Disclaimer: Don't own Hellsing, never did, not getting paid for it.
Maxwell's blood dripped onto the marble floor, mingling with spilled ash as he crawled slowly to Anderson's side. The shouts of the priest and the vampire still echoed against the high, arched ceiling; the smell of death was almost palpable. Angel Dust Andersong had fought his last as elegantly as he had fought a thousand battles. And he should--should--be fit for a thousand more.
Yet it seemed, as the regenerator lay in the pool of bloody ashes without a visible scratch on him, that his supposedly infinite time had run out.
Anderson winced and arched his back in agony; his hand grasped uselessly at his chest. "Take my body... back to Scotland, will ye, Maxwell? For God's sake, don't bury me as... Iscariot's... great achievement..."
"I understand," Maxwell murmured numbly, his own injuries fading from the edges of his consciousness.
Anderson's fist tightened, nearly tearing his robes, as his breathing became more and more harsh, raspy, desperate. "At the least... I die... victorious."
"You do," Maxwell agreed softly. "Now go. God's will be done."
Anderson's head fell limply to the side, his eyes staring and glazed. When his last shuddering breath had expired, all movement in the room seemed to cease. It was over, so abruptly, for Iscariot's great achievement.
Maxwell crossed the body, still refusing to look down at it. The trance he was in, dead and senseless as it was, was welcome now. Anderson was not dead, had not just proven the scientists wrong and died of a heart attack while defending his master. When he had to get up, when something woke him from this comfortable half-sleep, then Anderson could be dead.
"Father Maxwell?"
"Don't touch me," Maxwell muttered to some other plane of consciousness. He might, quite happily, sit here for the rest of his life and feel nothing. Now was not the time to face the nightmare of the waking world.
Evidently his mumbling was unintelligible to anyone outside of himself, for a hand on his arm jolted him awake again. "Maxwell..."
"Don't touch me!" Maxwell yelped, wrenching his arm away and whirling to face Integra. He calmed slightly as he realized again where he was and what had happened. "He's dead, Sir Hellsing. Of a heart attack, it seems."
"We're still in danger here." Integra half-dragged the priest to his feet. "Take Anderson, snap out of it and get us the hell out of this cathedral. Everyone of importance has already been evacuated."
Maxwell knelt and struggled to lift the larger man, noticing for the first time that he himself was badly wounded. "Very well, then. We'll disappear."