Chapter Two

Even looking forward to what seems to be an eternity on the mortal plane, Anderson still finds himself succumbing to something as simple as impatience. He'd figured it was something that would quickly fade into the dark of night, leaving behind that lax, languorous attitude of almost infinite patience Alucard seemed to encompass. Living a life where time will quickly become a subjective entity, he still finds himself feeling particularly human. It troubles him, but there's hardly any outlet for these frustrations, so he simply lets the sensation silently eat at his insides.

Anderson isn't impatient with any uncontrollable force, but rather impatient with himself. That's far more difficult to tolerate, simply because of the innate knowledge that he's willfully injecting himself into a situation he strongly dislikes. It's a tiring venture to voluntarily stay in a state of mute limbo.

The book is still on the table, exactly where Anderson found it. It hasn't been touched, hasn't been open. It's simple, and utterly unremarkable, but Anderson cannot take his gaze off of it. It seems to be staring back at him, somehow almost alive, waiting – but every time Anderson gathers his thoughts, he quickly realizes what a ridiculous notion that is. It's simply a book, albeit a gift from Alucard – that's more than enough to leave him in a state of deep suspicion.

Anderson isn't disillusioned to the fact that he will read it, eventually. It's inevitable, after all. Alucard gave it to him to read, and Anderson is drawn to books, any books. He reads with passion, absorbing each word, every emotive phrase, every deeper meaning he can grasp. It's a rush, learning something, seeing new perspectives and trying to comprehend the person's very soul through the texts. The desire to learn is ingrained in him deeply, just as deeply as his desire to battle and rid the world of monsters.

This book, however, almost seems to radiate truths that Anderson is disinclined to approach. There's something indefinable in the essence of it, a feeling that seems to absorb through the dry, aged stench of the paper.

But something is different, something is off. Anderson tastes ink in the air, fresh, and he knows not all of the text is ancient.

Perhaps had it not been for the damnable impatience, he might have left it for a better day, a more suitable time. But he could not steel himself against the desire to sate his curiosity. Heart tightening and throat dry, he situates himself in front of the book and gingerly flicks it open. The dust unsettles and forms a thin, discolored cloud. Each particle that flutters into the air seems to carry its own scent of the past, briefly overwhelming Anderson. The sensitivity of his body now, the way he can distinguish each individual aroma is distracting, if not perplexing. He has always known vampires were powerful, indomitable beasts with supernatural powers, but how is it that an animated corpse can experience the essence of life more clearly than a mortal?

Questions like that make him question his life as a Catholic far more than he wishes to. Had his church ever shown interest in learning about the monsters themselves? Had they ever studied what the true nature of a vampire was? The creature itself was a sin, that's something Anderson cannot possibly dispute. However, they had never examined what that sin was a product of, or what kind of consciousness still remained inside the supposedly soulless body.

These musings leave him feeling cold. He wants to find away to shield his honor from these changes, yet he cannot accept himself as a vampire as long as the teachings are still ingrained so deeply inside him. It's impossible accept his vampiric nature without shattering his already damaged identity.

The dust resettles, but the taste of paper of ink still lingers in the air.

Anderson's fingers slide along the first golden sheet of paper. It's fresh, and the ink is still faintly shimmering. The handwriting is elegant, precise, but there's a certain deliberation in the letters that makes Anderson wonder just how carefully it was written, as if the words were reluctantly forced onto the page.

'When you shed humanity and become a monster, you become a symbol rather than a living being. Iconic, and nothing more.

However, it is impossible for one to become an icon without maintaining some humanity. How can we be so significant to humans if we ourselves do not reflect upon humanity?

It's difficult to tell whether that thread of humanity is genuine, or if it's simply a memory of another person. And as the years pass, that small piece of what seems to be true humanity slips further away.

Your pursuit in life was a kindness, if nothing else. It seems I've clung to this wretched form too long. I've been seen as a reaper many times, but there have been scarce few moments in my life where I've seen my death reflected in the face of another.

I don't understand why you became a monster. It seems so utterly cowardly, so haphazard, and so fundamentally unlike you. However ,it is irreversible. As time passes, doors will close and you will inevitably forget why.'

There's something extraordinarily unsettling about the small note, and it's not just a latent concern. The tone behind the words was so unlike Alucard's that Anderson would have normally doubted that the vampire truly authored it. There's a depth, a bitter wisdom in this creature's voice. While Alucard seems so carefree and apathetic, these words seem heavy.

However, Anderson had found a new perspective since becoming a monster. While he had fundamentally remained the same person, he still has difficulty reconciling the two conflicting personalities he encompasses. The passionate, volatile priest still simmered somewhere deep inside of him. However, this had been ultimately overcome by his more vampiric nature, which mostly consisted of subdued regret and an occasional thirst for blood.

Determining that these two personas were indeed the same entity proved to be a difficult challenge for Anderson, and he had ultimately decided to refer to them separately. In his mind, the human that fought Alucard so valiantly in the past was now deceased. His mind automatically shifted, and he couldn't bring himself to refer to that person in anything other than a past tense.

It seems, in all probability, that the note had been written by a far more ancient version of Alucard. There had been a brief moment when Anderson had seen that 'other' Alucard, the far more venerable manifestation of the vampire. There were a few brief glimpses beneath that monster, to the man who decided to become the monster. Someone, surely, Anderson would have respected.

The room is painfully silent, and the rough sound of dry paper flipping grates Anderson's ears. The following literature isn't as simple a read as the initial note, and he quickly finds it has a tendency to change style – or even language – with very little warning. It quickly becomes apparent that every snippet is from a different author, some relevant, others wholly needless.

Frustrated with the lack of continuity and – frankly – the monotony of the text, Anderson considers closing it. So far, there only seems to be journals and correspondences of possibly the most dull, ordinary people imaginable. Farmers, soldiers, and commoners who only spoke grimly of their simple existences. Wars and ancient times Anderson is well educated in, but demonstrated in a most tedious manner.

It's difficult to sit through. A complex language and intricate vocabulary, something he hasn't studied in years. And just when he feels he has translated something of worth, he finds it's just as irrelevant as the rest.

However, he continues on, and just when he believes that the book is going to remain a frivolous, irritating piece of literature, something happens that draws his attention. A soldier's bland correspondences of good will towards his family change, and reveals that the man killed children on the roads to his encampment. The letters take a dark shift, and Anderson – despite everything he's seen and done in his years – feels disgusted by the level of detail the soldier imparts upon his family.

Little blood when he kills, but there is suffering. Children with severed limbs left to die in ditches, tortured out of sheer glee, left mutilated beyond even the slightest recognition. And sickeningly enough, it seems the heinous acts are encouraged by the superiors, left to the lowest minion to carry out. A sign of their hatred, their disgust for their enemy. Anderson himself knows hatred, but he also knows respect, and the idea of using such tactics perplexes him.

It's clear from the texts that the man is descending into a deep level of insanity, and his words become a jumbled mess over time, scratched onto the page violently. He speaks of souls and life, consuming life in order to preserve his own, and Anderson cannot help but wonder how far that obsession took him – did he consume the remains of the children himself?

There's a point where all sense in the man's letters ceases to exist, leaving behind harsh words and incoherent ranting, most of which Anderson cannot decipher.

And then it stops. It's over, and despite Anderson's searching, he can find no more mentions of the soldier. The mediocre journals continue, and everything slips back into obscurity. There are a few small letters, questioning at the whereabouts of the soldier, some concerned, other angry, but the man is never found again. It occurs to Anderson then that many of these people must be the soldier's family, encompassing several generations. The perfect example of normal, tedious humans in the midst of a single monster.

Anderson tosses the book onto the table, caught between extraordinary irritation and a notable measure of intrigue. What did Alucard intend to show him? Insanity? It could very well be the first development of a monster, to lose the mind and succumb to the darkness. Anderson himself still feels that side of his mind, that static. He's not fully there, but he knows he hasn't descended to complete insanity – at least, not yet.

'Did you like that story?' Alucard's voice purrs from the darkness. Anderson is startled, but he's reassured by the knowledge that Alucard couldn't have been there for long – Anderson would have noticed him earlier.

Anderson isn't in the mood for niceties. 'It was pointless,' he answers snappishly, albeit truthfully, and there's only a soft chuckle in response.

He feels Alucard's long arms settle against his shoulders, the vampire's jaw lightly resting against his hair. It leaves Anderson uncomfortable, but he finds himself tolerating the vampire's idiosyncrasies more with each passing day. It doesn't even occur to him to discourage him, to pull away and strike the vampire. But he is tense, and his adversity to the touch cannot be lost on the vampire.

'Come now,' says Alucard amusedly, spidery fingers moves to grasp Anderson's shoulders, pulling him into a mock embrace. 'It could have all been so boring.'

Anderson doesn't respond, prompting Alucard to continue. 'The soldier must have intrigued you.'

Admittedly so, but Anderson doesn't say it. If he had control, he might have rejected Alucard's explanations of this book, might have been more comfortable living in ignorance. But his curiosity is a damnable thing, and he cannot stop himself from asking. 'Who was he?'

There's a pause, but Anderson can still feel Alucard smiling. 'You've heard of him before, however…' there's a soft chuckle. 'I'm afraid none of his depictions have been quite accurate…' A hand moves to touch Anderson's chest, and he has to pointedly force himself to ignore it, focusing instead on Alucard's words. The caresses of a corpse is hardly something Anderson relishes in. 'His name used to be Renfield.'

Anderson comes close to arguing with him, but his vast knowledge of Dracula is surely going to lose against Dracula's very memories. There were always inconsistencies in the stories, although Anderson knows them all intimately. After all, he had obsessively studied each depiction of vampires, applying every small piece of knowledge he could. There were so many to go through, and all of them were relevant yet intrinsically wrong.

After all, if they were accurate, Alucard would certainly be a pile of dust somewhere, and Anderson himself might still be a human.

'Renfield was my first servant,' continues Alucard, voice almost wistful. 'Despite never being a monster, he seemed to mimic one perfectly. The need for blood and death, the need to consume souls, was all the product of some ridiculous insanity.'

Alucard releases him and walks into the shadows. Anderson cannot mask his relief. 'It shows that even a human can be a monster, if he tries hard enough,' says Alucard laughingly before he fades, as if he knows how much those simplistic words will frustrate Anderson.

Anderson almost curses, almost shouts some heinous threat after the vampire. But it's pointless, and he's left angered, frustrated by one question. It's something he hadn't considered before now, because hope is dangerous, and so painful. Even Alucard's small note had sought to crush hope, and yet his words strove to inspire it.

Anderson cannot stop himself from wondering now. If a monster tries hard enough, can he become a human again?

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Author's Note: Finally, some inspiration. Yeah... this story is still slow. I know, I'm trying to characterize, but some people are going to smack me upside the head if I don't get to the more sexual... things. Ahem. I'll update sooner rather than later.

Anyway. Cheerio.

Oh, and by the way, Renfield was my favorite character in Dracula. Hence why I felt the need to pay homage to him.

Any mistakes are my own, too. Grammar is not my friend when I'm rushing to edit before work.