Rating: PG-13, might go up to R. (PG-13 for this chapter)
Dedication: to Mish, the lovely Puck ¾, whose birthday we celebrated on a tolerably recent date as for the dedication not to come in excessively poor taste. And to Thess. Thess, I love you for it. I would squee to all eternity for it. Which reminds me. Ta-ta-ta-ta… --whistles-- ta-ta-tata- Se-u-ra-me-tum…--whistles-- Thess is goddess mine, ruler of the universe, supreme being of Hellsingness!
Author's notes at the end.
--------------------
August the 14th , 1994 –
Present article ceded to the English Crown and by Italian decree on the 8th of August, six standard days prior to current date.
Article granted to the Hellsing institution on the 11th of August.
Article included in the Hellsing authorised archives after a three day (11th -14th of August) test period and verification of authenticity. Test results accept an error rate of 2 due to the age and condition of the document, but may verify it as having been handwritten by Christopher Hadrian Hellsing. Psychological interpretations also confirm that the structure, style and mean of expression pertain to the Lord Hellsing.
Further notes: The following article is only a copy. We believe the original to still be located under Iscariot and consequently Vatican jurisdiction.
Recommendations: the following, albeit an acknowledged as truthful account should never found the basis for one's arguments or conclusions. It is widely known that, if someone should have benefited from altering this document and presenting it as an accurate depiction, than that particular individual would have been waving Roman banners.
-Integral Hellsing
Early 1900 – ? (Undetermined due to nature of death)
Christopher Hellsing
"I don't care for you to go, please don't, oh please don't!" He smoothed my hair into place, hand still trembling, still carrying that smell. He was crying, which was odd, as he was not in the habit of shedding his tears when in anyone's company. And never before me.
I clung to the sleeve of his shiny red coat, but he slapped my hand away as if my mere touch could burn him. "Is it because of what I did? I'm sorry –do pardon me! Beg pardon, sir, please! Don't leave again, I'm sorry for what I did, I'm really sorry. Trust me, sir… Papa, I meant none of it! None of it! Arthur was just - I didn't mean to-"
"No! You mustn't say it! You must never say it, and we must never talk of it, do you hear me? Never. This never took place, and you know it, don't you?"
"Yes, sir…"
He clasped my hands together and into his greater own. The smell poisoned the air, sickened me, made my eyes water. I hadn't even taken note of my tears, though they now stung my eyes as I nodded to all his words. "Never took place, say it after me, you never did this, you never saw him in that state, you know naught of it!"
"Never happened," I repeated in my mind, again and again, until I finally managed the whisper.
"Yes. I need my peace. I…I need my peace after all this. Vienna, that's perfectly close, still on the continent. I'll return shortly. A year or two, no more. " I looked away, trying to hide my sobs as much as I could. It wouldn't do for a boy of my age to sob, it would displease Papa terribly. And maybe, maybe if I was brave, then he'd reconsider. Maybe he wouldn't leave…
"Please try to understand, I could never…it could never be as it was."
"But it never happened, did it?" I'd learned my lesson well. A bitter smile repaid this precocity.
"Yes, it never happened. From the minute you walk out of these woods, it all becomes a a bad, bad dream, and you must never tell a soul of it, Christopher." And I was nodding again, nodding as I knew would please him. "You must never tell, Christopher. Swear that you'll never tell."
"I shall never tell, sir…"
Sir…
Sir?
"SIR!"
My eyes snapped open and reality dawned in, choosing the unappealing form of a darkened train compartment and Tomaso Fiorelli's face as he leaned over me. He ceased shaking me at once and excused himself to his place. "We've just stationed."
I nodded, warily. "How long have I…?"
"About half an hour. You appeared in need of rest, so Mister Robert suggested we leave you as you were until we'd be coming by London."
I tried to get up on my own but accepted Fiorelli's extended hand and his willing support upon failing miserably. Scouting for Robert proved futile. "Where is he?"
Fiorelli shrugged. "Already down. Said he could do with a bit of air."
He pried with my sleepy stupor and we slowly made for the corridors, and then the train's exit altogether. The conductor bowed his head in small courtesy to Fiorelli. Catholic, no doubt. Catholic, perhaps like my very father. I could see why Robert required his peace, why I myself had benefited from rest. So much of the present version of our accepted truth was growing alarmingly intolerable.
----------
He was smoking a thin French cigarette when I found him, which was odd, as I had been most certain that he was not in the habit. I could certainly not tell where he'd got the blasted thing to begin with.
"I apologize for the delay," I said in the stead of greeting. "You should have woken me earlier." He nodded, blissfully engaged with his cigarette, thin shallow smoke rising up and poisoning the air.
"It's all right."
"We ought to leave, Robert. If we want to-"
"Be on time for our arrest?" His eyes were watery; I wanted to think it was from the smoke, but there was a pale light of fatigue on his handsome face. "What's the ultimate goal here? None. We can't even place any trust in this Fiorelli sod, can we? Of course not. More fools we if we did. But if what he says is true… "
"There shall be no arrest. We're not committing any sort of treason. Unless they have substantial proof to otherwise, we are in full liberty to do as we will. And they can't produce such proof. Anything that is there is ours. Hellsing property, dead or alive." I offered him my hand and after a pause I said, "Our blood. Our lineage. Our heritage. We have to claim it."
"Why?" He said in disgust. "For you?"
"No. For you, for your children." I took a deep breath. "For Hellsing."
He threw the cigarette away, the light yet to have burnt from it completely. Robert had a pretty golden watch, and he consulted it before, sounding irritated, he dashed off to where Fiorelli was standing, crying, "For Hellsing. Vivat Hellsing, and to blazes with the rest of us!"
I saw him go, and then I looked at my hand. This hand that never reached him.
----------
We took our time in reaching there, wherever there truly was. Now, theoretically, I knew perfectly well where the address scribbled hastily on Papa's letter was situated; it was one of the many edifices placed in the northern alleys near the Opera. While the very idea of holding a vampire in the middle of the civilized world left me the thick taste of irony in the back of my mouth, I still couldn't but be fascinated by both the madness of Papa and his associates and their genius.
We walked on for the better part of an hour. Grubby streets and their grubbier inhabitants gave us the greet of doom that was London at winter's pass, and yet I couldn't but feel sadly at home. Hellsing manor may well have been the altar of my early childhood – but when it came down to it, London was where all the Hellsings would return. London was our haven.
Fiorelli kept looking back a few times, and this annoyed a cranky Robert to no end. He rolled his eyes as we made our way through Hyde. "Is anything wrong, brother?"
Fiorelli's brows narrowed in little but one tight V. "No…" But he looked back all the same.
"So what exactly are we to find?" I asked, between heavy breaths. Exercise. I lacked exercise under any form and should likely follow it whilst supervised in order to assure future results. As it was, I should have had a better outcome had I crawled all the way to the god-forsaken place.
"Oh, well, nothing much, I suppose. A vampire, probably terrifying, century-aged, oh the usual."
Robert kicked at the green in which he'd sunk his foot. I shook my head wearily at the silent question haunting his eyes. No, I did not know what that was. Yes, I did think it for the welfare of my sensitive stomach that I did not ponder the answer. Yes, I did believe he should throw the pair out as soon as we arrived back at the manor. "The…usual?"
"Well, yes. I say, have you never seen a vampire before?"
My cousin snorted. "But of course we have! Right there with the Dark man, ghosts and –what was that, Kester? Santa Claus, was it?"
I nodded. "I liked Santa. And the Easter Rabbit. Terribly nice fellows, a bit cheap on the presents-"
"Yes, yes, and Uncle Abraham was so suited by that white beard, didn't you find? Beard and big bad stake, the season's accessories."
"Quite. Vampires aren't all that much, more the talk about them than anything else – why I remember when I first ran into one, gave me the chills, really, but that's only because I didn't know you could just-" And suddenly his eyes were little but popping out and what I had once believed a delicate, talented hand became every agriculturer's dream. He drew me down with him and felt compelled to make sure I got the hint by yelling in the most sensitive spot of my ear:
"DOWN!"
What followed was an unexpected wave of chaotic movement, and then a fury of sounds; Robert, still retaining his dignity was all cool and collected, standing and taking a perfect aim at…a bush. A stray dog wagged his tail in a friendly manner, and the only threat it seemed capable of posing was that of chewing our ears off. We could almost count his ribs.
I tried to push Fiorelli off me and then got to my feet. "There's nothing there."
He laughed lightly. "So there isn't!"
And then he walked up from behind the stray.
"Fratello Fiorelli."
I could see even before he had deemed to utter word that the man was clearly and irrevocably Italian. Unlike Fiorelli, he did fit the pattern, and most excellently. A slight aged, a man in mid forties, he had the mature fortitude and rough elegance of all this Roman gent, as well as their arrogance. There was nothing not even the distinguished cross on his chest could do to draw him in a modest light.
Fiorelli brought me up – damned be those hands. I had never thought he could – well- he did seem so tiny, now didn't he? Then again, so did some oxes. I took a moment to ponder whether we had been in grave error all this time and could have spared ourselves his conversation by conveniently providing him a pile of grass. If he didn't have those sort of inclinations, well, he could just overlook it and we'd all pretend naught was amiss – otherwise, though, let the man have his grass, I say!
"Yessssss…? That would be…me…"
"Suscepit Israel puerum suum, recordatus misericordiae suae. "
Brother Fiorelli's frown deepened. "Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros, Abraham et semini ejus in saecula. "
I little but choked as he chanted the name – Abraham. Abraham like my Father, and Abraham like the biblically accepted Father of us all.
"The Magnificat?" I said politely in English. Though privately thankful for the then obligatory investment in studying Latin during my time at Oxford, I felt there was no need for a show of conceit and that I should therefore keep to a language that I knew myself capable of mastering.
Fiorelli gave me a circumspect glance, but nonetheless nodded. "It appears my replacement's arrived." The priest stepped forward. "I am the Lord's Servant, Cesare."
"Father Cesare," Robert repeated. "And you'll be our escort?"
"If you will take me."
My cousin gave him a rare smile. "I never did fancy dying without a priest around."
"And you'll unfortunately have to do with a brother," Fiorelli said suddenly. The elder priest kept his silence for a moment, but could hardly abstain from all comments.
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. I would rather an Iscariot – someone they're acquainted to already- take them further."
I tried to settle things out, but Cesare suddenly feigned delight, and gave us a laugh. "Oh. Well. How nice. I'll be sure to inform the Holy Council of your…zeal."
"Do that."
"Tread with care, boy."
"Is that a threat or advice, my Father?" Brother Fiorelli enquired blandly.
"A suggestion, my son. A suggestion. Don't place a higher wager than we can all afford to lose."
"Si. Arrivederci?"
"Wait just a minute," began Robert, oddly shy, "don't we get a say in this?"
We didn't.
Cesare secured our way out of Hyde but sadly wouldn't join us any further.
"This is more than your heritage," he told me as he Fiorelli and Robert took lead and I was with no one to keep me company, "This is a matter of grave importance. So many things run at risk that it is your duty to retrieve a part of the past that can so greatly influence the future."
I should have liked him to stay, as he clearly seemed the more informed of the two, and this thought led to another. I wondered from what exactly had stemmed his particular acceptance. If anything, Fiorelli's rank was well beneath his own, and so why in the world should it have mattered what the brother would have to say?
To Robert's regret – "Just a bit of feeding, Kester, you wouldn't imagine what I could make of him!"- we had to leave the mutt behind. For just a moment, as he bobbed his head and gave a little sigh, Cesare looked very much the stray dog himself.
----------
"What was that? " Robert asked, as we made past yet another lowly square whose identity I could barely make out in obscurity. Dawns would not be soon upon us, or so I reckoned, for the winter nights had always been most unforgiving in the British plains. I rather suspected they would not be particularly lenient in the one night when a bit of light, at least, would give a hand in seeing where to turn right, if not put our qualms at bay.
Fiorelli shrugged. "What was what?"
"That. You – didn't you- you said you'd pass us on to your higher authorities, to anyone else Iscariot sends over to replace you. Now, are blind AND daft? Here, Kester, give the man your hat that he may go and beg a bit and earn us a fair penny! THAT WAS YOUR REPLACEMENT, YOU INCOMPETENT! You were supposed to hand us in!"
For reasons beyond me, I'd begun to feel just a slight dizzy. Tired, too, although I couldn't tell Robert, he'd have insisted on that we lay claim on a room for a few hours, and we couldn't waste the time. My head was threatening to burst. The exchange between my two companions came and went, like the auditive equivalent of mismatched shadows.
"Oh. Well, I changed my mind."
Head…hurt…
But it never happened, did it?
"…you changed your mind."
"Yes. Listen, Cesare's just an old dog, looking for old bones. Daily digest now: there are no older bones than a vampire's. And besides…there's bad blood between Cesare and…uch…everyone else? So you're better off with me, truly. "
We groaned but soldiered on.
I turned back to wave Cesare off, in one vague attempt of maintaining some form of courtesy.
He wasn't there.
----------
It had originally been built as a medical facility, but then the administration had sadly drained its funds and been forced into selling it into private management.
"Doctor Hellsing had it serve its initial purpose, though," Fiorelli added with delight as he opened the doors for us and let us in. And then he threw the most flabbergasting comment in known existence. "Oh, and by the way, I shall have to tie your eyes, but I think the folds match your coats quite nicely."
To my great wonder, it was Robert who first agreed to it.
"It's no point fighting it. It's a policy in most secured places, and this does mean there's thankfully civilization to come," he told me when Fiorelli took out two black and velvety blindfolds – from probably the same mysterious and unseen source that also provided the French cigarettes – and prepared to slide them over our eyes.
It felt odd to no longer see and partly, because of a small patch attached and sewn to the sides, smell. I cannot describe the feeling, as it's surely one to which many people have been confronted with in the unlikeliest and comfortless of circumstances. It was very disturbing, however, and I liked it no more than the last glance I had been allowed, which had encompassed Fiorelli's feverish-looking face and his broad smile.
This was all very uneasy on Robert and I. Fiorelli's recent conduct barely helped. For some reason or the other, he'd got peculiarly excited, kept looking back and forth, would never still himself – all this since we'd neared the mansion. He was, if possible, even more talkative than as to his now conceded habit; either that or he fell into long silences crowned by luxurious smiles.
I fixed a stray strand of hair back behind my ear, fingers running into the fold once-then-twice. My lack of decent sleep was showing – I was becoming far too suspicious.
"Just don't lengthen this unnecessarily, all right?"
I could feel Fiorelli's Cheshire smile, even though I couldn't see it.
He led us through dark corridors and darker still stairs. Up and down, up and down. In the end I couldn't tell whether we were a mere stair away from the entrance, five floors up or three under the ground. I hated it, hated the darkness, hated my invariable dependency on something I could barely grasp. Sounds and the feel of movement had never been my fortes, and my slight feebleness made me disinclined towards them. Robert, however, was talking matters even worse.
He'd been lighting up one French cigarette after the other and would chuckle quietly ever now and then, as if a drunkard playing with his next dose. He nearly fell once, but then Fiorelli gave him a hand and his dignity was spared the trouble. He burnt his fingers a slight on the cigarette he'd dropped, though, which made him reconsider another one for the better part of five minutes.
It was this incident, actually, which had me speak up a while after. "We've been running in circles."
Fiorelli was thrilled. "Oh how wonderful! I'd never actually thought what they said was true – you know, the part on blind men, well technically, any man lacking sight, being able to adapt and just develop a far keener six sense, and-"
"Actually, that's Robert's cigarette under my left foot." I had stepped on it the first time as well.
Robert gritted his teeth hard enough to have them scratch among themselves most displeasingly. "You had us run circles?!"
"Well, no. I was giving you the grand tour!"
"Fiorelli, I want something inscribed for all of history to relish on, a new record of sorts. Congratulations, Brother. You're the first person to have inspired another to harbour the urge to play the harp on your spine. You unspeakable idiot."
I did my best not to laugh.
"I needed to do it, you see, all part of the game."
"Game?" Robert wrenched away and probably stumbled into the wall. I stopped walking.
"That's it! I've had enough of you, of games, of bloody vampires, of – what the hell have you done, Fiorelli? How did you tie these things? Kester, can you untie your fold?" I couldn't. The soft velvet cover broke under my fingers, but the true strap was cold and tight around my eyes. "You bastard, I'll-" He knocked himself even more to the wall, and the slight snap announced what could be a bruise, or possibly a fracture.
"Robert, let me handle this. Brother, would you kindly untie our blindfolds, please? We're probably well somewhere we couldn't possibly recognize and we – well, you- don't need them." A mild consideration and courtesy for a supposed ally was all good and well, but we were less prone to such acts of civility when they were imposed. I didn't like this in the least, but I had learnt better in court than to let it show. No, it was one thing with Robert, he could handle any sort of unbalanced fits as he was my cousin. With Fiorelli, on the other hand, I couldn't afford a sentimental streak all too soon.
He was most perturbed and deeply ashamed. "I'm afraid I can't."
My clients often felt compelled to share half-truths in the hopes that I'd anger quickly and that I'd provide them a sufficient mental stimulus – "he shan't understand! He'll blame me!"- as to lie to me on the nearest occasion. I gave him his time. "Oh?"
"You'll be all scared if you saw all this – but that's only because you wouldn't understand- and how could you, really, I wouldn't blame you, but if you started to act all scared, then he'd know-"
"He who?"
"Robert, I told you to please leave this to me." I made my voice to sound unruffled, almost gentle. It came with a heavy price, that sharp and sharper thoughts on who he was, what we could see, and what was going on. "Brother…?"
"No, just listen. I'll do you no harm, neither shall he, so long as you don't let all this get to you." Was that encouragement in his voice? A good omen, if so. "And seeing it would let him get to you, you don't know how he is… you can't imagine how it was for me to first see it all. I didn't want to either, but they told me – be brave, dear boy, be brave and try to make ends meet, you'll see it's hardly this bad…" He took my hand and started walking again, and I tried to clasp Robert's arm as well. My cousin was sullen, and I must have pinched the hurt arm, because he strode off on his own.
"It's all right where I'm taking you," Fiorelli explained as he walked us through another short series of corridors, new this time, though I couldn't tell why I was so certain of it. "The seals are at their most powerful there, but he's still got some of his tricks working on the mansion in itself – it's horrible at night, he tries so hard, then – but he's been sleeping for a while, now, wakes up every now and then…" He was almost sobbing, as if birthing the truth was a terribly and physically costly experience. "And if he senses fright or alarm, he'll be sure to awake. Right now he's only letting you through because " – conspiratorial whisper now, one that Robert could hardly hear – "because you're with me. I had to take you around, let him understand you're here, and with me. He knows me, knows I won't let him out."
Cold sweat was on my forehead, clogged around the blindfold, in a very thin layer on the arm he was clinging to. Oh such madmen we had been to trust in him, Robert and I! Who was this man…? Who was this…creature?
"I won't let him," he said a second time. "They told me not to. Six months now, best time as of late, they usually…they usually need replacing every two months or so, but not me, oh no, I came here, and here I stayed, here with him. Do you know how hard it is? How hard he makes it? And does he love to torment me, us! He…he...he's…but never mind that, you'll put things right, won't you? "
Warm breath sneaking in my ear. I hate that. Have always hated that. Hated it even then. "Yes. Yes, but I can't do anything…unless…you let me see now that it's no longer imperative to do otherwise."
He hesitated. "But if you see it, and he senses it, well, if you do, will you-"
"I'll put things right." I nodded.
And then hungering hands clawed at my face, a sharp blade accompanying them. It took the fold down, cold thick air cleansing my eyes.
Robert's fold was removed, but I got none of their exchanged cries of indignation, none of Robert's insults and Fiorelli's apologies.
I was alone in my silence.
The grey-hooded figure sneaking behind Fiorelli, each movement only coming as a visual indication. No sound. I marvelled at the technique, and then upon realizing the man's intentions, I also realized that I had to make my own call.
I could either shout and warn Fiorelli to the imminent threat, or keep my silence.
The fold was a helpless black serpent at my feet, the powerful elastenin fibres sparkling their light under the velvet. Small wonder we'd not cut our fingers in trying to untie them.
Moments later, as Fiorelli was thrown on the wall, head slamming to hard rock and driving him irrevocably unconscious, I liked to feed myself the small deceptions of having been too entranced by the entire affair as to have had the chance to react.
But I knew the truth. It was there, in Father Cesare's eyes, as he slid the hood back and murmured a deep, "I'm so sorry."
----------
"I'm so sorry," he said again, as Robert and I were walking again, with considerable less enthusiasm than the first time around. I could now understand where Fiorelli's initial fear of our startle had stemmed for. The walls, everything…all covered in so much blood, layer and layer dried one over the other, black in some places, not even bearing its smell. The corridors themselves were long and most narrow, with rooms at every step – perhaps wards? Animals were piled in every corner, all butchered in some manner, art rewritten in pain. Some of them lived still, eyes popped up and swollen. A dog's head had been removed to hang in a rotting hand. The body was presently stuffed with the vermin of decay and most others I could not as much as make out.
The smell presently prevented by the fold's covering was now overwhelming. Robert was coughing as well, but we said nothing, the neither of us.
Father Cesare kept apologizing again and again and again.
"They shouldn't have sent him," he clarified, giving Fiorelli's body a last glance. He was still alive, or so I had been told. It somehow didn't seem to matter. It was only now that I understood just the sort of shock he had effected on me. My hands were trembling. They didn't, not usually. Had he been – no, was he- insane?
"He has never been quite balanced of sorts…they've let him here for far too long. When he disobeyed the order - he truly did have an order to leave you to me- I could see that I couldn't do as he said." We moved away from the corridor, heading up another staircase. "It's really not his fault. They've just…left him here too long."
Robert played through his pockets. Looking for the pistol, I knew. "Left him here?"
"Yes. Someone always has to stay with him. It's not that he can escape; the seals prevent that. But he always tries to push his limits, sometimes extends his powers through the grounds…" He looked oddly out of place. "We left alone for two weeks once. After your father, God rest his soul-"
"-Amen to that-"
"-passed away. We thought that, well, with your father – his master- no longer among the living, his powers would fade as well and that he would thankfully keep to his limits. They didn't. He didn't. There's a mile's worth of gardens in the back." We had seen these, the mess they were upon coming. Needless to say, they had hardly made a well-faring impression. "They were green and lively at first. They'd been designed to appease the eye and calm the patients, so they've always been well tended to, even after your Lord father took the building in."
I nodded in understanding. Appearances had to be kept. "But after he died and we abandoned him, he started…he crushed the earth, made foul dirt of it. Every bit of grass was devoured. Pets started disappearing. We had to come in again because people were beginning to search the land through."
"You guard him, then?" Robert was always one step behind me, though he did seem to generally have the upper hand in blunt conversation.
Cesare came to a brief halt and then went for a few more steps. "Yes. He's not…helpful, Mister Hellsing. We've overcome several complications as of since his arrival here. There's always been an Iscariot with him, but now with Iscariot in itself trying to survive a small division among its forces, we're…lacking in agents."
"So Fiorelli had to stay overtime?"
"His superiors have always been among the sad elite of a group I do not personally consider the wisest." We turned left. "There's hopefully enough of the rest of us to see reason and what precisely this vampire is capable of. And do something about the situation at hand, regardless of our sacrifices."
I stepped up behind him, another corridor greeting me in a feeble light. I was tired, so damnably tired, and Robert was understandably out of his mind with distress. Cesare was obliviously and beautifully rational. I loved him for it.
"We're here," he said gently, and motioned to the end of the corridor. The door in front of me creaked open.
I stepped forward into the room and tried to finger for the cross Nana had once given me. It wasn't there. How fitting.
----------
The painted circle on the immense flooring intrigued me. I had believed it to be a sketch of Abrasax, at first, but then I could discern further symbolism that did not convey any particular meaning – at least not to my knowledge- and that likely bordered on the occult. A subject of Papa's research, I knew, but I had never questioned the morality behind his studies as eagerly as then and there. So much power to it. So much power, and I could sense it, reaching out, touching, ensnaring from the monstrous sketch that covered the greater part of the flooring in reddish light. I suspected it would tie to my limbs and take me down, at one point, but it didn't. Walking by its crimson and frail edges, I completed the circle as well, and stopped near the entrance, from which Robert had not moved and was staring confusedly.
His whisper was husky. "What devilish trickery is this?"
It was in neither mine own or Father Cesare's power to answer. And neither of us would part our glances from the circle's very heart. Moonlight sprawled through unfound windows, so the lighting was poor. But by all accounts, no shadow should have instilled itself in the middle. Still, the obscure had been given full reign, as there was one. It took me a moment to distinguish it as a figure, formed yet fading, almost one with the stone I could only divine as cold and inhospitable. Had it writhed, there would have been a greater measure in our capacity to classify it. But it didn't. It was inert. On the ground and inert, dark and shapeless.
There was no straining of the mind involved, however, and no priceless guess work. We knew who it was, and, most importantly, I also knew of its damnable station: a vampire slave to a human master that had come with offers of redemption.
I sketched a step forward to try to contact it, but Robert's reaction came first and irreversible. His hand snapped up, and with it the pistol, shiny and well targeted.
"You! Up, hands and all other appendages where I can see them." No movement. The first shot went directly to the core and to the shadow. I had never been acquainted with my cousin's exquisite marksmanship skills, but I now found myself ill at ease to have done so. The sound had been deafening, amplified by the echo. He'd shot without thinking, but with proper aim. Who could tell of how poorly the creature must have been doing? How weakened it must have been, and now we-
It didn't move in the slightest. I began to doubt whether Robert had indeed missed, but then the soft trail of smoke cast in the dense, cold air spoke highly enough of its way and direction, as well as likely pause point.
If there was something there, something living, I could not allow that it come to harm. I held out my hand. "Robert. Your pistol, please."
He made for the shadowed frame again. "Oh come now, Kester, aren't vampires supposed to be unmarred by such things? Where's your sporting spirit?" And then, to the shadow, or the room itself. "You there, hullo, we're from the investigations department." He flicked the switch a second time. "We're the ones who dispose of useless filth. No question on the filth part, but you also ruddy useless?"
No answer.
An eternity passed, or might well have passed, and there was no answer.
Like a clock that died and couldn't show the proper time, but kept ticking.
Tick-tack. He was not answering. Tick-tack. He never would answer. Tick-tack.
My hand was still held out in the open. "Please."
He submitted it, displeased, and I pocketed the gun with unhidden distaste. My fingers felt numb a short while after the brief contact. I had never taken to weaponry, never in my entire life, for I had little command over them. I had always carried the utmost respect but also dread for my grandsire Ferdinand, who'd insisted that all his grandchildren master the firearm in some form and had therefore taken me with Papa and himself through all hunting trips, ever since my feet could keep me standing. He'd handed me a pistol of small dimensions, when aged three. I had been the precocious sort by that I could already speak comprehensibly ( quite laudably, in fact) by that age; all other abilities, however, had been limited. I couldn't play ball as all my other companions, but I had been expected to pull a trigger.
However, for all his enthusiasm and determination, after a few disappointing performances, even grandsire had as much as called my aim disastrous. He'd been merciful and not mentioned the trembling fingers pulling the trigger, the diverted trajectory that had not even grazed the ends of a wooden target that would never move, and could not move. That was not of the living, but still bore life in my mind, and was therefore untouchable.
Father Cesare stiffened. "Don't!"
But I wouldn't listen. I moved towards the inner circle, steadily, slowly. Thin trails of blood, as ancient as the one that had drained the steps, stuck to my shoed, glued them in.
The image I could discern more clearly by each step, by each moment that cost me the advancement. There were no visible straps onto it, nothing keeping it down. For all it was worth, I was under the impression that perhaps the thing could wake on its feet and go as it pleased, still it stood deserted in the middle of the chamber, deserted and in a horrible state.
The skin and flesh were untouched: cold and white and lifeless. Marble, stretched and moulded on a distinctly human pattern, carved to represent fingers that would never clutch, lips that would never quaver. Dead, unmarred perfection.
"Pater sanctis," murmured Cesare in one of his prayers. Again, I would not listen. It seemed to be his lot in life, to whisper unwanted advice to unmindful ears.
Fragments and phrases flew through my head, words lost in Papa's report and whose horribleness had damned him. Us. Everyone…
The initial procedures undertaken were heavily inspired by tradition. The subject, however, presented a distinct tolerance for prolonged exposure to the sun and had little to suffer from our attempts at burning him. The skin tore off under the flames, the flesh erupted. There was only one isolated cry, and even this of the eerie pain that then served to fasten his regeneration. The smell of burnt flesh quickened, still, his resistance was formidable. Further means of destruction are to be considered.
Long sleek limbs reminded me of the well-conserved bones of a feline. The both were impossibly long and impossibly sleek. As if to emphasize this matter, his position was contortioned and painful.
Though an improbable method, we have made use of the suggestion of Sir X (name retained out of consideration for titlage and family), expert in History and particularly the times of the Inquisition. A fact written down in order to underline that the procedure was seen to accordingly. We have gradually extracted both limb and section. The only notable result was the observation that his regeneration capacities are relatively slowed down when the head is eviscerated.
I kneed at his right side, in slow, languid motions. He was beautiful, so very, very beautiful, though perhaps not in a physical sense. I hadn't a notion of what beauty, the standards of beauty were about; it didn't matter. He radiated power, and this made for his charm and for a beauty beyond all known comparison. I silently traced an invisible line on the side of his throat, pale inverted leather on pale skin. I could now understand why there was darkness, all around him. It: he absorbed the light, feeding on it. He himself was so much of the light that he consumed everything that could rival his own shine.
We have faced many obstacles in our study. The first was the mean by which he garnished his powers. To rely solely upon blood would have made his end more accessible. We starved him, but he would not perish. It was in a belated end that Mister Y, Sir X and I reached the following conclusion: he devours life under any form. From the human one – blood – to its stimuli: light, emotions. We have decided that, in order to keep him from draining more power from his surroundings and into himself, we must provide him with a tie to a continuous source of life that he may neither control nor destroy. Mister Y proposed a sealing of sorts. I myself expressed none of Sir X's enthusiasm at the notion, but I am aware that our time grows alarmingly thin, and that measures must be taken, and the line must be drawn. Always, the line must be drawn.
Papa's words echoed in the back of my mind, as if ever had I heard him utter them. So much of the past had been revealed, I knew, and yet so little. There was the past, even now, on my hands as they touched filthy rags and sensitive flesh.
Where the charmed silence of the place had webbed me in, sudden movement sobered me completely. The man, the creature, the demon. He was moving in my arms.
Ashen lips parted once, sank the air deep. He needn't have bothered, as by my knowledge of the processes still sustained by those in his…condition, breathing was not essential. It came out as a long hiss. And then his eyes opened.
"Hellsing." His tone was an odd mixture of annoyance and exaggerated deference. It was also easily the most musical voice I had ever been given to hear. Musicality, contrary to popular belief, was not measured in the sweetness of one's emphasis, or in the choice of high pitches. Musicality was the great ability of modulating one's voice so to fit a large gamma of distinct tonalities. His calibre was low, and deep, and startling – and in one word, he exchanged astonishment for passion and then regret and then hatred. Sheer hatred under a mocking façade; though this was hardly my first concern.
He had spoken. He lived. And if he lived, then the rest was true as well, the nightmarish accounts of the time of his captivity. A being of God lived, despite of what my Father had done to see to otherwise. It lived despite the horrors described in tattered reports and small tales of great and horrible deeds. We'd done him such wrong, and he had lived through.
I recovered full control of all speaking capacities with suspicious ease. I even persisted in coherence. A wonder, really. "You shall, pray, forgive me. My bewilderment somehow overcame my sense of formality."
"Formality. With a bloody corpse. Hah." Robert's tense laughter awoke shivers in me. He was still standing near the door, looking aimlessly at – or, rather, through- me. And to him.
And what a sight he was. White, and thin and all in rags against a chilly wind and Cesare's empty prayers and Robert's bitter chuckles.
"Here," I said firmly, working to unfold the straps of one meagre button, and then giving up completely and tearing what would not be undone. The crimson coat looked finer on his broad shoulder than ever should it have done so on me. I knew Papa, too, would have condoned such behaviour, and taken off his own coat for another in misfortune – and so I had no remorse and saw no irony in the fact that the prisoner bore, for once, the clothing of his captor.
He was now seated on the floor rather than collapsed upon it, and he was moving his hands shakily, as if surprised to still find himself in the physical possibility of doing so.
…We have gradually extracted both limb and section...
His random movements reminded me of a child's, an innocent's. He seemed fascinated by the air, how it floated between his fingers, touching, moulding. His hands then passed on the thick material, the rich red velvet. The long fingers played on each fibre, sinking in on the sides, through the pockets…
A predatory glance swept past me, and I barely refrained from a gasp of both surprise and indignation. One case in which appearances hadn't been misleading: his fingers had indeed passed through the pockets. He somehow found a new smile for me, and then for a long moment, we merely exchanged glances.
Watching. Waiting. Hiding.
I gritted my teeth tightly. Rather cold it was, really. But all would be well, now. We'd return to Hellsing manor. See to my accounts and what the King wanted. Then I'd compensate to him by all possible means, and then-
"Kester, do come. Something here is greatly amiss." The sting in Robert's voice made me look back to him, finding that he was nearing us at a regular pace. He stopped, briefly, at the first borders of the circle's contour, but did not give in to hesitation and proceeded with care.
I nodded, a few times, half kneed and wishing to help him up. He was smiling, and I let this smile enfold me, willing others as it to come, and indeed believing that all should be well. I would take care of it, so that all should be well –
"Interesting," came the so much desired word, and before I could even hear Robert's cry – "Kester, look out!" – he had caught hold of the end of my collar, dragging me close to him. Our eyes locked momentarily, and then I had only one moment to take a deep breath before his fingers enclosed on my neck, and a distinct blur settled in on my vision.
He was pushing steadily, nails digging in skin and flesh, and all I could think of, as the rapid beat of steps on marble – Robert coming to my rescue- ensued, was of how I'd heard such a lovely tale on felines. The circumstances pardoned my lack of recalling of when or who from. My profession carried me in so many circles, after all. It can't have been a "gentleman", though. We didn't exercise such practices. Though we should have. Somewhere, out there, beyond the small world of Sir Huyxley and his expensive cigars (a choice of smoking materials that I solemnly swore no descendant of my blood would come to cherish), a man instructed the average felines to jump and grasp and shatter all they saw to possess the great talent of free, constant movement. Then they let them in chosen dormitories, near the sleeping man whose Adam's apple would go up and down as he would breathe. The damned cats would simply pick and claw at it, and he'd suffocate.
All the blood. All the blood because of a feline. I could have wagered there was silence, in those moments, save for those few instants of pants and chokes.
Silence. Even now, and between my cowardly huffs for air, a familiar click warned me of why exactly no further movement on Robert's part could be seen, and why a red clad sleeve ended with what I could stretch to make out as a darken form.
Click again.
Robert's pistol.
Robert's pistol from the right pocket of Papa's red coat.
Robert's pistol from the right pocket of Papa's red coat that was now on the amazingly well-conserved figure of Papa's former captive.
Oh the irony of it all.
----------
I couldn't see a thing of what happened on that side of the chamber, but I suspected my two companions were being kept in full target. I was pressed too tightly to the thing's chest, and his hand around my neck did little for my comfort. It was no surprise that when I did try to take a full breath, the expiration brought with it droplets of thick, dark blood.
Unexpectedly, Robert spoke first and with uncharacteristic caution. "What are you playing at?"
He wouldn't answer. His face twisted, however, as he saw the little blood I had spilt, on my own collar, on his hands, on his coat. Minuscule droplets, but blood still. His eyes narrowed, then he lowered just a bit, the grip on my throat easing softly.
"Little corpse," he whispered in my ear, and I trembled convulsively under what could be argued as another most untimely attack caused by no more than the wish to breathe like a normal human being. More blood was coming. How…remarkable.
"Your name," I managed. Because he was no more than a confused soul, I knew, and I was to treat him righteously if I were to show him that we deserved his trust. But he paid me no immediate notice.
Click and BAM. The sound was deafening, unpleasant. An explosion at minuscule scales that could easily take lives by no more than one bullet's container – and still the entire process replayed again and again in the back of my mind, the gunshot quick and bright.
My skin crawled with what could only be described as a mortified anxiety. Robert- I had to turn and see whether- fingers clenched even tighter than before. I hadn't believed it possible. Alas, one is so often proven wrong, with the most painful of consequences.
"Stay as you are," came Robert's cold suggestion. I didn't think they'd been hurt; he would have mentioned it – and he soon did. "He fired aimlessly."
I made to say something, anything, but new waves of pain reminded me of just what was my place, and what my allowances. "Useless. Filth." His laughter was quick and guttural. "This "- crack as thick, hard metal snapped in a number of pieces- "is filth."
His second hand, now freed, spun me around unceremoniously, dismissing the grasp on my throat yet still keeping it on my shoulder. The shredding of skin, the sudden aggression – all forgotten within the joy of recovering my breath. I could see Robert, now. He'd turned me towards my one support, brave cousin Robert. I could see only him and then the shiny, red trails at the base of my neck, and then some on the upper part of the chest.
Pinned down to a vampire.
I tried to look up – red shot eyes answered a silent call and then a plea.
A butterfly's fate, after all. To bleed and be pinned for all to see. Words rolling in my thoughts. His words. Let us pin the rest.
He grinned for a moment, before picking up my right hand, which I had clasped over the left and onto the folds of his coat. Blood was still pouring, so much – too much- blood. Cold lips feathered over the vein, before the tongue encircled the spot in one quick lap. For a moment, the feeling was delicious. Then, as the fangs went in, the entire room deteriorated to no more than colour at its brightest. Too much colour, in fact, brushed together by the faint wisp of sound and motion coming together. Time was frozen, but time was also moving with alarming speed, pushing thousands of flickering sensations in my head.
Alucard.
I couldn't place where the word had come from in the darkness and the light and the silent pain flowering on hands I could barely feel. But it was there. The blood was everywhere. On my wrists, and on his fangs, and on my collar, and in his eyes. There was so much blood in his eyes that it sickened me to the point that I closed my own and prayed for forgiveness to that side of me that valued sheer courage. I had always been brave, by that I had always wanted to "see the body". If one "saw the body", either literary or to more proverbial margins, then one could better assess the situation and help the onlookers accordingly.
But I didn't want to see the body now.
Because I feared that I would only see myself.
"Alucard," I exhaled with another full choke, as conscience returned in an eruption of sudden pain and cold. And before falling flat down over me, a wispy sigh escaping lungs that could not work their magic, he laughed.
He laughed.
And he wasn't the only one. I turned around to Father Cesare's indescribable expression. He was keeping what appeared to be a perfectly functional pistol aimed at my head without the slightest moral or religious contrition.
----------
"Mister Hellsing, do try not to move too much, my finger is itching and there's this fine trigger to scratch it," came the abrupt suggestion on a tone and voice that I could barely recognize. "Father Cesare?"
He paid Robert no notice. I wondered briefly whether I could truly blame him. My cousin's injuries at Alucard's hand had reduced him to a minor threat, if even as much. "And tell your pet to keep down. My superiors may need him, but I have a personal preference for my own less valuable life and would therefore not hesitate in having him dead before he can see to the other way around."
I turned to where Alucard still laid spread on the floor, dormant power radiating almost tangibly. I could see his eyes open and then close, fingers wrapping, for a moment, twisting and then letting go. Life…
"There's nothing to tell he'll listen to me. He's exhausted – whatever just took place drained him. Father Cesare, what is the meaning of this?"
"Oh, a very simple one, really. I told you, didn't I? Those of us who still heed responsibility shall have to do something about this vampire and his abilities, regardless of the sacrifices involved." Even an untrained ear could discern the faint click as the safety was removed. Cesare (by now I had developed my own dark suspicions that surely no true priest would endeavour in such corrupted ploys) grinned. "You'll join me for a walk. However, I fear I'm not one for company. One Hellsing will do, thank you – and it'll be the one he's chosen for an early snack."
He turned the gun on Robert, target as plainly on his head as it had been on my own, mere seconds before. "Goodbye, Robert Hellsing."
I screamed. "NO! DON'T! DON'T!" He had to slam me to the wall, and for it was worth, his build was by far too impressive, and he could easily manoeuvre me in a physical sense as to his whims. I tried to think it a nightmare, tried to scream again – my throat was burning, as the blood would be soon burning on Robert's forehead, where the bullet will have passed…
Eternity seemed to slip in slow motion a second time, as Robert tilted his head, smiling faintly. "Goodbye, Father Cesare. Say goodbye, Kester." I shook my head, closed my eyes, made further attempts to will this all away. Perverse last words, oh God, Robert, you fool, you absolute fool-
It was all over in an instant. His pistol gave off a weak thud but knew not the satisfaction of casualties. Cesare fell on the floor, the dagger stuck deep in the back of his throat, even as he helplessly wasted his last seconds to try and dig it out. His breathing was husky, blood gushing even there, making a hiss of it.
"Damn you," Robert said calmly, walking past his writhing body and to the door. Fiorelli, behind me – always behind me—replied to the small nod of acknowledgment with one of his one. Gratitude didn't come easily with Robert, but the Italian seemed unwilling to give this too much thought, and instead focused on retrieving his blade. He took the pistol as well. "We might have need of it."
I too nodded. Amusing, really, just how many emotions a simple nod may encompass. I was standing there, abominably afraid, with cold sweat down my back and little but bile in my stomach; nauseous and dizzy and weary; too aware of everything and everyone and of death in itself to move. A little tick-tack in my mind brought with it a message: This isn't the first time you've seen men die. And it wasn't. My profession had taken me throughout many journeys and had escorted me through a tumult of various experiences. Death was just one of them, and some of my clients had indeed been in the habit of shooting the accusing party right after the process, in front of my eyes, only to shrug it off and claim that he couldn't be sued for the same thing twice, even if this time he went through with the deed.
I could hear Robert fishing for a little flask of anything and wondered silently whether Fiorelli would be his saviour yet again and offer some christened wine. He seemed the sort, after all. But then, he'd also seemed the sort who'd never dare damage a fly, and look, it hadn't been a fly but a human being. How rich.
I studied his face with mild interest, in search for that one glint of insanity that had ignited its fire no more than minutes before. "You said you were a priest."
"No. " He produced a handkerchief and gave the dagger a scrutinizing glance. I chanced a look to Cesare, now immobile and, finally, dead. Til death do us part, Cesare and the dagger. Fiorelli continued unmoved. "I said I was an Iscariot priest. Different thing altogether. Why, we don't even attend the same Mass. And the "forgive me Father, for I have sinned" is a bit compulsory...."
Robert looked intrigued. "Why did you turn back?"
"You shouldn't have let him do that." He gave me a long searching look.
"Neither should you. What's your game, Fiorelli? You're no madman."
"Reckon not." He said, cleaning the blade idly on each side and wiping the blood off on the sleeve of his dark robes. He was dignifiedly calm as he followed the faint reddish glitter, as if the blood in itself had not pertained to one who would know life no longer. "But then again, you need me."
And there it was, that smile again. "After all, someone's got to nanny him. Nice show with the count, by the by, great ballet."
----------
We had to carry him to the station. He was blissfully oblivious, couldn't speak, couldn't keep on his feet; however, he was still something of a burden and neither Fiorelli nor I were the forceful sort.
Robert wouldn't touch him at first.
He'll be your cross to bear, one day, I wanted to shout, but I didn't.
We bought tickets for the first train to Swansea and failed to exchange a word until we'd lodged into our compartment and Alucard had been safely stapled to the seat next to mine. I said nothing as they tied him in, and furthermore nothing as Fiorelli took out a cheap, scruffy version of the Bible and began to mumble a few prayers. He then proceeded to tear off a choice of three times three pages in a specific order. He managed to pin them in various parts of the closed space, particularly near all foreseeable exits.
He handed me the remaining, still bundled up in the tough black leather of the aged 1901 edition. "You're the Hellsing now, you should have one along constantly."
I didn't bother to mention how I had personally opted for the less-praised road of cynicism and estranged myself from the formal Catholic image of God altogether. It somehow didn't matter. Robert had ordered another pink gin, and it seemed to take the path of the one he'd asked for on our way here. He looked absorbed by the delightful way in which light played over and within the rosé content and would not take his eyes off it.
"He'll be doing that for a while now," said Fiorelli pleasantly. Alucard, near me, was still sleeping deeply. I had my reservations in his concern, though most of them – I was to confess- were purely childish. There was no repent, no doubt and no frustration in Fiorelli's eyes or in his every gesture. It was as if he had never pressed a blade at another man's throat, and if he had not then witnessed the same things as I. I feared the same carefully studied indifference would lurk in Alucard too. And this…this was far too much for me to even contemplate.
"Cesare wasn't from Iscariot," I said, breathlessly.
"Oh, no, actually he rather was."
"Then what happened?"
"Well, you see…" We didn't. That was the entire point, and I was unfortunately losing all my patience with him and his derisive means of expressing himself. He was perfectly apt for concise and well structured conversation, I knew it just like I knew he was by no means the mental loot he had made himself up to be for that little performance. But I couldn't prove it, and so I had to bear these antiques and hope for the best. "There've been small falling outs in among the Iscariots, and well, some of them seem to think your father was a slight off the bend, but really, the man was an absolute saint, a bit misunderstood…but generally speaking, I rather liked the chap – one-man army – genius…"
It was at this particular point that the God Jupiter bent the knee and bestowed the weapon of the skies upon my faithful cousin. "Kester," he hissed, eyes little but throwing daggers. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I should have been a cadaver given the intensity of his look. "May I see you out?"
I nodded and turned to Alucard momentarily. He was still sleeping, sleeping like a babe in its mother's loving arms. Only this babe could kill, and my wrists glowed with the pain of it.
"Can you manage him for a slight?"
"Well, if one must, though will you bring me some of that pie this time?" He leered at me. "Mister Hellsing."
"I should imagine that, after all that's come to pass, we can afford a bit of familiarity without it being in despicably poor taste, Brother."
"Come, Kester." Robert called from outside.
Fiorelli waved me off. "Yes, do go, Castor."
I followed on Robert's lead unenthusiastically. Castor…?
---------
"Can we trust him?"
"No. Of course not."
"Do we take him along, then?" Click as a lighter switched on, a French cigarette burning its fire.
"Six months. He's been there six months. With him. Alucard. Six month with Alucard. We don't know what we're facing, this much I can and may and will understand."
"But can we trust Fiorelli with Alucard?"
Soft laughter. "Can we trust anyone with Alucard?"
And yet another click as doors glide open. An entire journey to be spent without the smallest note of the existence of this conversation. I don't imagine how it was Robert and I pulled it off. I suspect it was the dread of Alucard raising a second time that had us refrain from shouting our distrust from the top of our lungs.
---------
We were greeted by Mister John Elliott, the estate's administrator and one proud Welshman – a man with a certain disinclination for the pure British blood, and so, Robert claimed, perfectly to his liking. I said nothing on Robert's own distinctly British childhood and his British education, fearing that I should bring him an odd sort of offence by implying that, heavens, he too was a fundamental part of the London circus.
Elliott kindly welcomed us with brunch and a fresh pot of tea, for which I was most thankful.
"Shall the gentleman have nothing?" He was naturally distrustful towards those estranged to the Hellsing estate, and yes this had indeed included Robert and I up to a certain point. We could only count our blessings that now, with two samples of Latin anything-but-perfection at our side, we would be spared the attention and enjoy the heavenly anonymity of the tolerated.
"I've already had a few biscuits," said Fiorelli charmingly. "Though I must say, these are awfully nice, best things I've ever had. Does the madam bake them, I wonder?"
Elliott was unimpressed. "The madam is dead. And the biscuits are church made. Funny thing for a Brother, never entering a Church." So much for civil conversation. "But I was actually referring to the other gentleman. Sir?"
I had no notion of why exactly we had all agreed upon Alucard joining us at the table, though I largely imagined we had thought it a particularly bright plan at the time. It did have its advantages, after all, as being seen in our company would consolidate his position as "the Master's favourite" or "the Master's company" within the manor's many rumours.
He'd slid his hat over to cover the better part of those enthralling eyes and took full advantage of his solitary and shadowy corner. We were a curious image for all those unfamiliar with what the past day had provided to us in terms of introduction to the paranormal. He –rather, Fiorelli- had returned me both the coat and the hat, along with a small explanation on how, while he had retained the model and incarnated with the help of his "personal" sources, Alucard had no need for the things themselves. He'd reproduced and could regenerate them, Fiorelli had added, giving the example of his clothing from London.
"You've read the account of the experiments, I can see you have the papers. You know what he went through. Do you truly think the clothing could have survived lest he had willed it so?"
I couldn't.
We were now dressed completely alike. The count, suffering Alucard, little but bearing the clothes of Abraham Hellsing.
"How are the sheep?" I asked, in an attempt to remove the conversation from a poignant area.
"Oh, fine, fine. We've just invested in about fifty of them, all good for milking. They're almost everywhere, even near the mansion. Heh, wake tomorrow, Mister Hellsing, even you might smell them, let alone the crazed dogs!" Alas, he would not let himself dissuaded. "Is the gentleman feeling ill? He's very pale, our gentleman…rather like the sort the old Lord brought in, in fact you remind me of another gentleman he came with once…" John Elliott stressed in an unfriendly manner.
Robert took instant command, with the authority of the man who does not take to insolence in any form or however thin. "Tell me, Mister Elliott, do you by any chance intend to lay our friend here?"
Elliott's gasp masked any other small invective that might have accompanied it. "…Sir?"
"No? Then stop sweet-talking him on deja-vus," my cousin said with little kindness. "He is not from the regions – not from the country, in fact- and is rather unwell from a hideous experience undertaken when on the ship. And he can't speak the language for the hell of it – which reminds me, do tell the maids to attend to him but not take any of his orders. Why, he asked of one of the ship attendants to strip while he only meant to inquire on the usual tip."
Our administrator's tone was considerably icier. "Begging the gentleman's pardon, sir. What did you say the gentleman's name was…? So I can tell the maids."
Robert smiled cruelly. "They wouldn't be able to pronounce it. Just call him sir."
And now, so much for good service.
----------
I was in a fever for the necessary arrangements to be made so that I might complete my studies on the our unusual guest and prepare myself accurately for the ghastly meeting on the 25th and also – perhaps – a small interview with the Iscariot representatives.
"The Cesare situation is very much noteworthy," I said in no certain terms, and I was surprised to find Fiorelli most eager to cooperate. I should have thought he would oppose, given his own shady intervention, but he was reasonable and complacent enough.
"You don't mind if I maintain a correspondence from here, then? So kind of you. I shall ask for an envoy."
I couldn't wait.
However, fortune was not overly kind, and I was grudgingly set back by an unexpected and unreasonably intense fit that had me in bed for the greater part of five days. My fears of Alucard awaking to find himself in such awkward circumstances that could alarm him were unjustified. He never woke up. I sent him blood, as much as I could part with, in those few moments when pesky doctor Lewis wasn't nagging me about my "uncanny pallor" and when no one was sauntering down the corridors; I sent him blood, but he only tasted some of it, nipped at the most, and I would have to return mere hours later and remove it, lest the smell of aged life's liquid draw unnecessary attention.
I could hardly share this zeal with my cousin, however, so I had to make my own way back and see to it that the blood be removed once I was certain it had aged and grown beyond his liking. He was sleeping, then – if one could call it sleep, as his eyes were still open. He wouldn't move; he didn't move for all the while I was there, and I was grateful for small mercies. Alucard's apathy, however, was curious, if not worrisome.
Even Robert, as oblivious as he willed himself in concern to anything vampire-related, couldn't but remark on it during one his visits at my bedside. "He sleeps all day long! Honestly, what's the point in keeping the leech?"
My medication was bitter and pasty, as always, and so I was glad of my cousin's conversation for providing me with momentary distraction. "He's recovering. Good God, Robert, who knows what he lived through, all the tales to tell, all the sufferance, the-"
"Sufferance? My good man, he was sleeping in a circle, just like he's now sleeping in your former bed. What's so painful about that, I ask? Or has laziness finally started to ache? Oh, everyone on this forsaken land will start screaming their pain soon, then!"
"He's distressed," I said, between yawns. Doctor Lewis had prescribed milk of the poppy.
"Distressed? Oh, would that I be distressed!" He smiled. "Madly distressed, I say! Put me in chains and have me as your slave, I say! If it means sleep and food at one's leisure, then would that the entire humanity were as "distressed" as he is!"
----------
Belerophon has met the first Fury, but it was not to the hero that it was intended. He has since then lost Jupiter's grace, I'm afraid. I cannot see how he could either gain control over Pegasus or retain it, but heroes do have a laudable predilection for survival, so mayhap all is not lost? He should like Jupiter to wave a hand over the region, whenever the clouds are not all too numerous.
I read Fiorelli's note to his superiors with a certified sense of depravity. Robert had presented it to me as soon as the steward tasked with any sort of correspondence concerning the Hellsing house had been asked to post it.
"Your pardon, but I've seen their Iscariot priests, and I'm frankly in no disposition for an encounter with a second Cesare," my cousin explained while handing it over. He was chewing on a large brownie, feet slung carelessly on the little pouf in my dormitory. I was still forbidden entrance to any other quarter of the house, and so it was always my guests who would see me. "We know nothing of his exact reasons for agreeing to your service. And I don't know about you, but I personally don't feel all that at ease with letting a perfect stranger see to his possibly treacherous devices under our roof."
I swallowed my pride, dignity and overall morals and applied a thin layer of wax to close the envelope again while trying to reassure myself that, if anything, I could award some part of the blame to the priest. The missive'd been composed in a readable Latin, and I had already ascertained to both Fiorelli and the belated Cesare that my comprehension of the language was impeccable.
Stephen Albright said nothing when he was returned the message and told to deliver it to the post as initially requested of him. He said nothing, but he shook his head as he walked out, and he had a hand pinned on the minuscule rosary hanging by his throat.
----------
My illness had an unnatural sense of sadism of its own – either that, or the most curious timeline to follow. On one night, I learned this at a heavy price.
The first time I awoke was to sweat. I was covered all in these sickening droplets, and my lungs were threatening to gouge through my chest. I couldn't breathe too well, had to take a few moments to recover my strengths. The great clock in Papa's – my dormitory- was showing a malevolent time, past even the Witching Hour.
The second time I awoke was to blood. The blood coughs had started already. My sheets were all covered in this unholy liquid that hardly presented itself as the object of fantasy, as the ward so many knights respectably requested their yielding rivals. No, it was dried and messy. I couldn't bear the stench. I had to as much as change the linen.
The fit wouldn't leave me in my semi-somnolent state, retrieving me from unconsciousness when it took me, bringing my back to the painful reality of all my bones feeling like pulling a crack, and my gasps and my chokes.
The third time I awoke was to hungry cold lips, to aged blood and unholy screams - "Alucard…"
I had choked again, the claw in my neck had summoned the cough – and with it, something more. Something livelier.
My eyes snapped open, to what little good this would do me. My sight was by no means poor, but Papa had always fancied dark, closed rooms, and so the shadows could dance, and I could see no more than they willed of me.
Alucard.
Silence. He could hear, of this I had been informed – and this link father's documents had described and that Fiorelli had assured me we would share was finally material for me, in its most fearsome form. I could sense his emotions in the back of my mind, was in awe at the chaos in them. He hungered, but this hunger was resent and it was lust for the blood- Hellsing blood - all the same.
Hunger… To devour me… Take everything I had, was, of how he would delight to snap my bones, oh the artistic display he would make of it…blood…mine…he – I …blood…blood…
Blood…
Redden eyes gleamed – but then the eyes, I could feel them as mine own. I had parted in two, and one of these parts was him, and his want, and his bloodlust.
Blood…
Had to have it. Could smell it – everywhere – it was everywhere. Denied so long. Blood. Hellsing blood – no, no, no, can't, not theirs, I wasn't theirs, I wouldn't want for their blood – other – different blood …rich…
Blood…
My head hurt so badly, and I was moving though I could feel myself so far away, so…sleep.
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.
When I awoke, there was nothing, and this nothingness was pure. But as I opened my eyes, I grew at such a loss of words, that I could little but feel them scraping in the insides of my throat, tearing and clenching and shattering my flesh along with any valor. I was dumbfounded. The walls, the furniture, even the bed covers, everything was covered up with – oh God-
Heavens knew how I confined the irresistible urge to scream, but I did – likely on account of my growing stupefaction, and with it the sensation that it was all no more than a nightmare, yes, an unkind nightmare that I could acknowledge.
Though it wasn't, and the smell soon proved it, and I had to get up, shakily, and run to the refresher.
It was good that I had not eaten much that day, as it had the disgusting opportunity of coming out now, and down the drain. My insides were being cleansed by the nightmare, but my eyes couldn't suffer the same blissful treatment. I closed and opened them repeatedly, hoping that evidence of it being no more than fantasy would be produced. I only managed to revive that image in my mind, and with it came new convulsive spasms. I threw up.
---------
Master…he calls you that…hahahaa…the priest calls you my master…priest…does many things…doesn't know…many things. Thinks I cannot leave my quarters. Hahahhahahaaaa…Master… hounds've such intriguing habits, Master. Are you acquainted to them?
Alucard. Alucard's voice in the back of my head, and Alucard's laughter.
I urged myself to rise from the lavatory. My knees were weak. For a moment, they didn't hold, and I was frozen in time again. Those images. So much flesh. So much blood. So much horror. The open door to my dormitory – a privilege of the master's bedroom, that a fresher be placed in the immediate vicinity- revealed more of the massacre.
My eyes were watering, from the strong smell, or the futility of it all. Mayhap from both.
Alucard's voice in my head was mad chant.
Seemingly not. Hounds don't abandon their master. Hounds keep track, and oblige and listen.
I stood up, finally, keeping my frail balance by supporting to the walls. Reason brought with it understandable questions. Firstly, there was the matter of why he had done it – malice was out of the question, as I had not given him all that much reason to harbour malice towards me. And this had been a specific attempt to garnish my attention.
It occurred to me that he might have still been puzzled by, well, everything. These were new times for him, and new challenges. Perhaps it had been fear, and no more than a demonstration that he was a monster and we should keep back from him. I could accept such a hypothesis. Again, I told myself, it was more probable to be a reaction caused by fear rather than malice. Never malice. It was unthinkable.
When the master gives the order, the hound obeys, and when the hound obeys, it goes after its prey. And do you know what the hound does after it's caught the hunted?
I did my best to ignore him and taunts uttered in what I willed myself to think of as a bravado ignited by the wish to not seem fearful. Though he probably was – he was alone, and he was more than entitled to judge us as no more than destroyers of the same ilk and nature as Papa. I was no more than the symbol of his tormentor, so he sought to protect himself. Yes, this was what it was all about. A display of power to assure us that he could harm me in order to protect himself. It can't have been malice. It can't have been.
I drew closer to my room, a second time, stopped at the door and measured it thoroughly. I had slept here, I told myself, I had slept here. And still, I couldn't believe it.
"Hades…"
…almost everywhere, even near the mansion. Heh, wake tomorrow, Mister Hellsing, even you might smell them, let alone the crazed dogs…
I finally braced myself for the full and cruel picture: everywhere, bones or fleece, or limbs or flesh. Sheep. Massacred sheep, with their heads cut off and adorning my nightstand. They'd been skinned, and their eyes had been gauged off. Limbs hung to the furniture, organs to the carpet. A strand of intestines had been pinned to the door that led to the corridor, as if lace and Christmas decoration. But the worse had yet to be revealed, and had been kept for the ceiling.
The sign was there – the circle of power, painted in blood to the very last detail, and just like in the secret dungeons of the old medical facility, this too had a shadowy figure at the heart, positioned as if crucified inversely to the ceiling. Only this figure, I had met in advance. It was the only sheep that hadn't been skinned. I could see its fleece – my stomach started shrinking anew as I could distinguish that it was a lamb, and that there was a small black mark on its exposed tummy.
Weak breaths turned to the cry I'd refrained from. Seconds later, I couldn't say whom I'd called for. Cadwell. Fiorelli. Robert. Cook. Elliott. It didn't matter.
All that mattered was the one lesson Alucard had and was still giving me. All that mattered was the blood, the blood hanging on the walls of my room, and the blood between us.
As voices could be heard – Fiorelli, at first, then Robert and the maid servants- I pulled a robe on and opened them the door, all the while thinking of how the absence of what I could count as a dozen – or as many heads I could see- sheep and one lamb could be explained to the flock keepers in the day to come.
I also had to look for Alucard. All in its own time, however. I took a breath as Cadwell, devoted Cadwell stepped in.
"Hell has come," he said softly, then proceeded to usher me out, claiming the smell would do me little good. Throwing the room a last glance, I nodded. Aye, hell had come. And with it, the devil that even then plagued my thoughts-
"The hound brings his master the bones…"
--------------------
Latin translations...
" He has helped his servant Israel in remembrance of his mercy
According to the promise he has made to our ancestors and his mercy to Abraham and his descendents forever" -- and yes, the Magnificat is indeed a real religious prayer.
Author's note:
Long. Very long. Perhaps overly long? Some would (wisely!) argue that the Fiorelli / Cesare bit was completely unnecessary and that it stole from the Alucard highlight. Given how the next chapters are to be positively Alucard centered – but how I sadly require my minor Iscariot plotline?- I'll respectfully disagree and hope for the best. (Shall do my own best not to turn Fiorelli into what someone called a more effeminate, even if supposedly male Yumiko-wannabe. His game isn't the same as hers, actually)
Where Kester is concerned, and the probable characterization discontinuities. Until now, Christopher has been distressed, he has been positively the helpless believer – but all that is unfortunately going to change as the pre-mourning demeanour as well as the Alucard influences take their according place.
I guess what I'm trying to say here is that, the rating to this piece will grow to R at one point, and that characterization is one element that will lead to said development. I suppose this is a warning of sorts: people, things aren't going to get prettier. If you think this isn't suited to your tastes, well, thank you for having read insofar.
Next chapter? Hmmmm….I cannot guarantee an exact update time. So, uch, same time, hopefully this year?