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Note: Continuation of 'Beloved Memories,' go read, blaggards. Thanks!
Divergence
It isn't the first time Vlad's woken up in a pool of blood, but nonetheless, it's just as terrifying. The first shot of pain that tears through his body trails up from his navel to his heart, like a barbed spear being jammed through the center of his body, twisting and tearing at his organs mercilessly. He writhes in pain and cries out voicelessly, trying to draw in a fully breath as the shock of agony tears through him.
But he knows how to cope, and he forces himself to endure it, to try and work through the pain that's thrumming beneath his flesh, setting his insides on fire. He knows, in some way he cannot quite grasp, that this isn't really his pain. This is Alucard's pain, Alucard's heart and feelings that are ripping such excruciating pain through the boy. Vlad knows that somewhere, outside the confines of the memory that Alucard had once created for him, that something is terribly wrong.
Vlad curls up in his bed, holding his sides tightly. He's sticky with blood, the silken sheets of the bed drenched in it, yet there are no injuries on his body to speak of. Just a pool of blood from wounds that are internal, the wounds of Alucard's heart that are drowning in agony. Vlad blinks back tears, protesting his urge to cry out for Anderson; he knows Alucard would hate that, hate having his pain known to the other captured souls and memories meandering through the nonexistent world.
Vlad forces himself to bite down on the desire to sob, working through the pain. It doesn't take long for him to gain his bearings and mentally move himself to a place where the pain is no longer an issue, but to him it seems like an eternity. He's had to do this many times, had to force himself to fight back whatever vulnerable side of himself that allowed Alucard to inflict such agony on him.
He sleeps restively after the pain eases back, but it is a short rest. The hum of unease that seemed to ripple through the air keeps him from truly resting, the desperate whispers surrounding Alucard's soul that seem to trickle into Vlad's sleeping mind. Something has happened, something bad enough that Alucard is furiously trying to tear apart the pieces of himself that would truly sense the pain.
It is the same every time. When Alucard is in pain, every pain in his life surfaces in the span of a single moment, beginning from childhood and spanning to his current life in Hellsing. And his memories, the bad memories overcome the good memories, paralyzing them, agonizing them. And Vlad is nothing more than an embodiment of his memories, subjected to Alucard's whims, twisted and changed into what Alucard wants and desires him to be. And the changes always hurt, because they are never right, never true to who he is.
Vlad isn't sure how much time passes until he's awake again, but it can't be much; it's still night. The sliver of white moon hangs over the ocean's horizon, but the stars are blotted out by darkened, stormy clouds. He can see the scene through the window, as well as a specter sitting in the ocean shores, long black hair twisting in the winds, ruffled coat swaying.
Alucard, of course.
Carefully, Vlad swings his legs off the bed and steps onto the floor, the blood under his feet sticky against the hard surface. He checks himself over quickly; still no deep injuries, nothing but superficial scratch marks Vlad himself had inflicted on his arms and face during his agitated slumber. There's just a lot of pain and unexplained blood. Vlad can taste the metallic tang against the back of his throat, and he forces himself not to gag; he still can't understand what Alucard finds so alluring about the taste.
He pads through the small room and to the door. The house he resides in now is elegant, but simple, a place that Alucard might have wished to have lived during his childhood. That is, at least, one of the advantages to being a memory; you can meld memories and dreams into a singular image of what you want it to be, until the dream almost becomes the memory itself. Deep down, Vlad knows this isn't his home, knows that it never was. There's an ache somewhere deep inside him that reminds him that his home was nothing like this, it wasn't warm and filled with such empty bliss. His home was filled with memories, every inch of it another bittersweet recollection of things he wished not to remember.
Not bothering the change out of his blood-soaked clothes, Vlad steps to the door and opens it. He's instantly met with a wall of freezing air that seems to swoop in around him like an icy vice, slipping through his hair and clothes with sharp precision. He yelps mournfully at the cold before closing the door behind him, shivering as his feet touch the cold stone beneath his feet. Alucard had never liked the cold, always preferring a moist gentle warmth. Something has to be wrong.
Shivering violently, Vlad pulls the cloak around himself tighter, fighting against the cold wind to keep it in place. He can see his breath gently smoking in the air, the white mist quickly stolen away in the sharp gusts. His bare feet cramp slightly at the blistering cold, but he still trudges on towards the ocean. Even if he did go back into the house, it is probably barren now; when Alucard is in such a mood, he picks apart everything good until it's empty and dulled.
Only Alucard would have the twisted logic to respond to pain by tearing more holes inside his own happiness.
The blood on his skin is still damp enough to be chilled by the wind. He tries to rub away the crusted liquid, but it's difficult, resistant, and it only hurts more when he tries. He leaves partial, bloodied footprints trailing behind him. The pain is lessened now, just a dull, unrelenting ache beneath his ribcage. Vlad trudges on determinedly, hand moving to cover the left side of his chest, feeling his heart pounding hard beneath the flesh.
The first step into the sand is a relief; it's still warm, dry beneath his skin, tinged with only the slightest chill. Vlad sighs and closes his eyes in relief, tears almost brimming on the lashes as the cramps lessen. He hugs himself tightly, stepping closer to the shore, but not letting himself stray onto the wet sand he knows must be freezing.
Tremoring faintly, Vlad upturns his eyes, searching for Alucard. He knows he's standing in the spot he saw the vampire, but there's not so much as a footprint in the sand to indicate that Alucard had ever been there. Frustrated, Vlad turns and stares down the long strip of beach. He spots a figure not too far away, and instantly begins to cry out Alucard's name. Not so much as a syllable passes his lips before the sound dies.
Blond hair.
Vlad feels the briefest moment of joy before the emotion is brutally stolen away. If she's here, then that must mean something terrible has happened. She has never come here before, not as anything more than the faintest hint of an image that Alucard cherishes and imprints on his memory. But it isn't the same, not in any sense; she's here.
Vlad darts down the beach quickly, letting go of his cloak. It floats away in the wind, but he doesn't mind, just keeps running through the sand towards her.
'Integra!' he cries out, tears brimming in his eyes as the weight of realization dawns on him. 'Integra, wait!'
The blond girl turns at the sound of his voice, a slender hand raising to tuck the billowing locks of gold behind her ear. Vlad instantly sees that it is indeed Integra, but not as she is in the real world. She's a little girl again, wearing the elegant skirt, the white button-up shirt Alucard had first seen her wearing. Her hands are clasped in front of her gently, face smiling even though she's weeping.
And just like that, she's gone.
'Integra!' sobs Vlad, weakly staggering as his knees buckle, arms wrapped firmly around his small frame as he trembles. He falls to the ground in a heap, trying to bite back wet sobs, trying in vain not to cry and scream out with sorrow.
There's no disputing the truth now; Integra is dead.
He holds himself tightly, nails digging deeply into his arms, tearing at the flesh with burning precision. His insides are churning again, burning with agony, but it doesn't matter now; it doesn't compare with the excruciating sensation of his heart being torn from him, suffocated in an iron-tight grasp. He tries to breathe in a full breath without it breaking with a sob, but he can't quite manage it.
'Why are you crying?' says a voice sharply, startling Vlad so much he cannot help but drag in a full, deep breath of air. He pushes his torso off the ground, tilting his head to stare up at Alucard. The vampire is wearing all black, eyes shockingly dim compared to their usual iridescent crimson.
'Integra,' Vlad manages to say, voice thick. 'She's…'
Alucard tilts his head, the cold eyes impassive. 'I know that,' he says, voice low. 'But why are you crying? You never met her.'
Vlad is startled by how much the words hurt, and he manages a weak, pained glare at the vampire. 'Y-yes I did!' he argues, voice wavering. 'I met her the day you did… I've known her as long as you have!'
Alucard sneers, but doesn't continue the argument. His arms cross over his chest nonchalantly, but Vlad knows what he's doing. He's embracing himself, just as he did when he was a child, creating a comforting warmth, a barrier. Vlad is almost mirroring the gesture, on his knees before his older self, arms drawn over his slender chest, hands grasping his shaking shoulders.
'How?' asks Vlad, voice hoarse.
'Old age,' says Alucard, voice dull. He kneels down next to the boy, but doesn't look at him. His eyes remain firmly trained on the ocean, to the dim, silvery horizon. The moon is less obscure now, but the cold only seems to be deepening with every passing moment.
Vlad stares up at the stoic vampire, edging closer. 'I don't understand…'
'Of course you don't,' replied Alucard as listlessly as before, but there is a faintest stain marring his tone, one that Vlad almost misses completely. 'We don't age.'
Vlad sighs and bows his head, trying to wipe away the mess of tears coating his face, still drawing in wet sniffles. No matter how hard he tries to rid himself of tears, they are simply replaced by more. Against the cold air, they feel almost acidic. The empty space in his chest only seems to worsen with every passing moment as he grasps onto the memory of her, standing on the beach with a sad smile on her face. The loneliness is suffocating, a compression around his empty shell of a soul. Alucard's impassive presence is no comfort to him.
Unsteadily yet determinedly, Vlad climbs to his feet and begins to trot away, skin red from the burn of cold. He's stopped sobbing now, but the feel of loss seems like a cold pit at the center of his heart, almost as cold as the wind whipping through his hair. Teeth lightly chattering, Vlad forces himself to endure to pain of cold stone as he walks between the small buildings. He doesn't go back to his own home, though, determining that it he did not want to go back to a pool of his blood and nothing else, just an empty room.
He instead stops at a smaller house, a small silver cross mounted on the door. His heart is already thumping in anticipation, the way it always does when he enters this particular house. There's always warmth, a warmth that Vlad can never quite mimic in his own home. It's the scent in the air, the tingle of golden light that seems to touch every inch of the room. It's Anderson's light.
A true, genuine soul. Not just a memory, not just a figment. Anderson is a soul, and Vlad has no doubts of that. It's more than just a deep-seated hunch, more than just a belief. Everything about Anderson is proof enough that he is more than just something Alucard conjured in his mind, some fantasy he could rely on to ease his pain.
Vlad slowly opens the door, filled with uncertainty. His fears are soon diminished, though, when a wave of warmth washes over him, instantly coiling around the frozen flesh, caressing his tear-stained face gently. Vlad steps inside and quickly shuts the door, as if he can simply close the door to the empty coldness of Alucard's soul. It is, at the very least, muted by the simple presence of Anderson.
Quietly, Vlad walks by the other adjoined room, the door faintly ajar. The children are in there, the three Anderson created from his own mind. Vlad doesn't like them; they're soulless creations that Anderson brought into the pseudo world to ease his own loneliness some time ago. Vlad had warned Anderson – at Alucard's direction – to be careful with the children, to not get attached to fantasies.
However, Anderson hadn't listened. So they were still there after all these years, as ageless as Vlad himself.
As he slips past the room, he doesn't hear a stir from within. That, at least, was expected. Soulless creatures did not breathe while they were sleeping, and these three were no exception. They were given names, identities and features of real people, but there was no depth, no soul. Enrico, Yumie, and Heinkel are simply fakes.
But he puts them from his mind, approaching the door to Anderson's room. He pulls the handle quietly, trying not to let so much as the faintest creak rip through the air. He doesn't need Anderson to be awake to find comfort from him. He just needs to hear him, to see him, and that will be more than enough to ease some of the suffering.
Vlad steps into the room, slipping in with utter silence that remains almost completely unbroken, even with the door is closed. Barely breathing, he steps towards the bed, looking at the heart-warming sight of the priest sleeping on his back, arm thrown over his head, one leg hooked over the edge of the bed. His glasses are still on; Anderson has always tended to forgot to take them off, almost never did. Vlad had crawled into his bed plenty of times to know that much.
Still lightly sniffling, Vlad crawls onto the warmth of the mattress. He edges onto the bed until he is laying next to the warm body of the priest, head gently placed on the broad chest, which rises and falls softly with each breath. Vlad curls up, embracing himself tightly, listening to the soothing thrum of Anderson's heartbeat beneath his ear. Sleepily, he hopes that Anderson won't mind that he's getting blood on his sheets. The thought itself is enough to bring tears to Vlad's eyes.
He feels a warm, broad hand sift through his hair, and he nearly sobs at the small act of comfort. He wonders what Integra's hand would feel like, what her body would feel like if she were here in Anderson's stead, comforting and soothing him with soft hands and a gentle voice. He misses her as much as Alucard does, misses everything about her he was never able to experience himself.
Anderson's arms wrap around his chest, pulls him gently closer in a warm embrace that instantly soothes away the dull aches that are still pulling at Vlad's body. He buries himself into the warm chest, savoring the sweet comfort of being blanket by a warm soul. He smiles bitterly to himself, wondering if Anderson will ever have any comprehension of how perfect and pure his spirit was. Even after everything, he has a spirit, a real one.
Vlad has nothing but distorted memories.
Sighing raggedly, Vlad closes his eyes and succumbs to the warmth, sinking into his mimicry of sleep, hoping for a painless darkness that will swallow him whole and numb his senses until the pain goes away forever. He hopes he can sleep until Alucard forgets of his love, his countess, his master.
But it is not to be. When Vlad sleeps, he dreams through Alucard's eyes, and sees nothing but memories.
Alucard jolts from his sleep, wide awake in the quickest of moments, crimson eyes fixed with piercing focus on the woman half-asleep next to him. Her white hair is tangled in his fingers, her pale blue eyes slightly open as she fights back a coughing fit. With every broken breath of air, Alucard's heart clenches more and more until his teeth are gritting together with barely suppressed frustration.
Of course, Integra notices. She always notices.
'Are you angry at me for staying human, Alucard?' she asks softly, the coughing subsiding. Her voice is strained and ragged, but she still manages to sound stoically amused after all these years, as if somehow this is all some terribly elaborate joke.
Alucard doesn't answer; she already knows how he feels. He instead moves a hand to press against her forehead, checking her temperature as obsessively as he always does when she coughs. She's hot again, and the skin is clammy. His hand trembles just slightly as he pulls it away, instantly making a move to get up and brings her a cool clothes, as he does every rough night.
'Don't, Alucard' she says, sounding simultaneously strong and weak, voice wavering with exhaustion. The aged face looks unusually shadowed, and it sends a shiver through Alucard's soul; she's slipping away little by little, consumed by those darkening shadows. 'I don't need it.'
Alucard hesitates, but eventually sinks back into place next to her, pliantly cradling her nearer to him when she gestures him to. She's extraordinarily feverish, shivering at the cool air. Alucard checks the blankets, makes sure they're firmly in place; they are. He knows that there is little he can do about the cold now; it's a cold that's reaching from her insides out, coiling around her weakening organs, around her heart. The beat shudders weakly, unevenly. Alucard suppresses a wince at the feeble sound of it.
Integra is smiling, he can feel it against his chest, the softest curve of her lips. He breathes in her scent deeply and slowly, tasting it deep in the back of his throat. It's a comforting scent she's always carried, neither feminine nor masculine, just warm. It isn't her soap – he's had plenty of years to acquaint himself with all the perfumes and shampoos Integral had used, and they were nothing like this. It was simply her, a strong essence that seems like power.
Nothing like Alucard's version of power, not tainted smoke and metal. It's authoritative, but clean. That scent, that taste that seemed to be in her very blood had let him know from the very first moment he saw her that she was his master.
Alucard falls into an uneasy sleep that seems to freeze the darkened moment of unconsciousness timelessly. When his eyes flutter open, hours have passed, and it's still dark. He wonders what made him wake up at such an hour; it's utterly silent, not even the faintest brush of wind audible outside, nor the faintest sigh of breath to ripple through the darkness.
And then he knows. No breathing, no fluttering heartbeats, no sense of warmth from the body nestled gently in his arms. Integral's gone.
He doesn't look, doesn't make any movement except for the choked breath of air that catches in his throat. His eyes close tightly as he concentrates on the sensation of cold skin against his own, the scent of death that's beginning to seep around him. He knew this would happen, he knew, but it changed nothing. It's still agony.
Alucard isn't even away of the tear that slips from his lashes until he sees it drop onto the white skin of Integra's cheek. He kisses the stain away with the gentlest brush of lips against the cold skin, whispering the faintest apology against her unhearing ear. He stares down at the white face, the parted lips, the elegant features.
It has finally ended. These golden years have passed on with her soul, leaving nothing behind.
He stays with her for the entirety of the night, refusing to move her before the dawn breaks. He watches with hazy eyes as the gray light creeps into the room from the window. It's Christmas eve now. Alucard had not bought her a present; he had known she wasn't going to make it to Christmas.
Alucard knows that he has to let go, but it's a reluctant motion. The moment he releases her from his grasp, he feels it. Winter's chill.
It's at this point that Alucard wonders if he's ever going to die too.
If I was immortal, I could truly be a God, a king.
Of course, musings are never really accurate to reality. That in itself is a given, since the human mind can never quite wrap around both the positives and negatives in an equal light. It was always tipped one way further than the other, as it should be. The gray space between reality and fact was always a confusing line to tread, and Alucard had been surprisingly optimistic considering his upbringing.
He had believed immortality would solve everything.
How he neglected to remember that immortality would doom him to suffering through losing countless lovers and friends is beyond him. He can't clearly remember how he intended to make it through that kind of pain. Perhaps by remaining unattached, although that was clearly overconfidence in his own ability to control emotion.
He had succumbed to terrible loneliness, just as any other person would. No one to be with, no one to ease the burden of his solitude.
The loneliness had been broken with Arthur's presence, with Walter, Islands, and then finally Integra. And he had known from the moment of his awakening, from the moment his eyes fall on the small, trembling form of Lady Hellsing that he had found his truest master, the perfect fit. It was an overwhelming sense of serendipity, this young child that someone as irresponsible and utterly disorganized as Arthur had somehow sired.
She was everything Alucard had been waiting for.
He closes his eyes; he can still see her, just as she had been. Elegant, beautiful, strong. The hard authority of a man, the tender soul of a lady. She had remained that way until her death, the strength of her heart never dissipating or lessening. She never lost her own soul, and he had never begrudged her for choosing humanity over vampirism.
'Why didn't you let Anderson go when he died?' asks Vlad mournfully, small legs drawn to his chest. 'You let Integra go, didn't you?' There's the faintest accusatory tone in his voice, but Alucard doesn't begrudge him of it; even he feels regret that he did not keep a part of her inside of himself, a piece of her soul that he could always carry.
'She wouldn't had wanted it,' he says, tone flat. 'Anderson didn't have much of a soul left when he died. He was able to regain a part of it here.' He pauses briefly, eyes flickering to the boy sitting in the sand beside him. 'Integra had nothing to gain here.'
'But you did,' argues the boy helpless. 'I did. She could have stayed here forever, like Anderson! She could have been happy!'
Patiently, Alucard shakes his head. 'No she couldn't,' he says, unperturbed by the way the boy's face falls with sadness. 'She didn't like being relied on with such desperation. She preferred to be freer than that, and this place is no freedom. But Anderson didn't mind being relied on. You…' Alucard pauses. 'We needed him, and that's why he's content here.'
Vlad is crying again, but he has the self-control not to sob or cry out. 'You aren't going to ever make him leave, right?'
Alucard doesn't answer; it would be pointless to do so. Vlad already knows that Anderson can't stay forever; Alucard may be greedy at the best of times, needful of the people around him in ways that few could understand, but he was not vindictively cruel to them. Denying Anderson whatever afterlife, whatever family he had waiting for him on the other side is pure cruelty.
He can't keep it up forever.
'Why didn't you cry for them?' asks Vlad shakily. 'When they left, why wouldn't you cry?'
Alucard tilts his head, gaze falling on the small boy. 'You could say a part of me is crying,' he says somberly, a finger stroking away a warm tear on the child's face. Vlad sniffs in response, head bowed, small fingers grasping the cross on his neck tightly.
'I used to tell myself that when Integra died,' begins Alucard softly. 'I was going to give Anderson his freedom as a gift.'
'Please don't,' sniffs Vlad, burying his face against his hands. 'I need him.'
'I know,' says Alucard, climbing to his feet. He looks at the ocean, crimson eyes narrowed. 'But you're nothing more than a memory, Vlad. And I can't let myself be ruled by my memories.'
Alucard leaves the boy then, with a cold determination that he refuses to break. The boy is nothing more than a part of him that's trying to convince him to keep Anderson to himself, the last person he has that might give him some form of genuine consolation, someone who might shatter the solitude.
But there are reasons why Alucard never talked to the captured soul himself, reasons why he only let his living memories interact with the priest. He hadn't wanted to be too attached to Anderson when this day came, but it had been in vain.
It seems a part of himself became attached anyway.
Alucard sighs, but doesn't reply to the priest whispering in his ear. He supposes it would be fruitless to try and tell Anderson that no one else can hear him, only Alucard, but it wouldn't do anything now. It was a funeral, and Alucard doesn't want to hear the priest speaking – or yelling – at him while everyone else in the crowd softly murmurs.
They're outside, and it's late evening. No rain nor snow, just a faint brush of grayish clouds seeping over the skies. The air is so damp it feels like it should be raining, but not a single drop falls. It seems the snow is to stay for a while longer before being washed away.
Anderson had refused the gift of freedom outright, refused to leave the corporeal world behind. Alucard almost asked him why, but restrained himself; there was still time to determine that, still time to sort out the unresolved feelings of the past. Right now, Integra's memory still lingers so close it's painful. Alucard knows he cannot ask Anderson yet. It would be disrespectful, a betrayal to her, as well as a betrayal to himself.
He leaves the funeral before the others, Anderson's soul still walking silently next to him. He doesn't need to hear the rest, doesn't need to listen to the murmuring questions that linger in the crowd about Integra and her infamous lover. Those people never knew Integra, not like Alucard did; they have no right to speak such things so close to her grave.
For now, simply having Anderson's presence would be enough, no matter how inexplicable a thing it is.
When Alucard steps back into the manor, he is immediately aware that someone else must be there. The scent in the air has changed, and there are bags strewn over the floor of the entryway. In a single moment, he knows exactly who's in the manor. The sound of the door slamming behind him draws her out, and she instantly lets out a startled shriek.
Twelve years. It has been twelve years since he's seen her.
Alucard barely pays attention to the words, the pathetic cry of 'there's a ghost, Master!' He barely listens to Anderson's enraged and righteous argument to the term 'ghost'. He's too busy concentrating on the suddenly sense of overwhelming rightness, of completion. The last family he has left is standing the room with him for the first time in years, both of them are.
It is the first time Alucard has lost a love, and still been able to have a shred of contentment remaining within him.
'Yes,' says the boy, and Alucard knows he isn't lying
Vlad isn't crying anymore, but he is still sad, a sadness that interlaces with the bittersweet happiness. He will be sad for some time to come, but there is a future before them. Perhaps that is Anderson's gift to Vlad, Seras' gift to Alucard. A future, something other than a bleak loneliness he had endured with the passing of his other loves.
'I still miss Integra,' whispers the boy.
Alucard smiles faintly. 'I know, Vlad.'
More love to Shecelciudat. If I didn't spell your name right... screw you. You have a hard name.
