Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing Frau Herr, please believe me.
XI.
As a rule of thumb, Sir Hellsing usually took care not to put herself in horribly dangerous or unmanageable situations.
That personal choice had been adopted sometime in secondary school, when she'd had to stand up to four bullies who'd irritated her to no end. Though it was true that the Hellsing family was noble, respected and privileged, it was also haunted by a dark, unnamed stigma that followed its heirs like the plague. No one really knew exactly why the Hellsing name was synonymous with "bad…" they just knew that it was, and that was enough for them.
Integra, of course, had known of the ominous family mantle very well by the tender age of fourteen. She'd barely been able to stand sitting through those tedious finishing school classes and talking to her oblivious peers before she'd been placed on a "Mission from God," and trying to do so after was close to torture. She couldn't have just left the school either, because that would've roused suspicion and every precaution had to be taken to protect her organization's secrecy. It was a burden she had to bear, albeit sourly.
It took all her strength not to fall asleep on her feet during ballroom dancing lessons, and it took all her might not to verbally attack the first girl to complain about "how tired she was" after being kept awake by a baby or some other bullshit. It was so irritating – really, it was. Integra had become all too used to thirty-six hour nights on the weekends, much to Walter's discontent.
After a particularly upsetting one of those nights, Integra had the misfortune of mouthing off to some spoiled nobleman's daughter who obviously hadn't seen a vampire beheaded before. That nobleman's daughter hadn't taken kindly to the comment about her being "bone enough"* not to have to worry about the large portion sizes the servants presented her at lunch break, and of course she managed to get her little clique to gang up on Integra in the schoolyard and push her in the mud.
In the end it'd actually worked out well because the school mistress said Integra couldn't "just walk around like that," and was sent home where she finally got a bit of sleep. While Integra blamed that daughter, she also found she blamed herself. There had always been an unspoken prejudice against her simply because of her namesake, but withdrawing into books and the tactical manuals she'd snuck in instead of socializing hadn't gained her any allies.
At the time, Integra also hadn't known how to effectively manage people yet, so it had been hard for her to make any friends at all. Hellsing had effectively turned her in to a scathing, paranoid mess of a teenager during that year. In the possible scenario of harassment, she should've realized that there wouldn't have been anyone to turn to. She'd dug herself into a hole, and she'd do better to learn from it for next time.
Integra vaguely wondered if she'd dug herself into a hole again.
"You bastard." She hissed after Renfield's little confession.
Sir Integra had hoped they'd be able to work the now foreseeable fight with thought and strategy, but now it seemed like the only thing they had time for was to rush in gung-ho. But that tactic screamed against her very being, and she had no idea of Renfield and his partner's capabilities. It would be such a stupid, stupid move that would probably end up doing more harm than good. Even judging from a glance out of the corner of her eye, Sir Integra could tell Walter had also come to the conclusion and liked it no better.
But what choice did they have? The longer they stayed out here with these two, the more alone time the Count had with Seras. Sir Integra bit her tongue. Walter was knew the battle formations by heart, and Timothy was supposed to have had his memorized by now. There was a way to make such a strategy work, but only if timed perfectly.
She waited for Renfield or the vagabond to say anything, do anything, and tried not to be slightly off-put when they failed to do either. They were trying to get the edge on her, Sir Integra told herself.
"And just how do you benefit from this arrangement, prey tell?" Beside her, Walter tensed ever so slightly.
She held Renfield's gaze even though his eyes were still hooded by shadow, so she believed he hadn't picked up on the subtle nuance. But then she couldn't see the vagabond or Timothy, so there was a definite possibility that their ploy was already anticipated or that Timothy had given them away.
"One does not argue with one's master." Renfield stepped into the moonlight, his lips twisted into a crazed smile. Sir Integra narrowed her eyes and whipped out her gun, the rustle of fabric from behind telling her that Timothy had done the same. Renfield's eyes were an unnatural mix of fiery copper and amber, the eyes of an upper third-tier vampire.
"The Count is your Master?" Sir Hellsing was skeptical, but cautious. The Count was the patriarch, the head of the elite of the first-tier vampire. His Child should've inherited his red eyes, the very symbol of vampiric royalty.
"No, of course not. His Majesty would never condescend to turn one so undeserving as my Childe, but all vampires serve under him." The vagabond finally spoke. His voice was smooth and quiet, much too seductive for his scruffy farmer's outfit and lack of shoes. But when the boy looked up, his eyes copper eyes glinted in a stray glimmer of moonlight. "His Majesty would never turn one so beneath him "
Sir Hellsing noted that for whatever reason, the vagabond didn't seem to like Renfield. That could possibly prove to be to their advantage.
"But Miss Victoria is?" Walter was quick to ask once the vagabond was finished. The vampire only smiled cruelly, his eyes crinkling.
"That would be Lady Victoria to you – though, human scum such as yourself would never be permitted to address Her Majesty so informally. In fact," The vampire licked his lips, "human scum like yourself shouldn't be addressing vampires so casually at all. You should be begging, sobbing for mercy." Beside him, Renfield's face was still impassive.
"And you would actually offer mercy?" Sir Hellsing dead-panned.
"Of course not." His smile widened, fangs gleaming, as he took a step forward.
And then it began.
Integra was quick to urge her horse into a rapid gallop on to the side yard next to the drive as shots were fired at both the vampires and the dusty road, serving as a diversion and camouflage. Of course, that was only assuming that the thick cloud of dust actually impaired their vision and sense of smell, but since they were third-tier vampire at best Sir Integra felt remotely confident.
Their hearing, however, remained very much still intact- but that was why they had Walter. She didn't dare turn to look at anything other than the looming stairway in front of her for fear of losing her concentration, but even from a distance the whizz and whisp of Walter's deadly threads were unmistakable. Timothy was still shooting, but judging from the time lapsing in between each shot they were more calculated and plotted. The "Prey Tell" strategy was working well, just as she'd expected it to.
What Sir Integra hadn't counted on was finding an absolutely desolate mansion. She cursed herself upon hastily coaxing her steed up the front step, and somehow through the front door. That in itself had been a miracle, because she wasn't about to leave her only source of transportation outside with a bunch of vampires on the defense.
Sir Integra had expected some sort of angry servant or two to reprimand her, to demand just what she thought she was doing, and threaten report her to their terrifying master. But her mount's hooves clicked on the sparkling white marble floor and echoed in the cathedral ceilinged main hall. There were lamps and candles lit in all the right places, but no one to own up for them. A chill akin to the feeling she had gotten upon approaching the estate flittered down her spine.
While it meant that there would be no accidental deaths when the Count was finally confronted, it also served as a terribly foreboding omen. Integra rode further in to the household, entering what seemed to be the center sitting room, complete with three wall-length windows showcasing the moonlit moorland behind the estate. Either there had been very few servants to begin with and that Renfield had taken care of most household duties, or her job had just become severely more complicated…
A sudden glint of light on the moors caught her attention, and abruptly pulled her out of her thoughts. She urged the horse toward the windows, and tried to see if she could catch the spark again-
There!
In the darkness, something moved along at quick pace, and Integra quickly recognized it to be a black stagecoach pulled by a lone stallion on a road she hadn't realized to be there. The decorative silver paneling on the doors caught and reflected the moonlight, prompting Integra to for once celebrate the Count's taste for dramatic flair.
She grit her teeth and cursed under her breath and she hurried her steed to maneuver through far too-complicated halls and irritatingly narrow doorframes until finally managing to break out into the back garden through the servants' kitchen back entrance. Thank God she'd taken the time to look over the blueprints she'd illegally obtained during one of the riding breaks from London to West Country.
While she knew the coach could have easily been Pip's escort, she highly doubted the fact. The Geese wouldn't have taken a route they weren't familiar with in such unknown territory, even if it meant skirting around Baskerville's woods for a few extra miles to make it back to the main road. As she rode closer to the direction she'd spotted the stagecoach lurch toward, Sir Integra realized the "road" was little more than a glorified hunting trail that managed to subdue the bracken and heather that otherwise grew high enough to scratch against her legs as they raced forward at a frantic gallop.
It took them a good mile away from the estate and bathed them in darkness, with nothing but the night sky as a guide, and took a good twenty minutes before Integra was able to make out the carriage in the darkness. She leaned forward in her saddle, eyes narrowed and fingers digging in to her leather reigns and whip.
Once again, it seemed as though she hadn't thought this through properly. What if the Count was in the stagecoach with Seras? What then, exactly? While Sir Integra knew she was strong and resourceful, she also knew she couldn't expect to hold a candle against a territorial king vampire alone and with dwindling ammunition. And what if Seras wasn't in the stagecoach at all? What if the stagecoach was empty, Seras and the Count were still alone together in the mansion, Walter and Timothy were being defeated and-?
No.
Sir Integra shook her head. She had made her choice, and she was going to stand by it. It was too late to turn back. She could only hope her instincts proved correct – incessant worrying wasn't going to help anyone at this point, especially her.
Sir Integra gave her steed another kick, feeling as though she could feel each separate surge of adrenaline pumped through her veins as they slowly, but surely approached the stagecoach. As they drew closer, Sir Integra could plainly see that the horse pulling the coach hadn't been saddled or reigned properly and was slowed down greatly because of it. The driver was hidden to her for now, but it was plain to see that the most directing being done was a light flick of the whip here or there.
They began to catch up with the stagecoach now – Sir Integra noticed the curtains were drawn in the windows – and finally managed to overtake it when the coach's horse inadvertently stumbled over a large rock in the middle of the path. But when she finally reached the driver's seat, much to her horses' aggravation she quickly jerked away off the path – still careful not to lose pace with the carriage – and out of grasp of the ghoul who had been tasked with directing the carriage.
Usually ghouls were unable to follow specific commands, but if they were ghouls of the Count different rules applied. This particular ghoul, still dressed in a cotton older lady's nightdress and bonnet, faced Integra with white unseeing eyes and an outstretched grey hand clawing in her direction while still keeping a hand on the reigns.
Sir Integra supposed that she had been ordered to take the carriage without pause or interruption by the Count, and was forced to see his order out to absolution. Perhaps she had been right after all. Making her decision, Sir Integra pulled out her pistol from one of the side pockets of her great coat, took aim, fired, and shot the ghoul point-blank in one fluid motion.
The ghoul was no match for the Vatican's second generation of blessed silver bullets and began to shrivel and scatter to dust several moments after the bullet made impact, the reigns falling out of her hands. The stallion, startled by the sudden noise, bucked and gave the carriage a good kick with its hindquarters before galloping away further down the path into the night. The carriage teetered at the sudden blow and tipped slightly, the new and sudden angle forcing the farther side open and allowing something tall and heavy to slip out with a "thunk."
Sir Integra allowed her own startled mount a little leeway to rush forward at the blast before turning it around back toward the carriage, her pistol never leaving her hand for a second. She halted a good twenty feet away, her breath caught in her throat at the sight that awaited her. Her grip on the gun tightened, and she swiftly leapt off her mount.
The object that had slid out of the carriage door was a coffin.
A dark, almost black oak polished to the point of almost being perfectly reflective was set with a simple silver cross on the top door. It leaned right-side up against the forced-open door of the carriage, its meaning cruelly mocking her. But she forced down the bile rising in the back of the throat for another moment. Why would the Count ever allow his new progeny out of his sight so soon after her turning?
She glared at the coffin for a good few moments, as if it possibly had the ability to tell her what she needed to know but refused to do so with glee, before she tightened her grip on her gun and made toward it.
If her instincts were correct (and they always were,) an uncorrupted Seras would be found and the first objective of their mission would be complete. This would, of course, raise the rather worrisome questions of why the Count had sent Seras alone on the moors to begin with and how this reflected his plans. But, if Sir Integra opened the lid of the coffin and a newly turned fledging leapt out to meet her…
Well, she already had too many people's blood on her hands. She tried to tell herself that another gallon wasn't going to make that much of a difference.
She really, really tried to let herself believe that.
Sir Integra stood a mere two feet away from the base of the coffin now, close enough to garner a look at her reflection. She instinctively looked at the landscape over her shoulder instead of her own image, only barely relaxing when she saw nothing but her steed and empty moorland behind her. The night had become oppressively quiet, unnervingly still. It was summer – crickets and insects and night crawlers should've been making their presence known. But these animals were intelligent, and even seemed to know better than to show their faces tonight.
The night went on entirely undisrupted. They didn't have all the time in the world.
If Seras had been turned, she would be hungry. Sir Integra would barely have enough time to leap out of her path and defend herself, but even though doing so put her at a risk she couldn't just open the lid and start shooting in case Seras hadn't-
She gasped, not in shock at the revelation but in rage and loathing.
Sir Integra leapt forward in a single stride and put all her strength in prying off the all too heavy lid, taking care to swiftly run backwards once it had been pulled ajar enough to lose balance and fall off by itself. Her eyes widened slightly, but quickly narrowed.
Seras Victoria lay perfectly still in the coffin, seemingly asleep and resting peacefully on pale pink silk cushions and pillows. Her lilac evening gown was thoughtfully arranged and her arms had been crossed over her chest, as was tradition. Her golden hair was fluffed, her gloves still on. Sir Integra stood there for a long moment, gun extended in front of her, unable to fully absorb the sheer absurdity and horror of the situation.
She'd witnessed grotesque, macabre scenes that would've put lesser men in asylum. She'd seen death brought in almost every form, tortured without mercy, and ordered executions all in the name of God. But this – whether it was the surprise, the gloves, the almost gentleness of it all– struck her deeply. To try to spirit away an innocent, locked in a coffin…
It added volumes to the sheer depth of his obsession.
But, perhaps it'd been done to mock her? The idea was an absurdly comforting thought. But why would he have let Seras get away to begin with? The vampire wasn't stupid by any means, and had only rarely been reported of resorting to desperation. Why would he have endangered her? But was Seras actually…?
But she, of all people, didn't have the time for denial.
With her firearm still raised, Sir Integra dug in to her pocket with her other hand and fished out an engraved gold pocketknife – a family heirloom, Walter had said, – and….
Seras suddenly began to cough violently, her blue eyes opening bug-eyed and her mouth stretching as tongue lolling to take in more oxygen. Her breathes came in rushed, haggard gasps. Sir Hellsing stuffed her pocketknife and gun back into her greatcoat pocket as she jogged to the newly reawakened girl.
She stopped two feet from the coffin, lips drawn in a hard line.
By this time, Seras hadn't stopped coughing. She ripped at the buttons of her neckline, desperate to get as much air in as possible. She couldn't think, and the world slowly spun as she leaned against the coffin and sunk to her feet, legs shaky and unable to hold her up any longer. Good God, what'd happened? Where was she, why was she-
"No, no," Sir Hellsing stood over her, and reached out to grab Seras under the armpits to try to pull her back up on her feet. She sounded angry. "You must stand. Air is more efficiently circulated if the diaphragm isn't restricted."
But once Seras was up again and Sir Hellsing cautiously let go, Seras sputtered for a moment and then tumbled to the ground on all fours. This time, Sir Hellsing didn't attempt to pull her back up. It seemed that she'd finally realized how useless it would've been.
Seras' breathing came no slower, though it now took on deeper quality, and she could still hear blood pumping in her ears before she began to vomit. Sir Hellsing didn't say anything, didn't offer any condolences, and instead walked to the side of the coffin and examined it. Seras was grateful for the shift of attention; it was absolutely humiliating to be seen in such a state.
After a while the world stopped spinning, the parasympathetic nervous system kicked in, and Seras finally felt like she was capable of coherent, valid questions. Questions like: Why the hell was I in a coffin? Didn't I almost suffocate? Was someone trying to kill me? Why am I in the middle of the moors at night? Why are you here? Why the hell did you have to let me out of a coffin in the middle of the moors at night? Seras thought them all to be very reasonable, valid questions and unabashedly voiced them.
Sir Hellsing paused from her examination of the coffin's inner side, looking up at Seras. In that moment, it seemed that the heiress had aged ten years since the last time she'd seen her, her complexion pallid, her hair less shiny, her eyes baggy and bloodshot. For the first time Seras noticed how… unorganized Sir Hellsing looked. Her greatcoat hung off one shoulder, and her platinum hair was unbound and windswept and wild.
"I do not believe he meant you harm, for I believe he does not wish you to die yet." Sir Hellsing 's tone was clipped, almost tired if Seras hadn't known better. Her eyes widened, and she would've made a bigger deal about the accusation if she hadn't felt so horribly ill and Sir Hellsing hadn't looked so horribly serious.
"Yet?" Seras croaked. Her throat was raspy and her breath tasted like pennies.
"Yet." Sir Hellsing intoned, knocking her index finger on the wooden outer frame of the coffin. There was no arguing that the Count was responsible for this excursion.
"Holes were drilled into the sides in an attempt to maintain airflow, however," She shook her head, her lips curling into a bitter smile, "sparsely one-half barely made it through the padding. It was a shabby, hurried job that could've possibly cost you your life had I not caught your chaise in time." Her fist clutched the lip of the coffin, her clipped nails digging into the silk.
Seras pushed herself to sit up on her knees, though still resting some weight on her hands beneath her. So, the Count had put her in a coffin and put the coffin in a carriage and… the events of a few hours ago rushed back and gave her another case of vertigo at the revelations.
The Count was a vampire, and had said he would make her like him. The Count was a vampire. Vampires existed. Vampires were real. What did that mean? What else was hiding in the woods, waiting to be found? It was all too much to take in. Her breathing and heart rate picked up again.
"You were right…" Seras said quietly after a long moment, clutching her fists in her lap, shoulders shaking. Her entire body was quivering. But why was Sir Hellsing out here herself? She wouldn't have just shown up for Seras, would she have? Seras knew she wasn't that important.
"Why are you here?" It was the cover for the real question, one Seras didn't have the strength to put forward: what happened to make you come here?
Sir Hellsing regarded her for a lengthy moment. She weighed her options. So much had happened this night alone that it seemed cruel to tell her of her parents' gruesome fates. But if Sir Hellsing didn't tell her, how else was she going to find out? The Force, the post, through rumors, or coming home to an empty house? And while Sir Hellsing didn't intend to be bested by that monster, if he managed to get to Seras he was certainly going to hide that little factoid from her as long as he could.
Which begged the question of why he'd killed her family to begin with. An extremely possessive obsession was the most probable cause, but if he intended to turn her to spend eternity with him, it wouldn't due for her to eternally hate him. His case studies and past histories never described him to be so tactless, so sloppy. Sir Integra snapped out of her reverie a pause too long.
Seras sat staring up at her, mouth agape, tears pooling and threatening to spill. Sir Integra cursed herself. She hated to admit it, but this entire Victoria case had shaken her more than any other she'd had before. Sir Integra bit her tongue and made her way to the girl, suddenly seeming so much smaller and hopeless than she had before. She crouched down in front of her, and held both Seras' hands in her own.
The tears began to fall freely, quickly.
"You have my absolute, most sincere condolences." She began, fighting back a cringe when Seras heaved a sob. "Your household was… attacked by a rogue vampire." Was there any way to put this gently? Any way at all? "There… were no survivors. I am deeply, deeply sorry." Sir Integra lowered her head, for the first time unable to meet someone else's gaze.
It had been her fault, her responsibility, and she'd failed them. At the site, she had predominantly felt anger toward the Count… but now with Seras sitting in front of her, a face of the tragedy, an unbearable wall of anguish fell on her.
Seras fell back on her bottom, holding on to Sir Hellsing's hands like a lifeline. When she'd first offered condolences, she'd assumed Sir Hellsing had been speaking of Edith's death, not… this. Good God, her family…. Her family was… She couldn't say it, couldn't even think it even though she was shuddering with uncontrolled sobs. Her body had more readily accepted the truth than her mind.
No, no, no no, no,no!
They couldn't be dead! They couldn't be gone! They just couldn't be! She'd only just seen them, spoken to them only several days prior! How could anyone die so quickly? A saner, more rational part of her chastised her for such a stupid thought at a time like this. But she didn't care. She didn't care about anything; all she wanted was for her mother to criticize her posture, for her father to show her another police manual, for Edith to tease her, for all them to sit down to dinner together again…
Oh, God.
So she sat there in the prickly bracken and dusty road underneath her, sobbing to the night and holding on to Sir Hellsing's hands like a baby. She couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. She felt like she was drowning in grief and a terrible part of her actually liked it.
Snap
Sir Integra yanked her hands from Seras' grasp and pushed the girl behind her in one fluid movement before rising with her revolver extended. The night was no longer the backdrop, but an ominous presence. Sir Integra was suddenly too aware of how exposed they were on the moors on this little road alone, away from the others. She let her arm fall when she saw it was nothing more than her ride adventuring too far off the path, but let it serve as a stark reminder that they couldn't expect to be alone for very long.
Sir Integra turned to look down at Seras, who thankfully still wasn't lying in the dirt where she'd left her. It seemed that her spirit hadn't been entirely broken after all. Her expression – if anything – was actually thoughtful. Sir Integra didn't pocket the handgun, but extended a hand to help Seras up.
"We are no longer safe here. We are not safe in any place for too long a time." Sir Hellsing explained once Seras was on her feet again, shivering in the cool night air. "We must trek to the town where my men were sent and rely on them to serve as our reinforcements." Sir Hellsing gave the horse a sideways glance before shaking her head and grabbing Seras' elbow, pulling her off the road and into the briar and heather where the horse could not go.
"Reinforcements?" Seras questioned, her voice dull but retaining a certain curious spark. Good, that was good.
"Yes, Miss Victoria. I lament to tell you that I have not portrayed your situation in its entirely in order to maintain your ignorance, for fear of him acting early had you accused him of anything." Sir Hellsing explained, her voice lowering as she looked up at the sky, searching for the North Star.
"I am head of the Hellsing Organization, a vampire extinguisher chartered by a very high-ranking nobleman. Our foremost responsibility is to protect the citizenry and prevent future attacks – we have as much information about the vampires as the smugglers did opium." They stopped, turned, and headed east away from the road. Seras didn't say anything.
"You've managed to capture the attention of the so-called king of their kind." Sir Hellsing grimaced, before biting her tongue and reminding herself just what this girl was going through at the moment. "He goes by many names, but my grandfather christened him Alucard."
"Alucard…" Seras repeated as she stumbled over a stray rock.
"Don't," Sir Hellsing bit out before stopping herself, "speak his name so loudly or so frequently. Speak of the devil and he shall appear." She intoned without humor. Seras didn't comment.
They travelled in silence for another good forty minutes by Sir Hellsing's lead, until Seras finally spoke:
"Sir Hellsing… do you believe this… king to be responsible for…?" the question was hard to ask without her voice cracking and losing her composure. For the past twenty minutes she had been silently crying, scared out of her mind but not wanting to slow them down and not wanting to die.
Sir Hellsing didn't look at her again. "Yes. Personally, I believe him to be." Seras wanted to scream and cry and run away all at the same- "However, logically it wouldn't be profitable for him to do so. By doing so he forfeits your good graces, something I can only assume he desperately wants to maintain."
Seras bit her lip hard, wincing when it became too great for her to continue doing so. "Then… then who? Why? Why would anyone do such a thing?! They were innocents, they had no idea! They didn't deserve any of this!" Her voice, broken as it was, was gradually rising in volume and octaves. Sir Hellsing frowned, grabbed the girl's shoulder, and gave it a good shake.
"I do not know yet." She said lowly, meeting Seras' tearful gaze with her own impassive stare. "I know not the mind frames or plans of sociopaths and murderers. However," she gaze Seras' shoulder another shake, "you must control yourself – at least for the moment – for both our sakes. Our position cannot be compromised, we must get to reinforcements because we will not be able to hold them off by ourselves." Her voice was cold, already detached.
"Do whatever you must, think whatever you must, to pacify yourself for now. Afterward you may do whatever you please, but you must be stronger a little while. You must."
Notes:
Believe it or not, in the nineteenth century it was "in" to have a little bit of a plump, slightly round figure because it hinted that you were rich enough to buy a lot of food. On the other hand being skinny – like a starving peasant – wasn't very attractive because it symbolized a lower social standing.
Thank you for all the kind words and promises!
Until next time,
Della