New ficlet
Title: Gone
Summary: Seras comes to terms.
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 421
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: Walter x Seras
A/N: This is for rosehiptea, and I hope it's good. I think it's quite good, as it made me cry while I was writing it, but you be the judge. Blame it on Terry Pratchett.
Seras quietly slipped out of her neat black clothing. She slipped on the big fluffy robe from her closet and dried her eyes on the sleeve.
She dragged her heavy legs toward the shower. Being out in the daylight had sapped most of her energy, and she’d been up since the evening before. But somehow, she just didn’t want to sleep.
Seras let the water fall on her for a very long time, thinking about the day. It had been a lovely service, or that was what everybody who was coming and going was saying. She’d been sequestered in a deserted chapel. A young lady crying at an old man’s funeral was one thing, but a young lady crying blood was quite another. She noticed that the water had gone cold. Seras slipped back into her robe and retreated to her room.
Wearily, she pushed open the door, a wild hope rising in her that the room wouldn’t be the way she left it. There was no bag of blood, no ice bucket waiting for her tonight. No rose plucked from the garden, no delicate vase to delight her. No Walter to look after her or talk to her or just hold her. Nothing but a coffin and a table, dead, lifeless things. It struck her that she was one of them, too, had always been one of them. But why did she feel it now?
Her gaze slipped down along the floor. The Harkonnen lay splayed across its case, still lying where she had carelessly dropped it after coming in from her last mission. She knelt before it and took it in her arms. He had made it, just for her. She imagined him fitting it out, carefully selecting the perfect parts, all this devotion for her. A bloody tear marred its surface, but she quickly wiped it off.
He’d done all this for her- ordered and mended her clothes, arranged her coffin, made sure everything was in order for her. He’d even gotten her the robe that she was wrapped in. He was in everything in her room and everything in her life. To her great surprise, her heart started lifting. He was here in everything- how could he really be gone?
Integra got out of bed early and made her way down to Seras’s room, rubbing at her sleepless eyes. She knocked as a formality, then swung the door open. She found her there asleep on the floor in her robe, her cannon clutched tightly to her chest.
“In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away -- until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone's life, they say, is only the core of actual existence.” - Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man
Summary: Seras comes to terms.
Fandom: Hellsing
Word Count: 421
Rating/Warnings: PG
Pairing: Walter x Seras
A/N: This is for rosehiptea, and I hope it's good. I think it's quite good, as it made me cry while I was writing it, but you be the judge. Blame it on Terry Pratchett.
Seras quietly slipped out of her neat black clothing. She slipped on the big fluffy robe from her closet and dried her eyes on the sleeve.
She dragged her heavy legs toward the shower. Being out in the daylight had sapped most of her energy, and she’d been up since the evening before. But somehow, she just didn’t want to sleep.
Seras let the water fall on her for a very long time, thinking about the day. It had been a lovely service, or that was what everybody who was coming and going was saying. She’d been sequestered in a deserted chapel. A young lady crying at an old man’s funeral was one thing, but a young lady crying blood was quite another. She noticed that the water had gone cold. Seras slipped back into her robe and retreated to her room.
Wearily, she pushed open the door, a wild hope rising in her that the room wouldn’t be the way she left it. There was no bag of blood, no ice bucket waiting for her tonight. No rose plucked from the garden, no delicate vase to delight her. No Walter to look after her or talk to her or just hold her. Nothing but a coffin and a table, dead, lifeless things. It struck her that she was one of them, too, had always been one of them. But why did she feel it now?
Her gaze slipped down along the floor. The Harkonnen lay splayed across its case, still lying where she had carelessly dropped it after coming in from her last mission. She knelt before it and took it in her arms. He had made it, just for her. She imagined him fitting it out, carefully selecting the perfect parts, all this devotion for her. A bloody tear marred its surface, but she quickly wiped it off.
He’d done all this for her- ordered and mended her clothes, arranged her coffin, made sure everything was in order for her. He’d even gotten her the robe that she was wrapped in. He was in everything in her room and everything in her life. To her great surprise, her heart started lifting. He was here in everything- how could he really be gone?
Integra got out of bed early and made her way down to Seras’s room, rubbing at her sleepless eyes. She knocked as a formality, then swung the door open. She found her there asleep on the floor in her robe, her cannon clutched tightly to her chest.
“In the Ramtop village where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away -- until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone's life, they say, is only the core of actual existence.” - Terry Pratchett, Reaper Man