Catholic Britannia.

How beautiful those words were. So perfect was their ring that it could only have been foreordained that they might once more become reality. Beautiful as the land itself, now washed clean of sin by heretic blood.

Yes, there was beauty here, in the blood and the broken glass and the bodies and the fires that still raged throughout London. Soon, the remains of the Protestant nation would be cleared away, and the world would take one step closer to the Kingdom of God as a Catholic one arose in its place.

He stood in the middle of the ruined city, surrounded by his faithful. They were crusaders, conquistadors. The sights of their victory, the corpses, the crumbling buildings, the dead body of Integral Hellsing, were worth savoring.

Everything was how it should be.

Until the first spear pierced his torso. Then another, and another, and another, driving him into the air as the world melted around him. As the nosferatu's creatures slaughtered his army, as the life drained all too slowly out of him, he watched Alexander Anderson go to a hale Integral. She stared at the impaled, disinterested, and remarked, "a failure."

"Yes," Anderson agreed, lighting her cigar. "I always knew he would be."

"Enrico."

It was the vampire speaking to him, but as his eyes met the beast's face, it changed. Maxwell remembered it all. He remembered where he really was.

No . . .

"Enrico."

No, not that face, not that voice, please no. Not Him. Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please, no! No . . .

"Yes," He smiled that smile. "And again."

Blackness.

Enrico knew nothing. He was no where.

Until he was there.

Catholic Britannia.

How beautiful those words were . . .


A/N: Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Or, as the lovely Dreadnot suggested, "Lather. Rinse. Repent."

This came from pondering, after I wrote "Just Like", what might await Maxwell at the end of a line to Hell.

Disclaimer: Hellsing is not mine.