Satis

by Eiserne

Summary:

Integra dies, only to wake up in the past, as a fifteen-year-old.

Notes:

• Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: 心满意足 by papesse

Chapter 1: parting words

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prologue

 

parting words

 

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Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

 

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Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing woke up knowing this would be the last morning she would ever do so.

She could feel it in her bones. She was a woman, an old woman, and her intuition had always been topnotch. She knew with absolute certainty that this cloying feeling of fathomless tiredness was not simply because she had overdone herself in the fencing match four days prior.

A sliver of the sun slid between the closed curtains and cast itself across her sheets. The dust sparkled. She could hear birds chirping. My, what a mundane day to die.

"Rise and shine, Master Integra, it's a lovely new day! Rise and—oh! You're already up!" Seras Victoria waltzed into the bedroom, balancing a tray of breakfast and her daily medicine on one hand. She was blonde and pale and bouncy, as she had been every day without fail for the past thirty years. She smiled sunnily at her boss. "And how is my favorite director of Hellsing feeling this morning?"

"I'm your only director of Hellsing," Integra pointed out. "And I feel like today is going to be the day."

The tray rattled, just a little bit. Seras hummed and set it down on the table. She made herself busy pulling the curtains open. Light, obnoxiously bright, streamed into the spartan room.

"I'm not joking, Seras."

The curtains snagged, just a little bit. Seras kept on humming. She tied the strings in a neat little bow. She moved on to the next window.

"I'm going to die."

The curtains ripped in half.

Integra stared. "Seras!"

"Oh, oh God, I'm so sorry, I'm—" Seras swiveled around. "Actually, I'm not." Her eyes were wide and her hands were trembling. "Don't say such things! If this is payback for my teasing your wrinkles the other day, you've already got yours with all the pinching. My cheeks still hurt. See?" She pointed at her flawless skin.

"And you need to get your head out of the sand," Integra snapped. "Surely you must feel it as well. Today's the day, Seras. I'm going to die."

Seras hummed louder and poured water into a cup. It slopped over the rim. "Just eat your breakfast and don't forget your medicine. All this talk about dying." She snorted. "This is the year 2030. Life expectancy is somewhere up in the eighties or nineties and you're only fifty-two." She wagged a finger at Integra. "You still have another thirty years of me to endure, so buckle up, Sir Hellsing."

"I'm pretty sure people surviving to their nineties didn't have cancer, Seras," Integra said dryly.

The Draculina's humming grew into such volume that she might as well be leading a performance. As it were, the melody was an off-key rendition of some old musical number. Defying Gravity, she thought it was. Seras had been a big fan of Wicked. "I can't wait until Master comes back and I tell him that our mighty Sir Integral Hellsing was intimidated by a little sickness."

"A little sickness called cancer, Seras." Integra reprimanded. She ignored the reference to him. "Which I have been succumbing to bit by bit for the past year, despite appearances. Don't be crude."

"Don't be cruel, then! And don't forget your medicine!" Seras said shrilly, picking up the destroyed curtains and storming out.

"Seras!" Integra called. She huffed. "Damn girl."

She combed a hand through her hair in frustration, then got up. There was a sudden bout of dizziness that she had to clutch her knees to weather. She managed to reach the bathroom regardless. Integra splashed cold water on her face and studied herself in the mirror.

She certainly did not look like a dying woman. Her one blue eye may be a shade duller than the brilliant diamond it had been when she was young, and her hair lighter, almost white. Yet her mind, her senses remained as sharp as ever. She could even win a fencing match. Ah, the wonders of modern medicine.

It had been, as she said, all appearances. Careful, deliberate measures taken to keep the Convention, the Vatican, and the vultures vying for her assets at bay. Her illness had been under the tightest of wraps. Only Seras and the family doctor were privy to her true state of health. How far gone she was.

Integra sighed. Seras.

 

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Seras lingered outside the bedroom for a while, her mouth pressed into a thin line, her shadow arm twisting the curtains. Her hand was unable to let go of the doorknob.

"Good morning, Miss Victoria!" one of the staff greeted, passing by.

She looked out the window.

It was. It was a good morning. A beautiful morning. And nothing bad was going to happen. Absolutely nothing.

"Yes, good morning," Seras replied.

Absolutely nothing.

 

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Integra did eat her breakfast, and did not forget her medicine. Though she knew the pills in her hand were now pointless, she welcomed the few hours' lack of pain they would grant. For exactly one hour she stayed in her room, going over papers, finalizing a few details she had left hanging for this particular occasion, and sealing them. Then she took off on a tour of her own house.

Good old Hellsing Manor. A building of heritage, honor, duty, blood, nightmares, monsters, and death.

A beautiful mausoleum.

She crossed the hall of portraits, feeling their painted eyes on her and not meeting any of them. Judgmental coots.

She did, however, stop at her father's portrait.

"It seems I'll soon be seeing you," she told him.

Arthur Hellsing had no reply, and she did not expect one. It was hard to tell whether her father would be proud of all that she had done. Frankly, she no longer cared.

It was the fate of all Hellsings to die early. The workload, the stress, the nicotine indulged to deal with said stress—it was a repeating cycle with a clear exit. She had quit her cigars a decade ago, but the damage had already been done. She did not regret the habit. Most of time it had been the only thing keeping her sane.

Then again...

Integra resumed walking.

Seras... Seras was in denial. Integra had thought she had shed that aspect of hers, yet apparently it had been merely dormant. Unsurprising. She was a bloody vampire. Vampires never seemed to grow up. No matter what age they had been when they were turned, no matter what age they existed to be, they could be all such children.

"Don't be too harsh on her, boss."

Integra growled. "Not you too, Bernadotte. Can't a lady walk in her own house in peace?"

The disembodied voice of Pip Bernadotte chuckled. "Technically I am your house."

"Don't bloody remind me," she grumbled. "What do you want?"

"Just what I told you. Don't be too harsh on Mignonette. You know how she is. Seras—she's not going to take your death lightly. Whether today or in another thirty years. She's never taken anyone's death lightly and never will."

"Well then, she needs to learn, doesn't she? She has a lifetime full of deaths before her," Integra said, in an unflattering bout of nastiness.

"That's cruel, coming from you, boss."

Integra stopped. She closed her eye momentarily.

"When you're gone, she'll be left all alone."

"She has you," Integra whispered. "She has...him. He's coming back, she said."

Her heart panged at the mention of him.

"Don't kid yourself," Pip said sharply. "She respects him, sure, and she misses him like hell, but their relationship is not even close to the one you have with her. Come on." The walls rippled. "You're the last and the greatest. You guys have been with each other for thirty years. I worry for her. There's only so much I can do. She doesn't look it, but she opens her heart very rarely, you know? And when she does she lets people in too deeply."

She laughed hollowly. "Sounds familiar."

"It should. It's you."

She faltered.

"I see those romance novels of hers have addled both your brains. I have never known love, Captain Bernadotte."

"The hell you haven't. You love so much that you don't know what to do with it. You loved your father so much that you sacrificed your whole life for his legacy. You loved your butler so much that you forgave him even after he betrayed you for a Nazi crackbrain. You love Seras so much that, even now, you're making plans upon plans on how to prepare her." Pip's voice grew quiet. "And you love that man so much, that you're still waiting for him, even after thirty years."

"Love?" Integra laughed. "Love? What you're calling love, Bernadotte, is called duty, senility, foresight and utter nonsense. Love?" she repeated, ignoring the way her heart contracted, the heat behind her eye, the trembling of her hands, the inaudible sob in her breath. "The day I admit myself of being in love, Bernadotte, is my funeral."

"Which according to you is today, right?"

"Get out!" She kicked the wall. "Go bother someone else with your blathering."

"Who's the one in denial, now?" Pip said, and she kicked again. "Merde! Fine, fine. But you forget I've known you for thirty years as well, Integra. You can't fool me or Mignonette."

"Out!"

"Stubborn old lady."

Finally, the halls were quiet.

She covered her ears, as if the silence hurt.

At length Integra lowered her hands and started to walk again, Pip's words ringing in her mind.

Her steps fell bittersweet, for each of them brought to surface those who had breathed their last on these polished floors. It was a truth that not even time could erase, and she bowed her head in memoriam.

She was not really aware of where she was going.

But when she reached it, she crossed her arms. "Figures."

The entrance to the dungeons.

Integra narrowed her eye at the walls in suspicion, half-convinced Pip had somehow altered the corridors so as to lead her there. But she relented. She took a tentative step forward, and then another, until she was making the arduous journey down the stairwell. The cool, stale and, if she concentrated hard enough, coppery air seemed to usher her in front of the heavily warded door.

She stared it for a while. She raised a hand to the metal.

"...Count?"

There was no answer. As had been for the past thirty years.

She wrenched away.

Integra let out a strangled laugh. Hopeful after thirty years. When had she become such a romantic? This was Seras' fault. She would sing "just a little while longer" and forcefully fan a flame that would and should have burnt out long since otherwise. Integra turned on her heel. "Pathetic. I've better things to do than loiter around here."

It was then her body decided to give out.

She could not make a sound. She grabbed her chest and dropped to her knees.

The walls undulated. "Boss? Boss! Fucking hell. Mignonette!"

"Integra." Seras was instantly at her side, shoving pills and water down her throat. "Integra!" She cradled the older woman in her arms. "It's—it's going to be okay. You'll be fine. I won't let you die, I won't! Let's get you to bed." She stood up. "Everything's going to be fine."

Integra was losing consciousness.

"Everything's going to be fine," Seras was repeating to herself. "Everything."

Oh, Seras.

They phased through the ceilings, leaving the locked room with the empty coffin behind.

 

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Death is the endgame of all beings, and those who proclaim themselves immortal are mere escapists; running, running, as behind them the hooded figure walks, sharpening his scythe. For she had been a knight who had accompanied Death in the entire course of her life, Integra only felt as though she was retiring after a great wearisome day. She fancied herself at once cold and warm. She thought she smelled daisies.

When she woke up, it was sunset. The dying rays of the sun were flooding her bedroom a deep and tragic scarlet. Her hand was being held between the small, chilly ones of Seras, whose cheeks were streaked with dried tears.

"Integra!" Seras leaned down. A fresh bout of tears spilled from her red eyes, that ever familiar color. "Oh, Master Integra. You had me so worried."

"Seras..." Integra tugged her hand out of her grasp, to raise it to her face. She cupped the girl's cheek. "Silly minx. Why the tears?"

Seras clutched at the hand that was thumbing away the unrelenting rivulets of blood.

"You knew this would happen, eventually."

Seras shook her head. "Not this soon! You were doing so well. We all thought you would be able to make it."

"I have always known it was inevitable," Integra said.

"It doesn't have to," Seras said quickly. "It doesn't have to be inevitable. I—I can drink your blood. I can—"

"And I told you, not to joke about that."

"I'm not joking!" Seras cried.

Integra placed her other hand on Seras' face, cupping her fully, the blood staining her palms. "And you're not that cruel or stupid. It has been my destiny, Seras, always my destiny, to die as a Hellsing—as a human."

"But—but—" She was crying harder now. "You haven't even seen Master. And I've never lied to you about that, ever. He's going to come back! He will! You won't even give him the chance to say goodbye?"

His face flashed in her mind, that beautiful and terrible mask of red and black and white.

"Alucard knows better than I, that all things come to an end. Everything. Even family, Seras." Integra took a fortifying breath. "I can admit now, that I loved you all, you vampires. And that above all, you were my family. The only family I have ever known." She smiled. "With a little blonde troublemaker—"

Seras laughed despite herself, shakily. "—and her chain-smoking beau—"

"—and her father, the Count—"

"—and his Countess." Seras waited for her to deny it.

Integra did not. But she did avert her eye. Thinking about the could-have-beens was pointless, illogical exercise and filled her with rue. "And the doting old butler, I think."

"Oh, yes. We can't leave out Walter." Seras squeezed Integra's hands to her face as if she was intending to never part with them. "If he'd—if we'd just had—" She sobbed. "We were all that. For a very short while before the war, we were, weren't we? Even if no one ever admitted it! And we could have been that still, if we hadn't been so stubborn."

"No, you're wrong." Integra's smile turned sad. "We were too scarred and too destructive. But you, Seras." Her fingertips stroked her cheeks. "I think you were the better person out of us all."

The statement brought on yet another torrent of bloody tears.

"I'm not, I'm really not," Seras babbled. "If it weren't for you I wouldn't be here at all. You're all I have. I can't function without you, please! I'm just like Master. I'm scared that I won't be able to retain my humanity without you. Please, Integra!"

It was the eleventh hour. Integra gently drew back her hands.

"No!" Seras grabbed them and crushed them to her lips. "No, no, no, please! You're all I have. Please. I can't lose you, too! I don't want to be alone again!"

"You are my best friend, my sister, my daughter, my Seras," Integra whispered. "And no parent should outlive their child."

"No."

Goodbye.

"Boss..."

Goodbye, Pip.

"Please."

Goodbye, Seras.

"Mother."

Goodbye.

"Mother! Why do you leave me? Why does everyone always leave me?"

I'm sorry.

 

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One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

 

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Notes:

This prologue was published on May 8, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 28, 2021.
The end note for the prologue can be found in the link in my profile.

John Donne, "Death Be Not Proud."

Chapter 2: auld lang syne

—ther!

Was she dreaming?

Mother!

Dark. It was dark and cold and there was something wet on her hands.

Blood, she thought.

There was someone crying, sounding so broken. She wanted to go to her and hold her, but could not move. She could not see anything, could not feel anything, except her hands stained with blood. She imagined them outstretched before her.

Don't leave me!

Had she not spoken those words, once upon a time?

Don't leave me!

Yes, she had.

And yet, he had disappeared.

And yet, he had left her.

Things precious to her seemed to fall through the spaces between her fingers like sand, yet like blood they left stains. They. The few precious people. They told her they would never leave her and she believed them, trusted them, even in her life where misplaced trust was a paved road to ruin. She carved their names into her heart and carved them deep. If prodded, they would bleed.

Turns out, she did misplace her trust.

Turns out, they did more than just bleed. They trampled.

But she put aside those things. She put aside her mangled heart and stood tall because that was what she did. That was what she was. Integrity. One who stood stalwart and true no matter what. No matter what. The Iron Maiden, sweeping aside fragments with her impenetrable iron hands, dusting them dispassionately, and moving on. And so she spent three decades of her life cleaning up stain after stain that would never truly fade and brushing aside shards after shards that would ever sting under the skin.

"All in the course of duty," she would say, her lips curved but not smiling.

As she did, dust gathered inside the house she had once been so proud of. She lived in a glorified mausoleum haunted by long dead men. She traversed from room to room as their keeper, not quite allowing herself to wonder about the could-have-beens yet not quite barring herself from it either. When she passed by a certain door, she would think, Is this what you felt when you were alone in your castle, Count? Or did you not feel at all?

The image that came to her mind, black and white and grey and dull red, had no answer.

Farewell, he said instead.

Gluttonous wretch. How dare you. How dare you leave me.

And yet, she was no better. She had said goodbye, too.

Seras, Seras, don't cry. I'm free at last. Be happy for me. Won't you be happy for me?

Contrary to her words, her heart grew heavier. In the abyss she drew her bloodstained hands to her cheeks and the tears running there washed them pink, though she could not see.

Seras, Seras. My darling girl. I loved you most. I loved you best.

She was never one to wallow in regret. But here, in this cold, dark space, her mind and body growing numb, she saw her life kaleidoscopic. She saw the missed chances, the things she never said, the questions she never asked. It was human nature to regret, and the Iron Maiden had only ever been human. The steel walls around her rusted with each of her tears and crumbled with each of Seras' cries.

Mother, mother!

Seras, Seras, what can I do? It's too late now.

"Just like Alucard," she whispered. "Late, always late. Too late."

 

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Is it?

 

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SATIS

"Its other name was Satis; which is Greek, or Latin, or Hebrew, or all three

—or all one to me—

for enough."

- Estella, Great Expectations

 

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01.

auld lang syne

 

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Every day for half a century, Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing had risen with the sun. The light that flooded her bedroom assured her of at least twelve hours of meandering until the start of her actual duties, and in its glow she would sit up in bed, stretch her limbs, and stare down at her covered knees as she went over the day's agenda. Tea at two with Penwood...finalization of the plans for atomized silver by five... The faint echo of a dream would briskly be banished. It had no place in her reality.

Yet she was finding it difficult to banish this particular dream.

So...dark. So cold. Were dreams supposed to be so...real? And she could still...hear...

Integra sat up, her hands pressed to her face. Slowly she lowered them, half-expecting to see them red, for certainly they were wet, and clammy. Yet against the white of the bedding, her palms were pristine but for the glistening tracks she had made with her tears.

Oh, how funny. She had cried in her sleep. She must have been truly stressed out yesterday. No wonder. She had talked to Seras about her death. It was a subject that always managed to get Seras upset, which in turn would always manage to get her upset. Pip was right; she had been too harsh on the girl. She would have to apologize.

But...why did the thought of Seras make her hands tremble?

Her hands. Integra found herself studying them closely. Oh, now this was even funnier. Were her tears blurring her vision, or were they oddly...smooth? Seras had presented her a set of expensive creams for her fiftieth birthday, swearing they were, quote, "A safe alternative to vampire blood guaranteed to smooth away all your wrinkle worries!" She had pinched both cheeks for that.

Still, she had applied them every night. Well. Evidently her efforts had paid off. Seras was going to be so pleased when she saw they actually worked. Integra almost smiled.

Almost.

It was strange.

She could not smile.

There was a knock on the door. Seras, of course. The girl waltzed into her room every morning with a customary and obnoxiously cheery greeting, humming a tune off-key, though she had scolded her multiple times she had no need of such infernal racket. Truthfully, after so long, Integra felt like her day did not begin until she heard that hum. Just as well. She would ask Seras if she seemed off today.

The door opened.

"Good morning, Miss Hellsing."

A middle-aged, portly woman walked in.

"Promptly up as usual, my dear!" the woman said, setting the morning paper down on a table and crossing to the windows, missing the way Integra froze. "If only my son was as early a bird as you. Why, last weekend I had to smack his rear to wake him up, and he's twenty-four! I swear, that boy'll be the death of me—"

"Miriam?" Integra breathed.

The woman named Miriam opened a window. She turned to her. "Yes?"

A breeze entered the room, an early summer's wind that swept strands of her hair into her face. Some of them got caught in the salty traces of her tears, and it was right at that moment that Integra realized.

Both of her cheeks were wet.

Both of her eyes were wet.

And one of them had not produced tears for three decades.

"Why, you look as if you've seen a ghost! And my goodness, have you been crying, my dear? What on earth is the matter?"

Integra did not reply. Her left hand reached up, to the eye that should be covered, should not be whole, should not be seeing—

"What is this?" she whispered. "What is going on? Where's Seras?"

"I haven't a clue who you're talking about. Integra, are you alright?"

No. She was not alright. "What have you—" Integra started to demand loudly, only to slap a hand to her throat. Her voice. Why was it—why was it so high?

Miriam looked alarmed. "Integra, you're giving me a fright. You seem to be dreadfully out of sorts this morning! Mr. Dornez is supposed to bring tea in a half, but I'll hurry him up, you understand? I'll be right back. Oh, I do hope you're not coming down with something!"

One word registered in her mind.

"Dornez?" she croaked.

The woman was gone.

Integra dropped her hands to her lap and stared at them anew.

Her hands, her unblemished hands.

Her soft hands. Her smooth hands. Not calloused, not wrinkled. And they were shaking in front of her—

Eyes.

Wavering in their sockets and inarguably whole.

A word was uttered, helplessly. "How?"

The syllable, which faded into the air, became a flood in her brain. How? How? How? It reiterated itself over and over and over again until it transformed into a buzz, a white noise that played in crescendo as she moved on autopilot. She did not remember throwing off her sheet, she certainly did not remember landing on her feet, but she was in front of the vanity, gripping the detachable mirror in her too-clean, too-soft, too-smooth hands so tight her knuckles seemed to burst. When she beheld the face gazing back at her from inside the silver circle, the buzz transformed into a scream.

Years of restraint prevented that scream from escaping. She could not, however, prevent her muscles from slackening, the mirror from dropping. It met the floor, shattering into many haphazard pieces.

The haze around her mind followed suit. The events of what she had thought was yesterday seized her senses like the claws of death. They scraped her raw, enraged that she had slipped from their clutches, and she remembered. She remembered waking up. She remembered wandering. She remembered collapsing and waking up yet again and Seras was there, begging her not to—

The pieces reflected different parts of herself, but in each and every one she glimpsed a pair of wide and disbelieving blue eyes.

"I died," she said.

The truth rang hollowly in this time and space.

And her left eye, it throbbed.

Integra bent down and picked up a shard. She held it in her palm, and deliberately, she closed her fingers. She squeezed. She watched, unflinching, as the edges sliced her skin. Blood oozed, pain streaked up her arm and it was then she let the shard fall, reddened. The sting passed through her body, by her beating heart, by her inflating lungs. And it was telling her, they were all telling her this was—

"Not a dream."

Droplets of crimson dribbled down her nightgown as she repeated the words silently.

Not a dream.

Not a dream.

Then what was this?

Integra made her way to the table where the morning paper sat innocently. She did not need her glasses to read the four-digit number printed in the corner in black ink.

1992.

 

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There had been a Mrs. Miriam A. Bolger in Hellsing from the eighties to the early nineties. She had been employed by Sir Arthur Hellsing as a nanny to his daughter and, not counting the brief period of retirement forced upon her by his brother, she had served for sixteen consecutive years. After taking care to witness her charge blossom into a beautiful, valorous knight, she had chosen to retire for good to Scotland, where she died at the age of seventy-three.

Integra had sent flowers to her funeral.

"How fleeting life is," she had remarked, as she personally placed the order for two dozen lilies.

And now this one particular Mrs. Bolger, who should have been dead for fourteen years, was moving through the manor in search of one particular Mr. Dornez, who should have been dead for thirty. She found him in the kitchen, waiting the approximate eight minutes it took to perfect his lady's tea. He raised a brow when he saw her rush in.

"Is there a problem?"

"It's Integra," Miriam exclaimed, and the man set down his watch. "There's something terribly wrong with her. I went to give her the paper and she was crying. Crying! And she was dreadfully pale and asking odd questions and she looked at me as if I was a ghost! You must go up and check on her!"

The butler was already moving. He climbed the flight of stairs leading to Integra's bedroom, and when he arrived the door was ajar. She was not there. The curtains floated in the wind, guiding his gaze to the opposite side of the room where there was a mess of broken glass and blood.

Miriam caught up to him and gasped. "What happened?"

He rounded on her. "You said she was crying? Was it a nightmare?"

"Why, I'm not sure. But she was asking about a name I'd never heard before. I'm afraid I don't recall what it was other than that it was a rather strange name. Oh dear, I should have been more thorough." Miriam wrung her hands. "Now that I think of it, she looked...devastated. Absolutely devastated."

 

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1992.

That was thirty-eight years ago. She had been fifteen years old.

She had been a slight thing then, still growing. A little knight-in-training who still wore dresses, who was filling the shoes of director at a painstaking pace. Though by then she had spilled more blood than the average person did in their wildest fantasies, and innocence had become a sweet far utopia, she had still harbored hope, that one day she would do her father proud.

She had been a fool.

Integra, who should have been dead for a night, found herself outside. It was a beautiful day. Blue. Cloudless. Like yesterday—she referred to it as yesterday because the alternative was too ridiculous. She slumped against the grand double doors of the manor, eyes shut and her injured hand splayed across her pounding heart. When the sun filtered through her lids red, she let out a brittle laugh at the sheer evidence of life and utter, blasphemous change it posited as.

"What a cruel, cruel joke."

Why was she even surprised? After all the shit she had experienced, this was merely icing on the fetid cake. Nothing in life had ever gone the way she had anticipated, why should death be any different?

The young girl—the old woman—whatever she was—walked along the outside wall of the manor, her fingers trailing on its heated bricks. Despite their warmth, this house, this bloody miserable godforsaken house, had never felt more like a tomb to her than it did now. There was nothing here. Nothing except dead people. People she had long since bade goodbye, people she had buried with her own two hands. She could almost hear them.

"Integra!" they called.

She paused. That had not been her imagination. Someone was actually calling her.

"Integra!"

Integra opened her eyes a sliver and sucked in a breath. She remembered that tone. It was Miriam. She must be looking for her. That meant—

"Integra!" another voice called, male and elderly.

Her chest heaved. She squeezed her eyes back shut.

Walter. I buried you. I buried you with my own two hands.

She covered her ears. This was too much. It was why she had fled from her room. Details had leapt out at her with each passing second: the vase she had removed twenty years ago, the canopy she had dismantled when she was eighteen, the picture that was not there that she had received on her forty-fifth Christmas! God, she had died! She had died just yesterday! And she was bloody tired and bloody done with this shit. Whatever she was, whatever this was, dead or alive, heaven or hell, thirty-eight years in the past or thirty-eight years in the future, she wanted to get away from it all.

Sir Integral Hellsing did not run, but there had been no Sir Integral Hellsing thirty-eight years ago in the year 1992. There had only been a young Miss Hellsing.

"Integra!"

"Shut the fuck up," she muttered. "Why can't this world go on without me for one bloody day?"

A voice piped up inside her head. It sounded like Seras.

You have to face them sooner or later.

She turned the east corner to the back of the manor, and there she slid down the wall to the grass.

"Seras," she said.

The shadows did not answer.

"Pip."

The walls did not answer.

She shuddered. Of course. Thirty-eight years ago there had been no Pip Bernadotte who swore in French who smoked cheap cigarettes who gave her unwelcome love advice who kept vigil over her domain and would never ignore...thirty-eight years ago there had been no Seras Victoria who hummed who teased who adored Wicked (and thirty-eight years ago there had been no such musical) who stayed up at day without complaint. Who had mended her mangled heart to the best of her ability, who had been the last person Integra had allowed herself to love.

Always, always, things precious to her fell through the spaces between her fingers like sand. They told her they would never leave her yet they did.

But this time she could not blame them because this time, it was she who had left.

And now, there was nothing. Nothing, except...

A butler...

(A traitor.)

And...

"Why here?" Her nails scratched the fabric of her dress. "What am I supposed to do here? What's left for me here?"

You know what is.

Integra tilted her head toward the sun. Its glare momentarily blinded her.

"That can't be," she said.

Don't deny it. Especially not this time.

"This time..."

Is your second chance.

Are you ready?

It had been so long, she almost did not recognize the sensation for what it was.

But only one entity could produce this kind of pressure, this prickly feeling, this fleeting sensation of being submerged neck-deep in a pool of ink. Had she been looking, she would have seen the shadows under the trees in front of her twist, and emerge as a very tall, massive figure. Presently, however, she thought she would rather enjoy the sun. Her lashes rested on her tan cheeks and she mused, belatedly, that regardless of everything, she was glad to have her left eye back.

It was quiet for a brief, golden while.

Then—

"You've caused quite a commotion."

Footsteps.

She counted them. One, two, three. A shadow was cast over her.

"Master."

She breathed, or she tried. Her lashes fluttered, and she noticed that the afterimage of the sun had faded.

Finally, she lowered her gaze.

Red.

Such a violent color. Yet beautiful. It was—it should be—vibrant. Even when her life had been drenched in it. The color that wetted her palm, peppered her dress, the color that stood before her.

Integra said nothing. She simply stared. She could believe that she had died and somehow missed heaven and hell altogether and ended up thirty-eight years in the past, and she could believe that this was somehow a second chance wrapped as a big fuck you from the universe. But this, she could not quite believe.

Thus she continued to stare and did so thirstily.

Her vampire had always been very beautiful.

So that's how it is.

He smiled. "Did you have a nightmare, my Master?"

If you can't come to me...

I'll come to you.

She smiled, too.

"Haven't you heard, Count? There is no nightmare from which you do not wake."

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on June 24, 2016.
It has been updated for formatting on January 28, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 3: palimpsest

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02.

palimpsest

 

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His lips twisted.

"None, indeed."

Integra settled comfortably against the bricks of the manor, bending her legs to the side. The grass stirred.

The pale lips smoothed. "Count," he repeated. His smile became more pronounced. "You rarely call me by that."

Her own smile had become fixed, a shallow curve and nothing more, on her face as she stared and stared at the man—the Count—the monster, her monster—in front of her, whose coat was a mere few feet away from the hem of her nightgown. It was rippling in the breeze, waves of crimson threatening to drench her. Ah, but she had already done that herself, had she not? Her palm was resting listlessly on her lap, trickling red.

His eyes, just as red and glowing, glanced at the cut and back at hers. "You seem to have hurt yourself, my Master."

That voice. That voice which she had heard only in her darkest dreams for thirty years. Those words. My Master. Only he could say it with an undercurrent of something else. This was real. This was happening. In broad daylight, before her very eyes.

"A flesh wound," she sighed.

"Allow me to tend to it." He took a step forward. "And after I have closed it, perhaps you'll further allow me to partake in the details of your dream. For as you have said, there is no nightmare from which one does not wake; yet here you are, my Master, fettered still by whatever phantasm it was that besieged you."

She could have laughed. He was one to talk about being fettered by dreams.

"Oh? How then, will you unfetter me?" Integra asked mockingly. "Will you be vanquishing my phantasmagoria with your sheer presence? A demon to chase away my other demons?"

He simpered. "I only seek to attend to you to the best of my ability."

Then where were you ten years ago, twenty years ago? Where were you, when I needed you the most?

Her heart contracted. Her smile disappeared altogether. Suddenly she found his presence not liberating but suffocating. He stood there, unchanged, same as always, knowing nothing of what had occurred, knowing nothing of what was to come. He was the personification of her new reality, and the weight of it dragged her soul down to impossible depths. Integra inhaled until her lungs rattled. She shifted her gaze to the trees behind him as a dismissal. "You should be sleeping."

"How could I, with the Angel of Death and the nosy housekeeper making all that racket? It's unlike you to keep them worried."

"Make yourself useful and go tell them I'm perfectly fine."

"That'll work," he scoffed. "He's already half-convinced that I had a hand in whatever has gotten you into this state. He'll behead me as soon as I appear."

"Get yourself beheaded, then," Integra said, unmoved.

He tilted the head in question. His look was piercing. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're displeased with me."

"Astute of you." Her sight, clearer now with glasses, was centered on the green foliage swaying in the wind. It was strange, having depth perception again. His form loomed in the peripheral vision she had lived so long without, a mass of red and black and white. All her remaining senses were acutely aware of him taking another step forward. The rustle of his coat. The chill of his aura. And, if she concentrated hard enough, the copper of his scent.

"I can't imagine why. Haven't I been a very good pet this past week?" He took yet another step.

Integra closed her eyes. "Go away."

"You don't mean that."

He was always so aggravating. Always so difficult. Her vampire. Her servant. Her Count.

Her Alucard.

And because he was Alucard, he was crouching before her in an instant, and white turned to red and summer turned to winter. Heavy fabric draped over her knees. His chill battered against her warmth. His pallor was inches from hers, forcing her to open her eyes and glare at him. He seemed instead fascinated by the traces of her tears.

"I've not seen you cry since you were twelve," he murmured.

"Back. Off."

Alucard leaned back, but only slightly. He regarded her with suspicion. "You're different this morning. Subtly. I can't quite place it. You look…" One of his gloved hands hovered near her left cheek. "...as if someone has done you a great wrong. Surely, that can't have been me?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Integra said. "You have the ability to aggravate me even when you're doing nothing."

He barked out a raucous laugh. "Is that so, my Master! But even if that is so..." A finger landed tentatively on a dried tear. It was cold and it burned. "You will allow me a chance to make up for it, won't you? Integra."

Integra.

His voice. The way he spoke her name.

No, this is farewell, Integra.

Farewell, farewell, farewell. Integra, Integra, Integra.

It was involuntary. It was illogical. Yet she had to act. She had to reach out. She had to feel for herself, to let her touch burn him as his did her. With her unblemished hand she cupped his cheek.

He stiffened. He had not been anticipating this. His finger dropped and his eyes widened. They roamed wildly over her face, searching for the catch, but her touch was tender.

She looked at him not as a young girl who had woken up from a deathly dream, but as an old woman who had been reunited with her long lost lover, though they had never been lovers in the strictest sense of the word. Yet there had been glances. Nuances. And very fleetingly, touches, those nothings that seemed to promise everything. They had all, despite his cold flesh, carried heat—heat she could not afford, for she was the Iron Maiden and iron melts when heated. So she had kept her distance, he had kept his distance, until it was too late, until the distance had stretched into an irreconcilable expanse of time and space.

I had been prepared to never see you again.

She had said goodbye to him, when she had ventured down the stairwell to the sealed door. You were too late, Count. You won't be able to see me. When you return it will be me that's a slab of concrete on the ground. Be good to Seras, she's a better person than any of us. Goodbye. Goodbye.

Yet here I am. And here you are.

"You're," Integra whispered, "here."

Alucard smiled quizzically, even helplessly. "You don't sound disappointed."

"You—" She sighed. "You're so infuriating. You're insufferable. You've made me—" She stopped.

"Made you what?" he urged.

She swept her small fingers against his skin once, twice.

"You're always the same. You never change."

"Of course," he replied, somewhat hoarsely. "I am that kind of monster."

At last Integra smiled, and it was a smile the vampire had never before witnessed on her face nor directed toward him. It was the smile of an old soul, who had battled through the fires of life, to find him on the other side. She looked as if she had wanted to see him there, and surely, surely, he was mistaken. What a curious expression to wear, my young Master!

In a moment, however, it was gone. She retracted her hand. He was bereft.

Integra stood, dusted down her dress, and brushed past him. "Let's go inside."

Alucard remained frozen in place. Her tender touch had branded him, her sweet scent was bedeviling him. It was Hellsing blood, and more than that, it was her blood.

At length he rose and turned to her.

"You have not told me, Integra, about your nightmare."

She was facing the sun. She was silent for a while. Then she answered, almost inaudibly.

"It doesn't matter now. It's in the past."

And it was spoken with weariness and resignation and a tinge of bitterness.

He had been drawn to all Hellsings, yet none had enthralled him so effortlessly as Integra, whom he had been attuned to ever since she had settled her warm little body next to his corpse. "You won't mind me here, will you?" she had asked. No, my lady, I will not. Give me your blood, and I shall be your knight forever.

But the girl standing in the light, resplendent in her stained gown—like petals on snow, delicious—was both familiar and foreign. There was something. Something he could not name. Something she was not telling. It was troubling and a bit tantalizing. Had she not barred him from traversing through her mind, he would have done so already, at the risk of incurring her wrath. What was it that she was hiding?

I do enjoy a challenge, Integra.

"What of your wound? Will you not let me tend to it? I'd hate to have it fester," he suggested silkily.

She sniffed and inclined her head toward him with a critical eye. "You mean, you're craving a treat."

"You know me well," Alucard said, with an unnecessary bow. His avaricious red orbs leered at her behind a curtain of midnight hair. "I crave the life you shed. I crave you, as a loyal hound who craves nothing but the beckoning hand of his dear Master."

Integra laughed.

When she did, he knew it was imperative that he discover what she was hiding.

For Integra, as resilient and used to his advances as she was, was only an inexperienced teenager, and part of the enjoyment of beguiling her was glimpsing the delightful diffusion of color across her lovely dark skin, and hearing her bluster. Yet here she was, laughing off his words.

The eyes behind the curtain of hair sharpened. What are you not telling, my coquette?

She quietened. "What blandishments," she remarked.

Integra had missed this. She had missed his shamelessness, his outrageous comments, his puerile attempts to rile her up...she had missed him. She had missed everything about him. She would no longer deny that now. She had waited for him, she had—

You love him, said the voice that sounded like Seras. You admitted it.

Hush.

She flexed her wounded hand and fresh blood pooled in her palm. She raised it up to his face and watched his nostrils flare, his fangs elongate, his tongue protrude. As he closed in, she moved her arm lower, and lower, and lower, until he had to get down on one knee for his mouth to be aligned with the offering. He grinned at her actions.

"May I be bold and inquire if this indicates that you have forgiven me for my nonexistent transgression, my Master?" Alucard rasped.

Nonexistent.

"Yes," she said simply.

It was nonexistent.

For—

"Then I shall be thorough," he said, and latched his lips onto her wound in a bastardization of a kiss.

—it was in the past. She had deemed it the past.

If this is my second chance...

She would not let it become the future.

So softly that even with his vampiric hearing he thought he had imagined it, Integra whispered, "Don't be. Alucard."

He sucked. He licked. He laved.

Her blood was as sweet as expected.

But how curious.

He thought he could taste bitterness.

He thought he could taste grief.

 

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She was young, she was healthy. Her eyes were intact, her heart was whole. She had her family back. She should be happy.

She was not happy. She was lost. She was a lie.

She had wanted to see her vampire again, but not this way.

She had wanted to see her butler again, but not this way.

She had wanted to greet them as an old woman, who had done everything the world had asked of her. They would have met in some picturesque manifestation of heaven, and she would have let her butler know she had forgiven him, and she would have closed her eyes, and she would have gone to sleep, perhaps in the arms of her Romanian prince. Wake me up when Seras and Pip come, and the five of us will have tea together.

A fairy tale.

The kingdom of heaven appeared to slip further and further from her reach the more and more blood drenched her gloves. The people she loved were either vampire or traitor (or both) and she would not be surprised if that was reason enough for her to be disqualified. Some evenings, she would indulge in a bottle of whiskey and declare, "Bollocks, I'll just make my own kingdom of heaven. Or should that be queendom of heaven? Fuck if I care," and wax heretic (she could almost feel the spirit of Alexander Anderson breathing down her neck) until Seras gently pried the glass out of her hand and ushered her to bed.

Oh. Alexander Anderson must be alive, too.

Bollocks.

The crown of her head brushed her companion's elbow.

When she was still growing, she had been annoyed by their height differences. He was simply too tall, which made conversation awkward, since she required to meet people's eyes when she talked to them. "Shrink or lower yourself, whichever you prefer," she had ordered. "It's ridiculous having to crane my neck and stand on tiptoe when talking to you."

"Very well," he had said, and he had knelt for her. And when he peeked at her through his messy locks with his crooked smile, her heart had beat a little quicker.

Integra wondered, as her healed palm tingled pleasantly, as they walked side by side to the front doors, to the inevitable confrontation, if she would ever get used to this feeling of displacement. Her vampire companion was not helping matters. His silence, his ignorance, the air between them, all seemed to be voids she had no choice but to fill once more, evidence that her lifework had become a palimpsest. If she filled these gaps anew, would she recognize herself in the end?

Thirty years she had lived without him, thrice the time she had known him. The morning he left her, she aged centuries in the span of a few hours. She had never felt older than when she returned to her ravaged house, trudged through the corridors that were splattered red—again—recovered the bodies of her men—again—their heads, their limbs—how many flowers would she need this time?—until Seras had begged her please, please, Master Integra, you have to stop, you need to rest.

Rest? I've lost all rights to a rest. I won't ever be able to rest again.

And just when she thought she finally could, this.

Her arm grazed the sleeve of his coat.

Isn't it funny, Count? How alike we have become.

We both yearn for an end.

Integra stared out to the grounds. Her mind was racing, churning out possibilities upon possibilities. What she knew could not repeat itself. She could not risk the same war and the same losses. As long as she was back in this world, she would do everything in her power to prevent it.

And where would that leave her?

She snorted. And here I thought, self-reflection is a sign of senility.

She missed the strange look Alucard sent her.

They were nearing the doors when something caught her attention. Something white.

Daisies. There were daisies in the grass. Integra stopped automatically.

Daisies are Seras' favorite...

To her horror, she felt her eyes sting. For heaven's sake, did this body of hers have no inhibitions whatsoever?

"Master?"

She blinked and quickly redirected her attention. She moved along. "The weather is nice," she said lamely.

"You would think so," Alucard muttered. He had conjured his tinted spectacles and was peering at her behind them. "Must you pick a sunny day to run out in a fright?"

"I did not 'run out in a fright,' as you put it, but I'll be sure to pick a thunderstorm next time," Integra groused. Despite her tone, she was grateful for his complaint. Yes, this was what she needed. Inane chatter, a semblance of normalcy, and how pitiful it was that what she considered normal was walking in daylight with a petulant vampire?

But for her it was normal. Painfully.

"There is beauty in a storm, don't you agree? The cacophony of light and sound, the fury of wind and water, nature's very own brand of monstrosity, my Master." He smiled with all his teeth. "A perfect breeding ground for the likes of me."

"Perfect for you, who revels in the justifiable chaos it brings," she agreed.

He preened.

They had arrived. Integra turned to the grand double doors.

"But not all storms are of nature."

Alucard hummed. "You say that as though you're expecting a storm behind this door."

Integra smiled at him. The sun had irritated him badly, for he had conjured his fedora as well. She had almost forgotten how silly he looked in it. Its shadow was obscuring his eyes, and so lifting her heels, she nudged the brim upward and gazed into them solemnly through the glasses. It occurred to her how dissimilar they were from Seras' eyes. In hers she had seen his vicariously, but now she realized that, whereas the Draculina's had always managed to retain a softness, his simmered raw, cauldrons of destruction and discord and violent, virulent hunger.

She had seen those eyes weep.

"Why, my Servant," she said, and the word was nostalgic in her mouth. "I thought you knew. My entire life is a storm."

"Why, my Master," he said, and he said it with such ease. "A grand statement to come from a human whose length of time on this plane is a decade and a paltry handful of years."

Her lips twitched. If only you knew.

"And you're a shining example of how age is a reliable measurement of maturity."

"My Master with her acerbic tongue," Alucard chuckled. "I wonder, in a few years, will it not be cultured with something else?"

Integra tutted and jerked his hat down. "Irredeemable wretch."

His insidious laughter peppered the air. She listened.

I've missed you.

Her smile turned wan.

I've missed you, and I resent you for it.

Integra reached for the door handle. Her fingers curled on the metal, and she took a fortifying breath.

She was startled when he snatched her hand. She immediately swiveled around to rebuke him, to stifle at the expression on his face.

"Integra," he said. "You may very well call me a child, but I hope you don't take me as a fool." Alucard had removed his glasses, and was fixing her with crimson irises that burned brightly with the intent to pry her darkest secrets out of her soul. "What are you hiding, Miss Hellsing? Why are you acting differently today?"

"Am I? I wasn't aware I had a standard," Integra drawled. "Unhand me."

His grip loosened in inverse proportion to his gaze. "I may not be able to read your mind under your orders, yet the connection between Master and Servant is insuperable. I know when things are not what they seem."

Could have fooled me.

Integra wrenched her hand free and grabbed his face. Her nails dug into his cheeks. "That precious connection of yours certainly didn't help when—"

Farewell.

Her visage contorted. For an instant it became the image of grief, to be replaced with an impassive mask. So he had not imagined the taste. Silly girl, did she truly think that would work on him? He was the master of disguise.

"When?"

"Nothing," she said.

"Nothing!" he spat. "Integra." He pressed forward regardless of the nails that were making angry crescents on his flesh. "You forgave me my transgression, which I'm starting to believe must be existent after all," Alucard growled, "but you are still bitter about it."

She did not know whether to slap him or kiss him.

That was when the door opened.

"Integra!" Miriam shrieked, so overcome with relief that she hugged her without noticing the compromising position she had found the girl and the vampire in. "My goodness, child! Where have you been? We've been worried sick!"

Integra patted the woman's back to make her let her go. She would have apologized, had she not heard another voice.

"Integra!"

There were rapid footsteps coming down the stairs. Before she turned to them, Integra remembered a day in her previous life—the tenth anniversary of the war. She tended to spend the anniversaries quietly, avoiding the public functions all the other knights would be attending, opting instead to wander about the manor in her mourning garb. She would visit the memorial at the back of headquarters that listed the names of the Wild Geese. Seras would already be there, of course. She would be tracing their captain's name even as the man himself murmured soothingly in her ear.

The tenth anniversary was no different, except that Seras had been more inquisitive than usual. "Master Integra, have you visited Walter?"

She had sunk to the ground next to her. "No."

"This year, too?" Seras had looked at her with sad red eyes. "Haven't you forgiven him yet?"

"I have forgiven him a long time ago," Integra had replied.

"Then why? I don't understand."

She had blown her cigar smoke out of her mouth and watched it curl into the sky as opaque and transient as the people in her life.

"It's easier to forgive a ghost."

Sounds were garbled around her. She was conscious simultaneously of Alucard staring at her with fading crescents on his cheeks, of Miriam fussing over her and shoving her lightly, to the direction of the traitor whom she had loved as a parent.

She preferred that ghosts remain ghosts and memories remain memories. It was easier that way. It was easier to forgive a kind face in the past that could not speak, than to confront it in the present and being able to listen to all that it uttered and wondering, wondering, how much of it was truth and how much of it was lies? Walter, Walter, will you tell me this time?

We're all liars here, a voice that sounded like her old self said.

She was young and healthy and whole and she felt older than she had in the morning after the war, older than yesterday, older still than the wrinkled face before her that was filled with such concern and affection.

"Hello, Walter," Integra said, and she honestly could not help the tears that followed.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on July 27, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, formatting, and word choice on January 28, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 4: eyes of war

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03.

eyes of war

 

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Three, she had learned from a book on numerology in the family library, was a perfect number. It had a past, a present, and a future. A beginning, a middle, and an end. Three was the number of pictures in a triptych, and it had been the whimsical side of her that thought it an apt style for describing her life. She would be in the center frame, Alucard the right, Walter the left, and the title would be a single word. Loyalty.

Loyalty. Oil on canvas. This painting depicts a lady knight and her two retainers, one of whom will ultimately betray her.

Time would reveal the traitor, whose picture would hang lower and lower on the wall until it lay face down on the floor.

The other picture would disappear altogether.

Only the portrait of the lady knight would remain, her beauty and glory unchanging, as perpetual as the blue diamonds of her eyes. Or so it would seem.

A careful look. A closer look. And there would be flakes of paint peeling off the canvas.

That was what Integra felt like right now. A decrepit painting—a spectacle, really—and oddly detached from herself. She was old Integra, who was observing her younger image from afar with a solitary appraising eye. Look at you. Crying without inhibition. How long has it been? Weeks? Months?

Decades.

And this is you, who shed not a tear even when your entire world fell to pieces. Old Integra laughed a laugh weathered by years of smoking cigars and barking out orders. You don't cry. You get angry instead. Crying is a waste of time. Even Seras and Alucard cried more and they're vampires. Yet here you are, proving yourself human after all.

Yes, Integral Hellsing did not cry. Tears would merely be proof that she was not made of iron, that she was made of the same fallible set of emotions as anyone else. In her world, that was a weakness. So she sublimated her tears into flames. She let them burn her foes to ashes. Death, death, death to those who have wronged me. To Hellsing's enemy. To Britain's enemy.

Even if that is someone I love.

But the gears of sublimation must have come to a standstill when she died and yet to restart, because these stupid tears were not drying.

"My lady," Walter said, aghast.

Integra wiped them away with deceptive serenity. "It's nothing."

"There you go again with the 'nothing,'" Alucard hissed behind her.

She did not deign to respond.

"Are you alright?" Walter grasped her shoulders and looked her over rather frantically. She might have been amused by how he panicked at the sight of her tears had she not been so utterly miserable.

"Integra! Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she heard herself say.

She recognized this Walter. This was the Walter who had read her to sleep when her father could not, who had made her chicken soup when she was sick, who had always known when she wanted her tea and how she wanted it. Her dear old butler. She could at least smile at this Walter, so she did. She did despite how fragile it felt.

He was exactly as she remembered him. His monocle was a bit askew, having slipped while he was running around searching for her. But his wrinkles. They were the ones she had conjured when she complained to Seras about her own. She could not have imagined then that she would be facing them this way, as grooves on a mask hiding treacherous youth.

With that train of thought Integra sobered.

These hands on her shoulders were not the hands of the man whose possessions she had buried. The man who had left his monocle, his gloves, his shirts and vests behind, folded meticulously, knowing he would never wear them again. The man who had put all his cards on the table. No.

These were the hands of the man who still held onto them.

And they were unbearably heavy.

She stepped backward out of their reach as naturally as possible, her plastic smile in place. "I didn't mean to worry you. I simply had...a nightmare..."

Walter's brows rose. It was such a familiar expression that her throat constricted. "A nightmare."

Alucard's gaze was boring holes into the back of her head.

"Yes," Integra whispered.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I find it hard to believe that a simple nightmare could cause all this!" Walter was visibly upset. "You've had nightmares before, Integra. They never made you disappear from the manor for nearly an hour with blood down the front of your sleepwear!"

"What about your cut, my dear?" Miriam asked. "Do you need the doctor? At the very least it'll need bandaging—"

"There's no need," Integra assured, her smile growing strained. "Honestly, all this fuss for—"

"—nothing," Alucard finished sarcastically.

She ignored him.

Walter's eyes shifted from her to Alucard, then to Miriam. "A cup of tea, please, Mrs. Bolger. Chamomile. And something light for breakfast."

"Oh, yes, well." Miriam eyed the contentious group of three uncertainly. "Of course." She took Integra's hand and squeezed it. "My dear, I don't quite understand what's going on, but I do hope you'll cheer up. I always said you're too young to be carrying the world's burden on those shoulders. Sometimes you need to set it down."

She had set it down, and it had rolled back onto her shoulders like she was a modern Sisyphus. Nonetheless, Integra graced the woman with a genuine smile. Miriam, she recalled, worked days, was little aware of what went on at night, and had a barely passable comprehension of Alucard as a "gentleman" who was "not quite right." She had a tendency to nose and coddle, yet she was the only innocent present. Integra could appreciate that now, more than she ever had in her past life. "Thank you. I'll try."

Miriam left to prepare tea and breakfast. The entrance hall was one person less and suddenly seemed very small.

Three, the perfect number.

The lady knight and her retainers. One betrays and the other disappears.

"Walter, there isn't anything I have to tell you that I wouldn't have with Miriam present," Integra said, getting straight to the point. She had been dead, she was weary, she was grimy, and here she was, stuck between two men whom she both loved and resented. The last thing she wanted was a replication of the last time the three of them were together. "I had a nightmare. I stumbled and broke my mirror and cut myself. I went outside to get some air and tarried because the sun was nice. That's all there is to it, and if you'll excuse me, I'd like to get changed. Alucard, go to sleep."

"You're a shite liar," Alucard said.

"Bully for me," Integra intoned, glancing at neither of them and bypassing Walter to make her way toward the main staircase.

"Integra, you can't deny this is highly irregular of you," Walter argued, turning to her. "At least tell me what your nightmare was about. Was it Richard?"

"No."

"As if the rat would merit a walk-on in her terrors," Alucard sneered. "She wouldn't tell me, why would she tell you?"

Walter regarded the vampire with steely grey eyes. "Because she has done so in the past, and perhaps she chose not to tell you because she knows you're responsible."

Integra stopped in her tracks. For fuck's sake.

"Walter," she started, pivoting slowly in front of the stairs, "Alucard had nothing to do with this."

"Very well," he conceded readily, "but may I ask, did Alucard close your wound?"

The palm Alucard had lavished attention on smarted. Integra curled her fingers over it. "Yes," she bit out, "but I offered. Alucard didn't—"

"You little punk," Alucard said, his voice dangerously soft. "I didn't think you would be foolish enough to actually suggest that." Until then he had been leaning against the doors, an immobile sentry watching her with keen red orbs under the brim of his fedora. He now advanced toward Walter, hatless, hair spindling around him. "You insinuate that I manipulated her dreams, on the off chance that I might taste her blood?"

"It wouldn't be the first time you attempted to manipulate her for less," Walter said with composure. "You might think yourself obedient, Alucard, but we know you're not above finding loopholes to exact your twisted form of entertainment."

"What I find entertaining," Alucard drawled, "is how a man who has already failed his master spectacularly is so desperately trying to depreciate his rival."

Walter's monocle flashed. "I've explained myself on that matter. I returned as fast as I was able. You can't hold that over my head forever, Alucard. It's becoming droll."

"Not as droll as blaming me for every little thing that goes wrong around Integra. I'm a monster, not an imbecile." Alucard stared past the butler at his master's inscrutable face, his eyes hooded. "If I attempt to manipulate her, it'll be knowing fully well it doesn't work on her."

"Of course it won't work on her. She's better than you'll ever be," Walter stated. "Something you should keep in mind."

"Oh, but I do, in the same way I enjoy keeping in mind that I am her most loyal, capable servant, while you are a senile, obsolete human." Alucard's lips furled deeply, the epitome of conceit, gloating at his former partner.

Walter's fingers twitched.

Then there was laughter coming from the stairs.

"My God, I forgot how childish the two of you were." Integra covered her mouth as more dry peals escaped. She had to steady herself against the balustrade with how much she shook from—from laughter, yes, not this, this bloody blistering ache in her heart. Alas, Alucard was correct, and even to herself she was a shite liar.

The two bickering men stood in bewilderment. Walter appeared abashed.

"Such children." She breathed in raggedly. Loud, vivid flashbacks the likes of which she had not experienced since the last anniversary of the war took advantage of her frayed nerves to blind her. A girl in white, with long black hair and manic red orbs, cackling as she drains the streets of blood stop drinking stop drinking! A boy with grey eyes that should not be cold, yet they were so cold so cold! I ordered your death!

She blinked, and it had only been a second.

What good was it that her heart was intact, if it was going to be bludgeoned all over again? This was her comeuppance. Her penance, her fucking punishment. Stuck in a child's body with these two grown-up children. A final laugh, akin to a great sigh, was expelled, and she glowered at one and then the other. "I've had enough with you hypocrites. Leave me be and if you have something other than rubbish to say, have the decency to wait an hour."

"Hypocrites?" Walter croaked.

She ascended the stairs. Crimson eyes followed her figure of petals on snow. Alucard thought he had never seen her walk like that before. He knew this particular gait because he himself had employed it a long time ago, when he was his own master in his own castle, when there was nothing breaking his monotony but the coordinated stomps on the ground that heralded another war, another sea of blood, another feast.

She walked like a battlefield ghost.

What are you hiding? What are you hiding? His blood swelled with lust, lust for her secrets, the answers she would not give. Tell me! Integra!

She may have heard him. Her eyes flicked downstairs and for the briefest moment met his, and he saw them. Behind their glacial walls, the battered fires of—

She turned the corner.

"War," Alucard whispered.

"What?" Walter asked warily.

He did not answer. She has war in her eyes. His young master who had never known war, contained its flames. How could that be? His visage rippled, desirous, anticipant. "How lovely."

"Did you get up on the wrong side of the coffin as well?" Walter demanded. He straightened his monocle. "Integra says you had no part in this and I'm inclined to believe her. But something's obviously wrong and I swear, Alucard, if you worsen it by hassling her I will act."

"Aging has made you all bark and no bite, Angel. You say that as if you can actually do something." Alucard melted into the floor before the wires could sever his head and moved through the concrete as shadows, cackling the entire way to Integra's room. He would overlook Walter's cheek; their lady's reaction had rendered them all off-kilter this morning. Really, what had brought on those tears?

Tears were not a weakness to him. Some men evidently regarded them as a weakness, but they were simpletons. He, on the contrary, preferred men who were unafraid to shed tears to those who shed none. Tears were the overflow of the inner whirs, and a true warrior was one who could wipe them off and stand taller still—something you yourself have failed, pitiful No-Life King—Integra's had been such.

What flummoxed him was the cause. She had been perfectly sound just yesterday. The month was showing a record low for Midian activity. The moth-eaten pissants who deluded themselves superior to Integra were keeping their mouths shut for once. She had bid him and Walter goodnight and retired early after completing the day's agenda. Yet here she was, a starkly different picture.

That nightmare. It had everything to do with that nightmare.

He materialized in front of the door. He did not knock or make any move to enter. The plank of wood did not stop him from entering, of course, except he could hear the bathwater running. It was very, very tempting, but he was not that tactless.

Through the locked door her room smelled strongly of detergent. The staff had cleaned up the mess, though underneath the stench, his nose could detect the teasing traces of camellia and bergamot. What a waste. He could have lapped it up and saved them the trouble, but he had had to find her first. And she had rewarded him. The low hum of her life throbbed in his dead veins, in the precious sample of blood she had indulged him. Sweet blood. Bitter blood. It sang in doleful tunes.

If there is no nightmare from which one does not wake, then why are you still sleeping?

Little sleeping beauty with eyes wide open...eyes of war...

Alucard blended into the shadows. He would grant his Briar Rose her privacy for an hour. He would count down the seconds and they would talk.

 

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Countless possibilities and none without a price.

She slouched in the bath. The bubbles around her gradually popped, and so did her raw emotions, one by one, leaving her desensitized. When she pulled the stopper she imagined the water to be all her concerns going down the drain until she was met with the sight of her naked, young body. Reality did love to slap her in the face. She got up and dressed.

Twenty minutes later in her office, Integra looked down at her clothes and sighed. A blouse and a skirt. Her wardrobe had contained nothing but those and several summer dresses. It should not have surprised her, since she had not begun to wear men's clothing regularly until she was seventeen. She was Miss Hellsing, not Sir Hellsing. Miss Hellsing wore blue skirts and sensible loafers and did not quite comfortably settle into her chair, which was too large for her. She had to get used to being Miss Hellsing, and quickly. She grabbed the nearest stack of papers to find out where exactly she stood in this era.

Or she would have. Instead Integra emitted a groan and pushed the stack away. Paperwork. Again. And this was the twentieth century. Twentieth century paperwork. God, this was awful.

She rose and circled her office. It was mostly the same. The same tall windows, which she glanced out. The sun was glaring. She retreated to the bookshelves and reacquainted herself with half of the titles she had lost or thrown out. As she read their spines, it dawned on her that in the decades she had worked here, spent the majority of her life, it had undergone the least amount of change. Change had always brought her suffering. And it only made sense that the biggest change of them all would bring her the most suffering.

Alucard. Walter. Alucard. Walter. She berated herself for her lack of reservation, but those idiots. Those fucking idiots. Alucard with his rot on age and failure. Walter with his rubbish on obedience and manipulation. Hypocrites. They should have cut out each other's hearts fifty years ago and saved everyone a whole lot of misery.

You don't mean that.

She realized her hands were clenched into fists, so she willed herself to relax. Knowing Alucard, he would heed her wishes and wait an hour, not a minute more, before barging in. She had to try and act the role of fifteen-year-old Integra, though details of herself at this age were fuzzy at best. She turned her back to the shelves.

There was a painting on the opposite wall, depicting a man with shrewd blue eyes. Integra paused. She had had this picture relocated to the library. Abraham Van Helsing, her great-grandfather, was not someone she wanted to see every day.

She pursed her lips at the man whose decision to harness his enemy had skewed the fates of his descendants and laid all the repercussions on her lap. "Men must insist on making bad choices," she murmured scornfully. She studied the countenance that bore minimal resemblance to hers, returning to the eyes.

Red.

Her moue deepened. "A bit tasteless, don't you think?"

"Poetic, rather," said the portrait of Abraham with diabolic irises. "Have we aggrieved you to the extent of scorning your forefathers? What would Arthur say?"

"He would say, don't listen to the demon," Integra said, and sauntered to her desk.

He chuckled. The portrait's eyes followed her like the props of a tacky horror film. "The demon you own, little lady. What does that make you?"

"God, probably, since Lucifer was His angel," she said loftily.

The demon whistled. "Unfilial and blasphemous. My Master, you are on a roll. You're stoking my curiosity." His tone became scratchy. "A curious monster is a dangerous beast, Integra."

"I said to come to me for something other than rubbish, and this is definitely rubbish." She sat in her chair imperiously, not allowing its size to dwarf her. Her body may be Miss Hellsing, yet her mind and soul were Sir Hellsing and this was her suzerainty. "After squabbling with Walter like toddlers in front of me, this is how you choose to act? Step out of that picture before I order you to your coffin."

Alucard took far too much time drifting out of the frame, and Integra had to roll her eyes. Again, always so difficult. It was almost jarring. Dealing with him was different from dealing with Pip, Seras—

She breathed. Not now.

He bowed. "About that. I think you upset Walter with your 'hypocrite' comment."

"I'll apologize," Integra merely said, as her insides twisted with a cloying mixture of guilt and righteousness. She did not want to think about Walter at the moment. "Well? Is that all?"

His red, red eyes sought hers. They were calm, Alucard noted. As in the calm before the storm. Not the blue fires that had scorched him as her talons carved crescents into his skin. She was restraining herself.

From what?

"So eager to dismiss me, Integra? Avoid the questions I ask?" He approached the desk slowly. When the toes of his boots hit the wood he leaned forward, casting a blurred crimson reflection on its polished surface. His hair, in contrast to his leisurely movements, was frenetic and gnarled in the air toward her. "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Cliché, but true. Do you know what I see in yours?"

Her eyes never left his. "Enlighten me."

He was very close. She could feel his coldness.

"War," he said.

She did not blink.

"Now, how could that be? You have never known war."

She was quiet.

A wayward tendril of black hair reached for her. Integra raised a hand to wave it away but was caught. The shadowy extension wrapped itself around her fingers, her wrist. She did not seem bothered by this. Another anomaly. Usually she would shake it off at once. Integra, have you any idea what you're doing to me?

"Perhaps," she said, "you, or I, have a vivid imagination."

"Perhaps," he said, "or there is something you're not telling."

"That again," Integra sniffed. She tugged her bound hand half-heartedly, to which his hair responded by tightening. "Even if I was hiding something, why would I tell you? You should excuse a lady her secrets, Alucard." She smirked. "You seem to sorely lack finesse in handling this kind of matter, especially considering your history with women."

Alucard's eyes became tinged with fervor. "Is it finesse you require, my Master?"

Their conversation had derailed somewhat. Integra did not let her emotions overpower her this time, but inwardly she shivered.

No one but Alucard talked to her like this. No one else dared to bait, to presume... She was abruptly crushed by the observation that her life had become barren of this tug-of-war simultaneously with his disappearance. She had ensconced herself in work, locked the gates of her heart, guarded it jealously. She had let no newcomers in. There was only space for Seras and Pip and maybe Gregory Penwood and a handful of people. She had lived with her passion in exile for years. Then one day, she had discovered a wrinkle.

It's gone, she remembered thinking. My spring. I let it pass me by.

Pip was right. She was a lovesick fool.

True horror right there. What will I admit next, I secretly enjoy soap operas of the gothic persuasion? This does look like the plot of one. The spinster reawakens in her youth and finds herself again the recipient of a dead Count's butchered, socially unacceptable version of courtship. Integra snorted.

Alucard misinterpreted the noise. He bared his teeth. "You mock me."

She yanked her captive hand, sending him plummeting to the hardwood desktop. He was practically lying flat on his stomach. He tilted his head up from his position and his expression of insane desire would have felled a lesser woman.

"I do require your finesse, my Servant," she told him sternly. "That does not entail baring your fangs at your Master."

"That nightmare has changed you," Alucard growled. "In the course of one night, everything about you has altered. My Master with her eyes of war..." He was not sure if he was ecstatic or mournful.

He was so very close. "Don't be overdramatic, Alucard. It's just that I saw many things in that dream."

His gaze was burning hotter than the great conflagrations of human history, and possibly hell itself. "And you saw war? Is that it?"

On cue, images flooded, unwanted. Against her better judgement, in proximity to a ravenous monster, her eyelids fluttered shut.

"Did you see blood in that dream, Integra? Were there corpses lining the streets?"

Stakes in the ground dripping with blood and the bodies of her enemies their source. Earth upturned and saturated with gunpowder and entrails.

His voice seemed to be echoing inside her mind, the susurrus of the Devil. "Did I deliver that war to you? Was I your champion?"

Two figures. A Count and a Countess. For that night, the indisputable rulers of Midian.

So, so very close.

But then—it was the ebb and flow of sea tides, how her thoughts fluctuated. Death had not only compromised her method of sublimation, it had broken open the lock on her memories as well, and so they surged. The knight disappears at the wake of morning and leaves a trail of broken vows behind.

Integra jerked back to awareness. Their faces were still close enough to kiss. Her hand was still wrapped in his hair. She waited.

In the prolonged silence, the strands loosened and, unhappily, parted from her warmth. Alucard detached himself from the desk at a painstaking pace. When he straightened, it was with tension in every line of his sculpted features.

"Does it...not matter?" he mocked.

Integra's eyes still did not leave his, but they were distant.

"I think it does, Integra. I think it matters absolutely."

"Believe what you will," she said. "It's quite late for you, isn't it?"

Evasion, again. Alucard snarled softly.

"I will bring you to victory through any war, Integra. You know this."

She smiled strangely. "I suppose I do."

And for some reason that made him beyond ravenous. It made him...anxious. This not-quite-Integra, this mystery that seemed determined to ruin him.

"I will find out," Alucard promised. "Each and every secret which you insist does not matter. You will tell me, and I will be there, holding you in my grasp, as you divulge them willingly."

She accepted his challenge, even as in the abyss of her heart, the bell tolled—Countess, Countess, you have dug your grave!

"We shall see."

"I shall retire now, my Master." He faded from the room.

Alucard did not immediately withdraw to his crypt. He instead took a detour to the kitchen, where he nearly crashed into Walter who was about to leave with Integra's breakfast. Accustomed to this, the butler balanced the tray and raised a brow at the vampire who was grabbing a packet of blood from the refrigerator and tearing his teeth into the plastic without heating it up.

"You didn't hassle her, did you?"

Alucard was busy slurping to reply. Blood splattered on the tiles.

Walter sighed. "Maybe I'll fare better." He started for the corridor.

"You won't."

Walter halted.

"You sound quite sure."

"You won't," Alucard repeated, his jaw smeared red. "Trust me." He laughed, the racket loud and high and arrogant.

Everything Walter hated.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on August 12, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, formatting, and word choice on January 28, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 5: jamais vu

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04.

jamais vu

 

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The veil of mundanity hung by the summer morning ruffled, the inhabitants of the manor were left in varying states of restlessness. Ostensibly, they were doing what was expected of them. The vampire lay in his coffin. The butler made his way with breakfast. The master was in her office in her chair. Yet where on any other day she would be diligently sifting through her papers, today she sat motionless, her blue eyes faraway in the space her vampire had occupied.

What they reflected was the pattern of the wood, but what they saw was a different kind of wood. A forest. A cadaverous forest. Where she had walked with her hair flowing, the sole semblance of light in its darkness. She had looked up at its trees, and smiled. Then she had looked down at its keeper, and quietly admired his form. Here was the king and he was kneeling. His cape was shredded, flying, giving him the silhouette of dancing flames. He had burned for her. He had killed for her. He had returned for her, for her, only for her, and there was nothing between them now that he was reduced to one man and she was reduced to one woman sharing the same acrid air in the bowels of perdition.

So she had said, Count.

And the Count had said, Countess.

But once again, there was everything between them. Time. Knowledge. Walter. Alucard himself.

Anger ate away at her rationality. When she put it into words it did not make sense even to herself. How dare he demand answers from her. How dare he stand there and speak of the alleged war in her eyes as though he had not been its player. How dare he rouse her heart with these—these palpitations—which he did not deserve. You don't deserve it. Anything. My horrors, my honesty, my heart. You were the one who broke. You think you can traipse into my life, after the years I spent wondering if that shadow in the corner was not yours or if this color red was a trick of the light? Fucker. I can't—I won't—

The deplorable thing was, she could not accuse him of any of the above.

She wanted to march down to his crypt, kick his coffin open, seize him by the collar and throttle him. Ah, but what's the use? What can that deadly mouth offer me? Maybe she should revise, and instead kiss that mouth. Bite his lip, make him bleed, mark his skin and maybe, finally, when she had vented thirty years of waiting on his grinning face she would be exorcised of these ghosts. Because otherwise—Integra smoothed a hand over her left eye and moaned as if in pain—they were not letting her go. Hounding her—like the fucking dog he called himself—

"Bastard," she gasped.

"My lady."

She jolted, her hand falling from her face. Her eyes shot up to the door.

Walter was also startled. "I did knock."

"Oh." Integra shaped her lips into something struggling to resemble a smile. "I must not have heard."

There was a beat.

"I saw you were holding your head," Walter said. "Do you need an aspirin, my lady?"

"No. Come in."

The butler entered with a vague feeling of wrongness that had been nagging at him all morning. He set the tray to the side, then placed a cup and saucer in front of her and poured chamomile from a china pot.

"You missed the tea that was sent up while you were in the bath, so I made a second batch." He stepped back. "I can never say this to Mrs. Bolger, but I do think my brews are a touch more precise."

She stared at the cup.

His brow furrowed. "Would you prefer something else?"

"This is fine."

Integra fingered the handle of the cup. To think that she would be tasting his tea again.

Walter's brews were, in fact, precise. After the war she had made her own tea, yet each attempt had always been off. Always too hot or too cold, too weak or too strong. When she had lamented about this to Seras, the girl had admitted to burning at least six pots in her lifetime trying to boil pasta.

She took a sip, swallowing the memory down with it, the afternoon she had spent with Seras laughing over bitter tea. This tea, however, was perfect. A perfectly tempered, fragrant cup of chamomile.

But of course, everything Walter made was perfect. His weapons especially. So perfect, that not even the vampire wielding his gun had noticed the remote-controlled explosive hidden inside.

She returned the cup to its saucer, fearing she would slop its contents all over the place. "In the language of flowers, chamomile equates to 'energy in adversity.'"

Walter nodded. "A remedial herb for nightmares."

"If only there was such an herb for life after death," Integra said wryly.

He mistakenly thought she was talking about Alucard. "He seemed high-strung when I encountered him. Have you had a disagreement?"

"He was being querulous because I denied him the answers to the newest mystery in his lackluster existence."

"He is unhappy with the stagnancy," Walter agreed, "and seeks an outlet. Which is why I may have overreacted. Integra, please don't doubt my concern. I only want you safe."

Integra was very glad she had not been holding that cup.

Walter's eyes were sincere. They taught her grey could be warm. They were prettier than hers, she had thought as a child. She had told him so. "Father's eyes are blue, and mine are blue, but yours are grey, Walter, and that makes yours the special-est and the prettiest."

"Most special," he had corrected gently. "My lady's opinion is precious to me. Yet acquiescing to it would be telling an untruth, for your eyes are by far the most beautiful."

"Really?"

"Yes. They're like little blue diamonds."

I've come a long way from the girl who received that compliment. These diamonds are nowhere near as pristine as hers. Eyes of war, indeed. Integra gradually dropped her gaze to the tea. Chamomiles were almost identical in appearance to daisies. Daisies, however, meant 'innocence,' and represented all that had fallen through the spaces between her fingers. He was gone, that Walter. This Walter was...a stranger...who looked and talked and acted the same. Jamais vu, Pip would have said.

The same person, recognizable, yet unfamiliar, and painful.

"You must realize, that any errant behavior on your part can be taken as a weakness," he was saying. "And as I mentioned, Alucard is not above exploiting that weakness. Though I can see that he is exceptionally attuned to you," he added, with a hint of a frown, "and that you are somewhat fond of him, you have only known him for three years. You need to be careful."

Three years? Try ten.

You have no right to speak of him this way.

"I don't doubt your concern for me, Walter," Integra forced out, raising her eyes, her throat dry. "But you shouldn't doubt Alucard's. He has already more than proved himself to me. I will not have him questioned."

"I am merely pointing out a possibility, my lady," Walter defended.

"What good is chasing after a possibility?" she said tiredly. "Some things are set in stone. I am Master and he is Servant, bound by blood, and he will never betray me." Unlike you.

"I am not saying he will. Simply beware of his cultured words and what they seek from you."

"Walter, aren't you the one most affected by his words?" Integra sniped.

He stiffened. "Pardon?"

"Really," she went on, feeling a crack in her facade. "You've known him the longest. I shouldn't have to remind you to ignore whatever bull he spews out of his mouth because he doesn't mean it." The mask of fifteen-year-old Integra was splintering. She was spilling. "He doesn't mean any of that tripe about—about growing old. If anything he envies you for it! Why would you—"

throw away the one thing you had over him

"—let him get to you—"

and destroy yourself

"—it was—"

it was

"—the most foolish thing you could have done." It came out as a whisper.

"Integra," Walter said, stricken.

Then, she had not asked why. There had been no point. Now—

Her nails were digging into her palms where they rested on her skirt. Reminding her. Don't let your mask shatter, like you did your mirror. She dug deeper, felt the skin break. It helped. She reined herself in. "I'm sorry, Walter. I was already angry with Alucard; I shouldn't have taken it out on you."

He smiled ruefully. "You've grown so quickly, beyond our reckoning. How my incompetence must have frustrated you. Consider me properly chastised."

"I know you were only worried." Integra picked up her teacup and was pleased when it did not wobble. She drank. Energy in adversity.

"To be frank, all the time in the world will not prepare a person for reacquainting with a creature such as Alucard. I'm afraid I may be still in the process of...getting used to him again, so to speak." Walter shook his head. "I've gotten rusty in more ways than one. Forgive me."

For the second time Integra lowered her cup to avoid making a mess. Walter did not, could not realize that what he was asking went beyond this morning's slight. "Don't be silly," her mask replied.

"Nonetheless, I find myself surprised, my lady. Your understanding of Alucard seems to have matured greatly."

"Why is it surprising? Should I not understand my subordinates?" She said this with a tight smile. "Who knows what will befall if I don't."

There were splinters in her words.

The thing about splinters, particularly the tiny ones you are never quite sure how you got, is that they do not hurt unless touched upon. Walter bowed. "My lady is wise." He gestured to the covered plate beside her. "I've kept you from your meal long enough. I'll leave you to it." He started to turn.

"Walter."

Integra came around her desk to stand next to it. She hesitated, for a moment looking as if she would run into his arms, like she had done as a small child. But she stayed where she was. A hand gripped the edge in want of stability.

"Walter, you know I love you, right?"

For the umpteenth time that morning Walter was surprised. "Why, of course I do." He stalled. He could have given her a hug, yet something stopped him. Perhaps the way her face had gone curiously blank.

"Know that I love you as well, Integra," he said. "And that if there is anything you need or wish to tell me, I will always be here."

When he left, the air was stale.

Cold. Was it not summer? Ah, it was just her, then. She wrapped her arms around herself. Hugging herself.

"You will, won't you."

The statement was followed by an equally sardonic puff of laughter.

Integra returned to her seat. The tea was lukewarm. She did not care to drink it anymore. She held the cup in her hands and stared into it, fancying herself a scryer, fishing for her fortunes in its yellowish depths. All she saw was her youthful face.

Chamomiles were almost identical to daisies. Yet the first to be sacrificed in the pursuit of energy in adversity was innocence.

To Walter, Alucard had been that adversity, she thought.

A bound one, a subservient one, but ever present, ever potent. A land mine waiting to be stepped on. A glorified piece of garbage that he, the Angel of Death, must invariably collect. Partnership did not matter. What would a vampire care? True immortals did not exist. He would prove it to him. He pursued that unattainable dream and it sapped him of every virtue. He was willing to risk his wisdom, his duty, his love. He had chosen to, back in Warsaw, September 1944.

Then Arthur had sealed Alucard away.

Integra had reached this conclusion on a night in, ironically, September. A year after the war, in this very office, nursing a bottle of whiskey in candlelight and clutching her pounding left orbit. Papers had been strewn on the floor, some of them crumpled.

Walter had been just as much of a reason for her father's decision as Alucard himself. Arthur Hellsing had been many things but never ignorant. The less refined mask worn by a younger, wilder Walter would have had holes to see through. Having glimpsed that futile ambition, had he not taken measures to prevent it? Leaving Alucard to rot and Walter to grow old, anticipating that age would mellow him?

"A fat fucking lot of good that did," she had said.

Age had not mellowed Walter. It had merely made him desperate.

Twenty-three-year-old Integra had wondered, as she had never allowed herself to wonder sober, if like everything else, his love for her had been a ruse as well. Under the blanket of alcohol where thoughts were trackless that single query picked at her, an incessant vulture. Grey eyes that had been so cold, so cold, had their warmth before been artifice, too? She wondered, and wondered and wondered until the side of her skull felt as though it had been pierced with a bullet all over again. She laid her head on the wood, and her glasses reflected the flickering candle. The world appeared ephemeral in its glow.

This world is after all a violent, fleeting dream...

A hand landed on her shoulder, softly.

"Master Integra, is your eye hurting?"

"Seras," she said. Seras, have you come to pity me, too?

"Did you drink the whole thing? Master! The doctor said you shouldn't drink! It's bad for your eye!"

"What does another vice matter?" Integra slurred. "This world...is fleeting..."

There was a pause. Then the crackle of a piece of paper being smoothed out.

When an arm hoisted her up, its hand was empty. Integra was on her feet. But not walking. Floating, perhaps. "Seras," she murmured. "My uneaten pair of wings."

"She's damn round the bend."

"Pip!"

"Hey, I'm not judging. As coping mechanisms go, drinking is pretty tame."

She leaned heavily into her carrier. Her vision was blurry. She was blinking at a tunnel of darkness. Unknowable, like her butler.

"Seras."

"Yes?"

"Was I a good master?"

There was a catch of unnecessary breath.

The voice that answered her, however, was firm. "The best."

The darkness was blinking back at her.

"Then why wasn't I enough?"

She felt the arm supporting her tremble. "You were. You were enough." The girl was not so much supporting her now as she was herself. "Master Integra, when you—when you meet Walter again—"

"Sending me to an early grave, Police Girl?"

"When you meet him again," Seras said, "you'll see. He loved you. It wasn't because he didn't love you."

(The scryer emerges from her vision.)

Fifteen-year-old Integra set her cup down, pulled her breakfast forward, uncovered it and began to eat. She was hardly aware of what she was putting into her mouth, and had no appetite whatsoever. Yet masquerades had to continue, pretenses carry on, the living go on living. Memories had to be folded with care and locked inside a gilded box, emotions herded, questions reserved for another day and names of loved ones uttered with a farewell kiss. And in the blink of an eye, none would recognize her as other than Integral Hellsing, the Iron Maiden. Hinges oiled, spikes sharpened and awaiting the death verdict that would fall from her own lips.

"Seras, you were right," she said, allowing herself a last respite before sliding her disguise in place, just in time for the knock on her door.

"Miss Hellsing, your tutor is due to arrive at ten."

"Thank you, Miriam."

She buttered her toast, her knuckles white around the knife. She bit. She chewed. She swallowed.

Seras, you were right.

And that's the worst part.

 

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A day in the life of a butler was straightforward, if not tedious. Running an estate was no small feat, yet it was eased by routine, and Walter C. Dornez's routine had been nearly the same for fifty years. Preparing morning tea, afternoon tea, evening tea, and every other tea in between. Serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Dusting the shelves of the library, which was off-limits to ordinary staff members. Reviewing the ledger. Making adjustments. Rinse. Repeat.

Clockwork.

Walter was used to the monotone that had become a fixture ever since Midian activity had plummeted several years past. Seasons tumbled by, among them his as a reaper of the earth. Did he miss it? Yes, but he had more important things to do. The aforementioned list of his duties contained mere trivialities. His paramount duty was to nurture his ward, his lady, the young Miss Integral Hellsing, into the finest director the organization had seen.

His routine was Integra's routine, or rather, her routine was his. She drank the tea he prepared, ate the meal he served, read the books he dusted, confirmed the adjustments he made. Clockwork, in juxtaposition. The hour hand followed the minute hand.

Not today.

Her behavior was troubling to him. So troubling, in fact, that he had had half a mind to ring Dr. Trevelyan. What if it was a sign of some kind of summer flu? After all, night terrors were often indicators of a health problem. When he had walked in to witness her holding her head, he had been convinced.

His concern had been rebuffed. Not a word about her terror, even when he had more or less prompted her with the chamomile. Truthfully, he had been crushed. It was not that, by having her confide in him and not Alucard, he had been hoping to show the vampire up. It was just that she had confided in him always before. Alucard, who had the tact of a lemming, would of course end up angering her. That was where he came in. To be her confidant.

Walter hated it when Alucard was right.

As he approached the study, this time carrying a tray of Darjeeling, the butler could not help but mull over their conversation. Fondness and understanding—the terms he had used—were insufficient to explain the vehemence Integra had displayed in defending Alucard. It had been a deeper thing which had discomfited him, and he dared not presume... He thought that perhaps it was a teenage thing, wanting validation of a family member's love while simultaneously distancing herself from it. There had only been a few steps between him and Integra, yet it had seemed to be an inexplicably great distance. The way she had asked if he knew she loved him had been an echo.

Perhaps he was going senile.

"Alucard, envy growing old?" Walter chuckled. "What a concept."

What did Alucard know of aging? When he, that bastard, could appear as young as he wanted, as beautiful as he wanted? He had to wake up every dawn to the prospect of another line on his face that increased his resemblance to a piece of driftwood. Alucard was a rotting skeleton with intact flesh. He did not need his envy. What he needed was to drive a stake through that flesh.

Walter was pulled out of his fancies when he saw Ms. Crane, the history tutor, rush out of the study.

"Mr. Dornez," she announced upon spotting him, "I resign."

The contents of the tray stayed admirably still, if he did say so himself. "I beg your pardon?"

"My contract," Ms. Crane said, her face interestingly puce, "was to instruct Miss Hellsing on the subject of history, not to engage in verbal sparring. Good day."

Flabbergasted, he let the woman storm past him. He peered into the doorway.

Integra was sitting serenely at a desk, reading a book. She did not look up when she spoke. "Has that insipid woman resigned?"

"She did say as much, my lady."

"Good." Integra flipped a page.

She was not forthcoming. Walter had to ask. "What happened?"

Integra flipped another page. "The text she chose was biased, inaccurate, and," she closed the book, "had a nauseatingly optimistic view of the future. She turned unattractively purple when I told her so. Tell me, Walter, was I present when we engaged her as my tutor?"

Did she not remember? "Yes."

"Hmm. I must have been stupider than I thought." She tossed the book to the floor. "What other lessons do I have today?"

Where was she going with this? "It's summer, so you have a couple in the afternoon."

"Cancel them."

"Excuse me?"

"Cancel them. I don't need them." Integra rose as if she had said nothing out of the ordinary. "These lessons are an insult to my intelligence and to my time, Walter. I should like to study by myself from now on."

"But my lady," Walter said. "The knights—"

"The knights," she repeated. A little smile formed on her lips. "How could I forget. Is Sir Penwood well?"

He had no idea why she was singling out Shelby Penwood, of all people. "He is."

"I'll have to visit him." She calmly made for the door. "Bring that up to the library."

Walter balanced the tea tray. "Integra, the knights are invested in your education."

"Yes, I do remember that," Integra said dryly. "They'll have their grades, rest assured. Don't I only need to pass the exams?"

"Yes," Walter verified reluctantly. "But are you certain?"

"I'm certain. I'll be in the library all day. Try not to disturb me."

Walter watched her receding back.

In the afternoon, when he arrived at the library with the hour's Earl Grey, he saw Integra curled up in an armchair with a stack of tomes at her feet. She was absorbed in her reading, and again did not look up at his entrance. He kept respectfully silent, poured a cup and set it atop the stack.

She did not thank him.

Walter was abruptly and strongly reminded of an autumn dusk a year ago, when he had been passing by this very room and noticed it was occupied. Voices sounded from the seats near the fireplace.

Integra and Alucard were conversing in a foreign language. He remembered belatedly that the vampire had offered her lessons in Romanian which, after due consideration, she had accepted. The sinuous tongue of the former prinț român slithered in the air, pursued by the clumsy enunciation of the young English girl.

Alucard laughed. "Your pronunciation is atrocious."

"I've been learning it on and off for only four years, you git. What did you expect?"

"I'm surprised Arthur didn't enforce it sooner. He must have become complacent in his later years." There was a smirk in the mild insult.

"Don't talk about him like that."

"Yet the evidence sits before you, my Master."

Integra sighed. "Can we move on?"

"Very well. Let us try something simpler this time. A poem."

"A poem is simple?"

"The rhythm will make it easier to read aloud, my Master. Allow me."

Integra listened, as did Walter outside.

"Spune-mi, daca te-as prinde-ntr-o zi

si ti-as saruta talpa piciorului,

nu-i asa ca ai schiopata putin, dupa aceea,

de teama sa nu-mi strivesti sarutul?"

"Spune-mi, that means 'tell me.' And I heard picior, that's 'foot.' Sarutul...?"

"The kiss."

Walter almost barged in.

Integra's voice was positively radiating a blush. "Alucard! Just what kind of poem is this?"

"A perfectly harmless one, my Master. Why? Are you flustered? How impressionable you are."

"I am not—argh! Alright. Give me that book. I'll read it."

She had, and somehow managed to transfigure an elegant poem into a hodgepodge of stutters and reiterations. Yet she persevered.

"... de teama sa nu-mi strivesti s-sarutul?"

"Da."

"What?"

"Your pronunciation is unerringly atrocious."

There was the distinct thud of a shoe colliding with a shin. Alucard cackled.

He would have known he was there. The amusement in his tone gave it away. Walter had withdrawn, intending to inquire about the poem's meaning later, but had found himself distracted by the various chores that presented themselves. By the time they were finished, the lines had eluded him. When he asked, Integra had merely replied, with a faint shade of pink on her cheeks, "It was just a silly little poem, Walter."

Secrets littered the distance between them.

"Walter, do you have something to say?"

"No, my lady."

"Shut the door as you leave, then," Integra said, and still, did not look up.

She was seated in the same chair as that evening.

And like then, Walter left with a sense of bereavement.

 

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Tell me, if I caught you one day

And kissed the sole of your foot,

Wouldn't you limp a little then,

Afraid to crush my kiss?

- Nichita Stănescu

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on August 31, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 28, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Jamais vu - the phenomenon of experiencing a situation that one recognizes in some fashion, but that nonetheless seems novel and unfamiliar (Wikipedia)
Prinț român - Romanian prince

Chapter 6: out of the blue

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05.

out of the blue

 

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When she next slept, it was dreamless. An airy slumber, so light that she did not realize she had succumbed until her hand hit the empty teacup beside her seat. The cup tumbled harmlessly to the carpeted floor, and she sat up from her slouched position, disoriented to see the windows aglow with scarlet.

Miss Hellsing, you've had a long nap.

There was a moment of eerily apathetic suspension in which nothing registered but the heaviness of the book in her lap and the softness of the carpet beneath her bare feet. She had shucked off her loafers a while ago. Integra combed away strands of hair from her face, adjusted her glasses, and mechanically gathered a stack of tomes and journals in her arms. It teetered as she shuffled to their respective shelves.

Sunset, again.

And I'm still, she thought, here.

She had not even hoped. It was simply an afterthought, that falling asleep once more might send her somewhere else. With the red slant of light rapidly turning blue and illuminating her crown coldly, it may as well be that she was doomed to repeat the same hour she had died. Perhaps she could fall asleep an infinite number of times and she would be delivered to an infinite number of worlds, and never know which one was real. She could be the dream of old Integra who was eternally slumbering, or it could be old Integra who was the dream.

That tale of the Chinese philosopher who dreamt he was a butterfly. How did it go again?

She slid the books to their places, the lower shelves first. Their spines were stiff.

They were not about history.

Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, and the breeze in his wings was very agreeable indeed.

A few remained, belonging to the higher shelves that required a ladder to reach. Integra propped it up and climbed. The ceiling of the library was quite high, and the texts most worn were situated at the top. On the rungs she peered down at the darkening room.

What liminal space. The very epitome of a twilight zone. The ungodliest of the ungodly hours. How fitting for us, she mused. That you and I died just as it rose and just as it set. Do you reckon, Count, if there was a chariot, I grasped its reins with the night at my wake so you could be brought back?

She entertained herself with such odd ideas when she was alone.

Yet upon awakening he did not know.

"Are you going to jump?"

Was it Zhuangzi who had dreamt of being a butterfly?

And now she was not alone.

"No," she replied.

"You looked like you were going to jump, and risk breaking your pretty neck."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll sustain a sprain at the most." She replaced the last of the books.

He plucked it off. Insufferable creature.

"This is an anthology."

Integra shifted on the ladder for her gaze to meet his head. From her vantage point, he was rivulets of black. She draped an arm over the uppermost rung and pillowed her cheek on it as she watched him skim the text.

"An anthology of poetry," he said, "on death. My Master, are you trying to tell me something? It's not nice to tease. Ah, but you've been teasing me all day."

She had always watched him, as avidly as he watched her. Out of necessity, of course. A good master keeps an eye on her hound. But it was not only that.

When she began to watch him in her dreams, she knew.

It had never been only that.

He seemed unreachable. Oh, she was well aware that he was within range for her to tangle her fingers in his mane, if she so wished, yet in her dreams he had proven to be especially heedless. Dreams was the word, because this was how they would start out, her evanescent manifestations of him. Upon this mortal threshold of not-quite-day and not-quite-night, doubt creeping into her mind on whether she had woken up at all, she was, in stark contrast to this morning, almost afraid to touch him.

Or was it the butterfly that had dreamt of being Zhuangzi?

"Shall I read these to you? Let flow these stanzas from these dead lips? It will be awfully narcissistic of me."

"Are you real?" Integra asked instead.

She had not meant to say it out loud; yet there it was, her doubt, phrased and hanging in the air between them.

Alucard looked up. His eyes were incandescent in the dark.

"I imagine the great majority will say I am not."

"But I am not the majority," she said.

"You're certainly not," he agreed throatily.

"Then what I am asking is, are you real, to me?"

He let slip the anthology from his fingers. The gloved digits quested for the mystery before him. A mindless monster would have torn apart such a treat in its eagerness, but he was not a mindless monster, though it would have been easier and kinder for his existence if he was. With no expectations, no standards...and no pasts... If he was a beast for slaughter, he would not be as tormented.

"You are my Master, Integra. I am as real as you desire me to be."

His fingers landed on the rung next to her face and inched, spiderlike, to the wisps of mellow blonde hair framing it. "The difference between me and the monsters that lurk in children's closets is that, beyond the fatality of my bite, I am yours to banish without needing to turn on the lights." They crept closer. "Order me to the room you found me in, lock the door and swallow the key." Closer.

Integra smiled. It was melancholy in the shade of civic twilight. "I won't do that."

"Oh?"

"I might choke on the key."

"We can't have that." Closer. "Then shall I remove myself from this room to start with?"

"Decided, have you, that being amenable was the way to go?"

"I know I have vexed you today. I promise," he crooned, "I will behave."

The tips of his fingers, at last, brushed her face, near yet not touching her lips. Her eyes grew wide. Would she rebuke him?

She did not. She grabbed his hand. And lost her balance on the ladder. Alucard moved to intercept her and her back slammed into his chest.

His hand was still held in hers.

In the seconds he felt her warmth pressing against his cold heart the monster was consumed with a mutation of desire that transcended human lust or greed. His desire for his master could not be compartmentalized—at best it could be construed as a desire to be hers. He desired her for the things that made her integral to him. Integral, Integral, Integral, so aptly named. For the way she reclined against him even after her feet landed on the carpet, never questioning her power over him, never as wary as she ought to be in the sanguine folds of his embrace. Brazenly, he nosed her hair.

She was staring solemnly at the seal on the back of his glove. When she traced the runes they flared and danced to her pulse. He buried his nose deeper. He kissed her crown. Eyes heavy-lidded, rivaling the blush of the enchantment he had loathed.

"You're a liar, Alucard," Integra said. "If you were as real as I desired you to be, you wouldn't have made me wait."

"Wait for what, my Master?"

She faced him, her eyes inflicted with that something...

"For you to turn on the lights."

Alucard blinked.

Integra dropped his hand unceremoniously. "Prove to me you're real by remaining after you do," she mocked.

"So you do want me."

"I'm aware it's time for our lesson, you ridiculous bat." She plopped into her chair. "Lights, Alucard."

He laughed, and simpering, glided to the armchair opposite her. Behind him his shadows flipped the switch on, scurrying away once the overhead fluorescent lights beamed down on them. Alucard crossed his legs and laced his fingers. "Funny thing about that. I was roused by Walter throwing a blood bag at me, and he said you'd gone and fired all the tutors."

"Yes, congratulations," she drawled. "You're officially the only 'tutor' left."

"Do I get a raise?" he asked dryly. "I will not ask you why; it seems that as of this day you're resolved to pave your own path, and who am I to deter my Master's whims?" She lifted a brow. He mirrored her smugly. "Here now is my finesse, Integra."

"Lovely. But as it happens, you don't get a raise," Integra idly studied her bare toes, "and you don't get to continue your lessons either. I have waited," she glanced at the clock, "six hours to tell you this in person."

His smile fell. "Don't get to continue—"

"I no longer require your services."

Those words combined into that exact sentence struck him to such an irrational degree that he surprised himself. He shot up with enough force to knock back the massive armchair. Integra's demeanor was unaffected, having anticipated an outburst.

"Master," Alucard said, relatively calmly, "you have yet to conquer the language."

"Be that as it may, I don't need you to teach it to me anymore. I can read it and write it and hold a conversation with you, and that had been its purpose to begin with." She regarded him neutrally. "You're not sulking, are you?"

"My Master." Where was this desperation coming from? She chose not to continue with their Romanian lessons. Fine. That was her prerogative. It had been her decision to commence them and it was her decision to cease them. But out of the blue, and so callously? Alucard struggled to school his features. "Integra, what else will I occupy myself with to slake these stagnant nights?"

"Read to me."

His hair spindled around him, the nuisance.

"Pick that book up," Integra pointed to the anthology lying on the floor. "Read something to me." She smirked at his dumbfounded expression. "What's the matter, Alucard? It was you who offered."

Well. Well.

"And pick your chair up while you're at it. Really, must you be so clamorous?"

His shoulders relaxed—he had not even realized they were tense. Sibilant laughter erupted from somewhere in the nadir of his being, a place he did not wish to contemplate. Alucard masked the fragility of his mirth. "Touché. This new side of yours has me off-balance, Integra. How tempted I find myself..."

"The book."

He bowed. "This is a severance pay I will accept with utmost pleasure," he purred.

The vampire bodily moved to retrieve the book this time, while his shadows righted the chair. He did not notice, as the hem of his coat wafted past her, the way Integra looked out the window. The day had vanished for good. And her eyes in the encroaching night were bright and sharp and the pinnacles of vindication.

Her Count put it best.

She would pave her own path.

"The Funeral."

Integra jumped when she heard his voice from below. She twisted and found Alucard sprawled against the side of her seat, one leg bent and the anthology open on it.

"What are you doing here? Go back to your own chair," she said, unimpressed.

"Better acoustics, my Master," he quipped. What bullshit.

But she let it slide, and his velvet voice floated up to her ear.

"Whoever comes to shroud me, do not harm

Nor question much

That subtle wreath of hair which crowns my arm..."

The funeral. Her funeral. Her funeral would have had—daisies. Not the lilies she had left on many, many graves, because Seras would be there and the silly girl loved daisies and how they grew everywhere, how they were the color of eggs and ducks and stars. Maybe Penwood would have stammered and Islands clucked his tongue, saying daisies were too common, but Walsh would have sucked on his pipe and croaked he would like daisies at his funeral because he was bloody sick of lilies. And her silly, darling girl would have not said a word, would have stood there in the blistering sun while some poor sap droned his eulogy, and she would have—don't cry, Seras—

That image, she kissed goodbye.

"Count."

Alucard stopped. His old title again. That was twice today.

"Yes?"

"Your kind roams the earth, seeking war."

She perched an elbow on the armrest next to his head, and her hair spilled over it. "If the nights ahead of us continued like this, Count. If we were bound to spend our evenings reading poetry and taking out the occasional trash, with no war on the horizon, tell me, would that be too much for you?"

"Too much boredom, Integra?" Alucard toyed with the curled ends of her otherwise straight hair. "I'm no stranger to boredom. I am used to irreducible stretches of time passing by without the backdrop of death throes...those collective gasps of men and women as their bowels are spilled and their children are burned...as their land is transformed into a sea of ashes." He wound a curl around his wrist. It tautened. "War is a performance and I await it, as you humans do the season's opera. It wouldn't be quite as fresh if every night was a rendition of 'Walkürenritt,' now would it?"

Ride of the Valkyries. Integra pursed her lips. "But?"

"But," he murmured. "Those voids, I always sought to compensate, if not with war, then with pursuing something else."

"Something else," she said. It was not a question.

"Something else," he said. It was an answer.

Before, Integra had only ever thought that dwelling on the what-ifs was pointless. It was like crying over the events set in stone, as if enough tears would efface them: pure folly. Yet it was all she could do now. All she could do, to rearrange them and unravel their threads, split their ends. And upon one, red, forbidden thread she thought that if there had been no war she would have inevitably taken this monster, this man with his pit of depravities and sins, into her heart. Let him kiss the sole of her foot.

And she would have limped.

"Finish reading," she ordered.

He obeyed. His wrist caught in the tendril of his master.

"So 'tis some bravery,

That since you would save none of me, I bury some of you."

"Ahem."

Walter was at the door, facial muscles vaguely strained. "Your supper, my lady."

"Thank you, Walter. I'll be down shortly."

The butler nodded curtly and left.

Alucard stretched his neck over the armrest. "The Angel never likes it when I'm alone with you. I wonder why." He knew exactly why, and he was gloating. "Does he think I'll paint the walls red again while you're with me? He'll be such a delight when I tell him I've been fired, only to be redeemed as your personal minstrel."

"Don't aggravate Walter, Alucard," Integra sighed.

"Whyever not? Who else in this house will threaten me with dismemberment and have the spine to go through with it?"

Integra disentangled her hair from his wrist and gave him a withering look. "You idiot."

You blind idiot.

She made to stand, and remembered she had taken off her shoes. He was there, holding one up, baiting her with a self-satisfied curve at the corner of his mouth. Integra did not remove her gaze from him. Staring directly into those carnivorous orbs, the pupils of which were the hue of clotted blood, she granted him her foot. He slipped the shoe back on, then the other, tickling her flesh ever so slightly.

"Integra, was your question because of the war you dreamt?" he asked. "Were you afraid of it?"

She leaned into him. She whispered in his ear.

"I am not afraid of dreams."

Walter pulled out a chair for her when they arrived at the dining room. The table appeared to be divided into parts lit and unlit, a goblet of blood on the latter, a lonesome picture on its own. The vampire seated himself nonetheless, either unaware or uncaring.

The butler bowed. "Dinner is served."

"Walter, won't you join me?" Integra said.

Walter glanced at her quickly. He smiled. "Thank you, my lady, but I was planning to sup later in my quarters."

"No, join me. There's more than enough." Integra pushed a basket of rolls toward him. "It's been a while since we had a meal together, hasn't it? Like old times."

Walter took the basket. His face softened, and he chuckled. "How could I refuse."

Integra cut into her steak.

Alucard downed his blood.

Walter broke his bread.

The Master, the Servant, and the Butler ate quietly.

 

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The day and the night alternate without pause.

It was the same. It would remain the same until the end of time, for as long as the earth revolved around the sun. Every night and every morning the blue hour was the precipice, and in the identical way venturing along the edge of a precipice evoked the sense of unreality, waking up at this hour evoked the sense of fantasy. Miss Integral Hellsing did not, however, confuse herself now in the manner she had done in the library before her vampire had swept her out of her haze with his touch. Her mind was clear. Alarmingly clear.

Her sleep had been, yet again, dreamless.

She chose a piece of clothing from her wardrobe. It was a summer dress, black. Sensible. Suitable for where she was going. She donned it and crossed to her vanity. The mirror had been refitted, and would be spared, for she did not seize it between panicked hands. Miss Hellsing steadily and diligently combed her hair and polished her glasses. She put them on, and then opened a drawer.

It held a gun.

Again, sensible.

She strapped it to her leg. Integral Hellsing was never without a weapon.

At this hour no one was awake. Not her butler, who began his duties an hour later. Not her vampire, who retired to his coffin before the sun emerged. That had been what she desired. She wished no one to accompany her for this. Old habits die hard, after all, and she had been doing things herself for thirty long years.

Integra walked out of her room. She went downstairs, past the entrance hall, past the dewy grounds, and found herself at the gates.

The soldier standing guard was understandably befuddled when he saw his young boss, of all people, outside at this hour unescorted. The summer dawn was muggy and he was one of the few men on duty at Hellsing Manor during these uneventful months. For a moment he wondered if he had dozed off, but there was no mistaking the authority in the girl's blue eyes as she assessed him from head to toe and seemingly came to a conclusion.

"What's your name, soldier?"

He was even more perplexed. "You know my name, Miss Hellsing."

She narrowed her eyes. "Is that your answer?"

The soldier snapped into a salute at her tone. "No, Miss Hellsing. Dylan Basbanes, Miss Hellsing."

She tutted. But he would do. "Dylan. I need you to do something for me."

"Miss Hellsing?"

"Go fetch the car," Integra said. "You're going to drive me somewhere."

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on September 17, 2016.
It has been updated for punctuation and formatting on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

"Zhuang Zhou Dreams of Being a Butterfly" - The well-known image of Zhuangzi wondering if he was a man who dreamed of being a butterfly illustrates that the distinction between waking and dreaming is another false dichotomy. If one distinguishes them, how can one tell if one is now dreaming or awake? (Wikipedia)
John Donne, "The Funeral."
Richard Wagner, "Walkürenritt (Ride of the Valkyries)" from the opera Die Walküre.

Chapter 7: déjà vu

The light, said to bring eras after eras of peace,

Also casts a shadow, in which tragic wars are constantly taking place.

The lined-up funeral attendees, all taciturn and indifferent,

Can do nothing more than to keep walking in the soaking rain...

 

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06.

déjà vu

 

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Her profession made her callous. That once upon a time she had been a soft-fleshed thing, a little romantic who fancied a knight atop a white horse, seemed in and of itself a fairy tale. Here was a horror story, wherein lives had dissolved into numbers.

She was picking her way through the outskirts of London, on the hunt for straggler ghouls. It was a grueling task, yet it proved to be a distraction from ruminating on her loss. Her many losses. Among those, she barely felt the phantom pain in her vacant left socket. If her one-sided sight caused her to stumble over rubble, she did not curse out loud. Words had become cumbersome in her mouth. What was the point, she thought, of shouting herself hoarse, when nothing would come out of it?

"I've scouted the perimeters, Master. No ghoul in sight or smell."

Integra smiled thinly. "Good work."

Seras smiled back tiredly. "Just doing my job."

Yes. As the last of Hellsing, this was her—their—duty.

Three weeks. It was three weeks after the war, and London was in suspended decay. It was quicker to list the living than the dead and the missing. Aid was slow to arrive and always lacking. The stench of rust seemed permanent. In a pitiful amount of time she had had to train what remained of the Army in the basics of extermination, even though it would get them killed, even though Seras alone would be more efficient. Because it was their duty. Mankind's desire to regain a sense of normalcy knew no bounds, and people clung to their roles, albeit the society in which they had functioned was hanging by a hair. And so soldiers marched on, doctors treated the wounded, journalists braved the zone, and two women, a human and a vampire, walked the night armed.

"We should head back," Seras said. "It's going to rain."

Integra took a deep breath. The air was damp and earthy. It smelled like the London she remembered. She produced a cigar and lit it, and smoke mimicked the clouds above.

A single streetlamp was standing nearby, and was on, a break in the gloom. Integra reclined against it. Her hair was lit golden.

"Yes," she replied, with little enthusiasm. "Back home."

Back to the burial ground.

"Master Integra," Seras started sternly. She was actually wagging her finger. "You need your rest. Doctor's orders!"

"I take no orders but from the Queen," Integra deadpanned.

"Stress can affect your wound, you know," Seras ploughed on, as if she had not heard. She was too aware at this point that her boss was the worst patient ever. Clearing her throat, she deepened her voice. "Psychological stress can have a substantial and clinically relevant impact on wound repair. Physiological stress responses can directly influence wound healing processes." Seras nodded smartly, and added in her normal voice, "That's what Dr. Trevelyan said, verbatim."

"Aren't you a right little nurse," Integra muttered. "You should have considered a medical career, or childcare, seeing as you're becoming more and more like a mother hen each day."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Ridiculous girl."

Seras beamed.

These banters they shared were their only refreshments.

Integra was not going to budge without having had her smoke, so Seras pressed her back to the abandoned building beside the light, her shadow arm swirling. She could hear the pleasant buzz of Pip's thoughts in the back of her head. He was dormant for now, yet he would emerge if she needed him.

She clamped her red eyes shut, savoring the glow of her beloved's soul.

"I don't like children."

It sounded like something Integra would say, but it was in fact Seras.

Integra blinked her one eye slowly.

"I grew up in orphanages, Master Integra. And orphanages, they don't have much to offer. Crowded. Always noisy. I hated it." Seras said this tonelessly. "The other kids called me unlucky. The adults might have too, behind my back. They never really understood." She took a cursory glance down the street. "Come to think of it, this street is near one of the places I stayed in."

Integra was aware that Seras had moved from institution to institution, yet this was the first the girl was telling her about it.

"How old were you when you stayed here?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve," Integra murmured, and said nothing more.

A droplet of water landed on Seras' nose, and she squeaked. "It's raining!"

Integra stretched out an empty hand. So it was.

"Oh, I really don't like flying in the rain..."

Rain flowed to the sea and rose to the air and formed clouds, which rained again, over and over and over. The world still turned. Integra closed her palm. "Then let's go home before it falls harder, Seras."

"Yes, Sir!"

They had done this so many times, it had become routine. Seras preferred that she be sure of Integra's safety, and Integra preferred that Seras be at her side, where she could keep an eye on her, or so she said. They neither questioned nor found inconvenient the other's constant presence. It was only natural. They strove to fill the vacuum their men had left, which meant most nights Integra was sleepless and most days Seras was up, the vampire made bagged tea and the human microwaved bagged blood, and they handed the liquids to their respective consumers. The scent of blood under their noses, dirt on their faces and dust in their eyes, ashes underfoot, screams in their ears.

They sipped quietly.

Integra pushed herself off the post. Seras came forward, shadows extending, ready to take off.

It was then that Seras' eyes flashed.

The Draculina snapped her head toward the dark of the street far beyond the periphery of the lamplight.

"There's something there."

Integra expelled smoke. "You said there weren't any ghouls."

"That's not a ghoul. That's...a human..."

A bent shape came limping toward them until, gradually, Integra could make out the tattered husk of what once might have been a charming man in his forties. He was a civilian. She knew without asking that he was by the look on his face, of despair and displacement, the same as the one worn by millions of others. He gazed at them from the opposite side of a haze both imaginary and wrought by rain.

"Margaret? Claire?"

Seras planted herself in front of Integra and faced the man. "Don't move! State your business!"

"Margaret. Claire. My wife. My daughter. Have you seen them? They were supposed to come home after a trip to Borough Market."

Integra shut her eye and squeezed the cigar in her hand.

Seras did not know what to say. "I..." She paused. The vital signs she could read from the man were off. Along with the obvious damage to his mental state, he was... "Sir, you're injured."

The man had a bullet stuck in his ribs. Too proximate to his lung. He was bleeding internally. He was dying.

"You need medical—"

"They were supposed to come home." The man's words were feverish. "Come home and we were supposed to have dinner. But then things appeared. Zepps in the sky. I thought, some air show. Then there were—screams—people dying—horrors—the news was cut off—but I saw them—monsters—"

"Sir, you need medical attention," Seras said steadily. Her shadow arm had reduced in size, attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible. "Let me help you to the nearest—"

"I didn't tell Margaret and Claire I love them before they left. They were supposed to come home." The man ineffectively dragged his wasting body toward them. "Can you tell them I love them?"

The rain was gaining in volume. Seras clenched her jaw. Behind her, Integra raised her face to the lachrymose sky.

"They were supposed to come home." The man extended a shaking hand. "Let's go home, girls—"

Seras made to stop him. "We're not—"

Then the man saw her eyes, and screamed.

"MONSTER!"

Seras stiffened.

"That's right," she said finally. "But I'm not the one who destroyed London. Sir, please, let me help you."

But the man was screaming with the last remainder of his vitality and from somewhere between the folds of his torn and bloodstained clothes he pulled out a gun. "I'll kill you!"

"Wait—"

A shot rang out in the rainy night.

Yet the man had not even touched the trigger.

Seras stared as the man slid to the puddling ground, gun discarded with a wet clatter. She turned.

Integra lowered her arm.

"Master."

"He would have died anyway," she said.

Seras opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked back at the man. His eyes were glazed over. It had been an instant death. Curious, though, how his expression was not one of shock or pain, but of joy. His lips were contorted into a word.

Perhaps it had been "Margaret."

Her head was buzzing; Pip was alert and was asking what the fuck had just happened. She tuned him out gently.

When she refocused, Integra was walking away.

"Master!"

She sheathed her gun and threw aside her useless cigar. "What's wrong, Police Girl? I thought you'd outgrown this."

"He was—"

"He was human," Integra finished for her, "and he was delirious, and he was dying. He aimed a weapon at you, and thereby established himself as an enemy. The merciful thing to do, if you so wanted to act out of your bleeding heart, was to send him to his family."

"I'm sorry," Seras whispered. "But I couldn't."

Integra ripped off her likewise useless glasses. What had started out as a drizzle was now a downpour, and her hair and coat were soaked, not that she particularly cared. She left Seras and the corpse under the streetlamp, took shelter beneath the eaves of a ramshackle storefront and watched, with poor eyesight, the drops that fell in desynchronization with the rain.

Seras came not long after. She stood next to Integra and twisted her shadow arm in a monstrous version of handwringing. There was only the pitter-patter for a while.

"I wanted to protect people."

Seras smiled as she spoke. "It was all I wanted to do. I used to beat up the school bullies until they cried to the teachers that I was bullying them."

"I can only imagine," Integra remarked sarcastically, and the girl laughed.

"I believed the best thing I could do in order to protect people was to become a police officer. The adults at the orphanage thought I was trying to follow in my father's footsteps, but it was more than that. I wanted to do the right thing. Even..." Seras swallowed. "Even if it got me killed. Master Integra, I knew all those things you said. But I couldn't kill him. I've drank blood. I've accepted that I'm a monster. But I'm not going to let it be my sole definer, like it was for—for Master. I had to try to save that man. At least try. If I didn't, what would be my limit?"

"There arrives a point where there is no choice but to have limits broken," Integra said. "You know this."

"Does it get better?"

"It gets easier," she said.

Seras hugged herself. "I still have a lot to learn."

Integra glanced sideways at her. She sighed. "Come here."

Seras did not hesitate to bury her face in the woman's sodden coat. Integra curled her arms around the vampire. They reflected, to the pluvial white noise, on those limits already broken. Seras did not cry, yet she did close her bright red eyes, and found solace in the life being emitted from her master.

Integra leaned into her ear. "The ones I kill, I make sure they leave me with little alternative. That doesn't make it better, but it does make it easier."

Seras nodded.

"I will not let anyone—even a dying man—hurt one of mine again," Integra vowed. "No matter how invincible she may be."

The war had heavily revised her perception of invincibility.

"I won't trouble you again, Master," Seras promised.

"I'll hold you to that."

 

xx

xx

 

"Miss Hellsing, we have arrived."

Integra did not reply to the unnecessary announcement. She had recognized the street they drove past, though it was, unsurprisingly, very different from what she remembered. Shutters were down; the majority of London was not yet awake at this hour to greet the dove morning. When she caught sight of the city in its former dignity, standing old and proud as it had before the war that was not a war but a potbellied man's killing spree, she had turned from the window. Her dress was indeed fitting.

"It looks like it's going to rain."

"Park somewhere unobtrusive," she told the driver.

"Yes, Miss Hellsing." Dylan Basbanes, her designated scapegoat, felt a drop of sweat roll down his temple. This was not a destination he could have dreamt up when his boss had given him directions to the opposite end of London.

"With all due respect, is Mr. Dornez aware of this trip?"

Really, she had forgotten how annoying it was being this age. Every other person questioned her. "That's of no concern to you," Integra warned. "Do you need reminding, Dylan, that you work for me and not Mr. Dornez?"

"No, Miss Hellsing," the soldier said hastily. "I apologize for my indiscretion."

The car turned at a sign.

Hortense Children's Home, it read.

She got out and assessed the property. It was large, hushed and—perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was her preconception—dreary. Utterly dreary and how utterly stereotypical, she scoffed. Attempting to alienate her bias did nothing. The fact remained that this was a place Seras had hated.

The gates were not locked. If it was her intention, she could stride in and ask for the matron or whoever was in charge here.

"Wait here, Dylan," Integra instructed. "I won't be long. This is merely—merely a survey." She kept telling herself that.

The young man looked at her uncertainly. "As you say, Miss Hellsing."

Integra walked. The air was difficult to breathe in. Was it the moisture, or was it the anticipation of whom she would meet that was smothering her?

This is merely a survey.

Old Integra laughed. Keep telling yourself that.

Seras, surely, was some kind of miracle, to have retained a heart of gold after such a childhood. On that night in Badrick, she had asked Alucard why he had turned the girl, and he had replied, in his characteristic unhelpful way, "Why indeed. Perhaps your human capriciousness has rubbed off on me." Later, at the curtain call of that puppeteered folly of a war, she had realized it had been that capriciousness which had salvaged them. In the form of Seras Victoria, that girl with the strange name, part goddess and part queen.

There was a refrain which played in her mind as she rounded the corner of the orphanage situated in the outskirts of London, a few minutes from the street where, once upon a time, she and Seras had waited for the rain to subside. Seras had hummed this tune, some premillennial ballad. Integra's memory reprised it, but music had never been her strong suit and she came up with blanks. It may have gone something like this, something like—

...there, look through the trees...the sun always shines, always on time...

Something like—

"...rest on your knees...and in a prayer..."

Integra stopped in her tracks.

The beginning of a summer shower hit her head, and her eyes fluttered. And then they were wide open, and were fixed before her. The water dripped down her brow and lingered upon her cheeks as she stood rooted to the darkening pavement, unblinking.

The girl humming did not look up.

"...follow me there."

The girl sitting on the pavement, with her face hidden behind her drawn knees, did not start at the change in the weather. She simply made herself smaller, as if she wished to disappear along with the raindrops splashing at her feet. Her short yellow hair was dull and disheveled. She must have not had enough sleep. Almost, the air that hung about her was tangible. Yet through everything there sounded from her an absent sort of singing, which filled in the blanks of the same song that had been playing in Integra's head.

Her darling girl loved music. She loved to hum. She loved to sing.

And she had loved that girl.

From lips that parted on their own escaped, "Seras."

The singing broke off. The blonde head lifted.

Blue eyes. Not red.

Watery tears. Not bloody.

Silence.

She wiped at her runny face and regarded her with both suspicion and curiosity. She was tense. Her hands were balled into fists. Integra felt her heart split.

Outwardly, she smiled. "Nice weather, isn't it?"

Seras stared at her uncomprehendingly.

"It's better to cry in the rain." Integra stretched out a hand to catch the fall. "You feel less alone that way."

The girl was more curious now than wary. She rose to her feet, wavering.

She might have said something if Dylan had not chosen that moment to show up with an umbrella.

"Miss Hellsing!"

His sudden appearance frightened Seras. She stumbled backward and ran.

"Wait!" Integra called, but the girl vanished into the trees at the back of the orphanage. She rounded on the quailing soldier. "I ordered you to wait with the car!"

"Forgive me, Miss Hellsing," he pleaded. "I only meant to bring you your umbrella."

Integra pinched the bridge of her nose. "Forget it! Go to the car, Dylan, and for the bloody good of your soul do not make me repeat myself again. Am I understood?"

"Understood!" Dylan saluted. When had the young lady gotten so scary?

Integra ran after Seras. The rain, the rain, the rain, it had picked up its pace, and she had to squint through the drops impeding her vision for a hint of yellow. Seras, Seras, come back. You'll catch a cold. Her vampire was human. Just two nights ago, the Draculina whose bloody tears she had brushed away was now a human girl. The irony of fate was not lost on her. Her hands were wet and clammy, like yesterday, like the day before, when she had held that pale face in her cooling grasp and said goodbye. Seras, Seras, I won't leave you again. I won't leave you here.

This time, let me take care of you.

"Seras!" She spun left and right, clawing her hair out of the way when it stuck to her glasses. "Seras!"

What answered her was not a hint of yellow but a cry.

Integra heard it above the din of falling rain and rustling leaves. It was loud and growing louder still. She quickened toward it, worry constricting her. The cry did not sound normal. Was Seras hurt? It seemed that countless trees were flanking her path until, at last, she found her.

Her blood curdled.

Seras was not alone. There was a man with her and he was—

It was times like this when every inch of her being befitted her epithet, when every bit of warmth froze into ice and sharpened into steel poised to maim the condemned's vitals.

The iron maiden is an execution device—

"Release her."

—by which one suffers an excruciating death.

The molester paused in his attempt to tear off Seras' shirt.

"Whatchu on about, eh? What's another pretty thing doin' in the woods?" He drunkenly shook Seras, whose mouth he was covering. "You her friend? Her sister? That orphanage there sure has tasty 'uns. This must be my lucky day!"

Seras stared at her over the dirty hand with wide and terrified eyes.

Integra curled her lips cruelly. "Lucky."

Her rage was a quiet, white-hot thing, simultaneously blinding and terribly focused. Her gun was in her grip before she even acknowledged it. "I said, release her."

The man guffawed at the sight of the weapon. "Y'know how to use that thing? Little girls shouldn't play with men's toys. Now I've another toy here you can—"

She fired.

The bullet grazed one of his ears, lopping a chunk of it off, and the man screamed. Seras seized the chance to rip her teeth into his hand and, when the piece of filth wrenched away with a fresher howl, extricated herself from his hold. Profanities polluted the torrent.

Seras darted behind Integra. She clung to her, clutching the fabric of her dress. Integra turned her head over her shoulder.

"Close your eyes," she said softly.

Seras shook her head.

"You want to watch?"

She nodded. Her eyes were hard and aligned with the barrel trained on her assaulter.

Her grip tightened on her gun, yet she did not press further. Integra returned her attention to the potential rapist.

"What the fuck? You fucking cunts, I'm gonna fucking rip your—"

She fired once more.

The bullet hit its mark between his legs.

The resulting scream reached a pitch where it was rendered inaudible. The man collapsed to the ground, thrashing, grabbing futilely at the gore that became indistinguishable from the mud.

Slowly, Integra lowered her arm.

The whimper that floated from behind her prompted her to drop her gun and swivel around. Her gaze flew wildly over Seras for an injury of any kind. Her shirt was rumpled, but there were none external as far as she could see. Yet she was convulsing so badly that her breaths escaped in ragged bursts. Integra cupped her face.

"There now. It's alright," she whispered. "He can't hurt you anymore."

Tears leaked out of blue eyes. Fragile eyes. Mixing with the rain, trickling between Integra's fingers.

"They can't hurt you anymore. No one can hurt you anymore. I won't allow it." She smiled. "You're a strong girl, aren't you?"

Seras hiccupped.

"Let it all out."

And with a sob she buried her face into Integra's chest, and bawled her heart out.

"Seras." Integra cradled the girl. Seras, Seras, did you cry like this when I left? Forgive me. Forgive me. "Forgive me, Seras."

Seras spoke. Her voice was full of wonder.

"How do you know my name?"

She might have told her a story.

That once upon a time there had been an exceptionally star-crossed girl, who had been fortunate enough to achieve her dream at an early age, but had been unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of a vampire extermination, and had died, and had risen as a vampire herself. That she had fought in a war, fallen in love, lost and gained, and for thirty long years afterward had waltzed into her room every morning, humming a tune off-key, with an obnoxious greeting...

You and I have known each other for a very long time.

What she said was, "We met once in a dream."

 

xx

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xx

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Notes:

This chapter was published on October 12, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Sound Horizon, "Hono-o (Flame)." Translation via Anime Lyrics dot Com.
Jean-Philippe Gouin and Janice K. Kiecolt-Glaser, "The Impact of Psychological Stress on Wound Healing: Methods and Mechanisms."
The Connells, "Lay Me Down."

Chapter 8: a meager substitute

xx

xx

 

07.

a meager substitute

 

xx

xx

 

The doors of the crypt burst open with a bang.

"Alucard!"

The butler marched into the large, bleak chamber and up to the large, black coffin in center. He gave it a light kick, a deed only he, other than the master of the house, dared to commit. "Get up, or I'll scruff up this precious box of yours."

"You'll lose your foot."

The lid of the coffin moved an inch to the side. Walter could hear scuttles, produced by creatures of many legs, and whispers from within its depths. A single crimson eye glared at him. "Angel," the owner of the eye said in his portentous velvet tone, "there is much I let you off from, but disturbing my rest is cutting it close."

"I'll bloody cut your head off while I'm at it," Walter snapped. "Where's Integra?"

"Where's Integra?" Alucard repeated. The situation became less irritating and more ludicrous. "Is this a joke, or have you actually gone senile? Where would Integra be if not—"

Her blood in his veins tugged at him.

He followed it. Followed it out of the manor, across the city, to the opposite side of the river.

Not here.

Integra was not here.

"I wouldn't be down here at seven in the bloody morning even if I'd planned the greatest prank of my life." Walter nudged the lid with his foot. "For God's sake, get up."

It slid off, not because Walter's insistence had any leverage on Alucard, but because the vampire himself was perturbed, though his face was devoid of any sign of it. The lining of the coffin was satin; to the human perception there was nothing to suggest that it contained substances beyond silk. He sat up. His hair melded into the shadows and there it crimped agitatedly.

"She wasn't in her room—again—but this time she'd left a note—"

Twice in a row the morning tranquility was shattered by his master, his master who held secrets, who had become overnight a mystery to him and even to the butler who had known her since birth. Curious, curious, curious, and a monster does love curiosities. My Master, you shouldn't tempt me so.

"Well, she's not dead."

"Alucard!"

"Why the fuss?" He slung his arms over the walls of his box. "She must have had some business to take care of."

"Business at the crack of dawn, in God knows where, without mentioning a word of it beforehand? By herself? Does this sound normal for her to you?"

"I wasn't aware there was a standard of normalcy in this house," Alucard said, mimicking Integra's answer to his similar question yesterday. "My Master is in that period of her youth when humans get up to all sorts of shenanigans; in fact, I remember you at this age most fondly."

Walter scowled.

"You should consider it fortunate that all she's doing is acting on her wanderlust, out of the many lusts," he purred, "available."

Walter chose to ignore the nuance. "Yes, along with breaking into tears and firing her tutors," he muttered.

"My dear Master is being unpredictable. How lovely. I love unpredictable." Alucard licked his fangs.

Walter glanced sharply at the vampire as he lifted himself out of his last domain. The red of his eyes was as unnervingly lucent as ever, and when he drew himself to his full height, the hunter's instinct twanged. Alucard had a beautiful head and it would look so much better on the floor, bleeding.

"So you have tickled this sleeping dragon to see our maiden back in her tower," Alucard drawled. "Shall I go and snatch her up?"

"I'd appreciate it if you would desist from speaking of her with such frivolity," Walter said, unamused. "You know where she is, just bring her back safely. Her note said she would be back before breakfast but it's already—"

"Really, Walter. You used to be more fun than this." Alucard conjured his hat and put it on as he lumbered past him.

It was when his back was to him that Alucard suddenly turned and pinned his toxic gaze on his old partner.

"You've mellowed quite a bit, haven't you, Angel of Death?" he murmured. "The occasional bout of coarseness like the one just now notwithstanding, you're the quintessential English gentleman. Yet I do wonder." Alucard cocked his head. "What goes on beneath that facade?"

Walter arched a brow. "Facade?"

"We are juvenile at heart, as Integra said. And sometimes I wonder." Shadows fluctuated in the background. "Is the proud Reaper of the battlefield content to be the old dog fetching newspapers?"

Walter merely smiled. "I could ask the same of you."

Alucard laughed. "As if I have a choice!"

"But I know you take delight in that," Walter shrugged. "We keep our boundaries as servants of this house and serve our lady to the end of our days. That is the entirety of our existence." He matched Alucard's gaze. "For we are only ever dogs, as you've put it, and dogs can be weapons and protectors and even called family members, but in the end will never amount to more."

He framed each word deliberately.

Never amount to more.

Alucard's lips curved up without mirth. "Well phrased."

Walter clapped him on the shoulder. "Best leave now. It's raining and I don't want her to catch a cold."

He pretended not to notice how still the vampire was, how silent he had gone, when usually he would have complained about the prospect of getting wet. He left him there in his hollow and climbed up the stairs.

In the kitchen there was a drawer full of knives. The sharpest were in the front, the dullest in the back. And no matter how often Walter whetted the ones in the back, they never seemed to serve as precisely as the ones in the front. They were old knives; worn, decrepit, useless.

His greatest fear was that one day Integra would look at him the way he looked at those knives. He knew she would never, yet his fear was not to be assuaged by rationality and gnawed on him, with many teeth, not unlike those of the monster he had left. Bastard. Asking those kinds of questions. The bloody wanker needed to be reminded of his place and he would make sure he stayed there. Walter kicked the door to the basement shut and slouched against it, rubbing his temples.

Hypocrite.

"I'm..." Could he deny it?

Hypocrite.

Could he?

Hypocrite.

A bitter laugh tore from him.

The master was not the only person fettered by nightmares. The vampire was. The butler was. Every single living and unliving thing in this accursed household.

And his, his were a terror he had started fifty years ago.

 

xx

xx

 

"We met in a dream?" Seras asked. "Really?"

The rain had slowed but was not stopping. Integra shielded her from the drops that fell fat and cold from the cusps of leaves above. How strange. She was so small. So warm. She could feel her heartbeats. This little girl was Seras, who had her chin on her chest and was peering up at her with blue eyes alight with the beginnings of trust. Integra held fast to that light.

"Really."

"But how come I don't remember you?"

"Oh, it was a fleeting dream," Integra said.

"What did we do?"

"We—" Survived. "We played together." She chuckled. "You had daisies in your hair."

She was recollecting a spring morning when Seras had barged into her office with a bunch of daisies, some in her hair, indignant that the gardener had been throwing them out as weeds. "Can you believe it? It's an outrage, Master Integra! Here, see? I rescued the lot. Let me put them in a vase."

Which is a dream now, a mere dream.

"Oh." Seras quieted. "I like daisies. They're my favorite." She grew thoughtful. She looked down for a while, until it appeared she had come to a decision. She looked back up, and any and all tentativeness was gone from her eyes.

"Thank you," she said, suddenly shy.

Integra tightened her embrace.

"You're welcome."

The girl was brimming with curiosity. "Why—why did you ask me to forgive you earlier?"

I left you, and I have nothing to show for it.

Her mouth said, "If you hadn't been startled, you wouldn't have run into that filth."

Seras shook her head. "That man, he's been here before," she mumbled. "I heard some of the girls talking about him. They told Mr. Carter there was a creep lurking in the woods but," her voice harshened, "he only said they shouldn't make things up."

"And this Mr. Carter, he's the head of the orphanage?"

Seras nodded.

Integra fumed. Fucking incompetent birdbrains parading as heads and endangering the people they were supposed to care for because they just did not care. She abhorred these types.

Seras fidgeted in her arms.

"Are you like—like an angel?"

Integra blinked.

Seras ducked, blushing. "It's just—you came out of nowhere and—you're so pretty—"

She was working herself up into a flurry of stammers that Integra knew well. Ignoring her continuously smarting heart, she took a step back and spread out her arms.

"I certainly don't think angels are supposed to be this bedraggled," she said, and Seras let out a tiny giggle.

"You saved me," the child said.

And you, you have...

She smiled wanly. "I'm neither an angel nor much of a savior. I'm simply, Integra."

"Integra," Seras pronounced. Carefully, without familiarity, without recognition, yet with the shine that effuses in a person's aura when she realizes she has found a kindred spirit. It was, thought Integra, enough. For her, for now, it was enough.

The rain, it seeped into her black dress, seeped into her very bones. They rattled, not only because of the chill, but also because the air around them chose that moment to pressurize.

She felt rather than saw her servant emerge out of the trees behind her. For she was watching Seras, the way the blush fled from her cheeks and her eyes hardened with hostility in a transition so rapid, it was as if the giggling child had been a mere illusion. She moved in front of Integra, hands clenched, guarding her from the newcomer.

How certain things never change.

Seras, will it always be that you'll rush in to protect me?

Integra turned to grasp her gently. "It's fine. He works for me."

Seras went wide-eyed at her. "That scary-looking mister works for you?"

"Don't let his looks fool you," Integra said in a stage whisper. "I am far scarier than him."

Seras stared. But she said, "I believe you."

What a bizarre family reunion.

Alucard was standing unnaturally still, even for him. Only his irises behind his tinted glasses were in motion, studying the mess on the ground. Then his pale mouth twisted with the darkest humor. At her approach his gaze snapped into hers.

Again, Integra? he seemed to be asking.

"Alucard," she began.

"My Master. When I said you should have picked a storm to run out, I didn't mean it literally."

"This is hardly a storm." Integra eyed his blotchy fedora. "Are you pouting?"

"I would be, but..." Alucard leaned forward. "I see you have a surprise for me."

"And I see you are here, and that I should have known better than to think a note will placate Walter."

"Obviously, his concern was unwarranted. Impeccable aim, my Master." His pupils slitted. "Though I would have drawn it out."

"Circumstances," she told him. "Consider it a chew toy for your hound."

"Oh, and should its bite transcend the limits of flesh and tear through the soul in the bowels of hell, it would be a sweet thing indeed." Alucard's form rippled. He would have rather blood caking under his nails and bones powdering between his fingers and screams deafening his ears as he gutted the worm which had dared to offend his master in such a fashion. But a chew toy it was. He jutted his chin toward Seras. "Surely not in front of your new friend?"

Integra turned. Seras was watching them avidly. The rain was now a drizzle, the clouds were breaking up.

This was a survey, she had told herself, as she walked out of her room, out of the house, out of the car. Shitty lies, however, did not become truths whether they were repeated twice or twenty. If she would end up going back to the manor alone, and not with an additional passenger in the car—she would be disappointed in herself.

Yet therein lay the question. Was this about Seras, or was this about herself? Was this best for her? Was she not being selfish? Dragging her, a child, into her world again?

Seras surprised her by barreling into her.

"Seras?"

"Are you going to leave me?"

"What?" Integra breathed.

"Is that why he's here?" Seras glared at Alucard. "To take you home?" She shook violently. "Please! Take me with you! Please? I'll be good! I'll do all the chores! I can do the dishes and the laundry and—and—"

Integra gaped as Seras continued to babble. "You want to come with me?"

"You said we met in a dream!" Seras cried. "That means something, right?"

Don't leave me!

Don't leave me!

Integra swallowed. She rubbed the girl's back almost absently, waiting for her sobs to subside. "Yes," she said. "It means everything to me."

"It's why you're here." Seras looked up at her, pleading. "So you could come and get me."

How could she say no to those eyes? She would be lying anyway.

"If that is what you want."

"I want to go with you. I want—I want to become like you." In that moment, the child was older than her age, face etched with a fervor Integra had witnessed so often on paler cheeks. "If I go with you, could I learn to shoot like you do? Could you teach me?"

Certain things never change.

She was not an angel. She was not God. Knowledge of the future did not fix the past. It seems, she sighed, we're fated to be. Misfits. Miscreants. Children who were forced to grow up too fast. In the end, what difference was there between this orphanage and the manor? It was simply that there were less actual children and more adults, and they stayed because they had nowhere else to go. They flocked to her because they knew she was the same and she would accept them when no one else did. Isn't that right? Seras. Alucard. Walter.

The rain had stopped.

"Alucard," she called.

"Master." His answering tone was eerily flat. Integra was aware he was processing what had just played out before him and she would have to deal with him later. First things first.

"Give the body to your hound and let it leave no trace. Meet me at the entrance afterwards." She paused. "And lend me your coat."

Again, she felt rather than saw the quirk of his lips. "But it's summer."

"You don't think I'll meet any head of an establishment looking like a drowned cat, do you?"

Seras jolted at that. "Integra?"

"Let's go, Seras." Integra took her hand. "Let's go and get you home."

 

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Mr. Carter of Hortense Children's Home was not fond of children. He did not regard this as an issue. There were cooks who did not like eating and vets who did not like animals. He, at least, fed the children three meals a day and provided them with warm sleeping quarters. Beyond that he could not be bothered. The girls had been particularly annoying this week with their tales of a make-believe stalker in the woods, and he had had to shut them up quickly. Such gossip risked hurting the orphanage's reputation and the donations made, and why would he be in this job if not for the hefty sums?

He was sipping his morning coffee when there was a knock on his office door. "Come in," he said, assuming it to be his breakfast.

It was not.

In walked the oddest pair of people he had ever seen. A girl entered first. Her hair was wet, her skin was dark and she was wearing a red coat. In summer? Teenagers and their nonsense fads. She also wore glasses, behind which blue eyes stared straight at his desk as if she owned it. She was followed by a towering man in a black suit and red cravat, whose look was indiscernible due to his shades. Mr. Carter found himself unnerved by the conceited grin on the man's face that was a radical contrast to his companion's cool mien.

"Mr. Carter?" the girl addressed him.

"Y-yes. Michael Carter," he answered, then remembered he was talking to a child. "Who the blazes are you?"

"Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing." She sat down without being invited. "Do you enjoy your job, Mr. Carter?"

"Hell who?" The name did not ring a bell. "Buggering what? Who do you think you are?"

"That's no way to speak to a young lady." She flicked a speck of dust off her clothing, before giving him a smile that for some reason made him break out in a cold sweat. "Fortunately for you, I am here for something very simple. One of your wards, Seras Victoria. I'm requesting her removal from this facility and placement in my care."

"In whose care, now?" Mr. Carter asked stupidly. "Seras Victoria? What's she done this time?"

"Excuse me?"

"She's a troublemaker. Been transferred twice in six months, doesn't listen to the instructors, gets into fights and runs off on her own. Unlucky, I reckon. Nasty bit of circumstance."

Integra's fingers twitched.

"Is that so," she said.

"You're welcome to take her off my hands. Though," he sneered, "you're just a kid yourself, aren't you?"

"Are you happy with how you're running this institution, Mr. Carter?" Integra asked suddenly.

"What did you say?"

"I have heard," she continued, "that some of the children have been complaining of an unsavory character frequenting the woods. Have you done anything about that?"

"What? Are you a buggering investigator now?" Mr. Carter pounded his desk. "It's all nonsense! They make up all sorts of stories because they want attention, the conniving little chits!" Having regained his bravado, he jabbed a finger at Integra. "You, girl, you're touched in the head if you think you can barge in and demand things out of me. Bring an adult, proper paperwork and let them do the talking while you keep your trap shut."

She startled him by emitting a laugh. "Pardon me. It's only that I'm so used to getting my way." Her smile fell. "And I am not about to end that streak."

"The bloody hell are you—"

It was then the tall man came into his line of vision and removed his shades.

Red.

Eyes. Not two, not three. Many, many red eyes.

Obey my Master, a dangerous voice said in his mind.

"Michael," Integra murmured. "I'm afraid I'm lacking the proper paperwork. Why don't you draw some up for me?"

"Yes..." Michael said sluggishly.

"And while you're at it, consider seeking another job. After all, the children here need a responsible, intelligent adult to take care of them and not a complete buffoon," she hissed.

"Not...a complete...buffoon..."

"Good." Integra regarded the man and his vacant expression pitilessly. She did not condone the use of vampiric hypnotism on civilians, yet she spared no charity on those foolish enough to anger her with their own ineptitude.

Alucard chuckled darkly beside her.

"Red and black."

She glanced up. "Hmm?"

He crinkled his eyes. "We match."

Integra looked down at herself. Red and black. "Yes," she said. "I appreciate that you altered it so I don't resemble a Victorian cross-dresser."

"Are you saying my fashion is outdated?"

Integra rolled her eyes.

The hypnotized man filled out a form. The sun was getting stronger and Alucard was feeling a bit peckish. "After he's done, may I eat him?"

"No, Alucard. Behave."

"But I have risen in the morning for two days in a row, and if my hunger for your answers is not to be sated, then at least for blood it should."

Integra did not reply. She filled out the rest of the information. Signing at the bottom with a flourish, she made to stand. "Now that's done and over with, let's head back before I develop an ecosystem in these wet clothes."

Alucard blocked her path.

"Integra," he said, "who is that girl?"

Her face was impassive. "And with your ears I'd thought you would have picked up on it. Seras Victoria, a ward of this orphanage, now mine." She attempted to slide off her seat and was blocked once again.

"Who is she to you, that you would go to these lengths to secure her? I have never heard you mention this girl before. I have never known you to desire any form of female companionship, and now you've come all the way here to foster this girl, because of a dream?" Alucard let the questions escape him like the rainfall earlier, his composure collapsing, the monster able to take only so much. "The dream you hide from me."

Integra inhaled. "Alucard—"

"You're so close yet you're so distant." With a mournful air he sealed the stretch between them and gripped the arms of her chair. "You can treat me like the dog I am and leave me scraps and order me to roll over, but even a common mongrel basks in the trust of his master!"

Integra gazed at him, this man, this vampire she loved and trusted—wanted to trust—but she knew that the day she told him her secrets would be the day that this farce of a peace would be extinguished forever. She could not have that, especially now when Seras would be living with them. She did not want her life to spiral into chaos again when this was her second chance and she was so tired of it all.

She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. She granted him a piece of her truth.

"I wish I could tell you."

"Integra," he croaked.

Should she do it? She had wanted to for some time. For thirty years, really. She wondered how he would react.

There was one way to find out.

She brushed a kiss to the corner of his pale, cold lips.

He froze.

It was a very brief kiss. Not even worthy to be called a kiss. More like a susurrus. But it was enough, and her lips burned. "Take this as a meager substitute for the answers I am unable to give you," she said.

His eyes were so red, Integra almost feared they would drop as tears.

She ducked under his arm and exited the room.

She did not hear him come after her.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on October 30, 2016.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 9: cycle

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08.

cycle

 

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...take this...as a...meager...substitute...

Rarely did the mind of the No-Life King come to a standstill. In sleep, his dreams were vivid, cruel montages to his defeats. And this, this must be a dream, for how cruel it was—this position, this pressure, this temperature he was locked in, of his master and her lips which had branded him anew. Take this as a meager substitute, she said. Meager? He laughed. Integra, from you, nothing is meager.

The arms of the chair splintered under his fingers.

Kissing for the sake of kissing had become lost to him as a vampire. His mouth was no longer a conveyor of affection but a weapon, and to be near its false breath, to feel its cold lips, meant death. His lust for blood overrode that for whatever pitiful pleasure a kiss could evoke. What use did he have for tenderness, how could he, when he was the very definition of atrocity? By the time he had met Integra, touch without bloodshed had become such a foreign concept that he had ceased to recognize it.

"How red they are," she had said to him, three years ago.

She had given him her first order, clumsily worded though it had been. "Unc—Richard's men. They're still in the house. Find them and—" She quietened.

"And kill them?" he had prompted. She had nodded, and that had been enough. He had obeyed with glee, having tasted her potential, the magnificence she would blossom into. It was too easy tracking down those who bore Richard's stench and draining them of their screams. The fresh spill replenished him, and yet, it was her essence that clung like a drug upon his tongue.

He returned to her, finding her perched on the foot of her bed. She had washed and changed. She had even dressed her wound. He would have been impressed, had she not looked so faint. Only a child, he thought, not without pity. Unbidden, the image of another child from another life—a black-haired boy with hatred in his eyes ah, don't go down that path, now—flickered in his mind.

He knelt before her, and she froze for a split second.

"The traitors have been disposed of, my Master."

"Oh." She breathed deeply. "Good. Thank you...Alucard."

The way she said his name was novel indeed. Each instance her predecessors had uttered it had rubbed salt into the wound of captivity, but here there was no sting to be felt. Why was that?

He simpered. "You don't have to thank me. I am yours to command."

She pursed her lips at the reminder. Nonetheless, she studied him with careful eyes. A familiar shade of blue, yet again different. Clearer, perhaps. That was when she made that remark.

How red they are.

"Red?"

"Your eyes."

He laughed outright. "Of course. I am a vampire."

To his great amusement and hunger, she herself colored red in embarrassment. "A very impudent vampire."

He bowed his head. "Forgive me."

"Look at me," she bid, in a stronger voice. The small bit of indignation he had incited seemed to have emboldened her. Her gaze had increased in its intensity when he met it. He was beginning to understand that her eyes appeared different because they were absent of the clinical appraisal he had been subject to as needles and tubes and poisons assailed him. She was regarding him as a person, and he did not know what to think of that. My, my. Arthur, what have you been not teaching this girl?

"Alucard," she said. "Dracula."

It was his turn to freeze.

"That is who you are, isn't it?"

"I have been stripped of that moniker a long time ago," he stated.

"Still." She leaned closer. "I suppose I should be afraid of you, but I'm not. Not really. Even after what I have read and heard and seen of you, you aren't that frightening to me."

"Even after you have read of my atrocities, heard of my infamies, seen me rip the limbs off your dead uncle? Halve the heads of his cronies and drink their blood?" He made a point of baring his teeth, tapering and deadly and inhuman, at her. "Is that wise, I wonder?"

"It's not a matter of wisdom," she said seriously. "It's a matter of knowing you are mine."

Mine.

Something molten flowed inside him at the stark declaration.

She sighed. "As long as you won't kill me in my sleep, I don't care." Then she raised a hand, and despite himself, he tensed. It merely hovered above his face, however. "May I touch you?"

"I am yours," he said simply, yet the connotations of those three words were anything but simple, too intricate for her to have been aware and for him to contemplate.

Dainty, dark fingers, warm and soft, landed on his sunken cheeks. They moved as whispers. "You're like snow. Cold and white." They traced the outline of his orbits. He did not blink. "And your eyes, they're like miniature suns."

The irony.

The clear blue pools in which those suns were reflected rippled sleepily, and she released him all too soon.

She yawned behind her hand, hiding the little blush that persisted. "I would like to get better acquainted with you. But right now..."

"Rest, my Master Integral," he said.

Her brow furrowed. "Call me Integra. Everyone does...well, Father—and Walter and Miriam and a few others, but...they're all...gone..." Her shoulders drooped. "It's just you and me now, Alucard."

He had no answer. She swayed, and he caught her in his arms and carried her to the pillows, where she snuggled under the quilt he drew up to her chin.

"It's the strangest fairy tale..." she mumbled, and then she was asleep.

A secret was locked away in the family basement. An ancient vampire was her inheritance. In place of a knight in shining armor there was a monster, and a girl with a gun and blood down her sleeve. And now that monster was tucking her in. A fairy tale. For all fairy tales are morbid at heart, truths of death and retribution disguised as lies. From the moment she had entered his cell, his story had commenced once more. Alucard, the servant of Integra Hellsing, that was what he was.

Alucard melted into the shadows, and many miniature suns kept guard over the little sleeping beauty with thorns.

Two glorious days passed as she said. It was just the two of them in the manor, getting acquainted with each other. He told her of the past, she told him of the present, he was hers entirely. Not Hellsing's, the organization's. Hers. Integra's. And she was his, even if it was only in the way that she was his master. She was only his master.

On the third day, Walter arrived.

The chair collapsed.

Alucard straightened. He stuck his tongue out and traced the corner she had kissed, desperate for a lingering taste. Ah, Integra, must you make me a more depraved creature than I already am? He shuddered and laughed again, humorlessly, his features flickering along with the lights in the office.

Behind the desk, Michael Carter grunted.

"That's right. I almost forgot you were there, you pungent waste of space," Alucard murmured. "Well, she said not to eat you, but she never said not to kill you." He needed to crush something and the skull of a brainless buffoon would do nicely.

As his nails seized the head and compressed, a thought occurred to him.

Would the real fifteen-year-old Integra have kissed him?

The real fifteen-year-old Integra...?

What a preposterous notion. What was this nonsense? Of course she was real. Nothing about her could be fabricated against him.

But.

Would she, the Integra he thought he knew, have kissed him? The answer, he loathed to admit, was no. At least, he would not have expected it of her. Not in such a manner. Not as "a meager substitute." Not without the slightest blush. Truly, it was as if she had aged a decade's worth of brass in—

Alucard dropped the human with a thud.

Aged.

Preposterous.

Is it?

He had been fixated on the dream as the catalyst, on its contents, its war that he had neglected—

"You've made me—"

"You never change."

"That precious connection of yours certainly didn't help when—"

When what?

When?

 

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Seras was outside, a rucksack slung over her shoulder, gazing up at the sky that was uncovering to be the same shade as her eyes. When she saw Integra she braced herself for the worst.

Yet Integra's expression was serene. She held out her hand. "Ready?"

Seras let herself be led out of the gates, away from everything she hated. Sunlight glinted off the older girl, her hair brighter and longer than hers had ever been. Seras was having a hard time believing this was happening, even as she followed this girl who had swooped down like the angel she said she was not.

Last night, she had had her nightmare again. She had crawled out of bed, sat outside under the colorless sky and maybe, somewhere between crying and singing the song she used to hear on the radio, she had made a wish. Maybe. She was not sure. She just knew that somewhere between waiting for the rain and the rain falling, Integra had appeared.

She was the prettiest person she had ever seen.

Why would someone like her want to have anything to do with unlucky Seras Victoria? She had been the one who insisted, after all. Her self-doubt doubled when they came up to an obviously expensive-looking car. Seras stopped. The adrenaline rush that had made her beg Integra to take her with her had died down and she faltered. She did not want to be a burden, if she was Integra would not want her anymore, she'll return me here and I'll be alone again—

Integra took both her hands and squeezed them.

"It's okay if you're having second thoughts. I know this is very sudden for you. You barely know me and—" An emotion flitted across Integra's face, gone before Seras could name it. "I can't guarantee my world will be a happy one. But I promise, Seras, you can stay as long as you want. I will never make you leave, and I will never leave you."

Somehow, Seras got the feeling that Integra had missed a word at the end. That could hardly be right, though, could it?

"What about your parents?" Seras asked.

"They're dead," she said.

Oh. Integra was an orphan like her. Maybe that explained the sadness in her eyes. It had been the first thing Seras had noticed about her. Sad yet smiling. Only sad people could smile in the rain, so Seras had not been afraid. She was not afraid now, following her to a whole new world where she could learn to be as brave and strong. Integra was her savior.

Footsteps came from behind. Seras stiffened, ready to spring, but Integra rubbed her palms reassuringly as she said, "We're heading back, Dylan."

"Yes, Miss Hellsing. Er..."

"This is Seras Victoria. Seras, this is Dylan Basbanes. He works for me as well."

Seras turned to the man who had startled her and back to Integra with round eyes. Just how many people did Integra have working for her?

"Are you very important, Integra?" she whispered.

Integra grimaced.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Victoria," Dylan said. "Please forgive me for frightening you earlier. Are you coming with us?"

Seras merely nodded, wary still.

"Well, the manor's certainly got more rooms than it knows what to do with," Dylan started cheerfully, then at the look Integra shot him shut up at once. He saluted and hurried to the driver's seat.

"Manor?" Seras squeaked.

She clutched Integra's coat sleeve. "Are there a lot of people living with you in the—the manor?"

"No, actually," Integra soothed. "It's quite empty. It'll be alright, Seras. You'll only ever see the same few people."

"What about the scary mister? The one who gave you this coat? Does he live there, too? Is he coming with us?"

A breeze picked up in that moment, cooler than was normal for summer, causing Integra to instinctively grasp the lapels of the coat. His coat. He had altered it, yet it was so candidly his, the same garish red and heavy weight, somehow dwarfing her despite the adjustments. It also felt like him, how the fabric caressed her skin, in an almost ticklish way; though he had sworn it was not sentient or otherwise connected to him. Worse, it smelled like him. Perhaps she would have been less aggrieved by this had it been a marginally offensive odor, such as mothballs or dirt—or blood—but no. It had to smell pleasant. Something Alucard that she could have singled out in a room full of vampires each with their coppery undertones. Scent triggered vexingly realistic memories, she knew. And from now on she would remember a kiss.

The kiss, the meager kiss.

She parted her burning lips to call him, then closed them. If he wanted to be here, he would be here, long before she had to call him forth. Yet there was only the breeze and the sun that he hated.

"He came here on his own, he'll go back on his own. And should he choose to tarry, he will behave if he knows what's good for him," Integra said loudly.

There was no answer. Only the breeze and the sun and the red fabric that smelled like him.

Like that day, that morning when he disappeared.

But then Seras tugged her hand, and her touch was warm, and when she looked down it was a small child with blue eyes who smiled bravely at her.

So he will return to me.

She smiled back. "Shall we?"

 

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Walter had seen so much shite, done so much shite both natural and supernatural that in the latter half of his allotted century he would have offered everyone tea first before letting anything ruffle his feathers. Unfortunately, it was becoming painfully evident that not even life's harshest trials had prepared him for the conundrum that was his teenage lady and her whims. He watched rather helplessly as Integra slid out of the car (was that Alucard's coat she was wearing?) and feared he would lose his eyebrows when a child stumbled after her.

"Why, who could that be?" Miriam voiced.

He saw the child grab Integra's arm at the sight of the welcoming party. He also saw Integra bend down and coax her with a patience he had never witnessed her exercise around other children. She was important to her, he realized. How or why, he did not know. But the observation forced Walter to check himself.

"My lady," he greeted.

"Walter."

He bowed to their guest's eye level. "And may I ask your name, miss?"

She seemed to be a skittish thing, yet she answered steadily, "Seras Victoria."

"Welcome to Hellsing Manor, Miss Victoria. My name is Walter Dornez. I am Miss Hellsing's butler."

"Hello," Seras mumbled. Miriam came forward next and proceeded to fuss over her, leaving Walter and Integra to face each other.

"Will Miss Victoria be staying with us, my lady?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"For as long as she wants," Integra affirmed. "Make the necessary arrangements, Walter."

Why? he wanted to ask. Why did you go alone? Where did you go? Why there? Why this girl? Where is Alucard? Is that his coat? His litany of questions was contained in a single, "Understood," in that he did not understand a thing.

Integra only gave him a small smile. "I won't be running off in the morning again, I promise."

He tried to return it.

"My goodness, have you dears been out in the rain?" Miriam exclaimed. "You're all cold and wet! A warm bath is in order, I should think, and a hearty breakfast. Let's get you inside."

Integra waved Seras away gently when she gravitated toward her. "Go with Miriam, Seras. I'll join you for breakfast." She added, "You're safe here, I promise."

Seras looked back as Miriam ushered her in, hesitant at first, then mustered up her courage. She squared her shoulders and disappeared through the doorway.

Walter saw how, with the absence of the girl, Integra's face went blank. Her eyes trailed over the bricks of the manor, frigid and appraising, and he had to clear his throat; he felt uncomfortable even if the gaze was not directed at him. "My lady, I had thought—it did not settle well with me, you must be aware, to see you estranged from your peers at a young age. But this..." He chose his words carefully. "For a child to be brought up in this environment—"

"Like I was?" Integra said.

It could not have been worse if she had said it with bitterness. It was spoken as a matter of fact, disconnected from all personal regard. Integra had never visibly resented the position she was raised—and to put it in crude terms, bred—into, yet he wondered now if the rebellious phase she was apparently going through was grating on it. "You were, and are, an exceptional child, Integra. But ordinary children, such as Miss Victoria—"

"Oh, does she seem ordinary to you? But I suppose I thought that too, once upon a time." Integra started for the doors.

"Are you expecting her to be privy to our business?" Walter persisted.

"I'm not my father, Walter, to bring an orphan into this house for the purpose of making her into a human weapon."

He stopped cold.

"To answer your question," she continued, cruel in her utter dispassion, "it's her choice whether she wants to know. I won't lie to her. Regardless." She stepped into the shade of the entrance hall and turned to him. A slant of sunlight fell across the marble floor and divided her figure.

"Seras will have a happy life here, Walter," Integra said, the stare of the illuminated half, her left, unyielding. "I will make sure she has a happy, normal life here, as normal as we can possibly pretend it is. I will do everything in my power to make it so." She said it slowly, clearly, as though she was not talking to him but to the world and the weavers of fate, daring them to go against her.

And so softly he thought he must have imagined it, "The cycle ends here."

The spell was broken then. Integra blinked; only her left eye, and not as deliberately as to be a wink. "Treat Seras with the same respect as you would give me."

It signaled the end of the conversation and again he had to hold his tongue, which had gone very dry.

"Your…coat, my lady."

"No need," she said, and the red coat fluttered in the draft.

Mocking.

 

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It was twelve-year-old Integra who answered the door. "Walter, you're back!" She threw herself into the man's arms.

"My lady, my lady," he repeated. "My lady Integra, I had no idea..."

"It's alright. I'm alive, at least," she said. She urged him to his feet. "But I'm so glad you're back! I have someone to show you."

They entered the sitting room, and Walter saw. The gaunt face, the wild hair, the vulgar red coat. It was—

"Alucard! Wake up, you silly vampire."

The vampire was roused from his lethargy on the couch. Without opening his eyes he said, "Oh, look who it is."

"You didn't even look," she pointed out. With a fondness that should not be there. To Walter she said, "Alucard told me you two used to be partners on the battlefield. Aren't you glad to see him again?"

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on November 19, 2016.
It has been updated for formatting on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 10: spoiled cake

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09.

spoiled cake

 

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Seras darted from room to room like a comet. The timid little thing who had started off the tour attached to Integra's side was now peering into empty doorways of her own volition, eyes wide with wonderment. Integra smiled after her. She ignored the part of her that insisted, You know this house, Seras. You know it better than I do.

She stomped on that thought. That Seras was gone, forever. This Seras was the one she had to take care of, as her counterpart had taken care of old Integra. She watched and heard her gasp at the volumes upon volumes of books lining the shelves of the library she had just discovered, and there was nothing she wished more than to preserve that expression of happiness. Seras, let's be happy this time. Happier than we allowed ourselves to be. You and me.

"You can pick one out, if you want," Integra said.

Seras glanced at her and back at the books, flustered. "I don't know...there's so many..."

Integra examined a shelf. It carried her childhood favorites. Tales of knights and quests and a bit of romance. She could admit she used to read them in bed and dream of valorous men who would come to her aid and press a kiss to her hand. But dreams, were only ever dreams.

She pulled off a weathered volume and gave it to Seras. "Why don't you try this one? Once the novelty wears off, I'm sure, you'll find this house rather boring. You should have something to read, at least."

Seras clutched it to her chest. She looked as if she did not know what to say. After a moment she asked, "Can we see upstairs?"

"Of course."

On the next floor, Integra led Seras to a room which had been tidied during breakfast. "And here is your room."

Seras nearly dropped the book.

"My room...?"

She seemed rooted to the spot. Hesitantly, she took a step inside.

On such short notice, it was hardly more than a large guest room, yet there was sunlight streaming through the windows. She would love that, Integra had thought. Accepting herself as a vampire had not stopped Seras from loving the day or bemoaning her inability to enjoy it. The sun did not hurt Seras, but it did enfeeble her, and so in addition to staying indoors she would try to appreciate it in roundabout ways.

"Sunlight has a certain scent, did you know, Master Integra?"

"Do you like it? Or if you'd prefer a different room, that can be arranged," Integra assured.

Seras turned to face her. She shut her eyes.

"Seras? What's wrong?"

"I feel like this is all too good to be true," the child said in a tiny voice, "and if I look at it too long, I'll waste it and it'll disappear."

"That's silly," Integra remarked softly. "I'm right here, and I won't disappear on you."

"But I've never had good things happen to me before. Why should they happen now?"

Because I willed it.

"Maybe this is all a dream."

Integra's response was to pinch her cheek.

Seras squeaked, her eyes flying open. "Wha—what was that for?"

"Did it hurt?"

"Yeah, it did!"

"Good, that means it's not a dream," Integra deadpanned.

Seras gaped at her. Then she burst into giggles.

Integra relaxed. There now.

The child moved to hug her, still giggling, and Integra held her tight. She stroked her hair, attempting in vain to quell the regret at not having made enough of these gestures in their past life. My darling girl. I loved you most. I loved you best. You knew that, right?

"Thank you, Integra. You're so kind to me."

She blinked rapidly.

A yawn was stifled against her blouse. Seras had been through turmoil in a single morning, and out of worry and excitement had not gotten one wink in the car. It was no wonder she was sleepy. Integra steered her toward the bed. "You need to get some sleep."

"Oh, but I haven't seen the rest of the manor yet!"

"This house isn't going anywhere, ninny," she teased. "Or do you need me to pinch you again?"

"Okay, okay!" Seras scrambled under the thin summer sheets. Once settled, however, her face dimmed, and she began to erratically thumb the frayed cover of the book she had kept in her steadfast grasp. She looked up at Integra from her pillows and her words came out in a rush. "I don't—I don't mean to sound like a baby but—could you—could you stay until I fall asleep? Please? I have—dreams—bad ones."

Integra knew those bad dreams well. She asked no questions. She merely sat on the bed beside her and made to take the book from her. "I'll read to you, then."

Seras shielded it with her hands. "No!" She flushed. "I mean—I like talking to you. I haven't—I haven't really talked to anyone like this, ever." She flushed deeper. "Is that okay?"

There was nothing Integra would deny her. She swept her fringe from her earnest eyes. "What shall we talk about?"

"I don't know where to start!" Seras exclaimed, so different from the broken girl who had sat outside waiting for the rain, the vengeful girl who had watched the castration of her assaulter, the desperate girl who had begged to go with her. Here she was simply a curious girl fascinated with her new home and her new friend whom she may or may not have met in a dream. There was in Seras, always, an inextinguishable light. "Oh, oh! Mrs. Bolger told me..."

And thus they talked about the topics raised by chatty old Miriam, which Integra reaffirmed or refuted to the best of her memory, with her hand resting warmly on Seras' forehead all the while. Until pauses in speech grew more frequent, and blue, blue eyes became half-closed.

Seras reached up and held onto Integra's fingers. "Are you sure you're not an angel or maybe a fairy godmother?"

Integra smiled indulgently. "I'm sure, you silly thing."

"That was silly for me to say, because fairy godmothers are supposed to be old," Seras agreed, missing the pain in Integra's eyes. "You're a real lady in a real manor, that makes you closer to a princess. Only..." She drifted off. "More..."

Slowly, Integra removed her hand. She tucked Seras' in, wishing—no, ordering her nightmares away.

"It's not enough to be a lady or a prince or even a king of a certain place," she whispered. "We always have to be more. Our own knights, our own fairy godmothers, even," she sighed, "our own monsters."

Seras slept soundly.

"My Seras. You were my wings. You were my only light for such a long time. You must have known..." There was that damnable sting in her eyes again. "I never would have survived that time without you."

She inhaled, and kept the tears at bay.

"So I'll kiss you goodbye, Seras. The Seras I've known, the Seras I've loved, so I can know you anew and love you better." And she did. She kissed her tenderly on the brow, and then wrenched away lest a drop fall.

The summer was cold. The sun beat against her skin and set her locks ablaze but she felt so cold. Death had left a chill and she suspected it was permanent. A frostbitten soul.

Integra stood and went to draw the curtains.

The book she gave Seras caught her attention as she headed for the door. She picked it up and flipped, out of distant habit, to a dog-eared page. A lay. Lanval. She had not read it in years.

Lanval, fair friend, for you I've come,

For you I've traveled far from home.

If you are brave and courteous,

You'll be more glad and prosperous

Than ever was emperor or king,

For I love you over everything.

Her lips twisted. She skipped immediately to Lanval's reply.

There's no command, you may be sure,

Wise or foolish, what you will,

Which I don't promise to fulfill.

I'll follow only your behest . . .

That was enough. What tripe. She snapped the book shut and discarded it on a dresser. She checked on Seras once more, opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

And walked straight into Alucard.

She reflexively grabbed the front of his black suit jacket. Silk, was her impression. Then cold and hard, his body underneath. Yesterday, when he had broken her fall from the ladder, she had been so surprised he was real that nothing else had registered. Presently, however, she was very aware of his broad form against hers. Integra lurched back and saw he was gazing down at her with unreadable crimson eyes.

"Master." His gloved fingers closed on hers and prevented her from going far. "You should watch your step."

"Alucard." She steadied herself. "How long have you been standing here?"

His gaze flicked to the door behind her. He searched her face. "I have just arrived."

Thank God. "And where have you been?" Integra demanded. She found she did not want to retract her hand. She needed his coldness to assuage her own. "You didn't cause any casualties, I hope."

There was a ghost of a smile. "Such deplorable regard you hold me in. No, my Master, your streets remain unsullied. I have simply been, shall I say, lost in thought." His gaze dropped to her lips.

They burned.

Integra leaned against the door, unabashed. He was sinful in black, with a splash of red around his neck. She liked him better without his coat. She wondered why he persisted in wearing it, that relic of his most hated past. Though she knew him best, such facets were unpolished, questions she had to derive answers to by conjecture because he was never there. Then again, it wasn't as if he was exactly forthcoming even when he was around.

"Ah, now will you be the one lost?" Alucard tightened his grip on her hand minutely. "Where do you go that I cannot follow?"

When, not where.

Integra pulled her hand back. He let her go.

"Nowhere you can't follow," she corrected. "I'm going to my office. The hour is late. You have my permission to retire for the day." She slid past him.

"Perhaps that girl inside may provide a clue."

If he was trying to get a rise out of her, he succeeded. Integra whipped around and said, deathly calm, "Leave Seras alone."

Alucard laughed low. "Now you truly wound me. What do you imagine I'll do, frighten her to death?"

"These are your orders," Integra enunciated. "Leave Seras alone. She knows nothing. Absolutely nothing. Upset her and I'll confine you to your crypt."

He snarled. "Orders? These are my orders? Are you hearing yourself? That girl merits a measure of this extent?"

"I hear loud and clear and it certainly sounds like you're questioning my orders," she hissed.

An imperceptible emotion darkened his pallor, then he quietened. "No, my Master. I dare not. Not when your meager substitute haunts me still." His mouth curved into what was supposed to be a provocative smile, but failed to reach his eyes. "Yet, meager as it is, you don't expect it to sweeten me for long."

"Actually, I expect it to sweeten you for much longer."

"Do you?"

"Yes," Integra said. With no warning whatsoever she yanked his cravat and drew his face parallel to hers. "Because it's my kiss. My kiss, Alucard. Your Master's kiss."

"Would you like me to demonstrate a real kiss?" Alucard ventured at last, his voracity tearing at its seams. What he harbored for her, a possessiveness for his master that mirrored her own for him, was his undoing and almost, almost it frightened him. This was not his pace. He would have been content to wait until it was she who could not wait, yet this—how violent! Because somehow, somehow this was not the real fifteen-year-old Integra. This Integra gave, in coarse human vernacular, absolutely zero fucks and it was maddening, cruelly maddening— "Shall I begin with the sole of your foot? Tell me, Integra. Tell me tell me tell me. Spune-mi."

She wanted—she wanted him to—

"You are utterly ridiculous." Integra released him with a shove. It was a miracle no one had chanced upon them in the corridor. She—she was not breathless—was going to go drown herself in paperwork.

His voice cut through the silence behind her back.

"When, Integra?"

She should not have stopped.

She stopped.

When. Without context, it was an innocent query.

And the Devil was anything but innocent.

"Integra!"

She jumped. That was Miriam.

She turned back to see the woman heading toward her. Alucard was gone. The housekeeper did not appear to have noticed he had been there at all, and came up to her cheerily. "There you are. Wonderful. Have you shown Miss Victoria her room?"

Integra recollected herself in Alucard's wake. "Yes. She's asleep."

Miriam looked disappointed. "You see, I was going to ask her what she wanted for lunch. The size of that child! I don't think she's been eating properly!" She focused on Integra. "I must say, dear, I am very glad you brought her here. She was very shy earlier, but I could tell she's a sunbeam of a child, and Lord knows this house needs more of that." Then in an undertone she added, "Is she who you were looking for yesterday?"

Integra stared at the woman whose expression was a tad too knowing. "Miriam..."

To her surprise, Miriam made a shushing motion. "Now don't you go worrying off that pretty blonde head. I won't tell Mr. Dornez or your red gentleman. This is something you want to keep to yourself, I understand." She sniffed. "Men. I don't want to be putting poor late Mr. Bolger in the same pool, but they can be quite insensitive, can't they?"

Had her old nanny always been this shrewd? "Thank you," Integra whispered.

Miriam patted her shoulder dotingly. "There's still the matter of lunch, I fear. Do you have an idea?"

"Seras likes...lamb." She recalled her mentioning it once over the dinner table, because Seras would be quick to devour her blood, and she would fill the void as she ate ("That's a lovely piece of lamb, Master Integra, I can smell it's cooked just right, it used to be my favorite when I was little...") "Lamb cutlets."

"Delightful," Miriam said. "Remember, my dear, you can depend on us. We won't think any less of you if you do."

"I will," Integra said, But I'm afraid that's no longer an option.

 

xx

xx

 

Three hours later, Seras woke up confused. This was not her bed in the orphanage. The sheets were fluffy. The pillows were even fluffier. Wait, there was more than one pillow? Seras shook her head, and then it dawned on her, the biggest change.

She had not had a nightmare.

No nightmare. No nightmare! No more of their...deaths... Seras could scarcely believe it at first. She grabbed a pillow and hugged it, and hugged it so tight it would have coughed out stuffing. She was so happy she started crying, and sniffled into the pillow for quite a while.

Soon she rubbed away her tears and blushed a bit. It was silly of her to cry when she was so happy. She did not want to seem ungrateful to Integra or make her worried. Integra! Seras peeped around the room—it overwhelmed her to think of it as her room—but of course the older girl was not there. The book she had given her was lying on a dresser and Seras hopped out of bed and over to it, hugging it as well, in lieu of its owner. She felt warm and protected.

Her stomach emitted a little gurgle. A clock on the wall told her it was lunchtime. Seras hoped that meant she would be eating with Integra again. Maybe—maybe she could go and find her this time!

That she did not know where in the huge manor Integra could be stopped her short.

"You can do this, Seras!" the girl said, pepping herself up. It would be an adventure, of sorts. She could not expect Integra to show her everywhere. She had to stand on her own two feet! And, that way, she would be less of a burden.

Seras squeezed her fists. "Okay!"

Once outside, she attempted to retrace their steps. The corridors appeared much wider and lengthier than they had been when she was with Integra. The doors looked identical, too. She managed to end up back in the library, which was empty. Seras resumed wandering, racking her brain for a clue.

"Miss Victoria?"

She hid around a corner.

It was Mr. Dornez, the butler. His grey eyes were genial and not at all fazed by her reaction. "Miss Victoria, are you in need of assistance?"

"I was looking for Integra," Seras mumbled, her face guarded. She had liked Mrs. Bolger well enough, because she reminded her of her grandmother, but she had only told Mr. Dornez her name and was not yet sure what to think about him.

"Miss Hellsing is currently in her office."

"Office?" Seras squeaked. Stupid! Of course a person as important as Integra would have her own office, in a house this big. It only made sense. And its implication made her shrink. "I—I don't want to disturb her..."

"Not at all," the butler said. "I was on my way to call her for lunch. I believe she would be very happy to see you."

"Really?"

"Yes," Walter said. Though he did not understand it in the least. He bowed. "If you will please follow me."

It was verily new and strange, this whole experience. As if the manor and its inhabitants were somehow separate from the rest of England. The lady, the butler...the soldiers...the mysterious man in the red coat...

They arrived on the top floor, where Mr. Dornez approached a set of stately wooden doors. He knocked. "My lady."

"Enter."

The doors opened to an enormous room with many windows. In the middle sat a desk, and behind it Integra, who was tapping the end of a fountain pen on her bottom lip as she glared at a sentence. Seras suddenly felt infinitely small. She knew it was different but—she had stood in front of desks before, led there by an adult, who would say, I must inform you that Seras has caused trouble again...

"My lady, Miss Victoria has come to see you."

"Seras?" Integra looked up. Her eyes softened.

Those eyes—blue like hers, only lighter—were eyes she had known for less than a day, yet they felt to Seras like love. A love she had last seen in her parents' eyes.

Integra did not stay behind her desk. She abandoned her papers, and met her halfway. She bent down, holding her gaze, and Seras felt more of that love. "Good afternoon, Seras."

"Good afternoon, Integra," she reciprocated shyly.

"I trust your sleep was dreamless."

"It was! How did you know?" Seras asked, amazed.

"I ordered them away," Integra said. "Your bad dreams."

"Does that work?"

"Oh, there are few monsters in this world that do not yield to me," Integra said dryly.

Neither of them noticed Walter's fixed look.

"Whatever your monsters are, Seras, I won't let them get to you."

"You don't have to. You've already done so much for me, Integra," Seras whispered. "I don't have anything to give back."

Integra cupped her face. It was strange. Seras did not like people touching her. But it never occurred to her to recoil from Integra's hands, not just because they saved her. They were gentle and strong. Like her mother's had been. Like her father's had been. It was the first time their memory did not drive her to despair.

"Seeing you smile is enough."

Seras smiled.

"Is it lunch already?"

Walter answered. "Yes, my lady."

"Let's be going, then." Integra offered Seras a hand, and the child took it at once. They made their way down, side by side, to the dining room.

"Integra, what is it that you do, exactly?" Seras asked.

Integra did not skip a beat. "I run a paramilitary organization that services the Queen."

Paramilitary organization? The Queen? Seras' mind was abuzz. "Like a knight?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact, when I come of age, I will be knighted." Integra said this with a curious quirk of her lips, as though she was finding the prospect wearily amusing. Seras could not imagine why. It seemed terribly exciting and daunting to her.

"If you're a knight, does that mean you protect people?" Seras frowned. "Or is that just medieval knights?"

A muscle twitched in Integra's palm. "I hope," she said, "I will be able to."

Seras squeezed her hand. "It's what I hope I'll do, too! As a police officer. That's my dream."

Abruptly Integra stopped, and regarded her solemnly. Seras was beginning to worry she had said something wrong when Integra murmured, "Yes, I can see you'll become a fine police girl."

Walter opened the doors for them, and they entered the dining room, Seras' cheeks flushed pink. She allowed herself to be distracted by the table. Lamb cutlets were her favorite! She had not had them since... She shook her head and sat down.

Walter poured their drinks.

The lamb was delicious.

A call came from Sir Penwood in the middle of the meal, which Walter put on hold. He asked Integra if she would take it.

"Sir Penwood," Integra repeated. She rose from her chair. "Excellent. I'll ask him if he's available for a visit tomorrow. It's been long since we had a fencing match."

Walter coughed. "A fencing match, my lady? With Shelby Penwood?"

"He's an exceptional swordsman, Walter, don't you know?" She chuckled as she left, sharing an inside joke with herself.

Walter refilled their glasses in her absence and Seras slowed her eating. She still was not comfortable around Mr. Dornez. Years of anticipating the intentions of adults told her he could spring a question on her at any minute. Which he did.

"Miss Victoria, may I ask you a question?"

Seras swallowed a piece of cutlet. Mr. Dornez looked guileless, but she never did trust adults when they started off with that sentence. "Yes."

"How did you come to know Miss Hellsing?"

Seras lowered her fork. "We met once in a dream."

Walter paused. Dreams, again? Was it his imagination, or was he sensing a pattern here? "A...dream."

"That's what Integra said." Seras drew lines in her sauce with her fork. "I don't remember it, though." She wished she could. She wished she could understand Integra as effortlessly as Integra seemed to understand her. It really was quite unfair.

"I see. Today, then, was the first time you met her in person?"

Seras disturbed her salad. "Yes. She saved me."

"She saved you?"

"She killed him."

Walter was smart enough to drop the conversation, and to glean that the event which had caused Integra to pull the trigger had been heinous, and had enraged her murderously—and that this girl who was speaking of it without inflection was no ordinary girl, indeed. Why though? Why her? He could not wrap his mind around it. Stumped, and acknowledging he may have unwittingly conjured ill flashbacks, he apologized. "I had no idea. Forgive me for dredging up what must have been a traumatic experience for you."

"It's okay, Mr. Dornez." Seras shrugged. "You didn't mean to."

"You are very generous, Miss Victoria."

She fidgeted. "It's weird, being called 'Miss Victoria,'" she blurted. "I'm not an actual lady like Integra, you can just call me Seras."

"It is my personal belief that all young girls are ladies worthy of respect," Walter said. "But if you insist. Please, call me Walter."

When the child smiled, he thought that the circumstances of Seras' connection to Integra was a mystery he would solve patiently—and tactfully—and that regardless, he would follow his lady's lead and protect that smile.

 

xx

xx

 

Sir Shelby Penwood was as she remembered him. Kind, apprehensive and concerned. He was pleasantly surprised to hear she would be visiting. "Certainly I'll be happy to make time for you, Integral. Er, nothing's wrong, is it?"

"No. I would just like to see you."

"Well," he said, sounding mightily unconvinced, "alright. We can meet and discuss later tomorrow."

"Then I'll look forward to our fencing match, Sir Penwood."

"Wha—fencing match? Integral, you know I can't fence—"

Of course, poor Sir Penwood's protests fell on deaf ears, as had his grandson's.

She neared the dining room to see Walter gesticulating and Seras giggling over a plate of dessert cake, and felt the weight in her heart lessen. They would have got along sooner or later and she was glad it was sooner.

She walked on. Cake had become spoiled for her.

A summer day is long, but Integra felt it passing quickly, for it was winter within her. The winter raged and raged about the illusory nature of life and death and time. How had Alucard and Seras endured this sensation for so long? She admired them for it, admired the species she had once passionately disparaged. The men would throw a fit, she snorted. How far you've gone, Integral.

So the day passed, and the night returned.

She had a fitful sleep. Nightmares, deprived of one dreamscape, circled the gloom for another, and they ambushed hers. Integra, Integral, Integrity, will you change us? Integra, Integral, Integrity, do you believe you will win? They laughed, and their laughter was familiar.

In contrast, she woke silently. Integra sat up in bed, her hair sticking to her skin, her vision blurred sans her glasses. She wrapped her fingers around her neck. Her throat was parched. She needed water.

She stumbled barefooted to the table by the windows and into the chair. She drank too fast and ended up coughing. The glass slipped from her fingers and water dribbled on the floor.

Her shoulders were cold.

They brushed against a garment hung over the back of the chair.

Alucard's coat. He had neglected to ask for it, and knowing him, he had manifested a new coat by now. Integra tutted. Sloppy vampire. As sloppy as I am, or is that the other way around? At times she wondered how much of herself was Alucard's doing. She found solace in the fact that she had at least affected him in turn. The tears she had witnessed on that morning so long ago were proof.

As long as one could cry, it meant one was not lost—not yet, not completely.

Integra slid the coat over her shoulders, daring to think the weight comforting, the fabric soft, the scent tempting. She closed her eyes.

Shadows slithered out of sight. They scuttered toward her, lifting themselves from the floor as tendrils and twisting around a chair leg to extend to her face. They were tangible, icy digits upon her cheek.

"Alucard," she said.

They thought she would order them out, yet she did not. She raised her own hand to press the phantom hand closer. The shadows trilled in both ecstasy and fear.

"Alucard," she said. "Never leave me."

 

xx

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xx

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Notes:

This chapter was published on December 20, 2016.
It has been updated for formatting on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Marie de France, Lanval

Chapter 11: bitter, sweet

Once, she had wondered what he would think of her wrinkles.

It doesn't matter what he thinks, the sensible side of her berated. He doesn't have the right to judge at all!

Yes, that was true. But she was human and she wondered.

She imagined.

Count, she might say to him, see what you missed. This is what you left me to become.

His expression would be the usual one of insidious mirth. But maybe, just maybe, she could glimpse in those inhuman eyes a bit of rue. He did not mean to be gone for so long. He did not mean to disobey her. The Count who had crossed the sea for her, had crossed an ocean of time, he would reply, You mock me on the assumption that I bemoan your change.

On the contrary, Countess...

He might then trace each and every line on her face. The creases around her mouth and eye, formed by the rarest laughter.

Long ago, she had touched him in the same way. Fingers alight with unadulterated curiosity and subdued awe, familiarizing the flesh of the one who had saved her. The knight that was not a knight. The knight that was a monster. She had dared not give him her hand for his teeth were too sharp; would they not puncture her as he kissed?

Yet she had not been afraid of him. She had even told him he was beautiful, in more than three words.

Like snow and like miniature suns.

And as she had done before, he might now hold her in his deadly hands, pale lips parting to say, My dear Countess, you have never been more beautiful.

She might scoff.

She might smile.

If only.

If only.

If only.

 

xx

xx

 

10.

bitter, sweet

 

xx

xx

 

In the evening on the day Seras Victoria came to Hellsing Manor, Walter trudged down to Alucard's lair to deliver his blood, per usual. The vampire was slouched in his pathetic excuse for a throne, looking thoughtful. A thoughtful Nosferatu, what horror. Walter did not attempt to engage. He deposited the packet, bowed curtly, and exited.

Well, that had been his intention.

"'All young girls are ladies worthy of respect'?"

Fucking great. "You heard that?" Walter asked lightly.

Alucard studied him with farcical concern. "It got me thinking I should stop calling you 'Angel' if it's going to make you develop such sanctimonious drivel." The concern was replaced with conceit. "After all, you certainly didn't treat me with respect when I was a young girl."

Walter kept his face purposely null. "You were never a young girl, Alucard."

Alucard ignored him. "You know, I've never shown Integra that particular form of mine. How will she react, I wonder? Seeing as she's stooped to picking up strays, perhaps she'd prefer I be one, too."

"She won't prefer anything, because it won't matter to her," Walter said primly. "You won't be putting any guards down with that face. She sees right through you."

Again, his intention had been to deflate him, but evidently the universe was working against him today, for the beast merely grinned. It was then Walter realized a prominent article of clothing was missing.

Integra still has his coat with her...

Red, red eyes matched the hue of the missing coat, the packet on the table and the liquid that surfeited their lives.

"Isn't that the catalyst."

Walter was on the verge of begging God for a ghoul outbreak. He did not know why he was so anxious for a distraction—by which Alucard's attention would finally be diverted from Integra—ah, who was he kidding.

He retreated upstairs, feeling a headache coming on.

That was yesterday.

Today, Walter brewed Integra's wake-up tea thanking the high heavens that there were no broken mirrors, missing ladies or new household members. Integra was, mercifully, in her room sleeping. He turned around with the tray.

"Bloody hell!"

A mass of shadows with no discernible shape was protruding out of the kitchen floor. It had the refrigerator open and was pilfering a month's worth of medical blood.

"Alucard!" Walter squawked, yet it—he—they—ignored him completely. The shadows disappeared with the booty.

With one hand Walter steadied the tray. With the other he palmed his face.

Bloody buggering insomniac bastard, he swore as he managed to get up the stairs. What's up with him? If it was not Integra that was acting odd, it was Alucard. He just hoped this was not a recurring theme. Walter shook his head, knocked on Integra's door and entered.

He swiftly set the refreshments down and went to tie the tassels of the curtains, before noticing a water glass upended on the table. Integra must have woken up during the night and drank in haste. Mildly uneased, he turned to the lady in question.

A strangled cough escaped Walter's throat.

Integra stirred. The red coat she had wrapped around her rustled.

The shade of red was unmistakable in the light. Alucard's coat—again.

A muted sort of horror rose from the depths of his soul as Integra opened her eyes and sat up. She seemed neither surprised to find him there nor aware of what she wore over her nightgown.

"Walter. What time is it?" Rather than waiting for a reply, she retrieved her glasses and read the clock. "Nine? You left me to oversleep?"

"It's the weekend, my lady," he reminded her faintly. Then, "Integra, is that Alucard's coat?"

So much for tact.

Integra looked down at herself.

"Yes," she said.

And she wrapped the coat tighter around her.

There was not a single change in her countenance. If Walter knew his lady at all, if he knew her as well as he had always thought, she would have at least blushed, and taken it off. No, she would not have worn it in the first place. There were boundaries he had seen Integra employ when it came to Alucard. This was not it.

Where was this nonchalance coming from?

It was also summer.

Integra glanced at him when his silence lengthened. "I was cold," she explained.

"Ah."

"Is that Irish Breakfast?"

Integra went for her tea, and Walter mechanically went after her to pour her a cup. Pull yourself together, Angel. A coat is a coat. It's not even the point you should be worrying about the most! "I can't help but be concerned. Are you sure you're not ill?"

She sipped. "Truly, Walter. I have never been better."

He phrased his next question carefully. "Alucard was up late. He seemed...ravenous. Do you have any idea why?"

Her expression was unreadable. "No."

Well, then.

She paused and studied her drink. "You forgot the sugar."

Walter stared. "My lady, you've never taken Irish Breakfast with sugar."

A second passed.

"Because it makes it too sweet," Integra murmured. "I remember."

She said "remember" like it was dredging up scraps locked in the bottom of a dusty drawer. Sweetness was not favored by the Hellsing director; the sugar bowl was removed from the tea tray when she assumed the position. It had been her order. Did she forget this as well? The cup of Irish Breakfast was held in listless hands, and its vapor spiraled into nothing.

"Don't you add sugar to your tea, Walter?" Integra asked.

"As it turns out, I do. It's a recent development." Walter thought of the two lumps of sugar he had begun to plop in each morning. "I find the older you grow, the sweeter your tooth."

"Why do you think that is?"

He had a feeling she was not asking about the physiological dulling of the human palate. Walter considered, then answered.

"Life's bitterness accumulates upon your tongue. Perhaps it's an internal longing to wash that taste away, however fleetingly, with sweets."

Integra slid the unsweetened cup onto its saucer. She smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes. "I hope there's not anything you're bitter about, here and now."

Walter chuckled. "I am nowhere near writing up a resignation letter, my lady, rest assured."

And she said, "What about aging? Are you bitter about aging, Walter?"

Her tone was only mildly curious, even casual, yet the question was a needle to the butler, pricking a cancerous mold in his heart. A mold that did not exist, but he imagined it did, as he imagined the bitterness of the cigarettes his little punk self had smoked coating his tongue. Was he bitter? Of his wrinkling face and stiffening joints, of the fanged grin he would never have the pleasure of ripping off? No—the answer was no. It had to be no. For here and for now, until, until—

Until what, Angel of Death?

The voice that snickered in his mind was that of a young boy.

Walter inclined his head. "Why, for us John Bulls, growing old is one of life's pleasures."

Integra's reaction was somewhat jarring. Her expression took on an inexplicable cynicism, though there were no outward changes to her smile and unblinking gaze. "I'll have to see for myself if that is true."

"You have many years ahead of you, Integra."

She stood. "I should get ready for lunch at Sir Penwood's. Take care of Seras, and in the meantime, I want you to seek out tutors for her. Of higher caliber."

"Much higher," Walter confirmed wryly.

Integra took off the coat—Finally!—and draped it over the chair.

Walter was good at pretending.

He pretended not to notice how her fingers lingered on the fabric.

 

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"I won't be long, Seras."

Integra felt the need to reassure the girl, though she would not be gone for more than a few hours. As much as she trusted Sir Penwood, Integra had no desire to expose Seras to the Round Table and their inevitable nosing. That they would eventually learn of her was also inevitable, but at least by then Seras would be less overwhelmed with the changes in her life, and surer of her place. This was her rightful place, here. Where she would be provided with the best of everything.

Except normalcy.

To Seras, being inside a huge manor with Integra and being inside a huge manor without Integra were two different things entirely. "Okay," she mumbled.

Integra peered into her eyes. They were outside, awaiting the chauffeur in front of the double doors. The sky was cloudy, but that was not what shaded the blues. "What's troubling you?"

Seras looked up at her plaintively. Then she looked left and right, as if she was fearful of her demons listening in on them. "I had a bad dream again. But it wasn't..." She hushed.

"Do you want to tell me?"

She shook her head. "I want to forget it. I don't want it to mean anything."

Knowing intimately that nothing became something the moment it was uttered, and given irrevocable power, Integra did not pry. "Wait here," she said, and walked off.

She was back in less than a minute holding a daisy.

"Now." Integra pressed the flower into Seras' palm. "This is in exchange for your dream. I'm buying it from you, so you no longer have to worry."

The daisy resembled the sunny-side up eggs Seras ate for breakfast. It was small and fragile yet bright and immaculate in her hand. It was a terribly high price for an awful, awful dream that had made no sense and had been unlike all her other dreams. She opened her mouth to protest, but Integra held a finger to her lips. Seras blushed.

"You're a part of this household, Seras. My household. I protect everyone in it, with everything I have, with every method that may suffice."

The car arrived then, and Integra left on that note.

Sir Penwood, whom she had last paid her respects to as a bronze monument, looked better in the flesh. Mustached, rotund, with a perpetually sweating worry line between his brows which he dabbed at with an ever-present handkerchief, he greeted Integra at the door. "Coming all the way out here in this muggy weather, Integral. You didn't have to go through the trouble."

She gazed at this brave, brave man—England's Protector, she had called him, and meant it. Gregory had never quite believed her, but really, of course she lost her left eye trying to duel him for fun one day. Sir Shelby Penwood deserved to be a legend, and if being a legend entailed one's story becoming rather tall, then was this not a sweeter tale?

Good hunting, Sir Penwood.

She smiled. "Good day, Sir Penwood."

"Yes, yes," he said gruffly, yet inwardly he was touched that Integra had gone out of her way to visit him. "I'm telling you, I can't fence. I don't even think I can fit into my old gear."

"No need to be harsh on yourself, Sir," Integra said. "You're as dashing as always."

The knight appeared disgruntled and wary and flattered all at once. "Now you're just making fun of me. Come on in."

They made small talk. How were her studies going? Was Walter attending to her properly? And her—er—vampire, was he, er, behaving? Integra was not bothered by these questions. They reminded her of what she had missed most about Sir Penwood: his awkward, yet genuine concern for her. He had always been like an uncle to her, instead of her father's weasel of a brother. He had, in retrospect, never let her down.

But she, the gullible fool she had been, how had she repaid him?

"Integral?"

"Yes?"

"You seemed a bit ill there." Penwood glanced dubiously at the table. "Er, the meal's not disagreed with you, has it?"

"My apologies, Sir. It's not the meal. I tend to get easily distracted these days."

"Well, it's a pivotal time in your life." Penwood twiddled his thumbs. "To tell you the truth, I never imagined you would ask to visit when I called yesterday. This quarter's Table meeting is not far off, after all—that was why I called, to confirm your schedule."

Integra refrained from curling her lips. "I was under the impression that my schedule mattered little."

Penwood winced. "Integral, you mustn't think that. Hugh and the chaps, I know they're rather—old-school—but—" He heaved a sigh. "I thought you were just a little girl when I first heard you were to be director, yet here you are. Doing more than I've ever done, busier than I've ever been busy in all my years of—warming up a seat in the Council—"

Poor Sir Penwood. He had no idea she had outgrown the need for the point he was trying to make some thirty years ago. The only problem she had with the meeting was the likelihood of her being bored to tears. But she listened patiently.

"I guess, what I'm trying to say is, you should never doubt your place among us."

"Sir, I am assured of my place," Integra said. "Very assured."

Penwood blinked. "Oh."

"And so should you be of yours."

"Huh?"

"I couldn't be running the organization without the helicopters you provided me," she remarked, and Sir Penwood groaned.

"You're on a roll today, aren't you?"

Integra laughed, and added a cube of sugar to her tea.

 

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The white of his eyes was bloodshot. He could feel them, the tiny swollen vessels. Even this imperishable body of his protested fatigue every now and then; perhaps it was his subconscious, mimicking human frailty as a result of being surrounded by them night and day.

Once, he had pointed out a laggardly healing bruise and offered, not entirely in jest, a drop of his blood. Of course, Integra had turned her nose up at him.

"It's a part of being human that these things take time."

Ever the hunter, my Master. Shooting down the monster with mere words. He had dissolved into the floor, his laughter bittersweet.

Against that same floor echoed the footsteps of the manor's inhabitants. They rang dully in his ears. None of them were Integra's. If there were hundreds, thousands, millions walking above him, he would still find her. And when he did, she would only be annoyed that he had killed those numbers between them.

Or would she be annoyed? He no longer knew what to expect from her.

Alucard shifted in his throne, the movement less cumbersome without his coat. Why had he not reconjured it yet? Sometimes he surprised himself. But it came across as cheap to him, to be wearing another, when one was upstairs in his master's bedroom. One warmed by the heat of her flesh, perfumed by her scent, and privy to her command.

Never leave me.

Did she say that?

Yes. Yes, she did.

He threw his head back and laughed, and if it sounded hoarse, sounded bittersweet, he did not notice. His hair spindled madly in the air before falling and veiling his face.

First a kiss and now this.

Oh, he was a connoisseur of lust, and he had been lusted after, certainly, and they all wanted something from him. His body, his blood, his bite, his love... Yet never the lot at once, and they all ended the same. In the end they wanted him gone.

Alucard.

The front doors of the manor opened.

Never leave me.

He cast his eyes up at the ceiling.

Integra was back.

Her steady steps stopped halfway to greet Walter, and again to greet the new girl. When they reached her room he tuned her out. He would not seek her today. Or tomorrow. Or the following week. Until her touches ceased to flay him, her words to haunt him, and he degenerated to being content with their previous nothings, savoring the memory of a single kiss.

Content? You?

The No-Life King shut his eyes and willed himself to sleep.

You insatiable creature.

He succeeded, for a couple of hours or so.

Footsteps.

Her footsteps.

Closer. Closer, closer, closer. His shadows shivered. Crimson irises stared at the entrance of his lair with desire and dread. Closer. Her essence tugged at his, caused his body to gravitate almost unwittingly. He could not recall another instance in which her arrival so tormented him. How the tables have turned.

"Master? Can that be my Master? Come to visit me in my sordid sanctuary? Gracing me with her presence?"

There was a chuckle from Integra as she emerged little by little down the stairwell. She had bathed. Moisture still clung to her pale tresses and flooded his nostrils with bergamot. When she at last descended—in every sense of the word, for setting foot in his court of none was tantamount to delivering oneself to the Devil—he bared his teeth. Alucard could not help it. She looked sacramental.

Especially with his coat held to her white blouse like a splash of blood.

"Count."

Integra uttered that solitary word and grew quiet. Her eyes landed on his coffin.

Alucard waved a lazy hand toward it. "Care to give it a try?"

The look she gave him was condescending, even from the distance. Touché.

"Not until I die."

Deeper she ventured into the darkness of his court, in actuality hers. There was nothing in here that did not belong to her. And it seemed that recently the not-so-little lady had become too aware of it, of the pathetic extent to which he was ready to debase himself if only she would allow him. This was his vulnerability. "Why are you here, my Master? Why not summon me?" His smile was a mask.

So was hers. "I have realized," Integra said, "that sometimes, I must be the one to return."

She approached the wine table and into the circumference of a feeble candlelight. Her lips pursed at the empty packets littering the vicinity. "Since you are such a slob." She tossed the coat into his lap.

It was warm. It bore her scent.

The shameless creature buried his face into it and inhaled deeply. Behind his black curls merely an eye was visible, and it swiveled up at her.

"You didn't need to."

"I asked to lend it," Integra said simply. Unfazed by his display. "Anyway, you're being rude. The least you could do is not keep me standing."

Alucard watched her with a hooded gaze, half-drunk on her scent, as she wandered over to where his coffin lay. The hem of her blue skirt brushed the side. Three nights ago, he would have been delighted to have her in his snare. Now it felt like he was the game ensnared, by a bait of his own making. Ah, how cruel his master was. "Planning to stay for a while? Alas, I have nothing to offer but a bottle of claret, and the poor company of yours truly. Surely you'd rather frolic with that stray you brought in."

She seemed amused by that phrase, for some reason.

"What a pity." Integra's amusement waned. "Perhaps, then, I should leave."

Yes.

No.

"Stay."

She did.

Integra sat down on the coffin lid. Her fingers swept over the polished ebony in a familiar trajectory, and came to rest on the symbol at the top. "Why the cross, Alucard? Is it out of spite?"

"No less than what you're exuding," he said sardonically.

"Is it spite that keeps me here?" she asked. "I've wondered that myself."

When her palate betrayed her today, she had thought that maybe the answer was not meant to be convoluted.

"I think I've been deluding myself. I've underestimated how vindictive I can be. I told myself I had forgiven, but that was a wish more than anything."

He was out of his throne. Her vampire was behind her, with the coat. His? Hers? Did it matter? He slid it onto her shoulders.

"You've twisted into a fine vindictive form," Alucard agreed. He let out a grisly laugh. His nails were claws beneath the skin of his gloves. "It makes me almost jealous of that incarnation of mine in your dream."

Integra smiled, bitterly.

Yet his fingers, with their monstrous claws sweetly caressed her shoulders, to whisper against her nape, just under her blouse collar. And those cold, hushed strokes moved up the slope of her neck, to her throat, to her chin, and tilted her head back. She gazed up at him.

She did not stop him.

"But not envious," he murmured.

Above her, her Count was without edges, the black of his hair and the black of his suit rendering him indistinguishable from the enveloping dusk. She thought, since when had she loved the darkness?

Integra remembered playing hide and seek as a child, how she would choose the obscurest nooks, and fall asleep.

She remembered crawling through the vents, and how despite the seemingly endless gloom, she had only been frightened for her life.

And at the end, in his cell, in the coppery stale darkness, she had sat down beside him. Don't mind me.

At least I won't die alone.

She reached up. She traced his jawline.

"You look tired."

Bloodshot eyes drooped at her touch. Alucard bowed his head, and his hair spilled into hers.

"You know why, cruel, cruel Integra."

"Yes. Yet though I am cruel, you will never leave me."

His lips curved crookedly. "I heard you the first time."

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on January 19, 2017.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 12: ouroboros

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11.

ouroboros

 

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Spite. It was an ugly word, but Integra Hellsing could be quite spiteful. Had she not ordered the deaths of men without mercy and with a smile on her face, just to prove a point? In that respect they were not so different, the master and the servant, overwrought though the statement may be. It was always as he had said: he was merely the weapon, she was the one whose will pulled the trigger.

Thus today, in this hour before nightfall, in this dark chamber, she was here to willfully pull the trigger once more. This time on the splintering husk around her heart. Dare she reveal the raw organ underneath?

You've guarded your heart jealously all these years, and here's where you ended up. Here again.

Over, and over and over and over again. We chase each other's shadows.

Ouroboros.

Alucard seemed as lost in thought as she was, unfocused. His hair danced in barely contained spirals around his visage, while his inflamed eyes held an unsettling kind of beauty, one reminiscent of those explosions deep in the sky that created veins of destructive colors. Silly vampire. Why did he insist on torturing himself? He could will these imperfections away, they were only illusions. Almost, fleetingly, she could envision him as a living, breathing human. And that would have been a pleasant notion—if unwanted.

For she wanted his monstrous beauty.

"Yet how ironic," Alucard said suddenly, as though he was commenting on her desire. But Integra saw he had not meant to say it out loud. What had he been thinking about?

(Once...)

Once, a prince craved paradise.

His definition of paradise was neither rich nor grandiose. He simply wanted to stop hurting. He wanted to stop feeling unclean. He fell to his knees and begged and begged for salvation.

None came, and he realized,

Ah, a living prayer is nothing.

So he led his men to their deaths, and sent them up; then his kingdom, then bits and pieces of himself, until there was none remaining to send. Yet still he could not reach paradise.

At his execution he realized,

Ah, God is nothing.

So he lost everything.

The things, the lands, the people he had yearned for slipped beyond his reach, left him with a thirst not even the world's lakes could quench, and a hunger that gnawed at his very soul. They were ephemeral, his wants. The things became broken, the lands barren, the people insipid bags of blood. That which he consumed were remnants. And it was his fault.

He destroyed beauty because he knew it was not his to keep.

But now, holding this beauty, this integrity so close so close, the monster was lost as to what he should do—what he could do. He could crush her neck, he could paint her skin red, he could drink in her chokes and gasps—wouldn't that be a sight? For she had brought herself here, looking like sacrifice, and what cruel god could resist such an offering?

But you're not a god.

He felt her heartbeats.

You're not even a king.

Yet how ironic.

He felt her breath passing through her throat as she asked, "What is?"

Had he said that out loud?

"That which I sought and eluded me when I was my own master," Alucard answered, "is now in my grasp when I am nothing."

Integra dignified the implications of his statement with silence. The touch of her fingers upon his jaw grew more insistent. He saw himself reflected in her eyes. Trapped in those clear blue pools. She was reminding him that he, too, was in her grasp.

Ouroboros, he mused. We'll end up devouring each other without knowing who started first.

"What was it that you sought?"

"What was it that I sought?" He laughed hollowly. "What is it that I seek? I have wanted many. But in the end they were surrogates for one. One to replace the God I had forsaken, yet who had forsaken me first."

His voice faintly took on the rough, accented tone of the man he had been centuries ago, whose name was not Alucard. His form blurred at the edges and it was only the cold, smooth flesh atop her fingers that told Integra he was there in the present with her.

"It drives a man mad."

"Then am I a surrogate as well?"

His eyes refocused quickly, and it was Alucard, not the mad king, who was staring down at her.

"No, my Master," he said. "You are unparalleled."

The coat rustled between them as he brought his hands down to the base of her neck. A gloved thumb dared to jostle the top button of her blouse. She was so close, but he was a wretch and he wanted her closer. He wanted to cup her heart where all her delicate stirrings of life originated and delude himself it was his to keep, forever, until she invariably shrugged him off, left him in his mock throne and pretended the next evening that nothing had happened.

Always, always, those he wanted were beyond his reach.

Alucard waited.

Her fingers slid from his face, leaving little tracks of warmth that rapidly cooled. She'll rebuke me now. She'll slap my hands away.

Integra leaned back against him and adjusted the red coat over her arms.

His thumb froze on the button. Alucard refrained from shuddering. This Integra...

"You're not running."

"I don't run," she said.

He lowered his head and crooned sibilantly against her ear. "I think you know that running is not necessarily a coward's tactic. When the monster in his natural habitat is behind you, Integra, aware of your blood and how it will look staining your clothes and mine..." The thumb slowly pushed the button out. "You should ask yourself, how could the hunter not only be so cruel..." It loosened. "But also careless?"

She turned and caught his burning eyes. "It's not being careless if I'm not in any trouble."

"Then what do you call this?"

"I believe it's called flirtation," Integra said.

There was a palpable pause.

"Or courtship, whatever applies to this tête-à-tête between us."

His body tore from her as if seared. Alucard stood rigid, devoid of expression.

"Courtship," he repeated.

"Isn't it?"

He stared.

"What's the matter, Count? You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

She had not worn her gloves, for she wanted to touch him. She had not worn her cross, for she wanted him to touch her. In the past, in her naiveté, she had believed that wearing them would keep him at a distance, contain the flames between them. Hah. Like they had not been engulfed already.

She was like him. She wanted many, many things, but it all came down to one.

"I've been thinking."

Last night, she had curled up in bed with the coat wrapped around her, thinking.

About how everything about you is paradoxical. Such as this coat of yours that is soft and rough all at once. How your touch is cold and hot all at once. How we are master and servant, yet not only that.

Most times, they were Master and Servant. Oftentimes, they were Integra and Alucard. Rarely, they were Countess and Count. Their labels had been better barriers than their gloves and crosses, and her stubbornness and his self-loathing, their duty and pride had turned them into ghosts of their own desires.

And there are enough ghosts in this house.

"Tell me," she began. "If I were to reciprocate this courtship, what would happen?"

She almost thought he had died a second time with how unresponsive he was, when his pale mouth twisted and opened in pained apprehension.

"What?"

"Would you lose respect for me as your master?"

"What are you saying?" he whispered.

"I'm not here to be your God. I will not be a replacement of any kind. And to this you have said I am unparalleled." The corners of her lips curved up, yet it did not resemble a smile. "But isn't that a rather cursed existence, to walk a straight line alone to its end, and pretend it is fine because that's what is expected of a...line of duty..."

"My Master," Alucard bit out, "if you did not appreciate my comment, you could have just said so."

"There will be no running today, and no lies," Integra stated. "I am here for one thing."

Rarely, they were Countess and Count. Even then, he would kneel before her. And it was what he called her when it was scarcely a title in the country she served, and she was without an earl; it was what she called him when all he had to his name was a casket of dirt. It was nonsensical.

Just like them.

"I'm here to take you up on your offer, Count. Kiss me."

 

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A fragment of a time lost.

 

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It happened without fanfare.

Past the witching hour he trudged into the sitting room with the demeanor of one who had battled Hades himself, and the nineteen-year-old knight tutted.

Not more than three hours ago he had been positively pouting at the mediocrity of the mission. Her vampire was, however, a vain creature and took pleasure in exaggerating his long-faded detriments as though the blood and gore spattered across his frame were anything substantial. Integra allowed a cursory look at him, and then her glasses flashed back to the book in her lap. She had her own repartee.

Alucard knelt before her chaise, sweeping his hat into his chest. The acrid mixture of gunfire and death stung her nose.

"The target has been destroyed, my Master."

When she did not react, he lifted his head. He scoffed at the spine of the book.

"I did warn you that if you were to stain the carpet again, there would be consequences," Integra said lightly, as she perused a worn copy of Bram Stoker's Dracula.

"That book is inaccurate," Alucard muttered.

A cigar stub was smoking on a tray. The pungent odor of tobacco pervaded the room. The mise-en-scène had been deliberately set up to irritate him, and the finishing touch was the unattainable maiden lounging with that dratted book. His fangs grated on his lower teeth. He was irritated, but not altogether in her intended way. If he were susceptible to something as superficial as the pleasantness of a scent then he would have seduced any young-blooded female. It irritated him that she seemed to expect a mere human drug to detract from his awareness of her.

She was not stupid.

"Walter hasn't yet said anything, but I can tell he is this close to expressing his grievances." She made no gesture with this information, indicating that "this" was probably the width of his wires. "I've gathered that the entrails are particularly tricky to wash off."

Alucard cocked his head. "I thought you would rather a visual, Master." He protruded a ragged arm. "The vermin screamed and flailed when I picked him up by the cavity in his spleen, see? It was pathetic. These recent batches have no class. All they do is make a mess."

"It amuses me to hear that from you," Integra drawled, eyes stoutly remaining on the book, though its text did not quite register.

A red and white, spidery appendage crawled over the top of the pages and pushed down. The start of a rebuke formed in her throat, which got stuck when her gaze locked on the crimson impression his wet digits left. The eponymous vampire leaves his fingerprints on his tale...

Only they were not fingerprints. The scraps of fabric which he never took off made them into an abstract testament to his inhumanness. Integra compared the gloved hand to her own. Hers was gripping the bottom of the pages, clean and bare. There could not have been a starker contrast.

"You're defiling my book."

"It defiled me first."

"Your gloves are filthy."

"It's not the only thing that's filthy."

Integra narrowed her eyes. His turned into crescents. He was laughing at her.

In truth, she was not as angry with him as she should be. Walter would have said she was being too lenient, but what the butler did not realize was that Alucard eventually cleaned up after himself. He simply missed a few spots. On purpose.

He can be such a child.

And it would have been easy if that was what she always saw him as. He made it easy, projecting himself as a querulous creature sorely in need of a toy. The part of her that she kept barred, however, projected another.

The man he had been long ago. A man who returned bearing the blood of his enemies on his armor.

His gauntlets would have been removed by a faceless woman, who would have said—

"Take them off."

His eyebrows rose.

"Your gloves, you git," Integra added in a hurry. "Take your gloves off."

"Oh?" Alucard leaned forward from his kneeling position. He licked his lips. Slowly. "Are you sure you don't mean clothes?"

She grabbed his hand. The book fell to the floor.

His hand was limp in hers, yet when Integra glanced up his pupils were dilated sanguine, his facial muscles taut with desire, that foreign familiar emotion. In turn she was coated with the blood of his enemies.

Her enemies.

She divested one of its confinement, and almost shivered at the meeting of their exposed flesh. She may have heard him growl. His fingers were long, bony, but at the same time supple, while hers were riddled with calluses gained from fencing and target practice—with weapons much lighter than those he wielded. Yet another testament.

She skimmed the back. It was unmarked. As it so happened, only she could remove the gloves with their sigils.

If I took off the other, you could leave. You could leave and never return.

"Master," Alucard murmured, "Integra, is this to be my punishment?"

Integra glanced at him again.

When that day comes, don't.

"Shh."

Don't leave.

She flipped over to his palm and saw the thin grooves running helter-skelter. They were painted by the blood that had rubbed off on her, a far cry from the impersonal blots left upon the book so carelessly discarded.

He had been human, once upon a time. In an older tale he had been a man who returned bearing the blood of his enemies—

My enemies

—on his armor. And his gauntlets would have been removed by a woman who would have said—

"Welcome back." Her voice was quiet.

But he can't go back.

"A job well done." Integra began to withdraw. "Count."

His responding smile was a brittle thing.

Alucard did not attempt to snatch her back. He let his bare hand—his branded hand—buoy in her tepid current before having it drop to his side, a castaway weight. Integra, expressionless, passed him his glove. He pulled it on quickly, wanting to preserve her heat, and retrieved the book for good measure. Their masks were in place and he was to act the part of the obedient dog.

But he knew that she knew he would not be going without a last word. Again, she was not stupid.

Alucard stood, devouring her blonde and dark-skinned form in the sole way he could, with his eyes. He answered.

"Countess."

Her pulse jumped.

Integra looked sharply at him, seeming uncertain if she had even heard him right.

Then, like a whisper, she let out a laugh.

 

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Lost, forever.

 

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He did not move.

"Well?" Integra asked.

He made no sound.

The air in the chamber had turned into a suffocating thing. Her heartbeats had quickened. How curious. They were so loud yet she had not realized. She had been so fixated on that single moment.

Kiss me.

He was doing no such thing.

His shadows had also quietened. They had become solid with the darkness, and it was Alucard who was rooted in its midst, an effigy in black, peculiarly breakable.

He was gazing at her with doubt.

"Ah," she uttered. It left a bitter tang. "I see."

I should have known.

Yes. Perhaps it was too much to expect.

In the end this in itself may only be a facade. I am certainly not the Integra you have known, nor are you the Alucard I have waited, and this is merely a substitute of that which I desired.

Once, it had been that your regard for me outweighed what I was willing to accept. Yet three years or even ten cannot compare to thirty, and now it is my regard for you that outweighs everything.

Quite literally, I might love you too much.

Great, the voice that sounded like old Seras said. Now just tell him!

I told you to hush.

Integra lifted a hand to reach out for him, then decided against it. What remained between them was the air, the silence, the distance of three decades.

"I've come at the wrong time."

Time had become her cruel hope. She had spent time in this very room glaring down at this very coffin and the slab of concrete sitting on it much too like a gravestone and contemplated on whether or not to kick it to pieces. And as she had done in that time in the past, she got up. The coat dragged at her shoulders, but Integra was hardly aware of that. She was aware of the anger rising inside at both him and herself—mostly herself.

"Is it so implausible to you, my acceptance?" she sighed. "It's only a kiss, Alucard."

Finally, he parted his lips. "A kiss," he said. It was jagged. Broken as shards of glass. "A kiss and then what?"

"You tell me. It was your offer."

"An offer you ridiculed, Integra."

"I reconsidered," Integra said evenly. "Don't make me repeat myself."

"And why now? Why this?"

"Why not?"

Alucard smiled, a wreck of a smile, and the hair sticking to his face cracks in the snow. "Whatever you've been thinking, it can't have been this. Do you know—do you have any idea what it is that you're offering? Don't tempt the beast. Let him be content with what he already has. It'll keep him in line, because he can't expect anything else." The cracks in the snow distorted. His mouth formed a snarl. "But with what you're offering now, I'll destroy you. I'll destroy you like everything that has passed my hands."

"You won't. I've found that I'm quite durable."

The monster wanted to prove her wrong. That she was deluded, that this imprudence of hers was as fragile as the slender neck which he could crush easily, so easily—he surged forward, digits gnarling down to snag her throat and throttle it—and stopped short. His fingertips teetered on the edge of her skin, hesitant to even touch.

And there and then she seized his hands and pressed them to her throat in a hold that was shockingly blistering to him despite having caressed that same flesh mere moments ago. Cruel! Careless! She wrapped them close without an alteration in her composure.

"There now. This is all but an invitation. Destroy me as you have said."

"Are you mad?" he hissed.

"No," she said, pressing his fingers harder into the column of her neck, relentless. "Simply demonstrating that I know exactly what I'm getting into."

Integra shoved his hands away and stepped back.

"But again, I've come at the wrong time."

She turned. She went. Farther, farther, farther. She walked up the stairs, leaving him there, in his empty court.

The house was quiet. Yet never silent. It groaned under the burden of its age and the concerns and interests of its occupants, from something as pleasing as supper to something as harrowing as unrequited love, or rather a love that had no proper recipient. For the visage which the lady of the house had drawn privately in her memories was of the one who had vanished into the ashes of war. Oh, she knew she was being horribly unreasonable toward the one with her now in the present; they were the same and she had kissed that same mouth. It tasted the same. It smiled the same. But she was spiteful. And she had many things to say to the vanishing smile.

Or a few. Or none at all.

She walked up and far, the farthest she could get away from him inside, to a room equally empty and sagged against a window. The moon, full and fair, was ascending between clouds of indigo and scarlet, and the minutes it took for its glow to cast her shadow on the floor felt like centuries.

"Integra?"

Another, smaller shadow appeared outside in the corridor.

She straightened. "Come here, my darling."

There was a tiny squeak. Seras shuffled into her line of vision, cheeks aflame. "D-darling?"

She beckoned, and the girl came shyly but eagerly to her. A daisy was in her hair.

"I found you, all by myself!" Seras burst out. She was beaming with pride. "I told Walter that I could find you, Integra. I just had a feeling."

"I suppose that means I won't win at hide and seek with you," Integra replied, with a lightness fabricated. "Did I make you look for long, Seras? I must have lost track of time."

"I don't mind. I understand this place a lot better now." Seras peered around. "What are you doing here in the dark?"

Yes, what was she doing here?

Waiting, again?

"And," Seras tilted her head, "you're wearing that coat."

Integra did not glance down. "So I am."

The child noted the strange deep red color. "It's very pretty on you," she said honestly, though she was aware it had belonged to someone much stranger, and where was that person anyway, if he worked for Integra? There were still many mysteries here. "But I don't want you to be cold. Integra, please don't be sick."

"I'm not," Integra said, in the way she had when the doctor had broken the news to her at forty-seven.

Seras stuck a palm to her brow. Integra stayed put.

"You don't feel too warm..." Seras trailed off.

Ever the little nurse.

"I told you I wasn't sick." Integra touched the daisy in front of her. "What about you? Have you been wearing this the entire day?"

Seras, abruptly bashful, hid her hands behind her and ducked. "You gave it to me."

Often, that was all it took. An insignificance, given by someone of utmost significance.

"It's wilting."

The lady of a house where none were satisfied—in a garment which clung to an illusion, and among those whom she loved with a heart that had never been a telltale heart—briefly basked in the glow beating down on her back, and decided the night was young still to succumb to its woolgathering.

"Look, Seras. Isn't the moon beautiful?"

The child glimpsed the moon for the first time that evening, over Integra's shoulder. "It is!"

Integra locked arms with her and spun her to the door. "Come on. Let's go decimate a field of daisies."

"Eh?" Seras squealed. "You mean—kill them?"

"They'll be gone by the end of the season, when the gardener mows the grass. So let's cut down on his work. We'll pull them up," Integra announced, oddly determined. "We'll put them in vases, we'll make them into posies and crowns and whatever it is girls your age fancy."

"Really?" Seras lit up at the idea. "But—Walter—and dinner—"

"They can wait."

There were many questions Seras wanted to ask.

Integra, Integra, why do your eyes look so sad when you mention daisies?

Integra, Integra, who is that man, and why do you wear his coat?

"Integra," her big mouth chose to say instead, "am I really your darling?"

It had been a day and then some, and Seras was only beginning to understand. That there were things the people in the manor spoke of in hushed tones, with furtive slants toward the corners where the dark seemed especially coiled (and stared out, with red, red eyes) in hunger (the kind a beast could possess, a monster could possess; the kind a man in his glorified cell, nosing the trace of bergamot left on his gloves, could possess). Seras could not hear the cries coming from those corners. They were reserved for the lady beside her.

Only a kiss?

Only a kiss?

Only a kiss?

Lady, all I possess is this hunger; should you place anything in these hands, I shall eat it raw.

(Eat it, then.)

And because Seras could not hear the cries, she waited several excruciating seconds for Integra to blink and respond.

"What?"

"Nothing!" Seras said hastily.

"Nothing is hardly ever nothing," Integra chided. She was guilty of that herself. "Forgive me, Seras. I wasn't paying attention. Won't you say it again?"

Seras stopped in the middle of a corridor. "Am I—" She pulled at her fingers. "Am I really your darling?"

Integra watched her carefully.

"It's silly but—I just wondered if—" Seras braced herself. "If you meant it and—"

"You two are strangely alike," Integra said then.

Two? "Who?"

Integra plucked the daisy from Seras' hair and smoothed it out on her palm. "You two," she readdressed, "seem to be under the impression that I say things I don't mean to say. Quite the contrary, I mean them very much."

"I just wondered, because already, you're the most important person to me in the whole world," Seras whispered, her voice taking on the quality of confessing into a diary.

The lady of the house tucked the dying flower back in her ward's hair.

"My Seras. Without doubt," she took in a breath, "of all living beings in this world, I love you best."

 

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God will descend from the heavens.

God will descend from the heavens!

Did he?

Did he descend on that crimson field under the rising sun?

No.

Instead the Devil ascended. He ascended from the depths of hell and gave you his nectar. He bade, Drink, drink, drink to your enemies, to your men and fallen kingdom, to the Father who has failed us both. And you did. You thirsted, you hungered more than you had ever hungered in your life, and where gravity implodes, a void is formed.

Lord, the wine of vines can no longer quench me; I shall now drink the wine of veins.

Ah, so did it quench your thirst?

No.

What must you consume, then?

The summer evening had brought unwelcome guests to feast on her flesh when she shucked off her shoes to walk barefooted in the daisy grass. Integra sat on her bed, huffing at the tiny pinpricks around her toes. Cheeky little varmints. She had never had the problem of bug bites during her smoking years. A rare perk of the habit.

Not that it had been any help shooing the biggest of them all.

"This voyeuristic tendency of yours is getting a bit repetitive, isn't it?" she quipped.

The shadows in a certain corner of her room flickered.

She stuck a foot out. "Jealous?"

Integra did not jolt when her ankle was grabbed by a cold hand.

He was even messier than the state she had left him in, if that were possible. His sable locks writhed in the moonlight, serenading it silently in bizarre shapes, and his frame hunched over her foot made him appear more massive yet scraggly. If his face had not been young, if it had been one rougher and lined, she would have seen him as the man whose name was not Alucard.

But it was.

Wordlessly Alucard moved the hand holding her ankle down the curve of her heel and under it, where his thumb started to stroke, almost idly. Integra shuddered. He had assumed this same position in the library two days ago, but the way he was touching her now was nothing so chaste.

"Is this the right time, Alucard?"

"My Master is asking me?" he rasped. It was an inhuman sound. "It appears that my Master exists in her own time, and thus my answer will be false."

"No one is a master of time," she said. "Let's not be its fools, and reach a compromise."

Alucard smiled faintly. "There's an order to these things, Integra."

He lowered his mouth, and kissed the sole of her foot.

 

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Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come:

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on March 26, 2017.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

William Shakespeare, "Let me not to the marriage of true minds" (Sonnet 116)

Chapter 13: lunacy

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12.

lunacy

 

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With her gone, it was death in the chamber.

She had cast the die, left him at her mercy. The monster succumbed to the madness he had accused his master of. He began to claw at himself. Slowly, then the black silk of his suit was reduced to ribbons and the white snow of his skin was reduced to gouges and the red sacrilege of his sanguinity was reduced to puddles on the basement floor.

There it was. The heart he wanted to throw at her feet.

Cold and dead.

Little coquette, you say such pretty words, but what will you do with this once you have it?

His crimsoned hands dropped wetly to his sides. Perfect, he deemed. A malfunctioning pet. She would be delighted. Ah. If what she wanted was a kiss, if what she wanted was even this worthless organ, all he had to do was deliver. So what was the problem?

What was he afraid of?

It's only a kiss, Alucard.

From far away his sanity rang a bell. It was a moonlit night. Luna had been gaining on her pulchritude this past week and was now unleashing her lunacy upon them. Not to be a captive of any entity but one, he reconvened. His blood spiraled sluggishly beneath his boots, and the tissue around the heart that had not met air in centuries knitted back together.

So he was here.

He was here, her captive.

And there was little he could do but close his eyes.

Her bare foot—aptly, an oft fetishized part of the body—smelled of the earth, the grass, the evening dew and daisies. There was a lace of them sitting on her vanity woven with a child's clumsy adoration. Pitiful, Alucard thought. Don't you know?

She's fit for roses.

Beside the daisies was the coat, folded, as red as the roses he envisioned—he spared it only a glance.

He kissed the foot and felt her tremble.

The vampire was more aware of her than he had ever been, aware of her as he was of silver against his skin. Her presence pained him now in that exquisite way, yet he was here, tending to her. As a suitor must. But no suitor would be so obscene. As certain as no beast would be so devout.

This, was merely another facet of their nonsensical courtship.

In his kiss he dared to protrude his fangs, and graze them against her smooth flesh in a manner lighter than a feather. One half of the conglomerate of souls within him clamored for the sweetness bitterness underneath—he, to answer her query, was not above jealousy. Alucard did not crave her as a dead man. He craved her as a dying man, and it was a state surely worse than death. The dying remained crawling on his hands and knees, his famishment blurring into fear of losing a single drop.

Must I be deprived of the prize you shed unknowingly?

And so he kissed as a proxy for a nibble.

Integra gave a little laugh.

It echoed in her bedroom, which was dark but for the moon outside her window. He met her gaze.

Nothing else could unravel him so thoroughly.

Her blue diamonds held a famishment rivaling his own.

"It seems you've caught me."

The shadows sang.

Integra, Integra, Integra, daca te-as prinde-ntr-o zi...

Alucard brushed the last of his kiss into the hollow of her foot, and savored her erratic pulse before raising his head.

"Will you limp?"

"If you can come up with a good excuse," she said, a bit too breathlessly for it to sound the cavalier fashion she had intended.

He was barely retaining what was left of his sanity, and would have kissed her in places such that she would be unable to move at all, yet managed to parry. "Ah, so this is to be a clandestine affair? The truth that you are afraid to crush my kiss cannot suffice?" Then again, letting the butler have a heart attack would be much less fun than boggling his mind with insinuations.

Integra half-smiled. "You said there's an order to these things, but you've gone about it in the wrong way, Count. The capture is supposed to be the objective of a courtship, not its initiative."

His fingers titillated the spot he had kissed. "An inverse order, then. Suits the nature of our dance."

"So the capture first?"

"Of course," Alucard said. "It's only fair."

A glimmer of something—something like tragedy, something like heartbreak—appeared in Integra's eyes and suddenly, inexplicably she looked old. The moonlight rendered her hair silver and threw the contours of her face into pithy relief. When she spoke, there was a note of deep-seated weariness.

"I wonder what that will mean for our end."

His grip tightened though she stayed still, and tendrils of ink twisted up her ankle, mindlessly possessive. He growled. "End, my Master? Have you forgotten? You ordered me to never leave you."

The strange glimmer in her eyes sublimated into a kind of hysteria. Lunacy, he thought. Integra laughed. Longer and louder and cruder than before. The laughter suspended the dark room between mirth and grief, while in the background lurked that bitter poison.

Regret.

And while Alucard could only suspect the source of her regret, he knew he wanted her to stop.

He let go of her foot to seize her wrists, pulling her toward the precarious edge of the bed. "I'm charmed you see the humor in our predicament," he said with forced levity, "yet must you be so tasteless? Cease this. You're making a fool of yourself."

She did not.

It seemed she could not help it, much like the tears she had shed mere days ago.

Was not the line between uncontrollable tears and uncontrollable laughter a fine one, truly? Both were the excess of emotions hoarded, often glasslike, shattered remains. He should know. He should know.

There is a man with blood on his mouth, his hands, his feet, watching the sun rise. It burns. Laughter escapes him long and loud and crude and regretful.

Alucard then let go of her wrists, to take her face in his gnarled fingers as though they could anchor her to this time and shook her, forcing her to look blearily into his red, red depths and there, she swallowed a breath.

"What has made you become me?" he whispered and Integra thought, finally, he was asking a worthy question.

 

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What is death like?

Thirteen-year-old Integra asked this question with no other inflection than that of curiosity. The monster considered his young master. She was the picture of demureness with her ankles crossed, and she was polishing a pistol.

She had scored perfect tens that evening.

"Why don't you pull the trigger and find out?"

"Unfortunately, shooting myself on a whim tends to be a bit fatal," Integra said, and he cackled, black hair shaking like boughs.

"My Master."

It was a compliment on its own. The girl tried not to focus on how that made her feel.

"You are not the first to ask this question, nor will you be the last. You humans and your fascination with death."

"But it's a very human question, don't you agree?"

At his distinct lack of reply Integra gave herself a pat on the back.

When he did reply, it was toneless. "I was decapitated, Master. Not a very scenic lane." His eyes were perceiving the far horizon of a place she would not yet reach. "I briefly recall a darkness. A never-ending expanse of it. I wanted not to take root there, so I returned here."

"Was the darkness itself the destination?"

"How can I say? Nothing is certain, least of all death." He smirked. "Though it will be safe to assume that those whom I have devoured have found the great beyond to uncannily resemble a beast's belly."

Integra continued to polish her pistol.

The beast advanced. "Why, did you expect fanfares and cherubs?"

She considered taking aim. No, that would be counterproductive. She had discovered early on he gained perverse enjoyment from getting maimed. "Not for you, no."

"You don't mean you expect it for yourself? Cherubs are so plebeian."

"You said it," Integra grumbled.

That was rather childish, she would scold herself later—though not as childish as the vampire who had instigated—but at that moment he was a wall of red before her chair. A part of Integra tensed, thinking he would stop, yet Alucard passed her by. He chose a spot under the moon.

He looks like he belongs there. An ancient. Suspended in space and effaced by time...

"Death is the end—so you humans expect it to be, believe it to be—yet here I am." Alucard spread his hands. "By the bargain of blood, but of course, death leaves its mark." Moonlight pooled in his palms. "We can deduce thus that the path to the beyond is less than straightforward. Perhaps one day you will feel the burn of your gun rather than its chill, my Master, and see what answer lies in wait for you."

"I don't see what my gun has to do with it," said Integra, "but in any case. It's only unfortunate that I won't be able to give you my impressions when that day comes, Alucard."

 

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Death leaves its mark.

She, of course, did not answer. She did not wait for him to ask another vain question or to make a move.

She kissed him this time, too.

Gunmetal could not be so simultaneously cold and hot as these death-marked lips. Integra slipped past his stunned hands and craned her neck forward, gripping the mattress to prevent herself from falling. She kissed him hard, but she did not close her eyes, yet. They beheld that most carnal color. That dilated, blazing red.

She parted her lips, warmed his with her breaths, wanting them to follow suit so she could partake of his taste of copper and wine at last. "Will you make me do all the work, you fool?" she murmured.

The sound he made, that sent every nerve in her body trembling, was not human.

He moved.

At last! At last!

Alucard moved and everything became fire.

There was anger but also desperation in the way he retaliated, in the way he seized the back of her head and crushed her mouth to his with such force that she was a few fingers shy of tottering off the edge, and she was sure she would bruise. He thrust. His serpentine tongue was heavy and grew warmer and slicker with each second he spent rubbing it against hers, bereaving her of air.

"Integra..."

Around them his shadows pulsated scarlet. Integra decided this was not enough. She pushed herself off the bed. Into his lap.

Her upper lip snagged on one of his many deadly teeth. Ironically it was the resulting blood that stilled him, even as his arms embraced her. Their chests heaved together. Her skirt had ridden up. Her thighs were splayed awkwardly and brushed near his groin.

All this pleased her very much.

Integra pulled back. She swept the tip of her tongue over the shallow cut and tasted her blood and their mixed saliva, and found it sweet.

Alucard's eyes were unhinged.

"Countess."

A thrill shot across her being. She knew he had felt it as well. Integra closed her eyes. Her hands rested on his shoulders. She touched her forehead to his and laid her entire weight upon it.

"Allow me to hypothesize," he said mildly, belying the bind of his claws which strangled her clothes. "Hypothetically, a girl went to sleep one night, none the wiser, drifting off in the arms of Morpheus so sweetly, so sweetly... Yet the images that he hailed for her must have been terrible and vivid, for when she awoke, it was as a woman, with war in her eyes."

The sibilance of his voice both soothed and stirred. I would like to stipple these cheekbones with the red that coats my lips, but you're not to be deterred now, are you? My dear Count.

"These images had the power to undo the prudent regard in which she had held her servant, and on this night she bares herself to me," his third-person narration went downhill, "and ruins me."

"Not herself?"

"You have ruined me," Alucard said hoarsely, "and I require indemnity."

"Shall I ask for your hand in marriage?"

He did not take the bait, and she was not very surprised. With her eyes still closed and their foreheads pressed together, their limbs rustling against each other, his voice seemed to come from the beyond.

"Were you my Countess?"

Integra licked her lips once more. The blood had crusted over the swollen flesh. Her lashes fluttered open a bit stiffly due to the wateriness her laughter earlier had brought about, and she was back to admiring the chaos in her Count's gaze.

"I call you Count, do I not?"

There was a clock in her room, she thought, that ticked loudly when everything else was silent. It was ticking quite loudly right now.

His chaotic gaze flicked to the door. Integra managed not to jump when seconds later, a shadow appeared in the crack of light under her door. "My lady. Your dinner."

"A moment—ah—" Whatever shite excuse she had been meaning to make was thwarted when Alucard wound his arms around her even tighter. He slanted his head and started to kiss her jaw.

Integra tugged at his gleeful hair over his shoulder. "Quit!" she hissed.

He emitted an ominously perceptible chuckle.

"My lady! May I enter? What was that noise?"

Integra yanked hard. "Nothing!" Her reprimand had no bearing on his ministrations whatsoever and Alucard kissed her more boldly, one of his hands sliding up and tangling in her own hair while he sucked sensitive spots down her neck and along her clavicle. When had he undone her buttons? "I'm not—decent and—" She could feel the smugness radiating from him, the insufferable monster!

Said monster's mouth found her ear briefly. "Not decent," it mocked. "Forsooth, the best lie is the truth."

"I'm not hungry," Integra gritted out. "I'll—see you in the morning—"

The shadow under her door was worryingly still. Did he suspect something? She would not put it past her butler.

And what if he does? Old Integra snorted. What if he walks in on you baring your neck to the beast you were born to kill? Comeuppance.

No. She resisted the haze of arousal. Alucard's legion was surrounding the solitary shadow like a pack of hounds raising their hackles at unwelcome company. She tried again. "Good night, Walter."

At length, the shadow made a move, presumably a bow.

"...Good night, my lady."

Subsequent to the dismissal Integra felt doused in ice and no longer as eager to kiss. Alucard sensed this; his efforts grew more urgent. "Countess, Countess, Countess..."

"Stop."

He snarled against her throat.

"This is what you get for pulling that stunt," she told him coldly. "Release me."

She had been pressed into him for an inordinate amount of time. When he obeyed, his lips thinned into an angry line, she was left wanting. Not that she let it show. Integra seated herself back on her bed and watched the legion of shadows, the wraiths that had nigh encompassed her room return to their crevices. There was the moon, and Alucard. He looked starved anew.

"You smell of blood," he moaned. "You smell of me."

Integra straightened her blouse.

"I would not have compromised you. I would not dare…to let anyone...see you as I do." He reached out to take her foot. "Countess—"

She stood and went to her vanity, where the coat lay. "You forgot to conclude your hypothesis, Alucard. And it needs a reliable source."

Alucard eyed her intently.

A kiss, a kiss and then what?

The truth, or what mirrors it.

Integra checked her reflection. Hair mussed. Cheeks flushed and eyes bright behind glasses, and lips tender. It was a stranger she saw—but on second thought, not a stranger at all. It was simply...new Integra, she supposed, and new Integra wore her kisses well, despite the fact that the one who had given them was a git. Picking up a comb, she casually ran it through and observed him grow restless in the background of the frame.

"Hypothetically, there was a Countess," she began. "There was a war. And the Count, he had come to her with a gift."

He smiled. "Ah, so I did bring that war to you."

Yet before he could gloat, she set her comb down.

"The Countess won the war, but lost her Count."

He lost his smile.

"He left her on the battlefield."

The moonlight was wintry, and it was Alucard who rivaled it.

His response was to laugh hysterically.

"My dear Master is still quite the maiden, to have let such an absurd illusion affect her so. A fine vindictive form indeed." He stopped shaking and glared at her through a writhing web of black locks. "I am insulted. This is the grand reveal? Your night terror was this?"

Integra did not begrudge him his laugh. It was just what she would have expected of him.

"Leave you," Alucard spat, "when I cannot. When you know I cannot, when you know I cannot be defeated."

When the knowledge of something you have held to be indisputable is shattered in front of your eyes, and the methods you have used for years prove faulty, it yields a deep and permanent scar. The coat was pulled from the vanity to hide her clenching fists.

"Pray tell, Countess...when was it...that this war took place?"

"You certainly aren't wasting a minute calling me that," Integra derided. "I know what you'll say. It's only fair. But since I am cruel, I don't want to make this easy for you."

His expression immediately turned wary.

"We have here a dream, a kiss, titles not in use and my—obvious—fondness for you—and yours for me." She regarded the red coat. "And we may have gone about this in an inverse order, as you put it. That, however, excuses nothing. Don't you think I deserve better?"

She turned, and there he was in front of her.

"I don't insinuate otherwise."

Integra stared at him for a long, long while. "Maybe you don't," she said finally. "You never do seem to mean it, when your carelessness invites a mess that is mine to clean up. It's simply who you are."

A monster with no consequences. And so in the end, even the things important to you become nothing but a game.

"But when you degrade this intimacy I have allowed, for the both of us, as something to be put on display, and flaunted—to Walter, no less—well." Her quiet was his disquiet. "I shouldn't have to feel—don't deserve to feel—like I'm a chess piece between you two a second time."

"And when was the first?"

Her quiet broke.

"Are you speaking of the scene mere days ago, or another fragment of your dream? In fact," Alucard's words came out visceral, "are you truly angry at me, or at the Count who abandoned you?"

She looked at him almost pityingly.

"They're one and the same. Either way, you end up disappointing me."

She could have taken a stake and tore it through his sinews, and it would have been more merciful.

Integra shoved the coat into his chest, returning it to him once again and a final time. "If you want answers, Alucard, earn them. If you want to call me your Countess, prove yourself worthy. Until then, you are not to call me by that title, and I will not call you by yours."

Master. Integra.

She smelled of blood. She smelled of him. She wore his kisses.

His.

She was his—yet not his.

Countess, yet not Countess.

The coat contorted in his grasp. "No matter," Alucard said softly in contrast. "I shall do as you desire. Who knows, I might just bring a war to you as a dowry. Just to show you."

Luna illuminated them both, cold and merciless.

"Anything but that."

 

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something

 

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wicked

 

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this

 

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way

 

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comes

 

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The forest in summer was draped in bolts of lethargy as well as energy, and it was this paradox that made it a site of old wives' tales. Do not linger when the fog rolls in, they said. It will cling to the leaves and branches. It is very easy to get lost, and very easy to get stuck.

Look! A hiker.

(Our victim.)

He saw light beyond the fog and was glad, believing he was out of the woods at last. He was disheartened, to say the least, when upon closer examination he realized he had found not an electric signboard that marked the end of the trail, but an old shack, with a single source of light inside.

Perhaps it was lucky he had chanced upon a place to stay until the night passed and the fog lifted. It was hard to tell, however, whether the shack was occupied. He rapped on the door. "Hello? Anyone?"

It opened. Too easily.

Weird. But falling victim to human curiosity, he entered anyway.

The light was not a lamp.

The light was not even the moon, reflecting off the surface.

Under the moon, the fog seemed to glow. It clung to the leaves and the branches and hung, like a web.

It was very easy to get lost, very easy to get stuck and, alas, very easy to get eaten.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on June 19, 2017.
It has been updated for grammar, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 14: phantom ache

That spring morning, she was at her desk, turning a page in the ledger when Seras barged in with a bunch of daisies buoyed up by her shadow arm. Integra glanced up only once. She asked, "Is Mr. Thistlethwaite dead?"

"What? No!"

"Who died and made you the gardener, then?"

"You can be so morbid," Seras groused. It was hard to take offense when her hair looked the part of a vegetation. "It's weeding day, and Mr. Thistlethwaite was trying to get rid of all the daisies again! Can you believe it? It's an outrage, Master Integra! Here, see? I rescued the lot."

Mr. Thistlethwaite, the gardener, was a true Hellsing employee. He took pest control very seriously. It was just that his understanding of pest included daisies, dandelions and other innocent perennials, to Seras' aggrievement.

"Good for you," Integra drawled. "And I'm sure you're aware that as soon as they're off their roots they're as good as dead?"

"Er." A beat. "Let me put them in a vase," said Seras, who was probably doing herself a favor by not being a gardener.

Integra sat back, her solitary eye arching with amusement and fondness at Seras' endeavor to arrange the "rescued" flowers somewhat presentably, as though it was the precise sort of thing a Draculina should be doing in the hours before noon. She tossed the ledger aside and listened to the pick of the day. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

"...with the sun in her eyes and she's gone... Hmm. Is this the right amount of water? I'm not sure..."

"I don't know why you bother. They're not going anywhere."

There had always been daisies in the lawns of Hellsing Manor.

"You could pull them up by the roots every week of the year and they'll still come back. They love it here." Integra curled her lips. "Too many dead under the soil."

"Uh-huh," Seras said. She was turning the vase this way and that, seeking out the best angle. Satisfied, she put her hands on her waist. "Isn't this nice?"

"Pièce de résistance! Makes the office much livelier."

"My office is not supposed to be lively," Integra deadpanned.

"Resistance. I like that." Seras nodded. "I like that they'll grow back, no matter what."

Integra suppressed a sigh, and threw the French walls a glare, which seemed to be rippling at her expense (she missed when they were sensible, no-nonsense English walls). The daisies flopped over the rim of a blue vase in a square patch of light. Bright and small and clustered, a spot of whimsy in the otherwise spartan room.

"Like little bits of hope."

Seras and Pip went on with their natter. Integra, silver mane falling to one side, let herself meander along it for a while, until her heart did not feel so heavy. "Seras," she said, getting up, "come here."

"Yes, Master?"

She leaned on her desk and pointed to her chair. "Sit."

"Uh." Seras looked at the chair and then at Integra. "No."

Integra rolled her eye and pushed her into the seat by the shoulders, ignoring her squawk. "I won't have the captain of my troops take after the plum fairy." She opened a drawer and fished out a comb.

Seras smiled sheepishly. Her red eyes rounded when a hand cupped her face, and the other began combing the daisies out of her hair. As yellow as the sun and stubborn as the skull underneath, Pip had once described it.

A minute passed in silence. Seras touched the ends of her master's own hair.

"I wish I could grow mine long."

"Why don't you?" Integra asked, attempting to picture Seras with long hair and finding it plain wrong.

"Mine grows all over the place! And I don't want to spend the rest of my life ironing it." She blinked. "Unlife."

"All over the place," Integra chuckled, "like your daisies?"

Seras puffed up her cheeks. "Now you're just teasing me."

The displaced petals flitted in the air above the checkerboard floor. The vampire made a contented sound. Integra maneuvered the comb through the stubborn hair a final run and, flipping it over, she knocked Seras on the forehead lightly with its spine.

A shadowy appendage rubbed at the spot. "Master!"

"Picking a fight with the gardener first thing in the morning. Making a florist's shop out of my office. Glad to see you have your priorities straight."

"But it is. I mean, they are. Well, not exactly." Seras beamed, fangs winking cheekily. "Making you smile, that's my priority."

"Saccharine words."

"So why don't you smile and admit that you love my pièce de résistance and it is, in fact, the showpiece of your office?"

"That's what pièce de résistance literally means, you silly girl," Integra scoffed.

But she smiled.

Mission accomplished, Seras bounded from the chair and pirouetted away. "Come on, Master! Making sure you eat properly is another priority and I can smell the muffins."

Integra moved with less fuss. "How rambunctious you are today. I wonder if there was too much sugar in your last blo—"

The comb dropped.

She gripped the back of the chair.

"Integra?"

"Nothing." She breathed. "Just a bit out of balance."

 

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13.

phantom ache

 

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Thus it ended up that the only person to rise from a good night's sleep was Seras, who sprang out of bed at once. Her hair resembled a haystack and her toes itched, yet her smile was as bright as the sun.

Integra loved her.

Her! Unlucky little Seras Victoria.

Loved her best.

Seras had been unable to say anything. She remembered stumbling after her, dazed, and somehow finding a patch of grass to sit on, where she watched the lady pluck a daisy and hold it up to the light. She remembered then wondering if it could be possible at all for her heart to burst, simply burst with happiness. Seras had not asked silly questions. Integra had made it clear that she meant what she said, and what she said must be a special kind of truth—it did not have to make sense, it just was.

There was the posy of daisies she had picked for her, on the windowsill. It was in fact the second batch Integra had picked. The first batch of daisies had been resting on her lap, spotting her blue skirt with dew. "I'm afraid I have no talent for weaving them," she sighed. "They're prone to break apart in my hands."

Seras had taken them. And the second time Integra turned to her, she shyly held out a lace of those delicate white flowers, gleaming under the moon like stars. She would have wrapped it around Integra's wrist but she kept it cradled in her palm.

"How pretty, Seras." A fingertip traced the petals. "Just as I said. You're better than any of us."

Integra had said that? When?

She had been too busy blushing to speak.

The posy on the windowsill looked dry. Seras gathered it to her chest and left her room to find a vase.

The trees on the periphery of the manor formed a tortuous path against the sky. Seras followed it with her eyes as she walked down the second floor corridor, where the curtains had already been drawn. The smell of muffins wafted up from below. It was going to be a beautiful day and the girl could not help but put a bounce in her step. This was her—Say it!—her home, and each new day here seemed to promise more than the last.

What tomorrow would bring? And the next day, and the next—

Whoosh.

Huh?

Seras' bouncy steps dwindled to a halt. She stared out the row of windows.

She could have sworn she saw something large and black run past.

The view through the glass, however, remained picturesque. Seras shook her head and reached the main staircase when, unmistakably this time, a very large, pitch black shape did emerge from the trees.

It lumbered toward the house. The closer it got, the clearer she could see, its maw matted and stained dark. Is that...? Seras was so startled, it was belatedly that she named the creature. It was a dog.

Isn't it?

The dog suddenly surged toward the entrance, and she yelled out a panicked "Hey!" as it slammed open the doors and let itself in. It paid no heed to her and tore through an opposite corridor, prompting Seras to race down the stairs after it without thinking. Or perhaps thinking too strongly about one thing.

Its eyes were red!

The corridor was deserted. There was not any hint that a dog had trespassed. Yet there was a door at its end that she knew led to the sitting room, ajar. Her fingers tensed around the daisies as she approached and peered inside.

There was not a dog, but a man.

He sat sprawled in a chaise longue, head lolling on a shoulder. Seras had hardly made a sound but he looked up. He was wearing tinted glasses. A gloved hand was stroking a rather disheveled red coat in his lap.

Seras recognized this man. He was the one who had come for Integra at the orphanage.

"Don't skulk about. Unless you're a mouse?"

She opened the door wider yet said nothing.

"Ah. The new girl." The man said this with less enthusiasm than he would have had for an actual mouse. "Sneaking into rooms as well as lives."

She stood her ground. "I'm looking for a dog."

"A dog?"

"It came this way."

"Did he?"

Seras missed the pronoun.

"As you can see, there is no dog here. Or there is, but you wouldn't know, would you?" He smiled oddly.

Everything about this encounter was odd, yet it was most peculiar that he would wear such glasses indoors, especially here. No one had bothered to draw the curtains here, it seemed. And the man was not getting up any time soon. He lost interest in her silence and resumed stroking the coat, which was noticeably smaller than his frame.

"She gave it back to you," Seras wondered out loud, her surprise overcoming her caution. "The coat."

His smile faded.

"But..." She faltered. Was it even the same coat? How could it change sizes?

"You shouldn't trust all that is in front of you, little mouse. Now, shoo."

"Mister, is there a dog here? In this house?" Seras was not leaving without answers. "I remember Integra saying something about—"

"There are many things in this house," he cut her off, voice flat, "which appear as one when in truth they are the other."

"Then who are you supposed to be? Integra said you work for her, but what do you do?"

The man laughed. "I?"

Seras, of course, could not catch the subtle shift in his eyes. They were wide and mad—and yet, in a blink, curiously fragile.

"I am anything she desires me to be."

A knight, a dog, a...

Alucard was no longer aware of his audience. His digits dug into crimson fabric, desiring for themselves slopes of dark skin heated and trembling with shallow breaths, and finding none.

"I cater to her every whim. If she would want the world, I will give."

He pried away from the futile search and glanced upward. She was coming.

Seras stared. It was the most peculiar answer she had gotten, ever.

"You sound like you love her."

He snapped his neck toward her so quickly that Seras balked, tripping over the threshold and landing in a heap of white debris on the floor. She squeaked and scrambled to rescue the flowers. "Oh, oh no—"

"Seras?"

"I—uh—"

She was brusquely pulled upright just as Integra rounded the corner.

"Seras?" Integra stilled when she saw who it was behind her. "Alucard. What happened?"

He said nothing, eyes feasting on her face.

"Er—" Seras fidgeted between the two of them. For some reason the air was stuffy all of a sudden. "He helped me up!" she said in earnest, and Integra tilted her head at her.

"Alucard helped you up?"

"I tripped, and Mister Alucard was in the room and," Seras was getting confused, "first I was chasing after a dog—"

"A dog," Integra intoned.

"There was! It ran this way, but then it disappeared…"

"I don't doubt you, Seras," Integra reassured her. "I only inquire if Alucard happened to see this dog." This was thrown scathingly at the dog in question.

He remained silent.

"Well, no..." Seras squinted. "Integra, there's a scab on your lip."

Instinctively, the older girl ran her tongue over the spot. It neither ached nor tasted of blood and saliva, yet she flinched nonetheless—its lack teased her want. And there across the few steps of distance between them, punctuated by stray daisy petals, she felt his desire flare, the wildfire that his ridiculous shades could not contain.

Really. At a time and place like this.

"Is it very hot out here?" Seras in the middle piped up, utterly confounded and oblivious.

Integra ushered her back in. "It must have been when I fell out of bed," she said of her scab, straight-faced and completely aware of the man trailing at their heels whose desire bristled against hers, electrostatic. Her dress was white today. It would be inked if she touched him, was her fleeting thought.

The child went bug-eyed. "You did?" she exclaimed, finding the possibility that a lady like Integra could fall off her bed incredible.

Integra merely smiled.

The shadows curled discreetly beneath her feet, mimicking a kiss.

Alucard returned to his levity on the chaise longue while Integra strode to the opposite side of the room. She took a pitcher from the table there and gave it to Seras, who accepted it not without bewilderment.

"You want it for your posy, don't you?"

"Oh!" Seras marveled and was prompt to nestle the sorry state of the daisies in it. "You knew! You know everything, Integra!"

"Why else would you be carrying those poor things around?" Integra said, and sobered.

The pitcher was blue.

"Happy now, my darling?"

She could feel Alucard's gaze puncturing her.

Seras nodded, and chirped in surprise when Integra threaded her fingers through her hair, tucking the cheery mess behind an ear. The child clutched at the hand that cared for her so tenderly, of the one person who would tell her the truth. "Integra, is there a dog in the manor?" She whispered this because she was sure, somehow, that the strange man with the strange name studying them with strange eyes had a great deal to do with the very strange dog with the very strange eyes.

And Integra answered, "Yes." Her countenance changed not a bit. "There is, and he can eat a man whole."

There were things...

Seras' heart was an uneven pit-a-pat. "That isn't normal, is it?"

"No," Integra agreed. "Are you afraid?"

There were things the people in the manor spoke of in hushed tones.

They were things that were quite odd.

But Integra was not afraid, Seras realized. She had no reason to be afraid. She was the lady of this house and the boss of every oddity within, and that included the dog and the shrinking coat.

And that man in the long chair who probably loved her.

"I'm not afraid if you're not," Seras said. "I won't be afraid of anything here, because you're here and—" She tugged at Integra's hand until her head was level with hers and whispered the softest she could muster. "I won't be surprised anymore if I notice things that aren't—normal. It's like a fairy tale, right?"

From across the room and out of nowhere the man let out a chuckle.

Blue, blue, was the color of the pitcher, and blue were Seras' eyes, the color of innocence persisting in this bleak world. "Yes," Integra said. "Like the strangest fairy tale."

It ached.

Her heart, yes, but she was used to that. It was the phantom ache in her left orbit—oh, it had never ached this much. Even with the bullet lodged in it she had felt nothing. Yet the eyeball throbbing there was not meant to be, and it was reminding her of that fact viciously.

"You'll want water for those." Integra kept the infliction out of her voice. "Go on, Seras. I'll be along soon."

"Okay," Seras said, but her feet did not budge. "Integra? Are you—"

"Run along, little mouse." Alucard was there and neither of them had seen him move. "You don't need to be told twice."

Seras frowned at him. "You're not very nice," she muttered, before hugging the pitcher close and scurrying off.

She turned back once, just beyond the threshold. She saw the man remove his tinted glasses, when the door shut on her nose, and there had not been any wind.

 

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"Master. Let me tend to you," Alucard crooned as soon as the child was out of sight. He banished his glasses and pressed his fingers into the small of her back, guiding her to the nearest seat. Integra went with an acquiescence that was unsettling and lowered herself with burden, the left side of her face creased. He thumbed away a strand of pale hair.

She grabbed hold of his hand and plastered it to her eye. He watched fervently as her fingers slid into his spaces. She huffed, and the air tickled his chest. "What were you thinking?"

"I?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"The dog that wasn't there?" Integra gibed. "What were you thinking when you took that form?"

"You," he answered.

Truth danced bare in his flames.

"I have been thinking about you and how I must prove I am worthy to call you Countess, my Countess. But I am a dog." The velvet voice became a growl. "A beast, and a beast does not like to be caged in his thoughts. I ran on all fours and begged lunacy to tear me asunder, but no, I could not—escape—you."

She was limp in the cradle of their entwined hands. "Promises, promises."

Alucard leaned in, his hair hiding their intimacy away from the rest of the world. "Am I so reprehensible?"

"Would I be touching you if you were?"

"Master, you're using me as ice," he said, half-jesting and half-serious. "Which I would do a better job of, if you would remove my glove."

Her visible eye was shrewd, and he gained the distinct feeling he had put the proverbial foot in his mouth.

"You don't say."

She was almost dispassionate.

Their interlocked digits were dragged, clinically, down the slope of her cheekbone, her jaw, to the cushion of her lips. At their moist warmth, his teeth clattered shut, and at the same time Integra bit.

She pulled his glove off as delicately as she would an apple peel. Her blunt, human incisors grazed his flesh with the fabric their barrier, unbound him inch by inch at an indolent pace. A century. It had been a century since his hand had been freed. Countess! his wraiths cried, out of spite and defiance and worship—Your rightful title, and which you have denied me after allowing a taste, an irrevocable taste.

Finally, she removed the entire glove. It tumbled into her lap, teeth-marked. "There." Her breath dampened his naked fingertips but Integra was all business. She yanked his hand back to its post. "This is better, well done."

"Ah." How could he argue with that?

"Now." She buried her face in his palm. "Hush."

Alucard could only obey, galled and voracious, sinking to his knees as a worshipper was wont to do and canonizing her repose. Isn't this that fairy tale with the poisoned apple? He considered the dwarves of that tale—one of them, keeping guard over the glazed coffin, keeping guard over their prinţesă, never to touch yet content to watch her sleep, eternally... Until death comes in the guise of a prince.

And who is who in this?

(You sound like you love her.)

"I am reduced to a thing that wants Integra."

He had pillowed his chin on her knee, his mane spilling into the snowscape of her dress, intending for this letter to reach her within her shallow tide-pool of a slumber. Her muscles twitched. A sliver of steel pinned him in place.

"I composed a beautiful letter to you in the sleepless nightmare hours of the night and it has all gone: I just miss you—"

"—in a quite simple desperate human way."

She picked up the prose, her thumb caressing his knuckles in that desperate human way. "I miss you even more than I could have believed; and I was prepared to miss you a good deal."

It was no longer Vita's letter to her Virginia, nor the monster's to his master.

"Damn you, spoilt creature. I shan't make you love me any the more by giving myself away like this." Her words were quiet but vexed, yet steadfast all the same. "I can't be clever and stand-offish with you."

"Integra."

"Do you know why?" Integra asked.

She was not going to recite the rest of the prose. She would make him writhe in unmet anticipation. Alucard wanted her, wanted her unspoken phrase; wanted to touch her even as he was touching her, wanted her succulent heart as though he had never wanted anything else. Oh, but what did that matter now?

"Too truly," he replied, throat parched.

Integra raised her head.

Her left eye was closed, yet when she opened it something fell out. It landed on his palm which she still held, and burst. It might have echoed in the silence.

Alucard straightened his spine in an instant.

There, oozing into the lines of his palm and speckling her white dress, was a drop of blood.

 

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I love you too much for that.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on October 31, 2017.
It has been updated for formatting on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf, 1926.

Chapter 15: fine art

Mad king.

The world perished under the rising sun.

He laughed.

Glory! Glory!

He had been reborn; he was whole. He had drank and was now invincible.

(Ah. Is that so?)

The king, the mad king, he laughed upon his own execution stand, amongst his enemies and allies, above a cross severed in half. The sapor of blood was fresh on his tongue, at once pungent and fragrant and rusted and lustful. And yet, his hunger was not sated. He dragged his trembling hands (Oh? What reason do you have left to tremble? Shouldn't you be proud?) down his face to confine the neck which frothed with thirst, only to have them falter. He tore away.

His palms were streaked with blood.

They shook. His laughter continued, more boisterous than before, but why was it then that his knees crumbled beneath him? Head bowed and hands outstretched, like so many portraits of worship, toward the God who would never forgive him?

(Mad king, you should be proud.)

Nothing again would taint him, because he had already tainted himself. Nothing would make him weep, because he had already exhausted his tears. No God, no mortal would be able to bend him to their wills, because he would destroy them first. Yet he kept his hands in the air and wept scarlet until the sun flaked off his skin, for an absolution ever lost.

God,

I pray not for mercy.

 

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14.

fine art

 

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Be careful when loving a monster.

It does not end with you loving the monstrous thing.

Rather, monstrous things start happening to you.

Integra, whose death had become a monstrous thing indeed, felt the truth of this as she watched the redness she had shed dry on her monster's palm.

"What," Alucard began, but a minute headshake had him twisting his lips over his bared teeth.

Typical. Just typical.

Here, now. Just as she thought she could breathe.

Really, at this point, crying bloody tears was bloody inconsequential.

She had not wanted to wear her glasses when she woke up. In the muted light, it was her and the suffocating walls of her room, closing in on her; the distant echoes of a clock, the absence of a coat. A scene so routine, except for a single detail.

It had been almost as an afterthought, that she raised a hand and covered her left eye.

The loss of it had never been very profound. A trifle, compared to when all the while she was struggling to breathe with just tattered remains of a heart, the rest scattered in the breeze. Thirty years she had functioned, half-blind, and she had forgotten.

The burden of clarity.

"Integra." Alucard was shaking her. "Are you seeing—"

"Yes," she said abruptly. "I am. Quite obviously, I'm not meant to wear white. I can't seem to keep from sullying it."

Alucard did not take her flippancy kindly, if the way he shoved his face into hers was any indication, and he was not even making the most of it. "This is deviltry," he hissed. "Witchcraft."

"You think so? That would simplify matters."

His mouth, which did as it pleased, opened once more to utter something foolish, so she reached out and snapped it shut. His jaw ticked upon her touch, as captive as his hand still in hers, blotted. She studied it again, then blinked. Her eye no longer ached nor bled.

"Are you afraid?" Integra asked.

Her vampire. So paradoxical, how envious he was of humanity—to the point of being fearful of its desertion from another.

"Would it be a horror to you, if I were to prove less than the pinnacle of humanity?"

"In a desperate human way," Alucard recited softly. "But desperation is what makes a monster."

"Desperate? Was I?"

Was desperation what made her into this? The same desperation that long ago had led her to a monster in the basement?

"Were you?"

Integra stared at him, yet beyond him, into the face of the one who had left her. Yes, she had been watching from behind the screens of a mangled zeppelin but she had been there she had been there, in the wind that tore his form apart even as she stood in the dead air of that mangled zeppelin she had been there and—

—and perhaps, if she had been there, to grab him, he would have stayed.

The fine art of desperation is denial.

"I was." Integra breathed the admission out, dragging herself back to the reality where such denial had no quarter.

Of course. I've become you.

He was looking at her so ardently, and it burned in her throat how unfair it was for both of them, this tug-of-war over closure. She released his jaw and instead drew his blotted hand up. "Let's see now. Do you think, by this admission, I've irrevocably changed?"

Those unnaturally shed drops of hers glistened on his skin, and Alucard's nostrils flared.

"Lick it," she ordered.

She let go of his hand entirely and crossed her arms.

"See if it tastes different."

Knelt at her feet, yet dwarfing her, he was absolutely still. He spoke not a word. But he held her gaze with the gravitational pull of those faraway supernovae, eyes hooded and lips solemn, when his bare hand reached said lips. They parted—Yes, Integra thought, I am certainly not meant to wear white—and his tongue slid out.

Love need not be expressed so starkly. A touch there, a kiss here, would suffice. Or sometimes it made itself stark, such as these entreaties he uttered with only his gaze and his languid strokes against his own appendage. Look at me, my Master. Look at your depraved beast lapping up your blood on my flesh, the bittersweet trace of your desperation. Look at me. Your own desperate monster.

It was fortunate that she had not worn her glasses, or it would have been no doubt fogged up by the sheer heat emanating between them. The contraction of his throat, as he swallowed her taste, sounded loud in the lull.

Her arms had dropped to her sides a while ago, and her dress was crumpled in her grip. "How does it taste?" she asked.

"Sweet," he answered, "bitter," before closing in, taking her face into his hands and kissing her.

Not on the lips, but below her troubled eye. Now, this was a ploy on his part; her tear had fallen cleanly, with no residue on her cheek. Yet he insisted with his greedy mouth on seeking her bittersweet, and she let him.

Though his focal point was his kiss he was everywhere around her. Dampness, where the dissipation on his palm became imprinted on her skin; darkness, where the silk of his black suit shrouded her in a rendition of death and the maiden; deliriousness, where she lost herself. It was only Alucard, Alucard, Alucard, whom she beheld.

Then his kiss left her. He retracted, his visage saturated with the same deliriousness.

"Even sweeter."

There were voices coming from upstairs. Voices of the mundane, blissfully ignorant of what coiled in the sitting room.

"Don't tell Walter," Integra said. "About the blood." She leaned into his ungloved hand, engulfing it in her exquisite heat, her hair tickling his wrist. (Ah, my Master, how gracious is your torture.)

"A sensitive topic in whichever context, I am sure," Alucard quipped, and she clucked her tongue at him.

After a moment, however, she gave a lopsided smile.

"You're not wrong. Whichever way, he won't understand."

It was another thing he had observed. She chose not to confide in the butler. She chose, instead, him.

The precarious balance that had existed before. This Integra upended it. Ruthlessly.

"Yet again, my Master, I am a hoarder of your secrets. Yet again. Should I be flattered? Or should I be burdened?"

Her eyes, unimpeded by glass and bluer and clearer and more ruthless than he could recall, pierced him. "Is anything a burden to you? Whether the imminent destruction of the world or your own evanescence?"

What an oddly specific string of words. "I am a monster without consequence, but I am your beast of burden."

Integra laughed shallowly. "My beast of burden..."

Yes, hers. Only hers.

"You called me Countess, here."

She remained at ease in his grasp, the eggshell-delicate curve of her skull susurrating against his flesh with her breaths, a sensation almost decadent. As though all that she spoke were has-beens, and bore no consequence to him. So delicate yet so dangerous. So close yet so distant. So still in his grasp yet so fleeting, Integra, why do you sound like a farewell?

"You called me Countess, and I didn't shoot you. I laughed, because it was true, wasn't it? You were mine, and I was yours, in a way. I'd decided down in the cell that we'd be corpses side by side; I thought that was what Father meant, when he said I would find salvation. Salvation in the arms of God, with you as my companion.

"I was a silly romantic of a girl and I think you knew that. You knew I needed a knight. You became one and I accepted your services. But when I became my own knight, it wasn't enough for us. I had outgrown you, and so you had to change as well.

You were my Count, because I wanted you to be."

Voices, coming from the outside, closer this time, blissfully ignorant of the lady in the sitting room and her white dress stained with monstrosity. "What will you have me be now," Alucard whispered, the nadir of his being expanding from within, "if by your way of speaking all of that has passed? All your dreams, Integra, how can I compete?"

The murmurs, the rattling of teacups grew ever closer. His teeth cracked under the pressure of denying himself. The world in daylight and its routines, however, had never been kind to Alucard. His hand slipped from her face, drawing out and savoring each sweep and sigh, another goodbye.

She caught it. Him.

"You're—"

Integra said it as she sat upright. The world in daylight realigned with her as its axis.

"You're someone I've been waiting for a long time."

And he saw.

A someone.

A future.

She stood there. She stood in the forest of corpses, with hair that danced in the sordid breeze as moonlight and with eyes that pinned him to the ground as bluest steel. Tall and radiant, his queen of queens and master of everything, Integral Hellsing! In the sharpness of her gaze there was a softness, and it greeted him—Welcome back, Count—

Then it stopped.

The corpses crumbled, the fragrance of war faded. Her image went static. She was lost to him, a split-second glimpse into a future that would gratify him beyond measure if only it were true. But why—but why—

In the present, or as present as it could be for her, Integra stood, picking up his glove. The world continued its melancholy course. She tossed the glove onto his coat where he would find it, when he woke himself up from his reverie; to that sigil which had failed her for thirty years.

"Alucard."

She called and he did not answer.

 

xx

xx

 

Do you dream?

Yes, my Master.

What do you dream of?

 

xx

xx

 

Walter was waiting for her.

When she reached the end of the corridor, he held out her glasses. She glanced at them and then her butler, who wore the expression of someone who was holding his tongue for propriety's sake and not much else.

Integra took the glasses, slid them on and noted, with a chill in her heart, there was little difference.

"My eyesight has always been very bad, hasn't it?" she said to him. "But just now, I could see you. Quite clearly."

Walter had nothing to say. Integra walked out to the foyer, where its many windows cast her image kaleidoscopic. Scandalous, Miss Hellsing! Look at you, spotted red! Unabashed, she brushed her thumb against the scab on her lip, and that was when he chose to speak.

"My lady. Integra." Walter put emphasis on every word. "Alucard is a monster."

Walter was ever quick to remind her of that.

"Yes. I know. I have known since I first met him." Integra smiled coolly. "Didn't we have this conversation a few days ago?"

"May I be blunt?"

"By all means."

"My lady." Walter squared his shoulders. "Alucard cannot—"

Just what, exactly, was it that Alucard could not was drowned out by Miriam's bustle. "There you are! My heavens, are you making a habit of disappearing in the morn? I had to put Sir Islands on hold! Twice!"

"Sir Islands?" Walter asked. "Was it urgent?"

"Something of import, supposedly, he mentioned he would be stopping by for tea this afternoon…"

Integra thought of a grave.

An empty grave. Like so many others.

"We have ourselves to blame," the knight had said as they stood over the slab of stone and the few choice words that immortalized Sir Shelby Penwood, England's Protector. His spine as straight and unyielding as his cane, Islands had poured a glass and placed it on the grave.

"Forgive us, Integra."

The spirit in the glass was bright red and terribly familiar.

"Walter was a product of our folly."

"Oh dear, have you hurt yourself again?" Miriam gestured to the scab on her lip in dismay.

"Bit myself," Integra replied, far too promptly. "Have Sir Islands' brand of tea ready when he arrives. If you don't mind, I'll take breakfast upstairs."

Walter followed her, even on her detour through the hall of portraits. There again she stopped before her father; her look colder, her resentment reaching to the depths of heaven and hell. You, old man, and your folly of pride.

Like father, like daughter.

"Remember," Integra started, "remember the day you returned home?" She pivoted, the array of dead faces circling with her to stare at their erstwhile retainer. "You and Alucard were fighting here. I never asked: what was that about?"

 

xx

xx

 

Time pivots, and eats its tail.

 

xx

xx

 

"Aren't you glad to see him again?"

Glad? No.

He did not even know where to start.

The vampire was not even looking at him. He had opened his eyes, causing bile to rouse up in Walter's guts, but their monstrous gaze bypassed him entirely. It followed Integra around the room as though pulled toward its gravitational center, a new, bright, brilliant sun—a look Walter recognized, recognized so well. He shouldn't be looking at her like that.

He shouldn't—look like that.

He looked the same. It was that same sameness that crawled under, made your own greying skin feel as unnatural. The sameness that stirred his heart in all the wrong ways, ways that made Walter such a good hunter. The same lineless pallor and splendor. A monument of a face. Everything about Alucard was a monstrous perfection that Walter had been groomed to destroy. And yes, he would gladly, gleefully redeem the faulty heartstrings with his wires, yet—

The Hellsings always denied him.

"Alucard," Integra said, returning with a glass of water from the mantel. Her tone was impatient, chiding and far too familiar. "Get up. You've been a sloth in that chair since dawn."

"A cardinal sin. Though I wonder why desertion is not." And there the monstrous gaze locked on him, mad and eerily lucid.

"What are you suggesting?" Walter countered.

Was it not just as well, that these were the first things they said to each other? One incites and the other is left to fend, just like old times.

Alucard curled a corner of his mouth. "Coyness doesn't suit you, Angel."

"Alucard. Behave." Integra handed Walter the glass of water. He took it. "Don't mind him. I've explained already, how you were away on my father's orders, how you couldn't have known—"

Walter would have preferred her giving him holy water to throw at Alucard. He would have preferred her not giving it to him at all. His lady's kind gesture, the clear water.

"I suppose I can't blame you, for not telling me about Alucard. You and Father certainly were devious in your efforts to keep him secret, though. Even Unc—the traitor—didn't know," her words escaped quickly, "and look. It's as if nothing has happened, isn't it?"

"My Master is too kind," Alucard said.

My? My?

"I wasn't complimenting you! Oh, and I have held off Sir Islands. He called yesterday, quite worried, can you imagine? Almost as though he was aware…"

The weight of the clear water became unbearable. But Walter would never let that show. "And you, my lady?" He set the glass down, to kneel and grasp her hands. Alucard watched him with interest. "Are you well? Are you unhurt?"

Integra, with her eyes so clear, somehow clearer than the water, took a second to reply.

"Yes."

And Walter did not see the triumph in Alucard's.

"I need to prepare. Now that you're here we'll need to inform the Council about Alucard...among other things," Integra said, and Walter's heart stirred anew with both pride and discomfort, to have her take to her duties like so much clockwork. "Walter, you'll need rest. Don't protest. You can resume your duties after today. We've only ourselves in this house; it can stand being unattended for a night more."

Walter again did not see, this time, the triumph in Alucard's eyes being replaced by resentment, and targeting him poisonously.

She left, and Walter did not stay long either. He ignored the vampire and made for his room. Not that he had high hopes. In the hall of portraits, where the late Sir Hellsing had joined his brethren, the woefully unforgettable sensation of shifting dimensions slowed him to a halt. He produced a webbing of wires between his fingers.

"Why the rush?" The disembodied voice tutted. "For shame, Angel. Didn't you hear our Master? You should be glad to see me."

"As much as you are to see me."

"Really? Because it was I who secured Miss Hellsing, so that she may still live and breathe, and her blood flow sweet..." The gloat in the voice was addressed to everyone in the hall, both the painted and the damned. "As the pound of flesh that called itself her kin took a potshot at her."

And Richard had not missed. The proof was awake and speaking. Walter swallowed. Integra had not told.

"She has chosen not to fault you, so I can't kill you," the voice went on conversationally. "I could. For what you did to me. To my coffin. Depriving a man of his final resting place for twenty years! But I don't blame you."

The last line came from behind.

"For having had her all to yourself."

Walter swiveled around.

Alucard smiled. "Did Arthur die painfully?"

"What game are you playing?" Walter asked coldly.

For before him was a young girl.

"Well, you seemed standoffish with my other form. I thought, why not relive the glory days?" She spun on the spot, her black hair falling in waves; a mockery of beauty, a beauty that must die.

Walter himself smiled in mockery. "I don't remember anything but us bickering."

"At least your memory isn't faulty. Don't worry. This will be the last time you see this." The girl in white put her gloved hand to her lips in a way that had nothing to do with demureness.

"Because I daresay she'd prefer the other one."

He flung his wires, yet missed the head; they ensnared instead the arm that Alucard had outstretched to seize his throat. Walter was slammed into the wall. "Now this is just like old times!" Alucard giggled. "Did I make you angry?"

"Fuck—off—"

Alucard searched his face. "You aged well. Is that what is due when you bask in the singular adoration of such a delightful child? Integral. What a perfect name. Did Arthur name her that to spite me?"

"Fuck off to hell and ask him yourself!" Walter carved his wires deeper into the arm. Blood spluttered out and soaked the sleeve in red, not that Alucard paid any heed.

"Lady Integrity may be forgiving, but a hound knows no forgiveness. You failed her."

"And you're so loyal a hound now?" Walter rasped. "You've only known her for two days. I knew she would withstand whatever should occur if Richard was asinine enough!"

"And thus it is his remains that are compost in these grounds, not hers. In that case." The girl's white mask morphed into one of pity. Alucard had always been especially cruel in this form.

"Why return, when clearly she has no need of you?"

The wires snapped, and brought the arm down with them. Walter landed shakily, nursing his throat. The severed arm fell into a puddle of its own making, which had dripped down the hall, to Integra's feet.

No one said anything.

Integra approached the puddle. She picked the severed arm up.

The girlish facade let out a laugh, and as Integra came closer it rippled, changing into that of the gentleman, sans an arm. He knelt, but Integra sidestepped him. She dropped the appendage back into its puddle where it dissolved into shadows, reattaching themselves almost petulantly to the stump at Alucard's shoulder.

She passed by her father's portrait. She did not give it, nor them, a glance.

"I don't need you two to be fighting at a time like this."

Her tone was so different from what it had been in the sitting room that Walter could only bow.

"I don't care to waste my morning hearing why this happened. I shall pretend none of this happened. I expect both of you to treat each other civilly, befitting your past partnership or," her breath hitched, "is that yet another lie I've been told?"

"No, my lady," Walter whispered.

Alucard did not rise from his kneel until she had gone. He stood in front of Arthur's portrait, mirth still in place. Then his eyes followed the hall to its end where Integra had disappeared.

"Play nice, she says."

They are dogs, to do as their master bids, so they obey, and play nice. The Butler defers to the Count, the Count considers the Butler an asset; when they contest, it is just like old times, when their rivalry was part youth and part indulgence—before youth curdled into tar.

They are good at pretending.

Once Walter reached his room and closed the door, he laughed.

Alucard knew fucking nothing.

Bask in her singular adoration.

If Walter knew one truth, it was this: he was never first.

He was second. Always second.

 

xx

xx

 

"Sir Islands."

The man in the top hat nodded. He usually did not remove it. He detested idleness, and took his tea in the exact minutes it took him to state his business. Integra remembered this because his grandson, Jeremy Islands, had inherited much of his demeanor. "All you need is the hat," she had teased.

"I have been receiving odd news of late, Integral. Something to do with your tutors being fired?"

"For the betterment of my education, Sir," said Integra blithely.

"And something to do with a girl you have under wing?" Islands peered above his glasses toward the main stairs. Seras was not there, having been told to stay in her room, but he assessed the vicinity anyway, as if he was considering the last time a Hellsing had brought in an orphan.

"Seras Victoria, my ward. She is not up for discussion."

Islands raised a brow, yet relegated. "Very well. I am not here for that matter. You will make certain, however, to conceal the finer details of your household."

Belated words, Sir Hugh. Outwardly, Integra answered, "Of course. Would you have tea in the office?"

"The parlor will do."

Walter served tea, and behind its steam Islands began. "There has been a disappearance, of a young male hiker in the forests of Devon." He pulled out a newspaper, folded, the top half blazoned with the incident. It was dated tomorrow. "I've managed to stop its publication. The next step must be taken by Hellsing."

"You mean it is vampiric?" Integra held the paper. Her hands were clammy.

She had no memory of such incident in 1992.

"Currently we have no evidence as to whether."

"I don't understand. Then why would a simple disappearance merit a headline?"

But. There was a but. Sir Hugh Islands would not have come a-calling without it. He tipped the back of the paper, so that she would flip it over to the bottom half.

Her left eye smarted.

—authorities have reported a sudden lack of wildlife in the forests—

"It is not simple, Integral. The entire fauna has disappeared."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Notes:

This chapter was published on March 31, 2019.
It has been updated for grammar, punctuation, formatting, and word choice on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 16: invisible numbers

xx

xx

 

15.

invisible numbers

 

xx

xx

 

What changed?

What did not change?

If a pair of wings could create a storm, what had she created?

The last time it had been 1992, there had been no disappearance, either of man or fauna. Yet there had been no Seras either, walking the halls of Hellsing Manor. There had been no Alucard, haunted by an elusive future. There had been no Integra with her malfunctioning eye.

Everything has changed. Nothing can be the same. A name, a look, shedding of blood, pieces of broken glass. You've done it. The world turns at your feet.

Integra. Integral. Integrity.

She had never wanted the world.

Integra read the headlines repeatedly, and then the report Sir Islands had transferred, each perusal bringing the smart in her left eye to a throb. As she had done since the first morning, she raised a hand to it, needing to feel a patch or even a gaping hole. But the eye merely sought the slits of light between her fingers.

The last time it had been 1992, it had been during a lull. She had sent most of the men off on hols. Not without uncertainty. Uneventfulness bred restlessness. She had wished for something to happen, so that it would not undermine her God-given duty. That girl would have leapt at this chance to prove herself.

That girl had known nothing. Then again, old Integra knew nothing. Old Integra thought she could have her fetid cake and eat it, too.

She could do better. She could love Alucard and Seras and Walter better, prevent losing them to ashes, prevent another thirty years of wondering because once was enough, damn it, once was enough. The machinations of fate that had brought her here, however, were monstrous. This was their prise de fer.

"Touché," Integra murmured. "Now, how shall I parry?"

She sat at her desk, the sun waning, another day gone. She was young, yet she was also at her moth-eaten table, all clocks cast into limbo, out of time.

She slid her glasses on. She called Walter.

"How many do we have on duty?"

Walter stood in the middle of the office with his hands clasped behind him. "Roughly a dozen."

"Roughly a dozen? Are we missing a head or a limb?"

"That would describe a few of them," he sniffed, "but the number is a dozen, my lady."

"That will do."

"I shall have them ready to depart at a moment's notice."

Integra raised a finger. "Did I say that?"

"Pardon?"

"I meant that will do," she jabbed at her desk, "for here."

Walter's brows rose the steepest it had been thus far today beyond his monocle.

"The men will be in charge of the manor. While we make this a family trip." She gave a skewed smile. "You, me, and Alucard. The three of us."

The three of us.

She brooked no argument. Integra got up, pushing the reports to the side. She sauntered to a display rack in the corner, relieving from it her sabre, which she pulled from its scabbard. The blade pierced the nil. "What do you think is in that forest, Walter?"

"I," he cleared his throat, "I can only surmise. We have little to assume it is vampiric."

"Yet it is inhuman, wouldn't you say? Something monstrous. Waiting for us, the hunters."

Walter inclined his head.

Integra lowered her sabre. "I want to see Seras before we leave. I have to promise her. That I'll return by dawn. It will take only a night, to search and…"

The butler waited. The lady did not finish. He opened his mouth to comment, then closed it.

Integra, why do you sound like a farewell?

He excused himself, but the lady did not hear. It was not until the door clicked shut that the scarlet of the setting sun, flooding her office, took shape and stood before her.

"…destroy," he finished for her.

She poised her sabre.

Regardless of what it is. Regardless of who it is. Her own voice became infinite whispers flocking about her. Search and destroy. Search and destroy.

Alucard seized the blade, guiding the tip of it to his heart.

For once he was in full regalia, his coat almost corroded in the sunset. Integra had been disconcerted, the first time she saw him wearing it. She had met him as an emaciated corpse bound in dark leather, raw and barely contained, that to see him in a garish red duster had made her laugh a little.

"This used to be your great-grandfather's fashion, don't you know," he had said.

"I wouldn't know," she had replied. "Why do you wear the clothes of the one who enslaved you?"

"Is that a wise question, coming from the latest master of the slave?" He had stared down at her much like now, eyes hooded, scouring her soul. "Don't be so naive as to say you will set me loose, if you had the choice."

"I always have a choice." She had been stubborn. "As it stands, I have never called you my slave."

Alucard's eyes had widened, as though he had not realized this. At length he let out a puff of air. "Will you?"

"Do you want to be?"

He had lifted his hands to the outline of her neck. To choke or to cradle she could not tell. The sigils on his gloves were aglow with her face in between, a reminder of his tie to her he would never sever, for it was his only justification.

She would never let him, either.

He had lowered his arms. "I wear this in the same regard humans wear the skin of their prey."

Not of the victory, but of the defeat.

Integra in the present was the hunter who had her prey at the end of her sword. Yet it was the prey who drove it into his heart. It was his hand that pushed it deeper and deeper. Their shadows were strange hieroglyphs upon the checkerboard floor—perhaps they stood for a macabre love. Her face was stoic as blood poured and painted him a darker red.

Finally, she yanked the blade out. She dropped it. Integra crossed the space between them.

The prey bent forward, shrouding the hunter.

She focused on his unclosing wound, where he had wanted to bare himself to her gaze. She smoothed out the fabric around it, her touch becoming slick with taint. Then, one hand stanching his wound, she reached up and splayed her wet digits on his cheek.

Look at the mess you made.

Whereas before he had brought his own appendage to his mouth, she now brought her fingers and moved them across his lips in a delicate caress.

His tongue darted out and licked.

She had to arch her back to catch his eyes; they burned with the intensity of the sun which they were denied, a thousand suns.

"Count."

She granted him his title again.

"What do you think comes first? The hunter, or the monster? How much does our existence breed those who would seek to be destroyed by us?"

He smiled beneath her touch. He bared his teeth. They kissed her flesh. How much are we the merciful bullet for those weeping children of the night? His rephrasing was a whisper in her mind. Oh, plenty.

Frail, sobbing children, her father had said.

"I should order you to take them out of their misery, then," Integra said, after a while.

Give me an order.

The girl she had been would have. Search and destroy, she would have said. The girl she had been would have never imagined that her order would fail when it mattered the most.

"Later. When I see for myself what awaits us there."

Her fingers on his mouth drew back, but not before his tongue protruded, laving them.

She still had his heart under one hand.

Involuntarily, her left eye closed. Ridiculous. In all her years, from the moment it was shot, now was the time it decided to be a pain?

Alucard grabbed hold of the hand still over his heart lest she draw back entirely. She felt the flesh mend itself and saw the streaks of blood fade away, but for a drop on his upper lip. Mirroring the cut on hers.

"Will you not have a drop?"

He said it softly, yet the air between them hung as heavy as on a coffin. "Countess." The proverbial nail.

It would be so easy. It would be inconsequential. She could kiss him, take a bit of himself into her, and maybe, maybe, that would counteract the deviltry of her own bitter blood. Deviltry against deviltry. The Hellsing way.

Then Integra was reminded of what a drop had wrought, the consequence of inconsequentiality.

When the scarlet faded from the room and all that was left was silence, Alucard let go. He licked the drop off himself, as an animal would at its wounds. There was a sigh, and a whisper at her ear. Too meager an offer, Countess? He was using her words against her. It seemed centuries ago now, her meager substitute, when really it had been mere days.

Integra took her hand back. It was dry. How ephemeral it was, the taint of blood. Ephemeral and everlasting. "The last time someone was offered something red and glistening, they lost paradise."

"It was not the one who was offered who lost paradise. It was an arbitrary god who took it from her."

"Oh? Should we not strive to reclaim it?"

Alucard laughed. As the eve descended his silhouette became little by little indistinguishable from the shadows. "Why settle for a poor man's holy ground, when we can make our own?"

"That didn't end well for you," Integra said.

God—

She picked up her sabre. It alone remained coated in his blood. She sheathed it and set it on her desk.

—does not help those who kneel before him.

God—

There was a whisper at her ear again, rougher. And it was a lesson well learned, for now I know true Jerusalem lies in the integrity of the human will. Lines, echoes of a once-king, deepened under his eyes.

—does not save those who pray for mercy.

He pulled her into his shadow by the waist. Her chest knocked against his, heart to heart and hers beating in his stead. Integra chuckled. Her arms wound around his neck in retaliation.

It was an embrace, yet twisted as they were, they wrapped each other as ancient trees—her arms dark boughs, his hands white roots, their hair entangled vines. His mouth brushed her ear. "You, dear Master of the demon, proclaimed God in this very room. Take on your mantle and shape your Eden."

"How tiresome," was her reply. "All these titles and all I have to show for them are more tiresome duties."

"Would that include the duty of a Countess?" Alucard dared.

He dared, and she denied. Or so it had once been. Integra slid an arm down his shoulder.

The Count could have gloated. Instead he sobered; as he lifted his hand to meet hers and lowered his head to kiss her nape, numerous red eyes burst open from the shadows and gazed upon their embrace. And what they saw was her indulgence turn into something soft and sad, and in a moment, just a moment, contained in one single grain of sand falling through an hourglass, they saw her grey.

They stood in the coming dark, poised for a dance.

The phone rang.

Red, red eyes, though they were not mouths, snarled. The Countess and Count were still. It would be easy to delude themselves arrested in time and space, as hieroglyphs or ancient trees, if not for the incessant call of the latter-day twentieth century.

The Countess took a breath, and with that she came alive to youth and color. The Count watched, himself a fixture, as she picked up the phone. She answered wordlessly and hung up the same.

"It's Walter."

Ah, yes. Just like on that day.

On that day, on the second day of a paradise where she was only his Master.

But Alucard bridled his rage and wore a devastating grin. The heart he had pricked with her sword pulsed in anticipation of carnage. For, what else can you offer? What else do you have to compete with her awaited?

Nothing.

"Is it the hour?" he asked. "For this season's Walkürenritt?"

Integra's fingers curled over the hilt of her sabre. "Yes. But I should mention, I prefer the third."

 

xx

xx

 

Siegfried

The third of the four epic music dramas of Der Ring des Nibelungen

Act Three, Scene Three:

"Awaken! Awaken! Holiest maid!"

 

xx

 

She wonders if it would not have been better to never have woken.

 

xx

xx

 

For Seras, there was no past. There was only the future, where she would never be hurt, never be afraid. Her past was shards of broken glass she did not care to glue back together. It was better that way.

In the dead of night, however, the sharp edges of those shards tore and bled into her dreams. (For what are dreams anyway, if not mirror edges of the past?) They were odd dreams. Unforgettable—yet she would forget them all the same. Dreams where blood is on her hands.

Seras stared at her hands, curling them into fists. They shook—she shook—the world shook, though it could have been the undulations of the tangible darkness that nibbled at her profile. Blood—whose was it? There was a body before her. It was faceless. It could be anyone in her life that had died in front of her, even the ones to come.

Dad…Mum...Eddie...Simon...everyone...Pip...

Master...Mother. Mother!

(She never remembered the names when she woke up.)

Her legs crumbled. Light escaped her. The darkness was the abyss and it moved to devour. Her red hands unfurled lifelessly upon her knees. They're gone. All gone.

This is how I am left.

Alone.

What are you doing here?

A hand took her arm and yanked her upright. Integra stood against the current. She wore a sword at her side. Her outline was blurred in the abyss, the left of her face eaten by it. Nevertheless her visible eye was shrewd, and the entirety of her being pulsed with an unyielding light. She pulled Seras to her feet.

Let us not be destroyed along with the past, Police Girl.

Seras let herself be led through the abyss. She noticed how Integra's silhouette, blurred as it was, would ever so briefly be thrown into relief, and made her seem quite tall or quite short, and her hair quite or not quite as silver. She called out, but Integra did not pause, nor did she glance back.

Until they came upon a pool of faint light, large enough to be a clearing. The abyss dared not encroach here, but only just. It was here where, despite its light and warmth, desolation hung as a mourner's veil. Yes, despite its grass, its specks of white and in its very center—

Here we are.

Seras recoiled. The words rang coldly. Integra would not look at her. She would not glance back. Why?

Where is here?

Seras, Integra said. You brought me here.

"Miss Seras."

She gasped.

It was Miriam, looking at her with concern. Seras took an automatic half-step behind and almost missed her footing. It was then she realized she was on the stairs leading to the entrance hall.

"Careful! My dear! For a moment I thought you had gone and frozen! Is something the matter? Are you feeling faint?"

"No, I—where are they going?" Seras asked, turning Miriam's attention to the entourage near the doors.

There were a couple of soldiers conversing with Walter. One saluted off, the other remained. There was also the red gentleman, leaning against the doors. Seras was certain he was without the tinted glasses, yet when she squinted a second later, there they were. She did not dwell too much on this peculiarity however, for with them was Integra.

Her back was to her. She had a sword at her side.

In an instant Seras caught the tail of the dream she found so elusive. Integra, how she had not glanced back, how she had sounded. And though Seras could not recall the words they made her recoil still, even here where the fluorescent lamps were glaring, the summer heat was wafting and Integra was at a height perfectly sensible.

Miriam had started to answer but Seras was already running.

Integra was addressing the remaining soldier when she was within earshot. "Very well, Dylan."

Dylan saw her first and brightened. "Hello, Miss Victoria."

And Integra turned, ever so slightly.

It was enough. Seras collided into Integra with the force of a desperate child, her arms locking around her front for all they were worth. She heard Alucard scoff. Seras buried her face into Integra's hair and shunned the rest of the world.

Integra covered her hands with hers. Just that, yet it was enough. She continued. "You're more capable than you look."

"Uh, thank you, Miss Hellsing," Dylan said.

"Prepare the helicopter."

As the soldier went to carry out the order, Seras lifted her head. "Integra, where are you going?"

"Devon. Specifically, Dartmoor." The answer reverberated in her rib cage. "We're going hunting."

"Now?" Beyond the windows the moon was bone white. Seras shivered. "When will you be back?"

"We expect to return before dawn, Miss Seras. There is no need to worry," Walter intervened, kindly, yet she held on tighter.

"I don't want you to go." Seras herself was not sure where this was coming from, this urgency—it was a certainty, that something was wrong, would be wrong. "Integra, please, don't go. Please."

Integra pulled away.

For a moment Seras stood there, shaking, the beginning of tears blinding her when the fluorescent lamps shone unobstructed. Then she realized Integra had never let go of her hands. She was facing her now, expression placid.

"Why are you afraid?"

"I," Seras started.

Walter was watching with concern, Alucard with disdain. Only Integra saw her without prejudice.

"I don't know. But you shouldn't go. I saw," Seras sucked in a breath, "I forgot—"

"Your dreams again?

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "You gave me the daisy. But they won't stop."

"We can't have expected it to cover our future expenses." Integra was completely serious, as if the exchange rate for daisies to banishing nightmares was a cogent talking point. "Then I shall have to buy them on credit. On my words."

She combed aside errant strands from Seras' eyes.

"I promise, Seras," she said. "I promise I'll be home."

Walter was mystified, and Alucard was more curious than anything, both of them scouting in vain for a clue to decipher their strange and sudden relationship. Integra beheld Seras' blue eyes, those human eyes, and all that they represented.

"I promise," she repeated, almost absently, and almost to herself.

 

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She counted the bullets in her head.

The bullets had names.

Her soldiers' names.

As soon as Walter finished his report and exited, Integra dropped pretense. She took a cigar, lit it, took a whiff. Then she grabbed the worthless report and threw it in the trash. The cigar followed. She watched them burn.

Eighty-six.

The Valentine brothers' tally. Millennium's tally. No—hers. Sir Islands had been right. It had been unacceptable. Nothing could have been done? They had not been prepared? Bullshit. What she could have done could have been anything other than sitting there as her men met a fate worse than death.

And in the morning it was as if nothing had happened. Eighty-six men had lost their lives, and the halls were clean as if she had not made a pilgrimage with bloody footprints. Eighty-six bullets through eighty-six skulls and not a single trace.

Outside, in the daylight, birds were flying.

"I would have thought the Angel didn't need to remind you of that."

The outside operated on its own mundane brand of reality, and she on hers. Her reality consisted of invisible numbers. She could not count them, even when they were speaking.

He addressed her silent accusations with monstrous levity. "The police girl needed to prove her mettle. Isn't that why you let her deal with the invasion? Had I not engaged the elder in my lair, she, this organization, you—would have been destroyed."

"Ah, so if you had not been waiting there patiently for your toy, I wouldn't be standing here, is that it? My men, their screams, which you would have heard, from the courtyard, they meant nothing?"

"You did not give me your order, my Master."

Integra tasted bile. At the same time she was made painfully aware, in a way Walter's reminder had not, of the fact that yes, that was all it took. Her order.

Smoke rose from the wastebasket, curling like incense. Integra lit another cigar. Its odor and the light of day refused his proximity.

But still he closed in, right at the edge.

"Soon you'll command me to your enemies," Alucard soothed. "Their tally in this battle will be nothing compared to ours in the war."

"Oh? Who says there will be a war?"

"You did, my Master. There will be war, you know this. You want this. A new Millennium...also signals the death of the old."

Birds flew past again. They cast fleeting shadows upon her face.

"Leave. I need to get ready for the service."

She could feel him grin.

 

xx

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Integra woke up.

The muted hum of the helicopter's rotor had lulled her into slumber. Walter's voice came through her headset: they would be landing in ten minutes.

The moon was following them. And in its skeletal glow Integra remembered something.

She counted bullets. The bullets had names. Thirty years later she could recite them, starting from the first to the eighty-sixth.

The supernatural nature of Hellsing meant there were very few recruits. Most of the soldiers had worked under her father. The ones who died during the Valentine brothers' attack had already been serving her since the beginning of her leadership. She remembered them all.

Integra turned her gaze to the pilot seat, where Dylan sat.

 

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Notes:

This chapter was published on December 25, 2019.
It has been updated for formatting on January 29, 2021.
The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 17: ever-immutable

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16.

ever-immutable

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The leaves crumbled under their feet, and that was the only sound in the forest.

Integra could not say she had been to that many forests. Perhaps she had, once or twice, when was at an age hardly worth remembering; on her father's shoulders as he prattled about them being subprime real estate. "Subprime, my girl, because nothing beats the city, rife with those who would positively beg to be snatched up by the damnedest creatures on earth. Now that is prime real es—what are you giving me that look for, Walter?"

Her father had been right. She had walked the most fetid of forests in London.

Even one made of corpses, however, was comparable to this empty forest where the very trees appeared to have had their breaths torn out, leaving silence as knots hanging from branches, stifling the air. Or, she thought, that was just them.

Walter was up front, holding a torch.

Behind her, seeming to drag a wall of shadows with him, was Alucard.

They spoke not a word.

Without the clockwork stage of the manor—here, in nature's depths, only the smell of the earth and the crackle of leaves in accompaniment and all of it so primal—they were stripped bare, in a way. There was no routine, and without it there was no need of masquerade. It was precisely why no one was saying anything. What could one say, when there were no roles to play?

But she—Integra—always had a role, did she not? By the virtue of her name—Integrity—she was a role unto herself. The notion was at once so sobering and ludicrous that Integra scoffed.

"What amuses you, my Master?"

Master. Her ever-immutable role.

"It's been a while since it had been just the three of us," Integra replied, without glancing back. Alucard's voice had brushed close even though he was meters away. Her own voice echoed too loud. She went on, "Didn't Walter chop your arm off?"

"Oh, are we allowed to talk about that now?" He sounded delighted. "Would my master want limbs thrown at her feet tonight, as a reiteration of that day?"

"Whose limbs are we talking about?"

"Mine, for a start, if the Angel humors me."

Walter did not, of course. Instead he came to a halt. "My lady, we are close to the epicenter. Shall we proceed?"

Integra knew why he was asking. The nature of the enemy had still not been identified, vampiric or otherwise. In such dubious circumstances, if it had been as it were in the past, she would not have been there at all. What good are dogs, if not to release into the woods and wait idly for them to bring game?

She had no intention of waiting. Her left eye had been aching ever since they landed.

"Proceed."

"I only ask if it will not be prudent to send Alucard in first," Walter said, meeting her eyes staunchly.

Integra also knew it would have been prudent for Walter to be questioning her when she was this age. And she would have appreciated it, if she were Miss Hellsing. But it was Sir Hellsing who stepped forward and took the torch from Walter, dismissing his protest.

"Alucard's shadows have scouted the area and found nothing," Integra said, leaving the two men behind her. Illuminated by both the moon and artificial light, she walked toward the junction where the hiker's tracks had disappeared off to. "Yet absolute lack, on the contrary, serves as proof that there is something, wouldn't you say?"

"Quite," said Walter.

"Then the options are, something is static. Something is lying dormant. Or perhaps something waiting for us to make a move." Integra pushed aside a cluster of branches.

It was there that she paused, and looked down at the plant she was stepping past.

It was bone white.

As she stood, staring at the discoloration, Alucard's voice came through loud and derisive. "We should have brought along that pilot boy as bait."

The plant, as brittle as its noncolor, came apart easily in her hand. Integra shined the torch further into the pathless woods and confirmed her suspicions. The further it went near the epicenter, the paler they grew.

"Why don't you be a sport and play the bait instead, Angel?"

"Why don't you be the bait, Alucard, seeing as our enemy has a preference for white?" Integra ground out. "But since neither of you bastards seem to be willing, I shall have to do everything myself."

"My lady," Walter choked.

Alucard, for once, was quiet.

Integra whipped out her sabre and slashed at the roots and branches clinging to her skirt like so many emaciated arms. Her head pounded. And annoyed as she was at herself for losing her patience, she could not help the vitriol; the three of them, alone in a mission, how could she have forgotten there was a reason that had never been a mode of operation?

She had Alucard at sword-point for the second time that evening when he suddenly appeared in front of her. 

"Master." Alucard held her gaze, a strange smile on his lips. "When have you seen me in white?"

Integra breathed, sheathing her sabre. "Must I satisfy your vanity, now? Ask Walter to cut your arm off, if you so desperately need a reiteration."

Alucard's smile twisted, as if he had somehow gotten his answer.

"I never showed you that form."

And a sharp pain through her left eye made her stagger.

Alucard caught her, winding an arm around her waist while a hand tangled in her hair and cupped her skull. The torch fell from her grasp and rolled into a bush, throwing darkness over them as a cloak.

Walter's shout went unheeded. The two stayed in the anonymity of the dark, motionless, before Alucard pressed his lips to her ear.

"How is it that you saw me in white? Perhaps you remember us bickering, Walter and I, but you weren't there to see it. I transformed back before you entered the hall."

"What?" It was all Integra could do to not tremble against him as pain and confusion wracked her. "No. I was there—"

"You were there, yes. But only after I transformed back. A few seconds' difference, yet how is it, Countess, that your memory contains that crucial few?"

"No—you're wrong—I was there, when you were wearing that ridiculous farce of yours!" Integra pushed away from him. "Walter!"

"My lady." Walter joined them in the dark. "Did—"

"Tell him—" Pain scattered across her vision. Integra gritted her teeth. "Tell Alucard that I did see him in his girl's form, the day you returned."

His monocle flashing in the moonlight seemed to indicate how unhappy he was that she was bringing this up. Nevertheless, Walter answered, slowly, "It is true that we had—a disagreement, and Alucard did change into his—other form, but my lady, you were not there to witness it." Then the implications dawned on him. "How did you know?"

Integra took a step back from both of them.

Nothing made sense.

Perhaps, just perhaps, because she was human and human memory was faulty, she was misremembering. Forty years ago little Miss Hellsing walked into the hall and found a puddle of blood here and a missing arm there, and the two remaining men in her life who were supposed to be better than this. That was that. There did not have to be anything else.

No.

There was. There had been.

Integra thought of Dylan, and how he factored into this.

Either she was misremembering horribly, or there never had been a Dylan Basbanes in Hellsing so much as there had been an Integra who had seen her vampire in cruel white. Another incongruity. 

And—that was why she was here. To take into line the biggest incongruity of all—this forest.

She turned and stalked into the dead woods, torchlight be damned. She did not need one anyway.

The fog crept in, and the moonbeams woven within embroidered it aglow. Integra merely had to head toward where it was thickening. She did not have to check whether Alucard and Walter were close by; a trail of red, red orbs slithered at her heels, unblinking.

"Of course you show tact only after everything has been said and done," Integra muttered. The pain in her eye had lessened, but she was not above begrudging his face just yet. "Well?"

The red orbs stared at her for the longest time before snapping to attention.

Integra looked.

In a small clearing, there stood a shack. Old, nondescript and with a single source of light inside.

 

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She was sixteen when a soldier was found to have taken bets on when, and with whom, she would lose her virginity.

She was assuaged by the fact it had been the soldier's own squad that reported this to her. The matter had been quietly resolved. She certainly was not going to foist the sins of a reprehensible few on them.

Alucard thought differently. "Let me kill them."

Integra was in her office, sifting through papers. "You're welcome to propose how we will justify the disappearance of an entire squad. In the meantime, I fired the soldier, so you shall have to make do with that."

He stood before her desk, a wall of writhing embers. She noted with mild interest how the pressure was making her tea ripple. "I have destroyed entire nations for far less."

Integra raised a brow. "Are you honestly saying that this one offense against your master's virtue outweighs them all?"

His eyes blazed. "My Master, I'd thought you would have known by now."

Integra let out a disbelieving noise.

She never knew how to react when he said things like this. She had come a long way from the naive, impressionable child she had been, and had grown into a height she could work with, and yet his words felt as if they could topple her.

It was dangerous. She would never let him.

"Enough, Alucard," Integra snapped. "I will not put my men to death just to please your ego. You're only disappointed I didn't offer up the miscreant to your hound."

Alucard laughed darkly. "Do you know what men do, the moment you are seen as less than untouchable? They imagine, my dear Master, that which for the thought alone I would rip their eyes out. And you deny me the chance to make an example out of one so that none may tarnish your authority."

Anger and hurt bubbled in the pit of her stomach. "You are not helping," she hissed.

She rose brusquely from her chair and turned away from him. She could not bear to see him, not because she was ashamed, or even angry at him, but because she was barely able to keep herself from giving the order he desired.

At length, she felt him subside. "Forgive me, my Master."

Integra was looking at her reflection on a glass cabinet, a tinted image of a girl at the cusp of womanhood. Her blouse fit snugly. Her skirt brushed her calves when she moved. 

She knew he was looking, too.

Hypocrite, she should have called him, but Alucard was different.

(Besides, even if she ordered him to gouge out his own eyes, they would regenerate anyway. And she was very fond of his eyes.)

"If they are unable to yield to my authority because I am a woman, that is their problem, not mine." She scowled. "That being said, I will take measures to ensure nothing like this happens again. I can't have you blind every man that looks at—or thinks of—me the wrong way."

She shifted to the side so she could have his reflection on the—silver-less—glass. As expected, he was watching her.

"I've already given it consideration," she continued, trying not to shiver. 

"Oh?"

"It's true my current choice of attire does not inspire much authority. Miriam tells me I should move onto more sophisticated women's clothes, but I have been looking into menswear."

She gauged his reaction.

He was a blur of black and red, yet she could tell he was intrigued. "Pity your decision is in part due to those beneath you, but you would be striking in them, Integra."

"What is it that Miriam's rags say, 'Fashion is a statement'?" Integra had also toyed with the idea of cigars. Their redolence comforted her, and men seemed to piss themselves when having to deal with a woman who wore trousers and smoked, even though they were heading well toward a new millennium. "And so it will be—though, in the end, they'll know exactly who they are dealing with."

He came to her side. "Yes. When Death descends upon the battlefield to reap their souls. They will see my face, but they will know that it is you who pulls the trigger." His shadows, like claws, rested upon her shoulders, and his smile was violent.

"A battlefield?" Integra scoffed, to mask her thrill at his words. Another of his dramatizations, she told herself. She had told herself time and time again that she would never let Alucard seat her so high, for fear she would topple along with everything she stood for.

And yet, how could she resist?

A thought occurred to her. "That other face of yours," Integra said, waving his shadows away.

"The one I wore the morning 'nothing' happened?" Alucard asked sarcastically.

She had not brought up that particular morning for discussion since and she was not going to now. "I was only wondering—is that a statement?"

And Alucard laughed and laughed, and it was in these rare instances where his laughter was of pure amusement that he sounded almost, dare she say, human. He's a monster, she told herself time and time again.

"Do you want me to transform, and I shall demonstrate just what kind of statement it makes."

Integra rolled her eyes. "No, I've had enough of your theatrics for one night. Save it for later."

 

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She was twenty-two and on a mangled zeppelin when she saw him in white, wearing a child's face.

She was thirty-two when she wished she could tell him how ridiculous he looked.

 

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"Your shadows didn't find this?"

Said shadows converged. "No."

There they were, the three of them—Alucard on her right, Walter on her left.

The fog shaped itself into a barrier surrounding the clearing and the shack in its center. "So, this is the heart," Integra murmured, as she started to circle the periphery. Her retainers watched her closely. "How quaint."

She reached out to touch the surface of the building. "Be careful, Integra," Walter warned.

In the quiet, all of them heard the flutter of wings. Walter unleashed his wires and Alucard his Casull, yet it was Integra who was the nearest and the quickest. A gunshot, and something plummeted to the ground.

Integra knelt and picked it up.

"See for yourself," she said, after a moment, tossing it to Alucard.

He caught it. It was a raven, except where there should be one head, there were two. It bled purplish in his gloved hand, the heads twitching still. He crushed it.

"This forest was supposed to be empty." Integra calmly wiped her own hand on her skirt. "But there's that."

Alucard, for his part, appeared calm enough, but it was testament to how agitated he was that his hat and shades had vanished. "This feels like—nothing," he growled. "A void."

"An absolute nothing that is something," said Integra.

"Something monstrous, indeed," said Walter.

Integra resumed her pace. "A hiker's disappearance, followed by the entire fauna." She was speaking to herself, not to them. "It stands to reason that he disappeared within that hovel, the heart of this sphere of influence. A nothing that expanded, and devoured its surroundings, like..."

"A black hole," said Walter.

She glanced at them, as if she had forgotten they were there at all. "Yes, and preliminarily Alucard would not have been able to detect it, because his shadows and the blackness are cut from the same cloth."

Integra circled back, and in the lunar glow of the fog, she could view the faces of her men quite clearly. Walter looked impressed. "Astute, my lady. I don't believe we've come across anything like this before, for you to make such an assessment."

She let the comment slide, and turned to the light at the window. "A black hole—with a light inside. That is the objective we need to break the spell. Seras, target your silver bullets on it."

When nothing came of that command, Integra realized where exactly in time she was and what she had said, and bit the scab on her lip.

"I—think you misspoke, my lady."

Integra bit until it tore, the sting jerking her back to reality. "Yes. I meant Alucard." She faced them, her retainers (one who will betray you and one who will disappear, whispers cruel voices, she has difficulty suppressing them, here under the lunacy of the moon and the raw taste of copper and the nothingness of the void) and they were chilled, even the monster, at the sight of her. Lit by the inhuman light, blood on her lips, eyes too blue and too bright. "Alucard. Destroy it."

Are you afraid?

Alucard had not been afraid. Even when Integra had shed that drop of blood, that piece of deviltry, that hint of desperation. 

And yet, with every step she took back and forth toward him and toward the one she awaited, every incongruity would stack, stack so high eventually that tower would collapse—she would no longer be able to assure him, because she cannot assure even herself.

And it was his own desperation that had him aim Casull without any mirth; his desperation to destroy those dreams that ensnared her, though it was she who said, like her ancestor, there is no nightmare from which you do not wake.

He would have, if the beasts had not broken through the mist.

 

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Some bloody family trip this was turning into.

Not that Walter could complain. Or enjoy the release of his wires for that matter. In fact, he could not do or feel much anything, because there were alarm bells going off inside his head that were only barely muted by the din of the fight.

Walter was well aware that things had gone peculiarly this past week, but every doubt he had regarding the nature of the peculiarity was overthrown by the sight of his lady.

She whipped out her sabre and engaged, lightning fast and fatal, simultaneously beheading a buck and shooting down an owl with her pistol. In none of her practice sessions had she displayed such speed and force. Integra had been an excellent fencer—for her age. This was beyond age. This looked like decades of practice.

That was not the most chilling observation, however.

The most chilling observation, Walter loathed to admit, was Alucard. His reaction to her, to be precise. He would have expected from him intrigue or delight. Then why was it—Walter snapped another deer into halves—that he looked afraid?

The vampire had a mad desperation in his gaze that never left Integra. He was trying to reach her, but she was backed into a wall and the beasts were attacking them in earnest.

It was as if they were preventing them from getting close to her.

Walter snagged a hare in mid-jump. It tumbled to a stop at his feet, where he grabbed it by the ears. It had twin pupils in each eye. These animals were living creatures, albeit puppeteered by the void, and every one of them bore mutations and discolorments.

Alucard, finally fed up with the distractions, summoned the Hound of Baskerville.

Right, we're on Dartmoor, Walter thought dryly.

It could not get worse. It bloody could not get worse.

It did get worse.

In the very, very brief quiet following the annihilation of the mutant fauna in the jaws of the black hound, Alucard took a single step toward Integra.

The fog thickened. The light at the window flickered. And Walter was reminded that silence in a bedeviled forest is never a good thing.

From the haze rang out laughter, inhuman. 

(It sounded familiar, he would realize much, much later.)

"Fuck," Walter said, and broke his embargo on swearing around his lady. It really could not get worse.

 

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It all comes down to this.

There was Integra, and Alucard, and Walter. Just like thirty years ago, or seven years later.

At least it was her Walter, the old man with the kind grey eyes. There were no burning cities, no zeppelins, and Seras is an innocent tucked in her bed miles and miles away.

But time pivots. And eats its tail.

And Integra knew that laughter.

A ghost of a laughter she had heard so often in her dreams.

Her dreams, after the war, had been the same repertoire. In the end she banished them like she did with monsters: with the sun in her eye, and with routine. Some nights she was lucky enough to be dreamless.

(This is a lie.)

Dreams are strange things. As you lie in the quiet of a not-quite-death, your memories splinter. They are shards, resurrecting a new mirror.

In her dreams Alucard is wearing white, as if he is making a statement, and crimson floods the streets of London. He laughs and says he cannot lose, though he has lost time and time again. He is so drunk on the victory he has brought her, he has forgotten.

(But of course. He is a monster without consequence.)

Thus he disappears, leaving a void in her heart.

And Integra remembered—she had ripped open her palm on a mirror shard, her dreams had shattered and resurrected themselves in the present.

Oh, Integra thought.

This void. 

It somehow must be mine.

Which was why she parted her lips to say, "Alucard. My orders."

The words were poison on her tongue. It rewound itself, over and over and over again, her final order. 

For one night, she won. She was the ruler of Midian. Her words brought death and ruin. And on the same night she lost; her words cost them all. She lost them all, the one who betrays and the other who disappears, lost them all and oh, she let them seat her so high so high she toppled in consequence.

Ah, but I am the Master, and this is my ever-immutable role.

"Search and destroy," Integra said. "Search and destroy my enemies."

No matter what they are. No matter who they are.

"Leave me here," she said, "and go after them."

The laughter danced around them, beckoning.

"You too, Walter."

"My lady!" Walter shouted immediately. "Please reconsider!"

A corner of her mouth twitched upward. "Well, that's nice to hear from you." She sobered. "Go, Walter. That is an order."

"Leave you?"

Alucard clenched his fists as the sigils flared, registering her command. Yet he lashed out against it, his fingers puncturing his palms and washing the sallow earth in crimson. "And what will you do, dear Countess? Step into the void and reclaim the one you have awaited?"

Would it not have been kinder for her to have died, in that sunset, opposite the one who left her at the break of day? Did the king he had once been ask the same thing? Wonder, as the world continues its melancholy course, if he should not have died in that sunrise? The same question repeats, over and over and over again. Count, I've become you.

"I will take on my mantle, as you have said. I will shape my Eden, as you have said." Integra raised her face to the moon and closed her eyes.

"I will return to you, as you will return to me," she said.

 

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It was three days after the war when she and Seras reported in at the refugee camp for a briefing. They had been greeted by Sir Robert Walsh. He nodded at Seras and her distended shadow arm. "Long flight, eh?" To her he held up a warm mug of water. "Fancy a cuppa? Only have teabags, I'm afraid."

There were bags under Integra's one remaining eye. The other was wrapped in a bandage. Nevertheless she stood as tall and beautiful as always, even if that beauty was now the refrain of a haunting threnody. "I can't stay long. I must return to the zone as soon as possible."

"I'm aware. It'll be brief," Walsh said, and opened the flap of the emergency headquarters.

"You!"

A figure threw themselves at Integra. They were instantly rebuffed by Seras, and intercepted by Walsh, whereupon they began to scream insults at her.

"Excuse me," Seras began, appalled.

Integra recognized the woman. "Lady Mary Penwood," she whispered. Sir Shelby Penwood's wife.

"My poor Shelby!" Mary wailed. She thrust an arm out of Walsh's grip and clawed at the air as if to gouge Integra's remaining eye out. "Why did my Shelby have to die, huh? What did he do to deserve that? He was a good man, he was nothing but loyal and you left him there!"

"Restrain yourself, woman!" Walsh barked.

"How dare you!" Seras shouted.

"Stand down, Seras," Integra said.

It was the grief of a widow that capacitated Mary to throw off Walsh and grab the edge of Integra's coat lapel. She shook her. "He'd only just had his grandson, he was so happy, it's your fault that you ruined it, Integral Hellsing, it's all your fault!"

Integra did nothing to stop her. "I am sorry for your loss," she said.

Mary's wild hands found the mug that Walsh had set aside on a stool, and hurled its contents at her. Seras shielded her, yet a part of it splashed onto her face. It seeped into her bandage, staining it pink.

Still, Integra did nothing.

"For bollocks' sake—"

"That is enough," Seras snarled—

And above the commotion Mary kept screaming, "Die, Integral Hellsing, die, die, die!"

No, Seras.

It's never enough.

It's never enough.

It's never enough.

 

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Integra let out a breath she had not known she was holding.

An old, discarded habit of hers resurfaced, and her fingers tapped the wall behind her in want of a familiar object.

"Good evening, Sir Hellsing."

She opened her eyes.

"Hello, Dylan."

 

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Notes:

The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Chapter 18: event horizon

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17.

event horizon

 

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Alucard laughed.

It started quietly, dredged up from somewhere near his cold, dead heart. He should have given it to her after all. Presented it on a platter. If he had, if he had offered her the pomegranate whole, if she had taken it—ah, but she had already. She had eaten it and her hands had stained, she had accepted the war he said he would bring to her as a dowry—but only in her dreams. She had conquered, and they had called each other as equals—but only ever in her dreams.

Leave me, she said. Never leave me, she had also said. I will return to you, as you will return to me, she said. Integra, are you hearing yourself? He had never left. Even as she gave her orders, it had been the unknowable future she drew in her mind.

And just like that, he had lost her. To himself.

It is a new low, even for him, to be jealous of himself.

And so he laughed, shoulders hunched, shaking madly, asynchronous with the ghost's laughter in the fog.

Behind him, Walter flexed his hands.

"You're not happy about this at all," he observed.

Good old Angel of Death. He could just rip his throat out.

"No," Alucard found himself answering instead.

"You called her Countess."

"And she calls me Count." His eyes swiveled around to where the butler stood at a distance. "Why, does the old man wish to raise his objections?"

"I think we're in agreement by now that nothing you or I say will get through her," Walter said. He tugged his gloves tighter on his fingers. "You know what's going on. You know what is happening to Integra."

"Desperation," Alucard said. His words spilled forth rapidly. "Desperation is what's happening to her. Desperation that makes a monster." He turned, facing Walter. "I used to taste that sort of desperation about you."

The fog reduced them to mere shapes, yet Walter's monocle remained visible, a silver disc.

"The desperation that all humans inevitably have as they grow older. The taste of bitterness. The taste of spite." Alucard's eyes curved. "Though, barring that morning our dear Master has put into question, either you've pulled yourself up to sublimity, or you're just good at faking."

"We were talking about Integra," Walter snapped.

"I am talking about her." Alucard held out a fist, the wounds he had not allowed to close leaking steadily, mimicking a metronome. "Another morning, my Master awakens with war in her eyes and blood on her hands, brings a stray to the house whom she holds in the highest regard, drags the two of us to this waste and orders us to leave. All with that same kind of bitterness—" Here he laughed again, a sharp, broken note. "The same kind of spite. And what this means, what this all means, is that we both have wronged her. And I don't know what you did."

Walter stood absolutely motionless.

"Never mind me." Alucard spread his arms. "I am a monster, and I shall savor even her scorn. But that doesn't bode well for you, does it?"

The drops of blood fell as seconds, and in its keeping of time the ghost's laughter had reverberated, until it decided to move first. Something blurred past, and the laughter split directions.

They ignored this.

Finally, Walter chuckled. "I do believe you are projecting."

Alucard shrugged. "If I am, what does it matter? If she knows, then that is all you and I need. In the end she will be the one to bestow judgment for our transgressions. We will fight the battle she has led us to, we will lay our spoils at her feet, and see then if the Lady Integrity will forgive us."

These were the words he said.

But abruptly, he stilled.

Walter took advantage of the sudden pause. "Enough talk. Let's get this over with. I'll take the left."

Alucard would have pointed out how much Walter's exit sounded like avoidance, had he not pricked himself with the very words he had been using as thorns. His palms, soaked red, trembled and opened before his stare, and the dead earth was nourished with their sanguinity once more.

Now, isn't this familiar?

The King he had once been. The Count he had once been. They stirred under layers and layers of decay. A failure after failure. Their mouths are red, their hands are red. Isn't this familiar? These are the hours before the break of dawn where you lost everything. And you will weep, for—

You will lose her like you did everything.

And not even to yourself.

He straightened.

Alucard let his flesh knit itself back together. His gloves were spotless. The only remaining red were the urgent glow of his sigils and the strange fragility of his eyes, and his coat; from which he sought, as if he could, in desperation, some barest traces of her.

"Projecting," he mocked.

But he would not stop trembling.

His eyes flashed to his right.

The forest, a mural of the void shaped by its desires and regrets, had dispensed with its foreplay and switched tactics. Its latest manifestation spun under the moon, giggling maliciously.

"Well, well." Alucard smiled faintly. "The night is full of surprises."

The unmistakable silhouette of his female form stopped mid-spin, and curtsied.

 

xx

xx

 

Integra's smile was cold.

"I don't suppose you happen to have what I'm looking for?"

"Perhaps, Sir," Dylan said, and produced from his uniform pocket a pack of cigars.

She continued to tap her fingers on the wall. "Well? You're not going to make me go get it, are you?"

Dylan grimaced. "I won't, Sir, but you might kill me."

"I might," Integra agreed, "but not until I have my answers."

The soldier swallowed. He looked peaked and much too nervous. But he came forth, presenting the pack with both hands outstretched. She plucked one and held it up. He lit it, and retreated.

Integra took a moment to appreciate the familiar redolence. Her fingers, however, were still tapping. She scoffed. "What a gentleman, coming all the way here to provide a lady with her vice."

"With due respect, Sir, you aren't smoking it."

"I promised Seras I would quit when I was forty-two."

He did not react.

Integra leaned back. "Eighty-six bullets, Dylan. Do you know what they mean?"

"No, Sir."

"Eighty-six bullets I put through my own men's skulls so they could at least die." The hand that had been tapping the wall stopped. Integra pulled her gun out of its holster. "Eighty-six bullets I named and buried. I remember each and every one of them. Your name, however." Casually, she pillowed her cheek on the barrel. "The morning we met, you said I know your name. I don't. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing you."

The smoke spiraled up to meet the spectator moon. "Almost as if," Integra flicked the ashes, "you didn't exist."

Before.

And the proof was the soldier himself, who appeared neither confused nor alarmed by her hypothesis.

Integra discarded the cigar, crushing it underfoot. She took aim. "What are you?"

Dylan ducked his head. "I am not at liberty to say, Sir Hellsing."

"Are you under orders?" Her knuckles whitened.

Integra had stood there after sending Alucard and Walter away, turning over possibilities, and finding them to be infinite. Who could she blame but herself? The butterfly woke from its dream, yet its wings would not stop fluttering; its very purpose was to create a storm. But who was the butterfly? Had she not made a false distinction? Was it truly her, whose death had become a monstrous thing?

Was she not someone else's dream?

"What I can say is," Dylan said, "that I am here with an objective."

"Your objective?"

"Seeing you off, Sir. To the Incongruity."

The shack behind her loomed large in the moonlight.

"The Incongruity?" Integra repeated. A strangled laugh escaped her. "Rather grandiose, that."

"That is what it is, Sir. You're aware I never existed within your lifetime." Dylan was visibly wary of her aim, yet he spoke with resolve. "Everything has a price. Something that's happened can't be undone. When time folds back on itself, there's bound to be fallout."

A few seconds' difference. A difference diverging into the Integra who had witnessed her vampire in white, and the Integra who had not. Time pivoting, eating its tail. She blinked and shuddered. A wetness she knew to be red slid down her left cheek.

"And if I go into this Incongruity?" she bit out.

Dylan recoiled. "I can't say, Sir."

Integra's hand shook around her pistol. She took a step forward, to grab the messenger, to demand answers, or to foist upon him, unfairly, this rage of hers against the wretchedness of fate—and found she could not.

The wall behind her gaped, a maw of the void.

And the ribbons of time wound themselves around her limbs and refused to let her go. They pulled her in with the gravitational hunger of a black hole to depths from which even light could not regurgitate. Integra forced herself upright. She gritted her teeth and fired, just as Dylan said, "I wouldn't—"

The silver bullet did not pierce the night as it should. Integra watched in disbelief as it froze midair, rattling in place, then increasing in velocity, before ricocheting and striking her right arm.

Nearly the same spot as three or forty years ago, too. The irony, Integra thought, barely wincing as blood streaked down her sleeve and spilled onto the boundary between reality and its distortion.

"I was going to warn you," Dylan groaned. "The laws of physics work differently in there."

Integra released her grip on her useless gun and let it drift out of reach. The darkness ate at her profile. "If I don't kill you, Dylan," she said calmly, "Alucard will."

"Yes." The soldier bowed. "But this is my duty."

Integra stared at him for a moment longer. Then she turned, and walked into the Incongruity.

The darkness flowed past her like ink. Yet it felt like nothing. The tangible ribbons around her limbs had dispersed once she ventured in of her own accord. Her arm was soaked, and left glistening strands in her wake. They floated. Up or down? Was she walking forward, or backward? Were her feet even on the ground? Integra grabbed at her glasses when they slipped. They, too, were useless; except without them, she thought she might lose sense of herself.

For she could get lost in here. Perhaps she could be lost forever. Was she not already?

She had lost her way in death and fallen through a seam in time and space.

Who was she now?

She was not fifteen-year-old Integra. She would never again be fifteen-year-old Integra. Alucard knew this. He, a monster born out of desperation, tasted its bitterness even before she shed its tear. She was also no longer old Integra. The woman who had died in such a human way, to a human disease. The woman who had let go of everything she loved, for her human duty. And that which remained—new Integra—was too desperate to be human.

She could stay here. She, the catalyst.

I promise I'll be home.

Integra stopped. Her hair billowed in the dark, as pale as lightning. Her eyes were blue and clear.

She resumed her pace, but with purpose.

The light at the window. She had to find it. The crux of it all. The strands of blood oozing from her wound floated not up, not down, but toward somewhere. The center. If they called this Incongruity a black hole, and she had crossed its event horizon, then there had to be what they could call its center. The singularity. She still had her sword with her.

If need be, she would pierce the heart of space-time itself.

Once, when Integra was six, her father read to her from a dictionary of scientific quotes. He had been healthy then. They had opened random pages and taken turns picking the funniest. "Look here, my girl," he had exclaimed. "There's one by a fellow who shares my name." He had recited to her this limerick:

 

Young Archie, the intrepid mole,

Went down to explore a Black Hole.

A stark singularity,

Devoid of all charity,

Devoured the mole as a whole.

 

"Devour as a whole," Integra murmured.

The light hovered in front of her.

As though it had been waiting for her all along. It was smaller than she expected. A stark, bright sphere, able to fit in the palm of her hand. When she approached, it drifted toward her.

She drew her sword with her left and thrust.

The light dodged. It grazed her fingertips. It felt like nothing, changed into nothing, yet Integra only had a split second where her eyes widened before she was consumed.

A day in late October.

Integra found herself in a hospital.

Nurses bustled past. The sight of Integra suddenly appearing among them half-drenched in blood would have been, in any normal circumstance, cause for alarm, but they whisked by as if she was invisible. I am, Integra realized. They cannot see me.

This is a memory.

"It was a rather difficult birth," she heard one say.

Integra knew instinctively. It was hers. Her birth.

She moved as a wraith of the future through the inhabitants of the past. A door was ajar. From behind it came a voice she had not heard in decades.

"A girl," her father was saying in dismay. "A girl, ah, God…"

He mumbled to the other person in the room—her mother. Integra stood frozen, mere steps away.

There was a sigh. "No matter. A daughter of Hellsing will be as strong as any man. Isn't that right, my girl?" And she realized he must be holding her in his arms.

Integra could go see him. She could see her mother, whose face she did not even remember. They were right there.

But her feet refused to budge.

"Her name? Ah, yes. Her name is—Integrity—no, that's too old-fashioned. Integral. Yes. Her name is Integral Hellsing. Integra for short."

And thus her fate is sealed.

Integra shuddered. On impulse her hand shot out for the doorknob, only to sink through like a ghost's. With that she was back in the abyss.

She pivoted, her anger eating her raw from the inside. The light hovered in front of her, infuriatingly pristine, and she slashed at it. It dodged again, this time grazing her wounded arm.

A day in late spring.

She found herself in a meadow. The sun was high. The breeze was warm. Daisies speckled the grass. She, bleeding and breathing erratically, was much too out of place. She remembered this.

"Master!"

Integra bit her lip. It eviscerated her to look.

"Master!"

Yet she did.

"Seras," she whispered brokenly.

It was her Seras. The one with the red eyes, and the shadow arm which could also be a pair of wings. She was laughing and waving at her. "Master! Over here. I've set up the picnic mat—hurry, it's a bit windy!"

She remembered what she said. She said—

"A picnic, on a windy day." Old Integra sauntered into the vision, separate from the Integra who was watching with pained eyes. At the age of forty-two, there were faint creases on her face, grey streaks in her hair. "Seras, I don't want a literal tempest in my teacup."

"This is fine! It's just a bit—oh no, the cake is escaping!"

A robust bout of wind caused a fairy cake to tumble out of its china. There was a commotion where the Draculina scrambled to catch the runaway pastry and old Integra just sighed and brought an unlit cigar to her lips. Seras ran past, and the Integra who was watching stretched a hand out, to touch—

—and she was pulled from the vision, her hand falling through murk.

Her sword clattered as she shook with grief and rage. How dare—how dare it show her this, when she had died, when that death had been denied to her, when all had been for nothing, when she could not go back—

"Yes. You can't."

Opposite her, the light hovering between, a dark figure made itself known. It had a stature, a physique, yet in all other aspects it was utterly featureless.

But it was unmistakable.

Integra's silhouette said, "I won't let you."

 

xx

xx

 

"Who dares to use my image against me?" Alucard murmured.

The silhouette emitted a giggle and resumed dancing. It had no features, yet replicated the outline of his coat and even the hat surprisingly well. The hair which he wore straight and sharp in this form spun an arc with its choreography, yet did not reflect the moonlight. A paper-cutout puppet of the void.

He knew what this was supposed to be and bared his teeth.

A distraction.

He always smiled at the promise of extra kills, but distractions would arouse his bloodlust more than they ought to. Because he despised them. Especially when they kept him from playing with his true target. He made sure to draw out their deaths as long and painfully as possible, if only to send a message: a terrible fate awaits those who send their inferiors to the No-Life King while they themselves hide behind the curtain.

Alucard began to circle the puppet. "Whoever is behind this, I will admit, they are resourceful. Using the darkness so I cannot detect, using beasts as a smoke screen, using my likeness to have my Master send me away." His hair gnarled. "Bait."

The unknowable enemy had achieved thus, and more.

He drew Casull. "Let's see if you can keep up with the original goods."

The puppet nimbly sidestepped the first silver bullet, with peals of laughter that were higher and snider than the original. The second and third bullets hit its head and abdomen. Yet instead of blasting massive chunks off, they merely went through, causing distortions in its fabric that quickly knitted back.

It wagged its finger.

"Not to be deterred with toys?" His eyes arched. "How delightful."

He was prepared to be sorely disappointed if the puppet assumed his silhouette but was otherwise a wet rag. His grin widened at the challenge. The Hellsing sigils flared, his restriction levels lifted. Oh, he had not done this in ages. Alucard released a wave of shadows that burned as embers and whirled serpentine under the fake's feet. They snapped it up.

It went limp in the jaws for a moment.

Then, its laughter persisting, it swiped at its restraints.

He felt the shrieks of the souls in his retinue as they were torn apart.

"Oh." Alucard's smile became fixed. "Fatal, are we?"

The femme fatale covered the region of its mouth with its hand and snickered, as if to say, Of course.

It had disintegrated his shadows as if they were nothing.

The entity behind the curtain was certainly more than a Category A monster.

And if thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee.

The abyss was desperate and full of spite.

 

xx

xx

 

Integra gazed into the featureless reflection of herself.

"You're," she took a breath. "Me."

Everything has a price. Something that has happened cannot be undone.

She is an Integra that has already happened. But she is here. A young Miss Hellsing went to sleep, and an old Sir Hellsing woke up in her place. That which should have been is gone.

There is bound to be fallout. And so reality implodes, a void is formed, and within its boundary she confronts the echo of what once had been.

"I am you, or who you have been, or who would have become you. If time hadn't folded back on itself." The last sentence was spoken harshly.

The reflection sounded like her. But it also had the petulance of a young Miss Hellsing, who wore blue skirts and sensible loafers and did not quite comfortably settle into her chair, which was too large for her. Who had wished for something to happen, so that she would prove herself. Who had, despite her own caution, let herself be seated so high she toppled. Who fancied her hands unsullied even as they cleaned up stains that would never truly fade and swept aside shards that would ever sting under the skin.

The Integra who had once been, gazed into her with no eyes. "I'll do better. I won't let those things happen."

She almost laughed.

What a childish sentiment.

Integra leaned heavily to the side, the blood loss from her wound too prolonged to ignore. She mourned for her, this girl who was lost in this rift created out of bitterness and spite. "Don't."

"Why not? "

"I know I've always been stubborn. But you can't. Everything that has happened and everything that will happen, have become one and the same. It's done. We can't go back." Her left eye closed in pain. "Don't let there be two wraiths existing."

"We can undo it." Desperation laced the voice. It indeed sounded like her. "We can clean the slate. I can clean the slate. It doesn't have to be you."

It was as though the reflection considered her a failure, which Integra conceded that to her fifteen-year-old self, she would be.

"I won't—I won't let Alucard leave me. I won't let Walter b-betray me." It stumbled on the word, not yet used to its gravity. "Even the girl, Seras. I'll love her as you do. I'll love her better."

Integra shook her head. It was wrong. All of it. "You can't. You're unable to."

"And who gets to say that?" the reflection challenged. "Look at you. You're like a monster."

She must be. If Integra had a proper mirror, she knew she must look a fright. Blood trailing behind her, threading into her hair. Her eyes too blue and too bright, the left smudged with the bitter tear. Her sword stained and clattering in her grasp. A crimson-soaked wraith.

"You're the one who doesn't belong. They're not yours out there. It's not the Alucard you waited. It's not the Walter you forgave. It's not the Seras you loved." The reflection moved toward her for the first time and snatched the hand holding the sabre. "Stay here."

"And what will that achieve?" Integra asked. "You're already lost."

It stabbed a finger at the sphere of light hanging innocuously above them. "I'll destroy it."

"No," Integra said.

The reflection squeezed her hand in frustration. My, how impatient she had been. More impulsive, more dishonest.

"They deserve better than your bitterness and grief!"

She sighed, shakily. "I need to return. I promised."

"I will instead of you!"

"No. You don't know the weight of the promise. You're right. They are not the ones I have waited, forgiven, and loved." Integra winced, and another red tear escaped her left eye. "But I am the only one who can accept them with all their depravities and sins."

"Are you God, to claim that?" the reflection demanded. "Can you call yourself a Protestant knight? You're not even wearing His cross!"

Yes. She was not.

Not since she woke up.

"You're so young," Integra said, and took her reflection by its free hand. She tugged it into her embrace. It felt odd yet familiar, like Alucard's shadows, or Seras' wings. The light of the singularity illuminated the crown of her head. "You couldn't have known. We were proud of our name and eager to serve our duty, our God-given mission. We thought the war was our calling, it would be the culmination of our purpose. We let it come to us. You let him bring it to you."

If you win this war for me, would that be redemption for the king who lost so many years ago? She had also thought that. Ah, but was it a war? Was it a good war? What was it?

In the end it was nothing more than clockwork. It was nothing more than a childish squabble.

Her wound stained her deeper as she clasped her warmth tighter around the trembling shadow. "After the glorious night, what remains?"

Death looks tiny on a map; a blip and nothing else, though to a person a whole world has disappeared. The sun rises, the nightmare is broken, and what has been shed in the name of glory is bared in all its red and weeping fragments.

And you stand there, in your house full of corpses.

But it could not have known that, her little piece of childish vindication. It lashed out. "Then I'll keep you here with me!"

The Incongruity? The heart of space-time? The crux of it all? Such grandiose words. Integra laughed low, her gaze turning upward to the light. It hovered, as if waiting.

"It's always humans who kill monsters," she whispered. "But it's always humans who become them."

She pushed.

She leapt.

And her mouth closed on the sphere of light—

And she devoured the singularity, as a whole.

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Notes:

The end note for this chapter can be found in the link in my profile.

Arthur Koestler, Cosmic Limerick, in Gaither's Dictionary of Scientific Quotations.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil: Prelude to a Philosophy of the Future.

Chapter 19: a few seconds' difference

In his desiccated state, he had no eyes. He saw—in the loosest sense of the word—the outside in shadows. The humans. Faceless, with their beating hearts, parading above him, innocent yet complicit in the obliteration of the bound beast.

He could forgive Arthur many things except this final act of depriving him of his coffin. This was exile, and as his flesh caved in and clung to his bones he wondered how long this one might last. A decade? A century? If there were no Hellsing heirs in spite of Arthur's whoring, would his fate be this cell and this darkness?

A part of him laughed.

A part of him shuddered.

It was all about compensation, he supposed. His human masters compensated for the fact that their fleeting lifespans were liable for an ancient, powerful being, by stripping him of everything.

Yet it was his nature to take, so he sought compensation for the lack they left him with. For his hunger that simmered underfoot of morsels he could not taste, he would kill more. For his nightmares of the past and of his defeat, he would win more—though they were child's play. As for himself, he lacked meaning on his own. He was stretched thin across an irreducible length of time which could only be defined through human epochs. So he compensated by relinquishing his own self, for purpose however fleeting.

But Arthur Hellsing had never been a man with lofty goals, content to whittle away his life with parties and whores; he had no use for a monster beyond the war.

Thus the Nosferatu, the No-Life King, is deprived of his final resting place, and is left unceremoniously to rot.

"You Hellsings," he rasped. "Once I suffered defeat at your hands I allowed you to take me apart and reassemble me to the design of your purpose, and you cannot grant me even that."

As the cries of his souls grew fainter, he felt his rage subside into a tremor.

Not only have they stripped me of my coffin, they have stripped me of my very existence.

The fate of all discarded things. They will leave me here to gather dust and forget.

Forget—

Forget the man

Forget the monster

Until…until…

When the girl burst into his cell, it was like gravity. Bits and pieces of him faded into the anonymity of time were called to one singular point. There was warmth. There was sound. She was talking to him. She said, "You won't mind me here, will you?"

Here? Mind you here?

Here beside me in this darkness, where even I have forgotten myself.

At this point, he had not recovered his name. He was aware of nothing but her and her wishes. She wished for a knight. He would become one. She wished not to die. He would not let her. Keep your end of the bargain. Nourish me. She did. Her blood. The first to touch his lips. He killed for her and he won.

In one single frame of eternity she gave him back everything. His satiation. His redemption. His purpose.

"Your name?"

"Your ancestors have called me—Alucard."

"Alucard," she said, and she gave him back himself.

He always sought compensation.

And he would never, ever let this go.

Later, when they were alone in the house, one traitor turned into compost, another (though he would not know that until much too later) due to arrive in three days, she asked him, "Why were you in there?"

He could have told her, Your father was more interested in chasing skirts than his duty. Your butler wanted to knock me down a peg.

Instead he told her, "I was waiting."

"For what?" she asked again, but he did not answer, and she chalked it up to another of his eccentricities.

Integra.

Don't you understand?

I have been waiting for you.

 

xx

xx

18.

a few seconds' difference

xx

xx

 

Alucard's face was thoughtful as he waited for half of his torso to return from where it was currently a web of black and red. The femme fatale had chewed off quite a chunk. Not before he ripped apart its head, though it would hardly last long.

Sure enough, the head reattached itself with a twirl. It giggled.

Fighting shadow to shadow, while novel, was not nearly as satisfying as crushing bones or spilling blood. They were at a stalemate. He would be able to shred it to irreconcilable pieces, but its brand of darkness was more compact and concentrated, and packed a punch due to sheer mass.

It now circled him. Alucard followed it with lazy eyes.

Curiouser and curiouser. The puppet. The void. The mutated animals. The discrepancy. Integra. She who was not a girl but a knight from a different point in time. Her bittersweet tears of crimson. These were the details that revolved around her, but the real devil was, he suspected, not in them. Integra was integral to this madness, yet she had not wanted it. She would make it hers—of course, nothing less from his glorious Master—yet she had been just as lost as he was.

There was something he was missing here.

The puppet struck again. Alucard caught it and tore it down the spine. One half furled and funneled into his leathered chest, narrowly missing his heart. His shadows swarmed and tackled it flat.

He tutted. "Don't you know better than to interrupt a dead man's thoughts?"

It laughed contemptuously, before dispersing and resurrecting within the skeletal trees.

Integra. She never seemed to question how she had become this way. Even an older Integra would demand answers, if one morning she woke up and the reality she had known had turned into a dream. And if what she had lost was so important—he curled his lips at the reminder—why chase it here instead of undoing her predicament?

Unless she had reason to believe it could not be undone.

Something that cannot be undone.

Something that cannot be undone—

The splintering of wood and the screech of metal preceded Walter who burst in through the fog, his wires haphazard in front of him and thrashing about around what appeared to be a cocoon of black seepage.

Alucard was unimpressed. "Get your own playground."

"Fuck off yourself," Walter spat, straining with the effort to contain what was effectively nothing.

"On a roll tonight, aren't you? The thrill of the hunt loosening your tongue? This does remind me of our raids where you would try to—"

The wires careened into the trees and capsized, knocking Walter off his feet and forcing him to cut them loose. They unraveled.

"—have one up on me," Alucard finished. His eyes narrowed.

The silhouette emerging was that of a young, teenage Walter.

Even curiouser.

"This can't be," Walter croaked, himself catching sight of the girl's silhouette.

The puppet Walter made a show of patting down its imaginary clothes. It laughed in the same cocky way Alucard remembered.

"Amusing. Very amusing. The night intends to make children out of us all." His gaze traveled from the boy to the girl, and to Walter. "Looking a bit too shaken there, Angel. It's not often you get the chance to teach your little punk self a lesson. You're going to waste it lying pathetically on the ground?"

"It's not right," Walter said. He was not listening. "Why? Why that form?"

Alucard paused. He had a point.

Why those forms in particular?

There was only a slim frame of time these two had coexisted. During the war.

Did the enemy know that?

"It's not right," Walter was repeating. "It wasn't supposed to be like—I refuse to believe—"

And he noticed that Walter looked haunted. His eyes were everywhere but the vicinity of his shadow, which now moved in line with the femme fatale and advanced, as two wraiths, polluting the air with vile and virulent laughter.

Then they froze.

Simultaneously, they turned their heads toward the direction of the shack. They gave out plaintive cries.

They began to crumble.

And Alucard felt Integra's blood in his veins burn.

He dissolved and reassembled at the periphery of the clearing, and found the shack in its center on fire. Black and red, phantasmic flames climbed up the outer walls and consumed the structure housing the void. Blood splattered the threshold of the side where he had left her, presently a gaping emptiness, and not far away he saw the pilot boy, who was watching the destruction, petrified.

The soldier barely had a second to gasp before Alucard jammed his talons into his ribcage and lifted him up. "What do we have here?" he purred, belying the promise of death. "A traitor?"

Wires shot out from the woods and encircled his arm. Walter came heaving through, doubled up but lucid. "We—need to interrogate him—"

"Oh, I was about to do just that," Alucard snarled, and sank his teeth into the neck.

Nothing.

He spat him out.

The blood was warm and red yet contained nothing.

Dylan spasmed in the pool of warm and red nothing, and Walter apprehended him. He cut his wires into the flesh, unconcerned with whether the interrogee would even be conscious at this point. "What did you do with her? Where is she?"

"Inside," came the reply, but it was Alucard who spoke.

He was already standing on the threshold. The fire burned around him. He sensed the void itself would not last for much longer. The blood under the moon had dried up, yet the blood within the dark was vibrant and glistening still, dancing afloat, its bergamot beckoning him well into its depths. Of course, there was no need for further invitation.

"Ariadne's thread. Fittingly, for the monster instead of the unfaithful hero." His tongue protruded and lapped it up.

It sang to him, always, her blood. There could be millions of droplets in between, each clamoring for his attention, and he would always find hers. Nothing, apart from death, would sever that.

Something that cannot be undone.

It was just out of reach.

 

xx

xx

 

The light had felt like nothing, so it went down her throat like nothing when she consumed it. But it was gone. So was her reflection. It made a noise—a cry, or a sigh—and was erased from existence. Integra did not have the chance to mourn it. The darkness began to fluctuate, a ship without its keel. She brought down her sword and braced herself against it, her breaths uneven, her hair sticking to her face.

She dragged her right hand, crusted with blood, to her chest where her heart was still beating. Nothing had changed, yet everything had changed. She had devoured the singularity of time and space.

I won't be able to ridicule Alucard's appetite again.

Integra thought this, and her world tipped.

Light flooded her vision.

When she could see, she was amidst rubble, under a sky touched by the early rays of the sun. She stared at it. Her lips parted and a shaky laugh tore from her.

Integra pounded on her chest. "Take me back," she muttered. "Take me back now."

The light, if it was indeed there, had no response. It could be in her fucking spleen for all she cared; but wherever it was, or whether it was nowhere and rather some intrinsic part of her she would be damned, she would be fucking damned if she let it make her relive this all over again.

In the distance, loudspeakers rang out a mad man's monologue. In the distance, wires cut through the air in a futile attempt. In the distance, blood flowed as rivers toward a single point.

London, thirty years ago or seven years later.

This is just a memory. It has already happened. What has happened cannot be undone. The singularity had shown her this, twice. Integra could not touch or be seen by those in the past. Yet she could feel herself. She could feel the pain and the grief originating from her heart, her stupid heart, that never mended, that remained red and raw and blistering since this break of dawn where she lost everything.

She could feel her feet move.

She was walking. Then she was running.

This is just a memory. Why was she running?

Alucard.

This is just a memory. He was gone. She was gone. He was late. Always late. Too late.

Alucard.

This is just a memory. She could not go back. She said this herself. She was supposed to know better. This was merely a cruel trick of a power she knew not yet how to harness. Don't hope, don't expect. Let the record run its course.

(But isn't hope the most human thing?)

"Alucard!" Integra shouted.

It was set in stone, what will happen.

And so it goes. A man snaps his fingers. A paradox is consumed. A knight watches the obliteration of her vampire projected larger than life on numerous glass screens; she shouts, she whispers—It's an order, Alucard—if nothing else will work, then this must. Her order has never failed before. It must work. It must.

Everyone will leave, someday. But not you. Never you. You weren't supposed to leave. Not until—

It does not work.

Thirty years ago, Integra could only watch. She had been too far away. This time, again, she is too far away.

Still, she ran.

If it only took a few seconds' difference, could she reach out a few steps or even a hundred and take his hand? Grab him and shake him and scream at him that he wasn't allowed to leave her, she gave him her order, don't disappear don't disappear!

And so it was with human hope that Integra ran against fate, which trudged according to its dirge. Hope that had her see the back of him, torn apart in the wind and closing the last of his eyes.

"Alucard!"

And—

For a moment—for a heartbeat in time, it was as if—

It was such a tiny thing. A miniscule difference. She must have imagined it.

Yet—for a heartbeat in time, as he said her name—Integra—

It was almost as if, his head was turning, to look at her—

She reached out.

Don't.

Leave.

Me.

Ah, but this is just a memory.

Farewell, Integra.

This is just a memory.

And just like then, just like before, just like it has always been, he is gone.

Integra stared at her hand, her outstretched hand. And like so many years ago, tears dropped from her eyes as fleeting as time.

She could not have known, as she collapsed in on herself, wracked with dry sobs that turned into half-mad laughter, she so resembled the man she loved, in the rising sun.

 

xx

xx

 

It was familiar, this darkness. Long since, back when his heart still beat, he had gazed upon it. In a sequence of mere seconds—the axe falling, his tongue swiping the blood of the slaughtered, the cross splitting, his head tumbling off the block—it had called to him.

Mad king, you have nothing. No castle, no domain, no subjects. Come. What reason do you have to remain?

His answer had been, Justification.

Alucard inhaled.

Traversing it now, this darkness that tasted and smelled familiar, should have been nostalgic. He had walked parallel with it for centuries, courted it from war to war, slaked both their thirsts. Yet here, it raised his hackles. His tongue snaked out again, his Master's sweet bitterness reeling him deeper in. The further he went, however, the colder her blood grew. As cold as this darkness. As cold as death.

It came over him like a sledgehammer.

He staggered.

The riddle he had entertained himself with earlier.

Something that cannot be undone—

There was a crack, and a beam fell out of nowhere and crashed next to him, smoking. The void was imploding. Alucard glimpsed holes in its fabric that revealed the original interior. Warped floors overrun with weeds, walls with vines, furniture rotten and eaten. A dingy old shack. That was all it was. This pathetic excuse for a stage had made them into fools.

Because that was what he was. A fool, for even thinking it. He should silver himself for humoring this farce. Yes, that was what this was. A farce. What hours before the break of dawn? What loss? As if he would allow himself to lose. To lose her. She was here. The future may have lost her, but he had not. She was his. Only his.

His thoughts made no sense even to himself. But they grounded him.

On its own volition, his hand went up and clawed at the dark leather binds over his heart. The heart she had laid claim to. The heart she had pierced.

He shivered. He followed her thread.

It was silent when he found her.

Her back was to him. She was on one knee, her head bowed against her upright sword. The same arm he remembered injured three years ago was lying freshly wet and fragrant.

She was very still.

It felt like an insurmountable amount of time had passed since he last saw her, though it could not have been more than an hour. And yet, here she was. As if she was the ancient, not him. As if she had been waiting that insurmountable amount of time, for him.

Alucard wanted to pull her up and shake her. What are you doing here?

You said you would return to me.

What are you doing, kneeling as if in mourning?

Look at me. Why won't you look at me?

She lifted her head.

"Is that you, Count?"

When there was no reply, she sighed.

"Ah." The syllable hung in the darkness alone. "That is fine. I will wait."

He was upon her, grabbing and turning her around and shaking her. Her glasses clattered to the floor.

"I am here," he snarled.

Integra looked at him with wide eyes. Then, she smiled. An old, tempered smile. "Yes, you are."

A red stain marked the left slope of her face. Her eyes were as blue as always, not a hint of red in them. But they frightened him.

She was beautiful. She was terrifying. She was beautiful and terrifying and she tossed aside her sword and seized his hands from where they were clutching her shoulders, to yank them down, so he would fall to his knees. There, Integra pulled him on top of her.

Her possession of his hands was irrefutable, that to avoid crushing her with his weight, Alucard had his shadows envelop them both. The tendrils of black and red wove into her pale hair, encircled her waist, molding her to him, her clothes a soft rustle against his restraints of hard leather, her heat against his cold.

His eyes were wild with lust; he could see them reflected in hers. But he was completely, utterly in thrall. Integra kissed him. She moved her lips on his with the intent to map their carnality. The hand of her injured arm was unable to retain its grip, and let him go, to which he immediately gained purchase on the nape of her neck and pulled her closer. The scent of her blood was making his mouth sloppy. Her tongue conquered his with ease.

She parted to breathe, and Alucard nosed the blood on her cheek and chin, down her throat. He licked and then he sucked, to mark her, so when she saw herself later, she would know that she was here, she was his Countess. She rewarded him with a sharp intake, squeezing his one hand as though she would puncture his glove and leave crescents.

His tongue, obscenely red from gorging on her trail of blood and more so from her kiss, was tracing a wet line beneath her blouse collar when Integra said, "I do wonder why it had to be this way. Must I have died, for you to return to me?"

And finally, he had to acknowledge the answer that was plain before him.

Something that cannot be undone.

Death.

He, almost frantically, pressed his ear to her heart. It beat—quicker than normal, due to their frenzy—yet it beat. She chuckled, and the sound joined the cadence of her life, sent tremors through him that were swallowed up by his own. Integra moved her sodden arm and tangled her hand in his hair, her fingers placating.

"It's not going to keep that up for long if you don't do something about this wound," she taunted.

Alucard growled. He threw his head back, baring his teeth, and plunged, tearing open her blouse and brassiere. Her chuckles turned into moans as he latched onto the wound and sucked, drawing the bullet out little by little until it was a blistering knob in his mouth which he ground to dust. She cradled his head as he did. And though his act was far from gentle, her fingers persisted in stroking his hair as if she heard the cries of his wretched, wretched soul.

Don't leave me don't leave me don't leave me.

He cleaned the wound, closed it, and licked his way up her shoulder and across her clavicle, then down, to her exposed breast. Integra gasped, and it was only his shadows that were keeping her in place as she arched her back.

Far away, a wall collapsed, and the structure heaved against the caustic flames. When he felt her tense, the Count did not make the same mistake as before. He gave her breast one last lick, and withdrew. He drank in the image of his Master, his Countess, draped over his shadows, her chest rising and falling, adorned with his marks and bared for his gaze. But when she closed her eyes to gather her wits, his grasp on her nape pushed her up to his face.

His eyes were violent and fragile.

"You are not allowed to leave me," he hissed.

Integra pushed as well. Their foreheads collided none too delicately. "Taking the words out of my mouth, Count?"

His voice was something from the pits of his ancient madness. "You Hellsings have made me into this. You took, and took and took, but in the end I shall take back everything." His visage twisted. Crimson tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. "Four hundred years of wandering, one hundred years of enslavement, and I have you at last."

Do you dream? she had once asked him.

Yes, my Master.

What do you dream of?

He had worn his crooked smile and answered, Of everything.

The Integra who had once been, would not have understood. Yet the Integra who had become him—a creature that should remain dead, but did not, could not—she had come all the way here to tell him, Yes, I see what you mean.

It will be enough, wandering this earth, yearning and dreaming for centuries, centuries—if at its very end I find you.

All this while she had been holding his hand in a grip that would have been bruising to a human. Integra took it between their faces and kissed it, the hand she had wanted to grab, to make him stay.

"And you, you are not allowed to leave me," she said softly.

They had done things a bit backwards.

But he was here. And so was she.

"Count," Integra called, and leaned into him. "Your Countess is tired. Let us return home."

And his tears dropped, like hers, as fleeting as time.

"Yes." A ghost of a smile settled on his face. "My Countess."

Alucard conjured his coat and wrapped it around her. He gathered her in his arms and stood. The void dissipated in their wake. Integra felt heavy-lidded. Her Count's shoulder was quite nice to doze off on, and besides, she really was very tired.

But she was the Hellsing director, and some things were a force of habit. "Walter?" she prompted.

"Alive."

"The soldier?"

"He will be alive, if Walter can help it." His edges darkened. "He tasted like nothing when I drank to read him."

Integra was quiet as she turned the information over. Alucard's eyes never left her.

"The target?"

"Destroyed when the fire started. I assume you had to do with it, my dear Countess."

She was not eager to discuss her devouring space-time just yet. "Go on."

"You are tired," Alucard said, with some of his levity flickering back. "A full report can wait. You will want to be awake for their descriptions."

She presumed he would have met a shadow, like she did, in the shape of his female form as the laughter had suggested. Their descriptions?

Integra was quiet again, and almost let herself drift away, when it was he who prompted, "The enemy?"

So he thought the same.

Dylan, the soldier who had never been in Hellsing. Yet he knew to bring her cigars, to address her as "Sir." He had volunteered as the pilot for this trip. He had waited for her to send Alucard and Walter off to approach her. He had known how the void would act, the nature of the Incongruity. He had neither confirmed nor denied he was under orders. The cards were stacked against him; however, Integra could feel it in her bones that he was not the true enemy.

The one responsible for time folding back on itself, the one who had spirited her here, was out there.

Dylan's objective had been seeing her off to the Incongruity. There had been an intended conclusion.

A conclusion where Integra ended up with the singularity.

Who would want that?

"Unconfirmed," Integra said, eventually.

Moonlight streamed through. The deviltry was all but vanquished. Now that its spatial influence was gone, she could see that the shack was small and dingy and—the smoldering remains of its skeleton notwithstanding—quite ordinary. Integra thought that would be the end of that.

"Wait," she said.

Alucard stopped.

Integra shifted in his arms, looking back.

"What is it?"

She buried her face in his shoulder and shut her eyes. "Nothing. Let's go."

They went.

The specks of white between the warped flooring waved in the breeze.

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Notes:

Hello wonderful readers. On the other site that I post to there was a misunderstanding, so I would like to make this clear.

The plot of Satis has been never been intended as a linear time travel fix-it where I walk through canon events and undo everything. The beginning, middle, and end of Satis has been pretty much set in stone since its inception and I have been steadily manifesting it, despite my unfortunately frequent hiatuses due to work, burnout, and anxiety.

What I write is not filler. I do use a lot of metaphors. I will finish this, however long it takes, just as I did with Snow White. My only hope is that you will enjoy the ride.

Thank you always for reading and encouraging and expressing your thoughts to me. They are precious and what gets me through. It will be warm soon, or at least in my part of the world, and I hope the warmth will touch your heart just as yours have touched mine.

Chapter 20: merciful, merciless

xx

xx

 

19.

merciful, merciless

 

xx

xx

 

Walter remembered last summer, when the rainfall had been heavy even by English standards. It had been of little concern, initially. But the lady had not come down for tea, and her office had been vacant; he found her instead standing cross-armed opposite the door to the basement.

"Doesn't it flood down there, in this kind of weather?" she had asked.

It had taken Walter a moment to digest, without upsetting his stomach, what she was getting at. He went straight to the point. "He would not mind, my lady."

"Are you certain? He becomes a petulant child with just a bit of sunlight," Integra said with a frown. "I don't want his coffin to get wet, he'll be insufferable." She snorted. "Although it would be amusing if he woke up to find himself afloat."

Her gibe was to mask the concern underneath. He chose his words carefully. "Since it would not be running water, it would be a minor inconvenience, if any."

"Hmm."

"My lady, you do not need to trouble yourself with his discomfort. You have been—lenient, allowing him an entire hall, a seat—" A bastardization of a throne, as if he deserved that. "And though your kindness is inestimable, I must caution you, the more Alucard is given, the more he will seek. He is a monster, after all."

"But he is my monster," Integra said with conviction so quick to rise that Walter was taken aback. "I am responsible for him, and the welfare of my subordinates is important to me."

She said it as a matter of fact. She was ever unwaveringly sure of her right over Alucard.

Walter settled on a mollifying expression. "Our benefits are England's best."

Integra chuckled, and finally moved, albeit at a slow pace.

She would deny it, for Hellsings were good at denial, but Walter knew she waited for Alucard. Even if it was purely to question the vampire to sate her academic curiosity, she waited for him.

He's not worthy of your regard, was the viscus Walter himself denied. You weren't supposed to become so fond of him. You weren't supposed to care.

Yet he was the flawless butler, so he added, "I shall ring up the contractors, to reinforce the basement against future flooding."

He heard the smile in her voice. "Just make sure he doesn't eat them."

If only things were as simple as last summer. If only Walter could expect. Because he was able to, before. The lines in between were ones Integra herself disciplined. He had been grateful for that. Proud of her. As long as they wore their masks and pretended, the clock would tick away. The years would turn into months and then weeks and days, until it was the zero hour.

Walter, battered and sleep-deprived and most likely jeopardizing all of them by currently flying the helicopter back to headquarters, suppressed a shudder.

Now he had—whatever this was.

The clock was broken.

Integra was no longer the Integra he had known.

And Alucard—

When the vampire emerged from the forest, Walter—who had somehow made it out with a half-dead soldier on his back—had kept his mouth shut.

Every instinct had screamed at him to keep his mouth shut.

Walter had wanted to pry Integra from his grasp. Every instinct told him he would have died if he did.

"It's all a bloody game to you," Walter had spat, when he was young and stupid. "Because you don't care about anything. You have fucking nothing to lose."

"Oh, little Angel, a game isn't fun if there's not any risk," Alucard had simpered. "But you're right. Why should any of these puny human lives and their motivations matter to me?"

And that's why you have to die, Walter had thought.

Yet in his youth and stupidity he had never once stopped to consider what it would be to stare into a monster who did have something to lose, who ceased to play games.

It was the absolute quiet of the unblinking eyes, the hollow curve of the unsmiling mouth. They told him, It's a merciful world, isn't it?

It's a merciful world, if a monster such as Alucard is careless. It's a merciful world, if a man can hinge his grand plans on that carelessness. It's predictable, isn't it? If a monster acts only according to his Master's will, if he is assured of the victory he will bring her, if he is not desperate?

Isn't it? his own voice, too much like his younger self, snickered in his head.

The same Hellsing denial affected Walter. This, however, he could not deny.

He would not have a chance against Alucard if Alucard was not careless.

The world would not have a chance against Alucard if Alucard was not careless.

So Walter suppressed everything, and put his mind to avoiding a crash. Because—fuck, it was not even that, it was not the undeniable truth forcing him to keep his mouth shut and keep his eyes on the air. No, the worst thing was—

The silhouette of his younger self—

The silhouette of his younger self had not been combative from the start. It had been sitting on a tree branch, and waved as he approached, as if to say, Fancy meeting like this. When Walter felled the tree, the shadow had descended and placed a hand on his shoulder.

That had been all it took, really.

It dragged him through a confusing hodgepodge of sounds which, akin to a radio, tuned in to a single frequency. The same cocky laughter of a stupid youth who, tainted by desperation and fallen from grace, had never truly grown up in the fifty years that had passed.

He's dead! He's dead! he was crowing.

He's gone! He's gone...

The angel has fallen from grace. Yet had he ever been an angel? Was he not, perhaps, an Icarus, too human and too prideful of the wings granted to him? He refused to eat them as Hermes' bird had, he flew higher and higher. For his zero hour, the one glorious night, should he rebel against the sun and plummet to his ruin, so be it.

(But after the glorious night, what remains?)

The youthful laughter died down.

This is what I wished for? he whispered.

This?

And that one word haunted Walter, as on the horizon, the dawn broke.

 

xx

xx

 

Her sleep ebbed and flowed. She was aware, for instance, of her Count's hair slithering under the coat. It coiled over the pulse of her wrist.

Greedy, she would have said. All that, and you still scrabble about for the minutiae of this stubborn heart.

But she only let out a sigh, warming the skin above the dark leather of his neckline. His arms tightened around her.

When she was again conscious, they were in the chopper. A heavy weight lay across her front, and her eyes opened a sliver. A mass of black tendrils suffused her being. He was folded over her, guarding her heart.

Really, she would have said then. I'm not going to stop breathing in my sleep.

What escaped between her lips was his name, so softly it was swept away in the din of the flight. Yet he heard, and turned, a red gleam visible behind a cage of tangled strands.

Rest, my Countess.

She tried. She let herself be reeled back into slumber, but this time she saw many different things. The meadow. The daisies. Seras. Her head was bowed. Her face was hidden. Seras, she called. I'll be home soon.

The Seras in her dream did not answer.

The meadow withered into ashes. London, burning. Her, running, running. The back of him. Alucard, she called. Alucard, I'm here. You are here; look at me.

The Alucard in her dream did not answer.

She woke up.

It took Integra too long to realize the morning was not that morning, and she had not been running, running; the air was sweet, the grass was dewy, and the curl of hair around her wrist clinging to each erratic stroke told her she was here.

She twisted her head into the crook of his neck and breathed heavily, open-mouthed against his throat. His grip turned almost painful.

The manor was above them, austere in the early bright. We're here. Of course we're here—we always return. To this glorified mausoleum. And then Integra laughed into his neck because she thought it fondly.

Something amusing? His voice came tenuous in her mind.

"Isn't it? All of us here have died at least once."

He had been holding her for so long and so closely there was heat trapped in those hands on her waist and her knees. How she would like them to touch more. How she desired to take this ridiculous coat off and make him touch her proper, instead of his sneaky hair. But his every detail had gone utterly silent, and when she tilted back and reached up to turn his face toward her, she saw his eyes were raw.

They looked as tired as she was.

She traced the creases under them. The inflamed orbs flitted with the movement. He had her in his possession and yet he sought these little allowances.

There were no words.

Integra could pretend. In an innocent way, not like how she used to. That this was the morning after her death. That she was in his arms because he was there. That her sleep had been dreamless, her night had been uneventful and the light she had swallowed was nothing. Pretend, for only a bit.

The manor's clock still tolled, even if all of its numbers were in disarray.

Walter was at the doors. She knew without looking; she heard the dark hiss of thousands of souls behind the pale mouth. Ah, that was why he was not speaking. Perhaps they would run amuck. Integra dug her nails into his skin lightly.

"My lady. The medics are here."

"The soldier, Dylan," Integra said, her eyes on Alucard. "Has he been taken in?"

"He is being treated," Walter replied. He sounded exhausted. "They must see to you."

At once, ragged ends of black and red sprang up. Alucard had barricaded them in his shadows.

"Count," she chided.

"Integra," Walter said weakly, "the doctor must see you."

"Get yourself treated, Walter, and rest." Integra looked at him then, beyond the line. "You've done well. Meet me in the office before lunch."

They sidestepped him.

"I'd prefer to avoid a welcoming committee," she murmured, and they bypassed the doors and shifted through a wall.

Quietude greeted them in the upper floors.

They always returned, to this glorified mausoleum. Where one was enslaved and one was a child soldier, where one was a monster because she had no other option, where one was drained in her arms and became its walls.

They had nowhere else to go.

Yet there still had been laughter. There still had been joy. Despite the lack of anything to laugh about, despite the lack of joy.

His shadows subsided. They stood in a corridor, in the shade between the windows.

"Put me down."

He did no such thing.

"Alucard. You can't hold me forever."

Can't I?

"Obstinate creature." Integra moved her hand to tug at the coil of hair which had steadfastly clung to her wrist. "You'll tire soon enough. Will you cram both of us into your coffin?"

She was half-serious. He had offered.

His face was shuttered, his voice faint even as a mere echo in her mind. Perhaps I would have wanted that, a night ago.

"And now? What do you want now?"

Without his levity he was the weight of his years and thousands and thousands of souls. Alucard spoke at last.

"I want you to eat my heart."

Integra only smiled.

She tugged at his hair again, and this time he did put her down.

She leaned against a window, her legs sluggish. She closed her eyes. She did not see herself as he saw her. Haloed by the sun, his living, breathing, beautiful and terrifying justification.

He pressed his hands on the glass behind her and canted his head, shrouding her in shadow.

The coat on her bare shoulders was like him, encompassing. It was purely his, unaltered, and Integra realized the question she had thought unanswered—Why do you wear it, this relic of your most hated past?—had meant to ask, Why do you remind yourself of your defeat?

There was no need for him to answer that.

"Shall I eat your heart, Count?" she asked instead. She remained in the dark of her own making. With a flick of the wrist she bound his hair tighter around. "I wear your color, your marks, your subtle wreath. But what rite is this? You know Donne's poem is not so innocuous. It won't do for us to emulate it."

"But we are inverse," Alucard parried, his voice now feverish. "We are not Theseus and Ariadne, yet I followed your thread. It led me to you, my cruel, glorious Countess."

"The thread was to have him escape the labyrinth, not guide him into it," Integra pointed out.

"Thus I pace within this reality you have wrought, at your mercy."

Still, she demurred. "It would be too fleshy."

"Drink it, then. A drop."

"If I will have a drop, what of the rest?"

"I'll paint it into your hair, your skin." The words strained at the seams of sanity. "You can crush it underfoot. You can have me eat it for you. If you will have a drop."

She arched her spine. "Why?"

"You have everything of me. This is merely its sum."

"Ah, but I recall, you said you would take back everything."

"I will have," Alucard said, and there was no inflection, no art. "Because you are Integra."

Just the integrity of the truth.

She is Integra.

Integra opened her eyes. She cupped his cheek. The wreath of his hair fell away.

"I accept."

Her gaze was blue and clear and absolutely damning.

"That single drop, which I rejected before this night."

She thumbed his upper lip.

"Let it be our consummation."

Alucard brought this upon himself.

He told her, he required indemnity. He told her, he would be holding her in his grasp, as she divulged her secrets to him willingly. She was in his grasp. She relinquished herself. She was his as he was hers. Yet he is the one damned. His heart used to be dead. Now he feared it beating. He must carve it out. For if it was hers, if she had it, he would only have to guard her heart.

It's a merciful world, isn't it? To a monster if he does not have consequence? But what does it mean, to the monster, to the world, if he does? In a span of mere days the world had become merciless. He no longer could lack consequence because he now had everything.

He had Integra.

The glass cracked under his hands.

"Patience." She coaxed his twisting mouth with a sweep of her thumb. "You won't have us desecrate this poor window, will you, dear Count?"

He hissed. He did not know what he would do.

"You won't. We have more urgent matters to attend to." Her gaze hardened. "I need to tell you about—"

Integra cut off. She looked over his shoulder.

"Seras?"

What?

And in a move torturously reminiscent of a few days ago, Integra slipped out of his arms and, with the glass further cracking under his palms and with his damned soul already in shatters by her own hand, left him, for the girl.

The girl had burst out from her room down the corridor. Her eyes were wild. They darted around, less searching and more beseeching—then she crumpled, her knuckles bloodless against her head.

"I—I'm—"

"Seras." Integra grabbed her, and the girl jumped. She stared up at her.

Then she flung herself into her, and Integra stumbled only a bit.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Seras gasped out.

Her arms were startlingly strong. Almost bruising. Integra bore it all.

"Integra?"

"Yes."

"Are you here?"

"Yes, you silly thing." Integra loosened her injured arm from the coat and held her gently. "I promised, didn't I?"

She glanced at Alucard. He looked thunderous.

Seras shivered. Perhaps it was the dip in the temperature, but she was not quite herself yet. "I'm sorry."

"Why, did you break a window?" Integra kept her tone light while she guided Seras back to her door, away from the indignant shadows spiraling up the walls. "What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I—I don't know," Seras whispered, brokenly.

Nightmares, again. Why? It prickled at Integra.

Why did they persist?

The girl's room was filtered white by the curtains which swayed as they entered. It was summer. The windows were open. The sheets were on the floor, thrown off in terror, and the blue pitcher of daisies lay wobbling on the windowsill.

Integra sat Seras down and righted the pitcher. The daisies waved in the breeze.

Alucard followed in silently. He haunted a corner, dimming the room, and Integra shot him a look. She sat beside Seras on the bed, making a point of facing them both.

When the warmth that had become familiar smoothed out her brow, Seras calmed, though she still shivered.

"Seras, I'm here. I've come home, like I promised."

A strange picture. Yet strangeness is normal in this house. The lady with the blood-soaked perfume of the night in her air and the red coat wrapped around her bare shoulders, borrowed from the gentleman whose edges swirled and snapped like angry mouths. Stranger was the girl, and the strangest her dreams.

"Integra," Seras choked, the haze lifting, "you're hurt."

"It's nothing," Integra said.

"But, Integra—"

"Seras, will you tell me something?"

Integra thought of her own dream. Seras, she had called, and the one in the dream had not answered; her head bowed, her face hidden. The question sharpened in her mind.

Why did she have these nightmares?

"Seras," Integra repeated, and she took the shaking girl into her arms again. For all it was worth, what with the blood that permeated everything. "You didn't use to have these dreams."

"What—what do you mean?"

"Before you came here," Integra said steadily, "you didn't have these dreams, did you?"

"I've—always had nightmares." Seras' eyes deadened. "But not—"

"Not these," Integra continued. "And you forget them."

There was a nod.

"It's fine if you can't remember them. It's fine if you want to forget. It should be that way. Dreams, should only ever be dreams." Yet it was never quite so simple, was it?

Sometimes dreams, are more than just dreams.

Sometimes nothing, is more than just nothing.

Integra met Alucard's gaze. He was frowning, the turn of the conversation distracting him. She herself understood little. Merely that one question led to another, and then another, and then another, and they all could end up at the beginning. They all could end up being the same.

"Seras. The first dream I bought from you, will you tell me what that was?"

Seras curled into a ball, seeking more of Integra's warmth, though there was the summer breeze, and the sun that shone through. Integra was red. She smelled like blood. Seras clung to her. None of that mattered.

"In my dream, everyone—"

Why does everyone always leave me?

"—everyone I loved was dead. But I don't know who they are." Seras looked up at Integra, desperate, as if surely she would know who they were. "And—"

"And?"

"And I didn't want that to happen."

Integra was quiet. She brushed a lock of hair behind Seras' ear. "Thank you for telling me."

Seras clutched at her. "Integra? Did I—did I do something wrong?"

She shook her head. "No, my darling."

None of it mattered, the girl thought. The blood, the dead, the past, the future; if she had Integra in the present. Integra, who took her in, who said she loved her. She was Seras Victoria, and Seras Victoria had always been unlucky. Except now. Except here.

"But if I did—if I ever did something wrong, will you—will you still love me, even then?"

The daisies caught Integra's left eye. White, fragile, waving in the breeze.

"Yes."

She felt the weight of this house.

This house. Where they all returned to.

Integra turned to Alucard. To Seras.

"I will love you, regardless."

 

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Notes:

End note for this chapter has been archived in my Tumblr post of old notes as of January 24, 2023.

Chapter 21: birds

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20.

birds

 

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"Why am I here?"

Integra asked this question.

The clock ticked past six. The morning was muffled by the curtains, the air stagnant, and the scent of her blood swirled within like the finest wine.

They stood in her bedroom.

Another day, another night, he had been in this room and kissed the sole of her foot. Alucard smiled brittlely. The same stage, the same players, the only difference was the rising sun. She smelled of blood. She smelled of him. She wore his kisses. She wore his coat. She was his.

The monster would have gloated, but all he felt was trepidation.

He had been patient as she tended to the girl who had exhausted herself with her outburst, and fell back asleep. Integra had waited, until perhaps the dreams this time would keep at bay. Perhaps. Dreams were nebulous. Even he could not control his own. Nonetheless she had waited, staring at the girl, then at the daisies on the windowsill.

"She was so afraid I would die."

Now, her left eye creasing, Integra answered her own question. "We are here because we have nowhere else to go."

She looked at him. "Aren't we?"

For an instant, Alucard relived another morning. Another figure in red, driving a stake through his heart. Count, you have nothing. Nothing.

Look, Abraham. The last of your line is wearing your coat, now mine. And she is mine.

I have everything. Everything. And he would have laughed, but again all he felt was trepidation.

Alucard knelt.

"Yes."

Nowhere else.

Integra gazed down at him for a solemn while. Then slowly, she ran her fingers over the lapels, and pulled them back.

It was not meant to entice. She was tired, she wanted a bath, she would need to brace her arm. Yet when she peeled off the crimson that had been warmed so intimately against her flesh, and exposed his marks on her neck, Alucard surged and stalled her hand.

"Let," he said, "me."

There was a little quirk on her lips.

Her hair clung to her dark skin like lightning. It struck him as harshly, his urge to push her into the bed behind her. To rubify each pale strand in the throes of their consummation. To hear her cry out his name as they brought Eden down to this chamber. To have his drop of blood splatter on her tongue, a sacrilegious rose.

Alucard stayed put. This was not meant to entice.

Though her eyes were on him they were distant.

The coat pooled to the floor when Integra spoke. "Something is very wrong."

Alucard removed the tatters of her blouse. His hands trembled, and he smothered them in the fabric as he replied sarcastically, "Oh, I haven't noticed."

"Seras' dreams. How is it possible?"

The girl again? "How is what possible?" he spat.

Integra grabbed his shoulders. Her tone in contrast was maddeningly calm. "Listen. Everyone she loved was dead. How is it possible she dreams of those people and their deaths that have yet to occur?"

Alucard wanted to shout, I am listening. Your heart, I am listening to your heart, your life. What does that stupid girl and her dreams have to do with anything? You are here and you are mine.

But she was cruel. "Dylan, the soldier. He knew. And Seras..." Integra scratched at the leather.

And it angered him. That somehow these pests knew her, had some connection with her past life—which she now so nonchalantly alluded to. Where was he in all this?

Nowhere.

He wasn't there.

He wasn't there when she—

"Your questions seem to be piling up, dear Countess. Let me ask you one in return."

He felt her tense.

"Did you die," Alucard rasped, "because I was not there?"

Of course, you are human. Of course, you will die, someday.

Yet—

Integra's eyes were distant. A distance of time.

No, don't go there.

Come back.

"Do you think you could have prevented it? How presumptuous, even for you, Alucard."

The clock ticked for each second of silence. In that moment she was lost to him. Fettered by time, as he was. Then at the end of that distance she said, "I wouldn't have let you."

There was a clamor in the back of his mind that grew louder, and he realized it was keening. He was mourning.

"I died, to a human illness." She smiled ruefully. "I'd imagined you would think it fitting."

Alucard imagined an Integra in battle. She would deliver the killing blow to the head of their enemies. She would stand tall and radiant. And if she herself was wounded, if her blood was being wasted on charred soil, she would not falter.

If she died in battle, it would be a glorious death. But it would also mean he failed her. He was her war dog. It was his purpose to flank her. She would keep standing, not only because of her pride, but also because he would be there.

Of course, you will die, someday.

Yet he is a selfish creature.

Her warmth left his shoulders. Integra walked away from him—No, where are you going?—unclasping her skirt, letting it fall, her hair swaying with the strides of her bare legs. She opened the bathroom door, and stopped.

"Forgive me."

She said it like a farewell.

"I grew up too quickly, and died before you knew it."

Soon there was the sound of running water.

The Countess won the war, but lost her Count.

He left her on the battlefield.

The monster's eyes were wide and red. They were dreadful eyes, desperate eyes. Had he not become a monster so he would never again have to feel this way?

The shadows in the crevices wailed in many, many different voices. His enemies, his soldiers, the men and women and children he had devoured, the janissaries, the boyars. Mad king, you failed her. You failed her like you failed us. You lost, all over again. You have nothing. Nothing. They grew louder and louder.

He bit through his tongue.

The door. It was open.

An invitation.

Alucard dragged himself, both figuratively and literally, through the chaos of his mind. He crossed the threshold as if it were consecrated, and the steam rising from the bath did banish his demons somewhat, at the same time it spiraled him down a more acute kind of madness.

It had not escaped him, since the day he awoke, he was paving his own road to ruin by his sheer need of her. But she was Integral. And if she would drive him to true madness with her body bare and wet, so be it.

Alucard crawled, a stain in the sterile white space, his hands hooking over the side of the porcelain. She did not react to his presence. Except her fingers rose from the water and met his. She was submerged up to her chest, her hair fanned out and floating on the surface, and he thought it merciful.

"It was very strange, to wake up like this."

Her voice took on the faraway quality he now associated with this Integra.

"I haven't been this young in decades. Right up until the evening of my death, I felt ancient. I wasn't that old. Only fifty-two. Perhaps waiting does that to you. Waiting without promise."

And yet, she had waited.

She would have been beautiful.

"But I won't talk about that. It's done, I died, and I can't go back." Integra laughed tersely. "I think I remember telling you I would give you my impression of death. Well, here it is. It is...wrong."

She gripped his hand. "Why am I here?" And Alucard realized she had not actually answered her own question, earlier. "The forest. The void. Dylan. The light." Integra turned to him, her gaze electric in its intensity. "They were waiting for me."

Alucard opened his mouth. "The laughter. You recognized it. The target wore the silhouette of my female form. Another engaged Walter, wearing that of his youth."

"Both of you?"

"Is that also connected to you?"

Integra was still.

"You, and Walter." She lifted her opposite hand from the water and covered her left eye. "This, and Seras' dreams. Time, folding back on itself." Her right eye was fixed on him, relentless. "If I were to say I am the common denominator in all this, what would you say to that?"

"I would say," he ventured softly, "someone wants to change reality. By way of undoing your—"

"—death," she finished.

Time seemed to have stopped with her. Only the faint plinks of stray droplets hitting the marble floor marked its passage. Time was pitiless, but for her it had eaten its tail. Perhaps a world without Integra Hellsing was impassable. Like Hermes' bird, it chose to mutilate itself and crawl back to her side.

My Master, my Countess, you are truly magnificent.

"Does it matter?"

Her eye narrowed.

"You are here." Alucard spoke with fervor. "Does it matter why?"

Integra glared at him. Of course it matters, she wanted to say, yet her fingers were possessive, and upon her left eye they curled into a fist. He snatched up both of her hands.

"If you order me to search and destroy the entity who sent you here, I shall do so gladly. But I am a selfish creature." He pulled her. The bath slopped over the porcelain. His hand splayed on her back. Her heat was almost blistering, wafting in scented waves from her supple flesh.

She punched him in the arm. "Yes, you are," Integra drawled, but her fist unfurled and she dug her nails into him.

"If the future could not keep you to itself, if Death could not kill you..."

Her hair dripped over her breasts, sticking to her skin, making it slick. The contrast of his white glove against the dark slope of her back, where the water ran down in rivulets, was inciting him to turn his head and sink his teeth into her neck. Instead he weighed onto her shoulder.

"It is their loss and my gain."

Alucard saw his eyes reflected in the water.

Wide and frightened, like a child's.

God, I pray not for mercy.

"Why are you here?" The monster echoed her question. "Why are we here?" He held her tighter and more delicately than he had ever held a cross. Alive and breathing, she did not burn him coldly as the cross would. How could any God compare?

"You are here because we are here. We are here because you are here."

We must be herded, to the Heavenly Father's arms. But he has spurned us. Where else can we go?

Ah, to her, to her. She who will proudly command us. She who will embrace us, the taint on our souls. She who bears the same taint. Yet she stands tall and radiant, so we flock to her. She, who will love us, regardless.

Integra sighed. "You vampires."

The plural form did not go unnoticed. He would ask later. There would be time for later.

Her voice was quiet at his ear. "You won't lie to me. You won't deceive me. If you have anything to do with this…you will tell me."

"I do not," said Alucard.

And so fleetingly it must have escaped her thoughts, Integra whispered, "That's what I was afraid of."

 

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Integra stayed in the bath, drowning in her thoughts.

Alucard stared at her as if he would consume her with the fire of his eyes. It was not lost on her that she was naked and vulnerable before such want. How depraved it would be, to the Integra who had once been. How outrageous, that she mirrored it.

He was right. Even if it did matter, what else was there to be done? He called himself selfish. What did that make her? She was the one who had eaten space-time.

She had to tell him. Before their consummation.

The leaden feeling that was suspicion without proof, coiled in the pit of her stomach. The pieces were there, refusing to fall into place. Or was it she who refused?

Because her suspicion was so ludicrous. It was unthinkable. Yet she was thinking it, and it opened up far too many questions that she in her compromised state, with an ardent vampire beside her, could navigate.

So she asked those he could answer instead. "Tell me more. The shadow, how did it behave?"

Alucard obliged in his velvet murmur. Integra filed away the details. An uncanny emulation of his behavior. A denser composition. A puppet. "And? You said Dylan's blood tasted like nothing."

"With my teeth in his veins, draining him of life and that which composes it, I would have seen—tasted—something. His blood was tasteless." Alucard licked his lips. "It contained nothing. Like the void."

"He is human?"

"He is human. But you and I realize that to be human does not mean to be normal."

Integra had to chuckle.

Alucard had his cheek cushioned on one hand. The other idly tapped the rim of the tub. His eyes were only on her face, though she knew he did not necessarily require them to seek what he desired. The water was cooling. Integra shifted minutely.

White, gloved fingers dipped in. They stroked, creating a current.

She lifted a leg and admonished the hand with the tips of her toes.

He caught her foot.

The water was cooling. Yet Integra felt warm, too warm, before the want of this monster who was sinful in leather. She had met him in this form, and lost him. Suddenly she was impatient. It was not enough.

The hand slid down her foot, her calf and stroked the crook of her knee. Integra, his velvet murmur was in her mind, Integra, in your past, did I touch you like this? It slid down her thigh. Alucard was looming over her now, his hair spindling, his broad shoulders darkening her like the night. She mused belatedly she should have shoved him in here with her.

Did I worship you in all the ways?

The water rippled. His fingers were dangerously close.

Integra bit her lip. She found the stopper at the bottom of the tub and pulled, and the release of pressure buoyed his hand. The water swirled down the drain, a pretense of cleansing—as if any amount would erase the taint on their souls.

She kept her eyes on his as she grabbed a towel. He kept his eyes on hers as she stood. He stood as well. She wrapped the towel loosely around herself, and made to step out. Alucard bowed, offering his arm. Integra took it, squeezing it harder than was needed. There was silence.

The equilibrium of the world seemed to lie on his burning gaze, her heartbeats, their terrible, terrible desire.

She let the towel fall and yanked him to her.

Their lips met roughly. He hoisted her up. The buttons of his straightjacket chafed. Integra did not care; she flattened herself against him, kissing with abandon. They moved with inhuman speed from the bathroom, to her bed and collapsed into the mattress.

Alucard was above her, caging her, drinking in what must be a sight: the last of the Hellsings, bared for ruin. But it was not triumph in his eyes. He lowered his head and he was canonizing her. He kissed her, not because of a poem or her taunts or desperation, or to show off, or to seek her bittersweet, but because she was Integra.

He wrapped an arm around and elevated her waist, and Integra made a sound in her throat when she felt his hardness straining at the confines. He was gorged on her blood and desire, thus he capitulated to his basest, yet most forgotten, instinct.

Did you want this? Did you wait for me, wanting this?

It frustrated her that he was still clothed. He was reworking the marks on her neck, his carnivorous mouth sucking and nipping. If he would have her wear these little gifts, Integra would have him wear something of hers in return. Not Hellsing's. Hers. She sought for the hand that was in her hair—to leave a red mark on, perhaps, his ring finger—

She cursed. Why had she not taken off his gloves?

Alucard looked up with a smirk. He loosened his hand from her hair and slid his fingers between her teeth. They closed in on them.

Then she thought better of it. She seized him and pushed, flipping them over, until he lay willingly spread underneath, his eyes crazed. Integra sat up. With a shudder of breath she straddled his hips.

He bucked into her. "Countess!"

"Be still," she scolded. Alucard obeyed, though she could feel the raw tension in his muscles. So very beautiful, so very much hers. Her heart ached. Did she want this, he asked?

I wanted you before I even knew what to want. I waited and waited and waited until it was too late.

But she barred the grief that threatened to crest. Integra ran her hands over his restraints. There were many; she had to start somewhere.

"This is our consummation, Count," she reminded him.

He moaned her name.

"By which I will accept your heart. Nothing else before it."

He was the picture of obedience, yet his shadows were snaking around her thighs. Integra ignored them and steeled herself as she undid his buttons. It was cumbersome. Her wound was still tender and her fingers were unsteady despite her efforts. While she tortured him, he continued to whisper feverishly in her head. Did I kiss you? Did I kiss the sole of your foot? Did you limp?

"Quiet."

Why? The voice of a mad king. The voice of a coquettish girl. The voice of a frail, sobbing child. They were all hers and they all cried for her justification. Why did you wait?

"Would you rather I had not?"

Why would you wait? Why would you wait for me? Integra, Integra, Integra!

She struck him where she had wanted to bare his dead heart. "Because I love you, you fool."

There.

The final fig leaf.

His voices quietened.

And there remained this fool of a man whom she loved. Whose pale lips parted, as if to say—but nothing passed. They trembled. They contorted. At last they settled, into a peculiarly breakable smile.

He gathered her hands in a single grasp and kissed her knuckles, reverently, as only a monster could.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Alucard said, and slashed open his chest.

The blood, which from him was ever so vibrant, spilled onto the bedsheets. His eyes were ringed with madness, never leaving hers during the self-mutilation. The Countess never strayed. She let the blood splatter across her hair, her breasts, her stomach, undoing the hard work of her bath; she observed her Count reveal his dead heart to her. It was unbeating, a brutish pomegranate. The white of his glove turned completely red. His smile twisted, but not once did he blink, as he tore off a chunk.

He ate it. He made a show of it, his tongue slithering out, sampling the goods. She watched his Adam's apple—the irony was palpable—contract and protrude as he swallowed. Then he pulled her down, cupped her skull with the crimson hand and painted her hair. She let him deliver the drop he had promised with his mouth and let him deliver them to hell.

He thrust, meeting her wet heat with the cold leather, and she moved her hips to his rhythm. When the drop entered her, when she accepted all he had to offer, he almost deluded himself that it was living, that it was somehow worthy of her. Of course, it was dead, as always. It was her heart he felt. Her heart, he carved into memory the cadence of, when she cried out her release.

And as he succumbed to the spasms of his own release, clutching her to him, he allowed himself to think—I dare not call this love. The word itself is insufficient. It is too much, too much, too much. It will destroy me. Please. Let it destroy me.

The Countess and the Count lay in their marital bed. They were entwined so thoroughly that their world started and ended in the pool of his mutilated heart which gaped open still, nestled between her breasts. Though it was slowly knitting back together, it would never again be truly whole, for he had given it to her.

I didn't tell him, Integra thought belatedly. The singularity.

Deviltry against deviltry was the Hellsing way, yet she had no way of knowing if the light she had devoured would react to vampire blood.

But what was done was done, and her Count's ragged breaths at her ear were so novel and so sweet, she merely tilted her head back to kiss the slope of his red-soaked jaw.

Integra, he sang.

His eyes were always, always on her. Only now they were heavy-lidded. It was morning, after all.

And as she followed suit, drifting off in his arms, she caught sight of the lace of daisies Seras had woven for her on the vanity. The petals were bright. At a distance, through a mist of tiredness, against the richly colored wood, they looked like—

Like—

Integra closed her eyes.

Like white specks between warped flooring, waving in the breeze.

 

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Cancer, the doctor said.

The next morning, they went on a trip.

"Master Integra, why don't we fly?"

There were many reasons Integra should have denied her. It was broad daylight, and Seras did get tired; it was a frivolous use of her powers, and a bright red streak in the sky would surely yield witnesses in this age of drones and whatnot. But Integra did not say, so they left the car midway and took off.

Flying in Seras' arms was a strangely soothing experience. In her solid embrace, her shadow creating a barrier against the winds, Integra felt as though she was weightless. They had not done this since the roads reopened. The lady returned to her human pace, while the fledgling spread her wings. Integra would watch Seras disappear into the night with a jaunty salute—"Don't miss me too much, Master! I'll be back before you know it!"—watch until she was a star.

They landed in a meadow.

It was an obscure piece of Hellsing property in Devon, near the national park. The cottage there—a shack, really—had apparently been refurbished. Integra did not remember and did not care. Seras was only aware of it because she had been in charge of the ledgers for a spell. It dated back to Abraham's time, which was all Integra needed for conjecture.

Indeed, this place would have been perfect for some peace and quiet.

As soon as Seras opened the door she pointed to the floor and laughed. "Look, the cheeky little sprites!"

A clump of daisies was pushing up between the flooring. It waved in the breeze.

"How nice! It's like a fairytale cottage," Seras exclaimed, which was stretching the truth. "Well." She pivoted on Integra with a too-cheerful smile. "I was thinking about what we could do—"

Integra stepped past.

"It's breezy, but we could have a picnic—"

She produced a cigar. Seras snatched it from her fingers without a break in stride. "Or do you want to lie down for a bit?"

Integra sighed. "Seras."

"Or go for a walk?"

"Seras."

"Or would you like some tea?" Seras conjured a teapot out of nowhere. "I brought the china just in case, and your favorite Darjeeling—"

"Seras."

"Or we could go sightseeing, I know the town we flew by isn't much to look at, but—"

"Seras," Integra snapped, "I am not going to die just yet."

Seras stared at her.

"Well of course you're not!" she screeched, and the teapot shattered.

Outside, birds chirped, as inside the Draculina caught her breath. She took the broom her shadow fetched from a closet with a small thank you. "I guess we—I guess I'll head into town and—see what I can find." Seras hastily swept the shards into a corner. "I'll be back before you know it! Don't—don't go anywhere."

Integra said, to the empty room, "Where would I go, you silly girl?"

She produced a second cigar and placed it between her lips, unlit. She knelt and picked up a shard. She rolled it in her palm, squeezed it, let it fall at the sting. There was a cut on her life line.

Integra stormed out.

A fair distance away she stopped and her one eye looked hard at the sun that was climbing toward the zenith. She wrenched the cigar from her mouth and laughed bitterly.

Cancer at the age of forty-two.

With all her vices, what did she expect?

Integra glared until her vision eclipsed. She closed her eye and sank to the ground, where daisies greeted her like little white hands. She stayed motionless for some time.

"Integral Hellsing had three birds.

One ate his wings

One fell from grace

and One flew free yet came back to rest."

"I forbid you to write my eulogy."

Pip Bernadotte shrugged. "Sure."

He slung his braid over his neck and plopped down next to her. "Would be bad form for an equally dead guy."

"Especially one who's taken up poetry," Integra groused.

"Hey, I'm dead and French. Waxing poetic is practically une condition préalable."

He looked normal for a dead Frenchman. Except for the thin thread of shadow that extended from his feet. The sun's rays balked at the black-red sheen around him. He lit a cigarette.

Integra scowled. "She confiscated my lighter, and you won't offer?"

"Sorry, boss," Pip said, and he was actually apologetic. "You heard Mignonette. Operation Quit Smoking, effective yesterday. Damn, I'm just getting through my stash before she makes me throw it out."

"On whose orders? Leaving you here, stretching herself thin, compromising herself—" She scoffed. "What, does she think I'll croak at a moment's notice?"

"Yeah, she's overreacting," Pip agreed. "But can you blame her?"

"She's the captain of my troops. I can blame her if she overreacts." Integra stood. "Since you agree, I'll waste no more time here and walk back to the manor. Tell Seras she's welcome to her holiday, and if she thinks I'll quit my cigars—"

"Ah, come on, boss. You two haven't even talked it out."

"Talk what out? Both of you are making a fuss of nothing." Integra crushed the cigar in her fist. "What's different about this compared to walking into a barrage of bullets or a pack of ghouls? This is simply another enemy."

"Right." Pip blew out smoke. "And, between you and moi, one eyepatch to another, that's what terrifies her. An enemy she can't destroy for you."

Once more in her life, Integra felt an anger that had no recipient. It was everything and nothing. Pip, Seras, herself, her own body. The sun, the wind, the daisies, so high and warm and saccharine. The years that had passed by. Two decades. And still—

She whipped around. "What's taking her so long?"

Pip was poking logs into a burner, and Integra was sitting by a window, tapping her fingers on the sill when Seras returned. Her hair was a haystack. An enormous basket was tucked under her good arm. She was smiling.

Integra wanted to run a comb through that ridiculous hair, wanted to pinch those conniving cheeks. In the depths of her stupid heart, she wanted that smile to never fade.

"Master! I've got us lunch. Let's have a picnic! And I found this bakery that had the most adorable fairy cakes. I'll set them up and—"

"Seras," Integra began, and what came out was, "I don't even enjoy cake."

"Nom de dieu," Pip muttered.

"It sure didn't seem like that with the lemon sponge the other day. Oh, this is exciting! I haven't had a proper picnic in ages."

Integra tried again. "Seras, we need to talk."

Seras swung the basket down on a table and fished out a brand new teapot. At least she set it aside this time. "Pip! Didn't you put the water on?"

"Mignonette," Pip said.

"Seras Victoria, we will talk, now."

"Fine!" Seras shut the lid of the basket with a resounding clatter. She looked up with wide eyes. "You can't die."

Pip pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh?" Integra let out, slowly. "I can't?"

"You can't."

"As if I have a choice?"

"You can't."

"I will die, someday."

"You can't," Seras repeated. "Master—Alucard—"

"What does that imbecile have to do with anything?" Integra said coldly. "I will die, someday, regardless of the cancer. You dare question that?"

"Maybe." Without warning, Seras knelt before her.

Integra stared. "What is this? Get up."

"Master, please." Seras did not budge. "He will come back. Please believe me."

"I never doubted you," Integra whispered, then checked herself. "And I repeat, what does he have to do with—"

"You've been waiting for him all these years."

Seras' eyes were red, so very red.

Like his.

"And you can't give up. In whichever way," Seras added, before Integra could take umbrage. "When he comes back, maybe he could—he would—"

"Spit it out."

"He could convince—" Seras wavered.

"He could convince me to have him drink my blood, is that it? Drain me, so I can become a vampire?" Integra wrenched herself up from her seat. "You vampires are all the same. You think becoming one solves everything."

"I don't think that," Seras said quietly. "I just—"

Integra went to the burner and put the water on boil.

Seras remained on her knees. Pip flicked his lighter open and shut, and Integra seized the teapot and threw in an amount of tea leaves that was bound to be a dark, bitter mess. It was easy to pretend the argument was over, yet pretense was what so easily broke in the face of desperation, and between the three of them they had plenty.

"Master, what if—"

Integra knew nothing good could come out of those words. "What?"

"What if," Seras swallowed, "you took a bit of my blood?"

Integra rounded on her.

"It's an honest question! It's not the same as drinking your blood—"

"Have I taught you nothing?"

"Blood is the covenant of life," Seras recited. "An exchange of blood cannot be broken until one dies. A human who has consumed vampire blood is effectively cursed, and may exhibit symptoms of undeath upon their demise. Right. That's not my point. It'll help! It'll make you stronger—"

"No, that's exactly the point, you foolish girl." Integra wore a lopsided, bitter smile. "Shall you make me into another Mina?"

Seras dug her nails into her knees. "It's not—no, how can you—it's not going to be like that. How can you say that? I won't ever let anyone desecrate you like that!"

Integra grabbed her shoulders. "What are you going to do then, you foolish, foolish girl? Be my gravekeeper for eternity? When I die—"

"Stop!"

"When I die, whether Alucard does return or not, he will be free. You will be free, and you must fly, Seras." Integra's voice was viciously calm. "Fly off to wherever you desire."

"You bloody well know I don't have anywhere else!"

"Isn't France nice this time of the year?" Integra mocked. Pip kept silent. "Go. I give you my leave. I trust you not to upend the world."

Seras flared. "Take that back. I will never leave you."

"Eventually I will leave first."

"You can't make me!"

"Seras Victoria!"

Seras jammed her hands on her ears. "If it's my choice, you can't make me leave you. You can get sick of me but you can't!"

"Seras—"

"Everyone I love is dead!" Seras shouted. Blood finally leaked from her eyes.

There was only the sound of Pip lighting his cigarette.

"You can't be, too."

And Integra, who had been gripping Seras' shoulders even as she told her to fly away, thought, How strange.

It's a beautiful day. The sun is high, the wind is warm, and the daisies are saccharine sweet. Yet it seems empty, compared to you.

You vampires. You're all the same.

You make me love you, in the end.

"I will die, someday," Integra said. Her hands were trembling. She had not noticed. "It has never been my wish to exist after that fact. You know this."

Seras' hands fell from her ears. They grazed Integra's as they slumped to the floor, defeated. The monstrous arm, however. Her wings. They spread across the walls of the shack, encompassed it with webs of red and black, as though she desired to shape it into a world of their own.

"I know."

"I will never drink your blood. I will live out my days as a human must, even if it means fighting this disease with human methods."

Seras blinked, and more tears stained her pale cheeks. "I know."

Integra wrapped her arms around her. "I am a knight, Seras. I have never yielded to an enemy. I will win this."

The tears blossomed crimson on her blouse, and Integra, as always, let it be.

"You can't die until Master comes back," Seras choked, sounding like a broken parrot, her foolish, darling girl. "Even if it takes ten, fifteen, twenty more years, okay? He'll be back. I know it."

"Yes, yes, alright," Integra placated, ignoring the ache in her heart. She harrumphed. "With his track record, he'll be later than any of those."

Seras laughed wetly. "You'll really be an old lady then."

"Careful, I might pinch your cheeks."

The Draculina withdrew from the embrace and grinned. Her red, red eyes were bright and full of hope so easy to curdle into desperation. "But if he is," she said, "I will never forgive him."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

 

In the realm of dreams even he could not control, Alucard stood before the sunrise. It was a recurring scene. Predictable. His human end as he is dragged to the execution stand. His monstrous beginning as he laughs and laughs, and weeps and weeps, with bare and bloodied hands outstretched.

It was the same dream, except in this, Alucard beheld the gaping cavity in his chest, where nestled among broken bones and ripped sinews lay his mangled heart. I gave it to her. She has made it hers. I have her. I have everything.

Everything. Everything.

But why won't these tears stop?

When he awoke, there were no tears. His eyes were dry. The bedsheets were white. He had subconsciously siphoned off the blood during their slumber. His chest appeared whole.

Yet a sliver was within her. He felt her heartbeats like they were his own. It was the sole reason her absence did not petrify him. He moved his gloved hands over the lingering warmth and inhaled, his tongue snaking out, the heady mixture of their scents. He wanted her back. He needed her.

But her emotions were all over the place.

Integra was standing in front of her vanity, his coat draped around her. Though hindered by the dense fabric, he could see her spine stiff with a sensation that was becoming unwelcomingly, increasingly familiar—trepidation. The lace of daisies dangled from her listless fingers.

"What I saw as we left."

She was referring to the shack. Alucard could not understand why she was bringing it up.

"I think, they must have been daisies, after all."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Chapter 22: meringue

Walter knocked, as she had bade, before lunch. His bandaged hand paused stiffly on the knob. It had been very long since he had exerted himself to that effect.

There was no exhilaration at the fact. He pushed the door open.

The muted light of a humid day's sun filled the office, and Integra, standing in sharp relief before the windows, seemed as far away as a dream. And Walter could not explain it, yet all of a sudden he was a gangly child dwarfed by a man who peered down at him and said, "Walter, you're good. God knows you're good. But this just isn't a mission humans can stomach. The time and money invested in you! Can't have your head get lopped off, and waste all that…"

"Walter."

He bowed. "My lady."

"Have you rested?"

Integra had her back to him, and though her voice was pleasant, she did not turn to look at him.

His overactive imagination had got him in a dither, so he was almost glad not to see her eyes just now. He replied, "I have as needed. And you, my lady?"

Integra hummed in lieu of an answer.

Her back was straight, her hair loose and combed, her dress ironed to the last hem. Walter could only surmise that the injury she had suffered had been taken care of. He could press on, but something held his tongue. The Count, with those quiet eyes, guarding his Countess beyond his ugly, unbeating heart.

In his own heart, Walter tore at the image.

"I have sent the remains of our quarry to the lab. These are the initial results." He placed them on the desk.

Yet, Integra did not turn.

"Already?" she said. "But of course."

I should expect nothing less from you, the perfect butler—was unspoken. Or he was paranoid. Walter had been doubting his sanity since last night. He continued his briefing if merely to get his bearings.

"Dylan Basbanes, if that is indeed his name, has been treated. He is under watch in one of the cellars, with the necessities to have him conscious for his eventual interrogation." He grimaced. "Evidently there was much amiss in his recruitment. We are searching for any ties to our adversaries—"

"Don't bother."

"My lady?"

Integra still did not turn. "I will deal with Dylan myself."

And there he was again. Swept off to the sidelines.

Walter willed the strain in his hands to be his keeper. Reminding him he should not feel like he was being denied. Reminding him he was better than a brat who would have demanded to be let on the mission anyway. What the fuck was wrong with him? One night, and it was all it took to unmake him into a child who was…

Afraid.

"Walter," Integra called, and he quickly straightened; he had not noticed he was hunched over. It was fortunate Integra was looking out the window. Though, there could not be anything of interest beyond daisies out in the yard.

"Alucard told me you engaged with a shadow in the form of your youth."

Afraid. "Yes."

"Did you perchance see something else?"

It was, as with most everything regarding this Integra, frighteningly close to the heart.

There was a flutter in the light. Integra had begun to move in a trajectory around the office, her shadow dour blurs upon the walls. She stopped to the right of him, in front of Abraham Van Helsing's portrait.

"What other behavior did the shadow exhibit?" Integra shifted ever so slightly toward him, and Walter nearly tasted relief at catching sight of her glasses, of all things, at how it was supposed to be normal. "It's too uncanny a coincidence it took those forms in particular. Your thoughts?"

He should get a hold of himself. He was here for a briefing. Of course she would inquire.

"The shadow—" He's dead! He's dead! "—behaved no differently from Alucard's—" He's gone! He's gone... "—It was, in a word, void-like. I could barely incapacitate it with my wires. It toyed with us. Both likenesses were terminated alongside the burning of the shack. As for my thoughts…" Walter chuckled sans humor. "To be frank, I cannot even begin to gather my thoughts. I struggle to understand the night's events, my lady. Might I ask what you encountered inside—the void?"

Integra contemplated the portrait.

"I saw myself in the void."

She gripped each side of the frame. Walter rather felt she was gripping his shoulders.

"It talked to me. I wondered if your shadow did the same."

The portrait of Abraham was plucked off, leaving a dark blank.

"Isn't it funny when we see ourselves and realize how small and naive we were, when we signed those grand plans for the future? As if you know what will be important to you then, what sacrifices must be made. If it's worth it at all, to have wished that."

This is what I wished for?

This?

"And you find yourself irrevocably changed." Integra set the frame down on the floor.

Walter sank to his knees along with it. There was nothing in reality that prompted it. Simply fear, baseless, scuttering in his gut.

And what this means, what this all means, Alucard's voice mutated in his mind into the girl's white mask which he especially hated, is that we both have wronged her. A giggle. And I don't know what you did.

"My lady," Walter whispered. "You must tell me if I have wronged you."

Integra's gaze remained on the blank wall. "What brings you to say that?"

"You've changed." To speak it out loud sounded a dirge. He had to let go of her, the Integra he once knew. He had to let go of her forever. "I will not request that you help me understand. But please, tell me the truth."

She laughed insincerely. "I haven't said anything, Walter! What truth? You've done well in this mission? I have no complaints."

"Integra, you won't even look at me."

Integra sighed. Casually, she lifted a hand to the left side of her face, and flicked at something like a mild annoyance. It could have been a tear, if it were not glistening red.

Walter paled. "Integra."

She glanced at the stain and tutted as though it disappointed her. "Such a nuisance. It was never so bothersome even when it was shot out."

"Integra," Walter repeated. "What? What?"

She turned to him. He stared in horror as a thin line of blood escaped her very blue, very human left eye.

Integra dabbed at the blood; a trickle diverged to travel the slope of her palm and down her wrist before she lowered it. Facing her old butler who was on his knees ashen, mottled with cuts and bruises, a part of her slackened.

"I've irrevocably changed, Walter. That is the truth." Her tone was gentle.

For a wild second the butler thought how he had been remiss not to offer his lady a handkerchief, until the hunter's instincts kicked in, and it took everything not to spring to his feet. "Was it the nightmare? The enemy?"

What changed you?

The Count, with those quiet eyes, guarding his— "Was it—"

"Walter."

Integra was calm—too calm—and in her eyes there was pity.

"It's not an enemy to kill, or a nightmare to wake up from. We are wide awake. You and I, Alucard," she caught her breath, "Seras. It was me. I made a choice, and you are all awake in it." She knelt as well, for her gaze to be level with his, and carefully took his bandaged hand. The spacious office suddenly became quite small, and Walter could almost pretend that they were back to being the little lady and the doting butler, that he was kneeling to receive a compliment on his grey eyes and to give her one in turn, correcting her childish grammar, while inside he would be tickled at being called the "special-est."

But were they ever just that?

That picture had been spoiled long before her birth, right? Those soft summer days were never meant to stay soft, right? Yet he pretended, because that's all you're good at, right?

"You've made your choice, too," Integra continued. "And it's as I have said. We made choices thinking they were the only choices. We thought they were the noblest or the most glorious or even the most human. We see the ones we would leave behind, the worlds we would destroy, yet we follow it through, because it's the only path we know."

"I don't understand," Walter pleaded. Though her hold was careful, the unnatural blood she had shed transferred onto his bandage, and it was like acid, dissolving his layers of age. There was a brat sniveling in the shell.

"I said as much, to myself whom I saw in the void, and now I am saying it to you."

It occurred to Walter faintly that she must have barred Alucard from the room, because there was no other way the vampire would have resisted either the blood of his master or the terror running guileless in the Angel's veins. It was why what escaped him was not denial, but— "What do you know?"

Integra patted his hand.

Like she used to, as a child.

But the color is all wrong.

Not blue, not grey. Red.

"I forgive you, Walter."

He stared.

"I know despite your choices you loved me, and wanted me alive, even when you left me for Death."

And then she stood and looked back at the windows where beyond there could hardly be anything more interesting than daisies.

"I only wish she will forgive me as well, for leaving her behind."

Integra strode to her desk, picked up the lab results. She passed by Walter without a second glance, and crossed the threshold.

Her steps were brisk as she made her way through the halls and down the stairs to the cellars. She grumbled under her breath, "Don't you dare act up now."

Time waits for no one.

She may have been reminded of that, in a roundabout manner.

She also may have disproved that, in the hour before meeting with Walter.

 

rewind

rewind

rewind

 

xx

xx

 

21.

meringue

 

xx

xx

 

"I think, they must have been daisies, after all."

When Integra uttered those words, Alucard reacted a split second faster than her to the pain gracing her left orbit, the sharpest yet. The pomegranate seed of their consummation allowed him to feel it himself, thus he was there to ensnare her collapsing form and seat her in his lap, in the chair of her vanity.

Integra pressed her traitorous eye to the cold hollow of his throat, and between her fingers the lace of daisies broke apart and fell like white tears.

"We were there before. Ten years ago," she whispered feverishly. "It was only for a day, so I didn't recognize—but it was there I made my choice—to die as a human—"

Alucard was silent. He merely tightened his hold on her, to the point that, if it had been any other moment, she would have gibed if he wanted her inside his rib cage—and it would be true. He was not a fool to think she would not blast a hole and step out, however. She was doing that well enough presently.

"It does has something to do with her. All this—" Integra twisted in his embrace. "I need to go see her."

"Who?"

"Seras!" She made to push herself off him. "I need to go see—"

"Is that truly the one you should be seeing? The little human girl?" Alucard said with eerie calm, for once, devastatingly, the voice of reason.

The fight left Integra, to be replaced by despair. "She was so afraid I would die. She begged me not to leave." Squeezing her eyes shut, she shed not the deviltry of blood but clear, wretched tears. "That foolish girl."

"The girl is a vampire in your time," Alucard parsed. "That skittish thing?"

"You sired her, you git."

"Ah, so that is how it went." He stroked from the nape of her neck and down to the bare slope of her spine through the fabric of the coat. "A Child to keep you company. The Count in your time must have not been a total failure to have set a contingency in his place."

"You are talking about yourself," Integra censured, yet she clung to him as her tribulation persisted.

No, I won't be, thought the monster.

As far as Alucard was concerned, he and the one who had failed her were different entities, and he would shred the seams of space-time himself if it meant that so-called future would never come to fruition. For the Draculina who his Countess was suddenly so sure had pawed at those seams, how impressive if it were. And if the desired outcome was to be a little mouse under the wing of an Integra who was alive? Good. She should stay that way.

As for the visage of his (desperate, desperate) dream.

Stay. Stay that way. Stay a dream.

(The Alucard in his dream did not answer.)

"Would she want me alive so desperately? Why? Why?" Integra was saying. She clawed up his shoulders and bore down on him, unseeing, and the monster in the hunter's thrall could not tell whether the asphyxiation of the heart was hers, or his, for they were one and the same. She snarled. "Why do you all disobey me?"

The monster lifted his chin and kissed her in submission. "If it is as you say, she would have had no choice. You love her, regardless."

Her tears fell and slid down his cheeks.

"You love us, regardless. How could she not?"

Alucard did not dwell long on who may or may not have had a part in this song and dance. "I never disobeyed you." He swept his tongue over the traces of salt on his face and then hers. "Forget what transpired, your past or your future. Whatever it is the butler did, I'll tear him apart for you. If you want the little mouse as your darling, I won't bite; or if you want her undead, then I'll make sure she behaves. Listen to your heart, don't you hear the piece of mine and its promise? I will never leave you."

It was almost like the Count of old, his silken words. A sliver of the clock—ticking relentlessly, keeping to an illusion of mundanity marred beyond belief—in which Integra appeared suspended in that spell, and then she broke into a laugh.

"You two truly are alike," she muttered. "To that, I should say…" But she did not say.

By then her left eye was shedding the accursed red. And while she allowed him to lick it off, to mouth at her neck, his shadows to croon in her ear, when he kissed over her heart she shivered not in desire.

"It's getting worse. My left eye."

He paused in his ministrations.

"I wonder…" Integra started, yet again she trailed off.

The newly fitted mirror of her vanity was within reach. Integra adjusted herself in the confines of his arms, taking it in her hands. Would she reproduce that fateful morning, and break it? Yet she merely beheld her face. There was a smidge of crimson Alucard had missed. And one might say the smidge looks more like a crack, and the crack might be of those bloodstained shards of that fateful morning, and the mirror might have never been replaced and might still be broken after all.

"The choices we made that weren't choices. How can I blame you, when I have done the same?"

Alucard flared at this. Even after everything, even after their consummation, she still—

"When I interrogate the soldier later today, don't follow me."

He looked at her in outrage. Integra continued, "In fact, stay away from my meeting with Walter in an hour. I don't want you listening in."

Alucard surged forward, causing Integra to instinctively lock her arms around his neck. The mirror slipped from her fingers, clattering to the floor. It did not break this time.

"Is that an order, dear Master?"

"Must it be?" Integra exhaled into his ear. "What about a request from the Countess to her Count?"

"Ah," he uttered. She would be the second, the third, the three-thousandth death of him. "Then I presume in our unspoken marital vows the husband must obey the wife."

There was a thrill from her and between them, a caesura of breath. They had never put themselves in those terms. He felt the curve of her smile.

"Of course."

Unbeknownst to him, Integra had her eyes on the unbroken mirror.

Should he be a good husband, then, and let his wife go so she could busy herself? Alas, she had wed an avaricious creature. How could he not take advantage, now that her pain had subsided, of the single layer of his coat separating him from her undress? His hand crept under the garment, caressing the side of her waist, and then lower.

May I?

She tightened the lock around his neck in answer.

Integra let herself be distracted, let the auguries of this space-time scatter. The implications of daisies, a shack in the forest—But it hadn't been a forest, then—she let go of those, too, when Alucard slid a hand around her rear and dived between her thighs.

A gloved digit dipped into her folds. His touch was measured, even hesitant; she ground into the touch, impatient.

But perhaps what she needed was this pleasure blossoming petal by petal. The barrier of the glove was needed to avoid being overcome by him touching her where no other had touched. He, perhaps knowing this, seemed to be honed in on every twitch, every rustle, the minutiae of her nerves through the silken fabric. One finger became two and they stroked her wetness, rubbed at her clit with precision but never dipped deeper than that, she wanted him bare and inside her yet knew it was for the best, or the fire could not be contained within this meager hour.

She came with a fractured shudder and his name on her lips.

"Integra," he said back.

And there for a split second Integra saw something else.

She was in his lap in the chair of her vanity in her bedroom an hour before noon.

But in that split second, she was somewhere else.

She is standing there staring at a horizon where the sun is only hinted at, a low, orange glow, and a sky of eventide blue. She breathes in air too still too quiet that, while not cold to the touch, submerges her very soul in ice. The land is barren and there is nothing, nothing, nothing, there is only her in this land of eternal dawn.

Integra.

She parted her lips and then she was back where she should be.

Her warm breath stirred Alucard's hair.

What was that? Was it the light I devoured? Did it send me there?

"Did my performance please you so well you would drift off like this, Countess?" Alucard teased.

Did he not see?

Integra laughed shakily and slowly loosened her arms to look at him. His snow-white face and red, red eyes.

She reached down and kissed him with urgency. Tell me you don't taste the ice upon my soul, Count. Tell me I am here.

And he chuckled and kissed her back thoroughly.

Here she is. Nowhere else, nowhere else. "What performance?" Integra retorted when they came apart with his teeth grazing her bottom lip. It was just as well the after-tremors of her climax masked her tumult. "I've yet to give proper evaluation." She pushed her wetness against the straining bulge in his leather suit, fully aware she was provoking more than she should but doing as her body dictated, and watched his eyes fluctuate like impending novae. "Has unholy matrimony made an honest man out of you, my vampire, for you to be so chaste in your own pleasure?"

"My Countess' pleasure is all that I seek," Alucard said.

Integra challenged the blown-out cosmic apparition of his eyes. He amended, throatily, "If you provoke further, we will never leave this room."

And I am trying very, very hard to be good, he hissed in her mind.

But it is your touch that keeps me here, reminds me I am here, where I should be.

She said, "How chivalrous of you." Integra tested his resolve by gradually removing herself from his lap, rearranging his coat so it covered her properly.

Alucard smothered his face with the hand slick with her arousal, his tongue curling serpentine around his fingers which bracketed his burning gaze. Such a sight he made. His other hand he dug into his thigh to stave off his greed. Her silly heart ached at the notion that her careless beast really was trying to be careful, though his edges were fraying and more red, red eyes were popping out of the shadows to strip her in their hellish obsession.

This is the monster whose heart I have taken into mine.

He managed to endure while she went around him to pick up the mirror and put it back on its perch, and then to her wardrobe. When she turned again toward him with a change of clothes, however, he was gone.

 

xx

xx

 

Integra, with her back straight, her hair loose and combed, dress ironed to the last hem—and with glasses—slowed to a halt before one of the windows lining the corridor to her office.

She opened it wide, and let the breeze become a tempest as she stared out into the grounds and the hardly visible white specks in the grass.

"Seras, what have you done?"

Of course, there was no proof. Not the presence of daisies nor the shack where they had had a picnic could be called proof.

But what if they were?

The area must have been deforested, Integra thought. There might be an entry on it in the ledger, if the ledger from thirty years later were here.

And how to explain everything else? The soldier, that poor excuse of a Hellsing recruit who had never existed, whose blood had tasted like nothing? (Didn't he act a bit peculiarly at the orphanage?) The puppets, caricaturing Alucard and Walter's puerility (Wasn't the last time any of them had witnessed those two in those profiles at the dawn?) The void—the Incongruity—time, twisted; death, interrupted; Integra, here—how would Seras even have the scope for this?

Seras, and her smile.

It was, if not this window, then another where old Integra would see off her winged vampire. She had given up on ordering her to use the front doors, apparently it was more convenient to defenestrate oneself like a hoodlum. With a smile, and with the moon in her eyes she would be gone.

"Don't miss me too much!"

Don't leave me.

Seras, and her tears of blood.

"Seras, were you angry that I left?" Integra whispered.

An intended conclusion, Integra had thought, on their way out of the shack. That she would emerge with a cosmic conundrum in her gut may have been Dylan's objective, yes. The conclusion to that little mission.

And then what?

Her left eye. "I wonder," Integra had been about to say, "if it knows it's not supposed to be there."

This eye, its pain, its blood, it's not supposed to be there. Yet I am here. I made my choice. The void is closed. If that was it, the mirror is reforged, why does it hurt? If I can call this pain, this blood, symptoms, of time folding back on itself, then their persistence, what does it mean?

It's ongoing. Time, eating its tail.

And then what?

Seras, what have you done?

Integra trailed a hand from her spleen to her sternum as if to coax out the light she had swallowed. A tricky case of indigestion, she mused sardonically. She felt absolutely nothing, yet if the strange vision earlier meant anything, it would be that it would only prove to be troublesome.

She curled her fingers into her palm. There was still no proof all this had to do with Seras. She knew better than to blindly come to conclusions, she had learned her lesson.

But I am not blind, my eyes are too seeing.

"Oh, Integra!"

Miriam, coming up the stairs holding a basket of freshly laundered bed linens, ambled over and began to fuss. "My dear, I heard you were injured? Again! And Mr. Dornez appeared to be in an awful tizzy, but he simply refused to head straight to the infirmary! Something about having to run tests. Goodness gracious, there's never a sound day in this house, is there?"

Her old nanny and her bustle made the day seem suddenly so normal it bruised. "I'm fine, as you can tell," Integra replied. In fact, on paper she was possibly the finest she had been in decades, with Alucard's blood. It was a pity she could not enjoy it. "Have you seen Walter since?"

"In passing, yes, he mentioned he was to report to you. He should be up here soon."

The prospect of facing Walter bruised her further.

There used to be a part of Integra who would be ashamed for having committed Walter's worst fear: crossing the boundary between her and her vampire.

Integra in the present had no shame. She was, however, rewinding what her reflection in the void had said. I won't let Walter betray me. Truly, she had been so naive at fifteen. I failed, you would have failed, and as for the Integra now who has become a monstrous thing? Why, the war just might start on her doorstep.

A year after the war on a night in September, twenty-three-year-old Integra had drank herself stupid after receiving a deposition signed by the surviving members of the Round Table, on Walter. What they had known. What they had suspected. The chain of events. Fifty fucking years. It had never been about her. The chain would have been wrought even if she had never been born. She was a mere variable.

How do you reconcile with the fact that the man who held you as a child effectively raised you for slaughter? That he was willing to risk the chances of her perishing to Richard, or to the Valentine brothers, or to the Nazi swarm, or to the Major? On fate's strings she danced and evaded every bullet except the last. But no plan can foresee every outcome.

Wasn't I enough?

She had tried, in the twenty-odd years, to understand. Walter's parting gift—the destruction of Millennium, of Mina—was his atonement, though it was long before she could accept it as such. Did it have to be that way? You had to destroy London, sacrifice all those lives for it? You had to take Alucard from me, because you're a hunter, and the No-Life King is your trophy game? You had to betray me like that, so thoroughly?

But my lady, Walter might say. Didn't I prove loyal at the end? You ordered my death, and I followed.

It is Alucard who disobeyed you, at the very end.

And now, Seras.

Integra took Miriam's basket and set it on the windowsill. "I would like your opinion on something," she said to the housekeeper's mystified expression.

"Er, yes?"

"Is it still a choice, when one believes there to be no other?"

"You've no obligation to answer," Integra added, when Miriam looked progressively dumbfounded. "It's only that I seldom have a Dame's input on things."

"Oh, what flattery." Miriam pinked. "Quite the hefty question! Has it to do with your subject on philosophy, perhaps?"

"In a way."

"My! In that case… Well!" Clearing her throat, Miriam assumed a matronly air. "Choices, are the summing-up of the items available to you, aren't they? If I had a whisk and egg and sugar but no butter, I'd have no choice but to make meringue."

Integra smiled. "But say you're making it for those you love. And they never wanted meringue. They might hate it."

"Oh, that's a right tragedy, isn't it? Well, I suppose I could make scrambled eggs, or nothing at all. Then perhaps I thought they much rather needed dessert." Miriam made a contemplating noise. "I made it for those I love, yes? Loving them as I do, I would know for certain they never wanted meringue and they hate it. But if I was also certain dessert was just what they needed, and the only dessert I could make with what I had was meringue, I'd serve it up, and it would be theirs to choose whether to eat it or dispose of it."

"But what if the meringue has consequences? It might disagree with them, or cause them to resent you?"

Miriam blinked. "Why, that's quite an overreaction, isn't it?"

Integra let out a laugh despite herself. For Miriam, the meringue was a meringue. For her, however…

"Even so, I made the meringue with the best of intentions. Granted, hell's path is paved with good intentions, and we'd have no way of knowing until we're standing on it. Wouldn't it be fine and dandy if we could?"

Yes, it would.

The choices we made that weren't choices.

Integra ate a space-time meringue. A stark singularity, devoid of all charity, a spatial and temporal sum. She had no choice. Oh, she could have let herself be a fragment of time lost in the void? Let the Integra who should have been, be? How silly. She had promised Seras she would be home. She had promised. The consequences, she would bear.

Did Walter have no choice but to betray?

Did Seras have no choice but to disobey?

Did Alucard, have no choice, but to never return to her?

You are here yet you will never get rid of these ghosts.

Your eye hurts because it is not supposed to be there.

And then what?

"Although my dear, if the meringue did upset them, I would feel terribly sorry. I suppose I won't regret making it, but I should hope they'll forgive me."

Will you forgive me?

Will you forgive me?

Will you forgive me?

Yes.

She would have had no choice, Alucard had said.

Because Integra would love them, regardless.

"My goodness, all this talk of meringue is right earwax," Miriam tittered, embarrassed. "I've quite developed a craving for it now, er, would you like meringue for dessert?"

I have no choice. "I would appreciate it," Integra said.

Miriam patted her on the back and then reached for the laundry basket. "French meringue it is! With cream of tartar. I have just the recipe for it from my old—oh!"

The humid summer breeze took a sharp turn. In an instant it whipped through the open window, and the thinner linens on top flew off. Integra stretched out a hand to catch them—

Time—

Her gasp sounded as an echo.

It dispersed, for no one to hear.

Outside, the rustle of deep green summer foliage became muted. The trees and their utter quiet rendered them papier-mâché, and the to-and-fros of every little creature, mere trifles to humans yet nonetheless pinions of the clockwork of life, were brought to a standstill. Daisies in the grass, as delicate as eggshells, stayed gravely put under an unending sun.

Inside, Integra stood amidst a flock of freshly laundered linens, their twisted suspension midair a cheap Hallowtide decor, and in front of a housekeeper who was frozen with a flurried expression. Integra, herself stone-faced, moved. She grasped with a tense hand Miriam's wrist, thumbing her radial pulse. It could be called a pulse. It could be called, perhaps, a pulse stretched infinitely.

Time, interrupted.

Integra's instinct was to grapple for her sword—which was not there. You've become complacent, Sir Hellsing! she seethed in her mind, though outwardly she turned and assessed the vacuum of the corridor with cold eyes. Whether there was anyone. Anything.

Yet there is nothing. There is only Integra.

"My, my," Integra bit out, scratching at her sternum, her ribs, at her soul if she could, wherever the fucking light was! "What an impertinent thing."

In the void it had sent her to fragments of the past. It had sent her to that break of dawn. In Alucard's embrace it had sent her to a barren horizon, and now—

A Clock stopped—

"I stopped the clock, is that it?" Integra asked no one but herself. "Such a finicky dessert I've eaten. Very well. I shall be the master of you yet."

She deliberated, before flicking her fingers at a wayward sheet of linen, and furrowed her brow when it fell from its suspension and over her arms. She grabbed another sheet and it, too, fell limp. Integra did this for the three or four sheets that had taken flight in the wind, and then looked down at the pile in her arms in consternation.

It's able to be manipulated by my hands?

But Miriam had not stirred when she touched her. Was her influence limited to inanimate objects? Was it intent? Certainly, she had no desire to drag her housekeeper aware into this temporal limbo.

"Dispel, then," Integra snapped, patience dwindling.

Her left eye smarted. She reflexively placed her fingers over it.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, a sudden burst of sound—such as that of one's ears popping in-flight—told her the clock was ticking.

Time, resumed.

"Huh?" Miriam floundered. She looked at the laundry basket, the empty air, and finally the pile of sheets in Integra's arms. "I must be touched in the head. Didn't these fly off just now?"

Integra thrust the pile on her. "Here you go, Miriam."

"Thank you, but—"

"You're welcome." Integra marched to her office.

Closing the doors firmly, she stood for a moment gripping the knobs white-knuckled, attempting to quell her cacophony of thoughts. The only saving grace was she had had the sense to keep Alucard away. Ah, Count, it seems a wedded couple is bound to resemble each other. You devoured Schrödinger's paradox and I, an astrophysical concept, now behold! The consequences of a space-time meringue. The consequences.

(Farewell, Integra.)

The consequences she would bear.

Integra's hands loosened. She smoothed out her dress, her hair which had tangled in the wind, and caught sight of the portrait next to the doors, of Abraham Van Helsing.

"We've come full circle, great-grandfather. I've said before. The cycle ends here."

Footsteps down the corridor signaled Walter's arrival. Integra circled her office counter-clockwise, past her desk and to the windows, the noonday sun glancing off her glasses as she absorbed the constant turning earth, aware of the dew of crimson blurring her vision.

 

xx

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return

return

return

 

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Dylan Basbanes was detained in one of the cellar rooms that had been repurposed over the ages, to fit a bed and a medical unit if needed. It was similar if smaller to the room a nineteen-year-old Seras Victoria had woken up in with a new set of tapering teeth. Integra Hellsing dismissed the guard on duty, locked the door, pulled up a stool and sat, and began sifting through the lab results her butler had brought, waiting for the young man to wake up.

Wake up he did, thirty or so minutes later, groaning and adjusting his posture as much as he could in his bandages. Integra set the report down. "Good. You're awake."

Dylan noticed her and blanched. "Sir Hellsing—"

Integra seized him by his patient gown and hauled him up.

The soldier knee-jerk flailed before remembering who was throttling him, and he garbled out, "Sir Hellsing, please."

"Answer me properly, boy," Integra said with arctic calm, her vernacular at odds with her fifteen-year-old face and all the more terrifying. "None of those cryptic remarks. I know, you're not at liberty to say, correct?"

Dylan spluttered.

The curve of her mouth was lethal. She leaned in.

"But what if," she said almost inaudibly, "whatever orders you're under, mine override?"

There was a difficult swallow which sounded loud in the draft.

Integra released the boy. He coughed and huddled himself. His coughing subsided, yet he stayed with his neck bent to his knees though his injuries must have been painful, making him appear as a convict on death row, waiting to be noosed.

Waiting.

"How do you know Seras?" Integra asked.

"How did you find out?" Dylan asked in return.

 

xx

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xx

 

---

 

A Clock stopped —
Not the Mantel's —
Geneva's farthest skill
Can't put the puppet bowing —
That just now dangled still —

An awe came on the Trinket!
The Figures hunched, with pain —
Then quivered out of Decimals —
Into Degreeless Noon —

It will not stir for Doctors —
This Pendulum of snow —
The Shopman importunes it —
While cool — concernless No —

Nods from the Gilded pointers —
Nods from the Seconds slim —
Decades of Arrogance between
The Dial life —
And Him —

(Emily Dickinson)

 

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A gravitational singularity, spacetime singularity or simply singularity is a condition in which gravity is so intense that spacetime itself breaks down catastrophically. As such, a singularity is by definition no longer part of the regular spacetime and cannot be determined by "where" or "when". (Wikipedia)

Singularities are regions of space where the density of matter, or the curvature of spacetime, becomes infinite. In such locales, the standard concepts of space and time cease to have any meaning. Singularities are predicted to occur in all black holes and also in certain models of the Universe. (Swinburne University of Technology)

 

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Notes:

End note for this chapter has been archived in my Tumblr post of old notes as of May 9, 2023.

Chapter 23: of ladies and knights

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xx

 

22.

of ladies and knights

 

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Integra felt as if the weight of her years were pressing in on this room, delimiting it into an aperture with just her and this naif who was possibly the only person in the world who knew her as Sir Hellsing.

"How did I find out?" she tested. "What have I found out? What am I supposed to have found out, boy? Look me in the eye when you speak."

Dylan lifted his head. His eyes were a shade of green. "That she has to do with why I'm here, Sir."

And Integra was the one to answer.

"Because she's the one who begged me not to leave."

The boy—no longer a soldier—appeared flustered for some reason. Integra vivisected him with her gaze, before taking out a silver lighter from her front pocket. She flicked it open and shut. "Care to listen to an old woman's rambling?"

"I'll try to be a good listener, Sir."

Integra scoffed. She opened the lighter again.

"When Seras forced me to quit, I took to playing with these lighters as replacement, until I quit that as well; it made me miss my cigars too much. In the end, though, I managed. I surprised myself making it that far. I'd been certain I'd go barmy without them. But that is the human will: if you strive for it, something will change." She closed it. "A fat lot of good. I was still diagnosed terminal."

She opened it again and lit the flame.

"I suppose, in that way, I took it lightly. My death."

The flame danced to her breath.

"Move on, and eventually, forget."

"She never did," Dylan said suddenly.

Integra let the flame die.

In the way a Count and a Countess resembled each other, and monstrosity bled into humanity and vice versa, a daughter would inherit her father's traits, and Seras Victoria is a Draculina.

The Count did not give his name freely. So what made him give it to her? Lunacy? Human capriciousness? Perhaps you saw a bit of yours and a bit of mine. Your monstrosity, my humanity, the juxtaposition of the two, in the girl who would gain your eyes and your teeth yet my tenacity and my bittersweet heart. The Child you have sired and I have nourished with the blood from my fingertips—

Perhaps on that night you heard her crying out for justification. Like you.

("I'd thought," Seras had confessed, in those weary months after the war, in her arms for she could not sleep, "it was so unfair. That I had to die, like that. I'd—survived. And fought—all my life—with all those things that haunted me—I'd tried so hard, and—for what? What was it all for then?" And the fervor in her eyes had been too reminiscent of him. "Why should I die like that? Alone…with everyone else gone before me…)

"And?" Integra pinned Dylan with the same fervor. "Am I to accept my Seras orchestrated all this because she never forgot a decrepit manor and its beldam?"

"The Sir Integral Hellsing she told me of was beautiful and valorous," Dylan said. His voice was shaky and his neck at an odd angle, yet he looked back. "She stands tall and radiant in the face of darkness and destruction."

"Seras told you that?" Integra laughed. Her heart was splintering.

Dylan flushed. "It's what I thought from the stories."

"Stories?"

"Of you, Sir. To prepare me for my mission, but I also think," he hesitated, "she was lonely. She didn't mention you'd be a young girl, though, or her for that matter. I didn't know she used to be Miss Victoria, she never told us her real name. We called her—"

"Stop," Integra said.

She nicked the wheel of the lighter. The sparks were bright and fleeting like so many dreams.

"You're human."

"Y-yes?"

"But you don't exist. Your blood was tasteless. Why?"

The boy would not know. It was up to Integra to pick up the pieces. It was up to her to open the door.

"Where," Integra drew out, "are you from?"

Dylan could not quite meet her eyes, then.

"The future."

"Where in the future?"

"I don't know, exactly, we didn't—"

"Where?"

He stared at his knees. "Too far, I think. Centuries."

Centuries.

There was no motion from the two of them. Until Integra slowly resumed playing with the lighter, and with a final click, she lit a steady flame. And with her other hand she held up Walter's report and fed it to it. The black maw devoured its meal, and when the last of the ashes fell, she tossed the lighter to Dylan. He scrambled to catch it.

"Sir?"

"Keep it for the next time you're to light mine."

"Sir, I don't understand."

"There is nothing to understand. It's done." Integra stood. "The report said nothing your words didn't answer. So I burned it."

"Don't you want to ask—"

"Oh, of course. You're wondering about the questions I am not asking. Such as, how can it be centuries? What kind of future is that? What methods sent you here? How has Seras done all this?" It started quiet, and then Integra was having trouble controlling the barrage. "Why did I have to go into the Incongruity? Why did I have to swallow a wad of fucking space-time, why does this pain in my eye persist, why am I here?"

The last few words having almost become a scream, Integra took a deep breath. "But this isn't even my first round. My life before was full of questions with no answers. And I can't get them from you, so this session is over."

"Sir, about Miss Victoria…"

"Shut up."

Dylan shut up.

Integra dragged a hand over the left side of her face. "Do you have family, Dylan?"

"I'm an orphan, Sir."

She barely managed to stop herself from saying, Of course you are. "You had no one important to you, in that future?"

The boy looked very small for his age when he said, "Miss Victoria was important to me."

Ah, Seras.

You love and are loved even in an unknowable future.

As you should and should be, my darling girl.

"And she is important to me."

"Yes."

"Then you understand why I don't want to fathom a future where my Seras had to make this choice," Integra said tiredly.

Is it still a choice, when one believes there to be no other?

Something was glimmering in the periphery of Integra's mind, a faded portrait of a girl whose head was bowed. She wept red. She did not glance up at the call of her name; she was a sentry of time, standing there. Waiting there. Integra wanted to see her eyes, cup that face and kiss its brow—yet she could not, far out of reach.

See? Like you.

Like me.

Integra went to the door.

"Um, Sir? Will that be…all...?"

"Why, have any more earth-shattering revelations?" she drawled.

"Sir, I just want to say—it's true I can't answer your questions. I wasn't privy to the details." Dylan craned forward, his hand tight around the lighter, doing whatever he could to heave his earnestness out of his trussed frame. "But Miss Victoria didn't only do it for herself. She did it for the people she loved."

"Silly." Integra looked back at him with a ghost of a smile. "I know that."

 

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Time will resume. Plans will be set in motion. Integra Hellsing will bear the consequences.

The details were mere details. As the why of Walter's betrayal or the how of Millennium harnessing a paradox into sentience or the what of that which remained for her at home had not mattered, Integra only had to absorb the pain and act.

Yet in a few steps from the door she found herself arrested by an age-old fear.

She had buried this fear, but like the daisies in her lawn, it was nourished by the dead. Fear, which had gripped a twenty-two-year-old Integra whose manor was being invaded by a pair of vampires and her own men turned ghouls. The fear that the onus is on you. That these deaths are in fact yours. That you failed them. How could she have failed them so horribly?

Fear that she had failed even Seras.

Oh, Master. She imagined a sigh. Are you thinking that? And a pair of hands, one of flesh and one of shadow, supporting her.

In reality, Integra sagged against a wall, eyes shut, alone.

Seras.

I entrusted Hellsing to you and the youngsters. I had an end and its means, but what if that wasn't enough? Because it hinged on the last lie I held onto, my most selfish. That you would be fine.

What was that all for, if it was going to be like this? If you never moved on and never forgot and your desperation, your human desperation became so monstrous that you had to do this?

She wished a cold, pale cheek to rest on her shoulder. None of that, Master. Happy thoughts.

Integra knocked back her head and laced her fingers over her eyes. How, if I failed you for centuries?

You didn't. I just had to act.

As she must.

Integra shoved herself off and began walking the corridor aimlessly. "But Seras, there's no traitor, an enemy to kill or a house to return to. We're all here. What do you want me to do, Seras? How shall I do it?"

Like we always do, Master! And a giggle, sweet and far, in dreams, in centuries stirred her hair though it could only be the draft. The Hellsing way.

Deviltry against deviltry. The Hellsing way.

Integra turned sharply on her heel and made for the library.

On her first day it had not been an expectation it held answers to her predicament that she ensconced herself there. Still, she had desired for anything to make sense of it, and if that was to be a poem in an anthology on death, well. She had had worse references. Integra therefore grabbed not a book but an armchair, and dragged it to where she would have a direct line of sight to the clock above the mantel.

The pendulum swung. Integra followed it with a hunter's keenness.

She would become a master of space-time.

The fact she had already declared as much did not make it any less ridiculous. "Now would be the perfect occasion to act up," Integra said dryly.

The world did have a tendency to laugh in her face.

Tapping her fingers on the armrest, Integra mulled over the conditions for triggering this finicky dessert. Earlier she had wanted to catch the flying linens, yes, but it had hardly been a complete or conscious thought. She would not grant beheading a Nazi a passing thought, why would she for scraps of cloth? That must be a factor. Some kind of action required of her. It would not do for it to be spontaneous, however. She needed to mold this power to her control.

"Seras, if you intended me this deviltry, you could have attached a detailed report." Integra allowed herself this levity.

She willed the clock to stop. It was not working.

Integra eyed an ottoman nearby and, stretching out a foot, tipped it over. "Freeze, damn it," she muttered, feeling absurd.

The ottoman fell on the carpet. Integra let loose a silent string of curses, including French ones she picked up from Pip. Eventually her frustration ebbed and she was left with numbness. She slouched into her seat, staring at the particles of dust in the sunlit air.

Why must you do this alone? her own voice asked.

She had yet to tell Alucard about the singularity.

They were wedded now. Should they not set precedents? Honest communication makes a happy marriage or whatever kind of lark—Alucard would be sniggering at the human pedantry here. The Countess and Count spoke in shadows and blood, in the writ of dead poets and in silence. And even those may be superfluous when her heart was telltale for them both.

Though, for this issue and then some she would need a direct form of disclosure. Demand, to start with, that he take responsibility for all those years he was an absentee sire—

Ah.

The numbness constricted her. Integra closed her eyes once more.

The library during the day was different from the library at dusk. In these handful of hours past noon it was mundane, baked indolent in the summer muffle. There was nothing otherworldly about it.

Yet Integra wondered if she was not back on the ladder up the highest rung, awash in the blue sweven of dusk, moments from asking if he was real.

Then, she had mused she could fall asleep an infinite number of times, delivered to an infinite number of worlds and never know which was real. Many things had happened since, and Integra had chosen—which was not the same as knowing, or believing—this to be real.

But why—a twitch of her fingers, a crease in her brow belied her repose—am I not satisfied?

Time pivots, and eats its tail. Which is the head? Which is the tail?

They are wide awake. The Integra who ate the heart of space-time. The Alucard who gave her his heart. The Seras whose heart beat.

This Integra is also the one whose eye was shot out.

The eye protests.

There is a Seras who weeps crimson. What is her grand plan? The one that she thinks is the noblest, the most glorious, the most human?

And Alucard…

Integra let the numbness sublimate into slumber. Her head slanted delicately to the wing of the chair, her hair wisped across her face, the world seemed to hold its breath…

And Alucard…

 

She remains bored and very beautiful.

 

The words were Romanian, and she understood them. Still air kissed her lips when she parted them, its taste hoarfrost, as she took in the strange landscape she had glimpsed earlier in his arms. A horizon of dawn—or dusk—stretching far beyond comprehension. Whoever should stand here beholding it would shiver at how exposed they were; would soon be crushed by the realization they were utterly, utterly alone.

And yet…

 

Her fair hair is angry,
her dark hand
for ages now has forgotten me,
for ages too has forgotten itself—

 

The voice was low and sibilant. The words it shaped fell like snow—almost tangible, yet gone before they could be caught, swallowed up by the solemn silence of the twilight realm.

There is something, something. An absolute nothing that is something.

 

I reveal my teeth to her
but she understands this is no smile—

 

Stănescu's poem. But she had recognized the voice before putting a name to its verse. Integra turned around.

Upon the endless and empty earth stood a figure who cut a jagged hole against the sky with his sable hair which writhed on its own without wind. He would have been a towering force, the resident Devil, if not for the observation of his crooked back and the blood pooling at his feet.

Integra observed the mad king.

 

She reveals myself to me while
she remains bored and very beautiful—

 

She opened her mouth.

 

—and for her alone I live
in the appalling world
of this inferior heaven.

 

"Alucard," she called.

It, too, was swallowed by the dawn. Integra waited in spite of it. He will answer, even if he is late.

He himself remained as still as the air around them and very beautiful, in the way he was only for her. Slowly, he tilted his head up.

"A dream, a dream. What a pretty dream."

Integra took a step forward. She now noticed she could not feel the uneven ground, and the "cold" was the effect of this purgatory on the essence of her being. "What is?"

All she could see of him was his mane twisting down his back. "That she accepted my meager offering. Is that not the prettiest dream?"

"I did accept. It wasn't a dream."

There was a pause, and then, "Too pretty, for her to speak."

"Do I usually not?" Integra humored him. She took another step.

"You rarely visit me."

"Well, here I am." Her heart was telling her he was within reach. To make him stay. "Come. Let us leave this place."

But his reply was a sigh, and to her statement rather than her proposal. "You are not."

And again—as when she had raced against fate in the fragment of time and space the singularity had sent her to—it was almost as if he was turning, to look at her—

"You are not here."

"Integra!"

She woke up, in the reality of her choosing, in the idle warmth of the afternoon sun, with an ottoman knocked over on its side, a pendulum clock keeping its pace, and a Seras whose heart beat, peeking at her from the half-open doorway holding a tray of meringues.

 

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For you I'll give up all the rest.

Well, that was quite a lot coming from someone who had met his lady barely three minutes ago.

Seras read on, rubbing at the dried salt on her cheeks.

The book Integra had given her from the library was full of such dramatic declarations and archaic prose that Seras just managed to comprehend by virtue of being born English. "Because we sorely lack any form of entertainment for young girls, and I admit I was a rather bookish child," Integra had confessed.

Seras did not mind in the least. She did not think she was quite as fond of books as Integra was, but it was fascinating to imagine her so taken with these romances of ladies and knights. She would become a knight herself, after all!

Seras wondered if Integra had outgrown them. It had seemed like she spoke of her time as a child as very long ago, though she was not much older than her. Perhaps, if Seras ate well and studied hard and even learned how to shoot, she could outgrow her mousy little self.

(Seras had outgrown—she had hoped she had outgrown—the fear that small children have of everything going wrong around them being somehow their fault. The counselors she had been forced to see from one orphanage to another had told her as much. It's not your fault, they said. It's not your fault. It's not your fault your father was murdered and your mother was defiled and if only you hadn't been hiding, Seras, if only you had been quicker, Seras—)

You may no longer stay with me.
Get on your way; I shall remain.

No, don't send him away! Seras gripped the book with more strength than was necessary. (Don't send me away.) She sighed when the lady assured the knight they would still meet. "Joy" this, "pleasure" that, Seras skipped over those, latching instead onto the scene where the knight defended himself from a naughty queen's unwanted advances.

But I love one, and she loves me.

Oh no, he's blabbed it. For all he was said to be brave and courteous he sure could be careless. The lady had asked of him one thing! If it were Seras, if she made a promise, she would never break it! She would keep it forever, hold it close (like a clump of daisies, until it wilts, until—) and keep out of trouble!

(She had been so childish. Throwing herself at Integra, an Integra who had been tired and injured, because of some nightmare, how much more pathetic could she be? Why did she never get better? Unlucky little Seras Victoria. Nasty bit of circumstance. You bring nothing but trouble—)

Seras flipped past the knight standing trial for shaming the queen, the lady arriving to save her knight, and reached the happy ending. With him to Avalon she returned.

Wouldn't that be nice?

Seras sat up on her bed and resolved to scrub her face clean.

She had on a smile, when she emerged from the bathroom, and when she came downstairs for lunch. Even when Miriam questioned aloud where Integra was. "She looked fine when I saw her earlier. She said she wanted meringue…" Here the housekeeper made a funny expression. "Well."

"I'll bring it to her," Seras said, and took the tray Miriam prepared of soup and watercress sandwiches, and meringue.

Seras was a tad confident in finding her way around the manor now. First she went to the office, which was empty; a portrait of an elderly man was on the floor. Next she went to the sitting room, which was also—thankfully—empty, with neither strange dogs nor strange men wearing strange sunglasses. She went through corridors, up and down staircases, she opened and closed many doors, yet nowhere was Integra.

The soup had gone cold at this point. Seras removed it from the tray.

The room where she had found Integra before was empty. Seras stood for a while in the middle of it, trying not to feel very small.

There was a part of the manor not yet ventured, and it was the basement. Seras ended up eyeing the door she was vaguely aware led to it. Both Walter and Miriam had mentioned, in an offhand way, not to go down, but not Integra. Which was to say, since she was Integra's ward and Integra had not directly banned her from entering, perhaps a peek would be okay?

Seras stalled, debating whether she was being brave or foolish.

She almost dropped the tray when someone said, "Miss Seras?"

It was Walter. He looked dreadful.

Nothing was wrong, exactly. She had heard he was injured as well, so his bandaged hand, and the bloodstain on it, were understandable. But Seras had seen her fair share of masks, and Walter was wearing one. A polite one, with the tone of grandfatherly concern, and deadened grey eyes.

Instead of stammering out an excuse, Seras offered him the plate of sandwiches. "You missed lunch."

"Ah." In that moment the mask lifted; Walter was genuinely surprised. He took it. "Thank you. Forgive me, however, if I express a bit of doubt you are here to deliver a meal to this butler."

"I was only going to check if Integra was down there."

At Integra's name, the mask was back in place. Walter did not glance at the door. "You are astute. I do believe she is."

Neither moved. Seras thought how silly it would be if Integra were to appear between them right now.

An epiphany struck Seras then: the reason she could see through Walter's mask so easily. It was because they were afraid of the same thing.

Walter was afraid of disappointing Integra, wasn't he? Like she was. It was difficult, though, to consider what a person such as Walter could do that would disappoint Integra. Obviously, unlucky little Seras, to whom nightmares clung as a disease, was at a greater disadvantage. Nonetheless, she felt a surge of commiseration. "Are—are you alright?"

Again, there was a spark of surprise in Walter's deadened eyes and, finally, a resolve to do away with his mask altogether. His entire demeanor softened. He gave a worn laugh. "It seems I would be lying to you if I answered in the affirmative. Thank you for your concern, Seras. Truly."

"Would you also like a meringue?" Seras mumbled, staring at the swirly sweets.

Walter inclined his head. "I shall accept the sandwich, since it is getting soggy, and serve a new plate with tea. It would be best if you wait somewhere else, however."

Seras nodded, and decided she should wait in the library. Her arms lighter now because of the meringues and other reasons, she forged on.

Walter watched her go with his mouth set in a peculiar line before calling out, "I am glad you are here, Miss Seras."

Her heart swelled, and for the first time since her nightmare, Seras looked back and smiled, with all her brightness. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

 

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It was when she was crossing the foyer that the phone rang.

Seras stopped in her tracks. No one was around.

She had passed by a few of the staff members seconds ago. What luck that it would fall on Seras to answer it!

It was due to the strength gained from Walter's words that Seras was bold enough to place a hand on the receiver. She could ask them, quite smartly, to be on hold or leave a memo. Bolstered, she put the tray aside and picked up the call.

"Hello?"

There was static.

Seras pressed the receiver closer to her ear. She could make out a voice, struggling to breach the sea of noise.

"…—gra. Get…—tegra—"

"Hello? Are you wanting Integra?"

"—yes, fuck—" Seras frowned. That sounded young and male. "Need…—tell—"

"She's not available right now, and if you want to talk to her, you should be more polite," Seras said sternly.

Then—

"—ras. Need…—talk to…—about Seras!"

She froze.

Seras did not drop the receiver. But it was a close thing. Her world was plunged into darkness. The summer hues streaming from the windows were severed, and the cold wound tight around her fingers. The flush of her cheeks died. In this sensory winter, she was alone.

When she was nine, Seras Victoria stabbed a man in the eye. But it wasn't enough. She wasn't quick enough, or strong enough, and it made things worse. After that, nothing she did was enough, so she did nothing. And still bad things happened.

Integra appeared in the midst of these bad things and destroyed them. She took her in like she had always meant to, like the lady in that story with the knight—for her she had come, for she loves her over everything. Seras would do anything. Everything. For Integra to keep her, keep loving her, Seras would make herself sweet, make herself useful, stab a hundred different eyes.

She asked the caller, toneless, "What do you want to tell her about me?"

There was a crackly pause.

Through the static, a sharp intake of breath. And when the next word was uttered, it seemed to be that the voice itself had cracked.

"Mignonette?"

Seras slammed the receiver down.

She only had the presence of mind to grab the meringues before she was running, running, and ducked into a deserted corridor, where she collapsed to her knees.

"It's okay, Seras," she babbled. "It's nothing. It's just a phone call. You don't know who he is. He probably doesn't know you either. It's just a prank. It might even be the orphanage. They might be jealous. Even if Integra got the call, she won't listen to whatever he has to say. Right? Right?"

It's nothing. It's nothing. She repeated it until she almost believed it, until the meringues stopped rattling on her knees.

What made her get to her feet, eventually, were footsteps going up the main stairs.

Integra. These meringues are for her. You can't ruin them, come on, Seras! The girl wiped angrily at her face. She went over the sweets, counting them, checking for dents and whether the parchment underneath was not crumpled… It's nothing. See, he hasn't called again. It's a prank, it's a load of tripe…

She dragged herself, as if there were hundreds of hands clinging to her, and she wanted to stab all of them.

The girl dragging herself through the halls was no longer innocent. But who was, in this house, anyway?

That was why they were there.

Thus she found Integra startled awake by her too-loud whisper. And when the lady gathered her in her arms, Seras likewise held her secret close, like a clump of daisies, until it wilts, until it curdles into desperation.

 

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With him to Avalon she returned.

 

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With her to Avalon she returned.

 

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With them—

 

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"Hey."

The one entering the atrium held a cigarette stub which she waved irritably at the ropes of ivy catching on her bandages. Kicking away debris, she came to a halt at the edge of a patch of faded grass.

"Are you asleep?"

She was talking to the one who was seated at its center.

The sun shone bleakly through a hole in the roof several stories up, allowing a sparse number of daisies to speckle the grass. The white petals brushed against a chair which, as nondescript as it was, could work in a pinch as a throne.

That left a bad taste in the scarred mouth.

She spat on the ground. "Must be a real carnival back there. Are the demon and the heathen fucking at last?"

Shadows whipped across the lot and crashed into the wall behind, demolishing it—she dodged it with ease. "Guten Morgen to you too, bitch," she growled. "Done daydreaming? There's a rip you need to sew. And the collateral, he won't shut up. Just let me put him out of his misery—"

She cut off.

The one she was talking to was smiling.

She lost her grip on her stub. The meaning of that smile arose as the wisp of smoke did; her gnarled face dropped its hostility, and she suddenly looked very, very old.

"Is it time?"

And the one who desperately hopes, answered, "It is."

 

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---

 

She remains bored and very beautiful
her black hair is angry,
her bright hand
for ages now has forgotten me-
for ages too has forgotten itself,
hanging as it has from the neck of a chair.
In the lights I drown myself,
set my jaws against the coursing of the year.
I reveal my teeth to her
but she understands this is no smile-
sweet, illuminated creature
she reveals myself to me while
she remains bored and very beautiful
and for her alone I live
in the appalling world
of this inferior heaven.

(Nichita Stănescu, "De dragoste")

In the poem "De dragoste(Of Love)" … the poet aims to bring the "other" closer to him, an alterity in which the self seeks to find itself, after having become aware of itself … This effort to find one's own identity in the other acquires a teleological dimension - "I only live for her", integrated into a spiritual "physiology", hence the title "Of love" - which means to restore the primordial self-light unity … even if this process means the annihilation, the "drowning", the death of the being. The self survives the symbolic death in the light: "I drown in the light" and continues to exist after restoring the unity with the "creature of light". Predominantly, the synecdoche orients the lyrical discourse in the sense mentioned above, that of the primacy of the spirit. He defines by defining what surrounds him, he loses himself in otherness, in "the other", in "her", in order to find himself.

(Rodica Bogdan)

 

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Lanval, a knight at King Arthur's court, who is overlooked by the king, [is] wooed by a fairy lady, given all manner of gifts by her, and subsequently refuses the advances of Queen Guinevere. The plot is complicated by Lanval's promise not to reveal the identity of his mistress … Despite the broken promise, the fairy lover eventually appears to justify Lanval, and to take him with her to Avalon.

(Wikipedia)

 

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Notes:

English translation of "De dragoste."
allpoetry.com/Of-Love

Rodica Bogdan, analysis of "De dragoste." Translated through Google.
adamaica.wordpress.com/critica-poetica/de-dragoste-nichita-stanescu/

Marie de France's "Lanval," The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Eighth Edition, Volume 1

Chapter 24: flesh, skin, and bones

It rained.

The one seated in the center of the daisy-speckled grass kept her head bowed. The smile had long since disappeared from her pale face stained with red that never faded, which in turn was the sole splash of color on her dulled and weathered form.

She spoke.

"I knew. I knew you would."

The arm comprised of shadow unfurled. It spread and twisted toward the sky, through the roof of a once-stately manor. A Tartarean spire wriggling out of its pits, daring to encroach on the heavens. It sewed shut the rip in the barrier.

Finally, she looked up.

"Mother..."

A stray raindrop fell into her eye and slid down her face, mimicking a human tear.

"Just a bit more. Just a bit longer. And then…"

Outside she heard them rejoice at the rain, though that which would quench their thirsts now would kill them later. But there is no other choice.

"Glory!" they say. "Glory to our—"

Sometimes I feel like an old, old tree, gnarled and bare, a half-fossilized monument of a forgotten age of lushness, and all I want to do is collapse in on myself. Yet still, birds rest on my branches. They're weary, too. They ask me to stay, and I say I will.

It won't be long now.

"Integra."

I will wait for you until the very end.

 

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23.

flesh, skin, and bones

 

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The shadows rose at sunset, and with them their king. The No-Life King awoke in his coffin. He was less man and more eyes, in a pool of blood and inferno, and there he lay.

Apropos for the monster's desire to only grow, so much so that it rebounded to its basest; that he would will the inhabitants of this house to be turned into dust except her, so they may devour each other until they were sated. Which would be never.

His desire had ripped him out of his flesh, and the walls were barely containing it. He understood more intimately the war the other version of him had brought her. How else to displace this carnality, to replace it? In war he could impale a thousand and let the blood quench even a fraction of his thirst. He could drag up his vassals and their steeds, his enemies, her enemies, each and every one of them to kneel before her.

And fight. Fight! Fight for God! God helps those who help themselves.

She came to him when he was helpless, she sat down next to his corpse.

He does not save those who ask for mercy.

She gave him mercy.

That's not a prayer. It's just begging.

He prostrates at her feet.

Die.

Don't leave me, she says.

Your battle is your prayer. After your resounding prayer, He will descend from heaven. He will descend to Jerusalem!

And who was it that descended, at the end of all things?

Alucard awoke in his coffin, cushioned in silk, the pool of eyes and the scorching memory having retreated to its abyssal depths. His own eyes swept to the edge of the closed lid.

Integra was here.

She had descended.

He "saw" her on his mock throne with a book in hand, and paradoxically he felt his desire mellow, not because it had lessened in any way, but because her presence moored him. Her breath, her pulse, the little sigh of boredom that escaped her as she sat there waiting for him within the sanctuary of a single candlelight—he stared and stared, fastened on the reality of his Countess who had eaten his heart.

Integra forsook the book when the candle flickered. Her glasses flashed toward his rest. She approached. She circled the coffin, the hem of her skirt teasing past much like a few nights ago, and inside the dead man twitched as if she was touching him directly.

She stopped, and bent forward so that pale hair curled on ebony.

"I know you're awake."

There was the creak of the hinges before the lid crashed open and his shadows burst out.

Integra chuckled, withstanding the surge. Alucard drank in the sight of her. Then he jerked his head with a hiss when she nearly resuscitated him by settling her weight, and all her living warmth, on his leather-bound chest.

She seated herself prim and proper.

Her true throne, indeed.

"Countess."

"Count," she reciprocated. She cupped his face. He shivered, wavering between feral animal and gentleman.

"Have you dreamt?"

"Hmm?" He stretched his neck to kiss her instead. Or bite her. Integra stayed him.

"Have you had odd dreams?"

Barring the memory of another war, and barring the recurring scene this morning—except for the one detail—"None."

It seemed for a moment she was evaluating him—that she may even be disappointed with his answer. She soon relaxed. "Good."

"Would you rather?"

There was a flicker in her eyes, not unlike the candle. "I believe I just said otherwise."

Alucard strained against her hand. "Would you rather I have them? Perhaps they would liken me to the one you have awaited?"

Quite a feat, even for a vampire with many names, to be so detached from a version of himself, yet at the same time disparaging and undisguisedly jealous. Alucard had spent these hours after she effectively banished him ruminating further on the sporadic details of her future, and still his reaction was to gloat, as he had been unable to earlier. So he brought the war to her as proxy for his carnality, and still lost? Pathetic.

I should thank you. Thanks to you she has my blood, and there will be no future where she loses me. The beauty of her years are mine.

As if she could gauge his childish thoughts, Integra nicked his skin. "Don't be ridiculous. You are you." She lowered her face to his. "You are mine."

"Yes," he rasped, and she kissed him.

The crypt was silent but for the soft sounds of her mouth against his, turning harsh and lewd when he opened. She commanded the kiss, but his hands that had been deceptively pliant at his sides moved to gain possession of her slim frame and Integra had to withdraw to catch her breath.

She looked exquisite with her reddened lips, yet it paled when he knew just how ruinous she could be with rouge from the forbidden fruit; for that he considered carving himself out again. "Were you worried, then? Petty nightmares shall not disturb me as they did your little darling, so long as I am anchored to your beating heart."

There was a delay from Integra at the mention of the girl which Alucard regretted. He wanted her undivided attention. "The pomegranate seed has delivered you here, dear Countess." His fingers encompassing her ribs slipped between the buttons of her garment and pressed into the valley of her breasts, upon that fluttering heart. "And your Count has endured his wife's absence."

The candlelight was weakening. Somehow brighter and more visible were the glow of her eyes, the glint of her hair, and the gentle curve of her amusement.

Oh, to have her to himself, while outside the world falls to eternal winter.

"Are you here, Integra, to reward me for being good?"

"That depends," she said seriously.

"On?"

"Whether you have been good, Count, regarding neither your honoring of my request nor your dreamless sleep but the hours you said you have endured."

Alucard tilted his head. "I have stayed away, and did not listen in."

"Ah, but I require a detailed report." Integra said this with a mirrored tilt to her smile. "You left in such a state." Her eyes were ever an antithesis to his, ever pristine no matter the crimson they shed or engaged in a battle of wits. A battle he was destined to lose. "Your Countess is a newlywed and is curious. What does a husband do, alone in those hours?"

Wicked huntress. With only her daring she incapacitated him, no silver needed.

Alucard trembled, his want for her tantamount to an out-of-body experience. Yet her presence continued to weigh him.

"How will you have your report? Would you like this voice in your ear, or in your head?"

"I would rather a visual."

He retracted his fingers from her heart and lay down heavily into the lining. "A visual, she says…"

Integra gathered her legs to the ledge of the coffin, once again prim and proper on his broad chest—and flinched when his suit melted away.

In the time it took for the candle flame to slide into a puddle of wax, her eyes had adjusted to the dark, and there was moonlight trickling in from the vents. And in this sea of darkness she was afloat on his bare muscles which were as white as seafoam.

Alucard splayed his gloved hand across his face.

"I crawled," he began, the timbre of his voice so deep it was nigh inaudible, "and buried myself in this darkness, with this hand smelling and tasting of you." His tongue protruded, and licked at his palm and fingers.

I bite through this flimsy barrier and make it bleed. He bit.

His voice had entered her mind, and with the change of tense, it was now Integra who felt out-of-body, sent to those hours of his torture. And yet he weighed her in turn.

I almost prefer pain, than this desire you have ignited, this desire too mortal and too delicate. I think of you. Integra. My Master. My Countess. I think of when you were down here last and you invited me to destroy you. But it is you who have destroyed me.

His shadows were crawling over her, a tendril snaking up her feet, her knees, her waist.

I think of you, the fact you have taken me in you.

He moved an arm around her. Integra's eyes flitted to it and back to his face when he let out a groan. He had taken himself in his bloodied hand.

Integra only said, "And?"

Alucard only smirked.

He began moving his fist up and down his blood-slicked shaft.

And then I imagine, and it goes quite like this. You, sitting on me as you are now, daring to be demure when we know exactly what you do to me and I do to you—shall I bite through this flimsy barrier as well? Ah, yet alone I have no agency. Even in my thoughts, without you there is no absolution.

The sounds coming from behind her, sordid in the cavernous hall tempted Integra to look, though she maintained watch over her effect on him displayed raw on his pallor.

So I burn in a pool of my desire, never to be whole.

"Except," she said, "you have me." She said it with a graveness that he in his lustful haze was unable to dissect. "You will know that, won't you?"

Alucard laughed. He raised his other hand and tangled it in her hair, near her auricular vein. He pressed his thumb to her lips, an imprint of promise.

Always.

She smiled.

"And?" Her breath warmed the appendage. He quickened his strokes. "You're greedy. You're not satisfied with a drop in me. You want and want and want. What do you want?"

Oh, everything. Conceit laced his default answer. His eyes were wild. But since I have everything—

In a flash, Alucard sat up and his mouth found her ear, and his voice shot through her very being.

"I want to fuck my bleeding fingers into you, and make you come."

Integra gasped—her orgasm came fast and unexpected. And in retaliation she bit down, hard, on his thumb and rode out, lips reddening, as he spilled his dead seed into his fist at her wordless command.

"…and that is my visual," he panted.

She pulled his thumb out of her mouth and pushed him down—he went, still spasming, and not too obediently, his sodden hand falling from his cock and catching on her skirt as if he meant to rip it apart.

In the settling dark Integra presided over her vampire's sinful visual, his chest heaving with rapture and his hands both crimson. Oddly enough, she had not been too jostled during all this, and she realized the tendril of shadow had held her possessively throughout.

She wiped the blood off her lips with the back of her hand and held it over his mouth. With an air of petulance he licked it clean.

"Well done," she whispered, breathless.

He bared his teeth. "Did it suffice?"

He knew she needed this.

Integra kept silent, absently patting his cheek while he siphoned off the mess.

Alucard wondered of her day, what had been the fruit of her interrogation, what strange truths she had reaped. The quiet barrier of her gaze he wanted breached. But it was implicit in her behavior she would not talk about them here and now.

They toyed with their newest labels—wife and husband—yet he did not know how to be a husband. The trivialities of his humanity were all but dust, and he only retained its pain and its war and its death.

In the end, though, he found it no different from his place as servant. At her feet.

He knew—she had delivered herself to this underworld because mundus could not give her what she needed. Control. Only here would she have absolute control—over him—and he merely had to please. No butlers, no soldiers, no would-be Draculinas in this court; it was his and his was hers to rule.

And perhaps, said a child's voice entrenched within him that he did not acknowledge, you will forget.

"What are you thinking about?" Integra murmured.

I should be the one asking you that. "The book. Did you bring it so I can fulfill my duty?"

She hummed. "So you can read to me, almost certainly putting me to sleep in this gloom, thereby I give this coffin a try?"

Neither pointed out what she had initially said to that offer.

"There are better ways to pass the time," he enticed, and Integra laughed.

"Get dressed, you git, and read me something."

Alucard obeyed, conjuring a black suit and cravat while she stood to stretch her legs.

He had no need for a candle to see the gravity in her eyes, of years he had no claim.

Forget the other. Forget the future you can't go back to, Integra.

You have me.

I shall be everything you desire.

 

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"Everything."

In the realm of eternal dawn or eternal dusk, the one who has lost at sunrise thrice, laughs.

Mocking.

He stretches out his bare and bloodied hands.

"See? Isn't it the prettiest dream?"

 

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A couple of days went by normally, which for this household was rather like saying normalcy was hanging on by the skin of its teeth.

Rather like it was tiptoeing around her. Integra could sympathize. She had been, after all, meaning to stop it for several tries.

Lack of a breakthrough had Integra hypothesizing that stopping time was itself not the crux of her manipulation of it; more akin to another irregularity, caused by time eating its tail. There had already been irregularities beyond her sphere of influence: the discrepancy in witnessing Alucard's female form, the disappearance of a hiker and a forest's fauna, Dylan himself. There's bound to be fallout, the boy had said. Through a hole in the fabric, falling into her lap.

As usual.

But there were outside matters that hampered her from breaking through. The world continued to turn, and so did the plate of proposals and reports and budget adjustments, vying for her approval prior to the Table meeting this quarter. Integra signed some, lambasted others, and resisted drawing up her own plans to skip the meeting entirely.

There were also internal matters.

Walter was avoiding her.

The fine-tuned clockwork of the manor could only be attributed to his diligence. She sipped the tea he brewed, saw the documents he prepped. Yet he kept out of sight.

He would be making his own hypotheses. Trying to decipher exactly what it was that she knew. Whether to accept her forgiveness. Whether to go on pretending, or confess.

Integra allowed this.

And there was Seras. She smiled sunnily, and took the news of her tutors being scheduled to arrive at the end of the month with determination. "I'll study hard!" she had chirped, clinging to her hand; the girl did not know her own strength. Integra had met her earnest eyes and said nothing.

Seras was avoiding talking about her nightmares. And if she thought she could fool Integra, if she thought she could convince her that she was not having them, she was sorely mistaken. Seras was a terrible liar at any age.

Integra allowed this as well.

As for Alucard.

He was, in a way, constant.

He even seemed—dare she say—content.

To simply be near her, to fixate on her with his—ironically—insatiable gaze.

Integra could pretend, when he sat in the shadows watching her work, that it was just another of their quiet nights, the same as those they had passed for ten years.

She used to feel conflicted on those nights. Alucard is capricious, her juvenile mind would whisper. So easy to get bored. Shouldn't something happen? Don't you need to prove yourself? There were not any such whispers now, not when she accepted all that the gaze had to offer, when he was but a turn of the lips away from a kiss.

And so she had to correct herself: it was not the same as those nights.

It was perhaps inevitable, that in this house full of strange happenings there would be a point where the bloodthirsty monster happened to be the one most normal. It was also inevitable that a house in that state would soon implode.

Integra, likewise, allowed this.

After all, she was the head, and she was the one with the heaviest mask.

Something will happen.

Until then she would play at normalcy.

Signing off a report with a fountain pen, Integra paused and pursed her lips at a blot of ink on her wrist. Good thing she noticed before she went on and ruined the next. At least it had not stained her cuff—

She stared at her wrist longer.

There was a knock, and Miriam entered the office with tea. "Won't you take a breather, Integra?"

"Miriam. Has this blouse always been this short?"

Miriam came for a closer look. "You wore this blouse just last week. Has it shrunk? But we use the same methods every wash, and there's never been a problem before. Oh!" She clapped her hands. "You're going through a growth spurt!"

Integra had a skewed perception of human physicality, but she was certain growth spurts did not cause a person to grow visibly within a week. Within days.

"Shall I ring up the tailor's for new measurements?"

Integra curled her fingers into her palm and forced a smile. "No, actually, why don't I go to the shop? With Seras. She needs a fitted wardrobe as well. We can make an outing of it."

"What a splendid idea! It's summer, you girls should be out enjoying the bit of sun we have. I'll inform the chauffeur."

Seras was in her room, and at first she was tentative. "Really? Together?"

"Yes. You've been stuck here since you arrived, Seras. Let's escape for a while."

"I like being in the house," Seras was quick to say. "But, if it's with you—I'll go and get ready!"

It seemed Miriam's hopes of the two getting some sun were to be thwarted, for clouds were rolling in thicker and greyer than they had been thirty minutes ago. Integra waited at the entrance, shadow cast at intervals on her face, her nails leaving deeper crescents in the lines of her palm as she studied her faint reflection on the nearest window.

The glint of a monocle appeared on the glass.

"My lady."

"Walter," Integra said, unmoving. "I'm going out."

"I wish you a pleasant outing," Walter replied.

His reflection was a vague hint of a person at her side. A ghost.

It's easier to forgive a ghost, she had thought. That ghost—had been the sum of the Walter she had known and the Walter she had not, and time's dilution. Which was what he was now, standing behind her.

I've forgiven you. You know what you're forgiven for. So just tell me.

A stretch of silence, where neither was being honest, and then Walter spoke.

"Integra. I merely want what is best for you."

She said immediately, without inflection, "That is not your prerogative."

Walter flinched.

Integra turned around and faced him. The bandages were gone from his hand, yet his wrinkles were more pronounced. He did not appear to have slept much.

"I am glad to see you."

"Integra…"

"Take care of yourself, Walter," Integra bid, and hearing Seras coming down the stairs, made to depart.

Walter remained in the gloom of the manor, watching her cross the threshold. Then abruptly his brow furrowed. "Integra, I believe you've—"

The quiet in her eyes when she deigned to glance back was too reminiscent.

"I know," she said.

 

xx

xx

 

Integra only breathed when the car had put the manor sufficient meters behind it.

Seras, dressed sweetly in one of Integra's old frocks and a hat, had kept herself minuscule. She even held her breath—and burst out, startled, when Integra poked her cheek.

"What are you doing? You're becoming red," Integra said with a snicker, and though it colored her further, Seras was inordinately pleased that she had cheered her up anyway.

"Are you surprised I made us leave so quickly?"

"It looks like it might rain. Isn't that why?"

"In part."

There was something different about Integra today. Seras could not quite place it. Now that they were out of the perpetual shade of the manor, she leaned on the armrest and let the sunbeams breaking through the thickening clouds halo her. Seras was sent back to the morning they had met, with rain dripping down their faces.

It's better to cry in the rain. You feel less alone that way.

Integra had said that when she saw Seras out in the rain. A miserable little Seras Victoria who had escaped the orphanage because she could not stand its suffocating walls. But it was not the walls suffocating her. It was herself.

Oh, Seras thought, and did not pry.

What if you're the reason?

The chill of her nightmares wrapped around her shoulders.

What if you're the reason she's suffocating? What if—

"What would you like to do today, Seras?"

The chill dispersed. Seras blinked.

"What would you like to do, after the tailor's," Integra repeated placidly.

Seras stammered, "I—I don't know. Anything you want—"

"What do you want, tell me."

For you to forgive me for not telling you about the phone call. For not telling you about my nightmares. For not telling you how selfish and unlucky I really am.

"Maybe a museum, then?" Seras said. "Oh, I know! I've been reading for my classes! On history—maybe one about that?"

"A broad subject. Which part of history are you reading?"

"The World Wars."

They arrived at the tailor's, where Integra had them be taken to separate rooms. The tailor was cordially surprised the young director of Hellsing came in person, with a new young miss besides, and more so at her measurements. "Why, Miss Hellsing, even considering it was last winter when we fitted you, you've grown at an astonishing rate!"

Integra took the chart and perused it. Without a word, she gave it back.

"Will you be placing your usual order of blouses and skirts, or—"

"Trousers," Integra interrupted, "and shirts. A few jackets as well. Not too feminine. And," she wore a strange smile, "allow a bit of room."

The tailor confirmed her order, privately scratching his head, and Integra went over to Seras, who was sitting as stiff as a board while an apprentice held up a tape. Upon seeing Integra, she loosened and waved.

Integra waved back, and crossed her arms, her hand coming to tap discreetly on her sleeve.

She desperately wanted a cigar.

And with that errand done, they made their way deeper into London and to their detour—the War Museum.

It was uncrowded at this hour of day in the middle of the week, and her footsteps were loud on the polished floor. War as it was displayed here was a clean, well-lit affair, squared in frames with a matching placard and untouchable, unreachable, behind ropes of velvet. How easily glorified it was, here where she could at a safe distance walk up to the faces painted in the colors of valor, when in the end more than half of them would be entrails crushed underfoot by enemies and allies alike, and their despair but an echo drowned by a docent's microphone.

"These are artworks of the old wars." Integra gestured to the opposite wing. "The World Wars are over there. I have something of my own to study, Seras, will you be alright by yourself?"

As predicted, Seras faltered. "Oh. I…"

"I'll join you once I am done," she promised, and added, "Hellsing was involved in the Second war."

"Really?"

"It's classified information, however. You'll have to prove yourself. Go and see what they have, and later you can tell me what you've learned; in exchange I shall divulge our military secrets." Integra said all this in a mock conspiratorial whisper that had Seras giggling, and finished off with a straightening of her spine. "It's a mission I am giving you. Can you handle it?"

And the way Seras lit up and gave her a jaunty salute was so painfully her Seras that Integra was the one to falter. Almost.

"Yessir!"

She saw her turn the corner.

She herself turned a corner, too.

And staggered into a wall of a blessedly vacant section of the gallery, clutching her left eye.

It had been getting worse since she noticed the change in her body, the accursed thing. Integra flattened her back against the wall in an effort to keep upright. The past two days had been painless, and though she had been under no illusion it was done with, it returned with a vengeance.

"Even this pain has to take after me," Integra castigated herself. A few deep swallows of air, and she was able to stabilize. Slowly but surely, she cut her way through a glass-domed promenade to the picture she may as well visit while she was here.

 

We who once stood before the painting of spears held at the ready,

are reunited once again in a line of lances.

 

Integra stood solitary before the painting of spears held at the ready, no Walter, no Alucard, no Seras, waiting for no one, observed by no one. She was reunited with herself, the Integra who stood in this very spot seven years later or thirty years ago, who is also here in this faulty vessel that was her body, which was no longer that of a fifteen-year-old but perhaps sixteen, going on seventeen.

The trip to the tailor's had confirmed: her body's growth was accelerating. She was aging.

She remembered well that on the cusp of her womanhood she had finally grown to a height she could work with, and had altered her wardrobe to better suit her station. And at seventeen she had been knighted, and Miss Hellsing ceased to exist.

Miss Hellsing had not existed for a long time. She became lost to time when she awoke one morning, and since then it had been a masquerade. Integra had mourned her in the void, so she was not mourning now. Rather, she stared at the immensely large and bleak painting with its blood-red sky and murmured,

"I'm missing something, aren't I?"

As she had once been, in this very spot, in another lifetime.

Eventually she shuddered as a trickle of her own bittersweet blood belonging to the eye that knows it's not supposed to be there belonging to the body that broke from the confines of its masquerade, slid down the left slope of her face, as she stood there thinking, thinking, thinking.

The museum was public despite her private turmoil, and Integra had to wipe away the blood when a gaggle of children approached the hall she was in, their abundant chatter bouncing off the walls.

"Father, Father, what do these pictures mean?"

"They all look so sad!"

"Now, children," a great voice boomed, and Integra's hand flew to the revolver beneath her skirt. "Remember to be grateful to the Lord for this educational opportunity. And reconvene in the lobby on the dot and not a minute later, or there will be no supper for ye!"

"You always say that!" one piped up, in distinctly accented German, amid a chorus of yeses. "Come on, let's go this way! Here—" and the girl said a name, swept along the priest's announcement the jets were displayed that-a-way and remember to move in your assigned groups!

Integra watched as a group of children came toward her. One of them was wearing a nun's habit. She withdrew her gaze, standing as still as a statue.

"Is this lady also a part of the exhibit?"

"I think she's just a visitor like us…"

They left as quickly as they had come, and there was silence.

Except the priest had not left.

"In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams…"

He was lumbering toward the same picture, the Scripture invoked without pause under his breath, and Integra could not help but feel quite put-upon. Must it be this particular picture?

But of course it must.

"I will show portents in the heaven above and signs on the earth below, blood, and fire, and smoky mist. The sun shall be turned to darkness and the moon to blood, before the coming of the Lord's great and glorious day. Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved." The priest looked up at the painting and grinned. "Amen!"

"Amen," Integra echoed.

The priest set his mad green eyes on her. "A fellow lamb! Which church are you loyal to, lass?"

"The Church of England, Father."

She could literally feel the temperature drop down several degrees, though out the corner of her eye she saw his grin was still in place. "A Protestant! Not to worry, there is hope for you yet! The Lord has rooms aplenty in his house for those pitiful souls who shall find and rejoice in the true Gospel!"

"I do not believe there is a room for me in his house either way," she intoned.

The priest's regard became razor-sharp. "Interesting for a young lass to say that."

Integra curtailed the topic. "You must have brought those children, Father. A school trip?"

"Aye. Children from the orphanage. I had a vision."

"A vision?"

His grin widened. "In the dreams God declared I shall dream, I was shown this painting. I saw myself betwixt its lances, my own blades gleaming, there to cast down those who do not repent. The final siege! Upon awakening my research found me this museum. And so here I am, and here we have met!"

"Yes, what a coincidence," she muttered.

"There is no coincidence in the Lord's reveal. This meeting is as he has ordained. I shall guide a lost lamb back to his arms."

Integra smiled derisively. "Lost…"

She wore no cross.

There were soft, pelting sounds from above—rain had begun to fall. Integra imagined a drop passing through the glass and falling on this brink of war, sizzling—would it have them look up and have them wonder, even for a moment, what God would descend on this field of thorns?

"Then may I ask for guidance?"

"Ask!"

"I have been selfish of late, Father. I have been spiteful. I gained what I waited for and what I wanted, yet I am not satisfied. Pride, has ever been my greatest sin. I thought I could make it work. I can't. This world—" this eye, this body "—is telling me it can't work."

It is unsustainable.

"Because although I am here, I remain in the past." Integra faced the priest. "One may say they are doomed to wander this earth until his past is destroyed by his future." There was a spark of recognition in the priest's verdures, though it was accompanied by a frown; the hold of his dreams on him was tenuous. "What will it take for the future to destroy the past? Is there a way under the ordinance of God?"

At length, the priest said, "The way for the future to destroy the past is to return."

"Return?"

"Return. Return whence you came. Return as he did, to the barren land where he is waiting. Your past is riddled with spite, lass? He has made my flesh and my skin waste away, and broken my bones; he has besieged and enveloped me with bitterness and tribulation; he has made me sit in darkness like the dead of long ago. But the Lord has not forsaken us. He shall hear our plea and deliver us. So return to the Lord! He shall prepare a place for you; as his Son our Savior has said, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also."

Integra stilled.

"Oh," she let escape.

If the priest's somehow wider grin was because he thought he had gotten through to her, he would be both correct and mistaken. Before he could harp on, however, a boy came skidding around the corner. "Father, quick! Susie's gone and slipped in a puddle!"

"Why were you children outside?" the priest rumbled, following.

In his wake there was silence.

Until Integra broke it, repeating.

"I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also."

The Alucard on that endless horizon of eternal dawn and eternal dusk: You are not here.

She laughed, a brittle sound, drowned by the rain.

"Thank you, Alexander Anderson."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Notes:

Quotes from the Bible, New Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition:
Acts 2:17, 2:19
Lamentations 3:4
John 14:3

Chapter 25: last transgression

Out, out, goes a brief candle.

Life is but a walking shadow.

 

What? What's happening? What have you done?

 

Everything.

He assimilated Schrödinger's nature.

He is a Schrödinger's cat with a will that observed himself.

So long as he can identify himself, he is simultaneously everywhere and nowhere.

But now, he has melted into the lives and consciousness of three odd million.

He can no longer identify himself.

He is nowhere now.

He is neither dead nor alive.

Alucard is just a collection of imaginary numbers.

 

 

 

 

 

I took everything he had and erased it.

 

 

 

 

 

No. This is farewell. Integra.

 

 

 

 

 

Even then.

Even as you turned into imaginary numbers.

Even as you no longer identified yourself.

 

 

 

 

 

You heard me, and said my name.

 

 

 

 

 

"Integra, we're here," Seras whispered.

She woke up.

 

xx

xx

 

24.

last transgression

 

xx

xx

 

The rain had gained momentum by the time the car pulled up to the doors, and thunder rumbled in the distance. Walter held an umbrella. Integra ushered Seras in while she herself stayed under the relentless pitter-patter, heavy drops hitting her shoes. A handful of seconds passed from the next flash of lightning to the clap of thunder, yet neither the lady nor the butler made to move indoors.

Integra took hold of the umbrella next to Walter's grasp. "Go inside. I'll be taking a walk."

He did not budge. There was lightning, then thunder, and Walter opened his mouth and then closed it. When he opened it again he said, "There has been report of suspected Midian activity in Longfield."

She thought, was this another anomaly she had brought upon? Ah, but she did recall this particular dispatch, particular in that she had leapt at the chance.

"Yes, it was around this time of the year, wasn't it?" she commented carelessly, ignoring Walter's affected mien. "Well, Walter? What do you suggest?" She waited.

Waited for him to take the chance.

"I suggest sending Alucard," he finally said.

With a light tug she wrested the umbrella from him. Integra nodded. "I'll tell him myself."

"My lady," Walter acquiesced, his eyes tumultuous.

She walked a path she used to take, around the manor to the backside where its shadow loomed like a suspended tsunami. She would pass the chapel and head to the memorial not far from the family mausoleum, avoid an empty grave, lean against a tree and have a smoke. And memories, instead of ghosts, would visit.

"This is too large a house for a little lady to be alone in," Alucard had once said.

"I'm not alone. I have you," Integra had replied, merely stating a fact.

It was the morning after she found him, during the short period of time it was only her and him in the entire estate.

A world of its own. Just a little lady and her vampire servant.

She had woken up, and left her room, and on the stairs overlooking the foyer she had stopped and—

Certainly, the house was large. And empty. Except for her and the corpse she had awakened, who watched her from the bottom of the stairs. But it did not feel large to her. She had hidden in its walls for days, fearing for her life; had nearly come to terms with her death in its underground. Even the curtains were drawn. The manor as a world of its own had compressed into a dark and lonely hole, which was why she asked him, "Was Stoker right? Daylight doesn't hurt you?"

"It does not."

On that note, she went down and opened the doors.

To the Integra in the present, who was walking under an umbrella in the middle of a thunderstorm—to whom this memory was four decades old—all other details had been effaced. Yet she remembered the look on Alucard's face as he gazed upon the rising sun.

The little lady in the memory realized, He hasn't seen it in a long time, too.

Vampires by nature hated the sun; a lesser category would not even be awake for it. Those facts did not cross her mind then.

There was something in his eyes, those monstrous eyes. Something stark, something vulnerable, it compelled Integra to say, "I won't have you sealed away again."

They swiveled to her, those red orbs she had childishly compared to miniature suns.

"You can just stay."

Part of it was her father having died not a week before, part of it her uncle attempting to murder her. Part of it everyone else, leaving her to fend for herself—though she knew they had their reasons, that most of them had no choice. Part of it was the truth of his remark: now that she was outside, the house was too large, and the world more so. She was a girl alone urged into this vastness, and her sole companion was this blackened, bloodstained creature who killed in her name, with his strangely delicate eyes.

Everyone will leave, someday. Everyone has left. But you won't.

Not until I die.

And so she wanted him to stay.

The Integra walking under an umbrella in the middle of a thunderstorm, stopped. In front of her was nothing, only a patch of land. Nonetheless, she leaned against a tree, pocketed her glasses, and let the rain and wind whip past her in lieu of a smoke.

She did not blink when a gloved hand took the umbrella from her.

The umbrella was flung aside. Integra clucked as the water pooling in the foliage above teemed down onto her head. The gloved hands trailed up her arms, her shoulders, her neck and framed her face.

"I have aged," she informed him, unnecessarily.

His eyes, the same as those in her memory, bored into hers.

"At this rate, I daresay I will become an old lady in a week's time."

Alucard did not laugh. He thumbed along her cheekbones, over lines that were not there. Did he see her? The old lady, the old knight, the old Integra who had waited.

Thunder crashed. Lightning threw his features into sharp relief; with all the black he was wearing and his hair twisting in the air it was hard to tell if he was getting soaked unlike she was. The canopy of the tree and his towering form bore the brunt of the elements.

Integra sighed, and cut to the chase. "You have a mission."

He said, "No."

She narrowed her eyes. He dropped his hands.

"No?"

"No," Alucard repeated, stepping back with an odd smile.

"If it is my order?"

"Oh, I will follow your order," he said easily. "There will never be a reality where I do not. It's simply that if it were to come down to mere sentiment, I won't be going."

"And why is that?"

Without answering, Alucard proceeded to let his shadows consume him. A questioning sound got stuck in Integra's throat which she swallowed when they dispersed. Before her was the white-clad pulchritude of his female form.

She giggled at her surprise. "Integra, you saw me like this before, didn't you? Shall I wear this for a while, so we can play at tea parties together? We can include your little darling, perhaps she will open up to me this way?"

"What," Integra began, "has brought this on?"

The girl grabbed her hands and pulled her out from under the tree. Integra cursed at the downpour she met, and the girl laughed; she spun them around, her sleek black hair another kind of darkness, Integra's own pale hair another kind of lightning. Eventually she laughed as well. When they stumbled to a halt, the white arms encircled her. Cold lips caressed her ear. The voice that entered it, however, lacked the coquettish lilt. "Or I can be your young suitor at your door, or better at your window, inviting you to a rendezvous under the stars."

Integra withdrew, and saw in a flash of light a boy her stature, eyes wanton behind tousled locks. This face was new, and she stared, wondering if this was faithful to how he had actually looked at that age. "How romantic. But a suitor? Are we doing things backwards again, Count?"

The boy half-smiled.

Through the pelting rain, Integra's whisper was loud and clear. "You don't need to do this. I am here. You have me. You said you would know that, always."

"Then why isn't it enough?" Alucard snarled.

The corresponding crack of thunder was the deepest yet.

"Why is your body denying this reality? Because that is what it is doing. You know it."

Yes.

"You won't forget him. That pathetic version who failed you." The boyish mask contorted. "Tell me, how shall you assure me this time, dear Countess, that as soon as I leave on your orders you won't disappear into another void for him?"

Integra breathed in. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"

In the tangible obscurity of the evening storm she felt the shadows shift, for the boy to melt away and the man to replace him. The Count loomed over her.

"Your heart," he breathed out.

I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.

Those words had been circling in her head since she left the museum.

Alexander Anderson did not remember her. He did not remember his death. But broken shards lingered in the guise of dreams, and they prickled. His words could not be nothing, when nothing was innumerable pieces of glass.

Dreams. What had once been, resonated in dreams. Seras' dreams. Anderson's dreams.

Why not Alucard's?

Time was folding back on itself. It was their own time. Everything had already happened. And so Integra was Integra. The one who had waited, the one who stood in the middle of a thunderstorm whose heart was under scrutiny. Dead or alive, one or the other did not change the fact she was Integra, and the same went for Seras, for Anderson. For Alucard.

You are you, she had said, but Integra herself had tended to differentiate him until then, until today. The one whose heart she had eaten, versus the one whose return she had waited for. He made it easy. Seras had her nightmares and Anderson his visions, and even Walter she suspected glimpsed something in his scuffle with his shadow. But Alucard?

What are you doing there? There, on that endless horizon. Won't you look at me?

Alucard was there. Yet he was also here, shrouding her in his darkness, deteriorating into more of a wraith than man, vitriolic in his jealousy and hatred against the other, his own self.

Glass pieces filled what she had been missing.

"I'm not disappearing anywhere. But if I was, what makes you think you'll be rid of me?" Integra advanced a step. He flinched and fell a step back. "Wherever I go, I will return to you, wherever I am, you will be."

The pause between lightning and thunder had lengthened. The rain was thinning. The storm was retreating. She stood with her hair dripping wet and her blouse nearly see-through, and she looked as though she could bring the world to its knees. "I won't lose you again."

"You have never lost me," he hissed.

"No. You are one and the same." She grabbed his lapels and dragged him down to her eyes. "You are Alucard."

The one I wanted to stay.

Stay, thought the girl alone in the world in an empty manor.

Stay, thought the knight alone in the world in an empty war.

Don't disappear.

"And if you can't identify yourself—"

 

I will come again and will take you to myself.

 

It took me too long to realize.

Alucard laughed. Self-depreciating. He held her gaze with his that subtended hellish depths. "No, you're wrong. We're different. The one who left you, the one who squandered your years without so much as this—" His hands gathered hers off his lapels and placed them over his heart. "What did he achieve? Did he make promises? Did he keep them? Did he give you his entirety, did he stay?"

She shook with the effort not to let the sudden heat behind her orbits spill as tears.

"There is nothing in it for me to identify with that version now." Releasing her hands, he gently swept away the tears that had ended up spilling. "It's meaningless to continue seeking him out."

Integra made to catch him. The one dancing out of reach, however, was the girl in white.

Even if he smiles in the form of a little girl—

"Dearest Integra," she crooned. "My sweetest Master. My only Countess. I'll stay with you always. We'll grow old together. We'll perish together. Everything you desire." She canted her lovely, deadly head forward and brushed her lips across Integra's.

Then the lips turned rough and bristled, and the air became oppressed, and the mad king with all his armor knelt on the muddied ground.

Or falls on his knees in the form of a veteran war hero—

He spoke with his Romanian inflection, voice deep and sibilant and licking at her soul. "We may spend the nights in silence if you like, or reading poetry and taking out the occasional trash, with no war on the horizon. Yet the threat is still out there, is it not? Tell me who to kill. Whose spine I shall tear and whose intestines I shall feed to my hound. Your enemies will be annihilated in a mere skirmish." He glowed red, awash in the scent of death, eyes curving into bloody sickles.

He is a monster.

Yes.

And he will return.

"Meaningless." She used the word against him. "Because I loved you without all that."

The storm had passed. There was a mist-like rain in its wake. It doused the monster, and he shivered.

"Ah, Integra." He said it desolately. "You..."

"Integra?"

Both of them looked up, but it was Alucard who moved, crushing Integra to him. She gritted her teeth at the cold armor and tried to break free, yet he reeled her in tighter, his head heavy on her nape.

Stay, he begged.

"Integra?" called out Seras' voice, along with the sloshing of rain boots. Integra closed her eyes and sighed, and laid her weight on him.

Soon there was quiet again, punctuated by wet plinks.

"Where would I go?" Integra said, just as quiet.

I don't even know where it is that you are.

"Really, Alucard. It's not as if there's a suspicious shack currently in front of us."

The monster at her neck asked, "What did you do with the light that was inside?"

For a second she froze. But she answered plainly.

"I ate it."

He was motionless for what felt like eons. Then he rose with her in his arms, and set her down under the tree as she had been originally. He, too, was back in his usual form, strands of his hair dewed and weeping over his eyes, fissures across delicate crimson.

Something warm and heavy was draped around her shoulders. His coat, which she had kept in her bedroom.

"My Countess should take care not to catch an illness from the rain, or from consuming strange lights," Alucard murmured.

"Let us assume this change in my body is merely a hiccup," Integra said.

It was not meant to be convincing.

Tonight was a simple mission. She hardly remembered how she had sent him off last time, when he had reported back or whether there had been a storm to start with. Just another page in their book, flipped over with the certainty there would be another and then another.

This time Integra reached up, and smoothed out the lapels of his jacket and tucked in his cravat. It was much more doable with her new height. Even domesticity was morbid in this household, with the Countess who now wore red and the Count who stood perfectly still, except for his phantom arms extending and hovering above her as if to spirit her away.

Both of them with strange appetites.

"I will be here when you return."

And only she can make such a promise.

 

xx

xx

 

Integra did not know how she managed to get back inside the manor and walk up all those steps and wash and dry and change herself, but she managed, and immediately she was out of her bedroom again. It was not yet midnight. She went to check on Seras.

Seras was asleep. Integra breathed out in relief and exasperation, coming to sit on the bed beside her and threading her fingers into the nest of hair. "Little minx. Who told you to wander about in the rain?"

The girl was saying something in her sleep. "I'm sorry," Integra heard.

She leaned down and pressed the lightest of kisses on Seras' forehead.

It would be nice if she could fall into slumber curled around her, and keep her nightmares at bay until Alucard returned. But she had a battle of her own to engage.

Walter was waiting for her in her office. He bowed his head when she entered. Then he was locked in place.

Of course, Integra had Alucard's coat with her.

It hung loose on her shoulders, and fluttered mockingly at him as she went around her desk to her seat. Her limbs, longer than they had been mere days ago, filled out its authority with the kind of ease reserved for a doyen, and the stale red of the coat only seemed to highlight the piercing blue of her eyes. Walter felt his own limbs numb with anticipation of what was to come.

Integra. You said you forgive me. Do you really?

To doubt her would be another wrong against her. And yet he doubted, because he had never planned for anything like this.

There was the sound of a drawer opening, and then Integra was pulling out a bottle of whiskey. Despite being aware now his lady was not who she once was, his caretaker's responses kicked in. "My lady—"

"Walter, don't say you'll be an old fuddy-duddy. Two is one too many to play at that, and I don't look the part."

Did she—did she mean what he thought she meant? To distract himself, Walter fetched two shot glasses and opened the bottle. Years of serving, years of pretending made sure he did not spill a drop.

"Cheers," she said, and they clinked their glasses.

Integra savored hers. She displayed none of the grimacing or coughing that accompanied novice drinkers; she looked at her glass thoughtfully. "Father's vintage Glenlivet. I didn't get to enjoy it last time."

"My lady—"

"Aren't you going to drink yours?"

Walter downed his.

It was a good vintage, but it was splinters in his throat. Integra had settled back in her chair, Alucard's coat enveloping her in a way that although the bastard was en route to Longfield, he was still here, possessive of her. Walter wanted to burn it.

Yet Integra was saying, "Alucard is away. Seras is asleep. It's just the two of us, Walter."

Even the portrait of Abraham was gone.

"Whatever we talk about here and now, will not leave this room." She took another sip and laughed. "Remember, we used to keep secrets from Father and the staff? I spilt tea over the 1906 edition of Le Morte d'Arthur and was so distraught, you promised you'd have it restored and never tell a soul."

Sweet memories, so sweet, they were cavities.

"It's your choice."

When has it ever been not?

Walter was silent. He was silent for a long time. Then it was as if a switch had been thrown. "You know I am a traitor."

"Yes."

"You know I left you with Richard on purpose."

"Yes."

"You know—and what else do you know?" Walter demanded with a break in his voice.

"Everything. And nothing." Integra set her glass down. "Because I never heard it from you. Every action of yours had to be excused through sheer conjecture."

"And you forgive me? Is that possible, my lady?"

She regarded him dispassionately. "I forgive you. I forgive myself. This time, I want answers."

"Answers? Integra—" Walter shakily surrendered his empty glass, curling his hands into fists while his mind struggled to get a grip on his thoughts. "The day you woke up, Alucard mentioned something about war. Was—will there be a war?"

There was no malice in Integra's smile; its askewness was more of amusement he would be asking this. "Walter. You know there will be."

The shutters went down.

Walter did not have a mirror to view himself, as in his eyes all traces of familial warmth were sapped, replaced with the scythe-edged chill of a reaper. He had his wrinkles, but they also became smoothed out somehow, as if the years that comprised them were fake and feeble. And yet, Integra smiled. "Here we are. An old man who cannot hide his youth and a young girl who cannot hide her age."

She stood up. It was obvious how tall she had grown. She may have even grown in these past few minutes.

"Walter."

"Don't call me by name."

Integra shrugged. "You said that before as well. But why shouldn't I? You are Walter. You are no one else."

"The one standing before you is a traitor. One whose machinations you have apparently seen come to fruition." Walter bowed. "My last request as your butler is for you to pass my sentence."

Die.

"No, I already did that. It didn't amount to much." Integra poured another round for the both of them. "I never relieved you of your position. You're still a Hellsing." She tossed hers back, missing the fault in Walter's mask. When she straightened, it was with a gaze more blistering than perdition, a gaze so clear it reflected the tar and feather of his ambitions. "As head, it is my duty to hear out your grievances. What do you want, Walter?"

What did he want?

"I am aware, a little girl whose upbringing was foisted on you is a mere piece of shrapnel in a plan spanning from fucking Warsaw," Integra said, somehow still without vitriol, "and yes, I see the logic behind it. Only a full scale war will require Alucard to empty his castle. You wanted at him mano a mano and that was your chance. You wanted his death. But what does his death mean for you?"

"To answer that question, may I ask one in advance?"

Integra refilled her glass. "Go ahead."

"Did you drink Alucard's blood?"

The glass stopped midway to her lips. The coat colored it red.

"I did."

"Then I have failed in my objective. I have told you, Integra. I merely want what is best for you."

She set the glass down again, with a harsh thud. "Interesting. Is your definition of 'best' gambling with my survival?"

"All of my plans are—were—built on the unwavering belief you will prevail." Walter's words were steadfast. "You speak of my transgressions as if they are long past. Be it in a dream or a vision, you have seen them all; you have prevailed over them all." He chuckled bitterly. "No plan can be foolproof. I made a critical oversight. I miscalculated how quickly you would become fond of Alucard, and how grasping he would be of you. For that, even at the risk of your life, he must die."

"Why?" Integra laughed. "For fear of my virtue? Does your belief in me only go so far?"

"My lady," Walter sighed, and looked at her pityingly. "It is true my betrayal long preceded you. Yet it was only after—especially after—you were born, as you grew up with so much promise, my plans gained purpose."

Purpose.

That damned purpose.

"Before, I simply wanted to best Alucard. But after, I had an obligation to you. I wanted you to live!"

"How the fuck does that make sense?" she shouted back. "I could have died any time to a bullet from Richard or any of his cronies or to a pack of Nazis or to the Major's shitty aim!"

"Then it would be a human death. A final death. Integra..." Walter let his demeanor collapse. "Integra, you cannot comprehend the monstrosity that is Alucard. Do you truly not see what he is?"

"I know exactly what Alucard is, you're always so quick to remind me," Integra spat.

"No, you do not. What you don't see is that he is the root of everything." He gripped the wood of the desk. "I regret it. I regret leaving you alone for you to wake Alucard. I regret I was too late in returning to the manor, too late to prevent whatever it was that caused you to think he's anything but a careless monster. I didn't want you to become another Mina!"

Integra stared.

She knew too well what he meant. She had once been mindful of the very same.

Shall you make me into another Mina?

"Alucard cannot love," Walter said, finally casting out what had been interrupted all those days ago. "Alucard does not care. Alucard did not care about the woman whom he both fed and fed from. He is a beast without consequence. How can I consign you to such a fate—dogged by one who is dead while you have your entire life ahead of you? I had no choice but to try and kill him, especially for your sake!"

Quietly he added, "It is my duty as Hellsing's Reaper.

"Yet I have failed. You have changed irrevocably, you have surrendered yourself to him. Now there is nothing that can guarantee your life or your death. No divine sacrament, no holy water, no crucifix..." Walter closed his eyes. "I have failed you in every conceivable aspect, my lady. You must pass sentence."

"You wanted me to live," Integra reiterated.

She picked up her glass and drank its contents. What had been sweet was now bitter. The glass was left to roll on the desk. Turning to the windows, Integra saw her reflection dappled with drops of rain which also appeared as drops of blood.

And—whose was it? The coat was Alucard's. But his heart was hers. Red were Seras' wings, which were also Pip's, the gift of blood willingly given. Red had been Integra's hands stained with the love and grief of the girl whom she had nourished with her fingertips. Blood, the covenant of life.

Alucard will return.

Her careless monster. How had she been so certain he would?

Anderson could not kill Alucard, he was a vessel of Sacrament. Walter could not kill Alucard, his one glorious night of battle was borrowed and inhuman. The Major could not kill Alucard, he was not human.

I took everything he had and erased it.

If you had everything—

If everything you had was me with your heart—

We'll grow old together. We'll perish together. Everything you desire.

Would you have perished with me, in that sunset?

You, who said my name, even as you became imaginary numbers.

"You didn't fail," Integra said. "I lived and died as a human. Once—and once was enough."

Walter choked; he had not prevised this piece of information, but this was not the occasion to allow him his grief. "You destroyed Mina's remains and the last of Millennium. As for Alucard..." Her gaze lowered to the crimson of the coat. Integra turned to Walter with renewed strength.

"What is it to live? Would you say waiting for a lifetime is truly living?"

Walter did not answer.

"My Seras made me live. She was dead as well. By your definition she should stay dead. And yet she had more life and love than any other living being. What is that?"

She imagined a cold, pale cheek resting on her shoulder.

"A lifetime of waiting," Integra cracked a rueful smile, "is not much of a life, I'd say. Still. If there was something that made me wait."

Farewell, Integra.

"Something in him that made me believe he would return..."

Integra.

Integra.

"That something, must have been something like love." A blink, and a pink tear, part bitter and part sweet, part monstrosity and part humanity, fell. "I chose a human death. And I lost Seras. I lost Alucard. I lost you. Once is enough." She wiped the tear with her fingers and pressed it into her palm. "This time, I choose my love for the ones I lost."

And again, the world is realigned. The thread of fate is spun with her as its spool. This was her oath, to the space and time over which she held claim. Alas, her servant to witness it was not the one to herald it, he accompanied her only as an Angel of Death. "I cannot deter you," Walter said, "therefore I have no justification to remain. My lady, I deserve neither your forgiveness nor your love. If you will not give this traitor his dues, he will rid you of his tarnish himself."

"I forbid it," Integra whispered.

"Then it is one last transgression I must make against you."

Integra watched, hands shaking, as Walter turned his back on her.

Debris did not surround them, the wind did not stir them, the frigidity of each other's regard was absent. Yet it was the same.

"Walter, if you leave, that is what I will never forgive you for!"

Walter paused at the threshold.

He left.

Integra seized the empty glass and slammed it against the desk, fracturing it, the jagged edges cutting into her flesh. The crimson was the same as the crimson leaking from her eye. She sank into her chair, the blood dribbling onto Alucard's coat and indistinguishable.

Then, it had been Integra who turned her back on Walter. How funny it was that their positions were switched, and nothing changed. Was there no reality where Walter chose to stay?

She covered the left side of her face. Her lone right eye saw the waning moon flitting in and out of cobbles of clouds which had exhausted their tears.

She did not sleep. She was aware of the seconds coalescing into minutes, and she was aware of the cut on her hand knitting itself shut—Alucard's blood healing her. Each passing second was stretched until she felt she was neither here nor there.

Time was linear only to the ordinary human perspective. The past, the present, the future were simultaneous. In every breath, in every heartbeat, the present was already the future, and the future was already the present, and the present was already the past. One could observe a star a thousand light years away; in the time it took for its infinitesimal number of particles to reach the eye, it may have become dust. To the observer on Earth, however, it persisted. It existed. Here, upon the retina of the one who waited for its light.

The phone rang.

Integra straightened slowly, her hair almost white in the night, observing the blinking light of the direct line to her office.

A phone call. Past midnight.

Déjà vu.

But instinct told her it was not Alucard.

She picked up and held the receiver to her ear with a red-stained hand. "Speak."

There was static. And then—

"Boss!"

Integra sucked in a breath. "Pip."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

Chapter 26: disintegrate

"You know how this world will end?"

A click, a whiff, a plume of smoke. The old man smiled around his pipe.

"It won't be the last-gasp of a single madman, one feat that fits all."

The sun was high and bright. Birds flitted through an interminable blue sky, white daisy-heads dotted the earth. How lovely. How mundane.

"It'll be a series of mistakes, missed chances."

And cruel, so very cruel.

"You don't even know how it started."

Some of the daisies were not white at all. They were red, and glistening. For as much as the sun exerted its influence there was a shadow it could not breach, and here it rained, the drops crimson, sliding down a mask of a face.

"You can't look back. It's already been done."

And this face, with no expression, had eyes only for the grave in front of it.

 

Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing.

 

"We can't undo it."

You can't undo it, Seras Victoria.

Those remaining after the procession were few, and grouped near the Hellsing family mausoleum, which in turn was within view of the newly instated tombstone. Jeremy Islands addressed Sir Robert Walsh, who had gone back to smoking his pipe. "And you are telling us this, why?"

Walsh merely puffed away.

Gregory Penwood dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. He eyed the shade of the mausoleum. "Again—why isn't she along with the rest of them?"

"Too crowded," Islands answered.

Integra Hellsing had indeed declared the mausoleum "too crowded" and chosen her own final resting place. Obviously, they had taken the excuse and respected her choice, but Islands was doubtful about it as well. "Sir Hellsing was always so proud of her name. I don't understand why she would...refuse."

Walsh tutted. "You daft lot."

"Sir?"

"With how nearsighted you are, how will I pop my clogs like the rest of them?"

"What do you mean, Sir?"

"Have neither of you entered that thing?"

"I have," Penwood said quickly, and Islands nodded.

"Well then, the metal inlay of the floors, Islands. Guess what it is."

"...Silver."

They glanced toward the grave—rather, the figure in front of it.

"And crucifixes in every blasted corner of that mausoleum. Hellsings. They don't do things by halves." Walsh croaked a laugh. "Reckon they'll be rolling, now they've only driven out the last of their name. Though, who knew how sentimental the old girl could be?"

Over a vampire.

"Penwood. Go and give the captain a nudge, she's been in the sun for hours."

Penwood stammered out an affirmative and went over to her. Islands and Walsh watched as behind her Pip Bernadotte emerged and intercepted him. Words were exchanged, and Penwood turned to them with a shake of his head.

Walsh gestured at Penwood, and tapped Islands on the shoulder. "No getting to her. Come, let's leave her be."

They walked. Islands asked, "Are we going through with it? Sir Hellsing's will?"

"Do you have a better plan?"

"His Majesty may not approve. As for the Vatican..."

"What options do we have, eh? It would be worse if Hellsing fell into the wrong hands. Perchance we're blind to say a vampire's aren't, and Van Helsing himself may be spitting at us from the grave. But I say," Walsh expelled a deep, smoke-filled sigh, "there are monsters beyond one who can weep."

Islands set his mouth in a line.

"Islands. Keep a straight head on. Every ripple creates a storm we can't see because we're smack dab in the middle of it."

And this is far larger than a ripple.

She remained in the blistering sun. Her mind was blank, though her ears passively registered the quiet that had befallen, and her eyes the light dappled by the leaves of the tree which adumbrated the pure marble headstone. There was sight, there was sound, yet she was blind and deaf.

It was when a tear landed, brilliantly red, on the surface of the marble slab instead of the daisies strewn over it that she reacted. She knelt and wiped the blood off—struck it off, really, and sent several flowers tumbling to the ground. "Oh, look what I've done," she said out loud; she did not recognize her own voice. "I've made such a mess, Master. I'm sorry."

There was no one to answer her. She was frozen like that, and then the daisies were crushed in her fist.

Seras stood up.

Pip started. "Mignonette—"

She ran. The physicality of the manor was inconsequential to her. She bypassed its many walls and floors and reached, not quite steady on her feet, the basement. The door that had been bound and locked for a long, long while, loomed.

She ripped apart the binds. She tore the bare metal from its hinges.

The door went flying. Seras entered the crypt. Her chest was heaving.

She was a monster who did not need to breathe. To weep. To mourn. A monster's heart stops beating so it does not have to do those things. How could one exist otherwise?

But the air was dust and mold and old blood and standing over the coffin with the block of rubble she breathed it all in and she screamed.

"Why?"

There was no answer.

Seras brought down her shadow arm. The black and red tendrils spired through the ceiling and whipped across the walls. Pip appeared beside her, shouting, "Mignonette, you're going to level the place!"

"He should have been here!" she raged. "If he had—"

I will die, someday.

"If he had just—"

I will die, someday, regardless.

"If—"

As a human must.

Pip gripped her hand, the one of flesh. "You know what she wanted."

"What she wanted? What she wanted," her face crumpled, "was for him to return!"

The word bounced around the emptiness, and disappeared into nothing.

"He's still not here."

There were bits of the ceiling sprinkling down on the coffin, on the silence, on the lone stretch of time, where nothing beside remains. It was just her. Again.

"Hey." Pip tugged her into his arms and tucked her in. His heart did not beat. Sometimes she wondered how separate he was, if he was not in fact a wishful thought that had inexplicably become solid. Because he was dead. And she had buried him.

And because he shared her thoughts and she shared his, he made sure to hold her close.

"Hey. I'm here, yeah?"

Always.

Seras breathed. She tasted the tears. Hers, therefore his.

"Yeah."

 

xx

xx

 

25.

disintegrate

 

xx

xx

 

The voice coming from the other end was young, male, and cursing.

"Fucking finally, do you know how hard it is to get a direct line to your office?"

"Pip." Integra was on her feet, before pulling herself back. "State exactly who you are—"

"Boss." It sounded the same as she had heard it around the manor for thirty years. "Three birds, remember?"

Integral Hellsing had three birds.

Pip Bernadotte was like that. He wrote bad poetry. It was hard not to discover such things about a person when they occupied the literal walls of one's house. And so on nights spent hunched over a cold cup of tea dark-circled, Integra would hear the humming of some broken-up old ditty and she would, at least, smile a little. Did the humming rub off on him from Seras or the other way around? What was it like, to give yourself up willingly? The wild goose had domesticated himself. He was a Hellsing. He was an extension of Seras, the manor and now time.

"Pip," Integra said, with finality. Her knuckles whitened on the receiver. The seconds she had previously felt stretched thin were going haywire, or were those her heartbeats? "Where are you?"

"Just crossed the strait. I'm heading for—"

"Are you here?" was her question. "Here?"

There was a crackly laugh.

"Yeah. Here. 1992."

Now with two people in the world who considered it thirty-eight years ago.

"Crazy, no? One minute we're dead and the next we're back in the nineties, barely old enough to drink and the jerries we wiped out are alive and kicking. C'est casse-pieds, boss. I deserve extra holidays after this."

Integra herself laughed shakily. "You'll get them, after you've explained yourself."

"Not much of a story. Woke up en route to the Black Sea and I've been knocking on London since. Turns out it's not all laissez-faire when you're piss-poor and can't get a ride—"

"Where's Seras?"

In her defense, a Pip Bernadotte apart from Seras Victoria was incomprehensible.

It made no sense to Integra he was here, like her, alive. Because without a Pip Bernadotte who was Seras Victoria's shadow, sustained by his blood within her yet otherwise dead and buried, there would be no Seras Victoria. The Draculina who had spread her wings and taken flight. The Draculina who was supposed to have orchestrated all this. Who never moved on. Who never forgot. Desperate and bittersweet.

The questions were piling up, again, but Pip was drawing out a breath that dispersed into stale audio fragments. "Sans merci. You wound me, boss. No concern for your fellow eyepatch?"

"Only because I know your priority."

He chuckled. It sounded weak. "Touché. Where to start. Hey, speaking of priorities, is Mig—is mini-Seras okay?"

"What about her?"

"She didn't tell you? I rang up the manor a few days ago. She answered. Didn't realize it was her until I said I needed to talk to you, about her."

Well, that explained half of what Seras had been hiding.

Integra had not left the tailor's empty-handed, but with a pair of trousers and a shirt off the rack, and changed into them before her talk with Walter. She had tied a cravat, re-laced her boots, and swung the coat over her shoulders.

She had thought about a cigar.

Best not.

Sir Integral Hellsing stood over the green indicator light of the phone serving as proxy for her subordinate. "What do you need to tell me?"

The light endured.

"She's waiting. Mignonette."

Who never moved on. Who never forgot.

"She's waiting, alone."

Desperate and bittersweet.

"In the future."

Too far. In centuries.

"Ah, but look, she did it. Our Mignonette, she's amazing, tu vois? The fucking Chunnel's under construction, and she's tunneled through time and space," Pip was saying, while Integra felt her hand holding the receiver grow cold and numb. She set it down and hit the button for the speaker, and his voice filled the office.

"Temps et espace. You ate it, but it wasn't the only thing you ate. She knew."

Integra listened as she opened a drawer and took out a pair of gloves.

"She knew you would accept Alucard's blood."

Her wounded right hand was gloved halfway, and the streaks of blood were tellingly vivid against the white fabric.

Of course.

Integra had been distracted by the symptoms of her meringue she had almost let it slip. The ingredients.

In place of egg whites and sugar she had a space-time singularity and Alucard's blood. The blood of a vampire no divine sacrament, no holy water, no crucifix can erase. She had questioned it, if the deviltry she had devoured would react to his blood. It was yet another glass shard filling the cracks, tiny and transparent and not nothing. And nothing is everything, and everywhere is nowhere—

"Blood is the covenant of life. You told us that. The recipe to bind and transform lies in blood. That's what she bet on. That if you had your chance, you would choose him. See? I told you, boss. You love too much."

"And now what, Bernadotte?" Integra leaned closer to the speaker, her glasses reflecting the green light. "We stand in the consequences of my choice, which you do not have to remind me of. Seras is waiting, in the future, alone?" The pain was accumulating in her left orbit, though it could not compare to the pain in her heart. "What am I to do with that information?"

"Return."

Return. Return whence you came.

To the barren land where they are waiting.

"Return," Integra repeated, and then she snapped, "I know I must return! Seras—and Alucard—" She closed her eyes and reopened them. "I was already here before accepting Alucard's blood. What grand gesture is next? Snap my fingers and a wormhole will appear?"

"That does sound pretty convenient—"

"Why are you here, Pip?"

It was always the old questions.

As the static-ridden silence lengthened, Integra went to the display rack and took her sabre.

"The future is fucked up, boss. And there were choices to be made."

When she turned, the green light of the call seemed to be a beacon from the opposite side of a vast, shipless dock.

"Nothing makes sense. Hell, I don't make sense. It feels wrong, too quiet. The day I awoke, I was running into walls, thinking I could go through them. I was half out of my mind calling the manor, thinking I'd lost her for good. But she was the one who answered." There was an interruption, as if he was smothering his face in his hands. "Merde. She sounded tiny. Good of her to pick up, even though I ended up scaring her. I know what I have to do now, for her.

"Blood is the covenant of life. Our big red bastard got sloshed on London proper and poofed into some numerical potpourri. A fuckload of voices inside your head, which one's yours? All those beacons going off at once, which one's base, right? It's the same question for us. Integra. I'm here, we're here, because—"

And she knew what would come out.

"You are here."

Yes. He had said the same, had he not? Alucard.

We are here because you are here.

"Alucard never returned." Pip struck a match, and Integra could almost smell the bitter smoke. "In that future, it was just Mignonette. We wondered for a while why that was. She'd been so sure he'd return, remember? The working hypothesis is, he couldn't. When you died, there was nothing he could follow."

In an ocean of voices, if you cannot hear your own, you must listen to the one outside.

(Don't disappear.)

Too bad if it disappears first.

The moon illuminated Integra. It was quite high up, as it was the waning gibbous, and the summer meant in early hours the horizon was fairly blue. She had dressed in full regalia solely due to a gut feeling culminated in her meeting with Alexander Anderson and her body's age. A feeling that, when she promised Alucard she would be here—

when you return

—she would simultaneously keep and break that promise.

"I don't suppose you have a hypothesis as to how I am to return?" Integra asked dryly.

"Eh, I'll sit this one out. The ball's in court anyway. Let your goose fly home and leave him to deal with the fallout. But do me a favor. When you're there, tell her."

The green light could be a proxy, a beacon. It could even be Pip Bernadotte's one green eye.

"Tell Seras I was always with her."

Like before, it happened in an instant.

The indicator light was on. Yet only Integra spoke, her words unheard.

"I will."

Time had stopped.

Though she did not intend to unsheathe it, Integra gripped the hilt of her sword. She left the office.

The darkness of the corridor, being so utterly still, appeared as a painted backdrop. Integra was its ersatz source of light. Any movement from her was vibrant in this limbo. Hence why it was very easy to perceive the subtle flutter out the corner of her eye.

She chased after it.

She passed the broken window where she had chosen to accept Alucard's heart; the nook where Seras had found her in an impromptu hide-and-seek. She passed the hall of portraits with their judgmental stares and the sitting room where she had unwittingly given Walter a chance. A house full of memories, a house full of ghosts, a house full of joy without joy and of children who were not children. Once again Integra was its dirge with her unspoken goodbyes and parting words.

When she neared the entrance, rows of blue-tinted windows were caging a familiar figure. Her hand dropped from the hilt. Integra let out a breath, swallowed by the dawn.

"Seras."

The silhouette of Seras Victoria, quite different in stature from the girl currently asleep upstairs, did not have a face, yet turned to look at her nonetheless.

 

xx

xx

 

The way it was told was a myth.

The girl whose father was murdered and mother defiled grows into her father's profession. It isn't enough. She encounters a man with God-defying powers who grants her wish in exchange for blood. It isn't enough. She drinks the gift of blood willingly given and awakens her own God-defying powers. It is somewhat enough. She has her lover, and she tends to her master's master, and she is happy.

Until one day.

It isn't enough.

It isn't enough.

It isn't—

"Shut up!"

Seras Victoria, twelve years old, Integra Hellsing's ward, screamed.

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

She was in a nightmare, huddled in an invisible corner.

Before her, a sea of mottled phantasms wailed. They were in all shapes and sizes and they were all dead—their crumbling fingers sought and their charred mouths gaped wide in anguish.

—it isn't enough free us we need to go it hurts we need to go back, back, back—

"Go away!" Seras curled in on herself and covered her ears. "Stop this, I don't want this...please...Integra..."

Stop it. Stop...

She mumbled it over and over, and as she did, something changed. It was the tone of her voice, which grew colder. The shape of her shadow which spread, fluctuating flame and ash behind her. Her eyes were blue whirlpooling into red. They slitted.

She brought a fist down. "Enough!"

Seras could not see her shadow crashing down with it, larger than any bird's wings. The dead evaporated.

Silence fell. Seras lifted her head slowly.

What was that?

She wiped the tears from her very blue, very human eyes, and got up on shaky feet.

She let herself walk without knowing where she was going. She remembered in another dream, Integra had come to fetch her, and Seras wished she would appear—then again, in that dream Integra had not looked at her, would not glance back.

Her dreams had been getting clearer and clearer. Harder to pretend they were not affecting her. If they could be squandered with the payment of flowers, the credit of words, how merciful. Life, however, was not merciful to Seras Victoria.

The vacuous darkness eventually thinned and a new shape took precedence. Faint light circled a patch of grass speckled with daisies. Seras blinked. When had she wandered into its boundary? She should be wary, but she was so tired (and how funny and sad, to be so tired whilst asleep). It was warm here, though in a sense it also felt mournful.

Oh. She'd been here. With dream Integra.

There was a woman in the middle.

Her first thought was, Is she dead?

Seras knew what a dead woman looked like. This one was seated, with her head hung low and crooked. There seemed to be an innate obscurity to her that severed her from the surrounding light. She was as lifeless and immobile as the chair she sat in, which struck Seras as oddly familiar.

"That's Integra's chair," Seras vocalized, and then clamped her mouth shut when the dead woman stirred.

Her hair was almost identically yellow, yet much longer and wilder. From a distance it resembled more the veins of dust pictured in her science textbook, of nebulae. The hair parted to reveal a pair of eyes.

Red.

"Like Integra's mister!" and Seras really did plaster her hands to her mouth. Why did she keep blurting out these things?

Why was she not afraid?

The woman met Seras' blue eyes and did nothing else.

Seras approached. She could not understand why she was unafraid of this lady with monstrous eyes and hair that grew all over the place, nor why she was so bothered by her sitting in that particular chair. "That's Integra's, in her office. I don't think you should be sitting in it."

The woman was unmoved.

Seras came closer. It was then she noticed the marks on her cheeks.

"Oh, you're crying. But it's..."

Red, too.

Seras had no handkerchief. She pulled a few daisies instead.

"Integra gave me these for my nightmares. She said you could buy them from a person. It worked on me only for a little while, but maybe this time...we'll both wake up. This is a dream, after all." She tentatively stretched forth a hand holding a knot of daisies. "Here."

"Were you happy?"

The voice was distant. On multiple different wavelengths.

"About what?"

"Were you happy?" the voice repeated.

"I...was. I am." And then for some reason, Seras found herself asking, "Weren't you?"

The woman stared.

Cold, pale fingertips met Seras' outstretched hand. They touched the daisies, and pressed them into her palm, so that it appeared the woman was giving them to the girl and not the other way around. Joy and innocence, new beginnings and rebirth; the language of the flower was inscribed between this brief concurrence of time and space.

"I'm sorry," she said, "and thank you."

"For what?" Seras asked. "Who are you?"

The elder gave her a small push. Seras stumbled backward, still holding the daisies.

The dream began to collapse.

"Wait! What do you mean? Who are you?"

In the midst of light blurring and edges fraying, Seras saw her smile.

"Don't...—I'll...—return her to..."

The smile was familiar.

"You're—"

Seras woke up in her bed, drenched in sweat, the spectral glow of early morning cooling her brow. She sat up and rubbed her damp eyes. What an odd dream! It had started out so horribly, and ended so peculiarly. The clearest she had had thus far.

That lady had looked awfully like her.

"A funny coincidence..." Seras mumbled. Then she became numb.

Joint by joint, she unfurled the fingers of one hand, the hand she had outstretched, the hand holding a knot of daisies.

I'm sorry.

For what?

Don't worry, was what she said. I'll return her to...

You? Us?

Return whom?

She was stuck in that terrible state of denial where her body refused to act, until the front doors opening sounded downstairs, amplified in the hour.

On her windowsill was a pitcher of flowers long since wilted.

Seras crushed the newly picked, scattering yellow and white on the floor.

And then she was out of her bed, out of her room, running.

 

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The silhouette stayed put for only a moment before darting out of the manor.

"Seras!"

Integra pursued, throwing the doors open.

With them so was time thrown back into motion. A burst of wind whipped her hair about; the sound of the world resumed was an explosion in her ears.

Far ahead, the horizon was reddening. And cutting it in the middle, eclipsing it, was her Draculina.

The echo of what once had been.

At the end of the drive, Integra stopped with a meter between them. She steadied herself, her pounding heart. "Are you done? How naughty of you to have me run all this way."

The silhouette twisted its own shadow arm; Seras' habit when she was guilty.

Integra held out a hand. "Come here."

It shook its head, and pointed at the horizon. The brightening sky warned the morn would soon breach and vanquish the night.

Another dawn.

She did not know when time had flown past so quickly. When it was she had awoken. When it was she had died. When it was that thirty years had gone by and ten thousand suns had risen.

But to another, that number was paltry.

"Will you take me to him? To her?"

It nodded, and waited.

She must be the one to make the choice.

Integra felt her left eye bleed. Again—yet again—her life was on repeat. Let's go, she should say. Let's go home, Seras. Home, where nothing awaits. Ah, but a clock rewound could not be exactly the same. The evidence of that was the crimson coat and the bittersweet blood. They were both hers and his, and this time she would return with him.

I will come again and will take you to myself. And the question is, how?

Blood. Blood is the way. Blood is the catalyst. To drink it was to take another into oneself; to exchange it was to twist and twine the strings of fate. The Hellsings allowed the monster their blood as an invocation of their seal. Never the opposite. The opposite would enable the monster to leave a piece of himself to find. The one who consumed him would be marked, or in their butler's vernacular, dogged—it was ignominy.

Integra Hellsing crossed the remaining distance and cupped the featureless face.

"Foolish girl." Her voice was soft and fond and wretched. "Who told you to make such a mess?"

The silhouette trembled. It clutched at the human hand, like once upon a sunset. Integra pulled it in, cradled it close, the little bird who always flew back.

"Seras. Will you forgive me?"

It shook its head more fervently.

The blue hour was nigh driven out. Integra glanced at the swelling median of the horizon, when she realized she was looking at it through a swirl of extended shadow, which had become quite transparent.

The silhouette of Seras drew away. It was transparent. It was fading.

Integra lifted her hands.

They, too, were fading.

She dropped them. "I'll see you on the other side," she said to the vanishing darkness, as the sun emerged at last.

So this is how it must be.

Integra stood alone in the rising sun, letting it flake her off like the paint of an old, proud monument.

"Hah. I should have brought a cigar after all." The trickle of blood from her accursed eye diverted and colored her lips. "Surely you won't begrudge me a cheat, Seras. Just the one. I am technically dying a second time." Despite the repartee, Integra could not help the brief contortion of her face at the reminder. All that, to return to this. Another dawn.

Where before I died at the close, now I perish at the break of day. "Count, will you be late, again?" She wanted him to see her as she was.

Like you, I'll disintegrate.

She smiled wryly at this play on her namesake. Truly, what wicked power names possessed, and how cruel of the fates to lean so heavily on hers.

How cruel of the fates, to test her integrity in the form of a small body tumbling against her spine; thin arms flung around her waist, a child's face buried in the billowing coat, wet with tears.

"Integra, please don't leave, please!"

She could still touch her. Integra covered the shaking hands with her own. "Seras, it's okay."

"Please, don't leave, I'm sorry! I'll be good! I'll be better, please!" Seras sobbed. "I didn't tell you about my nightmares, I'm sorry I have them—I didn't tell you there was a call for you, I lied, I'm sorry!"

"I know." Integra laced her fingers with hers. "You didn't have to tell me."

"Then don't leave!"

Integra did not look. It would eviscerate her, it would destroy her resolve to look behind and see the child whom she had vowed to love better. And apart from that.

Alucard.

He was before her, his back to the sun.

Rooted in place, his eyes a frail, fissional red.

Watching her disintegrate.

She looked at him. You're here, she should say.

And not.

There were many things she should say to him.

You are the one I awoke with my blood. The one I let in. You are the one I kissed, the one I accepted, the one who disappeared at break of day. The one I awaited. Whose heart I have eaten. To whom I have given mine.

You are you. I will make it so.

She should say it. She did not. He would know without her saying it.

Because wherever I am, you will be.

"I will return," Integra said.

There was a shout further behind—Walter had joined them. So they were all there. She never let her gaze falter from Alucard.

"I will dispel your nightmares."

She said it to all of them.

"For there is no nightmare from which you do not wake."

Alucard reached for her. Across oceans of time, the parallel shores of which those same words had been spoken. Once by the first Hellsing, once by the last, and it was Integral who would fulfill their legacy. For she was the one who loved them, regardless.

"Integra, please, no, don't leave—"

Her hands held Seras. Her eyes held Alucard.

His fingers fell through nothing.

Under that rising sun there were three.

 

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In the middle of a patch of daisy-speckled grass, the one who waits hummed absently to herself, out of tune and rusty from disuse.

"With the sun in her eyes and she's gone..."

 

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We are almost there. Here, take my candles, my jasmine.,

Remember, our time will be brief here,.

 

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Seras ran.

What else was she to do with herself?

Integra disappeared in front of her very eyes. Left her when she had promised she would never. Would not look at her, would not glance back, merely saying she would dispel her nightmares—

"I never asked for that!"

She ran toward the sun, and with her sight clouded she failed to notice the person standing at the edge of the property. She would have collided if the person had not caught her by the shoulders, though far from being grateful, her instinct was to throw a punch.

"Woah, hey, mademoiselle. Nice punch, but I really need that eye."

"Let go of me!"

"Oui, oui."

Seras scrubbed her face and glared at the interloper.

He was a young man just out of boyhood, perhaps nineteen or twenty, with a braid of long auburn hair. He wore a patch over his left eye; his right was a deep green. Fleetingly, something unnameable—something like pain—flitted. He broke into a grin before she could process it.

"Cute little mademoiselle like you shouldn't be crying. I would offer you a handkerchief, but I'm a bit, eh." He grimaced. "I swear, I'm not a suspicious guy. I'm a friend of Integra's."

At the mention of Integra, Seras felt her hurt bubble up. She snarled, "Prove it!"

"Well, shit. Alright." He scratched the bridge of his nose.

Then he knelt and plucked a daisy off the ground. He made a grand sweeping gesture presenting it to her. "La marguerite, your favorite, Mig—miss. Let's say Integra told me about it."

Seras stared. Her eyes filled with fresh tears.

"Ah, shit, don't cry—"

"Integra is gone," Seras whispered. "She's gone and it's my fault. I kept having awful luck and awful dreams and she tried to make them go away but I kept having them—she's gone because the daisies weren't enough, it wasn't enough, she had to disappear so she could get rid of them." Her words, and her tears, spilled endlessly.

"Hey." The man moved to hug her, thought it twice, and settled for patting the general airspace. "How can it be your fault? Sounds to me a bunch of things came to a head and she had to take action. That's Integra for you. She'll be back before you know it, bien dans sa peau."

"How are you so sure?"

He shrugged. "She'd have said something like that herself, no?"

Seras wrung her hands—held by Integra until the very last second.

"She said she would return."

"See?" The man got up. "And it's our job to keep the place proper till she does."

He started on the driveway to the manor. After a moment's hesitation, Seras went along.

"Thank you, Mister..."

"The name's Pip. Pip Bernadotte."

 

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Notes:

We are almost there. Here, take my candles, my jasmine.,
Remember, our time will be brief here,. ...

Already it is night? Or light? Here one cannot tell.
She ties round my wrist (I'm on my knees) the saint's thread:
"May this always keep you safe from the flames of Hell."

- Agha Shahid Ali, "I Dream I Am at the Ghat of the Only World"

Chapter 27: oceans of time

Ah, she's gone.

Alucard stared at his outstretched hand.

She's—

The girl, Integra's darling, ran past him as if to chase down the rays which vanished her. A futile endeavor.

He found himself betwixt and between separate planes. One where he was standing as he was, his back to the rising sun, but his eyes beholding Integra still: an afterimage burned onto the retinae. Integra, wearing his coat. Integra, smiling. Integra, with her noble cause and lofty promise that meant nothing to him when all he needed was for her to stay.

His hand was empty.

And one where on a field strewn with crucifixes he was gazing up at a man who wore the same red coat, but who drove a stake into his heart. He said the same words, with castigation; he said, She will never be yours.

Ah, but see, dear Professor, she is. The last of your line, the most glorious. Surrogate to none, not even God. She is mine and mine alone—

Pain pierced him through. Hotter than a silver bullet, finer than the edge of an executioner's blade, more brutal than a wooden stake. There was nothing protruding, his chest was unblemished. Yet this pain was to burn him from the inside out, a dead organ's implosion into a frothing maw. Still he held on to the fading image of Integra, his fingers splayed next to her face—and he should grab her, take her so deeply within the filthy mire of his desperation for her that she would never, ever leave—

But she has left.

Alucard let his hand fall.

And immediately he hooked it back and plunged it into his chest, his fingers crushing tissue and bone to grapple the silent pith that ailed him so.

How strange. He had dreamt something like this before.

A recurring dawn, a gaping cavity, a mangled heart.

Recurring.

Perhaps due to that element, the monster felt his reality muddle even further. The facts were garbled. Had the coat ever been Abraham's? Had it not only ever been his? Had the sun from a century ago been so red, the earth so sanguine, he had assigned that color to everything? He told her, he wore it as a reminder of his defeat. Every red morn was of his defeat. They were stacked one after the other after the other.

And among them, there was another.

In that sunrise, Integra was the one with her hand outstretched.

Don't disappear!

She was the one who said it, to him.

Alucard let out a helpless laugh. He revealed his heart to the sun, an ugly lump weeping purplish crimson in his gloved palm. It would never be whole. She had made sure of that.

"Will you return with me, Integra?"

Something cut through the air. A gleam, and then his heart was sundered into pieces.

Walter retracted his wires, only to wrap them around Alucard's throat. The vampire was brought to his knees without resistance.

"Alucard, you—" The wires sang a deadly vibrato. Walter truly looked a harbinger of Death in that moment. "Where is Integra? Where did she go?"

Alucard watched listlessly as chunks of his heart slithered back into his chest. His windpipe burst. Blood dribbled down his chin. Briefly, his vacant eyes overlapped the old butler with a younger, inferior shell, and the day with another, bloodier dawn.

"It's you. It's always you!" Walter spat. "What's happened to her? Where is she, Alucard? What have you done?"

Alucard laughed again despite it all.

Walter broke loose from his wires and seized him by the collar with both hands. "You're laughing? She's gone and you're laughing, fucking mongrel!"

"Why wouldn't I? It's me. Always me." Alucard craned his neck, soaking Walter's gloves in viscera. "She's gone to fetch him. The one she awaited. Don't you get it, Angel? It's me." His laughter turned manic. "It was me all along! A mongrel chasing after his own shadow." Then his eyes sharpened. "You traitor."

Walter smashed his fist into his cheek.

Alucard tumbled to the ground. He lay laughing hysterically, until he sounded like nothing more than a wounded animal.

His vision continued to blur and twist. He was the king. He was the Count. He was the prince. The coquettish girl. The forgotten corpse. Upon every red horizon repeated ad nauseam he was always, always, always searching for justification for absolution for deliverance—pretty words that paled before her. Integral. Of course it was always him. It was always her.

The tiny piece of his heart she had eaten was his entirety. His integrity.

She had taken it with her, and now here he lay. Unable to coalesce.

And it was his nature to chase after his shadow, when the light which cast it was unattainable.

Walter looked down on him coldly. "It'll be worth it, if it means you'll die."

Alucard scoffed. Walter stamped his foot on him with the same amount of consideration he would give squashing a bug.

"I know I've done it once. I'll do it again. She can hate me for two lifetimes." Walter tautened his wires. "I'll slice your heart like this, however many times it takes until it's sludge, until I purge you from her. Every drop!"

"Oh, she's told. But I don't believe she said that." Alucard's worn voice was carried by the wind. "Hating you."

Walter's grip on his wires slackened an imperceptible notch.

"Though she may order her loyal mongrel to rip apart the whelp that bit her hand..." Alucard threw the terms back at Walter, mocking him from his ragdoll state with the butler's foot in his gut, in a puddle of blood. Yet his eyes were everywhere else.

"She would have wanted you to stay."

Alucard was neither here nor there.

He was betwixt and between. Everywhere and nowhere. He was not really talking to Walter. He was simultaneously present and absent in a myriad of epochs, recollecting and parsing distant signals in their multitude. He saw Walter's betrayal. He saw Integra ordering the traitor's death.

Alucard saw his own disintegration.

Like how the pieces of his heart crawled back into its cavity, the facets of himself littered across time and space were trying to crawl back to her.

In his mind's eye, it was the war. And in the distance, loudspeakers rang out a mad man's monologue, wires cut through the air in a futile attempt, and blood flowed as rivers toward a single point.

Was this just a memory? Something that had already happened, cannot be undone? Alucard could feel, if not control, the manic glee of his apparition as he gorged on the population of London, the recrudescent blight on old Albion. You should stop, Alucard told him sardonically. Who knows what's in there.

The warning did not manifest into a voice.

So, of course, when he does stop it is too late. He vanishes in the morning light, the lives and consciousness of three odd million crying and screaming and he cannot tell, who am I, where am I, where—

He hears her.

Alucard!

And

for a moment—

it was almost as if he could turn, to look at her—

Walter struck diagonally between Alucard's clavicle and spleen, bisecting the heart.

"What do you know?"

From his waistcoat pocket he drew a cigarette and lit it.

"You think you will stay?"

"You said you'd quit smoking as the family butler," Alucard commented.

"I was going to retire."

"It's already doing wonders for your candor."

It was Walter's turn to laugh.

"Alucard, know your place. You're just dead trash." He made a point of flicking off the ashes.

"What Integra believes about you, is false. It's not your nature to love. Yours is to desire and destroy."

His foot weighed firmly next to Alucard's gaping thorax, and since the monster did not, or could not, put any effort in closing it, the heart was laid bare and ugly.

"What makes her desirable to you is what she represents. The last Hellsing. The only female heir. Her corruption will be punishment for their enslavement of you. Your ultimate revenge. And once you've achieved that, you'll tire of her. You'll let her decay and forget.

"How long do you think your infatuation will last? Are you going to claim she's different, because you have had her blood and she yours? The only existence you both fed and fed from?" Walter spat out his cigarette with how hard he suddenly laughed. "You fucking hypocritical twat."

"Are you done?"

"I'm a traitor, you're a monster, neither of us deserve her love. So let's kill ourselves off in this dogfight and finish this."

Alucard smiled faintly. "And you will have her return to an empty house, again?"

Walter cut his heart again. And again. And again. He would have to cut it thousands upon thousands of times to kill him, and he would.

Alucard continued through. "You speak of Harker's wife. I'm surprised, though I suppose you remind me somewhat of those men who called themselves her protectors."

"Shut up."

"They were very diligent in using her to fulfill their quest to kill me. But when came the hour of reckoning..." The monster snickered. "Amazing, how calculating you humans can be. Placing me under seal mitigated the symptoms of my blood in her. Still, you'd think the old man would have pitied the girl a bit more. It was Van Helsing's choice to deprive her of her emancipation. Do you really believe I was ever allowed to put her name in my mouth?"

"Shut up!"

"Tell me, are you any better? I am a careless, selfish, dead thing, yet a dead thing that she loves." He suspired. "Integra..."

Walter dealt him the heaviest blow thus far, for daring to put her name in his mouth. But his aim had become sloppy, and he missed. Alucard used the opening to rise and sink his claws into Walter's scalp.

He dangled him in the air. With his other hand Alucard twisted Walter's left arm, slowly, but each minute turn brought it closer to being torn off.

"You hate yourself. Old man who's never quite grown. Always resentful of your limitations, and because of them, having to play nice with the monster you were purposed to kill."

"You—"

"And here I thought I was the pinnacle of self-loathing!" Alucard crowed. "Her dead things are, at least, shameless enough to cling to her love. While you, little Angel, you aim to take flight, but on your Daedalian wings. So you shall fall..."

Bone cracked. Walter gritted his teeth.

"You're the one using her now, as an excuse for your half a century pity party."

"Shut up!" Walter bellowed. He directed his wires with his remaining strength and perforated Alucard's flesh, to no effect. The vampire tutted.

"Walter. You can't have your party cake and eat it, too. In the end, she will be mine, and mine alone. Fifty years or five hundred or another lifetime won't make a difference. I'll tear you apart, before I go receive her." And he moved to fully twist and excise the arm from its socket.

There was a whistle.

"Fucking hell."

A new player entered the stage.

"Mademoiselle, you okay over there? Don't look."

The monster and the butler turned their heads to see an auburn-haired young man, and Seras behind him.

Alucard went still at seeing Seras. His grip loosened. Walter fell on the ground, clutching his arm. He shouted, "Miss Seras, stay back!"

"Man, so much for home sweet home. No wonder Integra's the way she is."

Walter frowned. "And who might you be?"

"The name's Pip Bernadotte," the young man said, which explained nothing. "You guys look like shit."

"I beg your pardon—"

"The mercenary," Alucard remarked.

Pip cocked a smile.

Seras darted out in plain view before anyone could stop her. She took in the state of Walter, Alucard, and the bloody vista.

"There's—" Her voice shook. "There's so much blood..."

"Miss Seras—"

"Mademoiselle, maybe you should—"

"Were you fighting?" Seras demanded. "When Integra's gone?"

Walter had the tact to appear chastened. Alucard remained oddly subdued.

"Seras Victoria," he said.

It was the first time he spoke her name.

Seras shivered under the sudden scrutiny. The sudden, red scrutiny.

Not red as in the coat anymore, for Integra had taken it. Red as in the gore spattered about, and his eyes. Which should have made Seras more apprehensive than she was already, if not for the somber thought that she was no stranger to such horrors, and in hindsight she should have put two and two together about the red-eyed dog and the man's weird spectacles anyway.

However, Seras had never seen a man's chest open. Literally. Through the bones.

He should be dead.

Despite her logical conclusion, Seras asked, "You're not going to die...are you?"

He let out a laugh, the sort that was never meant to be laughter in the first place.

"Well, if you're not!" Seras snapped, coloring. "You were there when Integra came to take me from the orphanage. You're able to find her, right? You'll make sure she comes back safe!"

Alucard loomed up over her. Seras fought the urge to recoil. The man's chest cavity was in front of her, giving her a gruesome insight into the thoracic anatomy. It was not that she was repulsed by it, exactly, repulsive though it was. Rather that she was uncomfortable in her own skin—as if she should know what it felt like.

"And why do you think that? Seras Victoria."

He said her name strangely. As if he was calling someone else.

This was a dead monster of a man. Seras barely knew him. Yet something had her stand her ground.

"Because," Seras swallowed, "because...you, right now, you look...what a broken heart feels like."

Alucard flinched.

He drew back, and with a straightening of his spine, only the sun could meet his eyes.

"Then and now," he murmured, "you are an incomprehensible little thing."

Seras had no idea what to make of that.

Somewhat flustered, Seras turned to Pip, who was staring up at the manor. He turned to her as well. After a moment of silence, he winked—or blinked—his green eye at her.

It was a very pretty shade of green, she thought.

"Shall we head back inside, Miss Seras?"

"Who do you think you are, inviting yourself in?" Walter said sharply. He was on his feet, cradling his arm and ignoring Alucard.

"The time for introductions is over, old man. But if you want my résumé: ex-mercenary, ex-home security, and ex-left arm, so to speak. Ah, not trying to take the piss out of you—"

"Is this a joke to you?"

While the two argued, and Seras fretted, Alucard cast his eyes toward the horizon.

He breathed in air too still too quiet.

He breathed out, and even if one were to strain their ears they would not have heard him at all, for he was oceans away.

"I'll see to the end of your dream."

 

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26.

oceans of time

 

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"Are you awake, Integra?"

A girl, perhaps nine years old, looked up from the book she was reading. "No," she said, and then cursed. "Bollocks."

"Now, now."

Walter entered the room. He raised an eyebrow at the torchlight that rolled on the floor as the girl sheepishly emerged from behind the curtains. "My lady, you were supposed to go to sleep."

"But I am not sleepy at all!"

"If you wish to grow as tall and strong as your knights, you must."

"I was going to—I'm sure Sir Gawain didn't need his squire to tuck him in."

"No," Walter said patiently, "and neither does a lady her butler telling her she'd better fall asleep soon, or she'll be dozing off during her lessons."

"I will not," Integra squawked, but shuffled to her bed.

She walked right through the woman in front of her.

Sir Integral Hellsing, aged twenty or fifty-two depending, watched her younger self attempt to cajole her way into staying up past her bedtime.

"I was only going to finish the part where the dragon appears," the little lady was saying, drawing up her covers with her book yet in hand.

Walter relented, and sitting down next to her, turned on a lamp. "Shall I read it for you?"

Young Integra laughed. "Don't be silly, Walter, I don't want you reading for me. I can do that myself!"

Old Integra sighed and wondered when this one would end.

There was no concept of time to say how long it had been since she left, and no concept of space to say how far she had traveled. Her disintegration had been, so far, an exercise in humility.

In a personal sense, Integra felt she was adrift at sea. She let herself be swept this way and that, along a manifold of waves and currents. On occasion she would be whisked into an eddy, and dropped into a facet of history, seemingly with no rhyme or reason other than that it was hers. She had sojourned in several. Life was quite literally flashing before her eyes.

In a practical sense, she had expected it to work like a wormhole. Seras' silhouette must be the same breed as the puppets in the forest, which in turn was of the same darkness as the shack—essentially, a black hole. And Integra had become some exotic type of matter, one that could collapse into the hole and traverse it. Easier said than done. All this wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff was proving to be even more wibbly-wobbly than Integra cared to wrap her head around.

"Then why don't you read it aloud, and we can discuss your thoughts," Walter offered nine-year-old Integra.

"Oh, yes!" the girl enthused. But then she hesitated. "Is Father still out?"

"Yes. He mentioned he would be late tonight."

Integra's pause indicated that as much as she loved Walter, she would rather have her father be here to discuss her reading instead. It was evident to her older self, and it would have been evident to Walter as well. Ever the butler, Walter took it in stride. "I shall endeavor to match my lady's wits."

Appeased, young Integra found her place on the text, and recited a few lines from Beowulf.

When the dragon awoke, trouble flared again.

He rippled down the rock, writhing with anger

when he saw the footprints of the prowler who had stolen

too close to his dreaming head.

The hoard-guardian

scorched the ground as he scoured and hunted

for the trespasser who had troubled his sleep.

His pent-up fury

at the loss of the vessel made him long to hit back

and lash out in flames.

"Are all medieval stories very fond of dragons? How do you think they came up with them? The reptiles I saw in the London Zoo didn't seem to inspire much in the way of fire."

Walter pondered, before replying, "Many reptiles have venomous bites, and often their symptoms include a burning sensation. A dollop of imagination would have turned it into actual fire."

Integra nodded. "I know the difference between poisonous and venomous. That must be it. Why do you think they're always greedy, too?"

"Historically, those with power seek to accumulate wealth. Dragons are a representation of corrupted power, hence they are depicted as greedy."

"But I read stories where dragons take villagers or maidens. Can people be greedy of other people?"

"Yes," Walter said carefully. "People are capable of being greedy of anything."

"Oh." Integra herself pondered for a while. "I suppose if I had a dragon, I would be greedy of it as well."

Walter chuckled. "Would you have a dragon, my lady?"

"Of course! I shall tame it. How marvelous would it be to have a great big, terrifying monster who will do my bidding," Integra giggled, blissfully unaware of a crease in Walter's brow that would have gone unnoticed if not for old Integra watching him.

The conversation flowed like treacle, warm and mellow, until Integra's sentences began to taper off. Walter stood.

"Sweet dreams, my lady."

The lamp was extinguished, and so was the scene. Old Integra was once again adrift.

Such an ignorant child she had been. She could now appreciate her father and Walter's efforts to preserve her innocence the best they could, by keeping her in the dark. Though, having observed Walter in the moment, Integra realized he had not always been so strict to hide his emotions, especially when she was younger. Had she used her inquisitiveness to look a bit closer, would things have changed? Perhaps she would have noticed her father and Walter were too keen on restricting the basement from her, and taken on a quest?

For what? My very own dragon slumbering in his barrow? Funny, how with all her ignorance she still ended up uncannily on the nose.

Dracula. Son of the dragon.

She did not let the pain show, the pain originating from her heart, at the thought of him. Her great big, terrifying monster whom she had tamed, whom she had left.

Going back to the practicalities, Integra had expected this limbo to behave as a wormhole. But it was different—and it was different from the shack. Here was boundless. There was no path. She might have assumed there would be, that the way was straightforward. Her objective, after all, was him.

That was the curious thing.

Despite the memories she had visited seeming to have no rhyme or reason, there was a rhythm. Of silence.

Alucard.

Not one memory had featured him.

As if to give further proof, Integra was caught in yet another eddy that she immediately knew did not feature Alucard, because the Integra here was thirty-nine years old.

I look better, she thought with a hum, which was less than gracious considering she wore her twenty-year-old face. Well, who could blame her if she was feeling ancient?

This Integra was lighting a cigar. Taking a drag, she addressed the obstacle in her line of sight.

"It seems the new chief of Section Thirteen has much to learn. Trespassing Hellsing's jurisdiction."

Gunshots. A few ricocheted near their feet. Iscariot's Chief Makube simpered.

"A misunderstanding. Our quarry led us further north than we intended. We only thought to lend a hand."

"Lend a hand?"

There was a crash, and a gust of wind blew dust into their faces. Makube coughed. Integra merely joined her plume of smoke to the debris, protected by the wall of red and black shadow encircling her.

The dust cleared to reveal Seras, who had Heinkel Wolfe in a headlock with the barrel of her Harkonnen.

"One-up," Seras said, her eyes merry crescents.

"Fuck—you—Victoria—"

"You should use that hand for something better. We've already cleaned house." Integra flicked her cigar.

Behind them, smoking rancid, was a pile of corpses, to be rendered a pile of ash come dawn. The rest of Iscariot were finishing off the straggler ghouls, yet it was apparent the main event was over.

"Next time you're on a field trip in the Isles to take a shot at our captain, send word. I'll arrange an afternoon tea," Integra drawled.

"Please, no need to be excessive, Sir Hellsing." Makube was, at least, more adaptable than his predecessors. "I admit, yes, I was eager to see your captain in action. I have not had the opportunity, unlike Regenerator Wolfe."

The Regenerator gnashed her teeth.

"Captain Victoria is the one and only true vampire, yes? There has been no other, since her sire's unfortunate demise."

Neither Integra reacted, but Seras pushed Heinkel off and thumped the end of her cannon on the ground. "Demise? Says who?"

"Seras," Integra said lightly.

Makube shrugged. "I mean no offense."

Pip materialized behind Makube and Heinkel, casually spinning a knife. "Hey, Mignonette, is it a score to your tally if we share a body? Most of the time."

"You can try, parasitic Abscheulichkeit!"

"Bless you."

The scene was tipping into the gutter. Old Integra paid little attention. She stood in front of Seras, gripped the Draculina's cheek with her thumb and forefinger, and pulled.

Of course, Integra could not actually pinch Seras. Her fingers went through her. She could not be seen, heard, or felt in any way. But Integra pretended to pinch her anyway, as petty revenge. Naughty girl. Spare me a hint. How am I supposed to navigate this limbo reliving all these trifles—

"Ouch!" Seras complained.

Integra dropped her hand.

Seras rubbed her cheek.

Makube kept talking. "We truly do not mean harm, Sir Hellsing, Captain Victoria. You will agree, it will be folly for us to incite, when we are recovering from the war even now. We will leave with your, ah, blessing."

"Folly indeed," the memory's Integra did agree. "I'm giving you ten seconds."

Makube's facetious smile showed he took it in jest, until Integra began to murmur, "Ten…nine…eight…"

"Seven...six..." Pip joined in.

"Five...four..."

"Ritiro!" Makube ordered hastily, and the papists scampered.

Heinkel was the last to move out. She glared murderously at Seras, while twisting and reattaching the bones in her leg.

Seras waved. "The score is still in my favor, Heinkel! Maybe next time."

"Fuck you," Heinkel spat, and departed.

Thirty-nine-year-old Integra, who had maintained a placid mask, tossed her cigar and turned on her heel without a word.

"Master? Master!"

"What?" She glanced at Seras irritably. "What are you rubbing your face for?"

"I don't know. I think Heinkel gave me a delayed reaction with the bullet." Seras kept pace beside her. "Master, are you going to let them get to you?"

"Why don't you avoid the bullet?" Integra scoffed. "And what's that nonsense about a tally?"

"If it's hitting me, it's not hitting anyone else, right? And whoever incapacitates the other gets a point. Master, you shouldn't—"

"Lovely. Our enemy has grown so bold my vampire is making a game out of it."

"Master, they're wrong."

Integra rounded on her at last. "What are they wrong about? That seventeen years is more than enough for our enemies to start nosing in our affairs again because they're convinced he won't return?"

It was an argument repeated in different settings and syntax. Seras would be quick to insist what she always insisted—as she would in a few years, kneeling on the floor of a rickety old shack, her face streaked with blood. For this moment, however, Seras believed they had time, Integra had heard the same spiel for only less than two decades, and the Integra who had died knowing it took more than three was staring down at her hand.

The memory dissipated, and she was back to nothingness.

Integra flexed her fingers.

Yes, she remembered asking and yes, she remembered Seras answering the same. The mission where they had been waylaid by Iscariot was a hard one to forget. Though she had never given a second thought to Seras' phantom ache.

Now it was the most important detail.

Because, just now, it was as if Seras had felt her pinch.

Integra removed the glove from her right hand.

She had injured this hand on her whiskey glass. She could see the dried blood in the creases of her palm.

See. Despite there being no light.

And who was she, in this darkness?

That she could have somehow affected Seras—affected a preexisting moment in time—suggested many disquieting possibilities. Yet Integra pushed those aside, and focused on what the reaction had reminded her: that despite the apparitional modus by which she traversed this limbo, she was very much real.

She was living and breathing. She was of flesh and of blood. Hers and his.

This limbo was insidious. Even if one knew what it was they were searching for, in these infinite oceans of whens and wheres they could easily lose themselves.

Who was she, to let the oceans of time dictate? Integra found the hilt of her sword. She drew it sharply; the silver gleamed, and she sliced her palm open on the edge.

Crimson drops floated in the darkness. In the shack, the thread to follow had been her blood, which had been drawn to the center, to the singularity. Here it waited, because she was the center. She was the singularity. This penitentiary realm would behave as she willed it. For she was not its prisoner but its jailer, and this monstrous approximation of space-time which she held, had eaten its tail for her. All she had to do was order. If there is no path, all you have to do is make one, Integral Hellsing!

"You're my time. I own you," Integra said out loud.

The darkness fluctuated. The currents obeyed the pull of their moon.

Wind, such as it could be described, picked up, and the heavy weight of Alucard's coat wrapped around her like an embrace. Integra pressed the fabric to her lips as the currents became a physical force. "That's right, you overbloated son of the dragon," she muttered, "I will find you and drag you back with me, whenever and wherever you are!"

Minutes and months and years and centuries whipped past her.

"Deliver me to him!"

When the wind settled, and Integra was able to breathe, the air that greeted her made her freeze.

She had dealt with many a dead and undead corpse, and walked through entire battlefields. The smell of rot should not have given her pause as it did, but for its source.

"Ah," she let out, soundlessly.

In hindsight, she should have been clear exactly which "overbloated son of the dragon" she meant. Really, she should have avoided that epithet altogether.

Something had gotten…lost in translation.

She was inside a large, vaulted hall, where through narrow windows lining the walls streamed light tinted red from the setting sun, and also from the blood dripping down the stiles. Tapestries were torn and trodden on, those depicting cavalrymen armed with lances; the cobwebs that had replaced them told no stories, merely that there had seldom been visitors, if ever.

Except, the table in the center was laden.

Laden, with bodies differing in severity of disembowelment, their pits gaping, hapless humans reduced to chalices. There were about a dozen of these bodies. The table itself could seat a dozen. Integra grimaced.

One seat was occupied, at the head.

The host of this banquet.

His inky hair hid his face, but she knew it. His shoulders were hunched, and the table obstructed her view, but she knew the armor he wore and that it was stained. And Integra knew it was well that he could not see or hear her, because even she had to admit she was out of her depth with…this.

How had she ended up in the past beyond her own?

Stiff upper lip, Integral. You're simply a specter. He won't notice. The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Integra was wondering how the hell she was supposed to get out of this one, when he looked up.

The mad king with his crimson eyes.

They were feral.

Integra looked back.

The voice that spoke, however, was soft. It was the words that sent a chill down her spine—words not in English, but which she could hear—that had her gripping her sword tight and very aware of the open wound in her palm.

 

"I have a guest."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

 

---

 

Foolish Icarus forsook his guide,

and, bold in vanity, began to soar,

rising upon his wings to touch the skies;

but as he neared the scorching sun, its heat

softened the fragrant wax that held his plumes;

and heat increasing melted the soft wax—

he waved his naked arms instead of wings,

with no more feathers to sustain his flight.

(P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses. Brookes More, Ed.)

 

xx

xx

 

"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a nonlinear, non-subjective viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey...stuff."

(The Tenth Doctor, Doctor Who)

 

xx

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xx

xx

Notes:

Lines from Beowulf, truncated; The Norton Anthology of English Literature, Eighth Edition, Volume 1

End note for this chapter has been archived in my Tumblr post of old notes as of April 8, 2024.

Chapter 28: water's edge

The lady had been eyeing him oddly for a while. Her blue gaze darted up and down, from her book to his face, appraisingly, with a tiny curve of amusement gracing her lips. Her pretty lips, her warm and damp mouth, which formed commands masterfully now, as he knew it would.

What did the monster desire? In truth, he was not sure. He was degenerate enough to want that mouth to form more heated, breathless sounds, but it had been so long since he could cause such without terror or pain.

"My Master appears especially attentive to this servant tonight."

She did not try to deny it. It reminded him that her blushes had become less and less frequent. Familiarity was both a blessing and a curse.

"Come here," she bid, and he obeyed.

When he knelt in front of her seat, she flipped the book over for him to see its pages. At once he recognized what had amused her. Truly, as it was with her bloodline, her jabs were wickedly precise.

"Now, how faithful is this?" Integra asked, her fingers splayed upon the painted likeness of the infamous voivode of Wallachia.

He considered unearthing the painter and killing him again. Or had he already digested him?

"Master, were you reading up on me? A waste of your evening hours, when you have the man himself at your disposal."

Integra hummed and flipped the book back over to herself. "I rather thought you wouldn't want to relive that time."

She still surprised him.

Knowing where it hurts, pricking where it hurts, and kissing it.

Do you know how maddening that is?

"You're never forthcoming about it. You seem more eager to discuss your time as Count, and that's not saying much."

"I retain little of those days," he admitted. "They are a blur to me. Even my days as Count, with Stoker's exposé, are distant. You Hellsings left quite an impression." He stretched his neck out to drive his point across; she would be able to tell apart the ringlets of different subtle reds in his eyes. How destructive they were. "All-consuming."

Integra met those eyes, and the individual forces of gravity were in a standoff.

Until he yielded. There was only ever one outcome.

"So, is it faithful or not?"

He grinned.

"Would you like to make that judgment yourself?"

 

xx

xx

 

27.

water's edge

 

xx

xx

 

The dragon whose slumber had been disturbed sat up in his seat, yet doing so did not rid him of his crookedness: the sort that monsters like him were wont to affect, when there was no hurry. One could run, from him or at him. The only difference would be how many circles they ran in the palm of his hand.

She did neither.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Who are you? It divided and multiplied into whispers. Who are you who are you who are you? The dead echoed his curiosity. His eyes were aglow in the deepening shadows, lures of infectious red.

(A curious monster is a dangerous beast, Integra.)

And she would tell him again, Rubbish.

This is definitely rubbish.

Integra stood rigid. A hackney chain of questions coiled around her limbs as well as her throat. How could he see her? How was she here—physically—in his time?

"What is the matter?" His voice cut through the continuous whispers, the same voice which had begged her to stay, but with quite the contrary tenor. "Are you dull or are you deaf?"

She rather wished she was, yes.

"Speak."

It was a command.

Bully for him, he was opposite the one woman upon this godforsaken earth who would flout it.

A draft stirred her hair, and a few gilt strands trailed in front of her eyes, which were unwavering.

The whispers dropped.

The dragon looked thoughtful.

Now that, for her and every iteration of him, boded no good. And true to Integra's wariness, when he spoke this time his tone was very much changed.

"Dear guest," he called, and repeated in Hungarian and Turkish and French. When she reacted to none he veered back to medieval Romanian. "Forgive me my inhospitality, I was not expecting anyone. You must have come from afar. Will you not take a seat?" The chair at her end slid out on its own.

Oh, now he played an indulgent host? Integra knew better.

Alucard had tutored her in Romanian for a while. Integra had wanted to understand him, if he could be understood at all. She had little use for it otherwise. It occurred to her at the moment that his parole may have been more old-fashioned than she realized.

All those evening hours, you taught me conversation in Romanian that to the locals would be the equivalent of waltzing up to a covrigi stall with gold ducats! Integra could only imagine what he would say to that.

For want of my tongue upon yours.

Imagine, because this was not Alucard. It was not even the Count.

This was an unbridled, unpredictable, unyielding No-Life King.

"Take a seat," he said. Again, commanded.

She would have laughed in his face.

He moved.

Dracula got to his feet, his steps falling heavily on the stone floor. His cloak dragged. His armor was ruddy with either blood or rust, deflecting the last rays of the sun, and the straggly locks of his hair blended with the darkness in his wake, which was unable to be punctured by the candles igniting wick by wick.

Integra would have also laughed at the pageantry, if this was Alucard.

"Does my uninvited guest not speak my tongue?"

He was halfway down the length of the table, still playing at an air of indulgence that might have convinced a lesser man to make a run for it. Unfortunately for him, she was neither lesser nor a man, though she was certainly feeling less than playful.

"Or perhaps she has no tongue?"

Integra took in a discreet breath.

Ah, she missed him.

It was quite pathetic. In her thirty years of waiting she had hardly allowed herself to admit she missed him. Some perverted fix of schadenfreude, for it to be when he was standing before her that she admitted it. Standing before her as the same figure who would kneel at her feet, but looking at her as a stranger. How dare you. How dare you be the same, but not mine?

Was he not hers, every iteration? Integra's fingers twitched with the sudden urge to reach for him. The gall of her. She was the one who left him in search of another, and here she was staking her claim to yet another. The little lady in the memory had invoked a self-fulfilling prophecy. She was greedy of her monster.

And he was a greedy monster. His gaze was a physical touch sweeping over every inch of her. "What strange coloring, strange clothing, my guest wears. Her skin is that of the Moors, but her hair is spun silver-gold. Her eyes are clearer than the springs, yet she is cloaked in the shade of spilt blood."

He was near her end.

"Fascinating..."

The width of the table away. Integra kept him in the corner of her vision.

And immediately raised her sabre to deflect his outreaching hand. The blade met the gauntlet with a vicious clang.

"Ah, see, so you are not just a pretty statue."

She pressed her lips to prevent herself from cursing at him. His mouth was stretched wide with delight from having drawn a reaction.

He advanced, slotting his feet between hers, forcing her to retreat until the back of her legs hit the table. Integra pinned him with the tip of her sabre at his Adam's apple. It stayed him, for a few seconds.

He grabbed the blade, and pulled it across his neck.

A reprimand got stuck in her throat. Blood welled between the plates of his armor; the mad king merely pillowed his head on the blade as if it were a lover's touch.

"Silver." He sounded bizarrely pleased.

His other arm went around, caging her in, steel-plated claws splintering the wooden surface next to her. They could sink into her just as easily. They could tear her apart.

But for the same reason she had wanted to reach for him, Integra found herself reluctant to push him off.

The blade dug deeper into his neck, spouting and flowering crimson on her front, as he craned and his mouth neared her shirt collar. He seemed to be drinking in the air above it, the scent of her hair and the coat he would someday wear, and the blood that flowed warm underneath.

"Strange. Strange and curious. Strange and beautiful." His words were murmured in his archaic tongue so low and feverish it was a wonder she caught any of them. "How can this be? How can such a lovely thing come to kill me?"

Integra maintained her grip on her sword despite the inconvenient angle.

"What fire. What strength. Where could you be from? Who could have sent you?"

She needed him to move.

"Perhaps my guest lacks a tongue, perhaps she lets her weapon speak for her. Perhaps my guest is wise to maintain her silence; does she not know, her silence is what betrays her?"

He was not touching her, and was, if that made sense—reminiscent of what they had back in her first life. Their strange unspoken courtship. The push and pull, clashing at the atmospheric level than the somatic. His pressure upon hers which eventually, inevitably, capitulated.

"Begging. Crying. Screaming or bartering. Condemning—no matter their stock, the sounds men make in their last, are the same. But my guest is not frightened. She is not concerned at all. And her scent..." Abruptly, he twisted his head to where her unoccupied hand was fisted against the edge of the table. The hand that had bled.

She needed him to move.

"Voivode," Integra said.

He stilled. Then he lurched back, and grabbed her chin.

"She speaks." In contrast to the cold metal grip, his voice was velvet. "And she calls me by a title I have not held for over a century."

Over a century since his death. The sixteen hundreds. How the fuck was she here again?

Integra was deliberating on her choice of words when Dracula said, "He has sent you."

His eyes were blown wide.

"He has sent down His messenger!" They quaked in their sockets, ablaze like the sun rising above a red-stained battlefield. The blade of her sword came away from his flesh as both his hands and all their fingertips gravitated unto her, strung up and trembling at the periphery with disbelief and awe. "His deliverance! He has rewarded me at last!"

"Presumptuous," Integra told him, and angling her sword anew, sliced through his neck.

The silver blade went clean.

"At last. After prayer, after prayer, after prayer…"

Dracula's head flew a parabola in the air and bounced on the table, while the rest of his body crumbled. Integra was swift to intercept it. The gauntleted hands raked through her hair and folded over her shoulders in a grotesque embrace.

So heavy.

Her arms buckled. If it were not for Alucard's blood she would have been crushed already.

She should drop this dead weight. Take this chance to leave, whichever way.

Yet in a purely partial suspension of judgment, Integra embraced him back.

As usual, time loses meaning when it has to do with you.

Has it been hours since I left you? A day? A night? An uncountable number of nights, since I have traveled oceans so vast and so full of trenches? Like the one you are now.

Here you are. Everything about you is familiar. But not mine. You cannot be, no matter how greedy I am. Your heart, your unbeating heart under this tarnished armor, is whole.

She pushed the body off.

All things considered, she had gotten away with just the stain down her front. His coat seemed to have bore the excess, and one could not tell if it was any redder. Integra wrapped it firmly over her shoulders, marching to the nearest window.

The voivode was not Alucard, which she hoped meant his ability to reattach himself after a decapitation was less expert. Whether that was meaningful, however, was a different issue.

"Wicked Delilah."

His head sighed from the top of the corpse pile.

"There is no flight unless you fly."

The cliffs outside the window told her as much.

"Presumptuous, she says, my strange and beautiful guest who came forth from air into this sealed hall. Then why do I sense myself about you?"

Integra strode to the doors. They were, indeed, sealed shut.

Of course, there was only one way out of this hole: the same way she fell into it. Blood is the catalyst. Her will is the invoker.

And?

"You wear my blood so prettily, but it goes further than skin deep. I can smell it," he hissed, "I shall taste it."

"Presumptuous," she repeated, out of spite. He cackled.

"Then finish what you have started. You have beheaded me, now drive your sword into my heart! You descend upon this inferior altar as if my own reaper, made for me, made of me, armed with silver. Who else but the Lord can grant this? After the blood, the toil, each dying breath, here is His answer. Hurry! Fulfill your duty!"

Familiar, this talk of God and duty. All her past blasphemies were coming round to bite her in the arse.

Integra had not sheathed her sword. She sheathed it now. It slid in with a loud and lonely clink.

Silence. Silence before the storm.

She found herself at the table, in front of his head. Lopsided on a pile of corpses, mustache askew and hair a riot. Integra thought of his last decapitation. Her poor Seras. Barely her second mission and she had to witness her master's ghastly rolling head while a homicidal priest breathed down their necks. She laughed.

Dracula watched her.

"Why will you not do it?"

Her laughter faded. She looked at him.

He looked back.

"Who are you?"

And they were at the beginning.

"From the very moment I met your eyes they held no fear, only this nameless longing."

She merely looked at him with that nameless longing.

"You know me," he said.

Whose name was not Alucard.

"Do I know you?"

Would not be for a long time.

Integra raised her hand. She brought it next to his face, not touching. She saw his mouth part, for whatever trace remained of the wound that had closed early on.

Someday, you will.

Someday.

Integra withdrew.

"You are not the one I seek," she pronounced carefully.

His face twisted.

She began to retreat. The shadows in all corners of the hall undulated. Venomous words, in medieval Romanian, that she could hear better than she could speak because his future self was presumptuous enough to cultivate her ear for its versification, reverberated as thunder. "What are you here for, then? What are you? Madonna of spite, of the Antichrist!"

New, to hear the Vatican's blandishments for her from him.

"Shrewd Lilith, too proud to commune!" The shadows solidified. He was reconvening. Soon he would emerge whole. "Dare you play coy, when you have disrupted this wretched existence?"

Integra braced herself on a window ledge. The wind buffeted her hair and his coat.

"Dare you flee?"

The opening was narrow. But not so narrow it would deter a stubborn knight. She climbed up.

"Wait." His voice softened. "My guest, will you leave in such haste?" The change in tone was rendered rather moot by the wall of black-red embers stalking toward her. "Stay. Let me prove I can be a worthier host."

Integra gave a disparaging smile.

Only after everything has been said and done.

"Let me beg your pardon. I shall give you riches. I shall give you titles. You will be my general, have command of my legion."

She found her footing on the ledge.

"My companion. My bride."

The darkness lay gaping below. She was glad to see it.

It was hers.

When Integra glanced back, he was standing rooted in place, eyes a frail, fissional red, hand outstretched. Like he would an uncountable number of nights later.

Someday.

"My queen! One I will swear allegiance!" The dragon shook with rage and fear. "Do not leave! Do not dare! If you do—"

She took a step forward.

"—I shall find you, tear you apart, I shall feast on every drop of you!"

Integra scoffed. "Find me, then."

And she jumped.

 

xx

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"They call us monsters."

Her voice was faint and scratchy in his mind. A worn vinyl record.

"But we only lived the way we could live and loved the ones we could love."

In the background, explosions.

"Let's try this, Pip. And whatever happens…"

The sky is burning.

"Let's not regret."

Pip stopped at the threshold.

Something about the divide between the bright of the outside and the shade of the inside, stalled him.

What was he, chicken? This was not the worst he could return to. The lady of the manor herself had not batted an eye—her remaining eye—coming from the war to doors falling off their hinges. She had strolled upstairs, past the gaping mouths and hollowed gazes, and when she came back down it was with a whiskey-soaked bandage around her head.

Rory and Amir, the two surviving Geese, had recovered the few bodies mostly intact. His included. He recalled standing over it with glib interest, as if it were someone else's.

Look at you. Wild goose turned guard goose turned dead. Committed yourself above your pay grade, to this madhouse. Grandpappy was right. You should have left the posturing to the toffs.

But hey, no regrets.

The body on the floor was Pip Bernadotte and no longer Pip Bernadotte. Like he had shed a cocoon, if he wanted to be flowery. Made into mush and popped out fancy. Ce que la chenille appelle la fin du monde, le maître l'appelle un papillon. That shit.

That same old shit.

Behind him, Walter cleared his throat. "You're blocking the entrance."

"I'm having a moment."

"I have a broken arm," Walter pointed out.

Pip took a breath, and gripped the doorframe.

Hey.

He and these walls were old pals. They were catching up.

Long time no see.

The walls did not respond. They were sensible, no-nonsense, English. He patted the frame and went in.

Pip made for the sitting room. It was funny, because he could tell Walter was looking at him funny, because how many scraggly redheads immediately knew their way around Hellsing HQ? Once there, Pip sprawled into a seat, and resisted putting his feet up on the table.

"No need to be un vautour," he told Walter. "Go get that arm dressed, I'll behave. I'm a well-trained goose."

"You truly are joking," said the butler. "Do you expect me to take your word for it?"

"Sure I do, in plain anglais." Pip cocked a finger gun. "A gut feeling," he mimicked shooting Walter in the midriff, "that this guy knows more about you than you know about him—and our mutual boss."

Walter deadened his look. "Don't try anything." He left.

Connard.

Pip stared at the walls.

It was quiet. For the first time since he awoke, what with his flock honking at his ear the entire trip. Seeing them all together, loud and youthful—alive—was a trip in itself. It fucked him up. But he was here. He had to ground them at a pub in Southend and steal a chopper but he was here, damn it, he was home.

Home.

"Mister Bernadotte."

He jumped.

Seras jumped, too. "Sorry."

"No, no," Pip said hastily. He plastered on a smile. "La vache! I was wondering when I'd get to see you again."

"I brought you water." Seras held out a glass. "It's not tea or breakfast...Walter said the rest of the staff won't be coming in today, and since we should be vigilant with Integra gone, this is all we can offer for now."

Oui, bien sûr. To Seras he exclaimed, "Just what I needed after a long journey."

Pip took hold of the glass. Seras, however, did not let go. Her eyes were hidden behind her fringe.

"I have a question."

Shit.

"Shoot," Pip said.

"Did you, maybe, call the manor asking for Integra, a few days ago?"

"Uh—"

"It was you, right?" Seras raised her head. Her eyes were rimmed with early morning's rue, blue pools frozen, yet vulnerable. "Why? What do you know? Even if Integra told you about me, what do you have to tell her?"

To an observer it would have appeared the two of them were holding on to a glass of water for dear life. Pip did feel like his insides were cracking into dust.

There was neither time nor space to process any of this. Hell, maybe he did not want to process any of this. How she was here, in front of him, tiny and sad and mistrustful.

How there was nothing he could say.

Pour your problems out with booze, was what he did use to say. Pissed enough and they'll be gone by morning. Don't let them ferment, for fuck's sake. Pip thought the not-nothings in this house, the "unspoken under the spoken" crap, the fetid soil where all their problems grew. See what happens when you bottle them up? It's a damn Molotov cocktail.

Now he understood.

It just had to be that way. Even if it broke your soul.

She was still staring at him with those eyes. Those blue, human eyes.

Mignonette.

But she was not his Mignonette.

"A bad dream," he said, half to her and half to himself.

"You—do you?" Seras asked him haltingly.

"Have bad dreams?" Pip laughed. "Yeah."

The sound of his laugh made Seras blink. Her gaze dropped to the glass of water between them as if noticing it for the first time. She let it go.

"Shitty dreams. Nightmares. But that's everyone in this house. It's a damn requirement at this point." Pip swirled the glass, disrupting the surface. "We're just a bunch of loons flocking to the same water's edge."

Then he realized he was talking to a kid. Pip knocked the water back, desperately wishing some mutant placebo effect would grant him savoir-faire, and ended up coughing.

Seras' face was closed off again.

"Ah, what I'm saying is, shitty—uh, bad dreams are the norm. Yeah. You have them, I have them, we all—"

"Yours was about me," she said in the same tonelessness that had gutted him a few days ago. "I was your nightmare."

"No." Pip put the empty glass down and crouched to meet her eyes. "Mignon—Miss. I meant—"

"If I tell you about mine, will you believe me?"

Pip swallowed. "'Course."

Seras stuck out a fist and unfolded it. Upon it was a crumpled knot of daisies.

"I took this out of a dream," she said.

A stray petal slid off the slope of her palm. Pip watched it flutter.

"In my dreams I see dead people. I don't know them. But I feel like I should. The one I had last night, I saw a lady. I don't know her. But she looked like me."

He caught the petal before it reached the end.

"That can't be normal. Even in this house, full of nightmares like you said. Full of strange and fairytale things. Now Integra's disappeared, and you're here."

Her hand shook, and more petals fell. Pip could not hope to catch each and every one of them. He could only hold tight to the one he had.

"Mister Bernadotte," she called him again, and he almost chuckled despite himself. It reminded him of the early days so long ago.

"Mister Bernadotte, you're here because of a dream. It was about me, and it meant something. Then, do you know, what mine are supposed to mean, too? Why do I have them? Why are they mine? I'm—I'm not grand like Integra or terrifying like Mister Alucard. I'm not special! I'm just—"

"Seras Victoria," he finished for her.

She hiccuped in surprise.

"You're Seras Victoria." He pocketed the daisy petal and stood, and made toward the door.

"Don't leave!" Seras burst out.

Pip looked back. "I'm not leaving." He stopped in front of a wall next to the door. "Hey, see? I'm here."

The wall was unremarkable. Yet he flattened his hand on it, and met Seras' bewildered expression with his own blithe one. "There's something I need to check. Uh, it might get a little spooky."

"I've already seen a dead man talk," Seras said warily.

"Touché. That, though, really is the norm. Whereas this..." Pip trailed off.

This, was something under his palm.

"Dreams, petit mignon, aren't supposed to mean a thing. The whole point is to wake up from them."

Seras bristled. "I am awake!"

Pip did chuckle. "Eyes open and sleepless. Yeah, no, waking up, really waking up, is knowing where you are. Choosing which reality you belong to, and—"

The daisy petal in his pocket felt heavy.

"—having no regrets."

 

A house full of strange and fairytale things.

 

Once upon a time, a loon of a goose signed a contract he really should have read twice, fell in love with a girl he really should not have fallen in love with, and settled down to domestic life in a fancy abode in a washed-out kingdom. Such an ending, of course, meant the goose was transformed—irrevocably, and not necessarily into a prince.

Pip Bernadotte died inside these walls.

This is irrevocable.

He looked at her, the girl with blue eyes.

She, too, died.

This is also irrevocable.

"But I know that! I don't regret!" Seras shouted. "I know where I am, this is my home!"

"Mine too, which is why I'm waking it up."

"What?"

The manor trembled.

Seras gaped at her surroundings. "Was that..."

"Hold on," Pip said, and Seras took his offered hand with no hesitation. The manor continued to tremble.

"Is this an earthquake?"

Pip was arrested by his hand, the tiny hairs on its back which stood on end; the bluish veins connected to a beating heart; the third finger that was not crooked, the thumb less scarred. Its shadow. Spreading over the wall faster than ink could stain the silk. Deepening, darkening, reddening.

Seras stared, yet did not let go of his opposite hand. "Mister Bernadotte."

"It's fine." Black-red tendrils swarmed up his arm and torso. Pip flashed her a smile. "I told you, it's our job to keep the place proper—"

The darkness brewed a tempest that rebounded within the enclosed space. Seras yelped. Pip tucked her to his side and wrapped his braid around his neck to stop it from whipping behind them.

 

Ce que la chenille appelle la fin du monde, le maître l'appelle un papillon.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.

 

They had broken out of their cocoons long since, he and Mignonette.

He died inside these walls; he was reborn. He grew wings. Their wings. Wings she wanted to grow so large none would ever dare touch them again. They covered every brick, every stone. The vents were his windpipes and the columns his bones.

Old pals? Hell, he was these walls. He had been the manor itself.

Come on, I've got the keys, Pip thought, his one green eye unfaltering in the onslaught. Let's open up those doors for the rest of us, too.

The manor did so, both literally and figuratively.

Every door was flung open. Some nearly fell off their hinges. The liberated shadows spilled with the swiftness and intent of a God-ordained plague over the corridors. Unfortunate windows were shattered by the currents, which wove a labyrinthine path, reclaiming each crack and tear from the attic to the basement.

They slithered out of sight, though they were, as a surly papist would one day demonstrate, merely a layer of skin away.

What is willingly given cannot be rescinded. What is written in blood cannot be erased, even when time has eaten its tail.

"No regrets," answered his voice. Older, wearier, in that worn vinyl record of another lifetime. "We protect this place with all we've got. Because..."

We always return here.

"Mister Bernadotte!" Tiny Seras was screaming at his ear.

"Huh?" Pip coughed. He saw blood down his shirt. "Ah, it's fine, it's fine, this body isn't what it used to be..."

The door to the sitting room gave a pitiful creak. Gripping it ashen-faced, having run through the upheaval from the infirmary, was Walter.

"What," he croaked, "in the Devil's name has happened here?"

Pip shook out an exuberant laugh, mystifying the two, before sinking to the floor in a heap. His arm was numb and flaring like a mad cockatrice, so what? Countless bullets, a scythe through his spine, nuclear warheads were in his résumé. This was nothing.

"Well, it wasn't a snap of the finger, but I've opened us up a wormhole."

 

xx

xx

xx

xx

 

Notes:

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.
- Richard Bach

End note for this chapter has been archived in my Tumblr post of old notes as of June 17, 2024. Thank you and love you all.

Chapter 29: the last director

Rain.

A drop landed on Seras' cheek.

She jumped. How long had she been standing here, for the morning sun to have disappeared behind clouds thick and grey?

She let go of the curtains, which had become misshapen, and turned away from the open window.

An empty office greeted her.

But it shouldn't be, she thought. Her pen is right there. Look, it's not even capped. The papers are stacked for her review. The tea is cold—I should bring her a new cup. The vase is empty, I'll go pick some daisies off the lawn. She would love—

A grave covered with daisies.

The light faded from her eyes.

The clock struck. Seras left the office.

Downstairs, the doors were opening, with the knights arriving one by one. Seras avoided them, taking the shortcut through the walls and ensconcing herself in the shadows as they filed into the meeting room. Sir Walsh, followed by Islands and Penwood, and soon the rest of the Round Table came in and took their seats. The last person to enter was Mr. Kovacs, an attorney, who was also the executor of Sir Integral Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing's will.

He came to stand at the head of the table. Before he could open his mouth, Sir Harold Bradbury spoke.

"Well! About time Hellsing reverts to the state!"

No one made a comment. He continued, "Good going, I say! Now it will answer to some real authority."

"Nothing has been formally decided," Sir Islands said.

"Hellsing has always answered to 'real' authority, Harold," Sir Walsh drawled. "This is the Royal Order of Protestant Knights, if you haven't noticed."

"I mean to say it will be less some kind of—cabal! All that military power and expenditure controlled by a single family? It's inconceivable, I've always said!"

"Funny you should say that..."

"You certainly never said when Sir Hellsing was around..."

"What are we, chopped liver?"

"Now, now, the man has a point..."

"There's even significant deficit!"

"There is deficit, Harold, because the Hellsing estate invested heavily in the rebuilding postwar, whereas I seem to remember you and your family taking off to Mallorca—"

"I paid my share!"

They were unaware Seras was in the shadows, but they should have known better.

See how ugly men are once they let their masks slip? They hid behind them when the one blue eye at the head fixed them with its indomitable gaze. But now there was only an empty seat. The cowards who acquiesced, who used to say the least, jumped at the opportunity, eager to fill the vacancy with their rot.

I hate them, she thought.

It was so sudden, so visceral that Seras almost reeled back from the intensity. Yet it did not stop there.

Why do they get to talk? Why do they get to breathe? Why do they get to live? Why do they get to exist?

Why? When the one who matters is gone?

There was something in her, that shook like the tremors of a faraway disaster. How dare they speak of us, of her with their worthless traps. I want them to shut up. I want them to choke. I want them to—

"Mignonette." Her shadow hand moved on its own and grabbed her other arm. "Relax."

She blinked. She did.

Mr. Kovacs cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, please."

The knights sat back down with varying degrees of affront on their faces. The attorney took a document out of his briefcase and began.

"Representing the deceased, in the matters of the Hellsing estate, which includes and is not limited to: the property known as Hellsing Manor; its contracts of service with personnel both domestic and armed, living or undead..."

Murmurs broke out. Seras gripped her arm tighter.

This was it.

"...and last but not least, the leadership of Her Royal English Legions of Legitimate Supernatural and Immortal Night Guard, hereafter referred to as the Hellsing Organisation..."

Hellsing would dissolve, like she had said. It may exist in name yet its lineage would be over. More than a century of family history to be an entry in the annals. So it must be. Seras knew it was a long time coming, but this made it real.

Integra...

"The deceased has stated that the legal rights, interests, and entitlements aforementioned should be transferred to the state—"

"Hah!" Sir Bradbury exclaimed.

"—only in the absence of a Hellsing heir." Mr. Kovacs looked up meaningfully.

He was met with incomprehension. "And?" another knight piped. "There is no Hellsing heir."

Mr. Kovacs sighed, and read the rest of the document. "The equivalent of which is the event that the heir, Seras Victoria, willfully gives up her right to receive the inheritance..."

Silence rang in her ears.

"...should no such event occur, then the control of the Hellsing estate should be transferred forthwith to the heir, thereafter to be referred to as the Director—"

"What is this madness?" Sir Bradbury bellowed.

"How can Integral do this?"

"Can she do that?"

Seras stumbled out of the shadows, causing a moment of appalled stupor to fall upon the Table before a greater hubbub ensued.

Certain members were quiet, notably Sirs Walsh, Islands, and Penwood. They knew.

Sir Walsh raised an eyebrow.

"I don't understand." Seras went up to the attorney. "I don't understand."

"Sir Hellsing named you her heir, Miss Victoria."

"I'm—" It was not just the absence of noise, but a vacuum of everything including her ability to think. "I'm not—"

"This goes against primogeniture!" a knight sputtered. "Seras Victoria is not a Hellsing!"

"Seras Victoria is Sir Integral Hellsing's adoptive heir," said Mr. Kovacs. "Since the changes to legislation following the war and its massive, simultaneous death toll, it has been possible for adult individuals to be adopted and exercise—"

"Don't patronize us! That girl," the knight speaking pointed a finger at her, "is dead!"

It said a lot that she had been captain of the troops for thirty years and these men still called her a girl. Seras' shadow arm flared, cowing the man. The attorney cleared his throat again.

"In point of fact, Miss Victoria has never been registered as dead. Legally, she is alive and entitled to the same rights."

There was uproar.

"How..." Seras struggled, the vacuum so wide she felt as though she was free-falling. "She never told..."

"I believe the reason she gave was, 'There will be no difference,'" Mr. Kovacs said gently.

She felt herself land.

She had nothing to say.

Others had plenty of things to say, however. "A vampire, the director of Hellsing? Inconceivable! The entire line of Hellsings will be rolling in their graves!"

"How ghastly. Explains why Sir Hellsing avoided the mausoleum altogether."

"Whose side are you on?"

"Side? Side?"

"That proves the woman was ashamed of her decision!"

"Watch your tongue—"

"Well?" Sir Walsh's voice carried over the din. "Captain Victoria?"

They all looked at her.

"Do you accept?"

Patient eyes, angry eyes, anxious eyes, judgmental eyes, all on her, who suddenly found herself at the very head of the table. Seras had mostly ever been at Integra's side, or in the shadows. Facing these men like this was a first.

It was not to avoid them, but her tremulous eyes went to the attorney, who placed the document in front of her.

Last Will and Testament, the first page read, and Integra's fine signature on the last. She imagined her silver head bent over this paper, thinking of her death, what would come after. Thinking of Seras, before adding that signature, knowing what it signified. Putting down the pen, handing the document over without a second glance, because Integra Hellsing marched only forward once she made her decision.

"It is your choice," said Mr. Kovacs. "She was very adamant about that."

The apparition of Integra in her mind's eye stood from her seat, her hair sailing on the nonexistent wind.

"Now it's up to her."

Sailing away, away, away from her. Leaving behind what an unmoorable human life can leave behind.

Do you accept?

 

xx

 

Half of the Round Table remained after the end of the reading, talking low among themselves. Walsh ambled up to Seras, supported by Islands. "Seems congratulations are in order. Director."

"Thank you," Seras replied stiltedly.

"Not so fast." Sir Colin Hart stepped forward. "The legalities are one thing, the practicalities are another. With this, we've given the Vatican more ammunition." He squinted at Seras. "You're supposed to be an asset, not a liability."

"You'll have to do quite a bit of convincing for us to throw in our lot with you," Sir John Aynsley added, looking around Islands and Penwood as well. "Young people these days. Don't think you'll be filling Sir Hellsing's boots anytime soon."

"We have much to learn, yes," Islands said mildly. "Perhaps you'd rather Sir Hellsing had not died?"

It took a moment for the meaning to sink in. "No!" There was a stricken pause. "Yes? No—by God—"

Walsh puffed on his pipe and chortled.

The meeting room emptied. Walsh was in no hurry. "Well, well. I live to see the day. A vampire the head of Hellsing." He patted Seras on the shoulder. "You'll do."

"It'll be uphill from here, I'm afraid," Islands sighed.

"But you have our support," Penwood said bravely. "Even if that should require, er, more helicopters..."

"Penwood and Islands will pull their weight. You're not alone, you hear?"

Seras looked at them.

Things did not have to make sense. It just was. One could be a dead thing and still inherit an organization which killed dead things.

One could call another not much older than her, "mother," because one did not age. One was cast out of time's taciturn current. It swept everyone away. It swept everyone except her away.

She would be alone on her shore until the waves drowned it. She would take flight, with her wings. But no bird could fly forever.

There will be no difference.

She landed because it was true. There was no difference. Like Integra, she had made her decision a long time ago.

The choices are not choices, for there is only one outcome.

I will never leave you.

Seras looked at them, and smiled.

And this is what I have left of you.

"Yes. I'll do my best!"

 

xx

xx

 

28.

the last director

 

xx

xx

 

Stay!

His terrible voice echoed within the jagged cliffs.

Stay!

Vlad, you sound like a child throwing a tantrum.

The dead air whipped past her. Integra disturbed its rest, just as she had disturbed the dragon's. Rivulets of her hair matched the milky spill of the cosmos, the billowing folds of his coat matched the spill of blood. She was a falling star. Bound to the bottomless darkness below, while above chaos reigned.

Her eyes reflected the mad king's deteriorating form at the window. His souls screaming for her to stay stay stay! But these were quickly becoming distant. She had given him her terms and rejected his, and soon she would be a dream, a far-off dream.

Was it ever that simple?

When the dragon awoke, trouble flared again—

A black and red amalgamation sundered the distance.

It was a giant hand. Composed of blood and shadow, rippling down, writhing with anger toward her.

Ah, Vlad.

It seemed to be the embodiment of their fugue. Of each time one's hand was outstretched. Of each time one had to leave. And here he was the most galled. The dragon was not the Alucard whose castle was emptied or the Alucard who knew she must leave, even if he resented the fact. The dragon here raged. He would pluck her from the air and from the wheel of time itself.

And so this, Integra thought, as the giant hand reached out and eclipsed the stars, is also the embodiment of your pursuit of me. Greedy bastard. She had no desire to be sequestered in his hoard. But what could she do?

The seconds felt eternal.

A flutter. And—

The breath she was holding was knocked out when her back hit something behind her, and it took Integra another second to recall she was in midair, there should not, could not be anything to break her fall. She looked up. Her eyes widened.

"Seras!"

The faceless silhouette of Seras "looked" back at her. Its own crimson-tinged shadows were spread in the shape of familiar wings.

It secured Integra in its embrace, before balling a hand into a fist. The bottomless darkness beneath them surged.

Then, it threw a punch.

Opposing hands, both of blood and shadow, collided. The result was a shockwave tearing through the heavens. The very molecules of air were being shredded, and the only reason Integra avoided the brunt of it, was that it was moving away from them—pushed away, toward Dracula's end.

The silhouette of Seras punched Dracula's shadows back to him. They slammed into the outer wall of his castle.

Integra stared as chunks of it calved off. She could no longer hear Dracula's voice. Whether he was among the debris, how severely the retaliation had maimed him, she would likely never know, for she was once more swept into the murky currents of time.

The subsequent silence was palpable.

They drifted. The dark paper cutout of her beloved Draculina was decipherable against the nothingness solely by its wings, which swirled around them. It held its master close.

She breathed in sharply. The silhouette quivered.

"Seras," Integra began, and stopped.

In the amorphous swirl of its wings, something gleamed—her glasses, which had slipped during the turmoil. Quite belated, or was it timely, considering everything that occurred had defied the sanctity of sight? She slid them on without question.

This remnant of Seras was not the one she should be asking questions, anyway.

With a sigh, she laid her head on its shoulder.

"You're late."

The silhouette's shoulders drooped.

Integra tutted. "None of that, now." She crossed her arms and settled more comfortably. "At least you're here to make yourself useful. Do you have any idea how long a day it has been? Be good, and don't jostle, or else I'll pinch both your cheeks."

Shadow Seras nodded in earnest, and did not jostle. It would see that they arrive where they were supposed to be. Integra let the stillness and quietude wash over her, though when she closed her eyes, the palpitations of her heart were loud, and the scenes replayed with his voice.

 

"Stay," he said.

Thirteen-year-old Integra met his gaze.

"My Master," he continued. "Watch."

It was the first time she saw him without the restrictions.

Alucard was excited, so very excited to have her witness his hunt. Like a hound eager to bring his quarry back to his master. Everything about him lengthening, sharpening, intensifying.

The lazy creature who lounged in plush chairs with his tongue forming that of dead poets and philosophers, versus the wild creature who stood in moonlight baring his talons and teeth to tear into flesh. Which was truer to his nature? Everyone kept telling her it was the latter. The monster himself would say it was the latter.

Integra could watch him as an excuse to not look at the others: the soldiers eyeing her with doubt, the knights with derision, interchangeably. Even Walter, who had faith in her composure yet hovered. They argued. Make her relinquish him. She was but one young, delicate obstacle to their interests. Make her let go. Human hands that did not help her, trying to pry hers off the monstrous hands that did.

And Alucard just laughed. "Stay," he said, his monstrous hands captive in hers. "Let me show you the power that you wield, my Master. They won't be able to think foolish thoughts after I am done. Let us show them."

Let us.

"Give me your order, and watch."

She watched him, not because it was an excuse, or because he told her to, but because she wanted to. He made a dance out of her order. A choreography of red and black. Her enemies went down with gunshots and screams.

Then she noticed how he did not avoid the worthless hands when they swiped at him. How he allowed himself to be clawed and carved into chunks, until he was merely something that used to be a man. (Oh, but when was he ever not something that used to be a man?) How his smile remained on shredded cheeks, growing wider still. She knew by now this was his way of flaunting his powers. He was putting on a show for his own sake as much as hers.

Why was it, then, the wider his smile, the more brittle he looked? It was not just the deterioration of his outward appearance, but a hidden note in his laughter.

Her father's words on his deathbed echoed in her mind: Their desperate battles are a cry. They cry out for death.

There was much Integra did not understand about her vampire, about herself. How she could be so naive as to think she did not want him to die, knowing perfectly well he could not die, that he was already dead.

And still she reached out, grabbed a stray tendril of shadow, and squeezed.

At her wordless command, the blood and darkness whipped around and extinguished the vermin. In the abrupt quiet, it was the two of them against a burning world. Like when she had opened the doors for him. There were eyes, numerous eyes, an unholy image out of the most apocryphal scripture. Yet she was only assured by their stares, all on her.

The tendril licked at her fingers.

"Do you see?" said his voice, or many voices. "This is the power of your order, my Master. Only you can wield it."

Behind her, the others whispered, Look, a Hellsing is a Hellsing, she brought her beast to heel. She neither heard them nor saw them shrink away from the beast, who was more eyeballs than limbs, and the girl who did not bat an eye.

"No other can dare hope to interpose." The eyes flickered to her white-knuckled grip. "So as long as you hold my leash..."

He did not say it to mock her.

Human hands tried to pry hers off the monstrous ones, not realizing hers were equally greedy. A possessiveness harbored with so much confidence it did not register as such, simply as a fact. That part of herself she pushed aside and locked shut; she focused on what was in front of her instead.

"Can all vampires do this?"

Alucard laughed.

Integra felt her cheeks warm. "Theoretically," she emphasized, to mask her embarrassment. "You are the No-Life King. But if others were to reach your heights—could they?"

"Not without the efforts of your ancestors," he said flippantly.

Integra tried not to flinch.

He was a multitude of eyes, however, and they perceived each and every twitch of her muscles. "Oh? Perhaps my Master does not wish to condone what her predecessors did to me? Out of, what, pity? The kindness of her heart?" Again, he was not mocking. Quite the contrary, he was whispering with strange fervor, akin to wonderment.

"They took. They gave. They made me indestructible. Cutting off my head, piercing my heart, cannot kill me. But I have always been difficult to kill. Or else..."

Or else, what?

"What they took, what they gave, was their doing. I stand now before you." The tendril in her grasp curled around her thin wrist.

"You are the one worthy of what is now. So be proud, Integra."

"I shall decide for myself what to be proud of," Integra replied, but his words stirred her. Alucard was telling her, in his quixotic way, that he viewed her individually from her family's cruel modification of him—she had read their journals. Perhaps, in the coming years, she would grow to be as boastful of it as he was, knowing it had ensured his indestructibility.

(He would not lose, and she would not lose him so easily.)

She stepped closer to him. "You didn't answer my question."

The many, many crimson orbs were fading. He was becoming visible again, simmering down before her authority. At last she could make out his face. The pair of eyes on that smooth visage crinkled in amusement.

"Didn't I? Why, thinking of replacing me so soon?"

She pinned him with a look. "As head of Hellsing, I should take the worst possibility into consideration—that is, if an enemy were to be as strong as you."

"There is no such possibility," Alucard scoffed. But at length he said, "Conditions."

"Conditions?"

"If conditions are met, a vampire may theoretically become as powerful, or even more powerful than I. The number of lives consumed, the potency of blood...and one's own strength of will. The most elusive."

"Why would it be?"

"A monster is a monster for his lack of will. Lack of purpose. What can he amount to, beyond the lives he has reaped? You humans with your puny years challenge your limits while the monster remains fettered...contained...pacing in his cage. You run, for better or worse, from decay while he persists in it.

"Of course, all the willpower and prayers in the world did not deliver a king and his people..."

Integra held her breath. A crack was open, letting her glimpse into a chamber deep within him. Yet as quickly as it opened, it closed.

"Consider a timeless being with thousands of lives, with human tenacity and purpose. That would cease to be a mere vampire, that would be something else."

"That does sound far-fetched," Integra remarked, touching the silver cross at her neck.

"It is," Alucard agreed. And with his fedora and tinted glasses in place, he grinned at her. "Which is why you do not have to worry about hypotheticals."

"Fine, you've gotten your point across," Integra grumbled.

Their burning world subsided, for they must now return. The mission was complete. She had witnessed her vampire's prowess, and she had displayed hers. Back to gawking men who would treat her with a bit more respect, and to herself who had gained a bit more pride, a bit more arrogance, understanding that the double-edged sword of her humanity and his monstrosity would lead always to victory...

You should remember, Miss Hellsing, why a double-edged sword means what it means.

But for the moment they were a girl and her monster, their hands linked with shadow.

"Let us go home, Alucard."

"Yes. Let us."

 

Let us.

 

Let us.

 

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherized upon a table

. . .

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"

Let us go and make our visit.

. . .

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

. . .

That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.

. . .

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

 

drown.

 

drown.

 

Rain, again.

A drop landed on her cheek. Integra woke up.

Shadow Seras dutifully shielded its master from the rain, yet a few drops pelted through. Its cold moisture told Integra this was not another memory. She let it slide down the slope of her face as she turned her head to look down.

Her eyes widened.

"Seras, this—"

She had seen this before, in the same shadow arms, up in the air.

A dead city.

Everything was grey. The sky, and the streets below. A colorless carpet of gutted buildings and disjointed roads was spread as far as she could see. There were no lights, not even the glimmer of day on windowpanes encasing humanity's stakes—they were stripped, with their apertures dark and gaping. No sounds, no goings-on, London was a forgotten petri dish, dried up and lifeless.

The rain hung over the city. Disbelief hung over Integra's mind. London from this angle was nothing new. She and Seras had flown by more than enough times after the war.

And yet...this was different.

Shadow Seras flew swiftly past the grey zone toward the outskirts. There were trees, but many of them were brittle white, and twisted in odd shapes. Integra felt her skin prickle.

They began to descend. When at last they landed on what could only be described as a barren wasteland, this prickliness, this sense of incongruity festered like poison. The same kind the shack in the forest had evoked.

Back then, had Integra recognized the shack, she might have called the feeling "jamais vu." The feeling of being met with a familiar sight, yet finding it utterly unfamiliar.

This was the very edge of her property.

From here, the manor was not quite visible. One had to look behind the dead trees to see the grounds. Integra stood on her feet, on the squelching soil of a landscape that was neither memory nor dream. This was real. Oh, but how unreal it was.

Funny, how she ended up in circles.

"After," she murmured, "centuries."

She took a step.

A gunshot.

The bullet whizzed past her. Integra did not bat an eye, but she did raise a brow. She knew a hunting rifle when she heard one. A target some meters away fell with a thud. Shadow Seras likewise gave no reaction except to flick its wings reproachfully.

"Fuck off. You know I wasn't aiming for her."

A figure emerged from the misty rain. The shoulders were slightly hunched. A mop of ash blonde hair was upon them, framing a face which wore a permanent scowl, warped as it was by an old wound. Vitriolic green eyes zeroed in on her.

On the occasions they crossed paths, Integra liked to think she and this person were kindred spirits. Both of them harbored ghosts. In the other's case, the body was turned into a walking memorial of the dead. The gait, the gaze, the regeneration, the burning hatred, were these not mortal remains of a saint and thus, relics? Which was ironic, because Alexander Anderson had died to a relic. And here was his student, a living, breathing reliquary.

Then what kind of walking memorial would be awaiting her, in her glorified mausoleum?

Integra thought this, as the figure took a deep breath.

 

xx

xx

 

Walter would have trussed Pip up if it were not for Seras, who was clutching at the young man's sleeve. "You're okay? You're not dying?"

"I'm fine, honest," Pip was saying. Then he coughed again.

"I'll go get water!" Seras exclaimed, and ran off before either man could stop her.

The two eyed each other. Pip wiped the blood off his mouth and leaned his head against the wall. "Spit it out."

"I should be the one to say that," Walter said coldly. "Explain. What did you do? What are you?"

"That's a shitty set of questions, no? I answered both already. I opened a wormhole. Eh, it's actually more like...a beacon? Whatever. I'm a goose, not an astrophysicist."

"You're from Integra's time," Walter pressed.

Pip chuckled. "Yes and no."

"You—"

"Let's get one thing straight. I don't answer to you, Pétain," Pip said, so casually that Walter almost missed the reference. "I don't trust you, you don't trust me. That's fine. You can't stop me from what I'm here to do." Shadow flames rippled over his left arm. "Bringing them back."

Walter swallowed with difficulty.

"Now that you see where I'm coming from, can you quit hovering and leave?"

He should leave.

He was going to. He had given Integra his farewell. But for where? South America, the punk inside him sniggered, so the Nazis can kill you for failing to hold up your end of the bargain. Make him into a mindless, death-crazed puppet.

Was that not what he was, though? A mindless, death-crazed puppet to his ridiculous goal?

It had been his goal to kill Alucard for so long he did not know how to exist without it. How to live.

When Integra returned, she would destroy Millennium. With their plans exposed, it would be as simple as fumigating their hidey-holes. And like that, the machinations of half a century would be vanquished. He would be, in a word, free.

It was a terrifying notion. Freedom.

To mask it, Walter chuckled as well. "There is nothing to verify your claims other than your parlor tricks. I shall not be leaving Miss Seras and the house alone with you."

"I didn't mean leave the house. You can't, by the way." Pip gave an experimental wave of his hand. A few walls over, there was the distinct sound of the front doors closing and locking.

Walter stayed put. Pip must have anticipated this, because he did not argue again. Instead he said, "If you're going to stand there, spare me a coffin nail."

Walter gauged him, before tossing him a cigarette. Pip caught it. "Real classy, gramps," he muttered, lighting it on his own. Slumped on the floor, with smoke greying his features, he suddenly looked very old.

"What were you?" Walter asked, this time.

"Heh." Pip blew out a plume of smoke along with his laugh. It filled the sitting room like the beginnings of a rain cloud.

"I was Seras Victoria's shadow."

Walter stared in disbelief. He seemed to be doing that often these days.

"Seras—"

"Yeah. La mademoiselle Seras Victoria." The one green eye glimmered through the haze. "The last. Of everything. The last Draculina. The last director of Hellsing."

How could this be, was up to Walter's throat, then it plummeted. He remembered Integra saying, I lived and died as a human.

And— My Seras made me live. She was dead as well.

Preoccupied with his hour of reckoning, with Integra's fate, he had overlooked the puzzle pieces which now jumped at him with such velocity. Integra passed her legacy on to a vampire who was Seras Victoria. A Draculina, sired by Dracula. Alucard.

Even this, harrowing as it was, would not have possessed substantiality in and of itself if not for the boy here claiming he could bring them back. The pieces were falling into place for Walter. "Miss Seras—of the future—she is the one behind all this?" The anomaly. Seras had always been something that came out of the blue. But... "But why?"

Pip shrugged. "Why don't you try answering that? I'm sure you have it in you."

"Speak plainly!"

Pip rolled his eye. "I'm sure you have it in you to deduce why someone would destroy their entire world for a single chance."

There was a patter of feet, and Seras appeared in the doorway of the sitting room. She was carrying a tray with a carafe and mugs, a stack of napkins and a first aid kit to boot. She was strangely fidgety, however.

"Um, I met..." She stepped aside to reveal Dylan.

"How did you get out?" Walter demanded.

"The door opened, sir. Sorry..."

Pip picked himself up from the floor. "Would you look at that. A stowaway. Huh. Wait." He squinted. "You're—"

"Mr. Bernadotte!" Dylan limped forward and grabbed Pip's hand. "It is you, right? The braid! The eyepatch! It's an honor! I've heard so much about you from Lady Ceres!" Then he blanched. "Oh. No. I shouldn't have—"

"Who?"

"Shit," Pip began.

And in the middle, Seras remarked, "Lady Ceres? That's a funny name. It sounds almost like mine."

 

xx

xx

 

"Fuck you, Integra Hellsing!" the figure bellowed.

"Glad to see you too, Heinkel," Integra returned. "Where's Seras?"

 

xx

xx

xx

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Notes:

T. S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Pip refers to Philippe Pétain during his conversation with Walter.

xx

Wait, Dylan is a fanboy?
Always has been

xx

I'm so glad the scenes I've had in mind for so long are finally up. The directorship scene has been in my scraps note for years. Though, it was only after I had the scene planned up that I discovered in the UK it's not possible to adopt adults. Had a mild panic until I was reminded this is Hirano-verse, not real life!

Anyway I wonder if anyone caught the references! No offense to any Harolds out there. One of my plushies happen to be named Harold (full name Harold Ryan Reynolds).

I hope you all have a healthy, happy summer or winter wherever you are. I myself shall quench with my thirst with an iced drink, and your lovely words. Thank you always!