Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Master and Servant ❯ Hubris ( Chapter 1 )

Master and Servant

 

Cold.

 

So very cold.

 

It had been over a thousand years since he had felt the biting chill of defeat. And he found the feeling most distasteful.

 

He had been bound like a rabid animal, his arms strapped together against his chest and torso. Had he even the fraction of his superhuman strength, it would have been a mere trifle to rip through such petty imprisonments and wreak bloody vengeance. Had he access to his demonic powers, he could have faded to mist, freeing himself from the bonds.

 

But no.

 

Every second that passed, another bit of his strength left his body. He had been sapped, drained to the very bone, until all that was left was the palest flicker of strength. Arms that had cleaved through flesh and bone as easily as air hung limply, attached to an emaciated body. Granted, he had always seemed a shade thin, but now his body was a withered wreck. Pallid skin stretched over gaunt cheekbones and around sunken eyes. His long snow white hair fell in matted locks over his face and back, hiding the protruding spine and ribs that threatened to burst from frail skin, stopping just short of his bony hips. Bound and chained, he knelt within the center of a multitude of mystical runes and symbols.

 

He knelt.

 

He did not kneel. He stood, proud and haughty.

 

It was that same unending hubris that had led to his sordid predicament.

 

Humans screamed and fired crossbows with bolts dipped in holy water. He spread his arms wide, allowing the bolts to thud home and drive themselves deep into his flesh. Ordinarily, such holy weapons would have burned his skin, purifying his contaminated flesh with zealous light. Now, they were barely cause for annoyance, much less pain. He had planned this day for over two decades. His demonic aura glowed ebony as the full moon cast its silver rays over his magnificent form. Hypnotic crimson eyes, partially hidden beneath black bangs, danced mirthfully as he watched the pitiful mortals scurry about like ants, trying to stem his advances through the ravaged village.

 

He did so detest ants. Pathetic creatures really. He would do to humans the same thing he did to those miserable little insects.

 

Crush them.

 

It had been child's play to lure the so called “vampire hunters” to a wayward little village. He had obliterated the entire area simply to draw their attentions. As was typical of humans, they failed to grasp the full extent of his schemes and had attacked him recklessly, without any sort of plan. In stark contrast, he had planned meticulously, taking into account an assortment of contingencies. He had gorged himself on the blood of every slaughtered human, reveling and drinking in the sea of human lifeblood that had flowed forth. As soon as the hunters had entered the village, wards that he had meticulously crafted burned to life, fueled by his unholy power, trapping the hunters within the village. He had turned to town into his own private stalking grounds.

 

And stalk them he did.

 

First, he had contented himself with picking off the single stragglers, enveloping them in a sea of darkness and blood-red eyes, driving them to madness before greedily sucking their still living bodies dry and then flaying the flesh from the bone of their twitching corpses.

 

He had swiftly grown bored with the simplicity of it, desiring some sort of challenge. He had attacked small groups then, ambushing them inside thatched huts, making them scream their throats raw before ripping out their windpipes.

 

The human siege to his pocket Hell had turned into a massacre.

 

He crushed them like ants.

 

After almost four hours of being stalking like gazelle, the weary and fearful humans had finally caught on and banded together. They set up a huge camp in the town square, erecting massive bonfires and inscribing their strongest anti-evil wards and charms. They made no move to escape or even hunt him. They stood, staunch, stoic, waiting for him to attack.

 

So he granted their wish.

 

The attack was sudden, swift and brutal. Utilizing nearly the full extent of his fiendish powers, he had struck like a cobra, shattering their feeble protections. He moved among them like a scythe in a field of wheat, mowing them down easily as he laughed maniacally. They had scattered, attacking him with every weapon in their arsenal, but he had shrugged off each assault with that same wide, toothy grin of his before slaughtering another hunter.

 

Then, like the sea parting before Moses, the tide of humans split apart, carving out a pathway.

 

And there he was.

 

He moved down the lane, their salvation, their savior.

 

Abraham Van Helsing.

 

The greatest hunter to ever walk the earth.

 

The demon leered at their would-be savior.

 

Their final hope limped forward, obviously favoring his left leg. Dressed from head to toe in black, his overcoat and vest were devoid of his usual arsenal of darts, daggers, shuriken and other weapons. He carried no crossbow, no holy or rose water flasks. In fact, the only weapons he seemed to carry were a plain flintlock pistol he carried in his right hand in a shaky grip and a battered silver cross worn around his neck.

 

The demon did not feel the trepidation of a monster in the face of a legendary hunter. He did not feel the thrill of excitement associated with a titanic battle of two great warriors. He did not feel the savage pleasure of a panther or a wolf when his true prey was finally in sight.

 

Truth be told, he was rather insulted.

 

This was the great Abraham Van Helsing he had heard so much of? This was the renowned hero who had vanquished every imaginable face of evil. This was the supposed man who put the fear of God in every tainted creature?

 

He was old.

 

His hair was mostly silver with age and lines creased his forehead and eyes. His body was weak, frail.

 

The demon could have laughed at the puny mortal.

 

So he did.

 

He laughed insanely, long and loud.

 

Van Helsing allowed the demon his moment of humor before speaking.

 

“Leave the others be, vampire. It is I that you desire.” Like lightning, the demon was upon him, his hand digging into Van Helsing's collar and lifting him off the ground as easily as he weighed less than nothing. Burning red eyes gazed balefully into icy blue ones.

 

“Damn right you are, old man.” The demon bit off the last two words like an epithet. “I promise you that when I'm finished, there won't be enough left of you for these fools to mourn over.” The aged slayer only shook his head sadly.

 

“That, vampire, is why your kind will never defeat humans. You cling to the belief that, by destroying the body, you destroy the spirit. As long as there is strength left in our souls, we will never be defeated by the likes of you. As long as there is hope, there is victory.” The bloodsucker snarled, enraged, as he dragging his face close to Van Helsing.

 

“Listen here, you filthy little vermin! You humans are nothing more than rodents to me! In the span of my lifetime, more generations of your kind will perish than I can count!” He roared angrily, displaying long, sharp fangs. “Your kind is weak! Insufficient! Unfit to rule. We are your masters, human! It is time for you to know your place!” With those words, the vampire plunged his fangs deep into Van Helsing's neck and began to drink the man's life blood by the mouthful. Van Helsing immediately felt his body start to weaken but refused to allow himself to be defeated.

 

“No, hell spawn. If anyone shall be the slave, it will be you!” And from the lips of the greatest demon slayer known, dark words of power began to spill out. In the blood-induced state of euphoria, these words barely registered in the vampire's head. But in the back of his mind, the vampire began to translate.

 

“By blood freely given, the pact is offered.”

 

“By blood willingly taken, the covenant is accepted.”

 

“From this day forth, I bind thee, Alucard Dracul, in service of myself and mine, to live your days as the eternal guardian of the Helsing family, to forever guard the bloodline and all of its descendants unto death over one of my lineage sees fit to release you.”

 

The vampire had finally realized the events taking place and ripped his head away from Van Helsing's neck, intent on using all of his powers to shatter the covenant Van Helsing was making with him before it was fully formed. But as he opened his mouth, the sharp report of gun sounded through the night air.

 

He had forgotten about Van Helsing's gun.

 

It was however, of little consequence as the vampire reared back to strike. But he instantly felt his powers start to ebb away from him at an alarming rate. No ordinary bullet could cause such weakness on his part. But then what…

 

Of course.

 

Silver.

 

Van Helsing had shot him with a silver bullet.

 

The one metal that no creature of the darkness could stomach.

 

As the world faded away to the cloud of darkness that was now blanketing his senses, the vampire heard the final words of the Covenant being uttered.

 

“Amen!”

 

And now, here he knelt.

 

Defeated.

 

Broken.

 

Subjugated.

 

The scion of the ancient and noble house of Dracul had been reduced to a whimpering dog.

 

Alucard was never more glad his father was not alive to see this day.

 

He had set forth that day to take his revenge on the man that had destroyed the greatest vampire ever known: his father. He had been defeated by the same man who slew the immortal Vlad Tsepesh, better known the rest of the world as Count Dracula.

 

And just like his father, Alucard had vastly underestimated his enemy.

 

It seemed hubris was hereditary.

 

Even as he knelt, mystical chants and prayers could be heard, imbuing the room with divine power. He felt his own demonic abilities locked away, blocked from his own use and placed in the hands of his new master.

 

By all that was unholy, he hated that word.

 

However, Alucard had not given up. His natural state gave him near immortality. And eventually, one of Helsing's descendants would make a mistake. And he would be there, waiting in the shadows to enact his revenge on the family that had enslaved him. One slip, one mistake, and he would be free once more.

 

For if humans could cling to the fragile idea of hope, could not vampires as well?