Disclaimer—As always, I have no legal rights or ownership of Hellsing.

Story Synopsis—At a Masquerade celebrating the New Year, Enrico Maxwell and Integra F. W. Hellsing share an unfathomable moment, which has its consequences and valuable lesson: The Lady is more likely to kill rather than kiss.

Rating—Pg-13 to M

Author's Notes—I always thought Enrico Maxwell as a modern-day version of Judge Claude Frollo with Sir Integra Hellsing as the object of his pain and pleasure; however he is a priest and therefore sore to an oath of chastity. Boy, that must be frustrating, wouldn't you say? Everyone knows that Maxwell has a crush on Integra, something like an unspoken love/hate obsession…so this how I imagine his subconscious would manage his rage and desires. I am so sick. This is a one-shot, unless you people want more or a follow up.

One-shots are difficult for me because I cannot write anything simple, but I'm taking a leap here people, all for you. HotPantsHeather, I was thinking of you for this one. I am an avid IntegraXMaxwell shipper. It is wickedly delicious. Yummy! I was listening to E. Nomine and happened by chance to come across some interesting cosplay photos.




The sky of Venice was a breathtaking spectacle of exquisite sights and sounds. There was voluminous outburst, a starburst of light that vanished into a ball of angry smoke and then a moment of humble silence followed, almost as if in mourning. Then bright, multicolored fireworks flashed brilliantly against the seemingly opaque night like flowers, eager to bloom and thrive. Their flash was so potent that it momentarily lit the world below them and then melted away into bleak darkness. Like an exploding supernova they burst into colors of scarlet, shimming gold, emerald hues, azure-blues and violent violets, which might have compared to the irises of God.

Next to the luminous display of lights, the Plaza was filled with rich laughter, and songs sung in a drunken stupor. Sweet music soared from stringed instruments of every design, and battled for attention with drums and cymbals; all the while, swelling inexorably towards the climax. Within the torchlight façade, a stone building glittered and glowed like some ill-forgotten ruin rising from its grave. Inside the room was an exhibition of perfectionism with beautiful pillars, marble-slate floor, and wide arch-ceiling and stain-glass windows. Inside this building hundreds of figures, dressed in lavish costumes danced in whirls of black and white, silver and gold. However this was no simple and reserve celebration. No, the brand new year was just moments away, hoping to cleanse old wounds and strengthen otherwise impossible relations. This party was reserved for special guests—the divine agents of Iscariot and the Knights of the Royal Order, but mainly the proud Hellsing Organization.

A lone figure departed from the colorful crowd, practically leaping and struggling through the dense party. Finally the man dressed in dark velvet broke through, almost falling to the marble floor with desperation and exhaustion. He stepped outside. The Archway was a massive, gaping mouth and opened like some starved predator eager to swallow prey. Inside the belly of the beast rays of light illuminated the darkness outside.

Leering, the man studied the damp spot of champagne on his leg, as he patted and fanned it. His fist clenched as a wave of hatred wafted like a tonic perfume, but the constant presence of the rosary around his neck stopped any otherwise devious actions. Instead Archbishop Enrico Maxwell cursed under his panting breath, "Damnation!" His emerald-stone eyes lifted one more time searching for the culprit. Glaring, his focus was on that atrocious Frenchman, Captain Pip Bernadette.

The mercenary meekly smiled and waved, lifting the bottle in statute. He winked with his one good eye, but his attention swayed to that of the Draculina, Seras Victoria. Laughing she pulled on his collar and gestured him to follow towards the dance floor.

Looking again at the stain Maxwell hissed, "Common, vulgar, weak, licentious people." By people, he was of course, referring to those Hellsing members. "Heretics and heathens, all of them."

This was ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous. The evening was bound to get only worse—besides how could it possibly not. Iscariot and Hellsing in the same room was a godsend of war, if not self-destruction. However…perhaps the celebration of the coming New Year would smooth the tension between them, as Her Majesty the Queen of England and His Holiness the Pope had said. "To start with a fresh clean slate."

Maxwell had to laugh at that. "Ignorant stupid fools." He longed to purge the world of vice and sin, and how could he in the alliance with Hellsing. They sided with the creature of the night, vampires. It challenged every moral fiber of his being. He might as well be two-faced, and Hellsing might as well be sleeping with the Devil himself.

Sad Maxwell…he saw corruption everything, expect within

Despite the priestly collar at his throat he was an ambitious man, who only desire was power and much more. Power had been a dark fantasy of his ever since childhood. It was like an intoxicating and alluring drug. But his heritage seemed to dampen his life goal. He stood by what he said to Father Anderson on the first day at the orphanage, "I need no friends. I need no companions. I need no father or mother. I will become great. I will. I will become great and look down on all of them." However there were elements beyond his control and unlike most of the orphans, Enrico Maxwell knew too well his inheritance—he was a bastard son of a Mistress. O

Yes, indeed he was the offspring of a whore.

'How terrible unfortunate,' the cardinal would say, "He would have made an excellent choice for Pope.'

Despite popular opinion, Maxwell was not that power hungry.

He abruptly stopped at the realization that he was not alone on the balcony.

There, leaning nonchalantly against the stone railing was the figure of the Ice-Queen herself, the one Sir Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing.

Behind his richly colored Venetian mask, the Judas-Director smirked and inched closer towards her.

A silk red dress swathed her body like a second skin, in which its closeness revealed her otherwise hidden feminine curves. The Victoria bustle sat comfortably on her shapely bottom, and the remaining trail pooled on the floor, like a miniature lake of blood. An elaborated beaded corset wrapped around her waist giving it a enduring and envious hourglass look. A majority of her back was exposed, revealing her lithe, muscle tone and smooth skin. The dress was an exquisite design, and must have been especially made for her, for it flaunted her like none other. It was as if it had a mind of its own and knew the exact anatomy of its Mistress. Long tresses of blond hair were elaborately pinned up making a waterfall of gold shimmering down her back. Upon her long neck was a black bead necklace, which looked much like a collar. A silver-crucifix dangled at the base of her throat and glimmered in the moonlight and fireworks.

A glass of golden wine sat undisturbed on the railing, even as wisps of thick smoke wafted, dancing around her like a perfume to a flower. A cigar hanged loosely from her painted lips. Eyes still closed, she gave a soft and almost barely recognizable smile as she replied in her typical stoic tone, and "Ah…Enrico Maxwell, Head of the Iscariot Agency of Section XIII and to whatever do I hold the pleasure? Tired of this pointless charade? I find it tiresome and quite idiotic."

"Smoking is terribly unhealthy, Miss Integra…" the Judas-Director teased, walking towards her with calculated steps.

Another thick wave emerged from those dark lips. "So I have heard."

Maxwell lifted his eyes and then he exclaimed, "Curious! Wherever is your charming little pet? He follows you like a second shadow…"

"He is otherwise engaged," Integra replied grimly.

He smiled, knowing she did not like discussing about her vampire-servant. Rumors never helped, especially when Parliament made accusations about their relationship. Whispers suggest that they were lovers.

Hoping to spark an innocent conversation Maxwell asked, "Any New Year's resolutions?"

"I do not indulge in such a piety exercise," she replied evenly. "If it entertains others, than that is their concern."

Maxwell congratulated himself on his cleverness as he raised a glass of champagne towards her and quirked playfully, "If no New Year's resolutions, than shall we, the Directors of Iscariot and," he added with deliberate sweetness, "Hellsing drink to our future." Enrico watched as Integra raised a platinum eyebrow at him, even as smile twitched on her otherwise stoic and masked face. It was a quaint look, and the pleasure of its sight hummed, purring like a cat inside his veins. He handed her a glass of warm Chateau d'Yquem O and the golden cabochon glowed against her bronze skin. Beneath the heavily aged glass, her sapphire eyes glittered and burned, watching his.

Again in her presence he found himself turning to sin.

Damnation! Protestant or not, she was a stunning creature…Beautiful, strong, powerful and cunning. She intrigued him…

He cleared his throat and proclaimed in a low tone, "I propose a toast, Sir Hellsing…" Gently, he reached out and took her hand in his. Strangely she did not hesitant or object. Inhaling a breath of either courage or relaxation, Maxwell proceeded to stroke her knuckles with his thumb. The touch was hardly possessive, but rather the gentle, calm and lovingly. He could practically feel the throb of her racing pulse and the warmth radiating through the gloves.

"May this coming New Year serve as a momentum occasion of a much promised 'clean slate' between us."

"I will second that motion," she said slowly. Taking a sip, Maxwell could feel the alcohol burn down his esophagus and pool in his stomach. From there its heat radiated out to his limbs and now, his eyelids drooped and lips numbed. However she did not drink. Watching her swirl the contents with her finger, he smirked. "Think I would poison your drink, Integra?"

She took her head. "You are not that stupid. Incompetent perhaps, but not stupid."

Smirking, the Judas-Director sat the glass aside. He stepped back and stumbled on the nearby stone bench. One hand grabbed the stone edge, steadying his balance and sat on the cool surface. Heaving a sigh he slumped forward, elbows resting on his knees as clasped his hands together, knitting and fidgeting fingers together. "Come now, we can be civilized, Miss Integra. Smile," he chinned, "we are partners."

"Don't be daft, " Integra chastised. "You and I both know that this display of peace is a temporary fix. Just for show, if you will. No doubt we shall be killing each other…most likely before this war is over."

"Oil and water, eh?"

She nodded. "Precisely "

"Until then we can have a modest conversation," he offered meekly.

"Very well." The Hellsing-Daughter paused before asking politely, "And you Archbishop? Have you any resolutions for this coming year?"

Maxwell watched the golden drop of wine shine on her lower lip, but at the sound of the question his head snapped up. "Well…" He continued, "I want to grow orchids in my garden—or rather have them survive. Anderson keeps bringing the children over. They are a bunch of wild animals. Destroy them. Never make it to see the summer." The fantastically shaped flowers with their colors were a major attraction. Surprisingly orchids were his one pleasure, his one relaxation, and his one interest apart from the ruthless pursuit of his career…Save but one thing, which ironically stood in front of him.

Enrico Maxwell refused to abide with this charade a second longer. "I like my orchids…"

Perhaps this was the defining moment. The choices were uncommonly obvious—he could refuse her, reject her—but in doing so, Enrico Maxwell would discard the same desire, which would no doubt lead to his impending destruction. Prayers did nothing to bear her into the obscurity in the less-visited palaces of his mind. Fasting made him desire the taste of her fresh. When flogging himself, Maxwell imagined her hand landing each stroke, and he welcomed, even anticipated the pain. Sometimes he did not bother to wash the blood off. Nothing worked! The vision of her would not be purged and hence forgotten.

Nevertheless it mattered not, like Adam he had glazed at the fruit of temptation and was lost. There would no redemption, as the choice of righteousness and worthiness diminished into nothingness.

He felt her eyes on him. She cast him a piercing look of observation with those sapphire-stone eyes.

"A penny for your thoughts, Enrico," her voice whispered in a low hiss. "What are you thinking?"

Maxwell stared at her with ravening hunger, and the desire was like a sheet of lightning, overpowering in its savage intensity. Sitting his shoulders hunch against the pain as his hands crawled into his flesh in a desperate attempt to contain the screaming domination of his body. Inhaling sharply he gritted his teeth together. I…am a priest, he replied evenly and almost reluctantly as if his conscience was personally trying to save him. A priest…a priest.

Oh God, he could not.

"Integra…" he said her name with considerably yearning, so much so that Maxwell hardly recognized the voice. Finally, he stood to his feet slowly and the Archbishop strolled closer, his dark robes dancing in the candlelight glow and reflecting the burning desire plaguing his insides. At the moment of indecision he exhaled, "Kyrie Eleison…" (O Lord Have Mercy O)

In the background the gathered crowd cheered, yelling and counting in eager tones:




They remained a mere pace from each other, swathed in the warmth of the light. Pity, that the fireworks would be the sole witnesses to the corrupt revelation. Taming his mounting desire, Maxwell glazed down at Her—Integra Fairbook Wingates Hellsing—his savoir and damnation all at once, but currently all possible regret and indecision was gone as he welcomed his forthcoming sin. "Confiteor…" he exhaled fidgeting with his rosary, jerking on the string with such impatience and force that it broke, spilling the beads on the floor. Each one fell like droplets in rain and disappeared into the shadows. "Quia peccavi nimis…" (O I confess that I have sinned O).



"Mea culpa…(O Through my fault O)" Swallowing he stared eye-to-eye with the sole entity of his eternal condemnation. He swore he could hear the screaming agonizing cries of damned souls, smell the sulfur and old-testament brimstone, and the heat of Hell itself. Strangely, he embraced it and even welcomed it with dark, gruesome delight.




The Archbishop whispered filling with aching desperation, "My Integra…"

Damnation! Curse her for bewitching him. The Hellfire scorched his no doubt, predestined soul and the hot flames sear his flesh and bone. His mind was set. At last since the visit to the London Imperial War Museum, Enrico Maxwell had given in. No prayers to God Almighty, to the Blessed Virgin Mary and to holy apostles and saints, could possible save him. It was done as if he himself was Faust. His soul was sold, so there was no point bargaining over the price. The price was simple —he would willingly surrender eternity just to experience the shapes of her body against his own…to feel the softness of her breath…the warmth of her flesh.

The countdown to the approaching New Year echoed absently in the other room as he reached one hand, which gently and lovingly brushed upon her slender neck and grasped around the nape of her neck. Her warm flesh hummed under his touch. And of course, to the sinful list Maxwell would add the taste of one impure kiss.



There was one single moment of hesitation before his lips touched hers, lightly gazing them. Flesh brushed against each other. He moved against her honey mouth in a calculated, precise dance and with each passing second its intimacy increased. Overwhelmed by hot desire he pulled her closer, and closer.

Sin never felt so good.

Ignored by them, the party-members lifted their glasses of champagne into the night air, and rainfalls of popery plunged downwards, as a chorus of laughter and applause howled to the moon. Unbeknownst to them, the chastity of a Judas-Priest was called into question as he embraced his hated foe and now, reluctant comrade.

Maxwell paused, gasping for breath. Opening his eyes he glanced down at her cold cerulean eyes, and as always, Integra's face was stone-stoic and gave away none of her thoughts. He asked hoarsely, "How does it feel to be defiled by a Catholic, Integra?" O

"Curiously warmer," she answered evenly as she stroked his upper arms. Her touch was stimulating and seductive, light as a feather. Next her hands traced across his chest and toyed with the silver threads of his costume.

"You taste like smoke, Integra. You ought to quit smoking," he teased with a smile.

Integra raised a brow and replied, "Perhaps I shall take that into consideration."

"I feel somewhat obligated to finish what I started," Maxwell noted as he leaned in for another kiss. "To start with a clean slate."

Integra was his…

And yet, it was not to be.

His glorified moment of pure delight was interrupted with a cold alien feeling, a pressing sensation as harsh steel pushed against his chin, halting the further process of his ardent kiss. Two emerald-stone eyes flew open. Practically leering in disgust, Integra disentangled herself contemptuously. The connection broke off so violently and she pushed the blade beneath the sensitive and very exposed flesh under his chin. It was a mere slice away from drowning him in his bloody fluids.

Instinctively his arms shot up in a desperate act of defenselessness and surrender. "Whatever are you doing?" he asked the Hellsing-Daughter. "What the devil?"

Maxwell backed away, retreating towards the balcony edge; all the while, Integra's cruel steel grated against his throat. His eyes blazed with unfathomable hatred and betrayal. The once proud Archbishop watched as words spilled from the lips he had adored and touched moments before, "Nil inultum remanebit…(O Nothing shall remain unpunished O)"


So her Latin had improved.

Finally his retreat was severely limited as his back brushed against the wall of thorny vines and their bite buried through his robe and deeper yet, into his flesh. Maxwell winced visibly. In an excellent display of fury, Integra shoved him with the power likely displayed by a man. Beads of darkness threatened his vision. Grasping his priestly collar Integra advanced, cornering him with the knife firmly fixed on his pulsing carotid.

Blinking he glimpsed down at the shimming silver blade as it reflected, dancing in the moonlight. Maxwell noted that her knuckle were white with a death-like grip, otherwise he might have taken it from her. Again Enrico Maxwell bubbled with a strange and yet, intoxicating mixture of hate and lust.

"Thy shall not kill," Maxwell spoke, his voice rising slightly as a sly smile crossed his lips. He noticed that she hesitated. As always, pride and duty would be her weakness and perhaps her demise. "Ah…" he replied with relish, "looks like the Iron Maiden has a dent in her armor. So what now, Integra?" Maxwell asked her, all the while preserving that imperturbable air of condescension and smugness. "Whatever shall happen?"

To his horror she smiled, which was a rare sight on the expressionless and stoic lips of the Protestant Knight. "I ought to strangle you, Maxwell. Even kill you." Integra said with a cool crisp laugh.

Beats of silenced followed.

Eyes gleaming with mischief, Integra caressed his jawline with the tip of the blade. Had it been her hand it might have been erotic. Integra asked sarcastically, "How does it feel to be defiled by a Protestant, Maxwell?" O

"Lilith…" he accused callously.

"Am I your Lilith O, Enrico?" she hissed. Soon a thick dribble of crimson-blood trailed down his neck and darkened his clothing.

Swallowing he gritted his teeth, green eyes staring at her fierce face. Again his mind split between spiritual code of ethics and pure male instinct. "Listen here, you Protestant sow—" Integra pressed the blade harder against his throat. Now there was a thicker stream of blood trickling his flesh, and Maxwell could practically smell the copper. A proverb sung ominously inside his head, "Hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn."

"Afraid of me, Enrico Maxwell?" A half-sneer crossed her lips as she choked between breathes, "Tell me, is this how you imagine it, Archbishop? What you fantasized about during those late sleepless nights? Since I play Lilith, than you must be Adam."

Maxwell refused to answer.

"A verse from Faust comes to my mind…" Integra spoke in a mystical and almost prophetic tone, "Lilith…O some consider her the first wife of Adam…Adam's wife, his first… Beware of her…Her Beauty's one boast is her dangerous hair…When Lilith winds it tight around young men…She doesn't soon let go of them again" O As she finished, her grip around his neck tightened to another level and the threat was as equal as the blade in her hand.

Integra continued, "Whatever did Lilith say about the entity of the male sex? You are the Director of Iscariot, so I imagine you have been the restricted texts of the Old Testament."

The Archbishop shifted uncomfortably and replied thickly, "I have—but I couldn't say that I remember."

She leaned forward, whispering, "Fear and pride, Enrico Maxwell. That is what governs the machine of man." O

"Mmm…" he hummed trying to cease the tension gnawing his stomach.

"Rumors suggest that she is the origin of Vampirism. The Mother…"

"Perhaps…" Maxwell mumbled grimly.

Knife posed, her lips brushing close to his ear. Integra lifted up her eyes she asked with a voice choked in violence and animosity, "Will you drink from me, from your Lilith?"

Maxwell paled, as if God himself had seen his thoughts, his very un-priestly thoughts.

Archbishop Maxwell blinked at the question, as it caught him off guard and coming from her lips it seemed so alien. So unlike her. So… she was comparing herself to Lilith, the Devil's own personal whore. By the saints, he would be more than happy to indulge in her fantasy. The Judas-Director paused fixing his eyes on hers and asked, "Or would you rather have Alucard in my position?"

Integra laughed.

Maxwell foreshadowed grimly, "Than Lilith…he is your Samael O"

At the sound of this, Integra blinked, paled and abruptly let go as if Maxwell was a plague. Leering contemptuously, Maxwell returned to his towering height and readjusted his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles and wiping away the blood. He sleeked back several lose bangs. Ignoring her very existence he strolled past her and returned to the party.

Meeting back with Father Anderson dressed in gold and white, like the Greek sun god Apollo, the Judas-Priest blinked his eyes and demanded, "Archbishop? Whatever happened to your neck?"

Covering the knife wound Maxwell straightened his collar and simply said with a laugh, "A slight misunderstanding between comrades." Deep inside his spoiled soul he somehow he knew that he had won a battle against the infamous Virgin Maiden.


Still dazed, the blade fell out of Integra's hand as she comprehend the full meaning of his statement, and realized that truth of it. "My Samael…"

She heard a voice, smooth as velvet and cold as death. It chastised playfully, "Integra…Integra…"



First, I apologize if anything written here was considered offensive to anyone—this is surely a creation of fiction, an entity inspired by the world of Kohta Hirano and my imagination, which Him—God has given to me. I would believe it insulting if I did not exercise it. When I publish my original works, either The Order Chronicles or The Tarot Game (in about a thousand years) I shall have a decantation page, thanking God, family and friends. Just one day, perhaps.

Author's Notes


1. He was a bastard son of a Mistress O –In my opinion Enrico Maxwell was born illegimately from a Count and his mistress.

2. Chateau d'Yquem O—Some sort of expensive wine. Found it in Hannibal

3. How does it feel to be defiled by a Catholic, Integra?"O and "How does it feel to be defiled by a Protestant, Maxwell?" O—Yes. Both are lines from Field of Innocence. I couldn't think of a better thing to say.

4. The verse from Faust O---1992 Greenberg translation, lines 4206–4211

5. Lilith O—Well what can I say about her? According to some, she was apocryphally the first wife of Adam and unlike Eve, she was created from mud. Since both Adam and Lilith were crafted from the same element, she refused to obey him, "We are equals, you and I." Personally, do I believe in her? Not in that context but I thought it would be excellent imaginary for the weird relationship between Maxwell X Integra and of course Alucard.

She is mentioned as a child stealing and child killing witch. Lilith is also a demon associated with wind and was thought to a bearer of disease, illness and death. Lilith is the source of "lustful dreams"—which is why Maxwell cannot get enough of Integra. He associates her with Lilith.

In modern Luciferianism, Lilith is considered a consort and/or an aspect of Lucifer and is identified with the figure of Babalon.

5. Fear and pride O—Lilith, or "Lilith Degonna" is a wicked villain in my Order Chronicles, and the line where she says, "Fear and Pride govern the machine of man," is something she says in the book. My Lilith is the Darkwitch, Death's Concubine and the Mistress of the Dreamworld…the rapist of innocence…(If you want to know more, e-mail me).

6. Samael O—Another name for the Devil.

Well…this was fun for me.

Reveiws, my lovers.