It was most irksome. One would think that with everything Van Helsing did for the church they could at least attempt to offer some small measure of worldly comforts to ease the journey.
But no, here they were stuck on a ship that reeked of rotting fish and men who hadn't seen a bar soap in months, crammed into some obscure corner of the hold. The sailors threw a thin moldy cot into a space that might as well have been a closet and had the cheek to call it 'living quarters'. There was barely enough room to stand up straight. And with all their gear, walking more then two paces without tripping over something was impossible.
Still, Van Helsing had insisted on sleeping on the floor and leaving the bed, if it could even be called that, for Carl despite the friar's avid protests.
Said friar was now hunched on the only other piece of furniture in the cramped space, a crudely made wooden stool, tinkering with the gas powered crossbow. Their only light was the lantern that swung crazily from the ceiling in time with every roll of the ship. Carl had to sway along with it in order to keep his work in the light.
The area was so constricted that Van Helsing was forced to retreat to the cot after a particularly violent swell sent him reeling into his friend's lap. He was asleep minutes after stretching out on the lumpy surface.
Carl watched the steady rise and fall of his chest with a faint smile of triumph. He knew that he would get an earful once the man woke again but he didn't care. Carl knew that Van Helsing was still exhausted, and in more ways then one. His dark countenance and weary body betrayed him no matter how much the hunter insisted that his friend shouldn't worry. Carl knew better.
Feeling slightly seasick with the constant motion and the stench, the friar set aside his work and dug in his pack for the journal he always kept. Writing always helped clear his mind and he hoped it would now help him ignore the nauseous feeling churning his gut. Normally the small leather bound book was filled with technical diagrams and ideas for future inventions. Lately his musing had taken a deeper and much less scientific turn.
If I have learned one thing from this journey it is that field work does not suit me as it does Van Helsing. I will always be more comfortable in my laboratory building weapons rather then wielding them against such creatures as we have encountered.
I have come to know what fear is first hand. But now I face a different kind of fear. Watching my closest friend struggle with his inner pain.
I can barely imagine the guilt that is weighing him down right now. I felt choked by my own guilt when I thought I would have to kill him. God be praised, I was spared the torture of that act. However Van Helsing was not so fortunate. Anna died at his own hand before Dracula's cure could take effect. Perhaps what makes it worse is that he killed her as she tried to help him. She gave her life for his. And that knowledge is killing him inside.
He insists that he will be fine. The very fact that he's not insisting that he IS fine concerns me. I know he wishes that he had died instead of Anna, or at least with her. No matter how many times he hears that it was not his fault, that it wasn't really him, he will never take that truth to heart. For to Van Helsing it is not truth. He believes he could have prevented her death if he had more strength of will, if he had resisted the wolf's control longer, if he hadn't been so careless as to be bitten in the first place.
I know this because I know him. I see what no one else bothers to see when he drags himself back from mission after mission laden with guilt and questioning his life's purpose. But this time is different. This time he became that which he hunts.
Carl raised his head at the sound of an almost childlike whimper. Van Helsing had curled up on his side, looking very helpless and nothing like the hardened killer most knew. Unnerved, Carl half rose from the chair to wake his friend from whatever nightmare taunted him, but sat back down when the man seemed to relax, his strained features smoothing out and a tired sigh stirring the dark hair hanging in his face.
Carl frowned, watching him in concern for several long minutes before reluctantly turning back to his journal.
The nightmares have gotten worse. Barely can he close his eyes before they attack. I know he avoids sleep because of this and it is taking its toll on him. Every day he becomes more exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally.
I know what they will do once he returns to Rome. A day to rest and then back to work as usual. He needs more…so much more. Surely God will understand that his servant needs a hiatus if he is ever to continue His work.
But who here on earth will understand this new darkness that plagues him? Who will not condemn him as evil once they learn his secret? For a secret it must stay. No one must ever know of the mark darkness has left on him.
He is cured, yes. But though his human form has been returned he is still…different. It goes far beyond the shadow cast over his heart by the innocent blood staining his hands. Some part of the wolf is still within. And I am afraid.
Not for myself, but for my friend. Not even that they will try and kill him if they discover the truth, but that if they do, he will not attempt to stop them.