Hellsing Fan Fiction ❯ The Sacred and Profane ❯ Rain - Act One ( Chapter 2 )

The Sacred and Profane

Chapter 2: Rain-

Act One.

by Docky (a.k.a. DanceswithElvis)

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Wales: November 15, 2002, Church of Saint Cadfan, 11:45pm.

In the darkness and all around him gathered the shadows of the damned. Whether they actually existed on this plain or were just echoes and memories, he did not know. What he did know was that he had been outclassed defeated and somewhere in that threatening gloom, death waited for the final dance. Already exhausted and bleeding heavily from several wounds Anderson stood waiting for the finish, doubting that even his regenerative abilities would help him now.

The dull sound of blade meeting flesh and the sharp pain that followed didn't really surprise the lanky Paladin. He could feel the warm stickiness from his wound already spreading downward from his back, soaking his clothes and dripping on to the stone floor. He swayed briefly before the dizziness from blood loss overcame him and forced him to his hands and knees. Panting from the pain he raised his head and looked up into the blazing eyes of true evil.

"Fool. I gave you your chance. Now I send you back to your brethren," hissed a sibilant voice, echoing through the ancient cathedral's empty chamber. A flash of silver told Anderson that his long life would be at an end in a few short seconds as the demon raised one of the Paladin's own swords above his head.

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Rome: Late April 1945, a few days after allied victory in Europe.

Watching over a small courtyard crowded with young children sat two young nuns in deep discussion over one child in particular. He was a pale child, painfully thin and a bit smaller than the other children his age. He watched the others play with brilliant green eyes, his face impassive and framed by long curly blonde hair. His clothes were torn and dirty, his hands and feet cut from broken glass and sharp rocks, yet he carried himself with an air defiant pride and active intelligence.

"Poor boy," murmured Sister Josephine, gazing at silent form of the boy sitting in an unoccupied corner of the courtyard watching the other children play. Sighing, she turned back to her companion frowning, her clear blue eyes troubled.

"It isn't right for a child to be so. . ." here, the young nun paused, searching for the right word.

"Empty?" supplied Sister Daphne, her brown eyes meeting Josephine's in understanding.

"Exactly," Sister Josephine confirmed nodding her head.

Both women were softhearted in nature, and so when a knock at their door late the previous night had brought them the shivering six year old, covered in dried blood and grime, their tender hearts were lost to the boy. During their cursory examination and clean up, they found that while he had been covered in blood, he had not sustained any grievous injury. After putting the child to bed, they had questioned the American soldier who had brought him to their door. What the soldier had related to them had not eased their mind or hearts.

Turning back to the boy, Sister Daphne asked, "Do you think he remembers anything?"

"God, I hope not."

The boy had been found wandering the ruins of a tiny homestead near the small city of Cividale del Friuli near the Yugoslav border. Apparently a German garrison, the homestead had be razed to the ground by the retreating Nazi and Fascist forces and her inhabitants slaughtered, except for the boy. American soldiers checking the area for fleeing Nazi troops had stumbled across the massacre. Amongst the smoking ruble and shattered bodies they found a dirty child with blazing green eyes shakily holding a gun pointed directly at their advancing sergeant.

"No, Daphne, he remembers nothing," answered a warm baritone, startling the two nuns to their feet. "He doesn't even remember his own name."

Flushing slightly for being so jumpy and being caught gossiping, Sister Josephine bowed her head in greeting to the newcomer, "Father Gilson! Forgive us, we didn't mean to gossip."

Quirking a brow and his clear grey eyes sparkling, the priest teased lightly, a Scottish burr coloring his voice, "Didn't mean to? Or didn't mean for me to catch you at it, sister?"

"Oh!" gasped Josephine, her eyes widening with a mix of annoyance and genuine penitence.

Unperturbed by Father Gilson's gentle admonishment, Daphne asked the grinning priest, "So, what are we to call the boy, then?"

Considering her question, Gilson studied the boy for a few minutes before returning his attention to the two nuns awaiting his answer. "Alexander. We shall call him Alexander Anderson, in honor of the priest that mentored me all those years ago."

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Wales: November 14, 2002, Tywyn, 11:45am

As he drove the rental car into the Welsh town of Tywyn, Anderson noted the fractus clouds didn't look promising as they drifted over the rise of the dark rolling mountains, setting the mood for why he was there. There had been several "mysterious" deaths reported around Cader Idris and Tywyn, and he had been sent to deal with it, even though the area was not of a particular concern to the Vatican. No, instead, the Iscariot's were more interested in how the Hellsing Protestant Knights would respond to a vampire threat in the organization's weakened position.

Sir Integral Wingates Hellsing, having been released from prison by a monarchy persuaded by the Hellsing's pet No Life King, was recouping at an undisclosed medical center somewhere in North Cumberland along with her Angel of Death. Both were being closely guarded by Alucard and his servant, the police girl. According to some recent information, the Hellsing institute had acquired the services of a legendary band of mercenaries called the Wild Geese, lead by a man named "Pip" Bernadotte; but even with the addition of the mercenaries, Hellsing was weakened and the Iscariot organization wished to exploit this to the best of its ability.

After pausing briefly to consult his map, Anderson made his way to the Bryn-y-Mor Guest House to check in and prepare for the nights activities. Happy to be out of the cramped confines of the small car, Anderson stretched, and then walked to the low door of the guest house. The entrance of the long limbed Paladin surprised the elderly woman at the front desk into laughter. Surprised at her reaction, he quirked an eye brown and approached the desk.

Amused blue eyes met brilliant green as the old woman gave Anderson a wry grin and greeted him merrily in Welsh. This gave Anderson pause as he stared at the woman before conceding that he had no knowledge of the language she spoke.

"May I help you, boyo bach?" laughed the old woman as she looked up at the Paladin curiously from behind the front desk.

"Yes. There should be a reservation for a Father Alexander Anderson," he said, looking down at the wrinkled features and snapping blue eyes framed by the white-grey hair of the woman. Amused by her pert behavior, as he watched her shift through a couple of guest log pages, he noted that in her prime she had probably been one of those wild beauties the romantic poets were so fond of.

"Ah, then…here it is. Follow me, if you would, Father and we will find your room," said the old lady, looking up from the guest book spread out on her desk. A few minutes later found Anderson alone in his room reading through the information that Maxwell had given him.

"Six victims, each drained of blood, their necks broke and…mutilated," he murmured reading to himself. Pausing, he lifted a small stack of photos that were paper clipped together. Removing the clip and spreading the crime scene photos out on the small table next to his bed, Anderson considered each one carefully.

Each type of vampire had its' own unique method. Ghouls were rather messy, often dismembering and eating their victims, while FREAK vampires, though violent, usually did not "gnaw" upon their chosen meal. However, most FREAKs were sloppy, often feeding on just about anyone and they usually left a bunch of ghouls behind to terrorize the local populace. True vampires, on the other hand, were more particular in whose blood they stole and rarely, if ever, left without breaking the neck of the victim, preventing them from turning into a ghoul.

Studying the photos, he noticed an obvious pattern to the crime scene. Each victim had been found crucified with railroad spikes on crooked, makeshift crosses, their eyes gouged out and their tongues cut out. Above each victims head was nailed a plain piece of wood with "desero" ornately scrawled on it in blood.

"Forsaken," whispered the blond man, shivering at the sense of some lost memory playing at the edge of his consciousness. For a moment he was lost in that eerie sense of almost knowing, staring out his window at the Welsh mountains partially obscured by ragged clouds. Shaking himself out of his momentary reverie, Anderson returned his attention to the crime scene reports.

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Wales: November 14, 2002, Tywyn, just after sunset.

Seras Victoria sat glumly beside the mercenary captain, looking out the window at the rising crescent moon, as they drove the personal carrier past the first few houses that marked the edge of Tywyn. Sighing softly to herself, she thought back on the events leading up to her being sent on this mission. Sir Integral, while mobile and having returned to her work-a-holic way of life, was still weakened from her self inflicted wound and her ordeal in prison. Walter was slowly recovering his strength and had returned to some of his lighter duties, but could not be counted on as adequate protection for Sir Hellsing should the need arise; so, when they were contacted about the deaths in Wales, her master, Integra and Walter had all decided that she should lead this particular mission, allowing her master to stay behind and protect the Hellsing heiress. Sir Hellsing felt that she had proven herself a useful addition to the Hellsing organization and it was time that she took full responsibility on certain missions. Walter had agreed with Integral's assessment and Alucard, her master had just smiled enigmatically and said, "Don't disappoint me, police girl."

So they had packed her off to Tywyn with Captain Bernadotte and five other men to take care of the vampire problem. And here she was, riding in silence with six men who did not really trust her, into a situation that she had a bad feeling about.

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Vatican City, the offices of the Iscariot Organization, Division XIII.

Two figures watched the moonrise from the large, wide window in the center of a darkened office.

"So, he is taking care of the problem in Wales? What of the Protestant Knights?" a voiced bathed in shadow and age asked his companion.

"What of them? They are still licking their wounds and can be easily dispatched if they choose to interfere," answered a snide, cold voice.

The two shadowy forms lapsed into silence for a few minutes before another question dared break the silence.

"Do you think he knows…?" queried the elderly shadow. He was answered by a shout of mirthless laughter and a momentary silence before he was answered.

"Does he know what he is? No," replied the acerbic voice of his shadowy companion, "as far as he knows, he is the creation of our Holy Magic."

"What if he finds out?"

"He won't."

"But what if he does?"

"Then, my friend, he will make Satan look like a choir boy."

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Anderson was kneeling in silent prayer, readying himself for the task of hunting and killing the abomination responsible for the murders when the sound of a heavy vehicle traveling down the road in front of Bryn-y-Mor Guest House caught his attention. Rising, he walked to the window and looked out just in time to catch a glimpse of the Hellsing crest on the door of the armored carrier and a flash of blond hair of a passenger.

Smiling in fanatical delight, Anderson closed his eyes and whispered, "So they sent the little fledgling…hmm…facilis est descensus Inferi, but the rise to salvation is bathed in the blood of saints. Little demon, your body shall be purified and your soul saved. Amen."

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Author's Notes:

Hello again. Originally, The Sacred and Profane was to be a one-shot story, but I was amazed by the responses I received that were asking for more. Well, I have bowed to the commands of my readers and wrote a new chapter starting a new story…think of the original one as a prologue of sorts.

Obviously, none of this happens in the Anime or manga….I am attempting to fuse the two into a coherent continuum. There will probably be little discrepancies here and there…but, the course of these events should be considered to be happening before The Balance of Power Chapter Three, in book 3 of the Hellsing manga novels. I want to get the Millennium Group involved in this….can't tell you much more without giving away my plot. Sorry. ^.^

Except for the small farm where the American soldiers found our lovable Judas priest, all the places mentioned in this story are real. I may have taken a few liberties with exact details and such, but nothing major. I have used a few Welsh names and one or two words in this chapter, so anyone who knows Welsh, please feel free to correct me if I have misspelled or misused a word or place.

Also the phrase: "Facilis est descensus Inferi" is Latin for "The decent to hell is easy." If I've made a mistake in my Latin, I do ask someone tell me so I can correct it.

I would like to thank everyone who has reviewed and given me so much support on this story. Thank you! Without your encouragement, I seriously doubt that I would have continued this particular story. Thank you: Teleute, Afrodite, Portia, Reyana Draconis, Lady Ravenshadow, Tain Nosferatu Infernus, GodOfTheWired, flashgemini, Alexandra, Captain Spaulding, Zpan Sven, CCS Sakura!!!

Oh! Before I forget…this particular story arch is inspired by the Yoko Kanno song Rain from the Cowboy Bebop episode, Ballad of Fallen Angels.

I think that about wraps things up for this chapter. I sincerely hope that you have read and enjoyed this new chapter as much as you did the original story. As always, please read and review, comments and questions are always welcome. Thanks!

Please stay tuned for the next chapter!

Docky