Chapter 4: Basement
He spends most of his time in the cell. Although there is no light here, he can see. A narrow bed, an empty blood-pack lying limp on a table, and a door bolted with iron and sealed with magic.
There is not much in the room, but he does not mind. He misses nothing and desires nothing, nor does he tire of sitting on the bed the whole time.
His fingers twitch, and curl.
He has his dreams and memories, and his dreams are more intimate than his memories. He remembers, but is detached from the memories. He wonders how something so distant can belong to him. He much prefers his dreams, which are cold, pitiless, and calming.
A roar of an engine in his ear…
A jump from an aeroplane…
The crush of dried leaves under his feet in autumn…
"Hey, don't you need a parachute?"
That turns into winter, and his feet sink into snow, pure and white…
"Tastes like almond…"
Until the blood drips down and stains it…
"I don't like almond."
Far away, a child's crystal heart shatters…
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
And the shards pierce the sky…
"Round and round, a merry-go-round…"
Lost laughter in the breeze, innocent and carefree…
"Shadows move, you know…"
Becomes ragged and harsh…
"Opera has a way of beautifying a soul…"
Featureless faces, faceless victims, damned, tortured, hideous…
"Just much as screams can cleanse it…"
Can there be rainbows at night?
Somewhere, a city burns.
Sometimes, the dreams and memories clash and intertwine. It makes him weary, and he forgets which is a dream, and which a memory.
Someone is coming.
His attention becomes fixed on the door and he tries to figure out who his visitor is. It can only be one of three who visit him ever since he is kept in here.
One he remembers longest, one he remembers last, and one he remembers best. One in scorn, one in smiles, and one in sorrow.
Strange how easily he can sense emotions, but can experience none himself.
The door opens, and sorrow enters.
Integra.
As always, her cool expression does not reveal her feelings. She studies him first. Then, she starts pacing the floor.
"Seras told me that the latest test didn't work, Walter."
They call him Walter, and he remembers the tests that fail to restore him to the Walter they seek.
Walter C. Dornez.
Is he still not that man?
"Three months are almost up." There is a tremour in her voice. He wonders if she is weak.
"Do you know what it means?"
"Walter," she says slowly, "I can't protect you much longer. Her Majesty's giving us only three months' grace. If you don't come back, they will kill you. Do you understand?"
He stares at her, seeing, unseeing, uncomprehending.
"Say something!"
He can. He supposes he can. He remembers the words. If he tries, he can open his mouth, move his tongue, and say something. He simply does not know what to say or why he should say anything.
Integra moves toward him. When she kneels in front of him and places her hands on his knees, his forehead creases into a slight frown. A leader does not kneel to a butler. He knows the protocol.
A greater disturbance occurs. She buries her face in his lap and weeps.
His trousers are getting wet, he thinks dully.
Then the memories rushed back to haunt him, fragmented, jarring, clear. So clear and bright they hurt.
He is fifty. She is four. She cries soon after Lady Hellsing's funeral, not understanding why the horrible men have put her mother in the dirty soil while she is sleeping.
He is fifty-nine. She is thirteen, crying for the loss of Sir Arthur.
Both times, he is in her bedroom. He sits on the edge of her bed, patiently pats her head as she cries into his lap and says, "Don't cry, Miss.".
It is a secret between them. They do not mention or refer to the incidents in any way, but they remember.
This, he thinks, is at least something he is familiar with.
Lifting his hand slowly, he pats Integra's head. She is older and taller, but the hair still feels the same.
She has beautiful hair, he muses, soft and light to the touch. It caresses his fingers lovingly, like sea waves that wash over one's feet.
He gazes at her when Integra looks up, surprised, uncertain, hopeful.
"Walter?" she calls him plaintively.
He whispers, "Don't cry, Miss."
There is a flash of pain and longing in her eyes. He does not mean to mock her or his former self.
What she sees must upset her, because more tears trickle down her face. He knows that if he licks those tears, they will taste salty.
Oddly, he also knows what she has seen. His eyes are as empty as his feelings. No sympathy, no hate, no affection, no lust.
He suspects that that is not what she wants.
"Don't cry, Miss."
Integra stares at him for a while. Composing herself, she smiles sadly.
"At least you have your memories. That's good, isn't it, Walter?"
He does not respond, and she places her head back onto his lap.
Maybe one day, he will tell her about the dreams.
For now, it will do to continue patting her head and asking her not to cry, this time, for him.
A/N: It isn't explicitly shown that young Integra has ever cried in the manga. She does cry in the anime in Order 10, both as a child and when she is undergoing the operation. I tried not to make her sappy. Integra is definitely not, not, not sappy.