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The Green Lady	By : RaggedyNib Category: Hellsing > Het - Male/Female Views: 6457 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Hellsing. I make no money from writing this story!

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Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Hellsing! It's all Kouta Hirano!

Bienvenue!

The name is Nibs. I'm here to tear up your reality and create a new one. The Muse has demanded I write this! So please placate the nagging Vixen and read! Review, good readers! Should I go on with this idea or no? Please be inclined to drop a word or so for me!

Ready? Set. Go!

Prologue

Steam rose up off the foaming flanks of the gelding as they shifted and rippled with the corded muscles flexing beneath.

She really had no use in riding such a weaker creature to get from one place to the next, but the experience always proved to be a calming one for her.

The young Percheron was an extremely willing horse, always eager to obey her commands and gentle guidance. Sometimes she felt it was the only livingthing that would obey her without manipulation from mind-control or the sway of her new position. She took a small comfort from it, in any case.

She felt the thick, strong muscle strain between her thighs, releasing suddenly as the massive forelegs lifted over the fallen log in their path. The rest of his body followed suit, falling back to the earth in a graceful economy of motion for such a large animal.

The woman grinned, throwing herself forward in the saddle as the grey beauty hit the earth and ate up the rest of the loamy turf with a tearing speed. Lights were appearing up in the distance, marking the outskirts of the village she had ridden since sundown for.

She pulled up on the thin reins sharply, halting the horse short of a low stone wall. He stamped, snorting as his rider sawed gently at the bit to calm the prancing gelding.

Only a few more leagues, she thought. A few more leagues to her warm apartments and deep bath before the dawn broke the dark of the night.

The young woman spared a glance over her shoulder at the vast mountains and forest spanning behind her as she stroked the straining neck of her mount, frowning. She had received a missive from the rege of Romania only days ago, calling her back from the peace talks in Rome to his seat of authority in Bucharest. She had stamped her foot at the courier when he announced his reasons for visiting, waving her hands wildly as she shouted her irritation even though it would be better spent on the childish rege.

A simple call to my cell would have been nice. Instead he sent someone to herd me back in person like a wayward lamb,she had fumed.

Fleeing the holy city in a flurry of uncharacteristic anger, she had taken the private chopper the rege had provided for the transit across the Adriatic Sea to the Balkans and upward. As soon as she had arrived in Bucharest, she was directed to the private retreat of Bran with word of a train idling in the city station for the few hours it would take to travel if she so willed it. After a changing out of the severe dress-suit into a comfortable blazer and breeches, she had saddled the gelding at the small stables in the last stop of Braşov, waving off the various attendants insisting upon a more modern transport for the Lady.

The castle was only a short ride from the more modern city, and the man she called master could surely cool his heels while she did the same with a lengthy ride.

Bran was nestled at the crux of a few provinces, now inhabited only by officials and nobility close to the re-instated Rege. Being one of his closest collaborators, the Lady held a private residence with the Regehimself in Bran Castle for a number of years. In the minds of the native Romanians, the two seemed most likely illicit lovers coupled with their master and servant relationship in the public eye.

Of course, the public does tend to jump to the dirtiest concept and miss the whole picture, she thought darkly.

The gelding's iron shod hooves made short work of the dirt roads and low walls between her and Bran, but took his time picking his way along the slippery cobblestones of the ancient village. Nearly a thousand years old, Bran still held the old world charm most of the country retained.

The Lady sighed quietly, eyeing the massive turrets and glowing stone of the castle piercing the sky. It had seemed such a short time since the passing of their mutual master, but in reality it was only a short decade ago when the great Knight had been laid to rest in Westminster Abbey.

And so, she and her unlikely lord had taken up their roots from the sea-blown nook of England and put them down in the familiar soil of Romania.

He's up, she noted. The windows of a high gallery running along one side of the castle were lit with dim light from the fire she knew to be roaring in the massive grate. She quickly dismounted in the courtyard of the stables as the gelding trotted through the gated archway, handing off the reins quickly to a groom before materializing outside of the library.

She had given up the pretense of using doors and stairways in Bran, preferring to use her abilities to get her from one room to the next to save confusion. Raising a hand against the polished wood of the doors, she knocked.

The lady still gave thought to the cherished notion of privacy, something her master completely ignored. He found her clinging beliefs positively hilarious, never failing to make quips about her long-held modesty and polite mannerisms. She would retort with some fumbling excuse, never quite to her master's level of banter and verbal sparring after all these years.

A true Englishwoman, she remembered him saying.

She felt a tendril of thought flick against the barriers erected in her mind, the small black thread seeming to know it's way through her carefully constructed blocks to her inner-most self. Enter, the dark thing said to her.

Her master looked up from the piles of regulation documents and papers heaped upon his desk, propping a booted foot upon the official looking paper without a care for them. He grinned wickedly at the woman striding from the long end of his study, his red-eyed gaze sweeping over her flushed cheeks and rioting blonde hair.

"You're late, Police Girl."

Translations for Romanian Phrases:

Rege – king
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The Green Lady