Two Worlds Apart Chapter I, a hellsing fanfic

Title: Two Worlds Apart

Rating: PG-13

Author's notes at the end of the chapter.

Early 1900-? (Undetermined due to nature of death)

Christopher Hellsing

It is often believed – or at least expected – that the errant knights of myth always know their path, if not their destination. They may wonder on their way… but the road is their familiar, and fortune is their ally, and they are to stroll with full belief, that indeed, they are the saints meant to enlighten the misfortunate.

All this, of course, if the misfortunate allow for their enlightenment. As I was to find, Robert, to his own merit, was quite reluctant to follow his wavering Don Quixote…

"Kester, have a seat."

"Your pardon?" This sudden invitation attracted my momentary confusion. Robert, still seated, was following the pale light reflecting in his glass' content with keen interest. He was also investing much effort in not looking at me directly, which spared me an invariably condescending expression.

"Have a seat," he repeated with deliberate tardiness, "and let me ring for a bit of laudanum."

"We haven't time, Robert, I shall take whatever you wish upon arrival in London-"

But he was already standing and at the door, opening it slightly but enough as to make his summon for his butler and his further command heard throughout the corridor. It proved to be a meaningless procedure, as Cadwell, confirming my assessment of him as the perfect butler, stepped in seconds after the first call and offered his services.

"Cadwell, please deliver the recipient on my nightstand at once, and have a cup of the good ol' Earl prepared."

I turned to face him as the door close tidily.

"If night falls, we shall find ourselves in the impossibility of reaching London by tomorrow. And we must do so if we are to take Papa's place and see to his responsibilities," I stressed, in what I believed to be an unnecessary maneuver, as surely, Robert could see the importance and urgency of our future actions by himself. In fact, even this current delay was infuriating. I made for the door. "We've no time to spare, and I'm quite well, I assure you. If my condition concerns you, when we reach London-"

"We're not to leave for London, Kester." He slammed the door close before I could pass. "Ye gods, man, listen to yourself! You're a mess! You just received a vague letter from someone who was probably in delirium upon having it written-. "

"He hadn't it written then." I extended my hand, and in it the letter, willing him to take it and verify by himself. "It's not his writing, look!"

He gave it a meager look and was still unconvinced. "Still, it speaks of vampires! Vampires, Kester, superstition! Uncle Abraham was not well. Father and I may disagree on many accounts, but this is hardly one of them. Vampires have no place upon this world, and so Uncle Abraham would spawn them one from fiction. And you wish to run off to the heart of the civilized world and crusade it for a hellspawn that's supposedly kept there? It's insanity, Kester, bloody insanity! And the first thing you do is demand that a carriage be arranged for?"

I opened my mouth to retort, but no words would come. There had been logic to my request upon the time of my posing it, but it sadly failed to make itself known to me again presently. Robert was unimpressed.

"Carriage, Kester? When and where do you believed yourself to be? Everyone makes good usage of motors these days, man, even I do. I came here by motor, and so did you. I can imagine the little storm in your mind, but I shall cut it from its root, once and for all. You're not your father, Kester. You're not the mad doctor who exchanged one carriage for the other, going off to hunt phantasms! You're not compensating for his death by discarding all your obligations and following on his footsteps!"

My look of clear shock must have spoken of own accord, for Robert decided to show a bit of mercy while savoring his presumable victory. I was indeed in discomfort, but this discomfort was of a nature inconceivable for a man ruled by mathematical precision, expressed all too clearly in his argumentation. He could afford to be kind, now, that I was no longer voicing any opposition.

"It's all my fault. I see that now." He gave me his most understanding smile and then laughed. "I do. It was a terrible ordeal to undergo, especially for you. I confess I had believed that, well, since the two of you had obviously never got the chance to sustain too much affection, that maybe you hadn't too many ties to the old man. I was wrong, evidently, and you're very affected. But don't worry, I shall take care of everything, Kester, I will, you're too distressed to-"

"Robert, I'm not distressed. I can certainly understand why the circumstances would have it seem so – it was a momentary slip with the carriage, and I'm not following on Papa's pattern – and I'm hardly distressed. I can make amends, and am in full control over my own senses, especially my sense of the present." I breathed in. "I'm not distressed."

I didn't carry on immediately. I could only look down at the impeccably tended for carpet on the just as impeccably well tended for flooring. And then at last I said in despair, "My full appellative recognized by King, Country, and the Crown of Justice is Christopher Hadrian van Hellsing. I am twenty-six years of age. Today is the eighteenth of January, and my father has joined the realm of the eternally righteous three days ago. See, Robert? I am in control, I hold knowledge of who I am and of the present circumstances, and I'm not distressed. "

"You're not distressed?! Permit me, then, to make some regrettably belated introductions. Kester, meet reality. Dreamland," he said, pointing to the empty claret bottle viciously, "is over there." A short gasp on his part, then, and he turned to measure me with clear discomfort. "Kester, you haven't been having a go at the winery, have you?"

I shook my head, absently. Slowly, but surely, I was detaching myself from the setting, having each of Robert's words echo in the back of my mind, no more than a whisper to be neglected.

"I shall be going, whether only by myself or not, " I was telling him, a short while after. He'd been speaking, all the time, and by his extensive gesturing, he was probably feeling very powerfully about what he'd had to say. Unfortunately, however, I'd not heard a thing, and I had more than my share of doubts that it should have matter even if I had. He was a worthy orator, but I was set on my ways, and when finally all the little wheels in my mind started rolling again – and when a convenient course of action had been devised- I did not hesitate to make my stance known. He was my cousin and I loved him. But for once, he was the one who did not understand a thing.

The tone of my voice must have carried some intensity, or even command, because he was silent and regarded me incredulously. Almost as if he feared to question my sanity, should he not receive a positive reply, that yes, I was as round the bend as he believed Papa to have been.

"Are you to accompany me?"

"You realize, of course, that there truly might be quite nothing there?" I said nothing. He looked up at me steadily. Tiredly. "I shall have to wire Gwendolyn. Lance and she…I can't well say what they were expecting, but I don't reckon it was such a delay on my part."

I started on saying something but again found myself at a loss for the right thing to say. In my selfishness, I had never assumed that the family at home, Robert's family, could be as highly dependent of him as find themselves in the impossibility of tolerating his extensive absence. In light of things, however, they likely were. Gwendolyn, though a woman beneath our title and fortune, was a remarkable woman. Still, she was unable to run their keep smoothly with her man away and without further instruction. How selfish of me to deprive her of support, indeed.

"Write to Gwendolyn and extend an invitation on my part." Robert's powerfully blue stare dawned upon me inexpressively. "Ask that both she and Lance come to the Hellsing manor for the season." I nodded, my enthusiasm fed by the conviction of it being a wise decision. "It may only do them well."

Robert laughed, pleased. The perspective of having his wife and heir in full reach must have held some distinct appeal. "Why, yes, indeed... 'pon my honor, I might just do that. "

"You've pen and paper there." I gestured for the desk in the shadowed corner and the library near it. "Compound your message then see to your possessions while I attempt to develop a fundamental interest in clearing the mess in my papers."

I left him bent over what announced itself to be an overly wordy message to his familiars, and emerged from the study with my hands filled with paper. Papa's reports were to be sorted, as I was to give them a second look during my voyage.

The telephone rang, and so I was forced to take a turn to the nearest machine, in the guestroom. "Hullo?"

"Hellsing residence, is it?" The voice was bright, enthusiastic –too enthusiastic- and with a faint accent I couldn't quite place.

"Yes, yes. This is Christopher He-"

"Christopher Hellsing? How extraordinary! So good to hear from you – listen, I call from the very Saint Peter cathedral-" I frowned, mildly. I couldn't yet pin the place down, but it rang distinctly familiar. And religious. I may have been left in the care of God, but I'd definitely not been educated in our Lord's spirit.

"We've been looking for you, and I'm sure by now you're well aware why, and of what great service you could be to the Church," said the voice.

Well, such a pity. I didn't know of what service I could be of to the Church. But no doubt this had to do with some architectural project or the other. Papa was mad about them, and I'd personally been contacted one too many times by people who felt I could mediate the gathering of funds. "Please, just- for anything of the sort – please – do address my father, Abraham van Hellsing."

"But-"

"He's far more informed on such matters," I assured him. And he was. Papa had studied theology in an earnest. "And he'll be certain to help you – nothing I personally can do for you. Goodbye.' I hung up immediately, and slightly amused. Really, how could they think I'd be of more help with such things, when Papa was clearly-

But then I recalled the truth that I had mere moments ago paraded: Papa was dead, and I'd attended his funeral. Drawing in, I made for the halls, but only stopped briefly as I passed by a portrait of grandsire and my father, with the latter's Oxford diploma in full view. Papa had been a beautiful young man, I imagined, even though I myself was hardly too knowledgeable of the beauty patterns of the ages. Time had changed him, naturally – and only to the dramatic.

Deep lines had carved their way into his sleek face. There wasn't a time I could remember him without a light scar at the base of his forehead. The brilliant sparkle in the grand, blue eyes I had always seen in picture, and never on the man himself.

I suspected this was the last remnant of Papa's ever being human, vulnerable, young. The year after he'd started his expedition. He'd been no more than five and twenty.

I carried on my way. Perhaps there was a bit of merit to Robert's accusations, after all.

"Sir…?"

The great corridor greeted me by devoted Cadwell's solicitous call to attention. As, contrary to Robert's request, he was not delivering any form of medication, I was given the chance to hear of what exactly had kept him from the task at hand.

"There's a party to see you, sir. I've taken the liberty of inviting them in the receiving hall, though I have mentioned that perhaps you should be too bereaved to attend to them presently." Darling old Cadwell, so subtly hinting at that, were I unwilling or indisposed to see these men that'd wandered at my door, there was always a diplomatic way out of an otherwise uncomfortable situation.

There was hardly a point in delaying the inevitable. Besides, I could see how these people would be in rather the muddle once they were to realize I would be leaving shortly and they hadn't had the chance to address me on the matter of their respective interest.

I let him lead me down to the receiving hall, even though – as Master of the house- I was much more familiar with the surroundings.

The receiving hall had never been to my liking, although I suspected its construction must have been a consequence of Papa's many overlooked social obligations. As paradoxically as this may have sounded to the casual observer, it made perfect sense for those of us obliging in an active part on what was referred to as "the Hellsing front". After all, if one ignored one's responsibilities in a particular domain for a grander period of time, it was only natural to seek to make amends in one move heavily dependent on luxury. It was undeniably with such thoughts in mind that the receiving hall had been structured.

Firstly, each and every – absolutely every – piece of furniture bore the family crest underlined in gold. I had half expected the pieces to be mahogany, also, but was saved from such troublesome revelations by the fact that propriety had deemed it unwise that darken woods be utilized in one's living chambers. The wood was instead, cherry, and it required as much as weekly polishing and waxing lest the dust settle in or the surfaces loose their effect. Even the carpentry was some rich embroidery or the other, because I recalled a certain time in my childhood when Nana had advised that I also walk on the exposed flooring of that room lest my feet tangle in some of the strings and the entire be undone.

The place sickened me, though I could see why it would have been positively irreplaceable for a social event hungering dame de monde as Mama. My back still remembered the one too many occasions when bowing had been an unwanted and much detested necessity at her balls and small parties for twenty-four. Apparently, if one failed to bow explicitly and upon every sight to each of the present guests, then one was in the possession of a spine for no visible reason.

The party was made of three, and before I laid eyes on their fancy suits, I could tell they were aristocrats, and Top Sharks, like Robert. I could smell success on them, and this success came in the form of expensive cigars. They'd managed to fill the tray they've been provided completely, and as Cadwell bravely refrained from urging them to cease at once, I felt compelled to make them at ease. I motioned for a second ashtray to be delivered, just as Cadwell, closing the door delicately behind us, also found fit to give it a few discrete knocks demonstratively.

"Mister Christopher Hadrian Hellsing in attendance," he said, and this attracted their attention towards us instantly. I barely stifled a laugh at the irony of it. For days now, only the jovial "Kester" would reach my ears. And now that the drama had lessened, the more austere "Christopher Hadrian Hellsing" was indulged in. How quaint. I returned to my candid trio. Two of them, bearded and still of dark hair, retreated behind a third, blonde and elderly and cunning. Yes, above all else, cunning.

He was also studying me. "Greetings from all round," he said. "M'lord Hellsing." It was respectful, not cynical nor impatient.

"Greetings as well, sirs." I beckoned that they keep seated as they were, then pointedly leaned to the wall closest to the door, just as Cadwell made his way through. Message conveyed: I have no intention to waste more than the required time, and should appreciate it that you keep this in mind. Well, whether it was also a message received was debatable. With stoic charm, their delegate took his time in finishing a last cigar, whilst I carefully considered my plans for the night to come. In the end, even these were calculated, and they'd still not bothered to speak.

I began harboring dark suspicions of a conspiracy among them and Robert: somehow, my cousin had grown metal orifices and had wired some of his acquaintances to delay me. Yes, of course, as soon as the interview had ended…

…which it didn't seem to all too soon, as no one was uttering word here, no one at all…

…someone?

Please?

We were on a schedule, after all….

Speak? Now?

Oh, I was ever so terribly sorry, had they perhaps burnt off their tongues with their incredible cigars? My bad, old boys, so were those exchanged glances no more than plea for help?

Speak…

You, yes, you, the bearded one from the window! I could see you throwing me looks, you mightn't have bothered with denying it, no- no! You fiend, you turned.

You damnably turned.

Everyone was turning and no one was speaking, and there was a weary, overworked lawyer here, fully equipped with the patience to win in a contest of stares and waiting.

But with absolutely no desire to do so.

Please turn.

Please look.

Please?

Faithful to his designated charge, the blonde finally spoke with mild interest, "Sir Hellsing…"

Making a mental note to check whether Robert hummed or glowed in the dark, I looked up startled. "My Father's knighthood was a privilege to be earned, not inherited."

He nodded, distantly, fishing for another cigar in handy pocket of his smart suit. "Quite so. We are Sir Trevelian" – a nod from the treacherous fiend who'd turned- "Sir Kilsby-Gaynes" –another nod of acknowledgment, from the remaining post - " and I must recommend myself: Gerard Meredith Huyxley."

"Sir Huyxley," I repeated, noting the particular stressing of the Welsh influence. He himself nodded, this time.

"We have come to deliver condolences." Draining, reluctant words that were to be spoken. "On the part of our Lord, His Majesty, King George the Vth."

This was certainly something I hadn't imagined to be occurring, especially not then and there. Admittedly, a more solid response was to have been coming and should have been taken into consideration. His Majesty had already sported a keen interest in our lineage and, most importantly, in our welfare. Whatever their ties, Papa's actions had affected the crowned head of the country, as well as the country itself. I was forced to confess to a growing inner curiosity: what had Papa done, really?

It appeared everyone was to nod in the interval of an hour – because I was the one nodding heartily this particular time, sketching a thin smile to acknowledge their kind words.

"His Majesty is probably well aware that we are his to order and mold," I replied evenly, following all the rules of an unwritten etiquette.

"And His Majesty appreciates your loyalty and assistance enough as to act upon his sentiments. Sentiments you should do well to reflect accordingly, Sir Hellsing." I bravely attempted to ignore the fact that, in spite of my considerable disagreement, the appellative was still being put to improper use. They were the King's emissaries, after all. Sir Trevelian – traitor, I say, traitor!- took a step forward, produced a small letter, handed it in. Sir Huyxley, sketching a cold smile, relieved him of it then extended the finely gloved hand as well as its content towards me.

I gazed at it silently, recognizing the seal. While I had not professed all too extensively and my expertise could be argued, my Oxford education as well as the fact that, by birth right, I did pertain to the aristocracy, had made of a sought legal representative. I had had the chance of representing men who had, upon as much as the day of their verdict or even execution received such letters, subsequent to their sudden pardon. "Summons?"

I nonetheless took the envelope. It was hardly the done thing to keep the man with his hand held out as if a persistent beggar.

Sir Kilsby-Haynes – whom I noticed to have the most exquisite green eyes I had ever come across- picked up a cigarette, lighting it with ease. "An invitation, Hellsing."

And to this one I appreciated at least the initiative of respecting my initial desires.

I was immediately aware of two facts: one, that whatever the motivation behind such an interesting move, a refusal was unacceptable. Where none of the three had expressed direct hostility, they emanated the sort of authority that could arrange for bullets to reach the foreheads of the insecure or uncooperative. I didn't take to them in the least, and perhaps it was unwise of me to let as much become evident, as they had noticed my discomfort and were now on far more attentive towards my every word.

Secondly, there was the matter of the summons themselves and the fact that why in blazes one as obscure on a grander scale as myself should have earned Royal attention.

I decided to invest in the lesser, more trivial details. "To when is it addressed?"

"The twenty-fifth." A week from now. Good. This gave me good time to better asses the situation and estimate the possible implications to this unusual behavior.

I strained to sound all cool and composed and unwavering. "There is something of which I should be informed."

There was a slight hesitation before the "answer" itself came from Sir Huyxley's dry lips. "Should there be?"

Smoke had begun to rise a second time; Sir Trevelian gave a small, tactful cough as if to say: "my bad, old boy". But I wasn't as mindful towards the smoke as Cadwell should have had it appear. And I was certainly not as in awe of Sir Huyxley's emphasized hostility or his ambiguity as to require consolation.

"The King is preoccupied with the welfare of the Hellsing line," said Kilsby-Haynes slyly, "and he should only wish to ensure that.,. all goes well. Now that your esteemed Father has left us, and no notable arrangements have been made to suggest to otherwise, you are the rightful Hellsing heir."

"I am acquainted with the formalities."

"Yes, well, of course you are." Sir Trevelian dismissed my argument with a wave, then smiled, "Many congratulations on your recent success, Christopher. We never quite believed you'd pull old Henry through."

Sir Henry Boylen's case had quickly gone from Hyde Park's newest gossip to editorial glory: in a matter of two weeks since his arrest, the entirety of Lodon was sending its regards, as well as insuring us what a pity and absurdity it was that such fine men of the old gentry, as Sir Boylen, could be charged with what could only be unfounded accusations of fraud. This was particularly unpleasant for me, as, no more than five hours after Sir Boylen's spectacular pardon in front of the High Court, I had received both word and evidence of my client's dubious nature. This again did not humor me, as I made a habit of only taking on the few cases that I was certain that through my doing, justice could prevail.

I looked away. "Thank you."

"Yes, such a disastrous ordeal, wasn't it? Completely against all etiquette – why, the duke of Hamilton's in-law, just imagine, almost like cornering the King's kin themselves. What a mess, and ever so not the done thing," said Sir Huyxley. "His Majesty does so disapprove of all those who fail to remember they serve a purpose, and a liege, and should keep their noses out of anything else- don't you, Sir Hellsing?"

I quickly realized this particular discussion was heading downhill, and had as much to do with Sir Boleyn as Robert's coming here had with his love for the countryside. However, I hadn't the time to answer; he cut me off.

"And, of course, heavens! Just think of all the wrong people and the wrong influences one could encounter these days! They forget all about loyalty, and honor, and tradition – and he to whom they owe respect.
And I do wonder, is it a trait among the younger generations?" He sounded puzzled, though not alarmed.

What was he blabbering about? This was probably a poorly-hidden innuendo at that I oughtn't forget my place and my loyalties; but, in all honesty, whenever had I done such a thing, and why would the very King, or even his men, care?

"No. Certainly not." I looked him in the eye, striving not to show my faint amusement. Which was, understandably, of a curious nature: amusement caused by irony, irony caused by the meaningless façade everything carried, and façade generated by events beyond both my control and understanding.

Beyond my control and understanding. The journey. Robert. Hades, I would be late beyond belief.

I did my best to resume the bizarre interview by an attempt at a farewell and seeing myself out.

"Sirs, I pray that you should excuse me. A few matters have been brought to my attention, and it would seem my presence is urgently required in London. Of course, you understand…"- and propriety did sentence them to understanding, whether truthful or not- "perhaps our estate manager, Mister John Eliott, should see to your accommodation, should you decide to spend the eve here?"

They were uncertain on what to do or say, but also unwilling to risk saying more than the direct orders surrounding their assignment permitted them. Sir Kilsby-Haynes, ever the enterprising one, watched the light die down at the end of his cigar, as he crushed it to ashtray. Sir Trevelian was already on his feet, and as for Sir Huyxley, well, his glances hadn't parted with me for one second ever since I had entered. Such a strange man, this was.

I tucked the "invitation" safely in my vest's inner pocket. "Good evening to you, then, sirs. And again, your pardon."

"Sir Hellsing..." I stopped in my place., turning to be in the full of Sir Huyxley's meditative glance. "A word of advice. Your father committed a few grave errors. Do your best not to see to their repetition, or the consequences may exceed your normal view on severity."

With a few meaningless pleasantries, I excused myself, walking out as fast as my feet and etiquette would permit me to do so. It was only behind the closed doors of my now empty study that I noticed my hands were irrevocably shaking. I couldn't tell why. I couldn't understand why. I mentally knew there was absolutely no reason for the cold shadow over my heart and mind.

But I wouldn't leave the study until I could hear Cadwell's wishes of Godspeed and all the best, before seeing the hellish trio out.

I was not surprised upon descending the stairs to the main corridor, to find that Robert had already finished his letter and had endeavored in other sorts of worldly preoccupations. What did surprise me, however, was the fact that these preoccupations were, mayhap, just a trifle too worldly.

He was handling a pistol with wondrous detachment.

Cadwell was with him, with a shiny little box in his hands that contained what I later recognized as ammunition. It was not often, perhaps, that I let myself evaluate Cadwell's character or his abilities; but he appeared rather the multitalented sort. The clean, elegant moves by which he inserted the new set of bullets spoke of both a secure and skilled hand. Neither traits to be fathomed at a man his age, as I presumed him well in his fifties. His build was, however, entirely British, and so he'd aged well and somehow maintained a gentlemanly appearance. These was another factor that had provided reasons for my awe, when Robert had first seen to the introductions: Cadwell's stance and his very looks held something of the aristocracy. He was neither bulky, nor skeletal, and he hadn't favored the horrible Welsh pride of beards. His hair had gone a neat shade of white, and his eyes were the powerful blue of the Germanics. Even now I attempted to cling to these physical details, to the flesh and bone and perhaps so decipher of what the majestic air behind this man consisted.

I resumed my thoughts and went a few more steps down. They both glanced at me as I came, smiling evenly at my accusing silence. They had probably imagined that, especially coming from a professional environment that encouraged their usage – lawyers did have a number of "motley" acquaintances, after all- I would not approve of its presence.

"This is London. And above all else, this is London at night," Robert said simply, practicing a few target practice poses in what he described as an attempt to "get the feel" of the gun. He didn't shoot anything, thankfully: Cook appeared willing to throw a fit at no more than the sight of it, as it was. The fact that he had aimed the thing to her very head as she had come in to ask for our preferences for the following day's meal was a possible explanation as to why, since that day on, Robert's meals were either too hot, too cold or too salty, and why all his kitchen orders were seen to with a distinct delays.

Between moans and sniffs and the sporadic "Oh, the devil! Oh, the beast! Oh, my heart, my heart –it's pumping out from the fear, sir!", we managed to inform her that we weren't intending to dine at the manor for the day to come. Robert's remark that a few tarts would do him well on the road was somehow lost amidst sobs.

Our plans were as followed: Robert's man Cadwell had offered to drive us to the station, and then we would take the latest train to London. We'd be there by eleven, but as no one was to receive us, there was no need to concern ourselves with such trifling details. I didn't know whereon we would go, but…

"Shall we?" I folded the letter in my hands neatly. Robert was standing in the door, dressed up accordingly and in tune with the weather. He was wearing a shiny new coat the color of old gold, which would protect him from the cold that had been predicted in the region for the day to come. London wouldn't be spared, I knew, and this stimulated me to search for more appropriate clothing.

They followed me up to my dormitory: pale and poorly light and almost untouched, it had initially belonged to Papa and been assigned to me upon arrival due to my condition as new master of the house. I had not rebelled against this unwise and almost heretic decision the circumstances had not allowed for my disapproval towards the traditional ways. Besides, the dead, delivered by his associates from the medical committees, had needed to be watched, as said in the religious doctrine of choice. I'd spent my nights in the family crypt, near Papa's veiled body, wondering how on earth a man with presumably a heart of gold could end because of it. Hearts of gold couldn't suffer coronaries. But his had. Then I would retire in the study during the days, with several hours of rest between failed attempts at installing order at Hellsing manor.

Therefore, it was not all that surprising that upon entering my own quarters, I was helplessly lost and appalled by the strict practicality of the room. I had never seen the master's bedroom in close, though I had wondered, and I had also had my curiosity decently satisfied by several peeks as a child. Still, the overall was mesmerizing. There was nothing – nothing- there that spoke of a person having ever inhabited the place. The furniture was cut a stern and uninviting line, and the color set consisted of various coffees and a pastel honey on the carpets, which should have given a warm feel, but failed to do so. The uncomfortable sensation of intruding, as well as the expectation of Father coming up behind me and ordering me out of his room had not dissolved even now that I possessed knowledge of their childishness. This was mine now. Mine. But with one glance one could tell that this had been, was, and would always be Abraham van Helsing's chamber, and that I was invading a private place and private setting. Had I not be certain of my resolve before, it struck me clearly that keeping away from the master bedroom had been a wise, considerate decision. I made a mental note to have my possessions moved to other quarters – preferably my old ones – upon return.

My cases had been abandoned in a corner by the maidservants, who'd seen them in, and who'd also provided me with a change of shirt upon demand. I made to open one, but then noticed that someone had already cared for that, as well. The armoire in the corner – Papa's armoire- shadowed down on me like an open threat, and I stood there, in the middle of the room, a bit dumfounded and utterly confused...

A matter which, apparently, did not go unnoticed. Cadwell, father of two sons and therefore accurately acquainted with all the troubles of violated male territory, recognized my uncertainty and stepped in. He laughed and said quickly, "May I be of service, sir?"

I shook my head. Of course not. This – this was Papa's room, and that was Papa's armoire, but I was faced to the distinct knowledge of those being my clothes neatly arranged in the armoire. My behavior was childish and utterly sentimental. Hardly something Robert would have done, for instance, or that Father would have appreciated. But… installing in his place did feel as if banishing him, every sign, every part, every memory of him. Which I didn't mean to do. I didn't mean to replace him.

Oh, Hades. Perhaps the funeral had made me a touch distressed. But carrying on like this would only confirm Robert's suspicions, which would result in a possible delay of the trip. And this was unacceptable. So I dismissed Cadwell's offer and slid the two doors to the armoire, revealing indeed my clothing and my possessions. A number of grey or dark coats was available – the main advantage of a lawyer's occupation was that one was guaranteed to own a selection of attires suitable for funerals and weddings- and I glanced over them briefly. Hmm…one, two, oh, the one from Surrey, that one was wool, and-

My hands froze over a familiar lump of velvet, set tidily as the last layer with the sort of geometric precision that suggested that all the staff at the Hellsing manor might have endured additional courses in mathematical problems prior to their employment: the coat had been arranged at the precise angle to cut down on the space utilized but also that such avarice not lead to the unwanted consequence of the doors being unable to open.

Though this was hardly what captured my attention. The immaculate clothing itself did, particularly its jovial color: the sort of red whose intensity reminded one of rose petals dipped in wine and then some. A powerful, eye-catching red cloak. Father's red cloak.

For a moment, I was again webbed in the past, and the Christopher of the present was no more than a dignified stranger. I, myself, my true self was the toddler endlessly fascinated by his Papa in the day the cloak had first been seen, so long ago.

He'd brought it from Harrow, where he'd discarded my elder brother to a new academy. The cloak enslaved one's senses to adoration and nothing more. It was shocking, and spoke of a complete lack obeisance and of opulence in a time when discretion was not only advised but dictated.

"Christopher." Papa's tone was rich and grave and unsettling. And as all precocious children who understand so little of the books they are read by their nana's, all I could think of was that the villain of that Dumas tale, the cardinal with the unpronounceable name – yes, he should have had such a violently impressive cloak, and he too would whisper my name with such power and-

Cadwell's voice awoke me from my reverie. "Sir?"

"I shall have this cloak," the stranger informed Cadwell firmly, but those that rested on the thick fabric were my hands, and mine alone. Robert measured it appreciatively.

"This was uncle's, wasn't it?" He looked down to the floor for a long moment, then straight to me. "Wasn't it?"

My throat was suddenly dry. I – I wouldn't- I couldn't answer.

"Please see to that the letter to Gwendolyn be sent," I suggested. And then I got a stronger grip on the cloak and walked out.

My health had been suspiciously benign the day before, only to betray me completely in a time when it would have been much more appreciated. As a result, I was still subtly wiping little splotches from the corner of my mouth, blood spilt and unwanted, and what Cadwell quickly referred to as an ill omen where the journey be considered. Of course, Cadwell, as still under the service of his master, had been playing his part well, and offering no moral support in the least. I barely had him keep his silence on the matter, more than certain that Robert would never agree to the voyage where he fully in knowledge of the circumstances. He accepted once I gave my word to ensure that Robert be at peace. Such a good, loyal man, Cadwell was. Robert ought to have been content with his efforts – that is, when he was not busily clutching the silverware, adopting his hostile, Top Man, Oxford Shark and Man of Numbers Extraordinaire attitude. To his credit, I was inhibited by his aggressive stance. The way he held that spoon from his place, opposing me at one of the grander tables of the last train's dining compartment- well, he looked positively intimidating.

"Red has a talent for shadowing certain stains," I left slip, much to my immediate regret; Robert – witty and cautious Robert – was as always paying my every word attention and would not suffer an excuse without steering it to the realm of the dramatic. I couldn't say why I was bothering with an explanation, as he had yet to ask anything of me. I still couldn't help but feel, however, that the cape scene earlier on had given him reason to favor unbecoming speculations; and of course I couldn't allow it of him.

He folded his napkin, and then proceeded to attack a gigantic portion he'd been served of the day's special steak.

I was not one for extravagance – but it was often one's condition that made extravagance of even the average and moderate. And so it was that Robert could only look upon my few meals and little appetite with distaste and mayhap concern. I normally kept to a meal a day, if even that entirely, though I had explained to him that my lack of appetite was only an insignificant consequence of the action of my medication. He couldn't comprehend why I looked upon the richly adorned plates in front of me with reluctance, sometimes even apathy. These were extravagances to me, since I couldn't savor it. What was the point in wasting good food and good wine on me, when there were so many who out there – even here, with us, in this very wagon- who could better appreciate it?

But Robert lacked the energy for philosophical debates or allusions, or truth, today, this much I could see. Poor Robert – I must have been the perfect disappointment to him, and I hated it about as much as I hated myself for causing him all the trouble. No, better lull his senses, and his impulses. Better serve him a lie that he could bring himself to believe, until the time shall come and he shall be prepared for the horrid truth of it. But not now. I could not grieve me so now, when he was so drained.

Our glances both stopped on the faint reddish glitter of expensive wine, pertaining to the sort of bottle that would have made for many a vineyard's pride and a normal chap's monthly pay.

I laughed, lightly. "Robert, you're well aware how ghastly I am with wine and wine glasses. I do spill them far more than occasionally, and I have made an inopportune habit of having the coat as the traditional victim."

"Yes. Certainly. How foolish of me to even inquire. It's only natural that Uncle should have had a stash of clothing there. His house, after all."

"In all actuality, it was the only one there. Papa hadn't a habit of staying too long nor too often." I took a bite of the vegetable soufflé, grateful that at least the siding could be counted on to not have any meat. Meat would have been unbearable now, as I had far too little appetite to consume it, but also no wish to irritate Robert who was vaguely preoccupied by my nutrition. "He settled in Switzerland two years before I left the place as well. He did come over occasionally, but more often he would conduct his affairs from outside the borders. When the travels began, I – and the house as well- saw little of him, aside for those times of urgency when he made a heroic appearance or wrote direct instructions."

We both pretended that we weren't recalling the disaster with Uncle Thomas and his offer to take me in, but the following moments of uncomfortable silence showed just to what our thoughts were directed.

Robert changed the subject with uncharacteristic subtlety – either that, or the situation had truly grown in such a desperate need for a pretext, that all those provided would be immediately deemed valid. "But weren't you lonely?"

"No." I shrugged. "Nana was there, and I have never been one for too much company, and-"

He gave me a skeptical look. "He abandoned you."

"He was grieving, Robert. My brother's death…it marked all of us." This was the least that could be said of a demise that had stormed our family, leaving nothing but destruction and grief in the place of everything that had been in its path. Papa had shed his tears all over Europe. Mama had wept her own in an asylum that she had only left when under the eternal protection of her mahogany coffin. We always had that. Mahogany. Papa had died and I had issued a request for mahogany, and they had asked whether I meant to place a command for the family crest on the side as well. Mahogany and family crest. The Hellsing specialty.

Unperturbed by such cynical thoughts and likely still pondering the family drama, Robert heaved a sigh – though not the most unexpected question with it:

"How did Arthur die, Kester?"

"Arthur…" I said quietly, sensing the weariness that was building in me. Two unimaginable things had just taken place, both of which had been decreed unpardonable in my early youth. One was uttering the name of my brother, whom I had learned to not as much as think of under his rightful God given appellative. Arthur. A simple name of legend, the name of the hero that he was to never become. Secondly, he had also brought up the matter of my sibling's demise, which was again something that would have made a mess of Papa's temper, and that therefore had not to be remarked upon, if only to save him the trouble. I didn't know which to condemn first. But then, Robert was not at fault, as he could not have known. No, he can't have known. And, well, Papa was no longer, so no true sin had been committed.

"Arthur." I repeated, hoping that saying the name would evoke worthier memories of this lovely creature that the angels had chosen to play with. But it didn't. The curse had not lifted, and the curse still burned. Arthur. Arthur. Arthur…My hands brushed over my temples, massaging them softly in unconscious motion. Something was there: knowledge that I could feel burrowed too deep in the levels of my mind, teasing me, almost. I had been so young and so careless at the time, but there was something I remembered, perhaps if I concentrated a bit, I-

"Shhhh…" I breathed in loudly as an unfamiliar twinge of pain settled in, as if something was perforating every nervous tissue in my head and then some – Arthur – Papa and the red cloak- I … For a moment, all sound faded with the exception of the delicate pulse I could only associate with the beat of my heart, or that of my temples. The pain was there, alive and strong, and intense.

"Kester." Robert. Robert was speaking. I could see him move very, very slowly, and I could read the word on his lips, but I could barely hear it. "Kester." Something cold brushed my lips. It was Robert's doing, as he kept a glass of wine at my mouth.

I thought it the first time in known history that sentience would be returned by alcohol. It was. I was immediately greeted by Robert's looks of concern, to which I only replied with a slight nod.

"You shall have to forgive me. I can't remember the details, though I expect it was some sort of unclassified disease," I said in an end, and then felt forced to motivate my unbecoming ignorance. "It upset Papa greatly that he should have to discuss it. "

Robert's eyes moved to the glass in my slightly shacking hand. "Never you mind. Are you all right?"

I smiled faintly and then gave my supper a tired look.

"Shall we be on our way?"

I should have liked to retreat in our compartment and perhaps catch an hour of rest before arrival. He obliged, and so I was ridded of the troubles of desert.

When sleep failed to court me, as to my original hopes, I resumed to devoting my time to a better comprehension of Papa's reports. What I had expressed at the manor upon their immediate lecture had been horror and, above all else, a horror that had eliminated all possibilities of apprehension in concern to the documents at hand. I hadn't memorized a thing, and I believed that, at this point, all information on the given situation would be of vital importance.

As a first observation, the reports, unlike the letter expressing his final wishes, had indeed been written by Papa and Papa alone – if not for the hand writing, then there was also the evidence of his unmistakable style, neat yet laconic. He had elaborated a list of characteristics and their subcategories, with explicit data and examples for the both. His account tangled both the vampiric traits and how they were expressed by the particular vampire to enjoy his attentions.

As Robert dozed off a bit, after several biting remarks on how ungracious both Cook and myself had been to deny him a dessert, I launched in a more accurate read. And, this time, I took it from the beginning, to the very end, taking the time to put down a small summary of own making, with quotes and notes based on the original.

In the end – and this was a version I presented to an uninterested Robert who dismissed me under the pretext of the lack of sugar having blinded him- to document – the results were satisfactory:

The vampire is a creature damned by most known religious doctrines, though no detailed or precise knowledge concerning the exact time or mean of their creation has been presented.

Their abilities are surprisingly ambivalent: their lust for blood, while satiating their hunger and regenerating as well as, at times, enforcing their powers, may also be their downfall. They may come to find the thirst uncontrollable, which shall weaken their composure and create their vulnerability. By nature, the vampire is impulsive, unable to contain its emotions, its desires. It reacts on basic level of primates; however, while their reasoning does follow the priorities of defense and nutrition, they are not avoid of logic. In fact, they are particularly gifted in dissimulation, and are often aided in this psychological talent by their capacity of metamorphosis. (see account of subject's transformation to mist upon Papa's initial attempt to seal him). They are possessive and shall not renounce what they feel is their belonging. Another vampire wishing to intrude upon their territory shall be massacred without any reluctance. Those who wish to interfere with the vampire's pets or chosen playthings shall suffer a fate worse than death.

The regeneration ability mentioned above appears frequently within Papa's reports: it was more than at hand after the incidents of the cutting of his limbs, draining of blood (starvation, though the term is used improperly – apparently, time spent without blood weakens them nearly to the point of extinction, but does not succeed in killing them), burning of bones and during the sealing itself.

Note: must indulge in more ardent research on the matter of the sealing itself, as it is only mentioned here and am uncertain of what it entails: from the offered information, it ties the vampire to the human entity, a tie both made and maintained by blood and that introduces the implied servitude.

I had then continued on with remarking the methods by which the vampires, the traditional vampires, that is, could indeed be destroyed. My hand had been shaking –and with it, the pen- in realizing that all these methods had been tested on Papa's subject, before they'd drawn the conclusion that the sealing was the only mean by which to keep him in control.

Control. In control. Control over him, or death. Oh my God.

I threw the papers aside, and heroically tried not to think of it, any of it.

I couldn't tell when I managed to go to sleep. But nonetheless, the darkness took me.

Much to own satisfaction, nightmares had always avoided me. Dreams per whole were a rare occurrence, and so I normally indulged in hours of fully reviving sleep. Obviously, however, the day's events had overwhelmed me enough so to ensure not only a terrible migraine upon wakening, but also a curious display of my subconscious' troubles: suspiciously familiar scenes that my memory could not place.

"Silly baby," Arthur was saying, tall and gracious and sophisticated, as all boys would appear to their decade younger siblings. He was imposing for his fifteen years, but so very kind – a quality I kept admiring with every visit to the nursery, my nursery; he came often and always brought gifts; he also never took any of my toys and hadn't an interest in robbing me of nana, so I liked him.

He was standing over my own bed. I no longer slept in the nursery – I was an adult, now, all grown up and five years old and not afraid (or not overly so) of the dark, but I'd been assigned that bed again as Papa had company, and the "company" preferred the sort of view to the woods that only my room could provide.

It didn't matter that I'd had to move. I had my balloon with me, the big red one that nana had given me when Mama and Papa and Arthur had gone away to greet "company" at the station and I'd been left alone and I'd been miserable. I liked the balloon. It bounced when I gave it just the slightest push, and I laughed at the pretty colors it sported when the moon beams came over it, through the open window.

Pretty colors. White. Pink.

"Silly baby," Arthur said again. Arms folded, he was leaning to the door, looking devilishly handsome as he smiled. He was a hero, I had long decided; if not for own merits, the rank would still have been granted to him by Greek mythology decree – nana had read me Vergilius, and while some matters escaped me (such as how, for instance, came babies simply as the hero and heroine embraced?) the fact that Achilles had been Themis' son, the son of deity proved my point. Heroes were the offspring of gods, and what was Papa but a god in his own right? So of course Arthur was a hero because of that.

But Arthur was also beautiful. I loved Arthur for his golden hair, and his blue-blue eyes and muscular build just as I loved him for not taking my toys away or nana.

Another bounce. White. Pink. Orange.

I laughed again. Arthur's sophisticated tastes were not as easily satisfied, and so he turned to the window, keeping it in a long silent watch. Then abruptly, he said to me, "Come with me."

I bounced my balloon again.

White. Orange. Pink. Red.

Red on the balloon as it landed.

Red on the looking glass as if played with the light.

Red on-

I shook my head. It was dark, and nana had said I wasn't to leave my bed. So I pursed my lips tightly and shook my head again.

"Don't you want to have a little fun?" Arthur persisted, and while I wouldn't answer, neither did I say anything when he picked me up from the bed and took me in his arms, carrying me out of the nursery and into the corridor. I waved bye-bye to my balloon as it fell gracelessly to the floor, and I looked up and around quietly.

Arthur was keeping me in perhaps too tight a grasp, but I didn't mind. I liked to be carried around, and I liked Arthur. Two things that made for a lovely combination.

But I didn't like grandsire. And grandsire – "company"- was waiting in the dark corridor. And as he and Arthur exchanged a glance, I caught sight of the twisted, well-known key in his hands, and I shuddered. I asked of Arthur to let me down, and writhed, but he wouldn't. We weren't allowed there. Only bad things came from there. We weren't to go there, no, no, and especially not during the night, no- I shook in Arthur's arms, but he paid me no notice. I wanted my bed. I wanted my balloon.

I wanted it all to be over.

My heart was pounding when conscience returned to me and when, to paraphrase Robert, dreamland was again no more than a getaway at the end of a claret bottle.

"We're a bit over an hour to London," said Robert, hastily. I noticed the pink gin glass in his hand, and he met my look of puzzle with a shrug. "Got bored."

He came to his feet. "Good thing you came to your senses, too – you were all mumbling and muttering in your sleep. Thought I'd have to ring for the House of Assumption and their welcome party!" We shared a laugh, and then he said, "I should like a bit of pie, in all truth."

I nodded. "You shan't mind if I rest a bit while you have you randomly wake up half of the train's staff to produce you a low quality desert you could have gone without, do you?"

"Not in the least. But don't you dare ask me for a spoonful, as I'll be bringing none back for your ungrateful sort!"

The door closed behind with a small thud that complimented both his strength – train compartments always had the most troublesome doors- and his determination to disregard all known protocol without the slightest sign of remorse.

He'd left his glass behind, and this intrigued me further. I could see he hadn't touched it in the least.

I closed my eyes, willing sleep. Somehow, I still felt invariably tired. The entire ordeal had likely got to me, and there was also the intolerable burn in my neck that usually preceded another fit, and more coughing, and more blood.

A soft creek announced Robert's return, and I casually prepared myself to inquire on the entire gin glass mystery. "Decided against that pie?"

"Do forgive me," came the answer; but it wasn't Robert. The owner of this incredible voice had likely spent his years in a great variety of milieus, as his accent varied between strong cockney, then a very unusual stressing of his vowels, and – my eyes snapped open.

An accent I couldn't place. The voice. This voice. I knew it. I quickly recalled the phone call, and my disastrous mean of putting an end to it.

"I would never have dreamt of intruding, " the man explained. "But, then, we did have such a messy start, didn't we? And I couldn't find you, nor had I heard word of you – and it's quite horrid to be asked to do this on your own- especially as I'm the only one they've got around. They're sending more important figures up, naturally – why, I say, even Father Caeta might come up- but they have to come from Italy, you see, and so it might take a while – and how incredibly real you look, Mister Hellsing, why, I always thought you'd be this frail old man with not a care in the world, and here you are, so dashing, really, and of course this is all so thrilling!"

I was immediately overwhelmed by both his audacity, and his immense joie de vivre. He can't have been more than my age – and I could see, by the pattern followed by his dark clothing, that he'd been ordained. I aimlessly tried to place his heritage on account of his physical aspect, but this proved a futile task indeed. His hair hung in little auburn curls, and his eyes danced in a light brown. A generous mouth revealed all teeth quite in place, and to this added an impeccable skin (the sort that would have made for most women's object of envy) and an average stature, he could well have been anywhere from the New World to the Philippines and then Mother England.

But this wasn't necessarily what bothered me – his entire attitude was alarmingly lively. He seemed to emanate all the life and happiness of an order supposedly devoted to modesty. I suddenly felt very, very old.

"I'm Tomaso – well, Thomas, really- Fiorelli," he beamed, and all I could think of was, oh, indeed, another Thomas to ruin my day, how rich.

Another matter, however, became clearer to me. Where was the dark hair? Where was the aquiline nose? How was it the room did not shrink when he walked in, at the sight of his Roman majesty?

But, more importantly, where was the bloody Italian accent?

He seemed to notice my curiosity, or plain felt like storytelling. "Well, I've never been here, on this side of England, even though I spend half the year here, half home, but, really, London's more where I personally linger, and isn't the city marvelous, by the way?"

I couldn't tell. It took me a bit, between his ramblings, to realize he'd actually asked me anything.

"But then, of course, living there, it really wouldn't seem too much for you, but I'm from Padua, myself, and while it's lovely there too, it's rather nothing when compared to this!"

"Brother Fiorelli…"

"Oh, beg pardon, you probably want to know just what I'm doing here? Do excuse me for the time, by the way, but you've so rarely been alone, and I needed to get a word with you, and I didn't need company. And, well, you understand, you're a lawyer, lawyers know certain inconveniences shall always be met when the call of one's profession intervenes!" And then, just as easily as he had ranted the entire of his uninteresting tale, he threw me the most amazing news. "I'm from Vatican, well, Iscariot, but that's really almost the same thing, and I'm here to help you with the vampire crisis."

The door slammed open. "Kester, you won't believe this, but they positively refuse to serve until seven, and I so was intent on my pie, so I went and woke the chief myself. And, oh, just look what I have here for you, you ungrateful bastard- " Robert stopped dead in his track, thin light pouring over the incredibly generous piece of pie on the plate he was holding almost ceremoniously. Fiorelli gave him a small nod of greeting, while I casually moved more towards the window, admiring an inexistent view.

"Robert," I said in an end, when the matter at hand could really no longer be delayed without the gesture in itself reeking discourtesy. "You had better have a seat."

Briefing Robert seemed to demand the passing of an entire age on its own – the age of the impatient, perhaps?- but I stoically endured it all, from my uncomfortable little seat. Naturally, his first question was…

"So whom did you say you're representing, again?"

"Iscariot." Fiorelli glanced to us, and I nodded, not a little amused. Such a fetching name, truly. Judas the Iscariot, often associated with vampire myths as well as those of other undead, claimed to fear silver due to the nature of the price asked to betray his betray his master: ten coins of silver for the Messiah.

An unruly tale, and not one to be contested or adopted with as much devotement. How and why, given the definite accusation written between fine lines, the Vatican had accepted such label was a riddle in itself, and one I couldn't help but find humorous. But one of us had had his fill of the theological dogma.

"Iscariot?" Echoed Robert confusedly, and Fiorelli chuckled, gaining himself the rare privilege of one of my cousin's looks of full contempt. I could only find blame for this little lacuna in Robert's disclosed intellectual exhaustion that had resulted after one too many straining years of an Oxford education. I myself had experienced something of the sort for a few months after earning my degree – the mere sight of a book had become appalling. But this curious disposition had not been long lived, for reasons that made of me a learned man of circumstance: in time, books grew company. Perhaps not the most jovial, nor the most affectionate. But company, still, and I had had my share of moments when company had been more than lacking.

The discrete feel of laughter in the air reminded me of the one I would find, now, and how company would always suffice hereon. I briefed Robert on the matter, and he was more than delighted:

"Such a remarkable confession!" He laughed as I finished my account, with all the life of the man in the position and power to ridicule his lesser. Fiorelli, to his merit, maintained a scrupulously unreadable expression, as if guessing just how little his overly happy nature did to impress my tired, irritable and unfed cousin. On my part, I simply shook my head. But Robert wasn't easing things in the least, "Why, you're flaunting the very fact that vampirism was proclaimed by your Lord Christ and your religion!"

Fiorelli flushed, then replied. "It's a touch more complicated, but, yes. Well, it's all mentioned in Matthew's book, and how odious it is to have to study that in the first year, and-" Robert's menacing expression returnd him to the topic at hand. "It's part of why Abraham Hellsing chose us to aid him in his… troubled days." This term in reference to the time Papa had likely wasted in inventing new means of tormenting him was ghastly yet too gentle.

"You shall have to forgive me, but there's something I can't well bring myself to understand." I silently reached for Robert's abandoned gin glass, took a sip. "No offense intended, naturally – but why would Papa go to such great lengths to reach the Vatican?"

"Yes, why would Uncle bother himself as much when he and the Archbishop seemed the best of friends? What did the Vatican do to raise his interest?"

"It's not so much about what the Vatican did…rather, about what the monarchy failed to do." Fiorelli, for all his initial inconsistency, had miraculously recovered from his absurd fit of happiness, and was now making himself most useful. How much this had to do with Robert's patting of the discreetly exhibited pat of his pistol, as well as the sudden grin on his face, I couldn't say. "The King did not support your father's attempt to make use of vampires."

"It's come to my understanding that it's really all he could do under the circumstances. He couldn't kill him, and it was more a problem of method than intention."

Robert gave off a wry laugh. "Tell that to the good ol' Royal hound. The King felt that Uncle was going against his wishes?"

"Still does. Reckon it's understandable, to an extent. There seemed to be only one of them at the time, and that's the one Abraham and the Archbishop were keeping in such a loose leash. And then he had that row with the Canterbury officials…"

I looked from Fiorelli to Robert, yet saw no compassion in either's eyes. Fiorelli was thrilled by, well, everything. Robert was astonished. My voice was a series of chokes when I next spoke, " So he believes the Archbishop and my father kept – that the Archbishop and myself are keeping..."

"Him as a weapon against the Monarchy."

Fiorelli shrugged, uncomfortably. "This is the point when Abraham Hellsing sought aid outside the borders. He presented the Vatican with an offer that we couldn't refuse. He – and you now – are under our protection. So is, um, the fanged one." I somehow felt the urge of bursting into laughter at the thought of Fiorelli protecting anyone, even himself. Better without, I decided, and then smiled. The fanged one. Oh my.

"We would have contacted you earlier on. But no one quite expected your dear father to go the way that he did – hadn't told a soul he suffered from heart deficiencies- and the greatest needed to be kept, and, well, we couldn't know whether… " He stopped, looked away.

The words were lost between us. They couldn't know whether I'd outlive my father.

"So what now?"

"They know where he is kept, as do you. They can't have reached him. Only a Hellsing can. Don't know why, they never told me." Another shrug. Of course, this probably had quite a lot to do with the initial comment he'd made within the frames of our bizarre introduction – he was only here momentarily, as he was the closest thing the Vatican could spare to reach me, before their other members managed to do so. "Still, they'll likely be there. I shan't lie to you. If you as much as near the perimeter, they'll decree it as treason on your part for incurring the favors of a potential weapon."

Silence.

Robert found his words with an enraging calm that I couldn't echo for the time being. "Well, such I shall be unbearably prosaic and speak the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth – isn't this how it goes, Kester?" Trying to collect my shattered thoughts, I nodded. "What I believe the chap's trying to tell us, old boy, is that if we as much as get off this train and go to that backwater alley, we'll get picked on and then up, and possibly arrested."

Again I nodded, absently, lost in a sea of arbitrary thoughts and an increasing frustration. How quaint. The Monarchy wanted us down for trying to help it out, but it wouldn't bother with explaining its reasons, or telling us this fetching tale. They can't have bothered with a note of, don't bring the vampire back, will you? But they'd gladly lock us up – and this was probably why the King wanted to see me, didn't he? To threaten me into submission? But what did he hope to accomplish with that, when he'd had sufficient proof that my Papa's loyalties lay with his studies, first, and when, above all else, I was and would always be my Father's son?

Unsurprisingly, Sir Huyxley's parting words came to mind.

Your father committed a few grave errors. Do your best not to see to their repetition, or the consequences may exceed your normal view on severity.

So many words to describe that we were presently in ever the muddle.

Author's horribly long note: …and we're back. So sorry on the delay, really. My thanks to all those who've reviewed or e-mailed or whatnot. Believe it or not, I do appreciate it terribly. My apologies on the poor quality of this present chapter – it's what I (for one) call a fill-up piece. A plot fill-up piece, that is, as, while all the scenes are irrevocably necessary for the plot to come, there's also little to none tangible action. Well, pity for that.

Do have a bit of patience up to the next chapter for any Alucard interaction, if you will.

(and to all those who were going to complain on Fiorelli's horribleness, and how he'd never have been made a priest – have a bit of trust. Not too much, but just a bit. Fiorelli's…amusing, in his own little way, and there's a tale and a reason to his constant sugar rush, really.)

Well, that will be that. In good badfic spirit: Kester wishes you all the best, Robert advises against pie at late hours, and, um, Alucard mainly encourages severe fangirling. That is all. (oh! And whomever gets the little word play with a Hellsing being named Hadrian gets a bit of fangirling of his/her own).