(no subject)
Title: Forgiveness
Summary: Integra and Iscariot make a stop on the way back to Hellsing.
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 640
Rating/Warnings: PG, AU
Pairing: Anderson/Integra (a little)
A/N: Anderson's one of my favorite characters to write, but he's always such a bitch. This whole thing is a little OOC, but I liked the concept and wanted to play around with the characterizations. Anyway, this takes place directly after volume 6 chapter 8, and discounts what (pitifully) little I know about anything past that point. Ignore the crapness of the dialect. I can't not use dialect, cause it just feels wrong not to, but I'm not at all good at it. A dilemma.
"Stop the car," Integra ordered. They rolled to a stop on a gravel path not far from Hellsing.
"What are you doing?" Heinkel hissed at Anderson.
"Stay here" was all the answer she got from the priest. He was already out of the car. He walked around and opened Integra's door. Wordlessly, he followed her up the path.
His eyes had already seen what the nun must have missed. At the end of the path stood a small church. It had obviously been recently abandoned, and in a hurry. One of the doors swung freely in the breeze.
Inside, there was no sign of the Nazis. There was no sign of anyone- no blood, no corpses. Just a few prayer books and hymnals lying open, pages blowing back and forth.
Integra went down on one knee in front of the altar. She prayed as hard as she possibly could, like she hadn't since her father died. She prayed for Sir Penwood, wherever her was. She prayed for Seras, even though she knew He wouldn't hear it. But above it all, she prayed for Walter. Integra couldn't stand to lose him- he was invaluable to Hellsing. But it was more than that. He'd all but raised her. She wasn't sure how she could go on without him.
Anderson rubbed his forehead. The battle rage had gone and left, as it always did, a dull ache in his temples.
He dropped to his knees in the nave, crossing himself.
"Father, fergive me for mah treachery," he whispered. He stopped. Nothing else would come. His thoughts spiraled out toward God, too complex for words.
He'd betrayed Maxwell by cooperating with Sir Hellsing- the heathen, he forced himself to think. But why was he worried about that? He'd betrayed his savior by joining Iscariot. The chant had brought it all back to him, the promises he'd made in the heat of berserker rage. He had believed it all, and in the heat of battle, he still did.
And Maxwell was still there at the Vatican, probably drinking his coffee and reading his newspaper, while London became hell. He thought about the orphans back there, wondering how long it would be before some unholy thing got to them, too, while Maxwell cared about his own safety.
Anderson didn't notice when Integra walked in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was uncharacteristically gentle.
"You were a traitor," she told him. "You are a traitor. In this war, we are all traitors." Her voice was soft. Something in her voice reminded him of home, of his sisters, everything he'd left behind.
His mind snapped back to attention. "Get awae from me, Jezebel," Anderson snarled at her. His voice was crueler than he thought he was capable of. "Ay should ha' known better, lettin my mind get poisoned by a witch-"
"It was Maxwell that poisoned your mind, not me," she snapped back at him.
"I am oon a mission from God, Babylon," he told her. "My God will bring doon his vengeance on ye and yer heathen vampires."
"Our God," she corrected, "is far too concerned right now with the hundreds of thousands of people being slaughtered and turned into soulless ghouls to worry about our petty differences. If we're going to survive, it has to be us against them, not me against you."
In that moment, she looked like a saint in his eyes. The virgin knight of Hellsing, whose neck he'd held a knife to before, who was sworn to protect England at any cost, who he'd snapped and hissed at, this mere girl was showing more forgiveness and humility than he'd ever seen from Maxwell, or from anyone at Iscariot, for that matter.
"Fergive me," he said, rising. He found himself unable to look at her. "I spoke oot o' turn."
Integra laid a hand on his arm. "Let's go," she ordered him.
Summary: Integra and Iscariot make a stop on the way back to Hellsing.
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 640
Rating/Warnings: PG, AU
Pairing: Anderson/Integra (a little)
A/N: Anderson's one of my favorite characters to write, but he's always such a bitch. This whole thing is a little OOC, but I liked the concept and wanted to play around with the characterizations. Anyway, this takes place directly after volume 6 chapter 8, and discounts what (pitifully) little I know about anything past that point. Ignore the crapness of the dialect. I can't not use dialect, cause it just feels wrong not to, but I'm not at all good at it. A dilemma.
"Stop the car," Integra ordered. They rolled to a stop on a gravel path not far from Hellsing.
"What are you doing?" Heinkel hissed at Anderson.
"Stay here" was all the answer she got from the priest. He was already out of the car. He walked around and opened Integra's door. Wordlessly, he followed her up the path.
His eyes had already seen what the nun must have missed. At the end of the path stood a small church. It had obviously been recently abandoned, and in a hurry. One of the doors swung freely in the breeze.
Inside, there was no sign of the Nazis. There was no sign of anyone- no blood, no corpses. Just a few prayer books and hymnals lying open, pages blowing back and forth.
Integra went down on one knee in front of the altar. She prayed as hard as she possibly could, like she hadn't since her father died. She prayed for Sir Penwood, wherever her was. She prayed for Seras, even though she knew He wouldn't hear it. But above it all, she prayed for Walter. Integra couldn't stand to lose him- he was invaluable to Hellsing. But it was more than that. He'd all but raised her. She wasn't sure how she could go on without him.
Anderson rubbed his forehead. The battle rage had gone and left, as it always did, a dull ache in his temples.
He dropped to his knees in the nave, crossing himself.
"Father, fergive me for mah treachery," he whispered. He stopped. Nothing else would come. His thoughts spiraled out toward God, too complex for words.
He'd betrayed Maxwell by cooperating with Sir Hellsing- the heathen, he forced himself to think. But why was he worried about that? He'd betrayed his savior by joining Iscariot. The chant had brought it all back to him, the promises he'd made in the heat of berserker rage. He had believed it all, and in the heat of battle, he still did.
And Maxwell was still there at the Vatican, probably drinking his coffee and reading his newspaper, while London became hell. He thought about the orphans back there, wondering how long it would be before some unholy thing got to them, too, while Maxwell cared about his own safety.
Anderson didn't notice when Integra walked in front of him and placed a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was uncharacteristically gentle.
"You were a traitor," she told him. "You are a traitor. In this war, we are all traitors." Her voice was soft. Something in her voice reminded him of home, of his sisters, everything he'd left behind.
His mind snapped back to attention. "Get awae from me, Jezebel," Anderson snarled at her. His voice was crueler than he thought he was capable of. "Ay should ha' known better, lettin my mind get poisoned by a witch-"
"It was Maxwell that poisoned your mind, not me," she snapped back at him.
"I am oon a mission from God, Babylon," he told her. "My God will bring doon his vengeance on ye and yer heathen vampires."
"Our God," she corrected, "is far too concerned right now with the hundreds of thousands of people being slaughtered and turned into soulless ghouls to worry about our petty differences. If we're going to survive, it has to be us against them, not me against you."
In that moment, she looked like a saint in his eyes. The virgin knight of Hellsing, whose neck he'd held a knife to before, who was sworn to protect England at any cost, who he'd snapped and hissed at, this mere girl was showing more forgiveness and humility than he'd ever seen from Maxwell, or from anyone at Iscariot, for that matter.
"Fergive me," he said, rising. He found himself unable to look at her. "I spoke oot o' turn."
Integra laid a hand on his arm. "Let's go," she ordered him.