Upon Waking

A cloak of blood red velvet flowed in the wind around her. Was that the color of the fabric or was it stained from the blood. The sky was burgundy in color and a fog hung heavy in the air. It was cold and moist and she felt sick to breathe it in. As it began to clear away somewhat, and her eyes adjusted to the endless darkness, she began to hear the muffled cries, the agonized moans. The ground beneath her felt soft as she braved forward. When she looked down, she saw that her footfalls were upon bodies, hundreds upon thousands strewn on the ground before her. But, somehow, she continued forward, willing herself not to be ill at the sight of these mangled pieces of flesh, having lost their lives and all semblance of humanity in the melee. Suddenly, it began to rain, she saw the lightning in the sky, but it was crimson, like fire. She lifted her hand to see if the droplets might wash away the dirt, the blood, but her hand became covered in even more life-giving fluid. It was raining blood, thick and stinking.

Somehow, she had to go on. She only stopped once again when she came upon the field of bodies impaled on wooden stakes. Some hung lifeless, their suffering ended mercifully by the hands of the Fates. Others writhed and cried out with their last breaths to be set free of the pain. The manner of impalement was varied. Some were displayed from their rectums and up through the length of their bodies so that the point would emerge from their mouths. The point seemed dulled, so that the suffering was more extreme. Others would have the stake rest right in their centers, going through their stomach so that they fell down the length of the pole and almost touched the ground, but their hands would instinctively come up to try and pulls themselves back up, all to no avail, of course.

She stepped closer to one body, a man with dark hair who seemed to be groaning much louder than the others, as if he were fighting not to die. His eyes were rolled up into his head and his arm was extended so that Integra brought up her arm and reached for his hand, though she was not sure why. Once she took hold of it, still warm, she held it and watched his agonized face until it suddenly turned and the eyes came back and watched her. Then, the man spoke, very clearly as the blood trickled out of the side of his mouth.

“You… you did this to me Integra. How could you let this happen? Did I teach you nothing?”

“F-father?”

The dying man was her father, much younger, however. It was his voice, that much she was sure of. But what was he saying? He had died, yes, but not like this. As she tried to come to the realization of what was going on she heard another familiar voice call out to her.

“Sir Hellsing…”

Her eyes flew open and she saw the bookshelf that rested to the left of her desk in her office. And the voice was that of Walter’s. She lifted herself off her desk, on which she’d apparently fallen asleep and had been dreaming. Thank bloody goodness it was just a dream. She heaved a sigh and looked up at Walter.

He cleared his throat and, with his hands folded behind him, he spoke very formally, yet she could tell he seemed anxious and concerned. “You were muttering and you could not possibly be comfortable in that position, therefore, I saw fit to wake you.”

“What time is it,” she heard herself ask before she could thank him for pulling her out of that horrid nightmare.

“It is quite late, madam. I am surprised you did not go to bed. May I ask why?”

She waved her hand, trying to seem nonchalant about the whole thing, though she knew as well as Walter, that she was bothered and hadn’t slept well in weeks. “Never mind that.”

Walter simply made a small “Hm” of compliance, far be it for him to argue with her, especially when she had just awoken. But his liege looked far from herself and he was determined to keep close watch over her.


To be continued...