Interlude
by Charis
Disclaimer: Hellsing is Hirano's. Death is Gaiman's.
Lucifer and Mazikeen are his, too. Hellsing mangaverse, circa volume
6 or 7.
Notes: I am too damned lazy to fake Pip's accent -- that
and my manga is all at home and I'm not (wrote this in Calc this
morning), so I haven't cross-referenced. I think the Rip ref at the
beginning might be wrong. Any feedback, especially on how badly I've
written Pip, is appreciated. For the hellsingreviews 100-review
challenge (crossovers). It's not Thessaly, at least. :B
I wrote
this back in 2005. The notes above reflect that. I still have no idea
what I was thinking.
What's it like when you're dead?
You still dream.
- Charles de Lint, "The Pochade Box"
In the belly of the dragon, a million souls dream.
Rip van Winkle dreams the opera, Kaspar the Hunter dragged down into Hell by the spirits. The flames have scarcely more than kissed her skin before the dream resets, repeats. She does not wake.
Tubalcain Alhambra plays cards with the devil, who is a genial blond man in a tuxedo, utterly lacking in horns or tail. A woman in red dress and half-mask hovers behind the devil, but she is not the kind of flirtatious succubus he expected would keep Lucifer's company. They play endless rounds of poker, for stakes he can never remember or understand, and the devil always wins.
The legions dream of battle, awaiting the day when the dragon will wake them, but for now, the dragon faces his battle alone.
Across town, near the dragon's daughter, the soldier of fortune does not dream; the true dead cannot. But he stands in the ruins of the Hellsing manor with a pale, dark-haired girl, and frowns. "That it, then?"
"I'm afraid so," says Death.
"It doesn't seem fair."
"It never does." She sits on a precarious stair-railing, umbrella resting across her lap; her feet swing, light despite the combat boots. "But you got the same as everyone does, Pip."
"No," he says, shaking his head. "I don't mean for me. It's not fair of us to leave her alone."
She follows the line of his gaze, resting on the blonde girl who is still crumpled on the floor. Her smile is soft and maybe a little sad, full of understanding. "It's up to her to make that choice."
"Just wait a little longer," he says, almost pleading, and again she smiles. This time she does not reply, but she does not move, and he leans back against the railing beside her, folding his arms. After a time of silence: "You're not what I expected."
"Robes and a scythe?"
He colours in spite of himself, "Something like that. Definitely not a girl."
Her smile is now something mysterious; he can almost see all the answers of the universe lurking in the curve of her lips. "We're very seldom what anyone expects," she comments, "but that's alright. Jeans are much more comfortable than a robe, and scythes get heavy very quickly. Have you ever tried to swing one?" Dark eyes fix on him before she laughs, "No -- of course not. People don't really use them much these days."
"She did." No need to explain who. Surprisingly, she frowns.
"True enough. There's a lot about Millennium that isn't quite right -- ordinary -- though."
"What do you mean?"
But the frown is gone as she hops down from the banister, moving to stand before him. "She's made the choice, Pip. Good luck." She leans up, kisses his cheek, and it's warm, human, alive -- nothing like what he expected, considering he always thought of Death as the Grim Reaper. Skeletons don't have lips. His hand comes up to touch where the warmth lingers on his skin.
She steps back now, pops open the umbrella. The light is changing; it seems to be getting dimmer, or maybe it's brighter and she's just in shadow. "I'll be seeing you," she says, with another step back, and then --
-- darkbrightbloodwarmthlifedeathfirepainrage.
The dreamer awakens.
They will have their revenge.
- finis -