Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ Stray Dog ❯ Death of a child ( Chapter 9 )

Disclaimer: Hellsing and all of its characters belong to Kouta Hirano, not to me. I am not making any money off of this piece of fanfiction.

Author's notes: This one's a bit short. Sorry for that. And thank you, as always, to those of you who continue to read this fic.

 

Chapter 9: Death of a child

Anderson heard the screams and cries as he ran through dark streets, legs pumping and heart pounding. He heard the little girl, begging, pleading; “Please mama, no!” and he heard the reassuring voice of the mother, shushing her daughter, calming her fears.

That voice did nothing to calm his fear, however, and his anger grew with every footstep. He skidded around a corner and the scent of blood filled his nostrils, made him ill. There, bathed in shadows, was wee Isabelle, cradled in the arms of her mother, twin trails of blood snaking down her throat to pool in one big, ugly blot on her blouse. Her eyes, the dull, vacant red of the newly bitten, stared, unseeing, ahead. He was too late.

Paladin Alexander Anderson screamed with all the fear and anger and sadness in his soul, and the newly created little vampire did not even look up.

***

Seras found them sometime later, huddled together in the same alley. Nothing remained of Isabelle's mother but an ugly red splatter of blood on the wall, and the smell of ashes in the air.

“Anderson…” she said, and his head lifted, slowly, to look at her. She could see the tear tracks running down his face, shiny in the moonlight. Cradled in his arms laid Isabelle, blank gaze resting on Seras. A vague hint of remembrance shone through the haze, but the half-formed vampire said nothing and did not move.

“She's turned.” Anderson said, his voice raspy and quiet. “I couldn'a save her.” He squeezed the little girl tighter, as though he could hold her humanity there, in his arms. Seras felt her eyes welling up, felt the first tear flow, quickly followed by its fellows. Her stomach turned and she felt a heavy sickness seeping through her body.

“You have to kill her.” She said, voice steady, despite shaking hands. Memories of another little girl flooded her mind. Helena. Misery and sadness were all that the Vampire's curse promised a child. She would not see Isabelle saddled with such a fate.

“She's just a lass.” Anderson protested, weakly. His voice cracked, and Seras pretended not to see the tremble that passed through his body. He knew what she knew, but he did not want to accept it. It was time for her to step up, for all their sakes.

“She's a vampire.” Her voice was hard, and she took a step forward, threatening.

“So're ye.” Anderson countered, bitterly. He brushed a lock of hair back from Isabelle's temple. She already felt so cold to touch.

“Then kill me too.” Seras snapped, trying to provoke the priest, to make him angry. Anything to wipe that defeat from his face. He did not say anything, simply closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, as though trying to make a decision. “Anderson,” she tried again, “it's no good for a child. Don't you see? She'll be trapped forever in that body, never able to grow up and live a normal life. She'll never be able to have a job, to get married or have children. She'll be miserable.” She paused, trying to calm the hysteria bubbling in her stomach. Carefully, she unclenched the fists she had unknowingly formed, and took a deep breath. “I know this, Anderson. How do you think she'll deal with the thirst? With the darkness in her soul? This is no life for a child. It will be better if she…if we…”

“Kill her.” Anderson finished her abandoned sentence, and she sighed in grateful relief. She sent him a watery smile. She was glad he understood. “I mean it.”

“Wh…what?” It was she who hadn't understood.

“Kill her.” Anderson said, standing with the small girl still cradled in his arms. “Ye have tae kill her. I canna do it. Ye may be sure it's best,” he looked down, for a long moment, “but I'm not. So it's on yer shoulders, Draculina.”

Seras stared at the priest in shock. Alexander Anderson, Mad Paladin, terror of Section Thirteen, couldn't bring himself to kill a vampire? She watched as he put Isabelle down, setting her on her feet. He crouched in front of her, big hands on her little shoulders, desperately searching her eyes with his own. She looked impassively back. Very calmly, the priest leaned forward, placed a gentle kiss between her eyebrows, then stood and walked away. Seras flinched as he passed her, but did not turn to face him as he stopped behind her.

“Well?” He said, and she heard the tremor in his voice, though he tried his best to hide it. She squared her shoulders, straightened her back, and marched the five paces between herself and the little girl.

“I'm sorry Isabelle. I really am.” Her throat hitched as she placed the barrel of her gun against the girl's heart. “It's better this way. It really is, you'll see.” She met the blank stare, determined not to look away, and drew a shaky breath in through her nose. “I'm sorry,” she said, and squeezed the trigger.

She saw Anderson flinch, out of the corner of her eye, heard the shudder in his breath, but she could not bear to meet his gaze, and see the pain there. Or to let him see the same in her. “I'm going back to London.” She said, once the ashes had settled. Her eyes stayed firmly on the ground at her feet, and she cursed her own cowardice. “I've been called back to Hellsing. Will you come with me?” She dared ask the question, even though she knew the answer already.

“No.” He said simply, and she nodded, finally gathering the courage to look him in the eye.

“I suppose this is goodbye then,” she said, and something in her voice must have cracked him.

“No,” he said, the ghost of a smile barely gracing his lips. “Ye keep forgettin', Draculina. I'll see ye again. Even if it's just tae kill ye.”

“Of course.” She returned the almost-smile, and tried not to cry, as he turned and disappeared into the night.

“How sweet.” She heard the voice behind her, whirling to confront whoever it was, but was not fast enough to escape the blow to her head. Her only thought, as the world went black, was that people who hung out in alleys like this one normally didn't have such nice shoes.

***

Integra was beginning to get worried. Seras had not arrived on her scheduled flight from Rome, nor had they heard anything from her, regarding the delay in her appearance. In fact, the last correspondence from her mentioned that a certain insane priest was rather upset with the little vampire. This was not a good situation. “Do you think he's done something to her?” She asked, tapping her cigar into the ashtray on her desk.

Alucard looked at his master, observing the way the smoke curled about her head, reminiscent of the tendrils of his darkness. It seemed to emanate from her very being. “It is likely,” he said, leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. He pushed his glasses up and bared his fangs, grinning. “Shall I find her?” he asked, nonchalantly, and Integra could not help but notice the enthusiasm in his voice. Her pet vampire liked nothing better than a good challenge.

***

Father Anderson was not himself. Sister Mary Robert noticed it almost immediately, the morning after Isabelle's disappearance. Of course, everyone was upset, but the scarred priest seemed particularly far away. Mary Robert had always thought of Anderson as having a particular aura about him; something strong and pious and kind, but something had darkened it, as of late. Some of the fight seemed to have gone out of the Priest, and she realized that his faith had been shaken. She had hoped that giving him Isabelle's cross would help some, but she'd quickly realized her mistake, seeing the anguish in his eyes at the sight of it.

He'd thanked her, of course, because that was the sort of man he was, but she'd seen the way he clutched the wooden trinket so tightly in his trembling fist, as though he might snap it in half.

The world was too cruel for a delicate soul such as Father Anderson's.

***

Seras beat her fists, weakly, against the bars of her cage. She hadn't had blood in almost a week, and the lack of it had begun to take its toll. She felt lethargic and drained, and her whole body ached with hunger. Her head was fuzzy, her thoughts were muddled. “Why am I here?” She moaned, wrapping her fingers around the silver coated bars, before flinching away at the burns it caused. “What the bloody hell do you want from me?” She screamed aloud, knowing that there must be someone nearby, even if she could not see them. There had been guards inside the room during her first few days of captivity, but starvation had drastically reduced her capacity to be a threat, and now there were only a few, most of whom preferred to stay on the other side of the door, where they didn't have to look at her, alternately writhing in starved agony, or railing against the bars of her small prison.

***

Anderson sat on his bed, clutching a cross in each hand. In his left was the ornately styled, holy silver cross which he had been given by the church, upon becoming a Paladin. It normally hung around his neck on a long silver chain, just as beautiful as the holy object itself. In his right hand was the crudely carved wooden one that Isabelle had owned, strung on what he suspected was cherry flavoured dental floss, sucked on till the flavour was gone. It was ugly and cheap, hardly befitting a man of his occupation, and yet he could not dismiss it so easily.

He opened both fists and extended his hands, flat palms facing upward, and looked at each cross in turn.

Blessed silver felt cold against his skin, but the image he saw when he looked at it was that of hot, seared flesh. An ugly, angry red welt between full, milk-white breasts. For that reason, alone, he felt as though he should put it back round his neck. For that reason, alone, he could not.

Seras Victoria, damn her fangs, was a powerful drug. He'd no track marks to show for his addiction, but he felt the pull of her, just the same. The first few days after her departure, he'd tried to pretend that he was better off without her. He felt in control of himself again, and rejoiced in his freedom. But then, like with any drug, the cravings had started. Small remembrances sent bolts of longing through him, so sudden and powerful they left him weak, though he vowed not to break. His mind betrayed him, deep in the throes of sleep, and he would wake, tense and hard and shaking with the need for her.

He wanted to see her. He wanted to touch her cool skin and feel her soft body pressed in desperation against his own. He wanted to wrap his arms around her, bury his face in her hair, and feel her hands grasping his shoulders as he buried himself to the hilt between her legs. He wanted to stab her through that pretty throat of hers, and breathe in the sweetness of her ashes.

 

***

Isabelle's funeral was a sombre affair, with not a dry eye to be seen. The official story was kidnap and murder, which, Anderson reflected, was not entirely untrue. Devil's in the details, he thought to himself as he watched her casket descend into the ground. Full of bricks.

Rosa stood next to him, her little hand clutching his fingers so tightly that her knuckles had gone white with strain. Tears ran freely down her face and she sniffled, scrubbing at her runny nose and wet cheeks with her sleeve. He gave her hand a squeeze and smiled kindly down at her, hoping that the Sisters would be tactful enough not to admonish her for ruining a good dress.

“Dinna be sad,” he said, softly. “Isabelle is with our Lord now, in Heaven.”

“I'm going to miss her,” she hiccupped, between sobs.

“Aye, we'll all miss her too.” Anderson turned back toward the open grave as a soft thud indicated the casket's descent had stopped, and the wailing of the children began anew.