I forgot last time. I don't own Hellsing. I just bought the manga. (Sad face…) But I do own Fulton. I'd be happy to lend him out sometime ^^
Authors Note: (whilst blushing furiously from behind her scarf)
I'm so glad that many people favorite-d and reviewed this! I was having a rough day at work, when I got onto my email and saw so many lovely reviews! (It made my day SO much better. Even customer complaints couldn't bring me down.) In other words, I'm very grateful to everyone who even read the first chapter, and I promise to try my hardest to continue to meet your expectations! Also, some of you already guessed that I'm keeping with the theme of birds. Even Fulton means "Bird catcher's settlement" in Old English. I thought that'd be a good name for the heir to the family that "caught" the Bird of Hermes. (And by god, if someone can name a girl Integra, they'd probably name a boy Fulton. Weird family.)
Fulton woke, disoriented, to the soft sounds of singing. He turned onto his side and relished in the slightly cool feeling of a hand running through his hair. The song was unfamiliar, but it was apparently some sort of lullaby. He winced slightly as the voice hit a high note that was quite off-key.
Little brother, dear
Little brother, dear
The night is very near.
He smiled and curled closer to the cool hand, basking in the soft petting like a kitten. Mother. He relaxed further and allowed all his stress to float away. The horrors of the past day flew far from his mind as he allowed his mother to-wait. He stiffened as the memory of the funeral, the chase, and Melville came flooding back into him. As his senses began to return, the thick smell of rust combined with an odor of sweat and something musty created a rancid perfume that made him gag. He pushed away the hand, trying to get away from the offending smell. As a result, he fell off of something and into a pile of sticky mess.
Fulton finally opened his eyes, only to see the empty stare of what was once his turncoat of a cousin. The sticky mess was really a neat, orderly pile of intestines and leftover skin. Blood coated the floor and walls, with marks running clean through, as though someone had went over and…licked it. Shocked and confused, Fulton felt his mind begin to shut down against the grotesque scene. He felt himself shaking and closed his eyes, willing his mind to calm down and think things through rationally; a trick his father had taught him when the boy genius' mind ran too fast and became overwhelmed. He took three deep breaths, and opened his eyes, straightening up with whatever dignity he had left. He glanced at the shadow on the wall and ran.
He didn't even think about why he was running, only that there was a monster behind him in that dark, damp attic and he wasn't going to be saved only to become a meal. He didn't stop to second guess himself, only slowing down to lock the attic door back before jumping over books to reach the splintered door. He looked down into his bloodstained hands, stopping in surprise to stare at his right hand. Amazingly, he was still holding the torn page with the inscription. Salvation, hah! Fat lot of good salvation did me right now! That thing is after me! He opened his hand and let the torn fragment drift to the floor. Hearing footsteps on the attic stairs, he stopped hesitating and began to tear frantically at the remains of the door, finally getting it open enough to slip through. He ran haphazardly through the halls until he reached his father's office.
He hid under the desk, sandwiched between the chair and the backboard, and tried to even his breathing. He finally was able to sit quietly, and listen for any signs of that monster coming for him. He absentmindedly ran his hand through his hair, thinking about the way he awoke. The monster had to have had him sitting in its lap, stroking it. It was comforting, motherly. And it was singing. But why? I was vulnerable and unconscious. Why didn't it just eat me and be done with it? Maybe it was full. Maybe it was going to save me for a midnight snack. Maybe-
"Maybe blood tastes better when it's full of adrenaline?"
Fulton shrieked and shot up, banging his head on the desk. He moaned and clutched his head in his hands, freezing when two strong arms reached under the desk and pulled him up, while a shadow moved the chair aside. He closed his eyes, and felt himself being put into the chair. He opened them and refused to look ahead. He looked at his lap instead, noting absentmindedly how small he looked in his father's chair.
Eyes were boring into him from all angles. He couldn't help but shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny. He finally glanced up to see the monster. It hadn't changed; it was still in the form of a young lady. The lady cocked her head and raised an eyebrow.
"Of course I'm in the form of a young lady. I am one, Sir," she said evenly.
Fulton jumped slightly. It couldn't… could it?
"C-can you… read my thoughts?" he questioned hesitantly.
"Of course I can. You are my new commander," she stated as if he had asked her about the weather. The boy frowned, pulled his glasses off, and cleaned the drops of dried gore off the lenses. He placed them back on the end of his nose before crossing his legs.
"I've come to the conclusion: I'm mad as a hatter."
A loud screech of laughter came from this statement, and he found himself blushing as the lady doubled over, holding her stomach. He waited until the stream turned into a steady hiccupping of giggles and snorts before speaking again.
"I don't see what's funny."
"You're funny, Sir. You think that you're mad," she blurted out between giggles.
"I am not! I'm really mad! I killed Melville and couldn't handle it, so I created you!" he declared, slightly hurt that his own imagination was laughing at him. The lady straightened up and glared at him.
"No, I killed that boy. Your blood was enough to wake me. One drop of virgin blood; that's all I needed," she purred as her eyes glinted red. Fulton cowered in his seat, still wary of the young woman. He frowned and tried to fit the pieces together in his mind. I'm a genius, but even this puzzle seems too impossible. I suppose I'm thinking far too laterally to be considered mad, but… I saw-I don't even want to think about what it was I saw! W-who is this woman? What is she?
"I am Seras Victoria, and I am a Draculina." She straightened up proudly, practically boasting. Fulton snorted.
"I'm sorry, but-a Draculina? You mean, like Dracula? All Transylvanian and stuff? Oh, boy!" he crowed. That's just too silly! I must be dreaming! I mean, what's a Dracu-lina? Just... just….he found himself doubled over this time, before arching his back as waves of sudden mirth flooded his senses.
"Let me get the garlic for this one! I mean… I mean… Someone call the butcher; I'm gonna need a big stake! I think that I-"he gasped as he doubled over, this time from the pain. His head felt like it was going to bust into pieces, like someone had clamped their hand over his brain and was slowly pressing. Through the torrential agony, he heard a voice echoing loudly through his head: This is no laughing matter, boy. Besides, straighten up and quiet that racket. You're a true English gent, are you not? The voice went on mockingly, thrust into every corner of his mind.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he whimpered as he rocked in his seat, trying to ease his suffering. As quickly as it had come, the pain stopped, leaving Fulton with a wave of relief. The pain eased down to an echo, and the voice came again from outside his mind.
"Apology accepted, Sir. I trust we won't have to repeat this lesson again. I do hate it when I have to make children suffer."
He nodded, unable to speak. He sat in silence for a moment, before the voice beckoned again.
"Sir, I've been in that coffin going on a hundred years now. I really would like a hot bath. It's late; I trust that you'll find your own bed?"
He curled into a tighter ball, unresponsive. He heard her sigh, then something swept through his mind unbidden and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
So that's that! Seras is kinda mean now. But then again, something major has happened since the days of Integra Hellsing; what in the world could have turned her so… unstable? Hmm… well, next time: We'll help Fulton find out what it really means to be a son of Hellsing. Until then!