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Caeli et Inferno	By : Jubalii Category: Hellsing > General Views: 1927 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: The anime: Hellsing \| The OP: not me \| Do I own it, or make money from it?: No \| Will I own it?: In my (Taylor Swift voice) Wildest Dreams oh oh oh

Chapter List
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Author's Note: Hey, everyone! Juju here... actually for the first time! What? Crazy! Actually, I've been on other sites for a long time, but I thought I might move a lot of my stories here as well because... why not?! So, here's my revision of my very first Hellsing fanfiction to ever make it onto the internet. I loved the plot (but not my beginner writing, which needed practice), so I'm revising it. Enjoy!
            He walked down the hallway slowly, savoring the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Every creak of the floorboards was another burst of excitement in his system, sending his heart into overdrive at the thought of what was about to take place. After all, he already knew that he had won. There was no contest here! He’d go to Hell, sure, but wasn’t Hell where the party was at?
But then again, his mother was insistent that this was an act of mercy, decreed from God on High. So he’d just go to Limbo, burn there a few eons, and then be accepted into the Holy Order with open arms. And wouldn’t life after this messy little incident be so much better? No more half-assed garden parties, no more angry mothers breathing fire down his neck, no more wishing and wanting and hating the fact that the unworthy had what they could never have… now they had a chance to get what they deserved. Providence helps those that help themselves; wasn’t that the old saying?
The pounding footsteps of his younger cousin echoed through the empty halls of the manor, and he grinned. He could almost taste the boys fear… so delicious.
Fulton Abraham Hellsing sprinted up the staircase, tripping on the third step from the top and slamming his nose into the upper landing. He clutched his face with a cry, blinking back tears as he forced himself back to his feet and stumbled up the final stairs, one hand on the railing. He looked both ways down the hall before picking his right and running, not even bothering to be quiet any longer.
You idiot! He scolded himself as he ran, eyes flitting from door to door on the endless hallway as he sought a sanctuary. An I.Q. of 160, yet you don’t have the sense enough to see a family coup brewing right beneath your nose. He could use the excuse that he was only eight years old; family coups weren’t the first topic of thought that often occurred to him. But nevertheless he was neck-deep in one now, and his very life was at stake.
He paused, looking around for something that would help him find his bearings. This was the third floor, one he never frequented. At this point, it would be up to sheer luck if he could find a hiding place good enough that his cousin would give up the chase and retreat until a more opportune time. Melville was dimwitted and probably wouldn’t check under every table or behind every curtain, but what he lacked in brains he more than made up for in persistence and brute strength.
He chose a side door, the room within dark and dreary. Most likely it hadn’t seen the light of day, or human contact, for many years. He had no idea what rooms his father had used, only knowing the man as a kind-hearted businessman who had died before his time. And his mother, bless her dearly departed soul, was more interested in social status than exploring her own home.
Besides, house was a museum of things that were more or less left to fester in their own antiquated dust, apart from the first floor where the family lived and worked, and the eastern half of the second where they slept—had slept, he reminded himself sadly. If he couldn’t find a place to hide, he’d end up just like them, dead in the ground and never sleeping in his bed again.
He ran into the room and locked the door behind him, sinking to his knees for a brief respite before beginning the tumultuous task of pulling himself together long enough to make some sort of escape plan. Looking around him, he saw himself to be in a library. It made sense that there would be a library somewhere on the third floor; after all, weren’t there ones on the first and second stories too?
By the looks of things, it was more storage space now than actual library, with many of the shelves empty and others filled with thick old texts too heavy to be of much use as more than a paperweight. The tables were pushed haphazardly around the room, their chairs covered in a fine layer of dust. Along the walls were boxes marked with the names of files and dates indicating that they should have been destroyed ten years prior. The film on the windows was thick enough that only the dimmest light could filter through, and seeing outside was nigh on impossible.
Fulton wiped his nose on his sleeve, only to realize that it had been bleeding from the bump on the staircase. He panicked, wondering if he might have left a spotted trail leading to the door before deciding that a good bit of it had only marred his blue sweater vest. He sniffled and wiped his eyes, upsetting his glasses in the process and having to take an extra moment to resettle them on his nose. Finally he stood, brushing dust off his pants and looking around at the shelves for a weapon of some sorts. The door wouldn’t hold if his cousin realized which room he was hiding in….
He looked at the shelves of books, settling on picking out something heavy enough to swing at his would-be assassin, or at the very least lob at as he tried to make an escape. If only he could get past him and down the stairs; then perhaps he could run out the door and find a policeman. But every staircase seemed to have his cousin already standing on it, looking up at him with crazed eyes and laughing that long, slow laugh that made every hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.
This one should do the trick, he thought, passing furtive glances over his shoulder at the door. The thick tome was on the sixth shelf, just out of reach. He sighed before clambering up the shelves, arm reaching for the book. It was stuck fast in its place, and only heavy tugging would budge it. Finally Fulton grew weary of patient pulling and threw his whole weight off the bookshelf and onto the book. It came out of its place, but the four books on either side of it also flew from the shelf and clattered around him with ominous thuds. He froze, book in hand, a look of terror passing across his infantile face as he turned to face the door. There was no way that his cousin couldn’t have heard that—he’d been on Fulton’s tail for the past hour and a half.
Somewhere far away, far enough that it was faint, there was that laugh again. Fulton shuddered, knowing that his cousin had heard. It wouldn’t be long before he would be up here, looking around for him. He tiptoed back to the door and checked to make sure that it was locked before crawling beneath a table and drawing his knees up to his chest. He looked forlornly at the mess he had created, knowing now why his father had always touted patience as the most important of virtues.
Something caught his eye and he tilted his head, staring at it intently. Most of the books that had fallen had been thick, with creamy pages and hardback covers of green or brown that gave no clue as to what was inside. But one book was a thin notebook, fluttered farther from the bookshelf than the others and lying half open in an imperfect V, its lined pages creasing from contact with the ground and gravity.
He reached for the notebook, grabbing the corner of one page and pulling it under the table towards him. The page tore and he winced, staring at the fragment in his hand. The letters were handwritten, of course, in a thin, flowing script not unlike the calligraphy masters he’d seen once on a business trip with his father. It was now wrinkled from his firm grasp, but the inked letters on the page were still perfectly clear.
Excita Volatilia Caeli et Inferno. Salutem exspectat.
            Oh, it was Latin? He only had a rudimentary knowledge of the language, thanks to his father’s insistent teachings. If it were any other day, he’d have puzzled over the words until he solved the puzzle. But did he really have time to worry over such a thing? Well, it would take his mind off of things for a moment, and it would help him to stay quiet. His cousin hadn’t found him yet, and there were many doors to open before he came to this one… unless he left that trail of nose blood, that is.
            Let’s see, he thought as he bent over the paper. Hmm…Salutem…that is savior-no, salvation. Salvation is expected? Expectat…expectat…okay, leave that for later. Let’s look at the first part instead. He scratched his head, chewing on his lip. Now, even I know that Caeli et Inferno is Heaven and Hell, but Volatilia… volat means to soar. Volati is to say “a thief”. The thieves of heaven and hell? Hmm, no, because thieves don’t go to heaven. The blank of heaven and-
BANG. BANG. BANG. He looked up, wide-eyed as his heart skipped a beat. His entire body convulsed once, quickly, and he turned his head to look at the door, bringing the notebook up to clutch it to his chest. His hands trembled, the tiny scrap of paper fluttering. His cousin pounded on the door like Death himself and shouted obscenities no child should hear, he covered his ears against the incessant noise. It was too much; if he had to hear that banging continuously, it would drive him mad!
He looked up at the bookshelf, wondering if he could climb up the shelves and pull more heavy tomes off. His eyes caught a glimmer of something in the side of the empty shelf and he peered closer, hoping against hopes that it was a gun or a knife, or some other metallic weapon that would do some damage. No, it was only a hinge. A hinge? He stood up, placing the notebook on the table and keeping his ears covered as he inspected the shelf. Then, he began pulling more books off until he was able to see a doorknob just behind a smallish book of accounting figures. It wasn’t a secret passageway, as he’d first suspected, but it appeared that the shelf had been pushed against a door for whatever reason. Most likely it was to a supply closet, or some unused space that no longer served any purpose.
There was a creak, a crunch, and then a loud splintering as a fist rammed through the door. Fulton jumped with a small shriek as the fist retracted, and then a bloodshot eye peered through the hole that it had made. Fulton stared back, frozen with fear as the eye narrowed, and then the hand pushed back through and began groping in vain for the lock. I—I have to hurry!
He began tearing books off the shelf like a madman, trying to ease the weight of the shelf so that he could push it aside. He tried once, twice, but the shelf was too heavy. Standing back and wiping his brow, he glanced again at the hand, which had stopped reaching for the handle and was now slamming onto the door in frustration. The arm above it was covered in deep splinters, but it didn’t seem to dissuade its owner from trying. It isn’t working…because I’m going about it all wrong.
A new sense of calm enveloped him as he moved the notebook to another table before climbing up the bookcase and throwing his weight against it. Without the heavy books holding it, it teetered but didn’t fall. Two more good rocks had gravity working against it, and Fulton only just managed to keep from being crushed as the heavy wooden structure fell to the floor. His eardrums were wracked with a sharp pain and he grimaced; the sound was loud enough that his cousin also paused in his ministrations, peering through the hole again curiously to see what was going on in there.
There was a good chance that the door led to a closet—even so, it held the hope of more weapons and another barrier between him and certain death. But as he shoved books aside and grabbed the notebook (for what reason, he didn’t know, but he felt the need to carry it along all the same), he wasn’t worried about what was on the other side of the door. Right now, anything had to be better than where he already was.
He opened the door, forcing it against the bottom of the bookcase, and was faced with a set of narrow stairs. He blinked in surprise, looking up at the darkness above and then back at his cousin, who had widened the hole considerably and was now able to brush his fingers against the handle. He didn’t hesitate another moment, heading up the stairs, not bothering to shut the door behind him.
            It appeared that the stairs led to an attic. He paused, turning this new information over in his mind. I wasn’t aware that we even had an attic. We have a basement, though, so why not? He stepped forward, watching the swirling eddies of dust in the light filtering from a window high above the ceiling. He could see one of the battlements just outside the window, and a slice of blue sky beyond. This too was obscured by film, and what looked like a bird’s nest nestled just beneath the windowsill on the outside.
            There were more boxes here, even more than were downstairs. These, however, didn’t seem to hold files. If their labels were true, than these were weapons and gunpowder, bullet magazines and equipment for polishing and maintaining the weaponry as well. A few boxes were marked with a cryptic message of ‘Wild Geese’, though if any geese were up here they’d be long dead by now. The thought of mummified goose corpses rotting away in those boxes made him shiver in macabre delight, but he pushed the thought away as he clambered over boxes in search of a gun that might have a few spare bullets in it.
            There was something large and bulky covered in a sheet, shoved into the corner between two stacks of crates. He peered curiously at it before grabbing the edge of the sheet and pulling it off in one quick motion. Dust flew into his face and he coughed, nearly dropping the notebook as his lungs protested. When he opened his watery eyes, he started with a gasp. It was… a coffin?! Geese corpses were one thing, but a skeleton in his attic was beyond his measure! He looked warily at the object before the inquisitiveness of his mind won over his better judgment and he stepped closer.
            It was light blue, almost the color of the sky. Silver trim ran the length of the wood and in the center, about where the head would lie, there was the small etching of a silver dove, and words beneath it that read in a curving script: Avis Caeli. A light shone into his mind and he looked down at the scrap of paper still held tight in his fist.
            “Of course,” he murmured. “Birds. That Latin phrase was talking about birds. And this, this coffin is the bird of Heaven. But what sort of salvation am I going to get from a coffin?” he asked himself with a sigh. “I guess I could lie in it and hide if there wasn’t another occupant….” He gathered his courage and pushed at the lid of the coffin, upsetting it. No decomposed body smell came forth, but he was still too afraid to move it farther. “I can’t,” he whimpered regretfully. “Not unless I know nothing’s in there. Sorry if I disturbed your sleep,” he said to the maybe-body in the coffin, too afraid to even look down the crack and see if he could see bones or clothes.
            “Don’t worry. You can make your apology to them in person soon enough.” Fulton gasped again, pivoting on his heel to see his cousin standing in the doorway to the attic. His lanky arm was bloodied, but he paid no mind as he stared at his younger cousin with wild eyes. He waved, wiggling his fingers as his other hand tightened on the handle of his knife. The crucifix around his neck glinted in the pale light of the attic, drawing attention to itself as the teen stepped forwards. “Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat—”
Fulton backed away, feeling the blood rush from his face as he recognized the requiem for the dead. He wasn’t Catholic, but his pious aunt had ordered a Catholic priest for his parents’ funeral and the same prayer had been said at the gravesite. I have to get away, his mind blabbered, though at the same time he knew there was no further escape. He tripped over the coffin, his ankle pierced by something within. He felt blood run into his sock and grit his teeth, refusing to plead for his life like a little crybaby. He was a Hellsing, after all, and Hellsings didn’t cry. Or so his father said; he felt like crying, but at the same time something akin to determination was kindling in his belly. I don’t want to die. I’m going to die, but I don’t want to die.
            Then don’t die. The words, spoken by an ethereal, feminine voice, seemed to echo in the air around him. He thought it was his mind, that he had finally cracked, but his cousin must have heard it too. The teen stopped, turning around to look at the doorway and seeing no one.
            “The fuck?!” Melville cursed, before clicking his tongue. “Whatever.” He turned back to Fulton, but his eyes moved to the coffin instead and his face became white as a ghost. At the same time, he felt something warm and slick press against his ankle and he jerked his leg back with a shudder. What was that?! A snake, perhaps? But how did a snake get up into a coffin in the attic? And snakes weren’t usually slick, but it had felt just like a snake running its body around his entire ankle and catching the blood from where it pooled at his sock.
Before he could say anything, what unmistakably felt like fingers grasped his ankle and threw it to the side. He jumped to his feet, tripping over a floorboard and falling into a box. He curled into a ball as the pain ran through him, a breathless sob escaping before he found himself nose to boot. Dusty boot. Old boot. Boot connected to old pants. Old pants connected to old suit jacket. Old suit jacket connected to very alive woman. Woman with filthy blonde hair. Woman with red eyes. Pretty, but scary. Very scary.
He gulped and the woman honed in on his neck. She looked…hungry. Fulton curled into a tinier ball, tinier than he’d ever made before. The woman arched a brow, looking more amused than hungry now, and he caught the sight of a knife just above her shoulder.
“H-hey!” He pointed, knowing all too well that by the time she turned, it’d be too late. “W-watch it!” The knife sliced across the shoulder blade, digging into the bone as blood spurted out in a single arc gracefully. The woman didn’t even seem to care, her head turning as she looked oddly at the blade, and then pulled it out without a single utterance of pain. Fulton felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe what he was seeing as the woman turned, looking his cousin up and down.
“You’re not my master,” she said in an offhanded sort of way, as if she were just now processing the information. Melville paused, also visibly affected by the woman’s nonchalance attitude to his attack, though blood still seeped from her wound and splattered on the old floor around them.
“Yeah, so?” He drawled, trying to tug the knife away. The woman’s other hand found his wrist and she held it tight enough that he dropped his weapon with a grunt of pain. Fulton heard bones cracking and his cousin’s eyes widened, face paling even more than he thought it could, and then began to shout fearfully.
“So?” the woman repeated in the same tone. “So, I’m hungry. And I’m not in a mood to play with my food, so you’ll just have to forgive me.” She licked her lips and grinned, showing off bloodstained teeth. Suddenly Fulton realized just what had been—licking—the blood from his ankle. Then, faster than he could blink, the woman severed the hand cleanly off the wrist and tipped her head back, drinking the blood like a shot glass of whiskey.
He felt dizzy as he watched his cousin writhing on the ground in agony, clutching at his mutilated limb. He felt nauseous as the woman dropped the pure white hand on the ground and stepped forward. A crate obscured his vision, and he could barely hear the gurgling screams over the sound of the blood rushing in his own ears. Knowing that he probably next didn’t help either, and he finally just laid his head on the ground, chin resting on the notebook, and closed his eyes in a gentle sort of faint.
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Caeli et Inferno