Hellsing—The Dead Sleep

Disclaimer—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick.

Rating—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence.

Chapter Title—Lazarus

Synopsis—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own.

Author's Notes—I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced and The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely, I think. As you find out there is a perfect reason why this chapter is named Lazarus, I am sure you can imagine. If not, don't worry it will be more obvious.

Ta,

Immortalis

OOO

Lazarus

OOO

Anderson asked meekly, "Did she suffer?"

"There would have been pain, and then," he paused and finished truthfully, "it would have been like falling into deep sleep. And no pain."

"Not in hell," mused Maxwell.

No. Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing was not in hell—as Hell was now Britannia. No, again she had escaped that punishment.

To himself, Dr. Trevalin mused that if Pandora's box had been opened than all was not yet lost. Then again, hope remained.

HOPE…

Blissful and cruel hope…

"There," Dr. Trevalin said replacing the white sheet over the corpse of Sir Integra, and out of sight and maybe, out of mind. "I hope your curiosity has been satisfied—no matter how perverted, Maxwell."

"Fully," the Archbishop beamed.

"Thrilled for you," he replied with his tone dripping with sarcasm.

It felt as though he was finally signing her death-sentence as gave a push, moving the body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing, the last Daughter of Abraham into the dark depths of the A-7 slot. Again, the prospect of hope returned to his thoughts. HOPE. There would always be hope in the dark abyss and some would argue, even in Hell since the damned look upwards, and towards the Heaven denied them. It is there, just out of reach. Same for the dead, life has passed and it is there, beyond the line—the point of no return. Perhaps the same thing could be said for the corpse of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing, as even in death her glassy eyes glazed up at the metal roof of her A-7 slot, her own personal steel coffin—appropriate for the Maiden of Steel, who now laid cold and still as the metal she represented.

But a hand lashed out, relatively quick for a sick wounded man as Enrico Maxwell stopped his efforts. "Not yet, Doctor."

Dr. Trevalin narrowed his eyes. "Shall we leave the dead to rest in peace? Let her sleep—or what other preventions have you in mind, Archiepiscopus!"

"You flatter me—but I assure you that I have no such intentions," he promised with the slightest inclination of his head and his hand over his dark, unfeeling and recently hardened heart. "However…" he added slyly, "I do need physical evidence for such a claim as the demise of the Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing." And his hand reached, wrapping his long fingers around the handle of a scalpel.

"Maxwell!" Watching this Dr. Trevalin gave out a cry of protest and lunged forward, but a Judas-Priest slid between him and the Archbishop, gun posed if he would intervene. "Don't you touch her!"

"Calm yourself, dear Doctor. What I require is rather trivial, but necessary." Maxwell reached down with gentle lovingly care, plucked a single blond strand from her head and with the flick of wrist severed the lock from its owner. "There. We are done here, Dr. Trevalin."

There was something menacing in his tone that froze Dr. Trevalin and he laughed out a shaken sign. "I am a dead man, aren't I Archbishop?"

"Too correct."

As he guessed, they were going to kill him and the thought become more evident as Maxwell reached into his robes again and pulled out a .35 Desert Eagle, handing with a gloating smile to a Judas-Priest beside him. It was so ironic that here in the morgue, not ten minutes ago he had been pondering about death and here, not long he would be experiencing it firsthand. Would he see Death as the Grim Reaper come to collect me before the moment of his demise? For the moment, it seemed not. But honestly, would it be that bad? Would he even feel the bullet slammed through his temporal bone and slice through his brain as easily as his scalpel sliced through cadavers? Above all, would there be pain? He realized how all these questions were so trivial, because soon they would be answered to their fullest extent.

Before his death there was one last thing to do. Dr. Trevalin said quickly, "I do have a last request."

Blinking Maxwell inquired, "Really, and whatever might that possibly be, Dr. Trevalin?"

Pointing a finger to slot A-7 he said as if the request was simple and obvious, "Latch the door."

"Seeing how you were not only her personal physician but her friend, it is appropriate. Request granted."

"Thank you," he said with true modesty.

Dr. Trevlain took five whole steps—no doubt his last few and with a shaking hand grabbed the latch and closed it with a definite and loud snap. Forehead against the cool metal he whispered while at the while his other hand dropped and touched yet another knob, which was actually the one of his intent. "Forgive me, Sir Integra. I hope to see you on the other side." He thought to himself, but not too soon.

Nuzzle at his temple Dr. Trevalin smiled, but unlike other smiles it was an expression of triumph as he watched with the last minute of his life—watched as the knob, which controlled the temperature to slot A-7, which unknown to Iscariot was beginning to raise degree by degree.

"Checkmate'" he said with his last breath.

OOO

TBC

OOO

How sad, I really didn't want to kill Dr. Trevalin but it was evitable. What a shame. It is so funny that Dr. Trevlain only showed up in one episode on Hellsing Amine—Master of Monster, and yet he is in a lot of fanficitons. Sorry, but I had no choice. Next chapter—Purgatory.

Be back soon.

Immortalis