Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Flying on Clipped Wings ❯ Chapter 1

An: this is not our story. yet another one of friends don't have the internet. so sad we know. so we will once again step in to fix this horrid fate of hers. shes anmazing author, really she is. there are OCs, but they are formed into really deep and thoughtful characters. Thank you for reading.

 

 

Title:Flying On Clipped Wings

Author:L'amour Est Bleu

Discliamer: all the orginal characters from the series do not in fact belong to L'amour Est Bleu or us JuvJuvychan. shes' just a writer and were just producers.

 

 

PROLOGUE

 

As of all days, it was dreary, no light emitting through the thick grey clouds hovering over Nice. Rain spit its limpid agony upon the quiet, hollow metropolitan area, very few pedestrians daring to set a foot outside in such gloomy, demoralizing weather that cut windowpanes with stripes of liquid and tainted the view of the dispirited city.

 

My new workplace and home, the Bossuet mansion, sat in her glory within the midst of the shower, large plate glass windows dripping with velvet, eloquent lines of rain that formed their interminable story over a select area of France. Nice, ignorant and overridden with such an incurious disposition of nature's sadness, rested with drenched skin beneath the sighing sky. The ungrateful were soused in a sorrowful tale that withered away from view and memory once the sun rose again.

 

With such indifference, it was no surprise that no one could translate the raindrops' patterns and whispering against rooftops into the wise words of the sky's elegant language. No one would ever know.

 

Yet, somehow, it seemed that the inhabitants could sense the rain's throes, a warning drifting on air and spiraling down storm drains. The city's appearance was peaceful, with sad-eyed foot-travelers along the wide sidewalks and pouting drivers in mourning cars trotting abjectly down the darkened roads. But within the dismal barriers of tears, a brand of foresight perceived by many unveiled the serene scene to expose the calm before the storm.

 

Not to sound literal, a storm was soon to erupt, of unwanted passion and confusion. Chaos would soon spit at the mind's eye like pepper spray, shrouding any sense or logic in deep, profound fear. This storm would cause both heartbreak and birth. Birth of friendship and the birth of darkness that kills anything breathing in its path.

 

Not that I'm trying to scare you or anything. I'm just stating what's relevant.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

Raindrops

 

As Monsieur Bossuet's chauffeur wheeled around the bend to the start of marble steps, I felt a curdling feeling in my stomach. Something about the monstrous building set it out of place in my mind, like its exterior being all too forbidding. The elegant arches and columns extending from the awning dipped back into the rain's lack of light. It was as if the building itself was engulfed in darkness.

 

“So, you're from America, non?” Monsieur Bossuet interjected between my gawking at the building.

 

“Yeah, originally,” I responded, my voice light, as were many thirteen-year-olds.

 

“`Ow charming,” he smiled, his blue eyes bright and sparkling. “Foreign women always seem more attractive to me.”

 

Something about that comment didn't come to me as a normal comment from an older man to a teenager. So, I simply bowed my head with a heated pink across my cheeks.

 

“We're `ere,” the chauffeur cocked his neck back slightly, making subtle eye-contact with Monsieur Bossuet. The rain dabbled across the windshield, creating a light reflection of streaks across his features.

 

“Wonderful,” Monsieur Bossuet cheered, his voice low and grumbling, making vibrations resound across my spine. He grabbed my hand once the door opened for him and pulled me from the limousine.

 

Only once inside was I able to begin to fathom the magnificence of my master's mansion. The carpets were lush and deep with dark, warm colors, and the walls were a creamy hazel or chestnut. Diamond chandeliers with gold inlays of roses and swirls dangled weightlessly from the high arched ceilings, and the ceilings themselves shone with flawlessness. The size of the windows was amazing, the large panes split in elongated rectangular sections with silk-and-velvet curtains. That way, the dreary outside world would be kept a secret from those inside.

 

It was simply beautiful, and standing there next to Monsieur Bossuet, who was equally as handsome, made my head spin. Could this be my new home, enshrouded in such beauty and grace? Such fine things, such top-dollar existence? Was this really where I was to live my life? In an earthly Heaven?

 

Of course, by the end of my stay there in Bossuet Heaven, I would know the answer to each of those questions, including some added wisdom. After all, nothing is what it exactly appears to be.

 

Suddenly, I heard Monsieur Bossuet laughing lightly, and I regained my senses. “So, I see you like my mansion? I'm glad.” Because he was extremely tall compared to my average height of five-foot-four, he bowed his head a bit to reach my ear, and whispered, “After all, you'll be living `ere for most of your life, non?”

 

I nodded cautiously, his soft, hot breath against my skin making me shiver. At the time, I thought it was a silly question to be asking myself, but was he coming on to me?

 

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Melrose,” Madame Isabella Bossuet called out from atop the towering, velvet-carpeted stairs leading to the hallway connecting Monsieur Bossuet's bedroom with Madame Bossuet's, as well as other high-class, private rooms. Her deep blue eyes were as beautiful and serious as those of a fox's, and her buoyant, curly blonde hair was up in an elegant twist of a bun with a layer of hair curving around her shoulders. Her dress was frilly with black chiffon around the skirt, and her cream-colored shoulders were bare and creaseless.

 

Madame and Monsieur Bossuet's beauty made me begin to wonder if all French people were as beautiful as they were. . . .

 

“So, I see you've been acquainted wiz my `usband, non?” she asked with a voice and smooth and fluent as silk. I nodded, stunned by such sophistication.

“Good,” she continued, “it's only proper zat you know your employers.”

 

A girl dressed in a maid's outfit walked weightlessly over to Madame Bossuet, her expression stressed and drained. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun, and a frilly lace headband was worn behind her bangs. Her eyes were dark as night and looked as tired as the rest of her. And even though it was a bit chilly in the parlor, her uniform's skirt stopped a little lower than mid-thigh, and all that covered her legs were black knee-highs matched with brown penny loafers.

 

“Madame, your rooms are prepared,” the girl informed Isabella, the maid's voice a bit lighter than mine as she clutched her hands together in front of her lap. “May I escort you to your chambers?”

 

“Non,” Isabella responded with a total detachment of emotion. “Show ze new girl, Lynne, to Marguerite, and `ave `er fitted into uniform.”

“Very well.”

 

I left Monsieur and Madame Bossuet promptly to follow the maid, who I learned was named Brigitte. She led me down a warmly-coloured hallway without speaking a word, which made me twitch from such excess of awkward silence. I suppose she was just acting her job's part as a mild-mannered maid, the essence of all things feminine: serving her man without refusal or hesitation and doing so while being perfectly well-behaved. In this case, her man was Monsieur Bossuet, who was now my master as well.

 

Marguerite was seated in a small room with a large closet full of various outfits, many being uniforms for girls of varied sizes. She sat upon a soft stool with a lace fringe in front of a large, softly lit vanity, its counter cluttered with cosmetics of all sorts and purposes. The drawers were also full of beauty essentials, and just by watching her examine herself in front of the round mirror, I could tell Marguerite was an expert.

 

“Bonjour, Marguerite,” Brigitte greeted, her face's grasp on apathy untouched by the light conversation. “Madame Bossuet asked me to bring zis girl to you. She's a recruit from ze orphanage, but she starts work today.”

 

Marguerite, her long, curly silver hair laying softly on her shoulders, smiled at me. Her dark chocolate eyes were the warmest out of anyone I'd seen in the whole building, and she radiated kindness. “Well, isn't zat grand? I always like to see new faces.”

 

I couldn't help but grin back. I felt Brigitte sigh beside and exit the room, and as soon as I felt the departure, Marguerite sighed as well. “Well now, why don't we see if we can find a uniform for you, young girl?”

 

“Um.....My name's Lynne,” I barely whispered out, and I could feel my cheeks intensifying in color. “Nice to meet you, Madame Marguerite.”

 

The old woman chuckled. “Oh, we don't need titles, now! Just call me Marguerite, and I'll call you Lynne, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

 

I followed Marguerite to her closet of great wardrobe vastness, and as she sorted through the clothes, I wondered vaguely if my grandmother was ever a nice woman like this French woman. I really didn't know much about my family; I knew I had one, but they died when I was young, and all my memories of that time were pretty blank. I had no idea if I looked like my mother or my father, or maybe my grandmother. . .I hadn't a clue.

 

“Found one!” the jolly old woman cheered, grabbing a black-and-white maid's outfit similar to Brigitte's from the closet. It looked uncomfortably small, and as soon as I tried it on, I felt the fabric grabbing me around the chest all the way down to my waist like an odd corset of fine cotton. The shoulders puffed out with lace trim. The collar was very pronounced and laid on my bosoms, with a large red jewel in the middle. The apron frilled around the shoulders with lace on the bottom and around the bust, and it tied into a large, flimsy bow in the dip of my back. Beneath the skirt were folds of fluffy white fabric, and the outfit itself cut off a little above the middle of my thigh.

 

My outfit was smaller than Brigitte's, and even hers looked like it would be very revealing if she bent over!

 

The knee-highs were the same as Brigitte's, and once I had them on, I realized that there was lace around the top with a tiny pink bow on the outside of each. My penny loafers were a size six and very comfortable. All in all, I suppose I was overly happy with my uniform.

 

“You look stunning, Lynne,” Marguerite grinned, scanning my uniform. “It fits you perfectly.”

 

I thought quickly, being caught off-guard. I knew a bit of French, and I can understand it when I hear it, but I had to constantly think while speaking it. “Um. . .merci beau-“

 

Suddenly, she pulled me over to the stool she was sitting on earlier and sat me down. I stared at myself in the mirror in amazement. The uniform really did look nice on me....

 

I felt my long, curly chestnut brown hair being brushed and straightened, and before I knew it, my hair was expertly straight and glossy. It looked a tad longer straight, and a whole lot more manageable. Oh, who am I kidding-it was wonderful!

 

But my glory was short-lived. Before I could truly sink in what my straightened hair was like, it was up in a tight bun; all except for my layered bangs. My headband was bobby pinned in an uncanny way to my head, but it fit snugly and definitely wouldn't fall out. And as soon as Marguerite touched up my face with a bit of color and gloss on my full lips, I was ready for my maid-like duties.

 

“Perfect,” she grinned with satisfaction, hugging me lightly from behind. “Oh, you're such a pretty, sweet girl, Lynne. Don't ever change.”

That is one promise I wish I could've kept.

 

********

 

A few years passed by without disturbance or abnormality. That is, until I reached the week of my sixteenth birthday. That Monday, I woke in my downstairs living area feeling oddly drained of all energy and enthusiasm. I pulled myself to my mirror and saw that my skin was sickly pale, a few shades lighter than its normal fair pigment, and my eyes were dull. As much as I tried, I couldn't seem to make myself smile or contain my yawns for more than five minutes.

 

It wasn't like me to be so tired, so I began to brood anxiously about what could be wrong with me. If I had contracted some kind of sickness, my duties for that day could not be fulfilled, and I hated sticking Brigitte with all of my work. I was eating healthy, so it wasn't some disorder or anything like that, and I always went to bed a little early. And as far as I was informed, my iron level was fine, so I wasn't anemic....

 

“Wow, you look pale,” Brigitte lowly grumbled from behind me, startling me half-senseless. “Is everyzing all right?”

 

I blankly examined my reflection. I didn't know what to say. “I...don't know. I just feel...a little woozy.”

 

Brigitte came up to me and felt the skin on my arm with her warm hands. I was very cold. “Lynne, why don't you ly down? You don't look or feel well.”

 

I protested. “No.”

 

I stumbled over to the doorway, catching my balance on the threshold's structure. My legs felt like they had invisible anvils chained to the bone over night, but I was determined to carry out the day as normal. There was no reason to inconvenient everyone else just because I felt a little under the weather.

 

“But Lynne,” Brigitte tried to argue, but simply gave up on it. Her experience with me had reminded her that I was a hard one to beat when it came to disagreements. “Fine. But if you start `urting severely, just let me take over for you.”

 

“Sure, Brigitte.”

 

The day went by fairly ordinarily, and no one seemed to notice any kind of impairment in my work. Monsieur Bossuet had a few colleagues from wherever he worked over (his occupation was primarily kept a secret). They all seemed like normal rich fops, around the same age as Monsieur Bossuet but not nearly as attractive. There was something about my master that made him stand out in a crowd of middle-aged men, whether it be his smooth, unwrinkled skin or his naturally black hair free of any notion of grey hairs.

 

“Nice addition, Bossuet,” one of the men freely chatted with Monsieur Bossuet as I dusted off one of the dark brown end tables. I had a feeling he was talking about me and my body, seeing as my skirt showed off my bum whenever I leaned over to clean.

 

“Very. . .exotic,” another mused, acting as if I was totally void of all sound. “Where'd you get `er?”

 

“She was from the orphanage,” Monsieur Bossuet answered nonchalantly.

I felt one of the men stroke the very top of my thigh from behind, and knowing how cold Monsieur Bossuet's skin was, I automatically whirled around and looked sternly at a blonde-haired man with his arm outstretched toward my legs. “Excuse me, Monsieur,” I tried desperately not to growl and keep my cool, “but I find your touch unsettling.”

 

“Plante, don't interfere wiz my maids,” Monsieur Bossuet arrestingly warned the man, his voice cold. I felt goose skin erupt along my legs and arms, as if a chill had swept across the room.

 

“My apologies, Bossuet,” he looked to my master than to me in an expression of regret, “girl.”

 

That night, I went to bed grateful for my soft feather bed. My bones ached and head spun on an uncomfortable mental axis. I could hear my heart throbbing in my chest, as if it had to work harder to pump blood that day when my work was relatively easy. The beat was muffled as I sank my head deep into my pillow, but its rhythm was persistent.

 

The next morning, I woke tired again, but when I peered into the mirror, my skin had a glow similar to the color of one's skin after you run a mile. I felt like I'd worn myself out the night before, but as far as I knew, I'd slept the night before like a baby. That is, until I woke the following morning in Monsieur Bossuet's bed, his soft, cold skin pressed against my own nude body in an embrace from behind.