Babylon

by Stained Blue

A longstanding rivalry, begrudging respect, and eventually love. The progression of Vlad to Alucard, and the love that haunts him, that he is unable to forget.

1. Babylon

Title: Babylon
Pairing: Alucard (Vlad)/Alexander

Note: I still, grievously, do not own …If I did, the manga would have ended differently. I also don't own Lucy or Mia, they're lovely characters owned by Bram Stoker. The story begins in the early-mid 14th century, which is kind of pushing both timelines so….sorry. Also, not really explicit content like normal, just a love story to rock the ages, but there will probably be an alternative ending for it. At the end, when the story goes into bold font, that's where the alternative ending picks up.

Around him, there was chaos. The lush green field before him lay trampled and bleeding as war waged. His mount shifted under him, anticipating and impatient. He lay a gloved hand against its warm neck, and let his eyes roam the destruction. His army's fallen lay crumpled and mangled, twisted amongst soiled white cloth. Truth be told, he hadn't expected the Templars to last this long, let alone still be waging a ferocious struggle. A wind lifted, carrying to him the scent of anger and fear, death and split blood, and the sounds of screams and howls of determined men.

He knew that at the end, he would be the last one standing. Everyone else on the field before him would perish.

Slowly, accompanied by the jingling of mail and the creaking of leather, he dismounted. His hand naturally strayed to his sword hilt as he moved to the edge of the hill. And there, amongst all the mangled bodies and torn uniforms, the only spot of pristine white called to his eyes. As far as he could tell, the Templar was the only one on the field who was none the worse for wear. The sun glinted upon the sparkling mail, and was absorbed by the long white tunic slashed with the red cross.

A feral grin twisted his lips. If he were to claim but one more soul in this battle, it would be that one.

He strode forward on strong legs, his heavy boots squelching on the bloodied grass. The closer he was to the Templar, the more the circle of death about the man became apparent. The bodies of his slain men had piled up, as though they had scrambled over the dead in search of this one light in a dismal hell. His boot crushed a skull with a definite sound, calling the Templar's attention to him as he stepped inside the ring of destruction.

And all was still.

About them, the battle continued to rage but sounded further away, and everything in his world tapered in until it contained that little circle. Everything else had been reduced to a grey memory in his peripheral.

He studied the man before him, in shining silver and uncorrupted white. Bright green eyes regarded him, cautious yet unafraid. He knew the man was destined for some greatness that had yet to unfold. Slowly, the man drew his sword, a clear act of defiance and a warning that he would not be so quick to perish. He let his gaze roam that sword, long and tapering and splattered with the blood of his men, to the broad and tan hand that held it. And there, he found his prize; blood was splattered sparingly upon the skin where the war had touched what seemed out of reach.

It occurred to him, quite suddenly, that the Templar before him was simply a man. Not some monster like himself, and not some zealot like those who too bore the cross. And man within a war was meant to be killed. He too pulled his sword, and the defiant green eyes before him narrowed slightly. And still, neither one moved.

The sun cast down rays on the Templar, illuminating and highlighting, where his darkness only absorbed the light. He stared, sizing up his opponent and pondering the consumption of the man's soul. He was broad and tall, with tanned skin and stubble along his strong jaw. A scar curved from jaw hinge to cheekbone, the only indication of frail humanity and strife. Aside from that, no fear of impending doom or revulsion of war or any emotion at all could he really catch a hold of from the Templar. And, inexplicitly, he moved closer, triggering movement in the knight until their blades caressed and hissed and they stared one another in the eye.

"Soh," came the soft, accented growl of the knight's voice, snaking its way into his mind. "You're teh one we've been sent tah kill."

He laughed, sharp and bitter, "Kill? I'm not the one who'll be dying in this field."

Those green eyes narrowed further as broad fingers clenched around sword hilt. Slowly, the knight drew his blade back and pointed the tip at his throat. "Rest assured, Ahy wohn't be dying here."

He opened his mouth to retort, and in doing so nearly voided his chance at parrying the knight's strike. It was stronger than he expected, as he felt his sword nearly twist in his hand. He rallied back before striking, thinking to rend the knight's arm from his chest only to have the blow caught by the flat of the other's sword. As the knight forced him back with a push, then kept him back with blow after blow, he began to feel begrudging respect for this mere mortal man. A feral snarl had curled the knight's soft pink lips into a parody of a grin about strong, white teeth as their swords clashed again and again. The primitive need to live took over his over-calculating mind and thrust him into the heat of the fight with the Templar.

Swords rent and tore at strong bodies only to catch steel, turning the fight into some callous, delightful dance on the edge of death. He felt wariness in his bones and muscles that he rarely ever felt anymore. There had been moments when he would have been able to bring the fight to a swift end, but found the Templar much too engaging. He hated the idea of saying farewell just yet, but the fatigue beginning to touch at him could prove damaging. When the next moment presented itself, he lunged forward; barely bypassing the angry sword swipe aimed at his head, he landed a stilling blow upon the Templar with a well-placed pommel to the head.

The Templar crumpled to the ground, a tiny trickle of blood seeping out of his sandy hair. As he stared down at his motionless foe, the world broadened to accept everything. He became aware of the deafening silence that held their circle cradled within its midst. He gazed out at the field, scattered with mangled bodies. Each side had fought to the very last, and every life had been taken as a toll. He reached down and grasped the still white tunic with his bloody hands, inwardly smirking at the color's corruption, and tossed the Templar over his shoulder.

When he reached the hilltop, his mount was nowhere to be seen, and he swore angrily under his breath. Hoisting the heavy weight of the knight further up on his shoulder, he began to stalk back the way he and his army had first come. The trek was long and rather trying, as there were many miles to cross while burdened with the unconscious weight of the knight.

There at the foot of his castle's path, his strength faltered and nearly failed him before he rallied himself to make the final hundred yards. Just inside the heavy wooden door of the castle, he nearly staggered and was glad to find himself relieved of the Templar's weight by his servants. The young men stared at him while clutching the man in their pale hands, curious of what they were to do with their master's prize.

He beckoned them off with a flick of his hand, "Take him to my rooms."

Once they had left with his prize, he slowly made his way toward the bathing house where he stripped off his armor and thin clothes underneath. He sunk into the hot spring, letting the waters bubble and curl around his pale flesh. There was no sign of war anywhere on his person, and that was just fine with him. He dipped his silky black locks into the bath before slinging water droplets all throughout the room. He combed out tangles with his long, thin fingers before sinking back against the cool marble lining the spring.

After the last remaining vestiges of war had soaked out of his porcelain skin, he rose and rubbed a soft towel over his skin before wrapping the dark red, silken dressing gown about his lithe frame. He silently padded back through the castle, towards his room and his prize. The more and more he thought about the knight, the more and more curious he became. Slowly, he pushed his doors open and was drawn up by the sight that greeted him. With a low murmur of appreciation, he stepped into his rooms and firmly shut the door behind himself.

The knight had been bound, naked to the waist, and carelessly placed against the far wall. Chuckling lightly, he drew further into the room and moved to stand before the bound man who rested against the rough stone wall. It seemed as though his mere presence woke the knight, and bright green eyes opened sharply and pinned him with a glare. Those soft looking lips twisted into a snarl, and he smiled lightly as the knight struggled lightly in his bindings. He was rather impressed with his Crusader, as strong muscles twitched under olive-toned skin.

"It looks as though we both made it off that bloodied field, and were the only ones to do so." He said softly, staring down at the man glaring back. A bright silver cross glinted at him from the center of the knight's lightly tanned skin. He bent down, reached out a curious finger, and ran it down the cross, briefly touching warm skin before the Templar gnashed his teeth in an attempt to bite. The brief tingle of pain from the cross made him smile lightly.

Pulling back he ranged his gaze down the man, taking in chiseled muscles and the dark blond hair that was spattered across the broad chest and around the other's navel. Not only had the man proven himself to be a formidable opponent on the battlefield, but there was also promise of him as a lover. He would definitely not dispute the man's physical attraction.

"So who are you," he growled lightly, prowling closer to the still knight.

Those bright green eyes hardened, and a growl twisted those lips cruelly in an indifference to him. Taken aback, he frowned lightly before slapping the knight roughly, causing the man to fall onto a side. Grasping a strong upper arm, he dragged the knight back into his original position.

"I'll ask once more. Who are you?"

Green eyes narrowed sharply, but the man growled out a response. "Marshal Alexandrus o' teh Masonic Order o' teh Knights Templar." The glint of the knight's eyes made it clear that no more information would be worth coming.

He leaned closer, noting the knight leaning back, and sniffed the air between them tentatively. Beneath the smell of death lingering about the knight, he could smell cotton from the knight's tunic and metal from his mail and sword, and beneath that he found what he was looking for. The knight, Alexandrus, smelt like a pious sinner. The sweat that had dried upon his skin was alluring and faint, smelling of candle smoke, blood, rosemary, sage, and sandalwood. Slowly, he opened his mouth and his long, sharp tongue protruded from between sharp fangs. The knight's mouth twisted in disgust as the point of his tongue dragged along the strong pulse thrumming on the side of the man's neck, tasting the death of his men, the warm cotton and heavy mail, and the lingering aphrodisiac taste of sweat and blood. His eyes closed lightly, relishing the pounding pulse and addictive taste, even as he felt the knight's muscles twitch.

The knight's heavy boots crashed harshly into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards. As he slowly got to his feet and loomed above his captive, he watched the sharp stiletto appear from inside the knight's boot and make swift work of the binding. As he loomed, so did the knight, the dangerously sharp knife glinting in his hand. Mentally, he purred at the fight in his knight. Making full eye-contact with the knight, he moved forward slowly, until the knight went nearly limp.

"Come now, Alexandrus, no need for that sort of behavior," he purred as his hand reached out and cupped the other's neck.

The temporary paralysis of his prey lulled him into thinking he finally had the perfect specimen to drink from him. His eyes narrowed slightly as barely a hint of a smile touched the knight's mouth, curling those soft lips. His eyes widened roughly as he felt the stiletto plunge into the wall of his chest right above his heart. The sharp blade wormed its way into his chest and gently grazed his heart, crumpling him from the intoxicating heat of the Templar. His body slowly curled around itself as he forced himself through the pain to grasp the holy object protruding from his chest.

He watched as the Templar moved forward quietly, glancing back at him just once with those bright green eyes, before disappearing out into the hall and from his immediate presence. With a snarl set upon his lips, he wrenched the stiletto from his chest and staggered to his feet, dripping dark and stolen blood. He stumbled from his room, and with the aid of the wall, made his way toward the front of the castle. The door hung ajar. His prize was gone.

Slowly, he sunk to his knees as the wound in his chest struggled to heal itself. Darkness wormed its way into his thoughts as he lay upon the rough hewn stone floor. "I will find you Alexandrus. You are mine." His eyes fluttered shut.

And then he slept.

While he slept, his servants dutifully took care of him, waiting the one day his eyes would open once more. The care of the lord passed through the generations for a few hundred years, until that fateful day presented itself.

In the darkness of his thoughts, he could hear the crash of the dish somewhere nearby, and the wonderful scent that had eluded him for the entirety of his sleep. His sharp, long tongue uncurled from between sharp teeth and chapped lips and slithered toward the life-giving essence. At the first touch of the sweet, coppery-salty liquid, his dark eyes opened. The servant who had broken the dish stood frozen in fear, watching as the withered corpse slowly rose and looked at her with a madness twinkling in his eyes. Before she could open her mouth, he was upon her. His long, sharp fingers tore open her throat and his mouth leeched itself onto the gaping wound.

He held the girl to him, his mouth attached to the wound as her heart gave its last, few weak pumps and then stilled forever. The maddening hunger that lingered in his bones ate at him, and drove him on through the castle. He rent apart his servants, decimating every last living soul until the castle's halls were silent of the crazed beat of terrified hearts. He rested against the wall, the hot, salty-sweet taste still lingering in his mouth, absorbed into his tongue. He drew in a deep breath and walked slowly throughout his castle until coming across his rooms. There, still dark with his stolen blood stained on the floor was the fateful blessed blade that had rent them apart. He reached down and touched it, feeling the jolt of pain as soon as his fingertips connected. His memories rushed back until stopping at the memory of Alexandrus, his knight. He looked down at his naked and bloody form, reached his hand up to touch the spot above his heart. His fingers found a small, narrow scar. A wry smile twisted his lips as he fingered the tiny reminder from his one worthy opponent.

He slowly dressed in black trousers and a flowing white shirt, and pulled on supple riding boots. Grabbing his long, dark jacket from its place over the chair's arm and the purse of golden coins, he made his way out into the stables, saddled a mount and rode off for nowhere in particular.

Before long, he found himself in the city of Bucharest. The air of the over-populated, dirty city hummed with the scent of superstitious people and dangerous fey, much like himself. He found himself at an inn; he made prolonged eye-contact with the innkeeper as he strode forward, feeling the man's heart beating slow and easy.

"I'd like to rent a room and have my horse stabled." He said to the innkeeper, his voice a dangerous purr. The innkeeper stared up at him with wide eyes, and slowly nodded, while handing him a key. He smiled at the man slowly, a tight, closed-lipped smile that made the man look down almost immediately.

The inn was cramped and dark, but suitable for the time being. He rested on his bed, listening to the thrum of heartbeats all around him. The sound, the scent of blood throbbing all around him became too much, and he left the room. Though he soon found out the bustling city below wasn't much better. On the streets, people brushed up against him, pushing past with no dignity or care. Whores called out to the people on the streets with high voices and lurid flashes of flesh. Finally, the gnawing hunger got to him and he took some poor, unfortunate woman by the hand. He drew her within the depths of the city, away from those who might see, and pressed her sensually up against a dank wall. She cooed at him, smiling all the while as he lowered his mouth closer and closer.

"It'll cost you chap," she began seductively. In the next instance when she opened her mouth, his teeth closed in on her neck and ripped it asunder. A small gasp escaped her mouth before her head fell back and he ravaged the side of her neck, sucking on the slowing pulse just below the papery skin. As the last few weak pumps of her heart ended, he let her body slip from his grasp and slipped back through the winding, narrow streets back toward his rented room.

His life continued in this way for a few years, until some gentlemen happened into the dingy café where he was resting after taking his morning meal. He disregarded them at first, until he caught a particularly interesting piece of their conversation.

"They say that London is being overhauled," the first man said while sipping loudly at his tea.

"Meaning….?" The second inquired while picking at a buttered scone.

"Well," the first man began, unnoticing as he moved few seats closer, "apparently London has been plagued with the surliest of unseemly beings as of late. And this man has been rushing about, decimating them like a conqueror of fey. From what I've heard, he's rather tall with a noticeable scar curving from his jaw, though of course the police have yet to apprehend him." He nearly fell out of his chair, mutedly hissing Alexandrus under his breath.

Fleeting memories of his Templar rushed through his head, assaulting his senses and making the small scar itch lightly. He reached up and placed his hand over his heart, comforted by the stillness within his chest. With a resolute set to his jaw, he stood. He placed a couple of silver coins on the table and disappeared from the dark, smoky interior of the shop.

Outside, the city's buildings were cramped together, leaving only narrow streets to navigate and leaving the city in a perpetual state of dusk. His long coat swirled about his boots as he pushed his way through the crowded streets of dirty urchins and what passed for high society. Whores called to people from the mouths of dark alleyways, providing a tempting little snack. But he was much too caught up in the turn of recent events. While Bucharest was a lovely place to reside, full of tempting snacks and where it was easy for people to go missing without really being missed, he was London-bound.

He pushed open the door to a small shop, overcome briefly by the smell of dust and mold. The lighting in the shop was dim, nearly nonexistent, which he had come to expect from the sordid city. Maps were spread up on the walls, tacked in place, and marked up. A spindly and bent man came to the counter and stared at him from behind dirty glasses.

No words were spoken as he strode forward on the creaking floorboards.

He placed three gold coins on the counter in between the old man's hands. To his credit, the man's gaze never wavered. "I need passage to France, as soon as possible."

Silence descended once again, and then the coins were gone and the old man was lifting a ledger. Dust floated out from between the pages. "The next carriage leaves tomorrow, at fifth bell." He scribbled slowly on a frayed and yellowed ticket and signed with a flourish. "It'll wait for thirty minutes; it leaves whether you're on it or not."

His fingers accepted the ticket from the old man, crushing it against his palm as he nodded before turning and striding from the shop. He stopped on the doorstep of the shop, staring up at the bleak sky for just a moment of time. Finally, he stepped off the stoop and wandered back through the crowded streets. He allowed himself to be called away by a petite little whore with matted blonde hair. She took his hand and led him further back into the alleyway, but he pulled her along further into the shadows. Her dirty little fingers flittered with his long, inky black hair.

He dipped his head, putting his lips close to her ear. "How much?"

As she opened her mouth to tell him the price, he lowered his head further and brushed his lips against her neck, feeling her pulse thrum beneath his touch. As his lips opened, his fangs elongated near painfully and he lunged forward, the sharp points piercing through her skin. Her fingers grasped at his shirt and tried to push him back. He wrapped his arms about her in a parody of a lover's embrace and bit down harder. He felt his teeth grind against one another through her skin as he sucked hard, pulling her life from her body while she still fought. Soon, the fight became weaker and weaker until disappearing completely. He let her go, leaving her to crumple to the dirty cobblestone street.

As he walked through the backstreets of Bucharest, his long tongue licked all traces of the girl's blood from his lips. He crept into the inn from the back door, and slunk through the winding corridors. He slipped into his room and locked the door behind him, before crossing the room and dropping down onto the musty smelling bed. He closed his eyes and feinted sleep until it finally took him.

He slept until just before dawn. As the morning sun slowly began to rise, his eyes slit open. He sat up, and smoothed the wrinkles out of his slacks. Standing, he pulled on his long coat, tucked his purse into his inner pocket before leaving his room, pulling the door to after him. He walked slowly down the steps and disappeared out the back door, creeping through the back alleys to the ticket station.

Before long, he heard the bells in the church not too far away chiming; each resounding chime feeling like a nail in his coffin. He would find his Alexandrus, and he would bring his knight home. Again, the small reminder over his heart itched at him and he slipped his hand inside his shirt to press his icy fingers against the raised scar. Fleeting memories surfaced to his mind, and his tongue tingled with the taste of smoke, blood, rosemary, sage, and sandalwood. A soft growl loosened itself from the walls of his chest only to be swallowed back down as the carriage pulled to a restless stop before him.

The dark horses widened their eyes, their nostrils flaring as he stepped past them. Their hooves pawed at the ground, anxious and afraid, while their driver yanked hard on reins, cursing them under his breath. With a silent, corpse-still face, he handed the driver his ticket and stepped up into the carriage, firmly closing the door behind him. He closed the heavy curtains about the windows and waited as patiently as was possible until the driver snapped the reins sharply against the horses' backs. As the carriage lurched forward, he took a deep breath. His eyes slipped shut and his mind ranged back through the years to that fateful day. He'd been so close, someone finally worthy of him had been within his grasp, just mere inches from a swift bite into eternity.

His eyes slit open and he pulled the curtains back from the window, watching with mild amusement at the countryside passing. He could feel the horses' fear, and listened to their hearts beating manically. With a mental smirk, he teased shadows from the ground to wrap around the horses' legs and took delight in their terrified screams. He listened to the driver trying to calm them, pulling frantically at leather reins. He disengaged his shadows from their hocks and contentedly settled back against the hard cushioned bench. As the heavy heartbeats of the horses resounded in his ears, he was more than certain horses would get him to France posthaste or at least run until their hearts burst.

He settled further against the cushion, a small predatory smirk gracing his face. Soon, he would be in France, and then none-too-quickly in London. Then, the real hunt would begin. He drew his attention inward, reaching a meditative sleeping state.

Within a few weeks, the horses had set hoof down in France. Right outside the city of Geneva, the driver pulled the horses to an exhausted stop. Slowly, he opened the door and seemingly poured out of the dark enclosure. From what he could tell, the horses had rarely stopped save only when necessary and their quick and fluttery pulses were like a siren's call to him. Inside his mouth, his teeth ached. The driver called down to him, seemingly fatigued.

"How much further am I to take you, my lord?"

He turned his unsettling gaze upon the man and forced away the thoughts of feeding. He could wait, if only to taste his sweet Alexandrus. "Only to Boulogne, and I shall pay you handsomely for this passage."

The man beamed a tired smile before stepping down to tend to his tired team, and leaving him alone with his own devices. He roamed the city of Geneva, polluted with its smell of dirty bodies hidden underneath fragrances and powder. His delicate nose twitched lightly at the unsavory scent. He made his way back to the carriage and rested in its shadow, waiting a bit impatiently for the driver to return so they could leave the dreadful place. He had somewhere he wanted to be, and would rather not tarry in an unneeded place for too long.

Eventually, the driver returned leading the four horses. He watched silently as the man carefully harnessed each beast before stepping up onto his seat. With a twist of his lips, he pulled the carriage's door open and stepped inside. After a few moments of stillness, he heard the driver pop the reins against the horses' backs and the consequent lurch of the carriage. He smiled as they once again were under way. Somewhere inside of him, anticipation bubbled. He was far too anxious to do anything but look out at the passing landscape. Unconsciously, his hand stole inside his shirt and his fingertips rubbed lightly at the smooth, raised scar.

In the silence of the carriage, he all but purred one word: "Alexandrus."

By the end of the week, they had reached the small city of Boulogne. As the driver pulled the carriage to a quick stop, the horses snorting and pawing restlessly in their harnesses, he pushed the door open and stepped out. He could nearly smell the dirty filth of London, but for now he was simply a person passing through the relatively clean city of Boulogne while on his way to see a person of great interest. He turned to the driver, still perched on his seat, as the horses nearly thrashed in their harnesses. He withdrew a handful of gold coins and calmly set them down on the seat next to the man; what passed for a small fortune in the place that was Bucharest.

Before the driver could say anything, he had turned and walked swiftly from the carriage's presence. All else was rapidly disappearing from his mind's forefront as he strode toward the scent of the ocean. The salt burned at his tender nose, but drew him on with its alluring promises. The city passed about him in a blur of tall buildings and walking blood banks. He walked until his feet came to the end of a dock and he stopped, looking out at the gently rolling waters of the English Channel. Just on the other side of that unseemly body of water laid his prize, hiding; calling to him.

He found a ship, still manned, and called out to the captain. The captain was a stout man with ample amounts of facial hair. And while the man was rather unsightly, anyone could be bought. He made bold eye contact with the captain of his chosen vessel.

"I need passage to London," he said in a low voice, pitched forward just enough for the man to hear him. In response a gangplank was slid back across.

"Well, you're in luck. We're about to haul off," came the strong, raspy response. He smiled a tight-lipped smile. The captain returned it sharply, before commenting about wages. "We shall require payment when we reach England's shore."

And that was perfectly fine with him. He was the only passenger aboard the vessel, and once the amount to be paid was agreed upon, he stole beneath the ship's decks. While the sun was weak, hidden behind clouds that floated above the sea, he sunk into the shadows more than content to hide for the entire passage.

He would have been more then content to stay in the bowels of the ship for the entirety of the passage, if only he hadn't been lured to the top deck by the sweet, coppery scent of blood. In the initial stillness following his appearance on the shadowed, barely moonlit deck, he watched the wounded sailor try to stint the bleeding of his hand as his pupils expanded, reducing his irises to slender circles of bright red. Every heartbeat and pulse pound thrummed in his ears, and his mouth began to ache bitterly before he lunged, catching the wounded man unawares.

His long fingers yanked the man's head back with a sickening yelp before his sharp teeth pierced the tender flesh of his throat. The clamor of his struggle with the rapidly losing sailor called more sailors to the top deck, and he fed with abandon. His ignored the feeble attempts from the men to run or fight, and slowly went about devouring each one until the ship rank of blood and he was alone. Scattered about him on the deck were the twisted, mangled remains of sailors, carelessly thrown like a child's doll long forgotten. His stomach was pleasantly full as he leaned against the railing, basking in the moonlight like a cat full of cream.

As the night stretched on towards morning, the English landmass rose out of the waves and calmness settled over his heart. As the empty ship floated slowly into a deserted Brighton dock, he strode away from the blood soaked ship and toward the dank heart that was London.

He strode through the small township that stood in his way of London. The weak sun was nothing more than an irritant as it trickled down on him from the clouds. The people, dressed in their dark garb, were reluctant to make any form of contact whatsoever with him as he passed. Shops seemed to empty out before him, and the crowded streets parted.

The longer the trip stretched out, the more impatient he became until finally he strode down a dark alley and let the shadows absorb his body. The clothes melted from his back, and his hair swarmed and writhed about his pale, nude body as his lower half darkened and melted into the shadows around him until nothing was left.

In his shadowed state, he moved quickly. He tasted heartbeats on the back of his tongue and in his teeth as he moved across the streets crowded with people and beasts alike. He slunk into an alleyway, moving along the bases of building to avoid the temptation to manifest and attack. One word kept chorusing through his head, thrumming along inside his veins: Alexandrus. It drove him on at a frenzied pace toward London.

The sun set and rose once more before his shadowed form manifested , his tall, pale body rising from the shadows like Venus from the waves, just on the outskirts of London. He called the shadows forth to wrap and twine about his form, clothing his pale skin in dark trousers, a dark shirt, a long dark coat, and sturdy black boots. He breathed in a heavy, unnecessary breath, and could taste the dirt and sweat and soot of the city sweeping out before him on the back of his tongue. His nose crinkled in disgust, but he strode down the hard road winding into the bleak heart that was London.

All around him, people and beasts moved, their footsteps forming the heartbeat of the city. Carriage wheels rolled over unlevel cobblestones, and children played in the street. Unheeding of the world about him, he walked through the crowded streets searching. Every tall, blond male he caught sight of, he followed at a distance, but none turned out to be his Alexandrus. He sought his one worthy opponent well past dusk, as the gas lamps were lit and the streets emptied of the more upstanding citizens. He searched well into the night, opening blood red eyes in all corners of the inky black shadows.

He spent the next few months searching London. He rested in a rented room for a few hours a day before going out to continue the search. Every morning when he slunk back into his room, he felt a little shard of discontent burying deeper and deeper into his grave-still heart. The emotion was one that he had managed to avoid in all his long years of existence, but now he couldn't seem to get rid of it. Lingering about London, hidden in the dark nooks and crannies, he could feel Alexandrus, but his one worthy opponent continued to elude him.

Hunger gnawed at his insides until even the drive to find Alexandrus couldn't block out the need to feed. He crept to the outskirts of London's society, looking for more unsavory citizens to drink from. The moon had risen full and bright by the time he reached what seemed to be a promising hunting ground. He stared across the lake at the hospital rising from the ground. On the opposite lakeside, he could see a young girl, wrapped in a thin blue dress. He circled around to meet her. She was thin, with long blonde hair, and narrow features. She looked up at him with big blue eyes. He smiled at her, staring deeply into her eyes, lulling her into a daze. He swept her into his arms and swept across the hospital grounds. He levitated her into her room. She clung to him, her body open and receptive to him like a flower to the sun. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to her neck. The pulse there jumped and throbbed under his touch. When he opened his mouth, his fangs elongated fully and ached sharply in his mouth. Slowly, he sunk the sharp tips into her thin skin.

His mouth filled with her blood, hot and sweet, and he held her to him in a parody of a lover's embrace. He could feel her heart starting to slow and weaken. With great difficulty, he pulled back. His teeth ached, but the gnawing pain in his core had subsided, if only temporarily. He stared down at her as her head lolled limply on her neck. Blood was smeared around the puncture wounds from his teeth, and he dipped his head and licked her skin clean. He placed her on the bed and slunk from her room, returning to London and his rented room.

Every few days, when the hunt for Alexandrus drained him, he would return to the hospital on the hill and drink from Lucy, the girl from the lakeside.

Eventually, the hospital workers caught on, and he had to be more careful in his pursuit of life-giving essence. He left Lucy's room alone and went to another room, the room of her dark-headed friend. He slunk under the door in a breath of mist and manifested himself at the foot of her bed. Mia was thicker than Lucy, with thick curling hair and soft features. He stared at her while his shadows pulled at her covers. Slowly, his shadows slipped under her, lifting her into a sitting position. Her neck slipped back, sending hair cascading down her shoulders and back. The pale skin called to him like a beacon.

He crept to her bedside and gently touched her face, pulling his fingers down her throat. Her dark eyes opened slowly and stared at him. She was completely devoid of emotion, like all good donors should be. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to her neck, feeling her heart pump and writhe madly in her chest. He ran his tongue along that alluring pulse point before slowly opening his mouth. Once more, his teeth ached. He wanted to crunch through her neck devastatingly. Leaning forward, he bite down, feeling her skin gave way under the pressure of his teeth.

She gasped under him, and he felt the daze lift. His fingers dug into her arms, holding her still as he pressed closer. He barely registered her teeth biting at his neck, drinking from him, before he yanked back. She grinned at him from behind bloodied lips, even as the wounds on her neck continued to weep. His lips curled away in a brief snarl, before the door opened and a man came in.

For a second, everyone was still.

As the man moved toward him, he disappeared into a breath of mist and slipped through the window. He manifested on the grounds of the hospital, near the lake. With a soft growl, he slunk away, thwarted. He knew it wouldn't be long before a Hunter was called in to kill both him and the girl Mia.

He knew the exact moment the Hunter had come. He could hear Mia's screams in his head as she was starved, could feel her calling to him, begging him to save her. He knew it was a trap, but as her Sire he was mostly unable to stop himself from going. Even though going would still ensure doom for the both of them. She couldn't be saved, having drank from him. And he was too much of a threat to allow continued life. But still, he went.

His body melted into the shadows, and he slunk through London toward the hospital grounds. He had every intention of killing everyone in the hospital, once the Hunter had been done away with. He opened eyes throughout the hospital, searching for the Hunter and his men, and at the same time, Mia. When he found her, he slipped through walls and gathered his hurting Childe to his chest. She slumped against him, weak, and he growled.

The doors slammed open, and he pushed her behind him, drawing up to face a foe. A small crowd of younger men swarmed in followed by the Hunter. The Hunter was older, be-speckled, but he knew appearances could be deceiving. He lunged toward the man, his fingers catching in the warm bodies of others, ripped asunder clothes and skin and muscle. The smell of blood drove him on, making his teeth elongate and forcing his pupils to dilate hugely. His fingers curved into claws, and as he reached for the Hunter, he felt a bolt rip through him. The Hunter held the crossbow level, produced another bolt, and he felt the second tear through his stomach. The blessed wood leeched him down to nothing, making him tired and sick.

And he slept.

He had awoken in a basement, wrapped up in canvas and withered. A gunshot had torn a small child's arm and the smell of blood had pulled him from his eternal sleep. He had saved young Integral's life by killing her uncle. He had been bound by the child, as he had been to her father before her, and his father before him. The Hellsing family used him as a pet exterminator, and he used it as an excuse to continue looking for his Alexandrus.

"Alucard," came her sharp voice, calling him from his reverie. He pulled himself from his memories, and stared into the clear, icy blue eyes of Integra Hellsing. Her stare was unwavering as they looked at one another. "You're being dispatched to Patrick to take care of a small infestation. And take Police Girl with you." He leered; it had been a long time since he'd been to Ireland. And the fact that his master was willingly encroaching on the Vatican's grounds was just a perk. He filtered through the floor, searching out his latest pet.

As he stared at Seras, he was reminded she was nothing like Mia, and all the more reminded of his lack of an opponent. The tiny scar above his heart itched, and he reached inside his shirt to touch the thin line of raised skin. Lost in his thoughts and remembrances, he didn't hear the Police Girl until she touched his arm, drawing his attention. "Master?" He smiled and drew her along with him, striding back through the manor and toward the waiting helicopter.

When they touched down, all he could smell was blood. The small town was seemingly deserted, but he knew that was untrue. The town wasn't deserted; on the contrary, the dead walked its streets. He approached the church, Seras in tow, and pushed the door open.

Inside, everything was coated in blood. It dripped from the ceiling and walls, stained the windows, and puddled on the pews. He looked about, wondering what sort of business had gone on there, when he caught the scent. It lingered, almost hidden by the scent of death: candle smoke, blood, rosemary, sage, and sandalwood. The scar burned for a brief second, but in the following moment he heard movement in the church: slow, heavy footsteps. His heartbeat accelerated, and he turned his head toward the sound, waiting patiently.

When the boots first came into view, he felt his pupils dilate, and his teeth ached. Long legs followed, and the body kept coming. It grew just as tall as he remembered; just tall enough to make his head tilt back slightly. He felt the grin come slowly to his lips, curling the skin away from his sharpened fangs. Alexandrus.

Slowly, he stepped toward the man, and the man came to him. They moved in tandem, like age-old lovers reunited. As they came to a standstill before each other, he could see the brief flash of recognition before it was shuttered away. The priest looked past him, sharp green eyes fixated on the wall behind him. The moonlight caught Alexandrus' glasses, turning the lenses into mirrors. The scar curving from jaw hinge toward lips was silver in the moon light.

His lips split in a smile. His fingers ached to grasp what was his and pull the knight turned paladin to him, crush him to his chest and consume him.

"Bayonet Anderson. Angel Dust Anderson. The Vatican's personal monster slayer." Alexandrus turned Alexander's soft pink lips split in a smile that curved viciously into a snarl. The paladin spoke, but he couldn't make himself focus on the actual words. His pupils had dilated hugely, in response to his paladin and the blood saturating the air, but still he nearly missed the slight flex of muscles. He did feel the blessed blades as they bit deep into his form, tearing at his skin. Joshua was in his hand as a reflex, his arm kicking the heavy gun up and his finger squeezing the trigger moments after Alexander's initial attack.

The paladin collapsed, bullets having torn his mere mortal body asunder. He was discontent, but at least the paladin was no one's but his, and when his last soul was slain he would seek his worthy opponent in the afterlife.

He turned to search out the Police Girl, to pluck the blessed blades from her and take her home; there was no work left there for them. He had barely turned his back on the collapsed and bleeding form of his knight when he heard the laughter, inhuman and estranged. The bayonets tore through his back, sides, and chest as he turned. They pinned him to the wall, and he felt a trickle of blood escape his lips as he smiled.

His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he grinned, his body held to the wall with a vast amount of blessed bayonets. He watched Alexander moved toward him slowly. Once again, the other was talking, but he could only feel the words. The strong accent rubbed against his skin and eardrums like an agitated cat. He looked into those brilliant eyes as blessed bayonets severed his head from his neck, as Alexander cradled his head to his chest gently, like a lover, before callously disregarding his skull. Smiling, he watched as Seras dragged the blades from her body to cradle his head, wailing his loss.

He knew he would return, and he would have his Alexander.

And so they cared on in this fashion for a while, and he knew he would be content with this. Every time they left the manor, Alexander seemed to find his way into the picture, and he could see the almost recognition in that level gaze. As they tore at one another, he could feel the paladin shiver when his cool flesh touched the burning skin of Alexander. There was a deep, simmering passion that they brought out in one another. And he was content.

Every time those blessed bayonets bore into his flesh, those brilliant green eyes gazed into his, the scent of blood and sandalwood and rosemary and sage and candle smoke curled in his lungs, he felt him lose a little more of himself to the paladin. He knew it would be sooner rather than later that he would lose himself completely, that his heart would solely be Alexander's.

And in the morning when he dreamed, he spoke into the priest's mind, and the paladin would answer him. And at night when he woke, he could hear the words that they had spoke, feel the soft heat of the paladin still in his mind. But they never spoke of it, because Alexander was a man, and he was a monster. Man was supposed to destroy monsters. And he knew that his paladin would be able to do the task of destroying him, his one and only worthy opponent.

Integra finally brought it to his and Seras's attention about Millennium's desire to create an never-ending war, the production of lackluster vampires, and the overall destruction of London. Looking out the massive windows lining his master's office, he could see the destruction of London already occurring. Flames were licking up buildings, burning them to the core, and leaving the ashy grey skeletons to reach into the sky. Even from this distance, he could hear the screams of people in pain. London was once again burning.

And he strode out to meet that destruction.

He left Seras to her own devices, his mind focusing on the destruction before him, as the streets ran read with blood. The air was saturated with the scent of death, the scream of the dying, and he felt at home. He felt his shadows roil and grapple at his skin, peeling away his clothes like a second skin. The long red overcoat, heavy boots, and tight black slacks and shirt were not the outfit for war. He felt the scale armor fit to his form, the heaviness of the metal boots, the thick leather and cotton protecting him from the sharp metal against his tender skin. The blood red cape whipped and billowed out behind him, his black hair stark against the red material. He felt the sudden tickle as his facial hair grew in, and he smirked. It had been 600 years since he'd last worn this armor, and his fingers curled gently around his sword hilt.

The smoke from the burning buildings curled around him, blocking his sight for a lingering moment, and when it moved away, there was Alexander. The paladin stood tall, his broad frame blocking the flames licking at the buildings behind him from view. And once again, he noticed that the war hadn't seemed to have touched his paladin. He felt his pupils dilate, his gaze taking in every detail of the priest before him, and for a second, he saw Alexander as Alexandrus. Slowly, he slid his sword from its sheath, and he could see the easy smile that curled Alexander's soft looking lips. His ears caught the soft hiss of blades being drawn, watched the long blessed bayonets slip from Alexander's sleeves.

And slowly, as they had those six long centuries ago, they approached one another; man and beast approaching. "It's like coming home, isn't it Anderson?" Those green eyes glinted dangerously behind rounded spectacles. "Oh aye, yah damned heathen." Slowly, they circled one another, blades lifted. The passion in the paladin's voice made his still heart give a sullen beat. "Weh've been heer 'afore," that voice came to him, and he smirked, drawing even closer to his priest. "Yes. 600 long years ago, my paladin. I fought you as a Crusader, won you, took you home."

He could see the brief flicker of something in Alexander's gaze, before the broader man was lunging forward, and his sword barely caught the two bayonets as they whistled toward his face. "Stop with yer lies, yah heathen" that deep voice growled, but he could hear the soft tinge of uncertainty in that voice. He danced away, smirking at the paladin. "It's the truth. You cut my only scar into my chest, a little reminder of you always." And he tore at the broad scales of armor that covered his chest, he watched Alexander's gaze flicker to his pale flesh. He strode forward, and the priest dropped back into a defensive crouch. "You'll be the one to defeat me Alexander; but not today."

His sword crashed down, aiming to incapacitate the paladin for however brief a moment, those bayonets blocked his blow, and the paladin rolled away. He watched the paladin abandon the bayonets, and saw Alexander pull a long, narrow box from his cassock. He found himself unable to move as the priest produced Helena's nail, and all of a sudden it made sense. His paladin was going to give up his mortality; he was going to become a monster.

"Don't!" He tried to warn Alexander, but then the nail was arcing, stabbing into the paladin's broad chest. He watched as the paladin's skin began to absorb the nail, drawing it part of the way into the priest's body. And then he watched the paladin change. That form shifted, becoming more beast-like. He watched as Alexander became a monster.

And he knew everything was lost. A monster can't kill a monster.

The rage with which Alexander attacked him with was breathtaking. He fell back and back, barely avoiding those reaching arms. He could see the paladin's skin crawling, looking for something to latch onto. Unable to stop, he hacked at those arms, watching at the limbs blew off and began to reform. He felt one of those arms burst through his arm, and he hacked off the offending limb, his shadows wrenching the crawling skin from his pale flesh. The thorns raged toward him, and he could hear Seras in the background, trying to get to him. He threw his shadows up, trying to stop the paladin.

But Alexander managed to get through the shadows, even as his past souls reached for the priest, grappling at the monster Alexander had become. As Alexander drew in close, his souls finally managed to stop his progression. He looked into those deranged green eyes, and all he saw was a monster. "You could have defeated me, and I would have been glad of it. I would have been glad if my entrails had become yours." And he forced his hand into Alexander's chest, bursting through the thick chest chorded with thick muscles. The nail stung sharply as his fingers grasped it, his fingertips digging into Alexander's heart, and he wrenched his arm backward forcefully.

In front of his eyes, he watched Alexander's body from the waist down be decimated, his arms blowing away. The torso and head that was now Alexander lay crumpled in front of him, and he dropped to his knees. He looked into his one worthy opponent, those now human eyes staring up into his. He would always remember that green.

Alexander's lips slowly parted in a smile, and it was painful to watch. He tried hard not to notice the way his paladin's body was slowly returning to dust and ash. He lifted a quivering hand to gently brush over the gaping hole where Alexander's heart had been torn out. "Though, Ah am aboot tah die, ye'll live on…forever. Like always." That deep voice was soft, and he felt something that might have been his soul, curl in pain. "I…I searched for you through the ages Alexander." Those soft green eyes lightened as his paladin smiled, "Aye, ye did. But ye can rest now." The priest's head relaxed back into the ash under his blond hair, staring up into the blackened sky. Unable to stop himself, he touched that gaping wound again, feeling the skin quiver as if trying to recover itself but was unable. "If you come back, I'll find you." Alexander just smiled, "Can ye hear them? The children…they're laughing, playing."

He felt his heart curl as he watched tears slip down Alexander's high cheekbones, more of his body collapsing into itself. Tears slipped down his face as well, and Alexander's soft eyes shifted toward his, "Donae cry. Monster cannae cry. Ah thought ye would have become ah monster tah keep from crying." Once again, Alexander looked skyway, the light in his eyes weakening. "Remember tah say yer prayers little ones, Ah'll beh there soon."

And he watched as the rest of his paladin disappeared into ash. He ran quivering fingers over the piles of dust, before laying his sword over Alexander's remains, forming a cross. And he was crying, the tears slipping from his unblinking eyes, being swallowed by the ashes at his knees. He could hear the soft prayers from the people around them, but couldn't bring himself to look up…until Walter's heavy boot smashed through Alexander's skull. And then rage ripped through him.

He couldn't stop himself as he destroyed every single creature he saw as a threat, unable to fully get rid of the rage. He had torn Walter apart, before turning his attention to any and all of Millennium he could find. And once he had finished there, rage still burned through him at Alexander's unneeded death, the war having pushed him over the edge in an attempt to end his life. And somehow, even though he was still moving, the paladin had managed to do just that. He knew that a world lacking his one worthy opponent was not worth living in.

So he retreated within himself and turned to face all the souls he had swallowed through the years. The souls became shadows as he tore through them, destroying himself as well as them. And he stayed inside his mind, inside the place where his own soul resided, lost amongst the others, until only one was left. Staring into his own soul, the handsome face from nearly 600 years ago, the other him smiled. "You've done what you needed to do. There's only one left. Go back to face your destiny."

And he relaxed, forcing his eyes open to stare into the worried eyes of his master and fledgling. "Alucard," Sir Integra started in, but he looked away from her, while slowly getting to his feet. He felt weak, tired, but lighter, more human than he had in a long while. And he retreated to the basement of the manor to wait to be called, to wait until his final soul would be destroyed, and he could join his paladin in the afterlife.

Stepping into his coffin, he closed the door and leant his head back against the soft death pillow, closing his eyes. He felt the soft smile curl his lips, knowing that in his dreams, his paladin would be waiting to engage him in battle, and would do so every night until he was finally able to join the other. And he forced his mind into silence, and slept.