Taking off his glasses, Anderson leaned forward, pinching his nose. How could they have been so stupid? All these centuries of fighting vampires, and no one but him had noticed anything, learned anything, about them other than how to fight them?
Integra was a bitch, he had no problems with that and her cold, clinical journals showed clearly that this, at least, was correct information. Her father had been a drunken womanizer...and that showed in his journal and a few pages that were not the writing and words of a sober man. But Alucard? Seras?
He'd arrived at the church, slept, then spent the entire previous day reading the volumes. Each day filled a page or more, some days filled multiple pages. Each journal held at most a year of information. A few stops for meals, and he'd used the light from the church's candles to read past dark. He'd read well into the night, woken to eat cold beans from the can, and gone back to reading. The afternoon sun shone through the remains of the beautiful color glass that had once graced the nave of the church, bringing a warm glow to the faded brown leather of the last journal.
That journal, and the penultimate one? They contained many entries about Seras, from the night Alucard had brought her home until only a few weeks before the War of London. Seras, who was not the ravenous, seductive, murdering beast hiding behind a human face he'd believed her to be...but a person who'd refused to eat for so long, was shy and uncertain around the troops, and had a very difficult time just murdering a blood bag! She'd been a cop, on the force as the greenest rookie, a good and upstanding person until she'd been caught by a Freak. And now...she was a good and upstanding...vampire? That face wasn't a well-crafted facade to lure men to their death; Integra fully believed that she was exactly what she seemed. Deeply brave and self-sacrificing, sweet, with a bouncy personality when not working. Persistent when faced with a challenge, steady and reliable when circumstances required that. He'd have said that Integra had been fooled by the conniving vampires, but while a bitch she was not a stupid bitch and as untrusting and skeptical as anyone he'd ever encountered.
Alucard? He was...devoted? to Integra. It didn't seem to be love, but an intense loyalty and concern for her. Every bit the bloodthirsty and evil creature he'd thought the monster to be...when on a mission. And only then. At home, she casually mentioned Alucard wandering through her office, or finding him lounging on the lawn as a wolf. He wasn't restrained, constrained by her, not caged or chained in the slightest. The journals weren't clear on how she controlled him and that information was likely found in the untidy Dutch scrawl of his...father. All he found was punishments such as making him stay (make? How?) in his room for a night when his remarks bit too deep or he was careless on a hunt. Those were rare...and what sort of vampire would consider being barred in his room and away from the household a punishment? No books, and the creature would be bored, but...there were no whippings. No controlling through threats and injuries with Holy items.
He'd grinned when he'd read about her shooting the bastard, but she'd considered it of no more import than a smack on the hand. Considering how the bastard had shrugged off his bayonets, this was too believable.
The journals had all been created with the intention of helping future generations of Hellsing work successfully with Alucard. He'd found a variety of notes scattered through the pages, clearly meant for future readers. Arthur's first few years with Alucard had focused on how the beast followed his commands and the directions he'd given it. He'd wanted to learn all he could to make Hellsing more effective, and demanded explanations from Alucard for what he did on the hunts and why the other vampires reacted as they had, and those notes were enlightening to read. One page expressed shock at the intelligence of the beast and how articulate it was; Arthur had been used to short, terse, minimal reports as the only real interaction, and had uncovered a much more brilliant mind than he'd expected. He'd begun to use Alucard as a tutor in tactics and in understanding the monsters of the English countryside.
And then discovered that the vampire...enjoyed music? One journal entry covered the event. He'd heard the muffled sound of a phonograph very late at night, closer to morning, on and off for many years, playing a range of the classical records. No modern rock, no singers, just instrumentals. He'd assumed it was Walter or a member of the estate staff up late and unable to sleep, using the music to soothe themselves until they could. Unable to sleep himself one night, with a storm outside rumbling and battering at the windows, he'd gone for a walk through the house and found the phonograph, and Alucard listening to it. Arthur admitted his first reaction was anger, that the vampire would be using the antique machine and records with the intention of maliciously damaging them.
He had, thankfully, refrained from saying anything for a few moments, anger building until he saw the vampire carefully remove and sleeve the record, and replace it with a new disk, then settle back into the chair. Arthur had been as shocked as Anderson had been when finding Alucard at the easel. Pages were devoted to the very long session he'd had with the vampire, digging for information from the reluctant and recalcitrant beast. The beast that played the piano, teaching himself slowly over the years and reaching an impressive level of mastery. The beast that played chess, tutored him in chess as well as tactics, enjoyed fine wines, appreciated wandering through the heavily scented bloom-filled gardens at night, was an insatiable reader with a wide-ranging variety of texts...and was an artist.
Reserved, very reserved. Arthur knew what Alucard did, but not what the vampire liked. Alucard played the piano, but played all the sheet music with no apparent favorites. Each record of instrumental music was played, in order, none repeated. He'd requested, and received, books on painting and drawing techniques, ones filled with images of artist's work, but hid his paintings away, absolutely refusing to allow anyone to see them.
Arthur had thought the beast destroyed all of them afterwards, or painted over them, but during the time when Alucard was put away in the basement, a journal entry showed other. Arthur had some remodeling done, and found a half-dozen undestroyed paintings carefully concealed in a wall. Most were of his father in various poses and styles, one showed a very recognizable young Arthur, the last was of a young woman on a fine horse that may have been the Queen herself. He'd never mentioned them to the vampire, and had them placed in wooden boxes for safekeeping...and placed back in the same wall when the wiring was done and the new plaster was being placed.
Arthur had just written this off as a vampiric trait, but Integra had decided that Alucard was simply a very private person. Person, not beast. Person. She'd understood how Arthur's prying had upset Alucard and made it very, very clear that any future masters should not push on this unless they wanted a withdrawn and suspicious vampire. Abraham? His father...well, he couldn't access the man's journals. They weren't Greek, Latin, Italian, or English and may as well have been hieroglyphics. Judging from how Arthur's journals started and his initial view of the vampire, Abraham had been unaware or uncaring of the vampire's complexity. Most likely unaware, or he'd have passed the knowledge on to Arthur. Arthur's journals for the first few years had very little reference to any sort of a personality for the vampire and had referred to Alucard as "it" as often as "he", along with musings on how to destroy it when it was no longer useful.
Later, childless, falling ill, and with Walter to assist, he'd locked up Alucard, not wanting to leave the monster loose if there was no Hellsing to control him but unwilling to destroy such a tremendous asset. He'd recovered, but with Walter so effective there'd been no need to wake the vampire. He'd focused instead on establishing Hellsing as a major hidden powerhouse in England, an integral part of the Round Table (that EXISTED?) instead of merely attached to it. Then married, had a child, lost his wife, and seen his own health decaying rapidly with cancer, and his child far too young to take control of the vampire. He'd left Alucard locked away to decay, and the final journals were filled with the guilt he felt for doing so when the vampire really hadn't done anything wrong besides being too powerful to risk being free.
He'd never known how Integra came to master the beast, he'd only known that Hellsing was showing their trump card again after decades of absence. Reading the dryly factual account written in the rounded writing of a girl left him stunned. And Alucard had easily submitted to her, obeying quickly and without any problems once he'd verified that she was a Hellsing and intended to control him. And then ate her uncle. Who was...his youngest brother? He was related to a family with a history of homicidal violence...but reading all these journals?
He thought he'd have rather liked Arthur, and Integra too. She may be a cold bitch and he may have been a drunken wastrel, but there was far more to them than merely that...just like Alucard.
The sun had moved lower as he thought about what he'd learned. He, for the first time ever, and in a way he'd never have believed two days ago...he was more interested in talking to the vampire than in fighting him. But he'd developed quite the unfriendly relationship with the monster, and he doubted the opposite was true.
However...
There were quite a few stores in London that were half-destroyed, their belongings exposed to the weather and elements. Perhaps he could bring the monster a bribe and an apology? (Anderson winced inside, remembering how he'd comandeered a room and destroyed the house...he'd be very lucky if Alucard would refrain from killing him.). Some old books, perhaps? He'd rather have them safe in a house with a vampire than just rotting away, it was a waste of a valuable and irreplaceable resource otherwise. Not far from St. James Park he remembered an area that may just have what he wanted.
He'd need to hurry to get them before the vampire woke and possibly left for the night.
An antique store, the back half a pile of rubble, had a shelf of books still sheltered in the remaining part. With a smirk, he picked up the complete anthology of Edgar Allan Poe. Leatherbound, the outside of the pages gold trimmed, the pages themselves in excellent condition. A lucky find; another one discussed WWI General Pershing. Pershing. Bloody, willing to spend his men's lives, a very strong and ruthless leader, with tactics that were effective despite their cost. Alucard would, he hoped, have an interesting time with that. And the vampire painted...
He was more surprised when picking his way out of the rubble to find a few Lee Enfield rifles, possibly WW2 era, maybe WW1? He wasn't sure if they were in working condition or only for display as vintage weaponry, but suspected you simply couldn't go wrong giving a weapon to that creature. And not just any weapon. THE rifle of the British forces for the first half of the 20th century. Digging those out, and a glance at the sun, and he hurried down the street looking for an art store, cloth bag of books banging his legs and rifles in his arms.
He found it, selected a handful of the oil paints he saw (and only a handful, the store was nearly destroyed and the display had only a handful of undamaged paints!) and looked about for something else that was in decent condition that he could give the vampire. A shelf had fallen forward onto the floor, and lifting it, he saw an engraved wooden box. The lable said it was sable brushes. He didn't know what those were, but the box should have kept them safe and it looked expensive. Into his bag it went, and with a flurry of papers he found himself standing in front of the bedroom he'd claimed.
Taking a deep breath, he walked steadily down the hall to the art room where he'd found the vampire's work. No Alucard appeared as he walked, no vampire lurked in the dim room painted red by the last of the sunset. He did see the palette the vampire had been using...and the brush that was dried and stuck to it. And two other brushes that had been standing in the paint thinner, clearly being cleaned and now likely destroyed. Anderson unpacked the bag, stacking the books on the side table by the only chair in the room, placing the box of brushes by the easel, and leaning the guns against the seat.
Now he was prepared to meet the vampire, hoping that the vampire would be willing to talk in return for what was very obviously an attempt to get himself into the vampires good graces, or at least less-lethal clutches. He was ready to fight, all blades prepared and ready to be grabbed should the vampire be angry, but...he was hopeful. This was not the vampire he'd been told, nothing seemed as it was. This was part of a family he was related to, a family he'd known so little about before the journals, and he had so many, many questions about, well, everything.
Pacing back and forth, he'd lit the candle when the room blackened with night, picked up the top book and begun to flip through it, reading a few of Poe's poems, when the hairs on his neck rose and the aura in the room turned threatening and murderous.
-v-v-
It will probably be Christmas before I have time to work on this again and quite possibly much longer, but I'll try!