Hellsing—The Dead Sleep
Disclaimer—I have no legal rights or ownership towards "Hellsing," which is beyond awesome. I am just an obsessed fan with a crazed imagination, having-no-life and access to a computer. After reading you will probably think I am sick.
Rating—Pg-13 to M for language, sexual comments and of course, violence.
Chapter Title—Empty Eyes
Synopsis—The body of Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing is found on the battlefield but the corpse has secrets of its own.
Author's Notes—I am trying to finish this so I can turn my complete attention in Two-Faced and The Dying Rose, which are coming along nicely, I think.
Ta,
Immortalis
OOO Empty EyesOOO"Very well…the chess pieces are set, and now the pieces are set in motion."
And Dr. Trevalin stiffened in defense and perhaps in defiance, as the agents of Iscariot walked into the bleak, cold and bright morgue. For a moment it seemed as though Pandora's box had been opened, spilling out sickness and wickedness—but this time disguised as righteous and beauty. But it would be more suited if evil itself masquerade as an angel of light. Their darkness spilled into the room, almost darkening it with their presence. First their silhouettes became visible against the blinding, intense fluorescent lights that were more suitable for exploring very possible inch of a cadaver, rather than unwelcomed and unsought visitors. However the ominous action of it only intensified the fear of them and of their influence and power. Iscariot was dressed in their ominous black robes, priestly collars and golden glimmering crucifixes dangling from their necks. Staring at the division that now had complete jurisdiction—both worldly and supernatural, in the world, including Britannia, it had become evident that the world had changed. No doubt, it had been for the worse.
And sure enough, standing between two bulky Judas-Priests was the demon himself, in the living flesh—Enrico Maxwell. O
However the war—or much less Anderson, had not been kind to him. After a violent fall in his glass box, then betrayed by the Paladin himself and afterwards swarmed by ghouls and at last, repeatedly impaled by the spears of Wallachia—now the man leaned heavily on a crane and because of the massive and numerous puncture of his lungs, he needed a constant supply of rich oxygen. Unfortunately, the Archbishop was recovering nicely, but he judged the world as well as he dealt with his recent disability, which is to say, very bitterly.
Ironically Alexander Anderson, his own personal Judas stood several paces behind him, meek and silent.
Deep circle encircled his eyes; nevertheless, his emerald-stone lost none of their peering potency and lust, but rather intensified. He wobbled closer and the oxygen tank squeaked, protesting against its owner mobility with each half quarter of the wheels. Lifting up his hand Maxwell spoke in a dry raspy voice, "Dr. Trevalin…"
Lifting up his bloody gloves Dr. Trevalin protested grimly, "I would advise against that, Mr. Maxwell—unless you want to get your hands soiled," he paused and then added with a touch of acid, "but given the recent events it might be a fitting imagery."
"Mmm…we are bitter, aren't we? I suppose losing England's most valuable and unknown hero would be quite a bow," Maxwell smiled painfully and adjusted the plastic nares from his oxygen tank, wheezing each word. "So is it true?" he asked eagerly with a smile of dark delight.
Dr. Trevalin replied reluctantly, "Yes."
Beats of silenced echoed afterwards, and then the Judas-Director crossed himself with shaking hands and rejoiced, "Praise to the Almighty God. It is a glorious day. England is at last, since the inferno days of Henry XIII, ours." His emerald-stone, glittered with their natural intensity at his Teacher, Paladin Alexander Anderson, who had it not been for the emergency squad would have succeed in the death of the power-hungry Archbishop. Technically dead by Alucard—but Anderson as a Regenerator was, despite his betrayal and attempt murder of the Archbishop would prove to be invaluable against the growing threat of the newly awaken Covenant of the Black Veil. So he brought back, but under strict supervision and direction.
Absolute power corrupts, and the Pope had sympathized with Maxwell and found promising possibilities in the deaths of Protestant England.
"Indeed, what an interesting development." The surrounding Iscariot members started to talk among themselves, whispering fiercely and exchanging glances that could not hide their mirth and disbelief. "And pray tell, where might the corpse be?"
Dr. Trevalin discarded his gloves with a loud thud in the waste bin and pointed to the wall of slots, each with their own door. "A-7 slot."
Iscariot, but especially Maxwell strolled over the mini door marked A-7 slot and sure enough there was the suspected namely scribed on a 4 by 4 notecard, a perfect epitaph. Stoking the metal handlebar Archbishop Maxwell said in dark voice, "Iscariot wants to see the body."
Dr. Trevalin answer firmly, "I think that would be highly inappropriate, Mr. Maxwell."
"Archbishop," he correctly automatically. "But such a demand would be highly appropriate, as I have an express order from his Holiness personally, and we only wish to verify the finding." Flashing a smile only Lucifer would be please in, he reached into his robes with measured deliberateness and pulled out, between his thumb and forefinger a piece of parchment with the stamp of the Vatican and at the bottom was the personal signature of the Pope himself.
Turning towards Maxwell the good noble doctor hissed, "I am not under the control of the Vatican, much less his Holiness."
"With the Hellsing Organization roundly decimated and with the "supposed" demise of their Director, Miss Integra Hellsing—everyone now is under the complete direction under the Vatican, including that of the Pope," the Archbishop replied with a smug expression of triumph and sarcasm. "Take it. Frame it. Do with it as you like."
Dr. Trevalin seized the paper violently. Knowing it would be a fool's errand and most likely his death to defy the orders of the Pope, so instead he crushed and ripped up the parchment in tiny pieces and allowed them to fall to the floor and on Maxwell's shinny shoes. "Curse you."
"Language, doctor," he chastised. "We wouldn't want to say anything that might and a man of your respectable talents to the Hell-House O—No, I didn't think so." Maxwell pointed to A-7 slot. "I trust that we have an understanding, Doctor—so, where the Protestant Whore?"
"Are you so eager to see death?" he asked moving towards the slot.
"No," Maxwell quirked. "Only that of one."
Placing his hand on the door, Dr. Trevalin opened it and a flood of mist pooled onto the marble floor. Allowing the mist to clear he reached blinding inside and groped, pulling out the metal slab and the figure on top, under the white sheet. Pausing his hand at the corner of the sheet the doctor replied evenly, "I hope Iscariot can maintain a level of respect for the dead."
Archbishop Maxwell nodded his head discreetly and pulled his oxygen tank closer, as he fingered his rosary, counting each bead. His emerald studied the hidden body with a mixture of anticipation, foreboding dread and anger. Closing his eyes he replied heavily, "Naturally…I imagine that the same would be returned…if the positions were different, even opposite—which of course, they are not."
The Paladin exhaled a sigh and replied openly, "Yes…" Obvious, that had been his intention from the moment he threw the blessed bayonet towards the reinforced glass with hardened tektite composite that housed Maxwell—that she, would stand in the place that damnable devil was now occupying.
"Very well." Pausing for self-control Dr. Trevalin inhaled a breath of courage and then with the gentleness of a lover, pulled back the sheet, revealing a familiar face of an Englishwoman framed by moonlit hair. Despite the years of stress, her usual features were relaxed, showing none of her stern or confused wrinkles in her brow. The normal hue of golden skin was gone and replaced by the sickly pallor of a ghost. Her blue lips were slightly parted, as if in last prayer or breath. Instead of her brilliant and fierce sapphire-stone glaze, the eyes were clouded over with a milky substance and were lifeless, bloodless.
Sure enough, the Grim-Reaper had laid claim to the unyielding Protestant Knight, the Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing.
She was dead.
Now, the last possible resistant against the Vatican was hopeless unavailable.
Iscariot blinked in surprise at the actual evidence lying on the cold steel slab. So the report was true—No false coverage, lies, or forced manipulation of the truth. The rumor was true—'she was dead as the fallen Hellsing Organization.' Rome's mirth could only be measured against their surprise and sudden disappointment. Yes, even as their swore adversary, Iscariot wished for something much more grand. There was hatred between them, but also respect and revere. Now everything between would serve as nothing but a memory.
Perhaps in the end we are nothing more than temporary, and expendable pawns in the endless game of life and death.
"What is the cause of death?"
Dr. Trevalin answered in a the dullest voice imaginable, "In my professional opinion. She expired because of complications of her injuries. Most likely Hypovolmic O shock."
Anderson asked meekly, "Did she suffer?"
"There would have been pain, and then," he paused and finished truthfully, "it would have been like falling into deep sleep. And no pain."
"Not in hell," mused Maxwell.
No. Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing was not in hell—as Hell was now Britannia. No, again she had escaped that punishment.
To himself, Dr. Trevalin mused that if Pandora's box had been opened than all was not yet lost. Then again, hope remained.
OOOTBC
OOOThis is not over, not yet—maybe about half way. Next chapter—Lazarus
1. There was the demon himself in the flesh—Enrico Maxwell. O
2. Hypovolmic shock O—serious loss of blood.
3. Hell-House O—A jailhouse for sinners, who are against the Church.
Ta,
Immortalis