Two Worlds Apart Chapter V, a hellsing fanfic

Author's note: raise your hands if you thought this was never going to be updated again!

Christopher Hadrian Hellsing

Mezzo

I called in so many favours that I was fairly confident that, between the fine and idle talk of gentlemanly pursuits and then some thinly veiled extortion, I had sold my soul to the devil. More than once. Possibly in shares to some minor demonic entities, too.
However, I could not accomplish the first of the many things I had set out to see to an end, and it troubled me immensely that this one failing should rule out any and all possible alternatives.

"I need him in London," I told Lawrence during one of our revision sessions, when all matters of the Helling Trash Disposal Organization were discussed. "I need him in London, I need him in Gower, I need him everywhere. Don't you see? I need him with me at all times, but I can't have him while he's too weak to travel on his own, and lacking any papers to facilitate his legitimate transport."

"Ah."

I frowned. "You find a fault in my judgment? Some way out?"

"No, no. I follow," said Lawrence, graciously, "but I have to wonder whether having him with you constantly is all so very healthy for you."

I did not understand, and I blamed much of this on the fact that fatigue had taxed my friend greatly. He'd accommodated himself with what we could now safely call the Hellsing regime of atoning for one's every sin: poor sleeping habits, continual awareness. He had even adapted well on a social degree: Robert and he shared a glass, a bottle, several some on a daily basis. They had already done so for the evening. I reminded myself to be grateful for any mild coherence.

He pressed forward. "You're obsessed with him. You've grown as obsessed with saving him as your father was with destroying him." He seemed to consider. "But you can't save him, not really. If you want to oppose everything your father stood for, by all means."

"Gods, but I don't mean to oppose Father, I loved him! I still do!" He bent over the table to pat me on the shoulder, laughed as I shook my head and tried to rid myself of his mad chatter. "Stop playing me the fool! I know what I'm saying, you vile drunk! I wake at nights and think of how good he was, and how kind, and how generous, and I ache that he's gone!"

"That's all very good, but filial guilt won't wipe out years of negligence while he was off and about in Europe, and you were withering in some college dormitory. I was there, remember?" His breath smelled of wine as it brushed over my ear. "I should know."

"How can you say that? How can you think I could ever feel anything but the greatest loyalty towards my father?"

He waved me off nonchalantly. "The loyalty's there, no doubt, or you would have told him to go to blazes while the old man was still alive and kicking. But it's in your blood to hate him, the part of him that was more vampire pursuer than father."

"You don't know the slightest thing about what you're saying." He was riling me up so fiercely that I knew I'd taken to a blush long before the burn spread over my cheeks. Damn him, who did he think he was? He knew nothing about this! He'd only been here a few days, and – I came to my feet and made to excuse myself. "I'm sorry, but in my condition, I can't be distressed. I must apologize and go rest-"

I never got to finish. He hit me with the back of his hand; he slapped me so that it stung, so that my head turned to the right, and I could feel the spot pulse into a swelling. "Don't ever use that as an excuse. I'm not your cousin, you can't be a coward with me. I won't stand for it. In the end, you'll do as you like. But don't make a crusade out of this, and don't call him your Holy Grail. You can't save him."

I staggered towards my room.

I made a purpose out of avoiding both Lawrence and my vivacious cousin for the following days, though it turned out that I need not even have bothered. I had another attack during the morning and Doctor Lewis consigned me to my bedroom, suspending my entire activity.

I noticed how it was Fiorelli who both saw him in and out, but said nothing of the matter. The Brother only nodded towards me in greeting and then farewell, as he little but haunted through the corridors. He'd grown so pale and so tired that I had begun to harbour certain suspicions that perhaps the chirpy young man whose acquaintance I had made in unfavourable conditions had been only a curious fragment of my imagination.

He asked for my permission to send a boy with his letters. Though it was a shared truth between us that his correspondence was kept in strict supervision, he had never established new rules to his situation, just as he had ceased trying to implement an intimate familiarity between us.

He was, in fact, perfectly at ease with overlooking our presence altogether, so long as no one interfered in his treatment of Alucard.

"I can almost smell your rotting."

Alucard was the only one I would allow to see me. He often repaid this privilege with snide remarks and an open criticism of my every gesture, but he'd grown an interest in my library, and so he would keep still and be perfectly complacent when I read from Plato.

He himself never read, though I knew it was within his abilities. He spoke a perfect Latin and a very fluid English, whose novelty he kept appropriating with every contact to the outside world. His French was something Father had noted on, and I knew he often threatened Fiorelli in his native tongue. That one quality of his diction that I'd noticed when I'd met him would still make itself apparent with undeniable constancy: it was not as if he spoke these languages of own accord, but more like he would borrow the words and the way in which they were spoken from a certain context.

He did not take kindly to failure. If he missed an accent, he would hiss through the entire phrase, and then slip into what I was certain was a tongue either of his making or from a time well before mine own. He did this to spite my in my lack of understanding, but I retaliated by coming to adore his tantrums as one would those of a horribly spoiled child.

He mastered the pistol with impressive ease and even exhibited an unrivalled aim. At all times, he was prepared to insinuate that we were the lesser in all respects, and often he remarked on how disagreeable I was not to compete with him.

"Your precision far outmatches mine, sir," I assured him on every time, and then retreated behind all physical restraints. "Besides, my arms wouldn't allow it." The burns on my arms and the strained muscles, yet another inheritance of a troublesome childhood, were only a façade for my more truthful disparagement of firearms. He never delved on it, so long as his supremacy was not contested.

I did not commit myself to grave and meticulous thoughts of why it was that I played such farces with him. It was simply natural of the both of us.

How remarkable will it appear, that, when finally presented with the opportunity to shatter all of the Council's fears and suspicions in one smooth blow - to bring them to their proverbial knees – to crush their dignity and reveal to them the true nature of our influence – well, how remarkable will it seem that, when given the chance to play a game of my making, I missed out on the event entirely?

Fiorelli's participation in this was by far the most notable. He presented himself to me with the adequate paperwork, and then the elaborated on the implications that the certain act would entail and how we could best avoid all altercations with the local authorities while pursuing it.

Lawrence was circumspect enough as to ask for further details, while Robert could barely be kept from jumping for his pistols. "A hunt! We have a hunt! Do you realize what this means? They're ours! What can they do? They're ours!"

But I realized exactly what it meant. "This is a risk we're taking. With them. With…him. He mightn't agree."

"That's not the issue, you'll just order him and-"

My cousin had evidently proven himself incapable of recording my stance on the matter, which was why I felt it imperative to reinforce it. "I will not order anything. He is not a slave to us. He does not serve us. He's-"

"Distressed, yes, I know, gods, you'd think I'd know the entire speech by now!"

"Why so I would! I fail to see why you must insist on this matter, when it's very clear how I both feel and intend to act on it!"

Lawrence had poured himself a touch of Merlot, and was now sipping moodily. "Chris, calm yourself. You're obviously very tired by everything. Have you thought of… I know this shall sound awkward, but have you considered retiring from this? Only briefly, for a start, but given how things are, I certainly understand why you would need-"

"I don't need anything! And I'm not tired! I'm just sick of it! I'm sick of him trying to rule with an iron fist, and I'm sick of you trying to mess with my head, after a week of being here! I'm sick of both of you trying to play at knowing how it feels! Stop it, because you don't. You can't. You can't, because you don't care at all for his welfare. You don't know the slightest thing about him!

"And you do?" Robert slapped my hand off the chair as I made to come to my feet. He pinned me down and looked me in the eye, as if he could find the answer to all his questions there. "You bloody idiot, you do? You don't know nothing! You're just his silly puppet, and I hope to God he breaks you! I hope to God he breaks you so badly, you'll crawl back to us, and then let's you and I wager on whether I'll decide to take you back or leave you in pieces!"

Fiorelli intervened at this point. "Alucard understands the reason why the Council has permitted his stay under this household. And…" He flushed, if barely. "He's only too eager to reinstate his claim over his territory. If there's a vampire in England, he'll consider it his entertainment to dispose of it."

I motioned for Robert and Lawrence to see themselves off. Robert stormed out of the room, swinging the door in his passing, but Lawrence returned to close it slowly. I could hear my cousin's yelling through the corridors, and then Lawrence's attempts to hush him.

Fiorelli sagged his head, then straightened up forcibly. He looked wretchedly, I noted, and said as much.

"You're no thrill to the eye either, Hellsing."

"How could I be? They treat me as they would a child."

He shrugged. "Stop acting like one, then."

This unnerved me beyond solid reason. "Gods, I don't know why I bother! You don't understand either!"

"Don't I? Really now?" He laughed mirthlessly, let his eyes befall the table, rose them again. This time, he was serious. "Don't I? I've stayed at his side for six months more than yourself. I stay at his side when he's not all pristine and polished. I think I understand perfectly, that I do."

For a moment, the silence between us was almost tangible.

"I'm sorry," I said all of a sudden. He nodded casually. "There's nothing to be sorry for. I don't pretend to understand you. I don't pretend to approve, either. You are the Hellsing Master. By your will and wish, all shall be done. For as long as you will want it so."

"I can handle this." I vacated my seat and contemplated walking out, only stopping to enforce my point. "And for God's sake, man, stop keeping to the indoors all day. Get out a bit, get some fresh air, see to your church or something… you…you look dreadful as you are now. How long have you been here? Six weeks? You're so pale I could hold a candle to your grave."

He laughed at that, and then ushered me out: "Why, Castor, I didn't know you cared."

I took long baths.

This was, to my knowledge, my greatest vice. I only very rarely drank, and never reaching amounts that would verge on the intolerable. Whom the old Cook had referred to, what with her talk of drunkards, I had my suspicions, but also the certainty that it was not my person.

I did not even eat, and I had no sugar tooth.

But I took long, hot baths.

Sinking in the water, I spared a thought, prayer and moment of gratitude to whatever fellow had invented plumbing. The warmth engaged my every sensitive nerve, weakened the strain of every muscle. Bliss must have been in Poseidon's area, I concluded.

As of late, however, I had to admit to a secondary interest in this unusual habit. Sometimes, when I closed my eyes… sometimes, when I willed them away… sometimes I could hear it.

I did so now, to no immediate result, I did so and waited.

The dizziness took me along with the heat, tempting, the true seductress. I couldn't feel my body, the weight loss, the physical process, I could name the law, but the sensation would still overwhelm whatever love for practicality.

I could drown here. I didn't know where the thought had come from, but it was both enlightening and highly amusing. I closed my eyes again, and I whispered it to myself, until my voice rang soft across the tiles. "I could drown here…"

Could I?

Really?

So much steam around me, my breaths were a pain. But I could drown here. I laughed. Choked. Laughed again.

I could drown here…

I could…

No.

I couldn't.

Never drown.

I could never drown.

My hair floating above me, in the water. Where was I? Ah, in the water too, I could hear it running. Looking up, up, little bumblebee…

"Up, little bumblebee! Up, and then you become nana's little shark in the waters!"

"No…" Didn't want. Couldn't drown. Was so young, they'd taken my toys. She brought me the duckie. I didn't want it. Too yellow. Hurt my eyes. Bright light hurt my eyes. Didn't want to go in the water.

Scream. "Don't want to!"

"Christopher, dearie, be nice for nana, come into the water, and—"

"Don't want to!"

Don't want to… too hard to breathe… have to get out of the water, have to…get out… out… moving. Yes. Feet. Slipping. Breathe. Breathe…

"Don't' want to! You can't make me! I don't want to, please don't!" Afraid. So dreadful. Too young, too afraid, mustn't go in the water. She had a beautiful soft voice, and she told me the tale of the duckie and young Christopher. I knew this one. I didn't like it. "I don't want to get into the water!"

"All right, love, all right, no bath today – where are you going? I'll tell your mama, young man! Your brother Arthur would never run like that!"

Moving. Yes, still moving. Breathe. Something – the wall? Is it the wall? Too dizzy. Can't see. It's cold, it can't be the wall. Support myself to it. Yes. So cold. I have a touch of fever. So cold. My eyelids are so hot over this surface. Perhaps… perhaps if I could become one with the cold. If my head could fall into it...fall…is that pain? So cold… it doesn't matter…

"Pet, watch out so you don't slip! Oh, boy, didn't nana tell you to watch out! There, there, I'll just - Christopher, you've cut yourself! But…where's the…"

…blood?

Blood.

So much blood.

There was blood running down my forehead, thick and so hot, blood running down my cheeks, blood…

Blood on the bathroom mirror I had shattered when I bashed my forehead into it. The shards of glass had cut in deep. I collected one from the wound itself with a shaky hand. The steam pushed onto my lungs. I struggled to reach my adjacent dormitory and then fell on the bed. Father's bed, never truly mine, was it?

"Mad little corpse."

In the darkness, I took no more than a few moments to decipher his lean figure, the characteristic smirk. He was admiring the view, just as I often admired it when he himself made the perfect tableau.

"I cut myself shaving," I stated clearly, so he could hear me very well and remember, even though he had not even asked. "I can't see very well these days, and so I somehow aimed for the – well, you can see yourself."

He stared at the trickling blood, parted eyes with it reluctantly. Hellsing blood, it would always call to him. It was only then that I noticed that Alucard had brought a gift of sorts. He'd wrapped it in a few dirty cloths, and now he threw it at my feet.

I wouldn't pick it up.

I knew.

"A hound brings its master the bones," he recited, pleasantly, and then unveiled the head of a perfect monstrosity. The true vampire, I wanted to say, but he again abused the thin connection between us: No, the true dinner.

When I would not move it, he placed the head at my door, and I stood and looked at it in wonder, until dawns came and it turned into ashes.

It just so happened that when the Council adjourned to check the state of the manor, we were still celebrating our unrivalled success, and having very much the ripe fruits of victory to show for our trouble.

We were gathered in the main hall, with my troupes prepared and fully functional in accordance to the strictest military discipline. Robert made them no allowances, and his experience and that of a former army lieutenant, along with the detailed reports Cadwell's sons would send in sufficed in order to design a suitable schedule and skill development program.

The Council men looked perfectly ill at ease. My men were sharp and attentive. Robert and Lawrence were all smiles and chatter, whereas Fiorelli was casually munching on another brownie. It was one of the few times when he'd chosen to come down from his quarters, and I suspected he'd only graced us with his presence because of Alucard. Alucard… Alucard was breath-taking in every respect. He was no modest victor, but a lion with his teeth gritted and clenched very tightly around the delicate neck of its still writhing prey. He was proud to have taken the kill and prouder still to be given the chance to present it to those who had denied him his one talent.

I was at my most quixotic. "I shall not allow you to harm him. I shall not allow you to touch him or detain him in the smallest measure. He is one of us, now. He's part of this Institution. And there are fifty men now" – Henry Boleyn had sent in the remaining, and with his blessing, once the pounds had rolled into his always welcoming pockets –" willing to kill for this same Hellsing institution, and all that which it encompasses. We go by your rules, but you must find a flawless mean to assassinate the whole of us, if you intend to harm Alucard. These are my conditions. These are my men. This is my home. You may have them all, or nothing." There was shallow applause.

While there were no explicit protests, I quickly attracted a growing opposition. It occurred to me that these boycotting malcontents were in truth no more than deadly afraid of possible inclinations of tyranny on my part. But how could I convince them of my best intentions, when every performance to such would doubtlessly land them in the stern belief that I was also peerlessly sly and constantly scheming their downfall?

In the end, I had to face swift retribution for this feeble humiliation; I was alone during Council meetings, alone in whatever project that inevitably got vetoed down, and alone in carrying out nearly impossible orders. Given an increasing activity in the region, Alucard was in high demand. There was even word of settling a few very much human scores with his assistance, but I disengaged him from whatever mission I thought unsuitable.

This did not make me more popular.

But I was still Master.

News of my affliction had not spread out, though the servants were hesitant to approach me; if they could somehow avoid direct physical contact with me, they were only the more grateful. Any estate issue, they treated with Elliott; either Robert or Lawrence would produce the coin required for any domestic purchase; and if ever should anything truly have troubled them, they took the matter at Fiorelli's door, and were at peace with the notion that, though I had a singular contribution to their faring, and I implicated myself as much as humanly and politely possible in their affairs, I would not do anything to affect them openly.

But whether concern or superstition, their mannerisms towards me changed drastically.

"What's this?" Fiorelli looked over the tool I had given him with a sudden interest.

"I believe it's called cutlery, Castor."

"No, no, just look at it." He did. He liked not what he saw. "You can't cut with this."

"Exactly. You can only shred things apart, and even that through some vile effort. Cadwell?" Our butler appeared conveniently at my right, glancing towards the would-be-knife and then sighing mildly. "I know. I cannot help it, sir. I do not set the table, and they would not hand me in new silver for you, though of course I asked, once I saw it. They adamantly refused to do anything about it."

"So I'm supposed to use a knife that doesn't cut?"

Fiorelli coughed delicately, and then caught hold of my hand, pressing slightly on the thick bandages alongside my scarred wrists, ogling the bandages on my forehead intently. "Castor, I think that's rather the point."

Alucard's second undertaking brought me a rotten hand. After his third, I found a darkened heart on my pillow. I said nothing, but it all stopped. I considered it an oddity on his part, but then remembered. Three coins for the currier Charon, three deaths bought for.

Before the fourth task, I invited him to my office and placed a warm vial of my blood at his disposal. He would satiate his thirst with the blood animals, I knew, but this was the coin of the new age, the coin of his trade. To kill, he would desire payment.

He took it, and we never spoke of our private bargain.

No sooner had the eighth charge been seen to that Huxley grudgingly offered me His Majesty's gratitude for attending to such a delicate matter.

By the twelfth mission, Fiorelli passed me a note. Kinsella's intricate writing had spelled out a "Well done."

The Council and the Vatican finally consented to working together, in that I was bestowed a list of identities undertaken by what they believed to be vampiric entities, and therefore targets apt for elimination. I had dreaded this moment, but could nothing to prevent its coming.

I called Alucard and his escort in my quarters. By the rumple of Fiorelli's clothes, and the soft, amused flicker in Alucard's eyes, there was every appearance that they had only just squabbled, or even more. They rarely refrained from physical demonstrations of their power and tried to impress a such on each other, this I knew.

Thankfully, my orders were short, concise. I knew what I had to say, and I regretted every word of it, but it had to be done. This was, in truth, no more than a formality. I dared not call it an order, for I knew it would please him immensely, but I still felt obligated to Alucard for all that it implied.

"From tomorrow on, you are free," I began stoically, "Free to do away with as many of your kind that invade your territory as you see fit. Kill all vampires that stand in your path, if such is your desire."

I had expected a sarcastic retort, or some vague reference to my lack of authority in making him any a suggestion; instead, Alucard turned to Fiorelli. "The games are on."

The Brother shrugged elegantly. "This changes nothing."

I suspected that this had so much more to do with the darker games they played among themselves, with what went behind their closed doors and always ended with blood parted on both accounts and guilty looks between the brother and myself, once all was said and done. Alucard never complained of any maltreatment, but I hadn't the courage to ask that Fiorelli should perform the sealing rituals in front of me. It was just another of our unwritten accords.

Alucard submerged into the nothingness of his shadows, though I could twine my fingers in the air and feel them stumble over the thickness of his presence. I said nothing. He had grown unimaginably possessive of what he deemed his, and a tentative Master was no different.

Fiorelli's expression was as jovial as ever. I suspected he'd had a large portion of the lemon cakes displayed at dinner, as they alone would replenish his good humours. Had I ever seen this man truly dejected? I couldn't recall it, if so.

Still smiling, he offered me his hand. I took it, bemused, and then felt the small pieces of rough parchment as eh slipped them by. I looked about, and he only nodded that yes, it was safe to open them in public.

"Bible pages?"

"You remember what I told you in the train?" I did, to some meagre extent. He continued, slowly, "You're the Hellsing now, for better or worse. Always carry a Bible on you. Particularly around him."

I thanked him for his gift of words and paper, however redundant I found it.

"Castor, show a little trust!" He laughed again, another of his very generous laughs; I decided that he was right, and that he had never truly proven himself untrustworthy. I laughed with him, and promised to cherish his gift.

That was the last time I ever saw Brother Fiorelli.

I left for London before dawns had cracked and before Gwendolyn – delayed a second time- could make an appearance. Apparently, Lance had got terribly sick, and she feared his health would only deteriorate substantially were the boy to be exposed to the hardships of a journey. Robert expressed high doubts that his son would ever acquit himself of the hardships of his gender, at this rate.

Though the farewells were, by majority, cordial, I did not miss the side glance thrown idly between Robert and Lawrence, and silently urged myself to accept their conspiratorial demeanour. Cadwell made to slide me Robert's pistols, when the latter wasn't looking.

"They're good guns, sir," he whispered cautiously, "they'll serve well to a gentleman in a dangerous place."

I thanked him profusely but renounced the gift with a tad of disgust. "London's my home, my true home. I'll be all right."

With Alucard's coffin guised as commercial goods, and an appropriate bribe in the even more appropriate pockets, we made for London.

It revealed itself to be a forlorn matter of jurisdiction.

During the negotiations with Section Thirteen, my mind persisted to conjure unnatural images of hawks tearing the map of Europe in bloodied beaks, waging war with one another in a flutter of feathers and high-spirited indignation.

The Hellsing organization was apparently not the only one interested in the Trash Disposal of the Cradle of Civilization. We were, however, the only ones with a fully functional vampire operating on our side, which gave us a considerable advantage.

I endeavoured solely in modest schematics. "Gentlemen, if you will. Let us all listen to the call of our blood. England is for the English to supervise. That is all I ask for." French was the language of talk among them, and though I thanked my Oxford education for saving me the embarrassment of requiring a translator, I was not at all remarkable in employing it.

I had thought things would go smoothly with such a plea, but it turned out that Rome wished to keep hold and watch over all the areas they would influence religiously; they were only too hesitant to cede us Ireland. I thought this not at all amenable. "Fine, then, but we'll have the Triangle in its stead."

There was great muttering, general dismay, and talk of my overall insanity. Kinsella gave me the sweetest smile and answered in English, "But Mister Hellsing, you know how fond I am of Milano."

Seven minutes later, they forfeited Dublin.

But have I not mentioned that fortune could indeed be kind?

Chance smiled down on me, and among the many invitations issued to my house in London, we ran upon one whose request for a confirmation had long expired, with the gathering itself having yet to take place. As a familiar of the matron, I scribbled down a short note of apology as well as explicit thanks for her offer, and then lavished in how Desiree Mont had just as graciously underlined all guests were encouraged to bring their own company.

I took Alucard to what announced itself as the year's greatest party, in spite of it being only very little into the new year. Though I made no specification as to such, it was understood that he would conduct himself appropriately. I imagine this obeisance was owed partly to having accustomed himself to conforming to orders, and partly to a burning curiosity as to the nature of this modern society. I lost him ten minutes into the event.

The reason behind our presence here was crucial in its own little way. Alucard was still in dire need of papers, and I had yet to cash in the true amount of the favours I was still entitled to. Desiree Month was a lovely thirty, and a lovelier diplomat, and her numerous husbands could provide me with what I had in mind. Unfortunately, I could not see her.

A brief half of hour was spent avoiding my mistress, and then squeezing her hand gently and feigning an absolute adoration of the newest tricks she'd done with her hair. Her newest patron smiled charmingly, but he would only glare glacially and not even return my salute two days after.

So far, so much time lost.

I lifted my wine glass in silent toast to Alucard, when our eyes met. He did not answer, though he had caught notice of the gesture itself. Instead, he devoted the entirety of his attention to the circle of raving intellectuals, as hungry as ever for the new research material that the dear count could provide.

I was only just about to go on a wild hunt for the matron, when she approached me, sliding her silky hands and tying them around my right arm. She gave me a luxurious smile –she always had been a remarkably beautiful woman- and then her fingers found the rim of my glass. "May I?"

"Certainly." I laughed at her childish cravings. Desiree was one of the few women of the time whose favour could bring far more than any a man's. She had an eye for the precious and the beautiful, and seeing how her estimations were seldom flawed, her investments were equally prolific. She never doted on things, however, but on people. Her Coterie summoned the poor and the rich, so long as they were heavenly interesting or could provide, in the absence of a knack for outstanding conversation, the financial means to cater for whatever the groups' whims.

She licked her lips appreciatively. "A good liquor."

"Only French."

"How delightfully patriotic of you!" She laughed. I failed to mention how my true allegiance actually went to Italian brands.

Her voluptuous glance followed mine, and for a moment we both openly stared at Alucard, now entertaining two well known writers. "You know him?"

"Yes… I should ask for a word with you in private about him, all truth be said. Will you please join me in the gardens?"

"Outside, in the dark, alone? Just the two of us? Christopher Hellsing, are you planning to do something horribly indecent to me?"

I affected a lecherous smile. "Never."

"Mmmm, then maybe I won't join you."

But she did.

"So who is he?"

I did not feel comfortable with revealing too much of the truth. She was not unintelligent, for all her four husbands, and I did not mean to give word to gossip. "He's someone…someone uniquely close to me."

"Oh my. Christopher, you devil, after all these years, are you trying to tell me my shameless advances were in vain? Didn't know you ran that way."

How delightful. Either Lawrence and Desiree were uniquely conscientious of the matter, or all of London had conspired to unmask all bisexuals in sight, and fabric itself a few, even where there weren't any. "I don't."

"How nice." The words were plain, but she spoke them from the heart. "So tell me, what can I do for you?"

"It's more of a question of what your husband can do for me."

"My husband?" A few seconds of puzzle. "Number…?"

"Four, the present one."

"Oh. Then it'll be easy. Thank you for ridding me of number three, by that matter."

Number three, also known as James Bridell had been unusually vindictive, and as intent on keeping a hold of his fortune as any. Alas, Desiree had somehow procured evidence of his unfaithfulness - I retained the private belief that he was perfectly innocent – and so he had been faced with public humiliation. Unsurprisingly, he was still at her beck and call. "Well, I'm afraid I could only be a lady's knight and champion in court. I…my friend would require some papers."

Her expression suddenly grew serious. "The sort of papers that could get us all in a muddle?"

"Yes."

"He's special to you, all right, but who is he to the rest of the world? What did he get himself into?"

"It's not like that." No, not like that at all. "He's not one of my more mischievous clients."

Mischievous interest again. "Then why are you helping him?"

"He needs me."

"And you can't dispense of him?"

"No. Nor would I want to. It's just…he's exceptionally good at what he does."

"And that would be?"

I mumbled furiously. "Sucking the life out of me."

I had his papers in a matter of two days. Desiree entrusted them and a series of obligatory pleasantries to a young envoy, and she insisted in particular that a bottle of her best brandy should reach me unharmed; to the outsider's eyes, House Hellsing was lavishing in the generosity of a very devoted friend. To those of us having to live with Alucard, heaven had finally opened its gates.

I took as much advantage of things as humanly possible.

In retrospect, perhaps there was a certain haughtiness at play, when I insisted with several motions that the Council found themselves extorted to approve of.

I had him voted every possible honour. He became Lord Alucard in a week and was then reinstated to his title of Count a few days after, even though the office itself was inactive and ineffective. He was even granted an estate and lands of his own in the place of his choosing – Whitby, he wanted a church – although he could not ever visit them on his own. I only resigned my position as his advisor in all financial interests when Huxley kindly approached me after one heated session and let it slip very kindly, "Just so you know, the Crown's already been taken."

Sometimes, if you gave him your hand, Arthur would pretend to read your fortune. He was doing it now. I could see his frown of concentration. I was very, very still, and he kissed the palm. "See? Nothing."

"Aren't you going to read it?"

Isn't that what he always did? My fingers were plump and pink and he pinched them savagely. I wanted to fist them up, but couldn't. He saw my hesitance and smiled. "Come on, do it."

"Can't."

"Can too."

"Can't."

He folded my hand for me. It hurt. It hurt so badly, that I numbed all over, and I couldn't feel it anymore.

"See," he said evenly, "nothing at all."

I asked myself whether I had also been too numb the day before… too numb to feel it fall when he had driven it into my knuckles.

It had hurt then. I told him so.

And Arthur smiled again, and kissed my palm a second time, and then he said, "Nothing can hurt you now, Chris."

My dreams were none the kinder.

I returned to Gower.

There was no warm welcome, and whatever military salute I might have jokingly instigated the first time around, when Robert had only just taught the boys the works was now absent. The place might well have been abandoned, though the servants were as active as ever.

It occurred to me that I was being ignored.

Robert was lecturing the fellows on the disadvantage of a particular shooting stance when I made my presence known in his area.

"Oh. You're back." He let me wait until he'd finished his display, but was neither decisively hostile nor scornful. Instead, he was as uncaring as one could imagine him. "Have you seen Lawrence?"

I shook my head.

"Well, if you don't intend to see him soon, then at least send Fiorelli to him. There're a few matters he wants to-"

Though a light service, I found his treatment of me repugnant. "I'm not your call boy. Have whomever fetch Fiorelli from his quarters."

He stopped in his track, all too suddenly. "You mean he's not with you?"

"With me? What do you mean? I left Fiorelli here. With you. Frankly, I fail to see how it is you could have overlooked this small aspect."

But I realized just how severe the situation was when his eyes widened in shock, and then mild agitation. "We thought he was with you, that you'd taken him with you to oversee Alucard and just hadn't said so, because you've been so infuriatingly peeved."

With me? But of course I hadn't! And I'd regretted not having the priest at hand during several times in my travel. "So he's not here."

For reasons unknown, this brought a bitter taste in my mouth.

When Lawrence also came by, the three of us went to search his rooms. Nothing. His earthly possessions were still present, to be sure, with the exception of some small nothings. His Bible, his rosary. The sort of small things that one would carry in a journey.

"We must write to the Vatican," I told them calmly, and then proceeded to act out said intentions. Kinsella needed to know. Someone needed to know.

And they had best have Fiorelli back to us.

I was on my way back to London within the hour.

For reasons unknown, I had an inkling of yearning to see my father. The cemetery was quiet.

Seeing how the body had been turned in to me in a very advanced state of discomposure, I had never assisted to the burial place. We had had a brief ceremony at the house, punctuated with charming words muttered by a significant number of the clergy. Then the body had been moved out to the cemetery.

I'd not come to see my father since. Not once in three months. To think back, I had not even worn the mourning cloth, no more than the first two days, and that was that.

I had to pick up Alucard. Yes, that was it. Lawrence can't have been right, because I loved my father. I did. I truly, truly did. And I should have given anything, my life first and foremost, to have him among the living.

Still, I never came to see him.

If I had, I would have immediately opposed and made any necessary effort to have my father buried near Mama, rather than in a recluse crypt that he had apparently deemed apposite in his will. I knew that Arthur had been buried there, and my grandfather as well. I'd never come to see them either. Maybe I simply hadn't it in me, a taste to rejoice in the company of the dead.

"Gives you the chills, doesn't it?" If the deplorable sight of thick and cold stone, and the weeds and grass shadowing it did not achieve this exact effect, then the grave digger's silky voice did. I didn't think of when he had crept up on me; it was the never ending cliché that grave diggers were prone to such things. Breaking said custom, however, this one was neither vehemently pale, nor did he suffer from any formidable deformation. In fact, he was quite pleasant to look at. A bit plump, a bit red to the face, but all in all friendly. I shook his offered hand. "Yes. It does."

"I don't know why he had the crypt done. Not the habit here. Foreign gentlemen, yes, foreign habits."

"Might I see them?"

"You family?"

"You could say so." I was not inclined to introducing myself, and then the entire spectacle warranted by such an occurrence. He'd either show an inappropriate enthusiasm at another Hellsing having come by, or shrink away in a haste. It all depended of just how much of the rumours had gone out.

"No one but family's supposed to go in there. Can't see why. " I could. Gold-hunters. "But I've not been there to replace the flowers in a while, so perhaps I should."

"Flowers?" This bemused me. I had given no orders that flowers should be placed at my father's tombside constantly. Papa was far too pragmatic to have appreciated them.

"Yes. The old Hellsing's lawyer visited, and he said, Jeremiah, " – that was him- "there'll be flowers coming from a mister Vanderpool, friend of mister Hellsing's. You put them in that crypt, and you make sure they stay there. It was in his will, the suit said, so that's what I've been doing."

I recalled a mention of a Mister Vanderpool, but could not place the name altogether. I doubted we had ever met. My companion fled to his little hut, and when he returned, a thin lacing of white flowers hung by his neck. The smell was more than familiar. "Garlic?"

'Yes. They look pretty enough, though." I refrained any further comments. We went down and down and down. "Do they always build them so deep?"

Jeremiah laughed. "No, not at all. No use for them heavy doors, either. I think, I do, that the old man wanted to make sure that no one could get in or out, not even the dead."

I frowned, mildly. "The dead?"

"Spirits, sir. What else?" I did my best to avoid slipping on the impromptu stairs. Yes, of course, what else?

The inside of it was gloom materialized. It was unbearably dark, and I did not distinguish my father's love for the outdoors in his final choice for decay and decrepitude. There were thankfully no rats, and I could not stop vermin of any sort. Jeremiah seemed to tend to he cleaning, though no doubt he too found it a troublesome aspect of his daily obligations.

"Well, looks like they kept well enough." He motioned for the stack of garlic flowers strategically placed near each tomb. The flowers were so white against the black of it all, it was sickening. I paid my respects to grandfather in passing, and then to Arthur, just as half-heartedly.

I only stopped in front of the tomb bearing his name, "Abraham Hellsing, beloved husband, father and researcher." I made the sign of the cross swiftly – why bother when I did not believe in it? – and then kneed and thought of whether he would have appreciated a prayer. I knew a few. You did not grow to be the son of Abrahama Hellsing and not have the semblance of a theological education.

In the end, I said nothing. I had imagined I would be overcome by grief and memories and have some fond recollection of the old man and his wisdom. I had even hoped I would please cry. I spent a minute there, in a silence undisturbed even by Jeremiah's changing the flowers, and I listened to my heart. I listened to its beat, and told myself I was still alive, and then I wondered why I felt nothing. Nothing. My father was dead, and I knew I loved him – but all I could think about was how Alucard would be waiting for me, needing me, and how I didn't have the time to waste.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to him, and then took a handful of earth and scattered it over the stone, until it covered his name. I started backing away, and then louder, I said, "We can go now. Thank you for letting me see—Ah!"

Jeremiah tsked as he let go to my arm, though only after levelling me so that I wouldn't fall in a hole dug near Father's grave. I hadn't seen it. "My bad. Nearly fell in."

"Yes, should have told you to look out for it. Don't worry, though, it's only that one. The old man had it dug up before he..." He waved his hand. "You know. Said 'twas for the young lord. That's all this is s'pposed to hold: the old man, and the older sir before him, and the boy, and the young gentleman."

I could recognize them as my father, grandfather and brother respectively. But something intrigued me. "Young gentleman?"

"Yes. This is s'pposed to be where he'll rest, so said the old man. Ugly place to sleep, among all the rats, but these lordlings know."

"But who is he?"

He shrugged a second time, and then kicked a bit of rubble, watched it fall and then make room for the rising stone. Clean, well cut, even better sculpted. The writing was clear.

I said, very weakly, "This grave's for him?"

"Yes, for him, " nodded Jeremiah shakily, " I told you, it's for the lordling, Christopher Hellsing."

My house in London was of Victorian construction, but with all the facilities and particularly safety measures of the contemporary times. I was not at all at ease to find such devices spited upon entering my "humble abide" and noticing others had already opened the door and made themselves comfortable.

Where his men were lingering in my kitchens, Kinsella himself waved towards the spot near him on the sofa. "Have a seat, Mister Hellsing." No "Welcome Home, Kester!", no "Hellsing, old boy! Let's have ourselves a jolly good time!".

"Why thank you for providing me with my own house's hospitality, Monsignor Kinsella, but I'll decline. I'd rather stand." I was still piqued over the affair of my father's papers, and the overall secrecy under which the Vatican governed our relations.

"Very well. Do you mind if I…?" I shook my head and signalled that yes, Desiree's brandy could finally be rightfully appreciated. He poured himself a full glass, and took his time with tasting it slowly. But the matter couldn't suffer any more delay. "We…we found him."

I didn't have to ask whom he was referring to. By the tone of his voice and the subdued look in his eyes, I already regretted not having accepted his offer at the proper time. I tried to collect myself but failed to see the opportune moment to do so.

Kinsella said something, and then I let myself fall in a chair. I repeated his words, fazed. "He's dead…"

"Yes. I would offer my condolences, but… " He slipped me a number of picture cards instead. Years of training in homicide cases should have prepared me to greet the unseemly sight with a stiff upper lip, but the severe mutilations to the piece of meat – that's all there was to him now, just meat – were terrifying. But something else caught me aback. "That's not Tomaso Fiorelli."

Kinsella shook his head. "Yes, it is. And the worse part is, this is the first time you're truly meeting him." What…? He went on, reluctantly. "Tomaso Fiorelli is a name present in the registries of all the countries within our jurisdiction, with a nearly universal citizenship and an enviable immunity. Naturally, Brother Tomaso Fiorelli does not exist, and is only a part for one of our agents to fill. As you by now know, the secrecy of our contributors is sacred in written correspondence. We prefer pseudonyms, for obvious security reasons. We cannot afford that a small letter should compromise our agents." A pause, if brief. He needed to gather his strengths and his thoughts.

"During our first meeting, you mentioned Fiorelli as the author of the missives that came to Vatican. I couldn't remember then why this particular detail startled me, but then I remembered, and so I ran the necessary investigations. Alberto Giovanni di Carlo, the last of our agents posing as Tomaso Fiorelli died six months ago, while tending to your pet in London. They found him somewhere near Saint Paul's. He'd lost so much blood, the tissue was exhausted. You could barely tell he'd once had a face, let alone what that face had been"

But he had a small tattoo on his left arm, an ember inscription of the "Anima Mundi" that I had never seen on Fiorelli. It can't have been him. But then my Fiorelli wasn't Fiorelli, was he? "That can't be. I – we—how could the Vatican –"

"Whomever your Tomaso Fiorelli was, he had the codes and the knowledge to infiltrate our ranks and emulate the conduct of one of the clergy. But make no mistake, he was never part of the Vatican's Section Thirteen."

"Perhaps not to your knowledge?" That was certainly a possibility. If it could happen once, it could happen any a number of times. "Could – could this be something to go over your head? Or something you've merely not heard of, or-"

"Mister Hellsing, I assure you, you've recently given us every reason to put all cards on the table and take your vampire very seriously." I did not ask what he meant. I thought of Alucard placing a head at my feet, and foreknowledge bit down deeply.

"So Fiorelli – that is… " I could barely find the right words. "The man I knew as Fiorelli… he's not dead?"

"I can't say." He shrugged. "He must have foreseen his identity would be discovered and planned his departure in accordance. I must say, however, he played things rather well. His letters to us kept us at bay. The Vatican was certain Father Cesare was with you."

"But on that day you said that Father Cesare – "

"On that day, I didn't know half the things I do now."

"So Father Cesare was supposed to be with us." This made no sense at all. "To who had they entrusted Alucard's care? Fiorelli said he'd been with Alucard during the exact time when you say this Giovanni fellow died."

"They only found di Carlo a few days ago, and assessed the time of his demise by the state of the body's discomposure. As I've told you already, that wasn't the easiest of things."

"How could the Vatican have overlooked such a thing! An agent coming and going as he pleases? Doing what he likes? How could they be so careless?"

"Look, three units! No more than three…and no less. Tomaso Fiorelli and Lucretia Sarlatini of espionage and Alexander Anderson of the elite execution! Today they're your best friends, tomorrow God knows who they are! We do not know, sometimes! This is the system! It's messed up, I will give you that! But the passwords, and the words, and the addresses – these are all things that should and could never have been found out! I don't know who your "Fiorelli" was, but he was simply too good." Somehow, this described casual, boisterous, negligent Fiorelli perfectly.

"But Cesare knew him," I argued, after thinking things through. "When we first met him, Cesare knew him. He blabbered something about Fiorelli, how they'd left him there too long, something about an Iscariot conflict, I don't know! The point is that he knew him! How?"

"I can't answer you that. The only one who could was Father Cesare, and now he's dead."

"This can't be happening. This…wait. Wait. If the Vatican thought Cesare was with me, what about the humble detail of his death?"

"We…" He looked deeply ashamed. "We didn't tell them then. We didn't know… didn't think this was so important at the time…"

"Important… Important?" Were they mad? Sheer and utter madness, yes, only this might have explained how they could ever have gone over any detail that concerned as uniquely vulnerable as Alucard! How could they? How could they! "Sir, how many vampire situations have you had to thread with in your time?"

"Exactly! We've never had to deal with this sort of thing before! If you were half the man your father was in certain aspects, we still wouldn't have to deal with this!"

"I apologize that my existence is forcing you to see to your job. It must be a terrible thing to do." My sarcasm went unnoticed, or perhaps unheeded. He was taking things seriously now, at least, or so I thought it. There was only so very little he could do, though, wasn't there? The true harm had been done, and to our likely detriment. "Why would he do this? Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to Alucard, and then save my life, and then… no, save my life more than once and then… then… what the hell did he do next? He helped! He helped! That's what's so inconceivably pestering to me! Why would he risk his life, and chance being discovered while furthering no personal project, to help us restrict Alucard for so long?"

And then suddenly Kinsella put forth the only motion I had truly dreaded, the only one I would rather have not considered, the only one that could bring us down. "Are you sure he was helping you?"

I was exhausted by the time the interview drew to a close, and also privately thankful for the modern miracle of vaguely harmless sleeping powders. But God's newly fond sense of enthusiasm of tormenting his least loyal of disciples kept me from sleep.

The phone rang at half past three in the morning. I hoped it'd die off and the unhappy caller would recall himself and the time, but Robert insisted until, muttering and mumbling, I bade him a good morning.

"Kester, you won't believe this."

"Please, I'm sick of that phrase. I'll believe anything by now, can't you tell?" If someone accosted me in court the following day, claiming his pet vampire had come to wage war and rule the world and was having a distinctly good time chewing his shoes, while at it – well, my first response would probably have to be something along the lines of, "I broke mine from the habit. Try sheep shaped chew toys."

There was a fair bit of murmuring in the background, and so I realized he wasn't alone. I was suddenly more animated. "Is Fiorelli there? Has he been found?"

"No, no…but this concerns him. He- oh, hang on, I'll give you Lawrence."

Lawrence sounded even more excited than Robert himself. "Chris? Chris, you won't belie-"

"No, I will, trust me."

"Well, that makes one of us, God knows I barely did! I remembered! But that wasn't enough, so I had the pictures sent to me, and now I know it's true!" I could barely hear him, the connection was deplorable. He kept talking, obliviously. "I told you how I knew Fiorelli from somewhere, remember that?"

I did. "But he said he didn't-"

"Never mind what he said! I know it, because I have the pictures!"

"Pictures?"

"It was all over the newspapers, but I couldn't recall! Mama did immediately, of course! We ogle them on every Christmas, and then she bawls some, but that's not the point – the point is – the point is that she found them and sent them over! They're clips from an interview taken in Berlin, when my father went to see to the state of their bank's representation there. They'd just decided to improve their image and support a set of local hospitals! They took his picture with a doctor there, and then with him shaking the hand of a wounded solder."

"And?"

"And that soldier was Fiorelli!"

There was something Lawrence was clearly missing out on. I decided to enlighten him. "Fiorelli is a well-standing operative." Whose, however, I could not tell. "He must have been travelling in order to secure something on that side of the border, I can't know, but that's likely to have been him during one of his assignments. I don't see why this should matter now."

Lawrence laughed for a moment, took his time, laughed again. I was growing increasingly more furious, but retained some vestige of calm in the name of civility.

Finally, he spoke. "But Chris, these pictures were taken thirty-five years ago."

Fiorelli himself had never looked a day past twenty-five.

I poured myself a drink from the canter and took small, deep breaths. There was always the slight possibility that what was in truth a perfectly natural circumstance could divulge itself as another vestige of the supernatural, but I had every wish to play this in the boundaries of a sagacious perception of reality. In real life, people did not live to sixty and look less than half their age. Therefore, Fiorelli may well have had a look-alike, or Lawrence could have been mistaken, given the quality of most newspaper photo clips.

On the other hand, in the real life I had known no more than three months ago, vampires were also perfectly inexistent. Damn it, this would also explain Fiorelli's coldness towards Lawrence. Had he feared recognition? But how could he even know that Lawrence himself would have ever caught sight of the pictures? Mayhap the last name? I strived to think of a possible explanation but came out empty-handed. And even if this was the truth of it, then what was Fiorelli? It came to me that he wasn't even Fiorelli, was he?

Alucard. No touch, no thought, no presence. He had pursued me unsympathetically during my trips, and so I knew that he too presently resided in London. But he had obviously left my surroundings, mayhap had gone in reconnaissance. This was London, I wanted to shout, this was home, there was nothing unknown here! And yet I couldn't. I'd lived with the unknown in my own house, under my very nose, and I'd never quite understood what'd come to pass. Who was Fiorelli? Would Alucard even know?

Wait. I had to do my waiting.

I went back to sleep and dreamt of Fiorelli playing with headless lambs in the woods.

His curls were thick and wavy, he looked the innocent as the lambs approached him with no hesitance.

I was young, very young, I was holding Arthur's hand. I mouthed: "Stay away from him! He's bad! Bad! Bad! Bad!" but I had no voice.

Arthur wouldn't speak, and the headless lambs danced around Fiorelli, and he petted them. He had a very kind smile when he turned at me. "They want to eat."

But they had no heads.

"They want to eat."

But they…couldn't…

"Will you keep the poor lambs unfed, Chris?"

Chris…

And then it wasn't Fiorelli anymore, no, the eyes were far too feral, and it was Alucard, and he was saying something, and this time he was the one who couldn't be heard, and I was screaming atop my lungs. "I can't hear! Talk louder! I can't hear!"

His whisper was very guttural, and so harsh. I could barely make it out. "Whatever did you do to that brother of yours?"

Nothing… I hadn't…nothing. Arthur was there, holding my hand, holding it… no longer, where?

Arthur had backed away in the clearing, and he was holding his hand over his heart, horror-stricken, and –

"Chris? "

No.

"Chris?"

Not again!

"Chris, don't! Chris!"

No, no, no, no, no!

"Whatever did you-"

I awoke with a start, and still screaming. "ALUCARD, BEGONE FROM THOUGHT AND SIGHT!"

There was only the shadow of his presence, and then nothingness.

I wanted to kill him.

I wanted to kill him so badly that I almost sent out a second order that he should kill himself. But I didn't. Instead, I fed this impulse with little action and instead opted for moderation. Meditate. I had a number of things to think about.

For an entire hour, that's all that I did.

I thought of the gloriously perfect brother who had died a mysterious death.

I thought of the father who would not answer my letters.

I thought of my allowing Alucard access to the most private parts of my mind, even when Fiorelli had discouraged me from such a breech.

I thought of the mother who had suddenly wanted her precious younger son dead.

I thought of dreams lost and dreams forgotten.

I thought of my weakness and an old illness.

I thought of the inexplicable tie that would only bind Alucard and House Hellsing.

I thought of my inability to hold a gun.

I thought of everything.

And then I remembered.

Hours came, hours went.

When Alucard returned, I was still savouring my drink. What was it? Whiskey? Brandy? Liquor? What was it? I couldn't remember. The taste of it was sour and sweet on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't remember

"I did it, didn't I?" My voice was husky, foreign to my ears. Alucard regarded me with a curious look that then moved to my glass, almost pensively. In vino veritas, but I somehow doubted this was wine at all. The truth, however, was too wild to be contained. The truth was a beats, finally roaming free. The truth was the dramatic climax of all newspaper titles, written out in big and shiny letters.

The truth stared me back in the eye, and his name was Alucard. "Why, Alucard? Why like this?"

"I'd do anything to find out," he cited, malevolently, and I could see how he would manipulate even the most innocent of statements to thrive the most harm for me.

He has clearly tied himself emotionally to you. Perhaps he has even done so to far too powerful a degree., merely the nearest living being he may grasp after such a long time. That you are a Hellsing, above all else, may not serve as much to your advantage as you had believed it would... I hated to think of Fiorelli just now, but his words rang in my ears, uncalled for.

I had a secret. The six-year-old Christopher Hellsing had had a little secret. And now the six-and-twenty year-old Christopher Hellsing wasn't brave enough to even acknowledge it.

Alucard was smirking at my impotence. It didn't matter. I wanted to say he was distressed, but a monster who'd dig so deep, deep into my mind, and then play the lord of memories was not distressed. He wasn't mine to protect.

And I still had a secret.

"If I say it, I'll make it true." Alucard nodded. It took a sip from my glass to utter it. Two. Three. I had refilled it a second time without even a thought. And then I said it. "I killed Arthur."

He moved far faster than the eye could fathom. Or maybe only faster than my eye could follow? I couldn't tell. I kept fixing my glass, and the golden tint in it. What was it? I laughed. I should be able to remember what it was I was drinking. I took an additional sip. I still couldn't remember.

Alucard was unsmiling. "How kind of you to finally remember."

He took my hands in his larger own, and he kissed every finger with a predatory appreciation for the warmth he could absorb with every lingering touch. No bloodlust now. Nothing.

I couldn't stop laughing.

I couldn't stop.

"I will vanquish all your enemies. I will kill and be killed in the name of the god Hellsing. I am the soul keeper, that which the ancients revered in their love for the perfect kill. I am destruction come anew. And I'll destroy them, and then every one of you Hellsing, so help me all hells…My slave. My Master."

The vehemence in his vow was an unwritten obligation; he demanded that I should return his resolve, his perfect loathing, his passion.

Instead I said, "Am I crying?"

He laughed with me, over my nameless-yet-known drink.

I was.

Author's note:

First off, beg pardon for the delay. I could come up with these fascinating excuses, but fact of the matter is, I flirted with the idea of abandoning this far too many times. Alas, I didn't. A small secret? I've never finished a multi-part fic in my entire life. I'd love to make a start out of this.

You can probably work out the entire tale on your own, by now. Who "Fiorelli" was and worked for, what the Arthur tale conveyed, what it all drove to. I think that you probably still need one piece to the puzzle for it to be glaringly obvious, though very deep searching through past chapters will likely reveal everything.

You know, I never expected to treat this as a detective story, but I'm kind of amused with how it turned out. For those of you awaiting grand action: I did say Kester's part was about finding out the reason why only a Hellsing could control Alucard, didn't I? Action in Integral's Papa's part, and then full out Drama in Integral's.

Still one more chapter of Kester to go. Review and make the poor lad happy?