Disclaimer: Hellsing and all other associated copyrights owned by Kouta Hirano, Genon, et al. Should any one of these parties wish it, I will remove this story at once.
Rip van Winkle took the stage. It was, after all, meant just for her. Songs her gift, words a passion, a life before she wove as the monsters in the audience wept. Human flesh and human blood they drank, toxins and filth they could survive, but the poison in the memories was a pain none fought. None would be without it, even if it made them think.
Slurred words bumbled forth from unskilled lips. A sad imitation of the aria she crafted. Only one did not join in the shared misery. Luke observed and listened. Hearing melodies and pitches, rhythms and life. The lyrics were pretty and beautiful. They had no grip on him like the older ones, no sway except what she put into them.
He watched as she danced in song.
She always glowed after a performance. As if life was the payment for art. Expansive and bombastic in the surge. He followed just behind, a specter that smiled. She darted at weird angles and when he lagged behind too far she snatched his arm and drug him forward. Eager to share a few snippets of a new work she'd just made. The force of each moved her spinning and capering to its patterns.
Luke indulged in her. Her outlet was frantic and obsessive at times, compelling and aggressive. Darkly she went and he floated after for his own needs. As bright as he dressed she was as dark. Sun and Moon, one chasing the other.
Her head shot up. A new object to serenade. It matched her, in this darkness. Gothic beauty and steadfast resistance to all done to it. Arms wide the ballad flowed on, a soliloquy on the opal in the heavens. Melodies on the path through the sky pursuing, and almost reaching its twin.
He admired her, as she stared into the mirror of the moon.