Life has become somewhat a routine, but I have yet to decide whether it's better, or worse that way. Living on the run leaves no time for needless things, things like dwelling on the past too much. Well, at least as much of it as I have. I learned a long time ago; if something haunts you, and it doesn't walk the earth spreading the fires of evil, better let it sit until you can do something about it. I couldn't allow myself lose my focus and fail, now could I? There's a little voice at the back of my mind that keeps reminding me it is not just about me. Sacrifice such as this is a test of faith, and yet so much more than that.
And yet, the more I think about it, the better I realize that once a thin thread of recognition silently connected the loose ends of memories in my mind, it's becoming far too difficult to push them aside and just continue on my way. In every man, woman and child, it their faces, I see bits and pieces that are somehow familiar to me. As though I have killed them before, and they remembered me, if only subconsciously. I feel their eyes set on me as I pass by, some of them looking with morbid curiosity, some with great loathing, some with mere disgust. As though they knew me, as if they could see inside my chest, where my heart is slowly dying.
Something has changed in the way I perceive them, both the good, and the evil. I could always sense their true nature, in my eyes the flame burning at their hearts was crimson and fierce, if fueled up by some dark powers. I could see through the veil of indifference, I could read their intentions like in an open book. Now, even from afar, their auras shine about them with a variety of colors - green, when they're hopeful and at peace; blue, when they're despairing but have not yet lost all hope; red, when they're driven by wrath and hurt. And black, pitch black, when they're evil.
White, when they're in love, passes unnoticed. I cannot bear looking at it.
It took me a while to get used to it; yet even now, sometimes I feel like I'm granted more knowledge about people than they ever wish - or need - to reveal to me. And more often than not I'm ashamed of myself, for I can't help the feeling that they see my own aura growing gray under the burden of my sins.
Transylvania welcomed him no more - after all, it was not just evil that perished in his attempts to vanquish it. He never marveled anymore, how people could see he had freed them from troubles, and yet at once they blamed all else on him, too. They never thanked him, and he never expected any gratitude. It was part of the deal, and perhaps sometimes it was easier that way. Let them feel hatred if they would, most people are better off with someone to be held responsible for all that went wrong. It lets them move on, he knew, and since he could do nothing about it, he silently agreed to let them have it.
Perhaps they too needed a goal to continue with their lives, and if it meant they would be chasing him, he had long since stopped worrying about it.
He didn't count days on his way back to Vatican City. He even barely spoke to Carl, only on rare occasions allowing himself a brief conversation. And, even that mostly concerned mundane matters, such as where they would eat or spend the night.
He steered clear of crowded places, avoiding encounters with strangers as much as he could. Thus, at nights he would often try and forget the need of sleep, walking silent, sleepy streets if they stopped in a town, or small forest paths, back and forth, until the morning came and their journey could be resumed.
Carl knew better than to prod him to talk about it. The friar, careless as he was, had developed almost infinite patience for his companion, giving him the time he most obviously needed to deal with the recent happenings his own way. Maybe once or twice he would start a small talk that, according to his plan, was supposed to lead to something deeper, yet Van Helsing caught those attempts as they went and refused to talk about it.
His welcome was quiet, as it always was - weary of the journey, Van Helsing wanted nothing more than a little rest. He used the time he had best as he could, keeping in mind that he never knew when a new task would be given to him. At first, he hoped that it would not be soon; the last assignment, its outcome, as well as his scars were still fresh, and none but God and Gabriel himself knew how it hurt to suffer his mind going back to it, with or without his consent. For his deeds he was commended, but it meant little when he knew that the price paid for the sake of victory over evil had been great.
He wondered at how fond of him had Carl grown over their long journey; yet the company of the friar was but another reminder of things he had come to refuse to remember. He sought solitude, and in it he sought answers. When none came, and scattered bits and pieces of information became a breeding ground for always more and more questions, he grew restless and began to long for a reason to set off again.
Twenty-second day since his return found Van Helsing walking back and forth in his quarters, counting minutes and hours till sunrise. He knew he would find no absolution there, not then, not yet. All he could do was try and keep himself occupied while his life would or would not uncover its former secrets to him. He knew, too, that the Order would do all but let him sit idle while evil beings still troubled the world.
At dawn, a knock on his door came not unexpected.
He welcomed it, a new errand, new goal and a so needed anchor point for his mind to set on. The tidings came across Europe of Liam, a warlock, growing in power on the southern coast of Ireland. Little was known of him, save that, by no law, he entitled himself prince, and in less than a year most villages nearby his dwelling had been abandoned, their inhabitants scattered across the land, bearing news of strange deaths and disappearance of their children. Those who dared roam those lands often would not return; those who did, told tales of wraith-like men and women, every now and then even children, hunting at night, seeking prey.
Those tales were scarce, brief, lacking detail of both the warlock and his apparent servants. And yet one factor made this case one of particular interest as far as Van Helsing was concerned - the survivors, how few of them lived to tell of their strange fates, spoke of those demons having wings.
The journey would be long, he knew, and with permission, decided to set out alone. It came across his mind once or twice that a company of two could perhaps achieve more; and yet he chose not to take the risk of losing a companion again. He was troubled enough as it was, and responsible as he felt for anyone who traveled by his side, he doubted he was ready for taking such responsibility again as of yet.
When told of Van Helsing's decision, Carl thought for a while before he nodded understandingly. He looked solemnly towards the stairs. He too knew that it was better that way, if he stayed where he was safe. For a while he considered going after him, but only when Van Helsing was three days away did Carl understand - that man was better off on his own, at least until he reached a consensus with whatever haunted him and sat, yet undiscovered, on the pages of the book of his past.
He rode hard, having resolved to halt only when his steed needed to rest. Once on the road again, he couldn't bear needless delay. Days and nights he moved on at great speed, as though he hoped that he could leave all the burdens with the distance behind him. He refused to admit that speed or haste was no remedy. The further he went from the only place he remembered as home, and the closer to his destination, he still felt as though he was merely going in circles. Nothing changed; with the distance he covered, the last hope of trading searing for numbness proved vain.
It had been easier in the past, he thought to himself, as yet again he denied himself the right to rest. It had been easier on him, when he knew no pain of a loss that he could match with a face, voice, touch of gentle skin. Loss how he had once known it felt different, less intense. It had a source, but he knew nothing about it, thus he would not miss it. There had been no person of flesh and blood for his mind to build from misty shreds of memories in restless sleep. Now there was one, and she had a name. And, she was gone.
When he thought he had a choice whether or not to remember, he realized there was really no choice at all. There was only one heart, one mind to be fed with hope that it indeed had been a greater cause that justified his deed.
His deed. Then he knew that words would not veil it, no matter how he put it in his mind, he could only see it for what it was - murder. You killed her, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind when the latter would be found unguarded. Murderer.
On the thirteenth day, as the sun began to set for its nighttime rest, Van Helsing halted near the edge of the forest. Looking ahead, far ahead of him where the burning line of the horizon illuminated with all hues of red, he knew he needed more than an hour or two of sleep before the next day. There was something strange about that land; an eerie, fleeting sensation carried by the cold wind passed through him, leaving his mind set and alert. He understood that peace had long since abandoned those lands, unwillingly yet swiftly making room for evil to reign. He could sense it, the familiar chill down to the bone was an unmistakable sign.
Author's notes: Thank you to all of you who have so far reviewed this story. I'm glad you like it, and I hope you enjoyed reading the second chapter just as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Since the story was met with some interest from you, dear readers, I'm going to continue it. I can assure you there's a whole plot prepared to be utilized, if only you're still willing to read =)