Mmm. Fic.
Title: Sin To See Her Again
Summary: "Some of us are not the puppets of the Almighty.”
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 644
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, AU, implied murder, disturbing subject matter, possible blasphemy
Pairing: Overtones of Alucard/Integra.
A/N: For wtf27 Prompt 8. It didn't feel right to use proper names, so I didn't. Title comes from the impossibly sexy REV 22:20 by Puscifer.
The last victim went down like all the rest, crying and swearing and profane. In these times, it was almost a shame. One expected a little more dignity, perhaps a touch of resignation among the already damned.
There was no great fanfare when she came down, though it seemed like there should have been; it was the kind of scene that demanded trumpets from on high. A kind of tarnished radiance emanated from her. When he’d thought of this moment, he’d foolishly dressed her in her old clothes, calm and tailored, without a spot.
Her armor, red and wet with blood from the knees down, made her look twice as large as he’d remembered. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, faintly shimmering in the last light of the setting sun. The effect was such that even he felt himself quail for the briefest of moments.
Her horse was an impatient mass of red, stamping and snarling. Flames flowed back from its hooves, its tail one long breath of fire. It moved as if it didn’t notice the weight of its rider or the massive, bone-hilted sword she carried.
“I had to eat half the city before you noticed,” he greeted her, aping upset.
She cocked an eyebrow at him, and for just a moment he could see the girl he’d protected so long ago underneath all the trappings. He put out a hand to help her dismount, but she ignored him, climbing gracefully off her steed as if it were nothing.
“I haven’t seen you since London.”
She squinted into the distance. “That was an apocalypse. This is the Apocalypse. I’ve had more important things on my mind.”
“I’m wounded,” he said. “Such harsh words for your humble sire, who only wanted to give you a little gift.”
“A ruined city is your idea of a gift?”
“That is your métier these days, isn’t it? I should think I saved you a good bit of work.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ours is to do as we are commanded.”
“You mean ‘yours.’ Some of us are not the puppets of the Almighty.”
As if on cue, another horse, the color of a corpse three days dead, alit behind hers, catching his eye. It didn’t seem to have a single muscle, just a bunch of jangled skin and sinews stretched over thin bones, but it moved with an impossible grace.
He turned back to find her holding out a thick, gnarled staff, half-rusted blades arcing out from both ends.
“You always were a traditionalist,” he told her, pointedly not taking it.
“You always thought too highly of yourself,” she replied, still holding it out to him.
“What comes after?”
A shadow passed over her face. “There is no after for us.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the noise ringing around the twisted landscape. “After all the time you spent trying to be good.”
She stiffened a bit. “I was never trying to be good. I was only ever trying to do what was right.”
“His perfect little virgin sacrifice,” he sneered.
“You can stand around and mock me, or you can admit you haven’t got a choice.”
“Press ganged by His grace,” he said with a sigh, finally taking it from her.
“The Seal is opened,” she said, swinging back onto her horse. “You know what to do.”
Spurring her horse, she galloped across the bleak terrain, drawing her sword. He weighted the scythe in both hands, twirling it easily over his mount’s head. All the lifetimes he had lived, all the battles and the destruction, all of it suddenly seemed like mere practice for this moment.
Drawn by the sound of hooves, a group of survivors peeked out from behind a ruined building.
“Come and see,” he whispered, and then he was upon them.
Summary: "Some of us are not the puppets of the Almighty.”
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 644
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, AU, implied murder, disturbing subject matter, possible blasphemy
Pairing: Overtones of Alucard/Integra.
A/N: For wtf27 Prompt 8. It didn't feel right to use proper names, so I didn't. Title comes from the impossibly sexy REV 22:20 by Puscifer.
The last victim went down like all the rest, crying and swearing and profane. In these times, it was almost a shame. One expected a little more dignity, perhaps a touch of resignation among the already damned.
There was no great fanfare when she came down, though it seemed like there should have been; it was the kind of scene that demanded trumpets from on high. A kind of tarnished radiance emanated from her. When he’d thought of this moment, he’d foolishly dressed her in her old clothes, calm and tailored, without a spot.
Her armor, red and wet with blood from the knees down, made her look twice as large as he’d remembered. Her hair tumbled down around her shoulders, faintly shimmering in the last light of the setting sun. The effect was such that even he felt himself quail for the briefest of moments.
Her horse was an impatient mass of red, stamping and snarling. Flames flowed back from its hooves, its tail one long breath of fire. It moved as if it didn’t notice the weight of its rider or the massive, bone-hilted sword she carried.
“I had to eat half the city before you noticed,” he greeted her, aping upset.
She cocked an eyebrow at him, and for just a moment he could see the girl he’d protected so long ago underneath all the trappings. He put out a hand to help her dismount, but she ignored him, climbing gracefully off her steed as if it were nothing.
“I haven’t seen you since London.”
She squinted into the distance. “That was an apocalypse. This is the Apocalypse. I’ve had more important things on my mind.”
“I’m wounded,” he said. “Such harsh words for your humble sire, who only wanted to give you a little gift.”
“A ruined city is your idea of a gift?”
“That is your métier these days, isn’t it? I should think I saved you a good bit of work.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Ours is to do as we are commanded.”
“You mean ‘yours.’ Some of us are not the puppets of the Almighty.”
As if on cue, another horse, the color of a corpse three days dead, alit behind hers, catching his eye. It didn’t seem to have a single muscle, just a bunch of jangled skin and sinews stretched over thin bones, but it moved with an impossible grace.
He turned back to find her holding out a thick, gnarled staff, half-rusted blades arcing out from both ends.
“You always were a traditionalist,” he told her, pointedly not taking it.
“You always thought too highly of yourself,” she replied, still holding it out to him.
“What comes after?”
A shadow passed over her face. “There is no after for us.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the noise ringing around the twisted landscape. “After all the time you spent trying to be good.”
She stiffened a bit. “I was never trying to be good. I was only ever trying to do what was right.”
“His perfect little virgin sacrifice,” he sneered.
“You can stand around and mock me, or you can admit you haven’t got a choice.”
“Press ganged by His grace,” he said with a sigh, finally taking it from her.
“The Seal is opened,” she said, swinging back onto her horse. “You know what to do.”
Spurring her horse, she galloped across the bleak terrain, drawing her sword. He weighted the scythe in both hands, twirling it easily over his mount’s head. All the lifetimes he had lived, all the battles and the destruction, all of it suddenly seemed like mere practice for this moment.
Drawn by the sound of hooves, a group of survivors peeked out from behind a ruined building.
“Come and see,” he whispered, and then he was upon them.