily enough, they seemed remorseful. As if each time they shimmered it was a flicker of pity. Even the moon's silver light felt cold and refined, reduced to something somber.
Lessons had been learned, mistakes made, and a victory that had resulted in more losses than imagined. Her hands were stained red like her blade and the knight never felt safe without a weapon warm in her hands or at her bedside. Did she deserve her titles and honor still? Even as time had made her its for the taking? She had aged beautifully and still held a strong position. Others still held Integra in high regards despite the lines that filled her features with age and the lighter color of her hair.
But Integra was empty and felt as though something would always be missing. Inadequate again; absent and idle and old. What was a knight without armor, without orders to carry out at the command of her liege, without men to bark commands at or to? The woman wasn't even a grandmother, as she had produced no heir.
When had it slipped away? When had everything been nothing but sand or water in trembling hands that once held steady? But they still did, and still could — but wouldn't. There was nothing to hold, demand, command, nurture or neglect. Had she lost her touch? Had she ever been able to maintain anything to begin with? What had she been and what was she now? A bare hand rose to meet the cool of the glass, fingertips barely gracing the window with their touch. It wasn't long after that she pressed the full of her hand, palm and all against it. There was no force, no pressure behind the action. Only a small sound of displeasure rumbled somewhere in the woman's throat before her head bowed. Light gold tresses spilled slightly over and past her shoulders with the small gesture as she leaned into it. The cigar fell from her lips and was promptly stamped out. It took but one forceful step to do so and in return, a mark and ashes had been left with its remains. A filthy though temporary stain, a reminder of all that had been gambled.
A girl rose to become a woman; a woman rose to become a knight and now, a knight had been reduced to a woman. A woman that had always remained a little girl. Every castle crumbles, every sword wavers, every shield cracks and every heart aches — and those, those are proper, average human mistakes.
The end does not always justify the means.