Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Hellsing! It's all Kouta Hirano!
Chapter 13 – The Poised
"I will say a few things on this. State weddings are a hard thing to keep under wraps," Seras grouched as a slew of seamstresses and de mode designers swamped her in yards of chiffon, lace, and satin.
"I just flash the paparazzi my fangs and they skitter off. It'll all die down once you're married off and the royalty clears out for their own countries."
"Knock on wood," Seras said, tapping a nail to the mirror's frame. She was poised on a roundel of an upholstered stool, standing stock still for the women around her as they fitted, pinned, clipped, and cinched her within an inch of her un-life.
Noor made a noise of surprise from somewhere below her knees.
"Hmm?" Seras turned her head carefully down, mindful of all the pins sticking into her in the most unlikely of places. Sudden movement might cause an uncomfortable pinch – but the danger was in bleeding all over the impossibly delicate fabric.
"The cut of this is what the noble ladies of Wallachia wore in court around his time, silly goose. Where'd you get such a concept from?" Noor fiddled with the pleats of the skirt, patiently threading the needle through the fine material as a seamstress behind her lost her little mind.
Seras shot the girl a look, quieting down the situation. Noor apparently was a good hand at it – and much faster than a normal human with their slow, clumsy movements. She had a neatly done row of stitches within a few seconds.
"I haven't the faintest – what does it matter? It's a fresh look."
Noor raised an eyebrow, but didn't pursue the question further. She'd be leaving Bucharest in a few hours to mind the kids on the coast – they wouldn't be coming up for the wedding. Too much of a security concern to risk it. But Noor and Gavrail would be in attendance.
"Any idea when this will be over?" she asked a woman sewing up another row of stitches.
The one woman brave enough to head up the operation looked up from her work, staring crossly at the soon-to-be monarch with a mouthful of pins cinched between her lips. It was enough to send Seras into a round of good natured chuckles.
"Doamna, stop it. You look like a cross porcupine," she managed to edge in-between her laughter. The woman snorted, quite fed up with the antics of the two vampires. Seras quieted down, and all went back to their work. Little time was left before the wedding – only a week and a few odd days.
They had finished up the tour with little incident. Alucard had behaved, but on the stipulation that they speak later on the subject of the Lazarus cells after the wedding. She had conceded, seeing little of her bridegroom save for when they both lay down to sleep.
A gown was being made for her – rather, made with last minute touches. Soon it would be gathered in swathes of powdered linen and packed away in a chest until the morning of the wedding.
True to form, as she was one to never shy away from the truth of the matter, Seras had decided on a rather unorthodox design for her wedding frock. Surmounting even the wedding gown proper was a surcoat that she would simply shrug into. It would hang unbelted from her shoulders and fall to the ground, split grandly in the front to reveal the bodice and skirts of the slim gown beneath but trailing behind her in a queenly stretch of ivory that fairly blanketed the area in white.
It was satin with a web work of lace appliqué covering every blessed inch of it.
She had decided on modesty. The high neck of the under gown choked her throat, but Noor and the others had crooned and petted over the fabric, lauding the look on her small frame. Seras had caved.
The fabric of the under gown was cinched at her waist with a girdle of wiry platinum and seed pearls, the train billowing out in a carefully measured fall of satin from the small of her back to drag a mere three feet behind her – Seras last marked the surcoat's train at least seven feet in length when she donned it over the gown. The sleeves of the under gown were fitted tight to her slim arms up until her wrists, and then flared out over her hands in a froth of satin.
Shoes were already on hand, but modified a bit to fit her dainty size. They were low to the ground – only a mere inch of a heel. Seras wasn't going to push her luck this day with such a huge amount of fabric to move on her own steam. High heels might hamper her cautious grip on balance. She'd die before she fell flat on her face on international television.
The fabric was glossy – done in the same lace appliqué as the gown. It covered the toes and the front of her foot, but left her heel bare of any support. She walked more on her toes than anything else in an effort to keep the slick material from falling right off mid-step.
She did sigh over the pointed, vampy tips of her little shoes that peeked out from beneath the weighted hem of her gown. No one would get a proper look at them unless she lifted up the skirts a good few inches.
Seras squelched another rising surge of wedding day sighs. A proper person in her circumstances wouldn't be getting the jitters over a ceremony. She was almost sixty years overdue.
Very much like a human, she tilted her head back, firmly addressing her mind to think happy thoughts and stop the silly business of tying a knot in her throat as the emotions boiled to the surface.
Bloody tears would damn the fabric of her gown, and she wasn't going to risk the wrath of the human seamstress by committing that infraction. This was a moderately satisfying end to an otherwise unsatisfying situation. Albeit a farce – she was still wedding the man she had literally died over.
The ladies fluttered around – a courier had fetched back the order from England they had called in to a lucrative jeweler. Noor glided in after a moment of absence in the front rooms of the appartments, fitting the fillet of platinum and diamonds over her head. It sat high on her brow like a tiny circlet of stars, and for a moment Seras took a private second to admire the woman staring at her in the mirror. Then she clamped down on her powers, banishing her appearance from the tall looking glass. It spooked the seamstresses, but they got a hold of themselves rather quickly once Seras reached for the veil suspended on the mannequin.
It took at least four women to properly set it to rights. It was done in the old style – down to her waist in a fall of carefully woven, minute patterns in the gauzy lace. So fine was the fabric that you could just barely make it out as a slim mist draped over her body; the thought of a burial shroud crept up unbidden on Seras.
But what burial shroud was ever so handsome? She fixed her eyes on tiny edelweiss blooms done in the needlework of the lace, then on the fat petals of a peony frozen in the fabric in minute detail. Dog Roses dotted the lace in tiny slips. Overall, the veil was an astounding work of art few would appreciate – a veritable representation of the language of flowers.*
It all was such a grand piece of work. And yet, she saw Integra's face every time she looked into the mirror.
Countess, said Vlad the Impaler to the lady knight that day in the bloodied ruins of London over half a century ago.
If Integra had been the Countess to his Count, the bride to his Dracula, the master to his servant...
What did that leave her with?
"Damn," she cursed, toeing on her shoe after another failed attempt down the aisle. The rehearsal wouldn't be for another week, but she kept coming to the Patriarchal Cathedral in the wee hours of the night for a bit of practice. She couldn't shake off Alucard tonight, though. He was sitting like a self-confirmed king at the end of the aisle in the seat where the Patriarch of Romania usually rested during ceremonies. He stood, swirling into a mote of shadow before reappearing right in front of her nose.
She breathed him in for a moment – cloves? It didn't matter. He smelled like sin and spiced sex no matter the hour.
His white shirt was buttoned down at the throat for once. She caught sight of his jacket slung across the high-backed throne at the side of the altar.
"Here," Alucard snapped, taking up her hands in his own before tugging her down the run of red, officious carpet. She breathed easier. One foot in front of the other, trailing behind the toes of his boots as he advanced backwards. They made good progress, Seras picking up a bit of a tune to hum as they marched down the rows of pews. The decorations were being kept to a dull minimum – but every banner, coat of arms, and marker in the old church had already been repainted, restored, and washed into a blare of brilliant color.
The inner sanctum of the cathedral itself was showy even during normal services. Chains of ornate gold suspended vast chandeliers hung throughout the confined space, dangling burners that usually belched incense during the prayers oddly still. Only a few candles burned at the altar, catching the filigree of gold that seemed to gild every available surface.
Low heels sunk into the carpet, finally ending up on the golden aquila woven into the center rug of the room. In its claws it held the mace and sword of the nation, his beak cracked open in a fierce cry.
"So the Patriarch decided that he would officiate?" Seras asked cautiously, focusing more on keeping her footing in the damnable carpet.
"In the interest of keeping our souls from being consigned to hell for all eternity – he is an amusing human," Alucard quipped, keeping a bare hand on her waist in a guiding manner as they waltzed down through the dark cathedral. The heat of the simple touch burned through to her skin.
"There," Alucard said, quite self-satisfied in tone to be specific. Seras wrenched her eyes from the tips of her shoes and met the burning gaze of the man who would be her lawfully wedded husband within a week or so.
"Thought it was horribly bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" Seras joked nervously after a minute of intense staring on both their parts.
"I'm starting to grow tired the word – you'll be a bride for only a short span of time, draga. Then you will be queen in your own right – a lady. My wife."
She felt the possessive heat of his eyes penetrating the skin of her neck as she turned from him to walk back down the aisle for another try, and she dared herself to not look back and meet that gaze. Her heart couldn't manage it.
Translations for Romanian Phrases:
Doamna – title for married Romanian women
Draga – dear
[*] All of the flowers mentioned here are the national flowers of Romania – I'll freely admit that the Kate Middleton dress inspired a lot of what I'm describing here. Especially the ingenuity the designers wove into the dress concerning the language of flowers. Although, Seras does have a completely different set of flora than the rose of England, thistle of Scotland, shamrock of Ireland, and daffodil of Wales that our Duchess of Cambridge was sporting on her frock.
Romanian Peony – symbolic of shy beauty and happy marriages. It was believed to ward off madness in the Middle Ages. Named after the Greek god of healing, it was considered unlucky to uproot in any fashion.
Edelweiss – symbolic of daring courage and noble purity. A flower mostly found in the Alpine regions, it is used today as a symbol in many of the Romanian military branches.
Dog Rose – the national flower of Romania, symbolic of pleasure and pain in equal measure.
So what we get with the language of these Romanian blooms is this:
A happy marriage of a shy beauty, daring in courage yet pure – but subject to both pleasure and pain.
Not so far off the mark, you pesky flowers! Foreshadowing the daylights out of my little tale. As always, read and review, dear ones. And much thanks to the reviewers to date!