Hello there. No On Gunslingers and Monsters this week. See if this was worth it. Read and review.

Incidentally. A word of advice, for those I know are reading both this and On Gunslingers. You truly wanna find the Chekhov's Guns I hid leading up to Inferno? Most of them are to be found here, in Arcana. Don't expect any of ya to get 'em. But it's so nice when you try.

Own nothing.

VIIII - The Hermit (L'Hermite) - The Captain

The Hermit is the arcana of silence and absolute darkness. By proxy, it is the card of introspection and solitude, of experience and years upon one's Hermit walks with his cane and his lantern, illuminating the way to come. He is draped in a protective cape, so he's sealed away from the worries of the world. He carries no majesty, no power - and yet his infinite wisdom, deeper than the High Priestess' or the Hierophant's, is everything he needs. Part of the goal of the Hermit is to find the peace and redemption he seeks, so he can face the world and ultimately discard the alienating cape. He withdraws away from the world so he can search within himself the truths he seeks. But if withdrawn too long, the cape is no longer a shield but a prison, sealing the Hermit off from the world forever, thus forfeiting the promise of spiritual and physical growth.

He is the mysterious man waiting at the gate of the castle to hand the Fool the weapon needed to slay the dragon. As the last of the first cycle of the Major Arcana, the Hermit marks the final point before the Fool is shunted away by the power of the Wheel of Fortune into another adventure. His is the gift of perfect darkness, to dance between the barriers of alchemy, magic and science. While his passive nature normally is peaceful, he is, ultimately, a guardian of the gate, its destruction key to the integral closure of the circle so the Fool can truly move on to the next step. Hiding in the dark recesses of his mind, he must come out, not only to face the world, but to allow the light to shine upon him, and truly reach enlightenment.

The sea roars in the distance. The Doctor is busy with the old man.

I don't care. Right now, my duty lies with the Major. Below that duty, I wish I could care. He is one of my finest enemies, and I will be blessed to fight alongside him.

Many have believed that by virtue of my muteness I am insensible and bordering on mindless. That my only true calling lies in the way I fight.

Fools.

I am silent by choice and by choice only. I could scream and bawl if I chose to. But I haven't encountered a reason to do anything of the sort. Ever. I am the battalion's official chronicler and even the Major respects my prose, verbose and obscenely lost in his absolute passion for war as he is. But I am missing the point - while I channel the power of the wolf, I have seldom allowed myself to lose control and become the mindless berserker many of the true monsters of this unit have been transmuted into. In many ways, they are much more of a beast than I ever have become, even at my worst. I have never slain civilians and I shall never do so. I would say I have never hurt children, but that would be a blatant lie, as per my own definiton, every other fighter I encounter, with the exception of the Elder One, are but children to me. I have, indeed, fought against many gifted combatants of comparatively little age and I have triumphed by experience and power. The butler in particular comes to mind. I shall have to remember to present my respects to him.

The black sea of the shores of England greets me. It's been time. Gently, I caress the surface of the glass separating me from the cool London air, and start moving towards the launch platform. I don't need any sort of special abilities to know this has been all a suicide mission. I raise an eyebrow when I hear a small group creating castles in air, imagining this whole operation is anything but a massive feint to allow Schrodinger to execute the Major's gambit and eliminate the Elder One. Discussing who shall have dominion above which territories and how they shall govern the Earth.

I quietly snort. They hear nothing. Another of the blessings of this coat. With time, I've learnt to appreciate the small things in life, and this coat is truly a beautiful thing.

That doesn't make me hate it any less.

I remember exactly why the invasion was nearly derailed after the defeat of the Dandy Man. It was all about the existence of the fledging. We had reports about her even since the Valentine Brothers invasion of Hellsing, but it was the first open confrontation when she showed herself. The Major had been, shall we say, concerned, all of his plans would be for naught if any sample of the Elder One's power remained on this Earth, a clear bloodline that could be traced to him. But then he read about her. And he showed me her files and asked me my opinion. I merely highlighted several entries and left him alone to his own devices.

Right now, I am somewhat conflicted about this young one. I have the full belief she will not become a monster with the same ease the voivode did. But in the same vein, I worry what her potential can bring. She could easily outlive her master, as is the wont in vampires; therefore, her soul will be more vulnerable to the ravages of time and age. Her soul is human as much as her body is that of a vampire; she breathes and exists even now as a full bloodmonger, having truly discarded the remnants of her humanity (on a purely biological sense, of course; her soul would be a subject of a very interesting debate among one or two rabbis and priests I know of) after killing the Illusionist.

On the other hand, she is a recent convert, and I know that with the strength of her master behind her, she will triumph above the carnal desires of her current condition and sublime herself to truly become the Unliving Queen. As I have mentioned, her humanity still beats strong in her soul. And I wonder what path will she take in the wake of our defeat. And I pray for her, for the following years shall either temper her soul in hellfire or burn her to ashes.

She reminds me of somebody I used to know, a friend in fact. Those inclined to cynicism who were aware of our history together might label us "friends with privileges" to use a piece of slang I find utterly denigrating. On the other hand, I find it hard to blame them, as our relationship, both working and personal, was always one crisscrossed with events that poised us to question just how much we cared about each other. I did not actively pursue any form of relation beyond our nightly soirées and our joint work. I know that in time she desired a closeness I could never offer to her. And I since have regretted not making an effort to actively try to do so. Both have that fire raging in their hearts, the desire for love and - dare I say? - adventure. I long for her embrace, and again I find myself cursing this coat. It began as an attempt to cover myself in the Stalingrad steppes, and eventually became an excuse to avoid conversations I deemed awkward. In the end it was just a means for rationalizing my reluctance to speak at all. To me it might as well be a degrading piece of armor; it shields me, but in a sense it prevents me from approaching anybody with the closeness to form a true bond.

Passingly, I ask myself how the Major is taking all of this. Deep within me, I know he's enjoying himself beyond human expressions. Right now, he's truly embraced his post as the director of the orchestra that sings to the ruination of London. And he himself hums the music of devastation and death. Smiling with his smug knowledge every single one of his foes is dancing to his tune, metaphorically and quite almost literally. As I remind myself he is currently at the top of the zeppelin, dancing and drinking to the dearly departed sacrificed in the pursuit of the wonderful goal that will be ours, one way or another. Some part of me is repulsed by the lightness with which he discards human lives. Part of me merely repeats: "Befehl ist befehl" but in the end I suppose we have been damning ourselves the whole time. Not that the Major cares for as long as we succeed. Me, I'm still ambivalent about my own role.

Below, London burns. And I marvel at the sight and wonder how long has it been. I remember standing in the Tower of London, hidden in the embrasures of the darkest side, and watching the same spectacle. I saw London burn before. I witnessed the fire that cleansed this city out of the plague, I witnessed the rain of V2 missiles that nearly leveled Saint Margaret and Lambeth Palace. I walked in the remains of Saint Paul's Cathedral, just as I now witness the city ignite. And I marvel and wonder. I don't have the slightest doubt this city will be rebuilt and again the glory shall shine upon it. But equally, I know there is much more than meets the eye to it.

After all, this mission has an additional objective, known primarily to me. What will happen when the world government decides London is inhabitable or uninhabitable? One has to consider the consequences of every action, and I've always taken great pride in my ability to question apparently perfect plans. The ghouls alone will take months to be cleansed, and the true labors of rebuilding will take decades. Even if the city were to be flawlessly restored, there would be traces of the Battailon, and there would be war for that data.

Oh, yes. I have little faith in humanity, I admit. They have to place their hands in the fire to learn not to touch it. And warfare will be lessened when the inevitable war for the supremacy of vampire soliders ignites. Or rather, after the consequential devastation wrought to the major outposts of the so called civilized world. In the end, I believe, this is but pure speculation. Still, I know the future of war will be in vampires. One way or another, humanity will always crave the gifts of the undead without understanding the true price of their ambitions. If humanity survives that folly, then it shall be worthy of redemption; if not, they will deserve their eternal damnation.

Some might question what is my motivation, my stake, in all of the Major's schemes. I, having lived as long as I have, merely wish for peace. The incredulous voices might silence me with jeers and insults, but higher minds will realize I hope that our demonstration of power raises awareness of the frailty of human life. After all, just as a human needs to be reminded of the dangers of fire, so he needs to be reminded of the darkness within himself, the one he wished he could ignore but always is present in the back of his mind, driving him onwards the more traveled paths of avarice, fear and hate. That is my stake in this. To know that by vilifying us, we will usher in a better world. Cynical voices might point out to the "innocent" victims we will claim this night. To them I respond that is precisely the key to all of it. Without innocent blood being spilled, all of this would be nothing. And if they persist in decrying us as monsters, I point them to the "Christian" armies gunning down innocents. They have no reason to. And yet they do. They do so, for so it has been decreed by their leader.

Where is Christianity in those acts? What is the point?

I hear their gunfire, and briefly tell myself that the Maxwell swine will be sent lower in Hell than any of us. If only as a measure of comfort.

A scream snaps me out of my reverie. In my own session of self-questioning, I fear I have forgotten about him. I sigh and realize the Doctor cannot afford to give him the gentler treatment given the extreme time constraints. I lament bitterly he has given in, sacrificing his humanity. But at the same time, I know it is now a different mission he has given himself and that he's now utterly decided to drink the cup of sorrow to the last drop. I am confused in my judgment of him; he is not a true traitor, for he has served loyally to his house for decades, and his single sin is to believe in the need for an end for the vampire.

Which brings me to his master. I have never personally met the woman, but I have read the reports and I know about her personality and her determination. I have to admire such a spirit. Lesser souls would have withdrawn away from us after the events of the Valentine Brothers. Yet she keeps returning and destroying us no matter what the personal cost. Given her heritage, however, I am inclined to believe she has been too deeply ingrained with the notion it is unacceptable to accept defeat in any of its forms, and in the end the damage we will have succeeded in inflicting to that spirit might be too high for her to recover from. After all, not only have we destroyed her capital and soiled her name, but we will banish her most loyal confidant and kill her beloved butler. Not directly, but what the difference will be when we send him after the vampire?

I am still wondering if I will excuse myself at the chair of Saint Peter. Most likely not. I suppose that in my long years I have always been in a certain sense a beast in action if not in spirit. And only with the so-called "justification", if the Nuremberg defense is any indication, I have absolutely nothing on my side. I can wish I hadn't, but in the end I suppose that's the key difference between the Elder One and me. He requires orders to act; I use mine as a justification. In part, I suppose that can be some sort of self-loathing it adds upon my soul, to know he truly can be somewhat excused for his monstrous acts as a slave chained to the will of his master while I use my own orders to shield myself.

As I bask in the unlit corridors of the Deus Ex Machina, I find little solace in the usual loneliness I favor. Guilt, perhaps. I, too, have lived too long. And I wish the Rising Queen need not experience that sentiment. Ultimately, she is the only one in this convoluted mess who carries my sympathies; after all, what is she, but a normal human who has been swept away by the winds of war now ravaging her country and killing her compatriots? She has the strength to move on, but the loss of her master, and very possibly that of her master's master will weigh heavily upon her. I truly hope and pray she can make her way across the emotional minefield that is to come. She doesn't realize how thin is the ice she will tread upon, nor does she have any idea of how important she will be.

I am tired. And the sounds of the sea still ring in my ears. As do the blasts and the grating noise of the Deus Ex Machina's immense steel frame dragged by sheer inertia across Lambeth.

I decide that after the butler is killed, I might as well entertain myself and find something useful to do.

And I briefly curse myself. Of course. So blind. Blinded for years with my stupidity and reluctance. The realization comes as a hammer.

Wishing. Doing absolutely nothing to actively change the reality surrounding me, spreading nothing but empty promises of a better tomorrow.

I am a fool. Hiding in the darkness of the cave and staring at the drama of the dancing lights. Never even moving. And I tell myself there is time to make amends. Right now, I hear them. I hear their boots marching across the hallways of the zeppelin. And the ghost of temptation of simply letting them kill me is there. And I say this - there is a moment in every human's life when he is forced to decide what is he willing to gamble, what is he willing to erase and what is he willing to heal. Which scars will he heal. And this is my moment. I walk and embrace my destiny not as Hans Gunsche, First Class Lieutenant of the Letzte Bataillon, but as Hans Gunsche, the man I rejected centuries ago.

They are alone in the hallway. I point the Master towards the Major's chambers; ultimately, she has nothing to do with the business now I have to attend to. The fledging understands I desire honorable combat with her, and she acquiesces silently. And the fight commences. For a moment, I am astonished at the speed she puts in her attacks, and the rather conventional fighting stance she enters. Then I remind myself - she is human, she desires to end the fight posthaste to return to where she is needed. She is not like her master, insane with bloodlust and desire. She shall not allow herself to be blasted to blood simply to show off. She charges in fury and allows her passion to truly tug at the strings of her heart as she and I clash. I smile under the coat and bless her soul. After all, she is the first one to push my limits in so long. One has to appreciate the simplicity of her mind, even as I shift into mist and drop the blasted thing upon her.

It is done. I have left that coat. In my mind's eye, the journey has started. I fire at her. She evades what shots she can, and takes the pain without fake, lousy stoicism.

It all makes me wish I could follow her example. And for the first time in years, I don't need to wish anymore. I charge with the power of the wolf, combining the mist state with the full wolfen shape and my complete fury, love and horror. I allow myself to become like her in that single, blessed moment.

We fall to the room below as my assault becomes too much for the conventional steel to handle. And just as I prepare to deliver a coup de grace, she impales me with a black sword she conjures from that arm of hers. And in my mind, I find myself laughing raucously.

And I wonder whether this is the same as her Master feels.

This is a fight to the death. We both know that and I revel in that hope.

For this is the true path to the Glory. If I leave my bloody carcass in here...

If I burn her in this treasury of the dead...

If we both die in this tomb...

I live with the knowledge I truly awoke for a brief moment. And I will my soul to her.

When she keeps attacking, I know she will win. I know she has no apparent means of killing me. And still I know I shall lose. I can almost feel the blue flames licking at my body, and I march into my destiny with the will of a man. Not a monster. A man.

And I laugh when the deathblow comes, and I smile as my soul enters her. Laugh, even.

She shall never know herself without strength. We, her guardians, the Mercenary, the Soldiers, the Swordswoman, the Illusionist... will not allow that. None of us.

After all, it is our duty.

And we will carry our duties to the grave.