Exultant Heretic, a hellsing fanfic

Welcome, everybody. Materioptikon here is playing again with everything he's got. Sadly enough, he's realized he's a glutton; a glutton for reviews. Sorry, indulge him for a while. You all indulged the Major while he was giving his war speech, so bear with Materioptikon for a while, okay? Seriously, throw him a bone and he's gonna get happy enough to churn new stuff for the lot of ye with regularity. First of all, he wants all of you to be happy and give him your thoughts on this oneshot and tell him what you loved and what you hated. He also wants to say that while he's not a fan of any given pairing, he's only sure that Integra and Maxwell are like water and oil. Alucard/Seras? Perhaps, he says. Nothing definite on this one - it's like speculating on the season finale of Doctor Who. And given how he loves to stay in-character, he's frankly strapped 'til he can read the upcoming Volume 10. Or at least borrows it. Whatever. The point is, he seriously enjoys reading your reviews and even tries to answer them if they have questions or suggestions. Therefore, make him happy and give him what he craves so you can get what you crave from him in return. Oh, just don't expect him to write many AUs. He would rather stick to canon as he knows it. This is some weird stuff for anybody used to the laughs of Madhouse; it includes domination, mental torture, angst...weeeird. But Materioptikon did it!

Ergo, it again ends up with poor, poor Materioptikon declaring he does not own this stuff. And unfortunately, he's not making money out of this stuff either.

For BookishBrains, who does know what the hell the Medusa Mask is.

And for all the loyal readers who keep reading this stuff. Madhouse, too. Over 670 hits and 290 visitors and more to come!

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ex·ul·tant.-Joyful or proud, especially because of a great success.

her·et·ic.- A person who holds religious conflicts with the dogma preached by the established order.

Maxwell was, for the lack of a better term, empty.

All he had created had crumbled to nothing in a single move. And all because of actions he earnestly believed had been imparted upon him by the High One Himself.

And all he could mutter as his torturers continued in their utterly remorseless barrage of pain were curses.

Curses to the God that had abandoned him, after leading him to such a grandiose genocide.

Curses to Pius VI, that had given his blessing to the Nazis, and actively aided them. Curses to Iscariot, who, in the true spirit of the traitor, had abandoned him to his fate.

Curses to Hellsing. Curses to Alucard. Curses to Anderson. Curses to the Major. Curses to the fledging. Curses to himself.

A part of him, one that watched him from within his skull, behind his eyes, either insensitive to the exquisitely administered pain or uncaring enough to ignore it, idly wondered how his tormentors felt while brandishing such a diverse amount of objects against a former Archbishop. However, he was utterly stumped as to why they continued to routinely denigrate him with the gag muffling his screams. It took him a while to realize that they had realized he was the screaming type. And it also meant people were nearby, either people who were relatively innocent or who were easily discomfitted by the tortures he was being inflicted. Given the rather inhuman nature of his torturers and their experience, however, it most likely mean his screams of agony would make for a splendid public attraction had he still lived in the Middle Ages. This meant a crowd would easily gather and relish on his pain. Bleeding was a spectacle upon itself, considering how unlikely it was for his blood to be spilled with the supremely experienced tactics the torturers employed.

That part sighed dreamily. It wondered if its body would resist another week of daily excrutiating sessions of such elaborate shows.

Only that part did that. Think, that is. The other part of Maxwell's brain was too busy screaming in pain as more bones broke, more currents shook its body, and more of the special healing techniques of his jailers. Wonderful stuff, that was. If one did not mind the absolute absence of anaesthetics. That tended to make surgeries messy and thoroughly unenjoyable.

His body's muffled screams resonated through the halls of the Castel Sant' Angelo. Rome, unaware of the horrors of the prison, slept the sleep of the just.

When Maxwell was allowed to sleep, he saw the tribunal in his dreams.

An immense panel of a hundred and fifty figures. Bishops, archbishops and cardinals unanimously condemning him to the same fate.

Disgrace, oblivion, and ultimately death. Oh, and the pain. Pain was important.

He was to be stripped of his Archbishop rank, sent for the remnant of his life to Sant' Angelo and erased from the public and private records of the Vatican. For all intents and purposes, it would be the same as if he had died before being taken into Saint Ferdinand's. Iscariot was to be handed to Ronaldo and Anderson on the condition they forgot about Maxwell at all. Considering the seething wrath that consumed the paladin when he thought on how the mass waves of familiars had blocked his way to Maxwell and how he had decked him before handing him to the British authorities, the promise was more centred about never mentioning his name or exploits than actually forgetting him.

Neither Heinkel nor Yumie were excessively affected by these events. After all, the man only signed their paychecks and barked orders. With both posts covered by Ronaldo, neither them nor the vast majority (if not totality) of Iscariot, had no problem accepting Anderson, who was already adored as the bravest and most powerful among their ranks, as their new leader. A leader that ran into battle with them, as el Cid Campeador once did, gave them inspiration to fight beyond any of Maxwell's dreams. He had been offered the archbishop seat, and he had turned it down. He had too much running at the same time Iscariot and Saint Ferdinand's.

A true man of God, he was. But if this was true, then what was Maxwell?

And finally, Maxwell's big day came. The little inner devil nestled within his soul was overjoyed. The cycle was now over, he now could go to Hell with his flock. Not even the best efforts of his wardens could elicit a single scream that day. Instead, they could barely repress his giggles.

His cell door opened and two Iscariot officers entered. Maxwell glanced at them. Anderson and Ronaldo. The jailers were gestured to wait outside.

-My...time?

-Has run out, Enrico Maxwell. However, in your...leave of absence... a new council was formed. The Vatican Council was pressed by certain organizations, namely whoever remained of the Council of Twelve, the Archbishop of Canterbury and the U.N. to add another punishment upon your sentence. Hardly fair, I know. But who are you to judge? After all, you are in an ill position to defend yourself, after your behaviour during the Night of Blood.

The Night of Blood. That's how the media had taken to calling the Millennium assault upon London. In its wake, Neo-Nazi organizations' reputations, and even far-right wing organizations, had been splattered with the Letzte Bataillon's mud along with that of the Riconquista assault squads'. Countless religious orders, racist foundations, and other segregative groups that had once embraced beliefs even slightly similar to the fanatic movements of the Army of the Ninth Crusade or the Bataillon, had been reviled to the degree many had simply opted to dissolve. And many of the remaining ones were being hard pressed to go the way of the dodo. Iscariot, however, had been elected to continue publicly due to the massive rescue efforts and the sacrifices of the group in the battle for London.

Maxwell, upon hearing this, had laughed. So something positive had emerged from the massacres he had wrought. Unifying the world against him and destroying any chance of a Neo-Nazi revival.

Hell, not even Voltaire had managed to do that!

-Additional punishment?

-Namely, th' joodgment o' th' Coouncil. Ye shall be handed over formally ta Integra Hellsing.

Maxwell whistled and then engaged in obscene laughter. And he went on and on and on.

Anderson, expressionlessly, backhanded him with very considerable strength. Maxwell's head slammed against the stone walls. Passing his tongue through his mouth, he stopped to spit out a tooth. From his position in the floor, he looked up to meet Anderson's gaze. Ronaldo had wisely stepped away, knowing Anderson was no torturer. He would not care about prolonging Maxwell's life for more than he was worth. Just enough to dump him as respectfully as he could on Integra Hellsing's doorstep and let her do as she wished with the human filth he had once raised as a student. Anderson knelt over, just enough to let his mouth reach Maxwell's ears and whisper:

-Ye forgot what bein' a servant o' God entails, Enrico. Ye are naught but a devil. This be a punishment, and it be yer salvation. Yer tainted soul is too much fer the Vatican to cleanse.

Rising, Anderson sneered:

-Sae, we be sendin' ye, a prince o' the Church, fer rehabilitation. An' in th' end, when yer soul be less soiled, death shall come fer ye.

It was Maxwell's turn to huff:

-If it is that way, why the sow? Why her, specifically?

Turning away, and leaving Ronaldo to open the door, Anderson grunted:

-She seived th' soul o' th' worst butcher o' all taim. Who's get bettah credentials?

Seras was sitting upon Hellsing Manor's remaining gables, wondering about her new powers. The abilities that had been unlocked when she had drained the corpse of Pip Bernadotte. The darkness, the familiars, the regeneration. If she focused on him, part of his presence would briefly comfort her, surround her as a warm blanket. She could now literally extend her power all across the estate. Along with all the other souls she had absorbed, she had formally asked her master's master to come to her aid, with the very same power limiter devices Abraham Van Helsing had come up with to bind the Father of All Vampires to his will.

Integra had agreed, upon one condition.

She would serve her own will. Integra knew her new pet well. Upon the fires of Hell, her soul had been reforged; the hottest flames wrought the strongest metal. She would not fall to the darkness Vlad the Impaler had once drowned in. She would serve Humanity; while her state still demanded her to feed, her feasts would be upon the blackness of humankind, the cruel, the mad and the corrupt who shed innocent blood for any reason. Sin, insanity and evil would be her delicacies. Her new mission was to destroy evil itself. If she chose to follow Integra Hellsing's will, the decision was hers and hers alone.

And so, she had been bonded to the two gloves that now limited her powers to her will. Unlike her master's, hers were of thin, comfortable black leather. The pentagram, the shifting emblems in red energy, were still there. She occassionally took solace in staring at the Gothic letters and arcane symbols declaring her a slave only to her own will, knowing they meant only complete, unwavering independence from anything she wished to. Except for herself, that was.

Integra's voice hailed her from within her soul.

"The time has come, Daughter and Wife of the Dragon. Go and bring my new servant to my home."

Seras smiled. Thin, predatory fangs glistened in the dying sunlight. One moment she was there, the next one-she was not.

-Where are they, Anderson?

-They shall come, Ronaldo. La Hellsing would ne'er let this on' pass.

Sitting in the front gates of the Castel, Ronaldo and Anderson remained silent.

-No movement declared from Hellsing. Not a single one of the remaining personnel to be sent here for Maxwell.

-Th't's nae what annoys ye, auld friend?

Renaldo sadly shook his head.

-Did we fail him, Anderson?

-Nae. We did gave him tae much poweh. Tae many liberties. And sae came ta pass. We never 'new his fanateecism went sae far.

Renaldo could do no less than sadly smile.

-Spare the rod and spoil the child?

Anderson made a face.

-Tae much poweh wi' tae little taim squelchin' his hate an' his vaice. Ne'er a good Christian. Tae much o' a courtesan, nae much o' an Archbishop.

While both chatted, Seras Victoria had appeared.

-Miss Victoria. Here to remove Maxwell, I presume?

Nodding, she smiled to them warmly, extending her hand:

-Fathers Ronaldo and Anderson. Always a pleasure.

Anderson shook it vigorously, with a sad smile.

-Hoo'ever di' sech a good soul like ye join the lot o' the undeid?

Seras bashfully closed her eyes.

-Choice, I'm afraid.

Ronaldo, gingerly, had similarly shaken her hand.

-Let's go inside. I'm just glad someone's willing to do this thankless job.

Maxwell was a sight for sore eyes. But, after weeks of extensive and very creative torturing, Seras supposed it was to be expected. Oddly enough, little external bleeding was apparent. However, the full extent of Maxwell's injuries was plainly visible to her third eye. Massive application of electrical torture devices. Watered leather straps to be tightened in the midday sun. Artifacts long forgotten, their only function to maximize pain, preserved in the Vatican vaults as relics, had been used rather extensively on Maxwell.

Seras almost pitied him. Vatican elders still were masters of inquisitorial pain. Moreso in the case of fallen angels.

She leaned forward, and slung the restrained Maxwell over her shoulder.

-Hellsing, England and Europe thank you. I depart.

She faded from existence. Anderson smiled.

-Noo tricks. Ah shall enjoy next hunt.

After the brief black tunnel, Seras appeared in the remains of the Battersea Power Station, now retooled, rebuilt and rechristened Hellsing Fortress. Thoroughly lauded by her defence of London and her destruction of the Batallion, and after battling a massive depression, Integra Hellsing had now been rewarded with the sole thing she desired: independence. In her new position as the Head of the Council of Twelve, she had decided changes were necessary. Given how the undead and the darker paths of life had been explosively revealed to the world, she saw no more reason to hide. If anyone was to defy Hellsing, they would do so from the front gate. Her new castle was located far enough from London proper to be safe, but not so enough it could not respond to threats effectively. With London now mostly converted into a huge military and research centre, and with the Midians of old jolted into action by the Major's scheme, she was now the castellan of the most heavily defended stronghold on Earth, routinely battling the vampires seeking to complete the mad promise of a universal citadel of death.

Fools, the lot of them. Attacking the fortress of their supreme king. And his queen.

-...long live the King and Queen of the Undying.

-Sir Integra?

-...Seras. Lady Seras of the Dracula.

Unceremoniously, Maxwell was placed before her fireplace.

-Thank you, Your Majesty.

-Sir Integra...

Sir Hellsing smiled.

-It's your title now. You have the power to back it now. At least use it occasionally. One day, you'll need it.

Seras smiled in turn, before her expression darkened.

-Now what?

Integra turned, and took a ceremonial sabre from its stand upon the fireplace. Swinging it experimentally with the ease of an experienced fighter, she said:

-Leave us alone.

Seras bowed. She left.

Patiently, Integra walked with deliberately slow steps to Maxwell. In a single move, she caught his hair and pulled back, hard.

Then, she placed the blade to Maxwell's throat.

-I want information, Maxwell. Information you have.

Maxwell managed to grate something resembling a hissing laugh.

-I...I'll tell you nothing about Iscariot, sow...

Integra cocked her head. Maxwell was treated to a view of her single blue eye. Not a single emotion was readable in her expression.

-Oh, yes. You'll tell me. But not as you think. I want to know why.

-Why?

-Yes. I want to know, from the very beginning, how your life started, how you lived to become an Archbishop, and why you took the steps that led you to become a glorified rug.

-Why?

Integra pressed the sabre futher against his jugular.

-Because I want to know. And that's all you need to know, servant.

Maxwell's incredulous gaze met hers. He dared to laugh again. With a single punch, he fell to the floor.

-Speak now. I will listen.

Maxwell's initial explanations were succint and closed. Joining the congregation. Joining the darker ranks of the Catholic Church. Absolute refusal to believe he had done anything wrong.

Integra, of course, found this less than pleasing. At the end of the hour, she had returned to her desk and pressed a button.

Walter came.

She, like Alucard, and Walter himself, had come to loathe and tolerate his new form. The vampiric blood now coursing through his veins had given him youth he no longer desired, cravings he found denigrating, and weaknesses he hated as a human mind within a vampire body.

-You called, Milady?

He had briefly considered asking to be shot down. Alucard had dissuaded him. With the Major's programming broken after killing the Luke Valentine dummy by a surprise attack by Alucard, he was left a shambling ruin of what he was before, but it was Alucard who helped him rebuild his life from the ashes, starting with killing the obese idiot responsible for the transformation. It had been a surprisingly difficult task to inflict pain upon the fat cyborg, but Walter was nothing if not creative. His wires lopped off the head of the lunatic, and his expertise in electronics came in handy while rewiring the disembodied head to suffer from the worst form of pain he could inflict upon it.

-Take Mr. Maxwell to the dungeons. Solitary Containment Area. One full day.

The Major's head-still with its living electronic brain-was displayed in the main lobby, connected to a VCR displaying a video for Lennon's Imagine in a neverending loop of peace-related imagery.

-And after that?

With is voice circuitry disconnected, all it could do was to open its mouth in a soundless scream.

-Return him here.

The Doctor's death had hardly been more pleasant. A group of captured Bataillon members had been controlled by Alucard to rip him asunder, to see the effects of his creations firsthand.

-Accomodations for food, water, et cetera?

The Captain had given Seras a brutal deathmatch, but she had prevailed, and had given the werewolf an honorable soldier's death-before absorbing him.

-One feeding now. One trip to the bathroom afterwards.

Schrodinger's death had been the most senseless one. The catboy had appeared to greet Integra and Seras into the blimp, and fed up with his endless cheer amidst the carnage, Seras had bitten off a chunk of his shoulder, and started drinking his blood.

-Any special notes?

She had started fading from reality, but the mercenary had given her the idea she needed to contain the rebellious, quivering soul of the poison Alucard had been destined to consume.

-Yes. Complete darkness and sound mufflers. I want him completely disconnected. He needs to suffer from pain he has never felt.

By directly crushing and absorbing the soul of Schrodinger, at the moment while she could still recognize herself, she would be able to harness his power without fading.

-I want him hearing his own thoughts. I want to know what he thinks of hearing for a full day the screams and pain of the seven million souls sent to their Gods through his actions.

The mercenary had to sacrifice part of his self. But in the end, the idea had worked.

And Alucard had gotten his Unliving Queen.

Maxwell had thought Integra was losing her touch. Thinking about his actions? She was sending him to his room to think about what he had done?

Did she truly think that a mere Protestant whore would get him, a former Archbishop and leader of Section XIII, to renounce the teachings he had clung to for all of his life?

Pathetic.

Or so he had thought, until the images started flowing in.

Innocent families refuged from the Bataillon attacks, rent to shreds by his orders. He saw, and was, the daughter, as the extra-long cannon of the Riconquista warrior blew her internal organs with a hail of bullets, and crashed her skull with the bayonet. He saw, and was, the son, as his warriors had captured him and strapped explosives on him to act as bait for a vampire trap, and blasted to smithereens with a couple of stray vampires and ghouls. He saw, and was, the wife, as she died with her husband as the Christian Knights, those claiming to serve the will of the God of the Bible, had denied her help, citing a conflict of centuries that held no meaning for her. He saw, and was, the husband, as his wife tried to stop the bleeding and drag him to safety exposing herself to attack, and as the grenade ended their struggle.

He was a Muslim baby.

He was an Indian woman.

He was a Shinto woman.

He was a Protestant child.

He was an Orthodox husband.

He was a Jewish police officer.

He was a Buddhist bride.

He was a Catholic priest.

All killed by Riconquista soldiers.

Holding his head, Maxwell whimpered:

-Meaningless...meaningless...protestant fools...insignificant...the new religion...must be born....of the death of the old...

And as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.

And now, Maxwell, try as he could, could not get the images out of his head.

Falling to his knees, he cried, whimpered and beat his head against the padded walls.

In the next chamber, Alucard grinned. So far, so good.

Suddenly, Walter entered the room, and arched an eyebrow at the actions of his old friend.

-Care to explain, milord?

Alucard smiled.

-Angel. The human mind is at the same time infinitely more simple and complex than any human psychiatrist can ever hope to comprehend. One of its facets is much like the layers of Earth. Dig, and eventually you shall reach the core, where the soul is readily available for understanding. Some men can reach a state of comprehension simply with a good education. Others are forced in deeper with prejudice, fear and corruptive beliefs. Christianity, for instance.

Walter smiled in turn.

-You are not trying to hold Maxwell's faith responsible for his current predicament?

Alucard sneered.

-Of course not. It was his willingness to embrace its more violent factions what made the ground I tread so fragile, and the surface so hard.

-Are you trying to lead him to insanity?

-To the edge only, old friend. To see how close to the edge he always teetered across the land of nightmares and the waking world.

-Any particular reason?

The elder vampire smiled with his most feral grin.

-Ohh, yes, Angel of Death. Such is my master's will. Break Maxwell's shell. Strip him naked of all what he believed in. And deliver him into her hands.

Walter's monocled eye closed a micron.

-What for?

Alucard cocked his head, at last realizing his friend couldn't see through Integra's designs.

-To let her do as she pleases. To save his soul though her. To give her what she wants and needs.

Maxwell was led again to Integra's office the next day at the same hour, this time by a small detachment of soldiers.

Leaving him alone with Sir Hellsing, everybody left. She took her time to even deign to acknowledge his presence.

At long last, she rose from her seat and approached a couch near Maxwell's position.

-Are you more willing to talk today?

Maxwell had barely slept. Every part of him ached and he had lost even more than he had ever though possible. Every atom of sanity screamed to yield.

He spat at her.

-Impudent...sow! How...dare you! Treating me...me! A paladin of the Church, locked up like a simple commoner! I am the Church! I am Catholic! And I...

Seras clocked him from behind.

-Another day in solitary, madam?

Integra looked at the inert shape of Maxwell.

-Yes, Your Majesty. I request an audience with your husband. We need to discuss tonight's...treatment.

She stared out of the window.

-He's starting to get somewhere. But still, he clings to ghosts of the past as if that could still save him from the reality of the Here and Now.

That night, Maxwell did indeed dream.

He dreamt of an elder Maxwell, though of course he did not carry that name. He had a wife and a position in the community in Sardinia, but his lust and foolhardiness had orchestrated his downfall by assuring his seed bloomed in the wrong womb. And thus he had disposed of the child, giving him a name honoring his British ancestry and his Italian birth.

Enrico Maxwell.

He was forced to writhe in dreams as he saw memories of Saint Ferdinand's as they had truly happened, not as he imagined they had went. How he'd pushed all away, believing he would need none to reach the highest spires. How he'd started using other people as tools. How he'd met Yumie, Heinkel and Anderson.

And the seminary memories went next. How he'd passed his exams by favoring the violence advocated by the Old Testament, how he declared he was willing to lay lives in the pursuit of Paradise, how he revelled in the violence at Rio, how he'd enjoyed grasping the red and gold band of the Archdiocese. How he'd enjoyed seeing the massacre of the infidels.

And then was his ascension to the thirteenth throne by preaching violence, an infidel life for a Catholic drop of blood. A thousand unworthy lives for a Catholic life lost.

And he remembered how he had arrived at Hellsing.

How he'd failed Christendom. How he'd failed Iscariot. How he'd failed hunamity. How he'd betrayed his God.

And little by little, he started breaking. Letting go.

Next day was barely different from Day Two. The single exception was the distinct lack of spit.

He simply had ignored her question, and fixed in her steely gaze.

After an hour of wordless staring, she had him taken away.

Progress?

For three days more, Maxwell's mouth remained stubbornly shut.

And in Day Seven, he spoke.

-What...makes you think...you're better than I am?

And Integra asked:

-Have you heard of Scheherezade, Christian?

Maxwell nodded. The legendary storyteller.

-Then do as she did. Tell me your story and that of your knights, I will counter with mine and that of my own.

All right. If anything, she was novel in her dealings.

And thus he spake, telling of he elder Maxwell and the first years in Sardinia, and how he'd never known love or happiness. Not until he'd discovered the joy of hate.

And Integra spake, telling of her father and his love, and how he'd died too a year early, of the lost delights of childhood and power struggles at twelve.

Thus Maxwell continued, telling of his joining of the seminary and Iscariot, learning of his former teacher and of the fight for leadership in Iscariot and how he'd won it with spilled blood.

Thus she went on, telling of the Council and the vampire, and of Uncle Richard and of warriors willing to die at her command and of the threats and of the attempts.

He carried on with his ascent to Iscariot Leader, of the pinnacle of his hatred, of the shades of the Midian War, of the two agencies, of the Archbishop naming and the Pope.

She proceeded with the artificial vampires, of the coming of the fledging, of Rip Van Winkle, of the airships, of Sir Shelby Penwood and of the Night of Blood.

And both remained silent. Maxwell had nothing to say.

Integra asked:

-Have I convinced thee, Enrico Maxwell?

-Not yet. My Knights demand their stories be told.

The following day, Maxwell told the story of Father Anderson and his shadowy past.

Integra countered with the story of the No-Life King, of his pact with the Dark, and of his sins and repentance.

The next day, Maxwell told the story of his right-hand man, Father Ronaldo, and his humble origins and the power his appearance belied.

Integra told him about Walter, of his career, of his sacrifices, and his services to Hellsing.

Maxwell persisted in his efforts, and spoke of his henchgirl, Yumie/Yumiko Takagi and her accidental splitting in a brutal accident, and the duality that now marked her life.

Integra told him the story of the Undying Queen, Seras Victoria, and the duality of a human soul and the power and life of a vampire.

In his final bid, Maxwell uttered the story of his final accomplice, Heinkel Wolfe. Of her abandonment and her recruitment to the Church, and how she'd progressed into a legendary agent.

Integra appeared to be silent.

Maxwell almost had the chance to smile.

Then, she rose. She walked over to her desk and removed a single dossier out of a pile next to her, not even looking at the name. She handed over the file to Maxwell, and said:

-Name?

Maxwell was dumbfounded. What was the woman's game?

-...What?

-The name on the dossier.

Maxwell scrambled to find it.

-Gareth Perkins.

Integra, moving away from Maxwell and the dossier, sat on a larger grandfather chair facing the roaring fireplace.

-Born in Dublin, of Sean and Martha Perkins. March 17th of 1967. List of attended schools: Dearborn School, Saint Margaret College, accepted into regular army at the age of twenty-four into the 32th Infantry Regiment. Transferred into Hellsing at the age of twenty-seven after act of extraordinary valor in Scotland against a malevolent entity that was never truly identified. Distinguished with awards to gallantry and valor in the battlefield twice. Elevated to the rank of Personal Bodyguard. One George Cross, considered for candidacy for the Victoria Cross, posthumously. Slain in Badrick by Iscariot Agent Father Alexander Anderson. Buried in Malahide Castle Cemetery. Personal commentary: distinguished no-nonsense attitude, works well under pressure, above-average sharpshooter skills. Little patience for others; recommended for solo work.

Maxwell let the file fall, as did his expression. Rapidly, he hurried to the desk and seized a random file.

-Harris Blake!

-Born in Sussex, of William and Deanna Blake. June 26th of 1970...

Maxwell let the Blake paperwork fly and grabbed another one.

-Stewart Masters!

-Born in Cardiff, of James and Felicity...

-Francis Leicester!

-Born in Chiswick, of Wallace and Danielle...

-Stop it! Stop it! You can't know all of this! Where is the transmitter? In your ear? Is it there?

-Maxwell! Stop it!

And Enrico Maxwell, former Archbishop and leader of the Vatican's infamous Section XIII, continued thrashing and flailing like a lunatic.

With a kick to the groin, Maxwell fell to the floor.

Despisingly, Integra asked:

-What, have you never seen somebody treat their employees as anything more than sacks of flesh?

And Enrico Maxwell, former Archbishop and leader of the Vatican's infamous Section XIII, entered a foetal position and cried.

-Every life is sacred, Maxwell. Rule Number One of this household. Remember it.

And from then on, the defeated Maxwell tried to scrounge enough memories to assign to a single Iscariot, Integra talked to him about her men, were they Hellsing soldiers, commanders or Wild Geese. And the dreams continued to flow, meshing seamlessly with the nightmares as well. Slowly, without him noticing, he lost the desire to outdo her. He started forgetting about Iscariot men, only keeping the memories of those who, in his mind, were called the Four. Anderson, Yumie, Heinkel and Ronaldo. And even them were oft compared to their Hellsing pairs.

He once tried to touch her, to hug her.

She had broken his arm and nearly thrown him out of a window.

Reprehending him later, she had simply said:

-No servant of mine is allowed to do that. My rule is harsh but fair. Equal to all. Favouring none.

Months passed. The Undying Imperial Family moved, with Hellsing's guidance, supervision and blessing, to a palace in Vienna, to be the start of their own endless worldtrotting journeys. The faithful servant, Walter, slowly left as well. He eventually asked for a leave of absence, asking for time to come to terms and understand his body and his abilities.

Integra was deeply envious of him, knowing he would live his dreams of following his friends in their journeys. She granted him permission.

And so, the two former rivals were left together.

Maxwell was soon drafted into departments he could understand and manage. Pawn in the Accountancy pavilions. Second assistant. Division Chief.

Later, a murder attempt was pulled on Integra.

Maxwell had shoved her out of the way, and taken the bullet himself.

When asked why, he had refused to answer but to Integra, and to her he had whispered when asked:

-It was my duty...my Master.

His reward had been promotion to Butler.

It took him quite a while to understand what it entailed. In reality, it meant little about cleaning silver or organizing maids. It was about her safety and her being. It meant being her eyes, ears, skin and fingers. It meant closeness, but a closeness that alienated. The boundary between Master and Servant had been marked.

And thus, Integra started acting upon that.

Intimacy with her employees was something she was not familiar with, and she carried the dominance role to her bedroom.

And of course, the relation was never mentioned outside of the fortress.

Their moments of love were scarce and far in-between. But during those brief sparks, Enrico Maxwell had never been so alive.

Together, they analysed comparative religion. Together, they discussed plans for the future of London. Together, they hunted and killed.

Maxwell would kneel before her and call her Master and she would grow to get used to it.

Once, he would snap her out of a noxious depression by slapping her. His cure worked, and his prize was a punch to the face.

And he complained, and Integra once again stated no servant of hers could touch her without her permission.

And the Master ordered and the Servant obeyed.

The day came when enemies and allies rejoined at the Battersea Power Station building, now Hellsing War Museum.

Long before, the armies had reached a truce. The dark corners of the world would return to the light with no fear. Those who had remained in the light and those who had forsaken it would again be bound by the same laws.

Integra Hellsing had died.

It seemed hard to believe the matriarch of an empire of her own would be killed by natural causes. She would have kicked and screamed if she had known she was fated to die like that.

Hellsings were supposed to die fighting after all, not sleeping in their beds.

A group of huddled figures stood near the open grave where Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing was to be deposited according to the rites of her religion.

Vampire King Vlad Dracula, Vampire Queen Seras Victoria, Vampire Prince Walter C. Dornez, Paladin Alexander Anderson, Paladin Yumie Takagi, and Paladin Heinkel Wolfe attended her funeral mass, along with the British Royal Family and most of the Vatican hierarchy.

And hidden in a corner, observing and following the rites of the Anglican Church, was Hellsing Retainer Enrico Maxwell.

-Maxwell.

-Vampire King. Your Majesty.

Alucard raised an eyebrow. In the man before him very little remained of the smarmy fool that had challenged him in the Imperial War Museum decades before.

-My former master left a will. Why did you not assist to the reading, as her retainer?

-Why should I, Your Majesty? I'm just...her servant. Her humble servant.

Alucard sensed no deception. Sadness, perhaps. But no lies, only a factual statement.

-You know the Vatican sentence to death was never commuted, do you?

-...yes. I presume my time is truly over, Your Majesty?

-Indeed, servant of my master.

-Thank you.

-...why?

-For calling me like that. It's the greatest praise I've ever deserved.

Alucard, from his pocket, took out a red silk cloth with golden embroidery-Maxwell's own Archbishop band.

Gently, he twisted it upon Maxwell's neck. In two seconds, it was all over.

And in the seldom times when someone walks down the aisle of the Hellsing War Museum and notices the ornate building, tucked in a corner, he or she might see the large flower bed and the angel statue, holding a huge book indicating it marks the place where Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, knight of England, rests for eternity.

Almost nobody, not even her few mourners, notices the smaller grave next to hers.

The bronze plaque reads:

"To the Unknown, Servant of Hellsing, Servant of God"