Hellsing is owned by others.
The stately Integra Hellsing claps her hands to her cheeks and lets out a small wail. She is shrinks into the noise, microscopic and uncertain; a little girl lost in the dark dungeon, evil nipping at her heels. She touches her hair, her face, arms, legs, until she hunches in a ball; hands hug her body, eyes wide in shock. Trembling in the mess of her bed, she permits this lapse until she remembers who she is. Fuck. Eyes closed, inhaling deeply, she expands back into her body with the breath. She feels for a cigar on the nightstand.
Her own tremoring hands try to thwart lighting the expensive cigar. The lighter's flame wavers in the air, homeless. On contact she gulps deeply. She remains hunched over the edge of her bed, one hand supporting her body through her forehead, the other flying to her lips, housing her security. The cigars smell like her father.
It's been years since his death. Their last conversation took place when he was dying. She moves from her bunk. Shuffling to the French doors, to the balcony, she faces the starlit sky, a serene blanket over her estate. What would he say about tonight? Would he tell her to face the monsters in the dark? The monster in her dark? She wants to ask, why him? Was he really a gift, a dying father's last sentiment, reaching from beyond the grave to help his only child?
No. She exhales, a tear streams down her face. What to call it? Frightened, alone, a murderous uncle bent on killing a child. Did Arthur Hellsing plan for it? Was it merely luck she found him? He who would serve her faithfully, maddeningly.
A star bursts across the sky in a blindingly white flash, burning out as quickly as it came.
"A curse..." the words trail off her lips. The spirit of her cigar extinguished.