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Psalms for the Fallen	By : anyasy Category: Hellsing > General Views: 3357 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Psalms
for the Fallen

12

I

Any
reservations he had left that the Midians were indeed reflections of demons
were swiftly excised by the unholy �ceremony� that was proceeding around
them. Father Gregory Aglione could feel the tension from his team, as
inured to evil as the Inquisition was, but he had given them express orders not
to intervene. If this was how Revelations was to come about � so be it.

He
was under no illusions why Lamia had agreed to work with him, especially from
their conversations. Evidently, Lamia thought that he was planning to
step through the opened Gate, to attempt to take the robes of a messiah, and
was gleefully awaiting an undoubtedly detrimental result. Even in her fragment
deep in the mausoleum of the Ninth, she had attempted to tempt him with the
thought of ultimate ascension, his ascension, to becoming a hand of
God.

Aglione
had been intrigued for different reasons. And besides, he had no
particular doubts about the state of his soul. The factions of the Ninth
and the Thirteenth Bureaus likely had little place in Heaven, even if they were
necessary cogs of institutionalized religion. But the Ninth, with a
Vatican carte blanche to do what they wished within the ambit of their
function, now had a chance to bring about the time of Judgment, the final days;
if they were to be judged harshly for it then, so be it. The war in
London had finally convinced him, that the excesses of his species had created
a special, infectious brand of insanity that had managed to pervert members
even of the Vatican: Maxwell�s final moments, Aglione had heard, were not
pretty.

And
so it was that he had used the tide of wild energy stemming from the monster
Alucard�s final release, to break the holy seal on the fragment in the
Mausoleum, allowing Lamia to pick up the pieces of her shattered consciousness
and funnel them to an echo of a shard within the British Museum. Matters
had been swiftly and easily blamed on Alucard, and no one had suspected his
involvement.

He
had feared at first that Lamia would not be true to her word � she was a
monster, after all, and an old, wily one � but he need not have been
afraid. She too, wanted Dominion, though for what purpose he did not
know. Curiosity, perhaps, or the wish to create more Midians; or perhaps
the former Lord Hellsing�s theory was correct, after all � what the Midians
wanted most in their existence was true death.

The
saturation of violent, evil magic was so thick in the room that even Aglione
felt a little ill. Behind him, Sister Margaret was fainting, leaning
heavily against Father Alstein, Christopher and Jan were murmuring prayers, and
even Eles was hunched over, beside him, her breaths in shallow gasps.
Only Franz seemed immune, his eyes closed as though asleep.

The
perfect human. Lamia could not have suspected it, of course. A
perfect regenerator made the perfect human � invincible, ever young, ever
healthy. A fitting vessel, therefore, for Revelations to descend.
That was what Aglione was gambling on: that what triggered a change in any
vessel entering principatus porta was perfection: perfect good, perfect
evil, or some other form or state. In Franz, perhaps, they could bring
about the Later Days.

And
for this he had the prototypes to thank � the failed projects Andrews and
Anderson. In Anderson they had come close, but Eles had needed further
funding that the relatively new Eighth Medical Institute had been unwilling to
give, having heard rumors of the type of experiments she had been
conducting. The Ninth had no such qualms, and had been far, far older,
far wealthier.

It
was somewhat of a pity that one of the cogs to their current progress
was now a vampire�s plaything, and Aglione resolved magnanimously that he would
rectify that, after their gambit with Dominion. It was clear that Project
Anderson�s will had not broken, though Aglione supposed this was more due to
Alucard�s personal reasons than any particular strength on the fledgling�s
part, or even the Hellsing limiters on his hands. Still, it was a tenuous
thing, as Aglione observed dispassionately: Anderson had fought his sire
ferociously when dragged down onto the divan, but his resistance had long
faded, and now Iscariot�s former trump card was stretched under Europe�s No
Life King, keening his pleasure, his hands lost in his sire�s cloak.

Aglione
watched the perversion of lust for a moment longer, then turned his eyes up to
the ceiling above the slab of stone.

�Can
you sense it?� Eles murmured, her voice dry. �What lies above.�

�I
can sense it.� Members of the Ninth tended, for the most part, to have a �witch
sense� as one of the basic requirements, able to scent magic, particularly evil
magic, and use the magic of the Writ. Project Anderson had the ability to
handle the magic of the Writ, as well as a strong physical will, which had been
why the child had been selected for the experiment. Even damaged, he had
demonstrated amply enough that regeneration was no barrier to using the Writ.

�What
is it?�

�The
true ritual, no doubt.� Above them was raw evil, too basic to be called magic,
pinpointed above the altar. �Blood sacrifices, I think.�

�Should
we-�

�No.�

Eles
paled, but didn�t reply, her eyes flicking uneasily over Alucard�s divan, then
quickly back to her hands as the vampires kissed roughly.

�Regrets?�
Aglione inquired.

�No,
Father. Disgust.� Eles cast her sights back up to the ceiling, then down
again at her hands. �I hope your calculations prove fruitful. How
long more?�

�Soon.
It feels soon.� Aglione smiled, looking briefly at Franz. �And then we
will ask God for an inheritance.�

II

Anderson
closed his eyes as the beard prickled his neck, teasing, the Count nuzzling his
shoulder, burying his shuddering moans in his sire�s thick mane. Unlike
his normal form, which smelled only of dried, old blood and gunpowder, the
Count�s scent was rich, musky, leather and armor grease, perfumed oils and
horseflesh, the scent of a lord of a fief rather than some Englishwoman�s
killer undead pet, stimulating and curious. His touch was slow,
exquisite, exploring, with more habitual curiosity and consideration than lust;
combined with the compulsion, it was irresistible. Anderson was glad for
the heavy cloak, that curtained their bodies from their flanks downwards, that
hid how eagerly his body was participating in this debauchery, bucking against
his sire�s hips, whining in frustration at the stiff fabric that separated
their flesh.

Alucard
seemed amused at how easily he was able to tease cries from his fledgling
without even undressing him; he balanced his weight on the gauntleted palm, the
other sliding down a heaving belly to the ridge in Anderson�s jeans and
scratching over it lightly, smirking when the priest moaned. He almost
wished Alucard would stop teasing him, even in so public a venue; almost wished
that the compulsion didn�t repulse him to his very core. The very thought
of giving in, voluntarily, to a vampire�s will felt repellent, yet before
Alucard�s unbound might the Hellsing sigils were failing, insufficient.

Lips
pressed up from his neck to his ear, nipping it, then there was a murmur.

�Look
up at the ceiling, beloved enemy.�

The
ceiling? Anderson frowned, dazed, but the command in Alucard�s tone forced him
to obey. He turned his eyes up to the cracked ceiling, hung with crude
brass lamps that held guttering, scented candles. There was ventilation
somewhere, but he didn�t see it; still, it was insufficient. The room now
smelled so chokingly thick of mixing fragrances of such opulence that it felt
obscene to his senses.

�Not
there, fledgling.� Gloved hands gently turned his chin, and Anderson frowned at
the ceiling above the slab of stone, not understanding Alucard�s intent.

Then
he could sense it, the violent, hungry magic just above, staring in
astonishment as, impossibly, the off-white ceiling began to discolor, turning
reddish, darker and darker, then blood welled up as though from an open sore,
dripping slowly down towards the slab of stone. First droplets, slow and
viscous, their tapping loud in the sudden silence, then a trickle, lost in
vampiric laughter.

�Blood,�
Anderson breathed, as the growing coppery scent began to intermingle with and
drown out the perfumes, making him salivate. His hunger flared as the
blood poured down over the slab, already coagulating at the edges, thick,
crimson, rich, and for a moment, the bloodlust overrode his resolve, and he
struggled in his sire�s arms, snarling wildly, his eyes fixed on the blood,
hissing his frustration when Alucard held him down effortlessly.

Raking
a clawed hand down the unarmored arm, however, brought a deep, warning growl
that made him freeze instinctively, with a fledgling�s wariness at a sire�s
anger, then his mind cleared, and Anderson quickly took deep, shallow breaths,
tugging quickly at the rich cloak to bury his nose in it, squeezing his eyes
shut. Alucard�s chuckle seemed to reverberate through his frame as he
settled comfortably atop him, nuzzling his jaw in what seemed to be comfort,
petting his thigh.

�You
should have taken blood,� Alucard said mildly, in his tone only indulgent
reproach, none of the sly invitation of his normal self, and Anderson couldn�t
reply, mindlessly grateful for the flex of the gauntlet tight on his
shoulder. �Your hunger is intense.�

�The
scent of virgin blood, holy man.� He could hear Lamia�s velvety purr, even
buried in Alucard�s cloak, and he sank his teeth into the fabric, needing to
bite, his throat working. Virgin blood. Then, above them�

�Pure,
fresh blood?� His sire voiced his thoughts. �What a sweet scent.�

�Children
from the people of the savannah,� Lamia elaborated. �Innocence is a rare
commodity in this age, but not impossible to find.�

�Monsters.�
His tone sounded weak even to himself.

�You
wish to drink.� It wasn�t a question. Alucard did not wait for a
response, but a voice murmured in his mind, deep, yet familiar in its merciless
amusement, the reverberation making his jaw ache. Do you wish me to
stop you?

YES,
Anderson replied desperately, shocked at the depth of his hunger at the scent,
and the gauntleted hand stroked down from his shoulder to curl tightly around
his waist. Dimly, he could hear Alucard speaking some rumbling response
to Lamia, and tried to focus.

��
it would be of little entertainment if he gave like this.�

�Even
a taste would sate him.� Lamia sounded amused. �The destruction of
innocence.�

�Of
course.� A drawl from his sire. �But there are better ways.�

Lamia�s
words made the faint voice of his core begin to scream warnings in his mind,
and Anderson watched with growing unease as attendants swept out from another
opening door, goblets and silver ladles in their hands as they knelt by the
pool of blood and scooped blood into the pure crystal, then separated, one
heading to each divan. Anderson tensed as a dark-skinned girl-child knelt
before them, offering a goblet to his sire, and his eyes narrowed, as Alucard
drank.

In
his hunger, he had let go of the cloak, watching as though hypnotized as the
red, viscous fluid stained pale lips, then Anderson let out a harsh, muffled
hiss of shock as Alucard kissed him.

Blood
flowed into his mouth, sweet and pure, and Anderson choked at first, twisting
blindly, then instinct and hunger won out, and he drank eagerly, lapping into
his sire�s mouth, whining, his arms curling around Alucard�s neck. He had
thought it would taste disgusting, coppery, but now Anderson understood and all
too late that what vampires drank and craved was the essence of life,
the catalyst of old magic, and it was heady, sensual, and his ultimate
damnation. The moan in his throat was part despair, part need, and the
vise-like grip his sire had on the back of his skull was unnecessary.

He
was crumbling, the limiter scaldingly hot on his palms, the last shred of his
soul being slowly swallowed by his personal darkness, and yet he could only
push harder into the kiss, forgetting for the first time since his vampiric
existence to breathe, licking over his sire�s pointed teeth for every last dreg
of blood.

When
Alucard pulled away, Anderson snarled, writhing briefly free to lunge up at his
sire�s throat, only to be casually pinned down, the gauntleted hand tight at
his throat. A deep growl forestalled any further attempts, and Alucard
smirked, jerking his chin to his right.

At
the altar.

Despite
himself, Anderson could only stare. A frame of a gate, wrought in long,
ropy coils of viscous red, was forming just atop the stone, the center
blindingly bright, opaque, of a white so painful it burned. He
felt himself go slack, his vision tunneling as he seemed to be drawn further
and further into the stark emptiness, his consciousness seared by an alien
brush, and yet he was helpless, unable to struggle, and to his surprise, he welcomed
it.

The
sound roaring in his mind was so loud that he wanted reflexively to clap his
hands over his ears, so loud that he could only hear the words in a mental
echo.

ALEXANDER
ANDERSON.

III

Sister
Eles had been watching Alucard force Project Anderson into drinking blood,
which was why she had been spared. The moment the portal opened, light
flaring into the circular room, any looking into it seemed to be transfixed �
the vampires and their attendants, Christopher, Jan, Aglione� even
Franz.

Suddenly,
deeply afraid, she kept her gaze transfixed instead on Franz, watching his jaw
go slack, his eyes unblinking, blank, then she reared back with a little shriek
of fear when his flesh slowly began to melt from his bones, liquefying.
The stink of decay was instant and intense.

Backing
away slowly, she watched as the other humans, too, began to liquefy, rotting
into their robes before her eyes; not even Franz�s regeneration seemed to be
keeping up. Still she stood, silent and horrified, unable to turn away,
until one of Aglione�s teeth fell with a clatter onto the stone.

It
was then that she turned, rushing to where she remembered the exit to be,
feeling desperately around the stone and trying not to vomit at the mixing
scents of rot, blood and perfume, beating at the unforgiving wall and sobbing,
drawing her cloak up to her nose. Please. Please. God.

Then
an iron grasp clamped over her shoulders, and she was spun roughly around, to
look into the wild, red eyes of the vampire, Alucard. He was back in his
�normal� form, in his red, wide-brimmed hat, cravat and coat, and he grinned
widely, insanely, his teeth pointed.

�How�
how�� she stammered at him. �Why didn�t you look? Why didn�t you look?�

�I
have no need to be judged a second time,� Alucard shrugged. �And besides,
this is not a fitting end for a monster.�

�The�
the others��

�Imperfect.
Unfinished. Wonderful! Wonderful! Breathe deep, woman. This is the
scent of your humanity, Sister Eles of the Inquisition.� Alucard�s smirk
widened, his hand shifting, snake-quick, to her neck, choking her as he stepped
to his side, forcing her to look. �Breathe deep, and be Judged.�

IV

Alucard
propped the Sister carefully against the wall the moment she went slack, then
returned to the divan, absently picking his way over the rotting attendant
fallen on the ground. He bent over the edge of the divan, looking down,
and rested his chin on his palms.

�Alexander
Anderson.�

Alex
couldn�t hear him, of course. But more curiously, he wasn�t harmed � or
not yet. At least one of Alucard�s curiosities would soon be
satisfied.

In
his current form, he would not have forced Anderson to drink, of course; nor
would he have forced the priest to look, as much as he was curious as to
what would happen to a full Midian with as conflicted a soul as Alex�s.
Still, he had wanted to open the Gate, understood Lamia�s reasoning that
the �holy man� was possibly necessary, and knew that only his original form,
with his ageless, entire memory, would have placed curiosity over the base wish
to continue to have Alex-the-fledgling with which to sate his desires.

It
would so be a pity if Alex died. Alucard reached down to rub his
gloved thumb over the scar on Alex�s cheek, almost tenderly. He had
patience.

The
gloves on Alex�s hands were charred, burned off save for the fingers, and
Alucard had enough of a dark humor to appreciate the shape of the marks,
blistering and ugly. It seemed the Gate had temporarily arrested Alex
from healing, and the stigmata � yes � seemed to cover both sides of Alex�s
palm. Alucard chuckled, the sound loud and harsh in the silence of the
room, and breathed deep, his hands going back up to stroke Alex�s jaw, his
cheek, his short hair.

Technically,
mission accomplished. He supposed his Lady Integral had to be happy with
that, as much as he hadn�t been particularly forthcoming on the means.
Admittedly, he wasn�t a stranger to Lord Hellsing�s ire, of any generation, and
indeed in this one he found it amusing. He could feel her rage in their
connection, but had paid little attention to it, given the circumstances.

�What
do you see, Alex?� Alucard mused out aloud, trailing his fingers down to the
priest�s neck. �Is the light as glorious as I recall? Would it destroy
you, like the others?�

V

Something
was sifting through his very soul, and it was the worst pain Alexander Anderson
had ever felt. A fine-toothed, razor-sharp comb, brought through every
single memory, first of his life, then of his undeath; it seemed to take a
thousand years, linger over the very worst moments. The death and his
execution of Enrico Maxwell. His own futile battle against Alucard.
The sight of the nail shattering. Yumiko, falling in battle. Ghouls
in a town some few miles outside of Rome, when he had arrived too late,
feasting on the hearts of children. Watching the Sisters select from the
orphanage he looked after, knowing sickly in his heart why and what
for, yet doing nothing. Seeing Heinkel grasp her first pistol, the
apprehension and fright on her little face, yet doing nothing. Watching
Enrico�s slow, tell-tale descent into madness, yet doing nothing.
Thousands of details of the very worst of his life, the willfully blind eye he
had turned to the evil beside him, behind him, compared to the mere evil before
his blades.

He
was damned, long before Alucard had bitten him, long before he had first turned
his blade against a human who stood in his way rather than a soulless
monster.

Accepting
this, accepting Judgment, felt almost like relief. For the first time in
his life Anderson understood his inner conflict, the spark of his passionate,
wild berserker fury for what it was. The root of his anger, the thin veil
between Father Anderson and the Paladin. He was long past regret.

Then
he saw it, the writhing coil of darkness at the very periphery of his vision,
and for a moment he was afraid, with a sick fear that threaded through every
aspect of his consciousness. Anderson felt he knew that darkness for what
it was. It was absolute power, immortality, the essence of a True Midian,
and he felt only revulsion. He tried to twist away, his snarl of defiance
swallowed by the light. NO. NO.

The
shredding of his soul seemed to pause, then the pain returned, the agony a
thousand times more intense, the images now a blur before his consciousness,
yet Anderson struggled to stay, struggled to hear the final word, deeply
frightened that to fall away from the core of light, to escape the pain, meant
a final surrender to the poison of vampirism stitched into his very
being. This was the final step he could take, and he refused to give.

And
he understood, and peace was a bud that whispered out from his very
center and soothed every aspect of his being. The wicked will not
stand in judgment; nor sinners in the assembly of-

Let
everything that has-

V

Alucard
was idly stroking Alex�s throat when, to his profound astonishment, he felt a
pulse.

Quickly,
he splayed fingers over slack skin, his eyes widening as he felt the slow
return of warmth, impossibly, seeping restlessly under the thin fabric of his
gloves.

Then,
a heartbeat, clear and loud to his ears, and Alucard fought insane laughter,
grinning, cupping Alex�s head tightly in his hands and watching as color slowly
returned to pale skin, from the rose tint to lips to the faint flush of warm
blood under the cheeks. He could smell it, this impossible
miracle, this life.

And
then Alex jerked convulsively, taking in a wet, hungry breath, like a drowning
man, then another, and he twisted weakly in Alucard�s grip, squeezing his eyes
shut. Alucard let go, leaning further over the divan, peering,
waiting. It was impossible. It was impossible. But he
could smell the scent of life, from the sweat prickling on Alex�s arms to the
fresh, warm saliva in his breath, hear his heart beating.

Finally,
Alex opened his eyes again, and they were unfocused, bewildered, and a
beautiful, magnificent blue.

-tbc-
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Psalms for the Fallen