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Seventh Year Misfortune	By : Kainonis Category: Hellsing > General Views: 3969 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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Disclaimer: I don't own Hellsing.

Seventh Year Misfortune

Chapter One

The clock on the stove reads that it�s only a minute before midnight. It perhaps isn�t the most accurate clock, a few seconds too early or too late � likely the former, since Anderson can already hear fireworks outside � but it isn�t important. The seventh year of the new millennium is finally here; seven years since the war, and the world is still continuing to turn and evolve, the humans still thriving, the countries piecing themselves back together bit by bit.
And now it is the new year, and Anderson finally let out a long-awaited sigh of relief. One year with no vampires spotted, no ghouls, no werewolves; it�s just humans now. Despite all of the Millennium�s efforts, the war, they had still not been able to defeat Alucard in the end. And that was to be expected; Anderson himself had been unable, at least, not as a human. He had known that it was a hopeless effort even then, but he kept trying, kept fighting for a God he�s sure deserted him some time ago. Now all that�s left of that memory is a black scar over his heart, held together with thick silver staples; a crude surgery at best, but it was all the could be managed at the time.
He can�t clearly recall the exact happenings of the night; when he had come to, the nail was gone and his chest was throbbing, his temples pounding with agonizing strength. His hand had touched that bloodied, gaping hole in his chest. It was like a living nightmare, being able to see and feel his insides. His heart was pounding hard, exposed to air, and each solid thump spread flecks of blood against his hand. He had felt like a science experiment being dissected alive, body and mind slipping away with every passing moment.
If he had died, it would have been a welcomed death; he had defeated Alucard, killed the vampire. With the Iscariot gone and the Millennium dying within the fires, Anderson had little left to live for.
But he hadn�t died, by some miracle. He had awoken in a bed, alone, the pain so completely gone it was nothing more than a grim memory. The bed he was in was of an apartment, one of the few which had remained standing. No memory of who had put him there, nothing more than an empty loneliness and a chilling silence. He had slept as if there was no war, slept deeply and peacefully with the knowledge that Alucard was dead.
He had slept as a human, no magic, no godly powers, nothing but the lingering threads of regeneration.
Whoever had saved him had worked fast; the staples forced into his skin were made from melted crucifixes, pure and untainted. It was enough to seal that gaping space, but he dared not remove the silver from his flesh now. The staples held his heart together, and some part of him felt that his chest would simply tear open again should he remove them.
Foolish paranoia, he reminds himself, over and over again; it�s a ritual now. It�s nothing more than paranoia.
Anderson doesn�t stay up for more than a few minutes; he just wanted to see midnight. It was a novelty, watching the clock tick past midnight. In all of his years � he was almost seventy now � he had only missed witnessing the New Year a few times. He was never sure why it was so important to him to be awake in the New Year, or why it made him feel melancholic. Perhaps his ageless form, his immortality compelled him; he never wanted to lose track of the years, yet he wants to forget what made him who he is.
But even he knew it is a hopeless desire to forget the past. The only memories he cannot fully recall are the ones that he wishes he could, the calmer memories before blood tainted his life. His childhood is nothing more than an indistinct blur, and when he thinks of it, he only remembers the stories that he has reiterated time and time again, not the actual memories. He knows he grew up in a church, knows that well; yet, he can�t remember what the church was like, can�t remember the people, can�t remember anything from a time he knows was happy.
He wonders if immortality with withering memories is any worse than immortality with perfect memory, he doesn�t quite know which to long for more. Immortality in itself is nothing but a sick joke, a repetition of love and loss that never seems to disappear. Every cycle, you try to fix what went wrong in the last time, thinking there is some way to win now, yet there never really is. He has not lived through a full lifespan yet, but he has lived at a single age for so long that it might as well be several separate lives compiled into a single span of memories.
And the exhaustion of it is overwhelming. The war is long gone, but so is his purpose; there are no Iscariot to take him back, no missions, and he had overcome the one purpose that he felt defined him. When one doesn�t age, purpose is all that seems to keep one going.
Anderson knows he�s reaching his limit.
Feeling more exhausted than he�s been in years, Anderson staggers to the couch. He has a bed, but the couch is somehow safer. Sleeping in an open space is an uncertainty, but the couch has a back, it forces him to face the only unsafe direction throughout the night. When pushed to the corner, it was even more secure, and Anderson can find some semblance of peace.
He doesn�t wrap himself in a blanket � that would only muffle his senses, his awareness of the air around him. He simply lies down and sleeps, or whatever mockery of sleep it qualifies for. It isn�t restful, not by any means, but it keeps his body functioning. As long as he can think, as long as he can act and protect himself, there is no need to risk the vulnerability that comes with sleep.
His dreams come as night terrors, memories, flashes of images that seem like a small shred of hell. His chest throbs with every one of those terrors, the closed wound from the nail ripping at the staples as he gasps for air. He bolts awake, covered in sweat, trying not to recall the blood-soaked dreams, the torture, the memories of crimson eyes and a hazy awareness of being controlled by God, by whatever power the nail had encompassed.
Anderson touches his chest again, feeling the rivulets of blood stain his fingertips. The nails are ripping again, and he knows that if he damages his flesh too much, they might fall out. So he carefully presses the flat of his palm against them, forcing the thick silver needles back into his chest. It hurts, and he grunts in pain, but it is worth the effort. He instantly feels calmer with the knowledge that he does not have to confront that particular demon yet, that haunting memory. The staples are still holding his heart in place.
He gets up from the bed and walks to the bathroom. His vision is fuzzy, and he does not wish to turn on the lights. There is something comforting about the dark, despite the fact that his primal instincts should fear it. He feels more aware in the dark, his senses are heightened; he has always fought in the dark of night, and it is now what he�s accustomed to. So he leaves the lights off, relying on the faint glow of the moon to light his way.
Anderson bends over the sink, douses his face with the water. It helps wash away the sweat, helps numb the fear and wrath that accompanies the violent flashbacks. The cold always helps, but it never seems quite cold enough to numb him completely. He doubts anything can manage that at this point.
He remains crouched over the sink, trying to feel human again. His eyes are tightly closed, and behind them he sees faces and memories he wishes he�d never had to see again. But he is used to this; he cannot forget the orphans, the friends, nor can he forget his adversary. He supposes that one form of hell is the sharp memory regeneration gave him; ever since his DNA, his blood was manipulated, his memory had been as flawless as the rest of him.
Living forever and forgetting the past is something he could live with. Living forever and remembering it all, the overflow of sensation and pain, the overflow of living in such a agonizing state� is hell.
Hell is when seven years passes and he still feels like the war was yesterday. He can still smell it, still taste blood in the air, even if it is a phantom sensation. He can feel the pain in his heart, remember the corpses piling in the streets, remember the sound of guns and the taste of decay. But he knows this should not matter anymore; he had defeated Alucard, he had slaughtered the vampire and dissolved the remainder of his blood and flesh with fire. Why couldn�t he just move on?
He pauses in his thought, listening to a soundless movement, a strange tingling in the back of his spine, an unfamiliar presence. Anderson tilts his head, tries to determine what he�s sensing; not a person, not exactly. If someone was in his apartment, he would know it, he would have noticed it immediately. Humans are loud, clumsy creatures, easily detected.
But this is different.
Anderson doesn�t turn around, doesn�t look from side-to-side. That in itself would be a foolish movement; if he doesn�t know what he�s dealing with, he should not alert the other presence that he is aware of them. If he turns to see, if he looks for them before calmly determining what it is, he could be taken off guard, and the other would be forced to attack. Once, perhaps, Anderson would have gone impulsively towards danger.
But it�s different now; paranoia is stronger than wrath, stronger than bravery. Whether or not he defeated the vampire did not matter; he had become weaker because of it, and that had been his ultimate sacrifice.
He breathes slowly, closes his eyes as he tries to determine what this creature is simply from the presence. Not a vampire; vampires had a presence that sent shivers down Anderson�s spine, a stronger aura of bloodlust. Not a human; their auras were too obvious. The imperceptible shift in the shadows, the stir of silent motion reminds him of the hellhound, the one he had seen at the scene of Alucard�s death. That creature that had consumed so many, the Cerberus guarding the hell of Alucard�s soul.
Blood pulsing hard beneath his skin, Anderson turns and poises himself for battle.
Nothing.
Anderson laughs harshly, sounding simultaneously amused and utterly pissed. �Don�t hide, demon!� he snarls impatiently, clasping a karambit knife in his hand � not the most effective weapon, but one that he can easily carry wherever he goes. He had lost his ability to magically wield bayonets some time ago. �I know I�m not imagining this.�
Anderson stands in wait, looking around the darkened surrounds with eyes that can see beyond the shadows. There�s nothing there, not the faintest shift of movement, no creature cloaked in the darkness. Everything feels empty again, yet Anderson cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong, something is different.
Reluctantly, he forces himself to calm. Whatever had been there � and he�s sure something was there � is gone now. He turns, breathing out heavily, chest aching. He feels weak, a mockery of the warrior he was before. He leans against the sink, eyes closed briefly.
When he opens them, crimson eyes are staring back at him.
Rage boils before fear. �Aluc��
Anderson doesn�t have time to finish. The shadows around him move in the blink of an eye, surrounding him in a vice he cannot break free of. He snarls, trying to slice at the shadows with the knife, but it is futile; they simply break and reform, far too far too destroy, too intangible and elastic to simply tear apart. He thrashes so violently he can feel blood splattering on his arms, the shadows cutting into his flesh like knife. Yet he doesn�t notice the pain, doesn�t recognize it as being anything more than the slightest distraction. He instead keeps his eyes fixed on the vampire staring at him from behind the mirror.
�I killed you!� snarls Anderson, trying to throw the knife at the mirror, to break the glaring image of the vampire. The knife hits, and snaps a fracture into the smooth expanse of glass. Alucard looks unimpressed.
�No one this pathetic could kill me,� says Alucard, the two-dimensional face contorting in anger. �And I told you that a monster cannot kill a monster.�
Anderson screams out in rage, struggling against the restraints. His weakened body does not have enough strength to keep this up, and he knows that like this, he has no chance to kill the vampire now. He had not been able as a human, and he would not be able to in this weakened, pathetic state. He had gambled, trying to kill Alucard as a monster, and � apparently � he had lost.
The shadows tightened, and Anderson could feel the constriction. Not suffocation, but the agonizing crush of bones and organs compressing and collapsing beneath the pressure. He chokes, vomits blood as the shadows tighten around him. Anderson�s vision is fuzzy, darkening, but he can see the glowing red eyes staring at him, watching his struggle to breathe, so survive.
Suddenly, the shadows loosen, and Anderson draws in a deep, desperate breath before hacking up more blood.
�Aren�t you going to beg for you life?� mocks Alucard, his voice sounding strangely distorted from the other side of the mirror, hollow.
The shadows are still too tight for Anderson to breathe fully, but he struggles, forcing his vocal chords to work. �Bastard,� he hisses.
Alucard laughs at this, crimson eyes burning. His serrated teeth are bared in a grin that seems more feral than happy, an expression of vigor, bloodlust in his eyes. Alucard reaches out, and his arm slides through the mirror; in Anderson�s world, the limb is transparent, but he still feels it when the cold finger slides across his bloodied lips.
Furiously, Anderson tries to bite the vampire�s fingers, only to find air. The vampire can touch him, but Anderson cannot do the same; this in itself is quite a disturbing development. This specter of Alucard, this phantom doesn�t seem to be existing in either world, somewhere caught between Earth and the void.
The shadows shift again, splicing together to force limb like extremities. He can feel the coils of darkness around him like arms, fingers grasping onto his clothes. His air is cut off abruptly, and his hands immediately try to grasp at the shadows, to free himself. Belatedly, the panic sets in, the wrath and fury diminishing into the single thought that he is going to die.
Despite how much Anderson loathes life, loathes a hollow existence, he will not die at Alucard�s hands.
Anderson feels the tingle of magic, a faint sting of it at his fingertips. And then, it comes back to him, an overflow of the power he had lost those years again. The books, the bibles strewn over the entire apartment spark gold and suddenly come alive. He can feel them again, an extension of himself, a part of his will. The holy pages tear away from the spine of books as they swirl in the air, attaching themselves to the vile shadows holding him captive. Others cover the mirror, blocking out Alucard�s face, wrapping themselves around the glass until it�s completely obscured.
The shadows release him immediately, and Anderson gasps, staggering out of the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, leaning against it heavily, trying to overcome the sudden overflow of energy, of power that�s ripping through his body. His vision is nothing but a blur of gold, that vibrant, sun-hued power he hadn�t seen in seven years.
Anderson falters, sliding down to the ground. His heart is throbbing inside his chest, his entire body simultaneously powerful and depleted. He tries to draw in a full breath, but he is caught between the desire to laugh and the need to scream with anger. He clenches his tremulous hands and does neither.
A tendril of shadow wraps around Anderson�s hand, sliding up his arm. There�s a whisper of a voice in his mind, but he does not care to determine what words are being spoken, what poison the vampire is murmuring into his subconscious. Anderson forces himself to his feet, ripping himself away from the weakened shadow. He forces that voice to leave his mind, forces himself to forsake that whisper that sounds deceptively soothing, a tone he clearly remembers Alucard speaking in during their final battle.
An hateful tone, but� melancholy in a way that Anderson cannot deny. The vampire is expressive, the sadness, the anger in his heart seeping into his very essence, his aura. Anderson tries to deny that this thing, this ghost of a memory is not truly Alucard.
But the essence is unmistakable; this is not simply a hallucination, a madness brought on by paranoia, by loneliness.
Anderson surveys the damage; many bibles had been torn asunder in his mad rage, the desperation to free himself of the shadows. But still, many more are remaining, piled amongst history books, Latin, all kinds of biblical theology that isn�t necessarily Catholic. Anderson quickly retrieves the bibles he does have, the ones pure enough to be used against the vampire. He keeps them in a pile near the door, easily accessible; when he moves them, he realizes his hands are tremoring.
Anderson leans against the wall, breathes deep and slow, tries to bring some measure of sanity back into the chaotic white noise of his mind. It does little to calm his wrath, and he is tempted to go back, to reveal the mirror and coax the vampire out into the open. But he doubts his can be done; a vampire, inside of a mirror is laughable enough.
But Anderson knows Alucard isn�t inside of the mirror, is barely connected to the true object; he�s simply using mirrors as a form of communication from whatever afterlife, whatever phantom form he had been left with after his demise.
It infuriates Anderson, the obvious fact that there is nothing he can do to erase the vampire completely from the world. No matter how many times he defeats him and pushes him back, Alucard simply refuses to surrender to hell, to the darkness that surely tries to draw him, to coax him into the underworld. He is still bound to Earth by old dreams and oaths of loyalty, and yet�
Anderson looks down at his hand thoughtfully. This creature brought with him the first taste of power Anderson�s felt in seven years, the first breath of life into his deadened soul.
~~~
Anderson leaves the apartment for most of the day.
When he returns, he�s dressed as a priest for the first time in years, the outfit he had once reserved for the days of warriors and death. He has a mirror under one arm, an unopened box that he has not chanced a look at quite yet. It had been difficult to buy a mirror without encountering any other ones, but he had called into a warehouse, asked them to hold one for him at the door. It had worked well enough. Speaking through the mirror in the bathroom was simply too dangerous; the area was too small, constricted, and it would be easy to become trapped should Alucard attempt something.
He needed something safer, room to fight if it came to that, a place where he could not become trapped by the shadows.
Anderson withdraws the large mirror, sets it on the table propped against the wall. Without glancing, he slams a thick bible in front of it, laying his palms flat against the magicked pages. When he glances up, he�s staring at his own reflection, and Alucard is behind him.
Anderson turns, but there�s nothing there; he hadn�t expected anything to be.
�How the hell did you survive?� snarls Anderson, hands clenching on the pages beneath him so tightly they rip at the seams. He�s not furious; he�s had time to prepare for this now, but seeing the creature with his own eyes, to see him face, his damnable vampiric fangs stirred a sickly feeling of failure inside of him.
�I didn�t,� replies Alucard dryly, making himself comfortable in the chair on the other side of the table. His crimson eyes look almost melancholy, and his ungloved hands are loosely clasped in his lap, the lanky form of the vampire utterly relaxed. �But I was not meant for heaven or hell. I saw both, but I was never a part of either.�
Anderson is momentarily at a loss. This void that Alucard is in now, this dimension that�s beyond reality that�s not quite an afterlife� is the same void Anderson absorbs and utilizes his magic. It�s a place he has always been subconsciously aware of, even before his priesthood, before Iscariot. A gift, a curse of sorts, but it allowed him to become the enemy, the threat of this vampire.
�And what are you here for?� asks Anderson confrontationally, not giving into his subconscious desire to turn to the chair Alucard was sitting in; he knows it�s just an illusion in the mirror, nothing more. �Revenge?�
Alucard shakes his head solemnly. �You did what you were supposed to,� he says. �Up until you stabbed yourself with the nail.� A scowl crosses the vampire�s features. �You were supposed to kill me as a human, not become another twisted, tainted version of myself. You were supposed to destroy the monster for humanity, not pride.�
Anderson bristles furiously. Even now, in this form, this phantom reflection, the vampire is still an infuriating bastard. �The nail was the only��
�It was demeaning to be killed by a monster,� says Alucard, so serious that Anderson is taken off guard. �And since then, I have been in this void, touching a world that I cannot find peace in. Because of you.�
�And you think I care?!� says Anderson harshly. His hand clenches, and he swings it back, preparing to bring the mirror. The Alucard in the phantom reflection grabs his wrist before he can finish the motion, a cold vice around his flesh that invisibly restrains him.
�It�ll bring you bad luck,� says Alucard tauntingly, and Anderson can feel the teasing caress of Alucard�s fingers against his arm. �They say if you break a mirror, you kill a piece of your own soul.�
Anderson laughs harshly, free hand immediately moving to cover the silver staples. �I already did,� he says. He places his hand on the bible, the pages tears neatly from the book, glowing, sparking with the newfound magic. As the pages did before, they coat over the mirror tightly, burying Alucard�s under the golden magic. This is enough to keep Alucard from him, and he relaxes. It is a minute moment of peace, but his mind is still racing, blood filled with bloodlust and fury, a detached nostalgia of the person he once was.
He can�t keep this up forever; whatever Alucard did, it opened the void for Anderson again. That place he had not felt since Alucard had died, since the nail had been torn away. It had been as if Alucard�s death had sealed that world away from Anderson, taking a piece of Anderson away in the process.
But now, he feels it. A strange, familiar whisper of power at the tip of his senses. It�s a despicable thought that it is indeed Alucard that is the catalyst for this magic, this power. Relying on the vampire for his own strength seems like a cruel joke, and yet it seems to be a reality.
Anderson does not sleep, not that night, not the following. He cannot risk it; he succumbs to the paranoia that his magic will wane in his sleepful state. But his exhaustion is human enough, the ache for sleep that claws at him, that urges him to lay down and give into the seductive embrace of slumber. Yet his mind is sharp, racing for all of those hours, wondering what kind of stalemate they�ve reached. They are existing in different worlds, yet trudging amongst the line between them.
He barely eats, just keep an compulsive vigil on the mirror, trying to decide what to do. He bought the mirror so he could find some link between Alucard and the void, so he could possibly understand what caused this. But facing Alucard, even for those few moments� was unbearable.
�You can�t keep this up forever, Anderson,� a voice purrs inside of him, whispering to his soul. He cannot determine whether it is his own sleep-deprived hallucination or actually the vampire, nor does he care; the words are true. But Anderson cannot face his demon yet, this specter of a past he thought long gone.
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Seventh Year Misfortune