[Hellsing] {Fic} Some Unsanctioned Holy 0/??
Title: Some Unsanctioned Holy 0/??
Series: Hellsing
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Anderson/Alucard/Seras, Anderson/Alucard/Seras/Walter
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
Summary: Anderson receives an epiphany.
Warnings: Anderson has the proclivity to wax poetic.
Some Unsanctioned Holy
Prologue
If Alexander Anderson looked back on his life thee months earlier - and, though it sounded cliché and pathetic and he could have described it all much better than he was; if someone had come up to him and told him where he would be he would have turned the fabricator into a blessed pincushion and then laughed until he broke his own back.
He wasn’t laughing, though. Not at all.
Water dripped from the ceiling, a steady, resonating ‘plip’ that bounced around and off of the stone walls with a demented sort of glee. It was dark, and dank, and beneath the blood smelt faintly of death and old corpses. In this place, though, that was not so much a surprise.
The floor trembled beneath him; hollow-sounding thumps renting the air many floors above him and wriggling their way through the old stone down to him. The distant and muffled, though familiar sounds of battle stirred his blood, increased the thrumming beat of the heart in his chest and tried valiantly to moisten his dry mouth. It failed. Whatever moisture there was to spare in his body was going somewhere else; Alexander’s mouth was so dry that had he been so inclined he could have used his tongue to catch flies.
Something landed high on his cheek. Reaching up, his fingertips came away wet. Water was still dripping, and Alexander had assumed that one of the water mains above had been damaged during the fighting, but with his fingertips so close to his nose Alexander could tell that what was on them was not water alone. He brought his fingertips closer, sniffed, then touched them with the tip of his tongue. His eyes widened. It was blood.
Merciful Lord! The blood was dripping through the floors!
He strained his eyes in the darkness, and though his eyesight was fantastic, and his night vision way above other human’s, he still needed a little light to work with. Thirty meters below the estate he was as blind as a bat, relying on his sense of smell and his hearing to alert him to any oncoming threat.
Another thud resounded from one of the floors above, and the stones beneath him shook with the force of an impact. A barrage of drips fell from the ceiling, their tiny, wet impacts making a cacophonous noise as they splashed into the puddles already gathered on the floor. Sitting in one of his own, Father Anderson attempted to not worry without any success.
He was not regenerating.
It was a curse, or a removal of a blessing. Or a sickness, or something evil; but whatever it was that was disabling him to regenerate his limbs was frustrating, incapacitating, and heartbreaking. He longed to be upstairs, fighting, yelling, throwing his consecrated blades and destroying abominations with the strength and power of God as his weapons. He was not supposed to be sequestrated down in the hidden bowels of the battleground, his blood a cooling pool beneath him, waiting for the stumps of his arm and left leg to fester and rot beneath the tourniquets. With his belt notched tightly around high on his thigh, and a tie, originally a vibrant red but now some rusty shade of brown cutting into the flesh of his right arm, the bleeding had slowed, and now only seeped from the wounds like sweat from a corpse. He was not dying, but he was not healing either, and though that should have been a major concern, should have had him frantically searching for a reason, an excuse, an explanation as to why, he had other things more important toiling in the fore of his mind.
Curses and damnation! If it were not for his infirmities he would have been up there, fighting, protecting, and defending. Not sitting down in the forgotten basements, hoping, waiting, praying for some miracle that would never come. They were already dead, the both of them.
Alexander tried to swallow with his parched throat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and the insides of his cheeks like it was double-sided tape. He wished for water in the back of his mind. In the fore of it he wished for his companions.
If he had ever considered that three months ago he would be where he was, he would have immediately set out to ensure his own destruction. He had had no idea what that fateful meeting with the Hellsing vampires would do, what changes it would wrought it him and his life, what the blessings would be that would emerge from that disastrous clashing of iron wills; of consecrated blades, an Anti-Freak cannon, and the terrible pairing of Cassul and Jackal. The blood, tears and bodies paraded that day; corpse, undead and barely alive alike, would forever change how Alexander viewed the world, the Church, and his place within them both.
If he had thought three months ago that this would be him; broken, useless, wasted; not in fear for his own life, but for the unlives of his lovers; he would have laughed at himself, called himself a traitor, and had himself promptly executed.
And then he would have lost.
Life was a mission, not a game. Existence had a purpose, a point, an object to achieve. If he had given up then, consigned himself to failure and self-destruction and thrown in the towel, he would have failed his mission miserably, and forsaken all the blessings open to him now. Refusal of blessings, of callings? Alexander may have been mad, but he was certainly no idiot. He knew God’s will when he saw it, it just sometimes took a little while for his eyes to clear enough of the world to make it out.
Another thud, the muffled sound of something exploding, and the tremor that shook the mansion brought with it a rain of blood from the ceiling. Through the distant staccato hailing of gunfire he could sometimes make out the yells and screams of the living soldiers, and sometimes the moans of the ones who were dead, muffled through floors of stone and mortar as they were. Alexander often wondered in the short time he had been down there whether he was just imagining the sounds to make up for the lack of any knowledge of the state of things above. He was isolated, cut off, and worried out of his insane mind. Anything could be happening and he wouldn’t know. It had been a while since he could differentiate the sound of the Halconnen from all the other weapon blasts, and his concern for the Draculina was gnawing at his soul.
“Let her exist, Father,” he whispered with a voice as thready as the remains of his left pants leg. “Please, let her exist.”
As if answering his quietly uttered prayer a large boom sounded above his head, sounded close, and Alexander recognised it instantly.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Amen.”
Then a shudder grasped the mansion with its trembling hands and shook until old mortar fell from the ceiling with the blood, and things, for a moment, tilted sideways alarmingly. His stomach lurched and for a sickening moment Alexander thought he might vomit. Then with a god awful scream everything righted itself, and Alexander blinked the dust and blood from his eyes, found the fingers of his left hand digging into the flesh of his thigh just above the belt, and that everything above had gone deafeningly silent.
Alexander held his breath, paused, waiting. He strained his ears in the darkness, trying to hear a sound from above. There was nothing. For long, counted moments there was nary a sound, then, from out of the depths of a tormented soul came a sound so despairing that it made the hairs on his body stand up and quiver. Alexander felt his heart seize. Only one creature could ever make a sound like that.
“Dear Lord,” he moaned. “Dear Lord, please don’t let it be!”
The Lord did not answer in words. The cry continued on for long, agonising beats, then moments after it had cut off the reason for it appeared in the room. Alexander could barely make the silhouette out in the absolute darkness. Just a hint of shape and the vague sense of motion let his eyes know what his ears could already tell.
“Alucard,” he said, and found his voice nary a whisper.
“Take her,” the No Life King said thickly. In his arms there was another shape, a writhing shadow that snaked about an almost solid form barely glimpsed in the gloom. “I can’t be sure, but I believe… I believe that… I hope…”
“I canna move, Alucard. Ye will have to bring her to me.”
“I’m sorry,” the vampire said as he laid the writhing form of Seras beside the priest. Alexander was not sure if he was saying it to the police girl or to him. Either way it did not matter as Alucard kissed both their foreheads before he rose again to his feet.
“She will need blood when she regains the rest of her form,” he said.
Alexander smiled grimly. “There’s enough down here to feed the three of ye for a month.”
In the gloom a small crescent of white appeared, then disappeared just as quickly as Alexander’s ears and his senses told him that the No Life King had left.
“Ah, love,” Alexander hushed as he drew the fingers of his remaining hand through the bloodied hair of the Draculina. “How we came to be here…”
Series: Hellsing
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Anderson/Alucard/Seras, Anderson/Alucard/Seras/Walter
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
Summary: Anderson receives an epiphany.
Warnings: Anderson has the proclivity to wax poetic.
Some Unsanctioned Holy
Prologue
If Alexander Anderson looked back on his life thee months earlier - and, though it sounded cliché and pathetic and he could have described it all much better than he was; if someone had come up to him and told him where he would be he would have turned the fabricator into a blessed pincushion and then laughed until he broke his own back.
He wasn’t laughing, though. Not at all.
Water dripped from the ceiling, a steady, resonating ‘plip’ that bounced around and off of the stone walls with a demented sort of glee. It was dark, and dank, and beneath the blood smelt faintly of death and old corpses. In this place, though, that was not so much a surprise.
The floor trembled beneath him; hollow-sounding thumps renting the air many floors above him and wriggling their way through the old stone down to him. The distant and muffled, though familiar sounds of battle stirred his blood, increased the thrumming beat of the heart in his chest and tried valiantly to moisten his dry mouth. It failed. Whatever moisture there was to spare in his body was going somewhere else; Alexander’s mouth was so dry that had he been so inclined he could have used his tongue to catch flies.
Something landed high on his cheek. Reaching up, his fingertips came away wet. Water was still dripping, and Alexander had assumed that one of the water mains above had been damaged during the fighting, but with his fingertips so close to his nose Alexander could tell that what was on them was not water alone. He brought his fingertips closer, sniffed, then touched them with the tip of his tongue. His eyes widened. It was blood.
Merciful Lord! The blood was dripping through the floors!
He strained his eyes in the darkness, and though his eyesight was fantastic, and his night vision way above other human’s, he still needed a little light to work with. Thirty meters below the estate he was as blind as a bat, relying on his sense of smell and his hearing to alert him to any oncoming threat.
Another thud resounded from one of the floors above, and the stones beneath him shook with the force of an impact. A barrage of drips fell from the ceiling, their tiny, wet impacts making a cacophonous noise as they splashed into the puddles already gathered on the floor. Sitting in one of his own, Father Anderson attempted to not worry without any success.
He was not regenerating.
It was a curse, or a removal of a blessing. Or a sickness, or something evil; but whatever it was that was disabling him to regenerate his limbs was frustrating, incapacitating, and heartbreaking. He longed to be upstairs, fighting, yelling, throwing his consecrated blades and destroying abominations with the strength and power of God as his weapons. He was not supposed to be sequestrated down in the hidden bowels of the battleground, his blood a cooling pool beneath him, waiting for the stumps of his arm and left leg to fester and rot beneath the tourniquets. With his belt notched tightly around high on his thigh, and a tie, originally a vibrant red but now some rusty shade of brown cutting into the flesh of his right arm, the bleeding had slowed, and now only seeped from the wounds like sweat from a corpse. He was not dying, but he was not healing either, and though that should have been a major concern, should have had him frantically searching for a reason, an excuse, an explanation as to why, he had other things more important toiling in the fore of his mind.
Curses and damnation! If it were not for his infirmities he would have been up there, fighting, protecting, and defending. Not sitting down in the forgotten basements, hoping, waiting, praying for some miracle that would never come. They were already dead, the both of them.
Alexander tried to swallow with his parched throat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and the insides of his cheeks like it was double-sided tape. He wished for water in the back of his mind. In the fore of it he wished for his companions.
If he had ever considered that three months ago he would be where he was, he would have immediately set out to ensure his own destruction. He had had no idea what that fateful meeting with the Hellsing vampires would do, what changes it would wrought it him and his life, what the blessings would be that would emerge from that disastrous clashing of iron wills; of consecrated blades, an Anti-Freak cannon, and the terrible pairing of Cassul and Jackal. The blood, tears and bodies paraded that day; corpse, undead and barely alive alike, would forever change how Alexander viewed the world, the Church, and his place within them both.
If he had thought three months ago that this would be him; broken, useless, wasted; not in fear for his own life, but for the unlives of his lovers; he would have laughed at himself, called himself a traitor, and had himself promptly executed.
And then he would have lost.
Life was a mission, not a game. Existence had a purpose, a point, an object to achieve. If he had given up then, consigned himself to failure and self-destruction and thrown in the towel, he would have failed his mission miserably, and forsaken all the blessings open to him now. Refusal of blessings, of callings? Alexander may have been mad, but he was certainly no idiot. He knew God’s will when he saw it, it just sometimes took a little while for his eyes to clear enough of the world to make it out.
Another thud, the muffled sound of something exploding, and the tremor that shook the mansion brought with it a rain of blood from the ceiling. Through the distant staccato hailing of gunfire he could sometimes make out the yells and screams of the living soldiers, and sometimes the moans of the ones who were dead, muffled through floors of stone and mortar as they were. Alexander often wondered in the short time he had been down there whether he was just imagining the sounds to make up for the lack of any knowledge of the state of things above. He was isolated, cut off, and worried out of his insane mind. Anything could be happening and he wouldn’t know. It had been a while since he could differentiate the sound of the Halconnen from all the other weapon blasts, and his concern for the Draculina was gnawing at his soul.
“Let her exist, Father,” he whispered with a voice as thready as the remains of his left pants leg. “Please, let her exist.”
As if answering his quietly uttered prayer a large boom sounded above his head, sounded close, and Alexander recognised it instantly.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Amen.”
Then a shudder grasped the mansion with its trembling hands and shook until old mortar fell from the ceiling with the blood, and things, for a moment, tilted sideways alarmingly. His stomach lurched and for a sickening moment Alexander thought he might vomit. Then with a god awful scream everything righted itself, and Alexander blinked the dust and blood from his eyes, found the fingers of his left hand digging into the flesh of his thigh just above the belt, and that everything above had gone deafeningly silent.
Alexander held his breath, paused, waiting. He strained his ears in the darkness, trying to hear a sound from above. There was nothing. For long, counted moments there was nary a sound, then, from out of the depths of a tormented soul came a sound so despairing that it made the hairs on his body stand up and quiver. Alexander felt his heart seize. Only one creature could ever make a sound like that.
“Dear Lord,” he moaned. “Dear Lord, please don’t let it be!”
The Lord did not answer in words. The cry continued on for long, agonising beats, then moments after it had cut off the reason for it appeared in the room. Alexander could barely make the silhouette out in the absolute darkness. Just a hint of shape and the vague sense of motion let his eyes know what his ears could already tell.
“Alucard,” he said, and found his voice nary a whisper.
“Take her,” the No Life King said thickly. In his arms there was another shape, a writhing shadow that snaked about an almost solid form barely glimpsed in the gloom. “I can’t be sure, but I believe… I believe that… I hope…”
“I canna move, Alucard. Ye will have to bring her to me.”
“I’m sorry,” the vampire said as he laid the writhing form of Seras beside the priest. Alexander was not sure if he was saying it to the police girl or to him. Either way it did not matter as Alucard kissed both their foreheads before he rose again to his feet.
“She will need blood when she regains the rest of her form,” he said.
Alexander smiled grimly. “There’s enough down here to feed the three of ye for a month.”
In the gloom a small crescent of white appeared, then disappeared just as quickly as Alexander’s ears and his senses told him that the No Life King had left.
“Ah, love,” Alexander hushed as he drew the fingers of his remaining hand through the bloodied hair of the Draculina. “How we came to be here…”