Title: Wrath of God
Summary: I had a weird little idea pop into my head. This is very short, and badly written, in my opinion. But it gets what needs to be said out. I suppose it is fairly AU, as I don't how old sweet-delicious Alucard is. However, this is based on the premise that he's been around for a VERY VERY LONG TIME. Since before Christ, hence the entire plot. It is a little theory as to why vampires are restrained with blessed items.
He had seen several ages go by already, but one particular thread seemed to flow through all of them.
Humans loved to watch other humans be tortured and killed.
He didn't understand it, really. He was not a hypocrite—despite the fact that he adored watching the human prisoners be torn to pieces by lions and to watch the gladiators kill themselves one by one (he always voted to have the victor killed, simply because it was more death). However, he was a monster. He'd come to terms with this already. Humans were not monsters, and yet enjoyed his terrible entertainment. It was odd.
The Romans were currently executing three people in a most grisly fashion. Crucifixion had always pleased him—blood flowed down the crosses, and the guards left the bodies almost completely unguarded through the night. It was plenty of time for him to help himself. Two of the victims, however, were useless to him. They were simply tied to the top section. The other one, however—he'd been nailed to it. How perfectly delightful.
He didn't know all the details, but this one had been particularly tortured before being hung up there. He'd been whipped badly. He was covered in blood just from the scourging alone. After that, he'd watched as the man had carried the cross he was going to be nailed to all the way through the streets of the town. He found it rather odd that the same crowd that had been demanding his death was now crying because it was imminent. That he didn't understand. Even more perplexing was that this man had claimed to be a savior of some sorts, and all of these people had, at one time, actually believed those ludicrous claims. But he supposed it didn't matter—humans were, after all, fickle.
The thorns on the man's head were so delightfully cruel he almost wanted to compliment the Romans on the idea. They were long and thick ones—he'd been surprised the man could see through the blood sheeting down his face. Then again, some woman had come forward in the crowd during his march and cleaned his face. Maybe that had helped.
He watched as the man's breath became more and more labored. The end was close. That was a surprise—he'd expected him to die a long time ago. But he had been up there for at least three hours and was now just beginning to go into the final stages of death. He waited patiently—patience was something he had a great deal of, especially when it came to his nightly meals. Feeding in this area was difficult, he had to admit. It was annoying when the only people who were alone and primed for food had silver on them. Silver was the one thing he couldn't stand. It burned him horribly when he encountered it. However, he would be leaving this area soon—the land to the west was tempting him quite a bit.
He perked his ears a little. The man on the cross was saying something. Something about his work being done, or something being done. It didn't matter. He was simply waiting for him to die, like some of the people in this crowd. He carefully listened solely to the man's breathing. It was slowing down to barely anything—and then it stopped. He smiled briefly.
He was rather disconcerted when suddenly, the sky began turning rather black. Thunder began rolling slowly their way. He'd seen freak storms before, but this was ridiculous, given the arid nature of this area. He watched as the people of the crowd became terrified and shrank away from the three crosses. He glanced up at the sky briefly, keeping his shroud tight around his head—he didn't need people seeing his eyes right now. Lightning crackled menacingly across it.
Time to find a little shelter, he thought, making his way to a small cave nearby that he'd been resting in when the sun had been out from behind clouds. The sun was his greatest enemy—he could move around with it still out (although he was a little groggy and didn't have many abilities while he was), but for it to touch him meant agony. He walked leisurely to the back, then settled down with his robes wrapped around him. The storm was terrible—he had no idea what had caused it, either. It didn't matter—it would eventually go away, and then he would come out. Hypnotizing the guards around the area wouldn't be a problem, and then he could feed on the man's blood. He'd shed enough, at any rate.
He watched as the crowd slowly pulled away. They took an unusually long time to leave this one. Normally, they dispersed once the fun was over. He supposed that some people really did care about that man in the middle. It was a surprise—the enemies of the man actually being sorry. Enemies loving the enemy…that was a truly ridiculous concept.
He stood and slowly moved out of the cave. Good. Everyone was gone except for two guards. Not a problem.
He made his was up to them, and then, carefully, cast his threads upon them. He watched as they became groggy, sat down upon some stones nearby, leaned against their spears, and fell sound asleep. Pulling back his hood, he strode slowly up to the dead man and stared up at him.
At one point, he had been handsome. He wasn't anymore. The Romans had outdone themselves, this time. He took a moment to glance at the other two. They were still very much alive, but passed out. He chuckled a little at them, then knelt down at the foot of the dead man's cross.
There was a pool of blood at the base. It was mixed with some rainwater, but it would do. He leaned forward, savoring the smell for a moment. This would be an excellent feed—this man's blood was surely exquisite. Opening his mouth, he snaked out his tongue and lapped up a mouthful. The taste was absolutely divine.
The instant he swallowed, he felt as if he'd swallowed fire. He tried to roar in pain—no sound came out. As the liquid traveled down, it seared every part of him it touched. He staggered backwards, clutching his burning stomach. He punched himself as hard as he could and vomited it up as quickly as possible. He fell forward slightly, reaching forward and using the cross as a brace against his fall. He immediately pulled back his hand as the structure seared him just as badly as the blood had. Coughing violently and howling in agony, he looked back up at the man on the cross. Searing pain flowered all across his face as the man's sightless eyes seemed to mock him. Screaming now, he clutched his face. The cross…the man…he couldn't look at it. His eyes were burning. He turned and ran, stumbling and tripping the entire way. Racing back to his cave, he crawled back inside to lick his wounds.
He had no idea what had just happened. One minute he could look at the cross, touch the cross, do whatever he wanted to the cross, and the next it was as painful as silver and the sun combined. He miserably licked his injured hand. These wounds were internal—they would take a little longer to recover from, he knew that. He also knew that he was not going to leave this cave until they removed those horrible crosses. He was terrified to even go outside while they were still up—specifically, while that man still there. He sighed, resigned, and began digging a hole for himself. He would bury himself for now and sleep. Perhaps when he awoke, he would be able to understand what had happened.
A/N: Well, there we have it. Stinks, I know. Review, tell me what you think. And I'd like to make it very clear that I was not being sacrilegious—if I insulted someone's religion, I am very very sorry. I am not pointing at anyone. I wrote it from his point of view—that's why there is nothing specific in there, and not more definition on His death. Don't review me based on religion. That's all I ask. Thank you, and have a good day.