Disclaimer: Hellsing belongs to Kouta Hirano.
Author's Notes: Edited by Glass Bullet. This contains nudity but no sexual situations. Criticism welcome.
Hounds of War
London smelled of fire, burnt meat and spilled blood. Most of his soldiers moved frantically through the fallen city. The scent of fear nearly made him lose his ironclad control while moonlight hit fully at his back. He experienced a brief rush of animalistic excitement to tear apart with his jaws everything on his way, to conquer the smaller creatures and mark his territory.
His eyes caught a glittering ahead; he quickly wrapped his hands with the God of Death's deadly wires. His urge passed; he had his orders. Walter Dornez pulled the strings but he did not give in, keeping the grip steady, capturing the enemy with his own weapon. Their gaze locked, his prey's fright almost drove him over the edge.
Huntsman captured by the wolf.
His target said something as a flash of recognition crossed his nervous features. He did not listen to Walter's words, the Captain only acknowledged the Major, and the other voices were made of unrecognisable gibberish that lacked importance. They were not orders to be executed, but shallow distractions in his job.
Major spoke after. He waited obediently while his leader welcomed Walter in high spirits. Waited and starting to bring the wires in an imperceptive slow motion towards himself. The man realized too late, the speech distracted him, trapped in a nostalgia that had overwhelmed both of them.
A kick, an agile jump, shouts and more desperate attempts to put distance between both of them. Captain had already leaped; he had already enfolded the old man beneath his weight. His face shifted, fur appeared, jaws snapped open and his head dipped down, piercing the struggling target's throat viciously.
The gnawed flesh was old and retained the fragrance of death that Walter had still possessed during his youth. Old death, war death, his death. Not even the vampire had smelled like him. That night, fifty-five years after, the boy finally belonged to him, to Major, as it should have been for a long while.
Hans lapped at the wound after the Englishman lost conscience; the wrinkled skin healed instantly and he picked up Walter, pulling him onto his shoulders to leap towards the Zeppelin. His breathing was agitated, his temperature high. Captain took it to the Doctor before the change would start.
Warrant Officer was standing behind Doc and smiled playfully when he brought the prisoner into the laboratory. He waved and greeted loudly, Captain pretended to not notice and focused instead on the babbling scientist. He shackled the God of Death into the bed, took away his gloves and injected him with a sedative in order to start the surgery. Captain sat on a corner, watching, never listening to any of his words - just analysing the tone: frustration, excitement, anger, and anxiety.
Warrant Officer vanished from sight when Major entered to the room; he had orders to carry on. Commands that Captain did not listen, they were not his hear about.
"How is my Butler fairing, Herr Doc?" Major asked, his musical voice was dripping in amusement. Captain rose in a liquid motion and stood at his leader's right, pleased with his evident approval. He knew the answer before the Doctor opened his mouth.
His breathing was shallow but his vital signals were normal. His blood and heart pounded faster than any human being, just like his kind were supposed to be. Butler was still sleeping, drugged and confused. His mind would be blank upon waking. Captain reached to touch the spot of the throat he had bitten, the younger werewolf arched slightly to the impersonal caress.
"After the good Doctor finishes with the process, Captain," Major interrupted him. "You will clean and dress him properly as my Butler." He nodded as his leader left; the Doc insulted under his breath and speeded his tests.
Nearly an hour had passed, and the Zeppelin started to shake slightly. They were under attack. Doc cleaned his bloodied hands and rushed out his laboratory. Captain approached the shackled subject. His eyes were open, his orange gaze was blank, his expression was neutral, Butler looked more like an automation than himself.
Walter was truly dead inside those empty eyes; the bite wounded him, the surgery finished him off completely. That was the plan. There was only Butler left, a servant without name. Inside the Millennium elite, no one had a name; they were Doc, Butler, Captain, Warrant Officer... not even Major cared for his old alias. They had ranks and jobs to execute in the perfect tune of their director's song. He had forgotten about the man that used to be called Hans. Whatever was left was now just the Captain.
Captain unshackled Butler and made him sit on the edge of the bed. He was like a man size doll, malleable to the player's hands. He took his vest slowly, then his bloodied shirt. He cleaned his stiff cheek with dispassion, rubbing off the grime. His firm hand roamed the soaked cloth down his neck, taking away the blood on his well-toned flesh.
His skin was smooth and silky. Captain marvelled on his rejuvenated appearance. His teeth tickled without the influence of the moonlight; an overwhelming yearning to sink his teeth on the current fresh flesh took him over. He pushed it away quickly. Distractions were not allowed when he had orders.
He undid his trousers next, lifting his legs to bring them out, taking his shoes, socks and briefs afterwards. Captain kept washing the sweat off his knees, ankles and thighs. He closed his eyes briefly - just a long blink and a mere lapse - to smell the bare man sat on the bed. Death. The Doctor never was able to remove that scent from him.
When the Captain looked up, Butler had moved. He had put his hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly. There was no hostility in the action or sign of dominance, but he swore he could see an echo of the former man in his unblinking gaze. They stared at each other silently. They did not need words to communicate, to speak to understand each other. Major did not need hounds of war whose howls ruined the symphony he wanted to weave.
Captain stood and handed him the clothes so Butler could dress by himself. He returned to his corner and waited until he was ready. They were hounds of war and their Master was calling them to assist him against peril. Major did not need to speak his orders aloud for them to obey.
Both could sniff the danger and fear outside that enthralled them to act.