My Writing – The Rose-Clad Demon Doctor

Purest Dark

So this is a fairly short story I wrote a couple years back. It’s one of my few original writings, based on a mixture of Fallen London and a fever dream I had back then. I never got around to finishing it because I got really self-conscious of my writing at the time, but I had intended to make a whole book out of it. But I might get back to working on it, in the future. Here it is, just in case anybody’s interested in reading it. And as always, feel free to let me know what you think!

Since the day I was born, I have never seen the sun. Nobody around me has, nor has anyone for a couple thousand miles. We’ve lived here, underground, cut off from what some say was the surface, for hundreds of years. Not one living soul remembers how we got here, or how to get back. Nobody remembers why, four hundred years ago, we fled beneath the world into the great cave systems we now call the Nightlands.

Of course, there’s not much need to mull over questions like that, not down here. Asking “how?” or “why?” wastes precious time. Spend most of your time farming, hunting, mining, tending the lights around you. Always keep the lanterns lit. To stay dark is to die.

Now, that’s not to say we live like barbarians down here. With some work, you can eke out a decent living and have enough to feed and clothe your family, keep your lanterns lit, and still have some left over. Folks in the big cities don’t even have to worry about their own lanterns, with most of that being under the purview of the Lantern Corps.

As for myself, I run a general store in the town of Gravert’s Hollow, a small little stopover on the road between Rockhammer and Coal Port. I inherited the store from my father, and he from his father. It supplies our small little town of two hundred, and feeds the odd caravan or two when they had to make their way southerly. Occasionally some well-lit sightseer wants to catch a ship from Coal Port to see the pitch-black oceans for themselves, in which case we’re more than happy to cut them a deal.

When the bell rang that day, the man coming in didn’t seem too awful different from any normal customer. Quiet man, a bit on the short and husky side. Seemed a bit jittery, but nothing too unusual from someone who came down the road from Rockhammer, famously ill-lit as it was. His ruffled, brown greatcoat left a faint trail of black dust as he perused the shelves, nervously adjusting his glasses and glancing intermittently at the oil lamps on the walls.

Feeling I could lighten his mood, I tried to talk to the nervous fellow.

“Anything I can help you to find, sir?”

His head jolted in my direction. “Hmm? No, no, thank you. Found the mushroom jam I need right here.”

I nodded. He walked to the counter, carrying three large jars of our jam. Fresh Ketsbury mushrooms. I totaled up his purchase. Even as I did so, he was looking at the oil lamps, wincing at every slight flicker of the light. I sighed softly.

“They’ve just been filled, sir. Will last ‘til third cycle tomorrow, at least.”

He seemed to calm a bit at that, managing to focus long enough to pay me for the jam. As I set the jars into a small basket for him, he produced a beat-up leather book from one of the pockets of his greatcoat, seeming as though he didn’t want to look at it.

“Listen,” he spoke softly, “d’you know anyone who deals with books?”

I paused, surprised.

“Umm… McLaverty’s Bookstore just down the road.”

“You know him?”

“Of course.”

The nervous man nodded. “Please take this book to him. I can’t stand to keep the damn thing one more minute. Nobody in my business wants anything to do with it.”

“I see. I understand, sir. I’ll take it to him right away.” When I laid my hand on the book, he immediately grabbed my wrist, whispering again.

“Listen. Please. Don’t open it. Don’t read it. There’s some things about our dark little world we don’t need to know. Now, I know what you’re thinking, so I’ll tell you this. It’s an expedition journal. That’s all you need to know.”

He stared into my eyes intently, refusing to look away until I nodded.

“I won’t read it, sir.”

With that, he nodded, turning for the door.

“Before you go, sir… Where are you going now?”

He stopped, holding the door handle and seeming to shudder as he thought of something unpleasant. Without turning back to me, he spoke.

“I’m catching a boat to the Salt Coast. I want to get as far north as possible.” Before I could say another word, he hurried out the door.

I sighed again, taking a look at the book on my counter. It was a fairly unassuming thing, a decently thick book bound in carved, dark brown leather. The word “Journal” struck out from the front cover. I turned to the very first page, breaking my word almost immediately.

“From the hand of Jacob Pellon,

An Account of the Expedition Most-South

Led by Thomas Magrath and Cole Stockton”

Something seemed… Off, about that. I had heard about the Magrath-Stockton Expedition quite a few months ago. A couple caravans from Rockhammer talked about it. Not much word came up our way, after that. A month or so ago, there were some real hush-hush rumors that the expedition ran into something… Unpleasant. Especially seeing as how word came up quick that all but three of the explorers never returned to town, and the three who did weren’t in any state to talk much.

Before I read any further, I closed the book and tucked it under my arm. Outside, muffled, I could hear the town’s bell ring. The twentieth time today, signaling the start of Third Cycle. Time to lock my store and head home.

I checked the mountings for my oil lamps, made sure they were full. Kept the shelves as full as I could. Locked the door behind me as I left.

As I stepped out onto the lamp-lit stone street, I decided to make my way to McLaverty’s Bookstore. It was a few hundred feet south along the main street. It occurred to me that the nervous gentleman would have to have passed the store as he came to mine. Something about his demeanor, and something about the book I held in my hand, told me he wasn’t thinking straight.

Now, at this hour, the bookstore is staffed by the third shift, a small group of teenagers working off some perceived debt to their parents. It was one of the few places in town that was always open, even if Ephraim McLaverty himself was rarely at the sales desk these days.

I frequented the bookstore, so the employees knew me by name. One of them, a pale girl from one of the mining families, saw as I came in.

“Howdy, Mr. Pembroke. Looking for anything new today?”

I shook my head. “Is Mr. McLaverty upstairs?” He lived in an apartment built above his bookstore. She nodded in response.

“Yessir. Headed up about one bell-ring ago.”

The teens quietly resumed their chatting as I mounted the well-lit stone stairs to the second story. Ephraim McLaverty was a friend of my father, and made his home welcome to me no matter the time. I knocked on his door.

He wasn’t exactly a young man, now approaching his sixtieth year, so it took him some time to answer. The heavy cave-wood door creaked open, and the elder bookstore owner peeked around, peering at me through thick glasses.

“Ah, Marshall… Come in, come in. I just made mushroom tea, would you like some?”

“Thank you, Ephraim. But I’ll pass.” I stepped into the living room. Even this far from a large city, McLaverty knew how to get his hands on books. His living room resembled a homelier version of the bookstore downstairs, with an identical pair of leather chairs situated between rows and rows of shelves. I took my seat in one, and he in the other.

“So what brings you here at this hour, my boy?” He sipped some of his tea. McLaverty only drank Peterswort tea, made from a mushroom revered for its medicinal properties despite tasting absolutely putrid.

I handed him the journal.

“Fella came in half a bell-ring ago. Gave me this. Said it was an expedition journal. Something to do with the Magrath-Stockton Expedition.”

Ephraim’s weak eyes widened with intrigue. He inquired if the man spoke any specifics about it. I shook my head.

“Didn’t say anything about it. He was real jittery, I mean real jittery. Kept looking at the lamps like they were about to go out. And he specifically told me not to read the journal, just told me to give it to a book guy like yourself.”

The elderly bookkeeper began thumbing through the wrinkled pages, his eyes darting to and fro with a speed more suited to a younger man. After a few minutes, he paused, quietly closing the journal.

“Hmm…” Ephraim gently stroked his sizable sheet-white moustache. “Go ahead and leave it here for a couple o’ days. I’ll take a look at it.”

I thanked him for his help. With a thankful handshake, I went on my way, exiting McLaverty’s apartment, then his bookstore, sending a farewell to the employees inside. The door bell jingled as I opened it, stepping onto the frigid streets outside.

———————————————————–

The following week was uneventful. Eventually, I returned to McLaverty’s shop, rather concerned. The teens working the Third Cycle shift told me that Ephraim hadn’t left his house in that time, except to order employees to buy more lamp oil.

I walked up the stone steps to his apartment.

“Ephraim!” I rapped the door. “Ephraim, it’s Marshall! Can you let me in?”

Several minutes passed. I called out again, interrupted by the sound of locks clicking. Ephraim stood before the door as it opened.

“Come in, come in my boy.” He ushered me inside, closing the door after I stepped in. I slipped my shoes off, leaving them at the side of the fireplace sitting front-and-center in his living room. A fresh pot of mushroom tea brewed quietly above the fire.

“So, Ephraim… Is there anything new you can tell me about the journal I gave you?”

“Of course, of course, but be patient.” He took a fair bit of time making a cup of tea. This time, I indulged his offer of my own cup, feeling rather parched. We both took seats in his lavish armchairs.

“Now, Marshal, the journal.” He produced it from a coat pocket, passing it into my hand. “A fascinating read, to be sure. Though I’m not quite sure what to make of it all.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired, sipping the tea and recoiling at the foul taste. Though I was very thirsty, so I continued to drink it.

“Some of the details of this journey make note of symbology and mysticism in which I am no expert, and I won’t claim to understand all of it. For all my reading and scholarship, I am a botanist and wordsmith. Mythology is not my area of expertise.”

“Well, is there anything specific you can tell me about what you read?” I started to really dislike the taste of the tea, but I was already committed to finishing the dreadful cup of drink.

“It’s much the same as any explorer’s journal I’ve ever read. Magrath and Stockton, two very close friends, wanted to see how far South our little world goes. They started gathering supplies and people in the city of Ambrose.”

Ambrose is one of the larger cities in the Nightlands, sitting comfortably between a series of iron mines and oil wells, a port, and a cave-oak forest. It was an ideal place for shipping and receiving supplies, as its port connected to the ocean that ran along the Eastern Undercoast. It came as no surprise that a pair of wealthy explorers would shore up their numbers there.

“To skip the boring logistical information and uneventful travelling, I’ll tell you that they headed south from Dusk’s End.”

I remained silent. Dusk’s End was more than a thousand miles south of here, and was the last stop before one arrived into the Deep South. I’ve heard tell of dangerous things that live in the dark past that city. He went on to detail some of what he read, skipping over parts that seemed of no use.

“… Though,” He began to conclude, “I believe that Jacob Pellon, the man who wrote this book, went a bit mad during the journey. I’m afraid it gets more and more disjointed as it goes on, or at least that’s how it seems to me. He does make quite many references to the Hitch, in the later pages of the book. Includes some primitive symbols that are vaguely reminiscent of what I’ve seen are used today by the Heywood Disciples.

“Like I said, I’m no expert in religion and mythology. Frankly, I believe they’re one and the same, most days.” A viewpoint I personally happened to share. “However, I do know a man who is. An old friend of mine, lives down in Ambrose. He’s an expert on all things Heywoodite, knows their history like it was his own. He’d be able to better elucidate what all this talk means. Marshall, my boy… Care to do old Ephraim a favor, and bring this book to him?”

My eyes widened, and not just because I finally finished the last of the damn mushroom tea.

“You really mean it, sir?”

He nodded, smiling.

“I know you’ve never been outside of Gravert’s Hollow, as I know you always wanted to do. And nearing twenty-three, you’re still plenty young. You’re more able to make the trip than I am,” seeing the look on my face, he stopped me. “and don’t worry. I’ll have my best employees watching your store while you’re gone. Believe me, if your father had the chance himself, he would’ve done the same.”

I hugged the elder bookkeeper, beaming with an energy I hadn’t had in a while. I thanked him profusely for the opportunity.

Eventually, we had to part ways, and I made my way to my own house, book in hand, ready for what would come next.

It was the same house I’d lived in my entire life. A small, two-bedroom affair up the road from the General Store, halfway between it and a small restaurant that dealt in freshly-hunted cuisine. You could always smell the restaurant before you could see it, since most of the animals dwelling in the dark stank like the dickens – A smell similar to a mixture between fish and musk.

Today was definitely the fourth day of the week, as that was the day they served cave-cattle, six-legged blind creatures that, while usually found wild, could also be tamed for use as pack animals. They also smelled horrendous when cooked, which meant that I fumbled for my house key with one hand and clamped the other hand across my face. Getting inside provided some much-needed relief from the smell, though it still pervaded everything.

My house was fairly well-lit, with an oil lamp on each wall in the living room / kitchen combination. I tended to all seven lamps in the house before beginning preparations for my journey. In two days, as per usual, a trade caravan would come down from Coal Port on the return trip to Rockhammer. I’d be joining them as they left.

This meant travelling on the Casper Trail, a poorly-maintained road that ran the forty-or-so miles between towns.

I packed a fair bit of supplies, even though the trip with a decent caravan should only take a day or two. Four jars of jam, a loaf of black peasant bread, dried mushrooms, and salted cattle jerky. I packed four days’ worth of clothes, including a leather greatcoat my father wore for hunting. A hand lantern and three cans of oil, topped with handles for being clipped to a rucksack.

Lastly, I grabbed my father’s blunderbuss, mounted above the hearth in the living room. It was a flintlock gun, with a brass barrel and smooth-finished cave-oak stock. Along with it was a still-dry powderhorn of black powder, and a bag with two or three pounds of lead shot, both of which I made sure to pack.

Once everything was ready, I took to my bed.

Right on time, two days later, the caravan sidled into town to stop for supplies. I let one of Ephraim’s workers, now manning my store, assist them with that.

The whole group consisted of two large wooden carriages, each pulled by a team of four adult cave-cattle. All four sides of the carriages were mounted with lanterns, and the left and right sides each had three circular murder-holes for firing at anything outside of the wagon. The caravan was commanded by the driver of the lead wagon, a gruff, old man by the name of Shamal. I’d met him before, enough times for him to know my face.

“Marshall, isn’t it?” He asked as I approached, my large rucksack on my back.

“That’s correct.”

“What’s with the pack?”

“I’ve got a proposition for you, good sir.” I put on my best salesman voice.

“Let me guess… You’ve got to go somewhere, correct?” I nodded in response. “And you’ll pay your way to get there, right?” Another nod. I had planned on spending money anyway. The older man smirked.

“That’s perfectly fine by me. I don’t see enough new faces on these roads as it is. It’d be good to have some fresh blood with us.”

He instructed me to set my belongings inside the lead carriage. It was very cramped, filled with everything from food to bullets. Up towards the front was a trio of small cots bolted to the floor, enough to have three people sleeping while the remaining three continued to run the carriage.

Here’s a short something based on the dream I had. I’d like to call it the Wallachia League AU. Just something to test if I could make it work. Hope you all enjoy! (I’ll also reblog this in the morning since it’s so late right now).

My name is Claude Grey. It was the 22nd of April, 2032.

I had to bring her coffee. That would be the seventh time that day.

To be fair, it has been a really long day. A very long day. Her Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper, Sir Integra Fairbrook Wingates Hellsing, had been overseeing one of the largest anti-terrorism crackdowns in half a decade.

Four werewolf dens in London’s “Full Moon District” had been raided. Producing, amongst other things, forty illegal assault weapons fully-loaded with silver ammunition, a cache of explosives, illegal drugs, illegal anti-surveillance hardware, plans of attack, stakes, crosses. Including their leader, a prodigiously-tall, silver-haired and red-eyed individual who refused to speak no matter the pressure we put on him.

I’d seen him before, both in and out of work, but I politely held my tongue at the meeting when he and his cohorts were paraded in front of the precinct. The display was all part of the farcical dog-and-pony show to make it look like the city of London, capitol of His Majesty’s great United Kingdom, actually gave two shits about the Mysticals living within her borders. Realistically speaking, these men would be quietly released in the dead of the night in about a month, sans their illegal armaments, and allowed to continue whatever they had planned so long as they don’t get caught and they don’t involve humans.

Mysticals, of course, being the name collectively assigned by the governments of the United Nations forty years ago to refer to any and all individuals who would formerly be considered supernatural. It included, amongst others, vampires, werewolves, wraiths, zombies, fae, dryads, naiads, centaurs, kappas, djinn, selkies, cyclopes, banshees, and dullahans.

The majority of normal humans don’t give a damn about any of them, or they favor the more “peaceful” species, the ones who don’t traditionally require feeding on humans.

Vampires, werewolves, and all of the more “dangerous” ones in the public eye?

They get spat on. Hated. Hunted.

Y’know, vampires and werewolves aren’t legally allowed within two kilometers of London’s city center? And that vampire nightclubs and werewolf dens are statistically four times as likely to come under surprise inspection as any other Mystical hangout? Or that murders involving only Mysticals don’t get investigated?

And it’s not just the United Kingdom, it’s the same everywhere, save for the countries further north. The U.S., Germany, South America. Russia’s the worst.

Sir Integra is more level-headed than most. All she wants to do is make sure nobody blows anything up.

So here I was, at nearly midnight, bringing coffee to a woman who’s been running off a mixture of caffeine and sheer force of will for nearly five days. The Loyal Assistant Watchdog to His Majesty’s Loyal Peacekeeper. That’s what they call me. I feel some of the respect people reserve for Sir Integra got rubbed off on me by association.

I set the cup down on her desk, keeping a cup in my own hands. I had offered to stay behind to fill out paperwork as usual, so my day was running just as long as her own.

“Here you are, Sir. Yemeni, two-“ I started, but she interrupted me.

“Yes, yes, two sugars, two spoons of cream, like always. Thank you, Mr. Grey.”

I nodded dutifully. “Sorry for the interruption, sir. I’ll get back to work.”

And I had to. There were three three-inch-thick stacks of paperwork on my desk, only half of which had actually been completed. It was all the same paperwork, to be filled in triplicate. One hand-filled copy to be kept on-site, one hand-filled copy to be sent out to His Majesty’s government, and one hand-filled copy to be sent to the headquarters of the Royal Mail Service to be copied and distributed nationwide to all departments of the Royal Counter Mystical Terrorism Service.

I normally listened to music when I had this much work to do, but I knew Sir Integra would take offense to that. Especially seeing as it was just us here, that evening. Any movement I made out of line would be objected to, and I hoped for a promotion in the future, so I couldn’t afford to have any blemishes on my record.

Then my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled the thin, encased rectangle from my pocket, as slyly as possible, to see who’s bothering me. The name on the screen catches my eye.

“Evangeline.”

“Hm?” Sir Integra looked up from her desk. I realized I said the name out loud. “What was that, Mr. Grey?”

“It’s a phone call, sir. My, uhhh… My girlfriend. I have to take this.”

She visibly grimaced. “Fine, Mr. Grey. But I’ll need you to return to work the second you’re done, understood?”

“Understood, sir.”

I made my way out into the precinct’s hallway, away from prying ears. I answered the call, keeping my voice low.

“Look, I’ll have to make it quick. Now what reason could you possibly have for calling me right now?”

“Is that any way to talk to your girlfriend, Claude?” Her tone of voice was dripping with sarcasm. Her tendency to find things like that out was starting to make me nervous.

“Okay, ‘Evangeline,’ what’s wrong?”

She giggled softly behind the phone. “I just wanted to say sorry ahead of time, Claudey-waudey~!”

My eyes went wide. I growled into the phone. “The fuck did you do?!”

“You’ll find out soon enough~!” Her singsong-y voice was driving me insane. “I am sorry about all that paperwork, though.”

“Ugh.” I hung up. The second I did, Sir Integra called me back into her office.

Plastered all over the television was news about an attack.

God DAMMIT.

The Wallachian League, as they called themselves. The newest radical pro-vampire group in the country. They’d made themselves a nuisance for the past couple of years. Graffiti, hacking attempts, distributing their radical fliers amongst the various groups in London and the rest of the UK. Never had they escalated this far.

A flaming dump truck had been sent into a house in Yorkshire. Not just any house, but the house of a Member of Parliament who was vocally anti-Mystical. The MP and his wife and children had burned alive in their beds.

“The Wallachian League is claiming full responsibility for this.” Integra talked after minutes of silence. I sigh softly.

“They say their leader is Dracula himself.”

“That’s what every vampire group claims. First it was the Tepes Union, then it was the Fangs of Freedom, then it was Count-down to Equality, the ‘Royal Vampiric Rebels,’ even the… Ugh… Vita-Vegan-Vampires. More likely it’s just some overblown narcissistic vampire who sees himself as Drac’s gift to the world.”

Things were real quiet. For about two weeks.

Then we got the news. Somehow, someone had gotten a hold of information that the Wallachian League was planning to bomb one or more of the trains leading into one of the U.K.’s power plants. Nobody was sure which one. If it was one of the coal or biomass trains, it would start one hell of a big fire. If it was one of the nuclear trains… I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be.

I snuck away to the alley behind the precinct. I had a phone call to make.

“Evangeline?” I spoke into the phone.

“Finally worried, Claudey-waudey~?”

“I know you’ve all been talking about this, but you’re actually going to go through with it?”

Her voice suddenly became fully serious. The most serious I’ve ever heard her.

“Why wouldn’t we? You know we’ve got a message to send to them. Vampires aren’t going to let humans kick us around any longer.”

“No, it’s not that at all. Look, I know you and Lucy can hold your own, just… Please be careful, okay?”

“The job’s done. We set it up a while ago. I’d be more worried about yourself if I were you.”

“Wh… Fuck you say?”

“’Lucy’ found out earlier. Peregrin told us. The Royals have been monitoring all communication in and out of the Service for a long time. They know the both of you have been keeping the heat off of us.”

“They… They know I’ve been helping you?”

A different voice came onto the phone. Much deeper, far more serious.

“Yes. We’ve already extracted Peregrin from Nottinghamshire earlier today. We’re coming to get you. It’s not safe there anymore. Don’t walk. Run.”

I could hear shouting from inside the precinct. It seemed my phone call at such an inopportune time confirmed their suspicions. I had to go.

My car wasn’t far away, but I knew it wasn’t going to work. Parked in the small car park under the precinct, they’d lock it down before I could even get in the vehicle. I had to beat a retreat on foot.

Well, not really a retreat.

The moment those same shouting voices exited the building, I broke into a sprint. The fastest, nastiest sprint I’ve ever managed in my life. Sir Integra’s voice broke out amongst the crowd.

“Grey!” Gunshots punctuated her words. “Grey, you traitorous bastard!” More gunshots. “Don’t you run!”

That wasn’t like her. My “betrayal” had to have seriously pissed her off for the normally-calm woman to just start shooting.

I suddenly felt a force, like somebody had kicked me in the back, shoving me to the ground. It only stalled me for a second before I was back up and moving again.

Dodge to the left, around the bollards and cars, under signs and ladders. Bob here, weave there. Use pedestrians as cover. They’re British, they’re not going to try and stop me.

Every so often I had to stop and let out a few vicious coughs, which I attributed to just being so unaccustomed to moving that fast for any real length of time.

And I swear, I had to have set some sort of record for on-foot speed. There’s no way I didn’t. Sticking to the back alleyways, I managed to get out of Central London in just a few minutes, still trying to hide from the authorities. But it was getting harder to move, I just couldn’t catch my breath. As I stopped behind a skip, somewhere in one of London’s more run-down areas, I figured out why.

Investigating the strange, warm wetness running down my back, I moved my hand there. A thick, viscous wetness.

“Oh ssssssshhhhfuck…”

When my hand ran up, and felt the sources, I had to bite back a scream as immense pain shot through my body.

“No… No, no, no… Nonononofucknonono…”

Three bullet holes. One perfectly on the right side of my body. Right in my lung. The others in random spots in my back. They had scarcely missed my spine, but who knows what poor organs they had pierced. No exit wounds. I started coughing again, mixed with a choked sob or two.

I couldn’t die here. I just couldn’t. But I also couldn’t risk moving, not with a bullet in my lung and two more god-knows-where.

More footsteps. Coming closer. There was a soft gasp from a very familiar voice, and a low grunt from another familiar voice.

I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Hey, Evan… Sorry. Hey, Seras. Hey, Alucard. I got, uhh… I got a bit messed up, I’m sorry to say.” I let out a pained chuckle. It hurt to laugh.

To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t hear what they talked about as they conversed amongst themselves. I could vaguely hear Seras’ question, but heard it better once she grabbed my shoulders to demand my attention.

“I said…” She repeated. “Are. You. A virgin?”

“What? Oh…” I grumbled softly. “Yeah, of course I am. I’m scarce two years out of uni. Had no time for any of that nonsense.”

I couldn’t really think straight at the time. Blood loss will do that to a person.

Alucard piped up, his baritone voice grabbing my attention more easily.

“It seems you have a choice, then…” He spoke. “Death. Or undeath.”

Looking up at him, I spoke back. “Something about a Robert Frost poem, right? Two roads diverged in a wood, I took the one less traveled, that’s made all the difference?” I pushed my cracked glasses up on my nose. “I’ll take the road less traveled if that means I get to wake up again, tomorrow.”

The decision made, they nodded. I felt a pair of glove-covered hands grasp my head and neck, watched through the corner of my eye as Seras opened her fang-filled maw. The last thing I remembered of that day was the sensation of her fangs clamping down on my neck.

But I woke up again, the next night.

Here’s a short little something for my friend @mind-full-of-fog-and-flowers, who’s not been having such a great day today. It’s a continuation of her contribution to @bookwormmedz‘s Hellsing thread! Hope this helps make things better!

Jayce had sat down, against the tree, praying for the safety of herself and others. There was Medz, herself… Who else ended up here? Medz and the vampire Alucard, having seen her and heard her prayers, had moved towards her. But they stopped. There was a ruffling sound, Alucard’s arm moved to block the shorter woman. Footsteps in the graveyard, behind the tree Jayce sat against.

“Kiss the son lest he be angry, an’ ye perish from the way, when his wrath is kindled but ae little…”

“We have to go, human.” Not humans. Human. Of course she’d be left alone. But she never looked up, never stopped praying as events unfolded around her. The heavy footfalls walked beside her, and the sound of a familiar Scottish accent filled the air.

“Shame ye hae ta run, Vampire! Perhaps another time, then!”

Jayce stopped, turning to look at the source of the voice. It couldn’t be.

It was.

The heavy grey coat. Catholic clerical shirt. Giant rosary necklace and rounded glasses, mounted on a head topped by short-cut blonde hair. Alexander Anderson.

Her favorite.

She had to suppress her surprise as the priest bent forward, offering his hand in front of her. It took a moment or two of processing before she realized he wanted to help her to her feet. Jayce grasped the far-too-big hand and the Father helped her to her feet with ease.

“Ye’ve been prayin’, hae ye not?” He smiled widely, the same smile she felt he gave anyone who prayed in front of him.

“Umm… Yes, I was.”

“Fer yersel’?”

“No, Father. For my friend…s, my friends. We’re kind of stuck… Here, stuck here. It’s a long story.”

“… Ae exhort therefore, tha’, first o’ all, supplications, prayers, intercessions, and givin’ o’ thanks, be made fer all men; Fer kings, and fer ae tha’ are in authority; that we may lead ae quiet an’ peaceable life, in all godliness and honesty… Amen.”

“P-pardon, Father Anderson?”

“Why that’s First Tim…” His eyes narrowed. At least, she assumed they narrowed. It was REALLY hard to tell behind those glasses. His voice darkened, quieting down just the slightest bit. “It’s First Timothy, Chapter Two, verses One through Two. Mind tellin’ me, how d’yae know my name?”

“I told you, Father Anderson, it’s a very long story.”

“Assume ae’ve got time, then.”

So she began. How she read that post on Tumblr. How she’d fallen asleep, woken up in a graveyard to the sight of her friend Medz conversing with the No-Life King himself. How she worried about any of her other friends who might have ended up in this hellscape of a world, sat against the tree, and began to pray when he arrived. She told him just enough for him to grasp the concept of how she understood his name.

The Father didn’t seem to buy much of it.

“Well, yer’ certainly nae from around here, an’ it seems yer’ tellin’ the truth about yer friends, but I dinnae buy any ae that nonsense about an… A-ni-me.” The word was foreign on his tongue. In any other context it would’ve been comical to see the six-foot-ten priest struggle with the concept.

“Ne’er the less, ye should nae be out here this late. Nae with… Things like tha’ vampire runnin’ around. Ye’d be safest with me, an’ the Vatican. Under tha protection o’ the Holy Catholic Church.”

Jayce couldn’t deny that. The offer of guaranteed safety, in the unforgiving world of Hellsing. That was an offer no smart mortal could pass up. She nodded, agreeing with Father Anderson, and followed him as he walked. She still wasn’t quite sure where they were. Somewhere in an old, old part of England, from the looks of the graves in the cemetery.

She asked why the Father was here, of all places. He mumbled quietly as they walked, something about being sent to investigate the threat of a vampire in the area, something that seemed to be confirmed by the sight of Alucard. He brought her along, meeting up with a trio of Iscariot operatives who were very confused to see him bringing an entirely new individual in tow. He explained the situation, how she was to be put under their protection until such time as she and her friends could be safely reunited and sent back wherever they came from.

He’d personally watch over her if he had to, to make sure she was safe. It was the least he could do, given her confused and uncertain circumstances.

It was a long car ride to the airport, during which Jayce and Anderson talked. A lot. About himself, herself, religion, who he was, who she was, their favorite foods. Anything to pass the time and learn more about her favorite character.

They boarded a Vatican-owned Gulfstream jet, an astoundingly luxurious (and highly ostentatious) mode of travel. It was at this point Jayce realized how sleepy she actually was. She hadn’t technically had any sleep, since she went from eyes-closed to fully-awake in the span of about a second, when she was dropped into this world.

And she slept like a baby.

When she awoke several hours later, she sat up with a powerful yawn. Her eyes still closed, Jayce expected to see the familiar sight of her bedroom. When she opened them…

“It wasn’t a dream.”

“Pardon?” Anderson sat up in his chair, evidently on the verge of dozing off himself.

“I thought I was dreaming. I’m… Still here.”

“Well ae course ye are!”

It took another several hours to land outside of Vatican City, then to ride in. There it was. St. Ferdinand’s Orphanage, the stomping grounds of Alexander Anderson and the home to a significant portion of Iscariot forces.

She stepped out of the car, marveling at the size of the building. It was so much bigger than it looked in the manga.

“This is where ye’ll be stayin’ for tha ferseeable future.” Anderson spoke as he walked. “Dinnae worry, ae’m sure ye’ll fi’ right in. Tha children’ll love ye!” He grinned, gesturing as they walked. He gave her a brief tour, cleared things up with those in charge.

Anderson was talking to Maxwell at the moment.

Jayce was sitting outside the room, looking around her. Big, brick walls. Lots of protection. Knowing that Anderson himself was scarcely a shout away.

She supposed there were worse places to be right now.

@fatheralexanderfanderson Here’s a short little bit of writing from the perspective of Iscariot, finding out Father Anderson’s become a vampire. I certainly hope it’s to your liking!

“St. Ferdinand’s Orphanage is under attack!” ranked pretty much near the bottom on the list of things the Iscariot Operative expected to hear when he woke up this morning. Straight out of bed to hear the alert that one of the most secure locations in the Vatican had taken a hit. Nobody quite knew just what was going on.

Communications were jammed quite badly, with a thousand different calls going in and out from a thousand different operatives in a hundred different locations.

“Somebody get Maxwell on the horn!”

“Are the children safe?”

“Where’s Anderson?”

Anderson and two squads of Iscariot agents were all that had been stationed in the orphanage. Usually, that was all that would ever be needed to hold off any threats to the childrens’ safety.

Maxwell was off conversing with Section III: Matthew agents, somewhere deep in the Vatican.

Yumiko and Heinkel had been elsewhere, performing their holy duties somewhere not privy to the Iscariot rank-and-file.

The Operative and roughly a platoon of others had been sent to the Orphanage as part of a second wave of reinforcements. The first wave had assisted in evacuating the children and the Matron, as well as any surviving non-combatant personnel. All survivors from the first wave rendezvoused with his platoon, and they established a perimeter around the Orphanage.

All of the children were shuttled into vans, taken as far from St. Ferdinand’s Orphanage as they could go. The Matron had told them something about a rat infestation, the Operative couldn’t hear over the commotion inside.

God Almighty and Lord Jesus, whatever was going on inside can’t have been pretty. All security systems were down, and nobody could reach Father Anderson or any of the members of the two squads that went in with him. The Matron and a technical specialist were working to reestablish communications with inside, though she was having much more luck in this endeavor.

He didn’t like not knowing what was going on. Nobody did. Especially not the Matron. The stream of expletives coming from the smaller woman’s mouth as she worked were… Let’s just say the Operative was glad the children weren’t there to hear it.

It had taken several hours, but they were able to get some of the security cameras back up and networked again. They had been severely damaged in the attack, only four or five cameras of the original several dozen were still working. What these cameras were showing was… Not good.

The interior of the orphanage was a mess. There was blood everywhere. And… The bodies. Not a single one of the rank-and-file troops sent in with Anderson was still breathing. And as for Anderson…

Oh, Heavens above.

The red eyes. The fangs.

“Someone… Someone tell Bishop Maxwell right NOW!” It had been the Matron who spoke. She singled out someone to tell the Bishop the bad news and jumped into action, barking orders left and right. Mostly to get hammers, nails, and Bibles. The platoon-and-a-half of Iscariot agents began nailing pages above windows, doors, anywhere Anderson could conceivably exit the building.

The way the Matron talked about it, this wasn’t the first time he’s lost control and become vampirized. Something to do with his nanomachines. But this was the first time this had happened in the confines of the Orphanage.

It had taken less than half an hour to cover the windows and doors of the building. Now they just had to sit and wait. For two days.

An hour after the call had been made to Maxwell, they were informed that the Swiss Guard had been fully mobilized to secure the Pope and the College of Cardinals. The second one, which sent a chill down the spines of all present, was that the Papal Knights of the Military Order of Santo Stefano di Toscana were on standby if the situation got bad enough.

They all hoped against hope that the situation wouldn’t escalate that far. The Papal Knights were, next to Father Anderson himself, the premier vampire hunting force of the Vatican. These guys didn’t get called in unless the situation was bad enough to demand a full-fledged crusade.

But the thought of what Father Anderson could do, were he to escape the building… It would certainly call for that kind of force to put him down.

A shout came from inside. It was his voice, Anderson’s voice. Loud enough to be heard clearly even through the walls of the Orphanage.

“Children! Nothin’ tae fear from me! Come le’ me out an’ we’ll all have ae good laugh about it!” A collective shudder went through the bodies of all of the Iscariot agents present to hear that.

As the evening turned to night, they could still hear him shouting. Shouting to be let out, shouting for others to come in. And the blaspheming. They decided as a whole that Father Anderson, when he came back to his senses, could NEVER be allowed to find out the kind of things he’d been saying as a vampire. The sheer shock of it, they were sure the man’s soul couldn’t take it.

A vampire Anderson. And they had to wait and stand guard for two days.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this was going to be a long two days.

bookwormmedz:

So I wanted to do a thing with the Hellsing Fandom, and I imagined this post becoming a huge thread. I want as many people of the fandom to see this and have their hand at it! So, you can write some dialogue, a short story excerpt or do a drawing or comic of if you got suddenly transported into the Hellsing world.

BONUS if you get transported exactly from the place and whatever you’re doing at the time of reading this!

I’ll start you guys off with mine!

Just a moment ago, I was sure I was sitting on the sofa, typing up a post onto Tumblr…

There was a great, big shadow of a mausoleum of a building cast over my head. The wind blew strong as I found my way to my feet off the ground. I was still dressed in my t-shirt and tracksuits that I wore at home. The weather wasn’t kind, and I found myself holding my arms as I turned to inspect the area. I tried to keep calm, that was paramount.

Shadows continued to flicker, almost too fast for my eyes to register. Before I knew it, I heard the sound of a creature unlike anything I heard before, and arms grab me with astounding force.

“It would be better if you didn’t fight back. I only need to drink..”

I shut my eyes, knowing that I was most probably going to die without even knowing who my assailant was. Except, I didn’t and I heard a massive gun shot reverberating across the expanse of the area around me.

I opened my eyes to look up at an individual I only knew by one name.

He peered down at me, unsure of what to say.

“Please, don’t go getting yourself killed. Don’t humans know not to be out at this time of night?”

That’s right, it was Alucard, no doubt. What I needed to know was, how did I even get into the Hellsing world? That, and many questions, I hoped, would be answered.

Thought I’d go ahead and add my contribution because I love this idea!

I’m not gonna lie, I screamed. One minute I was there, the next I wasn’t. Pulled away from my computer, from the episode of Monk I was watching on TV. Away from reading my friend Medz’s post on Tumblr. It all happened so fast.

The next thing I remembered was the fall. Just a couple of feet, but I hit the ground and smacked my head on the ground.

“Und zat’s vhen I said… Vhat ze hell?!”

I groaned, rubbing my head, now complete with a splitting pain in it. I didn’t even want to open my eyes.

That’s when I smelled the food. The reeking stench of blood. I heard the German accents around me and the clicking of numerous guns that were doubtlessly pointed at me. I let out a ragged sigh. A chair scraped across the floor somewhere to my left.

“Who ze hell are you, und how did you get here?”

“Buddy…” I groaned, rubbing my head. “I’m asking myself the same question right now.”

I tried to open my eyes. The light was blinding at first, aggravating my headache further. I sat up, slowly. Still in my pajamas. But of course. Then I looked around me.

A massive dining table, lined on all sides by soldiers in the middle of eating. Eating blood, by the looks of it. Their uniforms… Oh… So that’s where I was. Hellsing.

And I was there. With Millennium.

My survival chances dropped low enough that I’m pretty sure I could actually hear them hitting rock bottom.

I turned to my right, standing up and gently pushing the long barrel of the Mauser pistol out of my face.

“Easy there, Tall Dark and Handsome.” I gave the werewolf a smirk. “At least buy me dinner before you threaten to kill me.” I was pretty sure that just pissed him off. Oh well. Worth a shot before I get eaten.

I turned to my left, to face the standing figure of the Major, face stained with barbecue sauce from the ribs in front of him. Heh. For once I was taller than someone.

“Look, Major, speaking fat guy to fat guy, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m no threat to you or this little outfit you got here. Far from it, y’know?”

I wasn’t exactly a smooth-talker. I just needed to keep him and his entourage from killing me long enough to figure out a way back home. Here’s hoping I could let them think I was useful enough to keep alive.

Hellsing: Forest Fire Masterpost

I’ve come to realize that if anyone new to my blog wants to read the fanfic I keep talking about, or anyone wants to re-read it, it might help if I make a masterpost linking to all of the Updates. This post will be updated whenever I post more for the fic, but I hope this makes everything easier to locate and read.

Claude x Pip Fluff Headcanons please!

This made me super happy to write. I’m so glad you like Claude enough to request stuff for him and Pip!

If Claude and Pip were together, Claude would absolutely be all about his new boyfriend all the time. Even during their patrol duties in the Manor, Claude would practically beg Integra to schedule his patrols in conjunction with Pip’s. If one or the other has to be sent out on a mission, Claude volunteers to tag along for “support” (really he just wants to protect the perfectly-capable Pip).

Notably, Seras thinks it’s absolutely adorable how hard Claude was crushing on Pip when they first met, and acts sort of like an older sister with regards to their relationship. Integra’s fascinated by their reciprocal attraction, but supports it both because she (to other people) thinks that kind of comradery will do wonders for their fighting capacity, and because she (privately) is glad to see the blonde soldier happy because she still blames herself for the circumstances leading to his family’s demise.

Pip is completely unaccustomed to this kind of attention from anybody. It would definitely take some getting used to, as he’s never had experience with somebody who so eagerly fawns over him and wants to be with him every minute of the day. It flatters him tremendously, he’s just not used to it.

It’s also Claude’s first relationship with anyone, even at almost 22 years old, so he’s super awkward all the time. He’s always taking pictures with or of Monsieur Bernadotte and showing them to people.

I headcanon that it wouldn’t be Pip’s first relationship, but would certainly be his first one with another guy. He’s every bit as out of his element as Claude is, but he tries to hide his awkwardness by being super smooth and making it seem like he’s always got everything under control, with his suave Frenchness. More than once he’d have to turn away to hide his blushes as Claude hits him with a compliment out of nowhere.

They’d be very good at balancing each other out. Pip’s the more realistic, worldly, well-traveled, boisterous, experienced mercenary with unequalled skill in wordplay and talking to his partners. Claude’s the fairly sheltered, quiet, anxious, nervous vampire-hunting soldier who can see a broad-strokes version of the future.

Claude is O B S E S S E D with Pip’s hair. He’s always playing with it, running his fingers through it, even gently toying with Pip’s braid when they’re in the hallway together. Claude always asks the mercenary to teach him how to braid his own hair, and offers to braid it for Pip after he learns how.

Kisses between the two are even more awkward than their normal interactions. Claude is a full head shorter than Pip, so the mercenary always has to lean down to some degree if Claude’s gonna kiss him or vice-versa.

Our short little soldier is also incredibly protective of Pip. Since Claude can see some future events, anything that has a possibility of leading to Pip’s harm means he’ll do anything he can to prevent it from happening. Pip doesn’t really understand this for the first couple of months, so he’s frequently confused when, before being sent on an otherwise-routine mission, he’s getting accompanied by Claude and a pair of soldiers from his squadron.

They’re also the perfect teachers for each other. Pip teaches Claude French, and all sorts of information about locales and cultures from across the world that he’s never been able to experience. Claude teaches the mercenary more simple things like cooking, how to fight supernatural creatures, and all sorts of little known facts about mythological beings that he only knows because Hellsing’s had to deal with them in the past.

( @herushingu gonna tag you in this cuz you seemed to like Claude)

Hey I mean if you offer it, I’m happy about any Anderson scenario. SFW or NSFW whatever you prefer. But only if you want to write it haha. :D

Hey! Thank you for sending this ask, and for working out specifics with me! This scenario went a bit longer than I’d expected, so I hope you enjoy!

This is going to be buried under a cut, not because it’s NSFW, but because there’s themes of jealousy and a Yandere!Anderson, which might not be everyone’s cup of tea. Please heed the warning if you’re sensitive to stuff like this.

Anderson loved his partner. They were sweet, wonderful with the children of the orphanage, their knowledge of the Bible nearly rivalled his own. That was why he worried about them constantly.

Not about their safety, oh no. The orphanage sat comfortably near the Vatican, one of the most heavily-defended locations in the world. His partner’s safety would be guaranteed.

No, what worried him was losing them to someone else.

The priest was getting on in age, that much was true. Though his regeneration kept him looking younger, he was no longer the energetic youth he used to be. Perhaps they’d want someone their age, who would be able to keep up with them when he no longer could. Maybe they’d be looking for someone who didn’t kill for the Vatican, who wasn’t such a dangerous individual.

These thoughts troubled him constantly, drawing his mind away from more immediate tasks. More than once had he been in the middle of a mission, a thousand miles away from the Vatican, and his thoughts had gotten consumed with the thought of his beloved being cradled in someone else’s arms, his own self all but forgotten in his absence.

Anderson prayed for guidance, all the time. He prayed more for this than he’d prayed for anything else in his life. Eyes filled with tears, he’d walk the gardens of the orphanage, or standing behind the pulpit after mass, or seated on his bed, hands clenched together tight enough to rip his gloves, chanting the same prayer under his breath. He’d ask for God’s grace and guiding hand to lead him through these trying times, to find the faith in his partner he so desperately needed. It never seemed to really help, these thoughts were always on his mind.

He never told his partner how he felt, how worried he was that he’d lose them. God’s Assassin, the Angel Dust, the Regenerator, could not summon up the courage to talk through this with his partner.

Things got worse when the new student priest arrived. He was their age, far more beautiful than Anderson. Clean-shaven, hair as red as a cherry. His voice was even more beautiful.

And he was getting entirely too close to them.

It started innocently enough. The occasional lingering glance from the scarlet-haired priest, lasting just a little too long when Anderson’s partner walked away. Then came the gifts, anonymous presents of flowers. They assumed the gifts were from Anderson, but the priest knew the truth.

Then it was the talking, the offers of dinner. They were too innocent to know what the scarlet-haired priest was alluding to, they were far too naive to think he meant anything other than an innocuous lunch.

The final straw for Anderson was the kiss. The red-haired priest, tired of their naivety, stole a kiss in the garden at dusk. Anderson had seen through the window of his room. His partner backed away, flustered, excused themselves before fleeing into the building. That would not happen again. He’d make sure of it.

His partner was his, nobody else’s.

Just as quickly as the cherry-haired priest had arrived, he’d vanished. Bishop Maxwell explained, in the company of Anderson and his partner, that the young student priest had been excommunicated and exiled from the Vatican, though he was remarkable scarce on details. He didn’t relent anything further when pressed for why the priest was excommunicated.

But Anderson knew the truth.

In the middle of the night, Anderson and Maxwell, accompanied by a small cadre of Iscariot guards, had entered the young priest’s room. Maxwell read him the charges, a lengthy list of pure lies, enumerating sins ranging from selling indulgences, to heresy, to the sin of fornication. The young priest dropped to his knees, begging for forgiveness, begging the church officials to see that these charges were untrue. But they didn’t listen.

Of course, the guards didn’t know the truth, but Maxwell did. Maxwell, Anderson’s closest confidant, the only one who knew how Anderson felt about his partner. The Bishop understood entirely, and was willing to grant this favor to his old friend.

In the darkest hour of the night, they’d transported the priest to a bridge, overlooking the deepest body of water near the Vatican. Though bound and gagged, the priest screamed, terrified. They’d tied his legs to a concrete block. Anderson sighed, praying. Praying for the young priest’s soul to find salvation in the afterlife, mostly, before burying one of his bayonets in the cherry-haired priest’s chest.

The terrified student priest grew silent, and they threw his body into the river as though it were garbage to be dumped. Anderson cleaned his blades as the Iscariot members cleaned up the blood.

He’d do it again, if he had to. Nobody was going to be with his partner but him.

Nobody.

I’m here to Feng Shui your blog to ask you for some fluff headcanons for visiting the theme park with The Captain? :)

OKAY, THIS BOY, THE PUREST GUY EVER IN A THEME PARK! He’s been so sequestered away from the world for the past few decades that he’s never had the opportunity to visit one!

Imagine his quiet awe at all the lights, the sights, the smells, the sounds. You can’t see it in his face but you can feel it in his eyes. He’s so excited to be there, it’s unreal. At first, the sheer number of people kind of overwhelm him, but having you nearby helps calm him down and stay relaxed.

Those rigged games that are always super hard to win and get a prize from? No problem for the Captain. You would be walking away with armfuls of stuffed animals if you let this guy play these games.

On the flip side, imagine winning a stuffed animal for him! The look in his eyes when you win him a giant stuffed bear or dog, a huge stuffed animal nearly as big as he is. Of course he doesn’t say anything, but you can just FEEL him thinking “HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO CARRY THIS?!”

The Captain is always slightly disappointed by the thrill rides. Never because they’re not thrilling, but because every single thrill ride is too short for him. The most massive rollercoasters are too short for the poor man, so expect to be riding a single ride half a dozen times or more until he’s decided he wants to move on.

Captain is in love with the food, no matter how unhealthy it may be. Fried foods, funnel cakes, hot dogs, cotton candy, it doesn’t matter to him as he continuously eats between rides.

No matter how many times you’ve taken him to a theme park, every visit is like the first visit in terms of his awe and love of all of the park around him. At least once a week you’d have to visit, that’s how much he loves it.

Imagine spending the entire day there, long enough that both of you are fully exhausted when you finally leave, and the sleepy puppy that is the Captain is struggling to keep his eyes open while up to his neck in stuffed animals that form that day’s haul of fluffiness.

Haha good stuff here. Can I request jealousy headcanons for Hellsing?

These were surprisingly tough to write, these are headcanons I hadn’t really thought of before today. Hope you enjoy!

Alucard:

Is probably the most overtly, aggressively jealous of the Hellsing members. If he feels like his S/O is looking elsewhere, true or not, he’ll be sure to reassert himself to them. Especially possessive, frequently reminds his S/O that they are his, and he’s theirs, even if this causes confusion when they don’t understand he’s jealous.

Integra:

Very passive-aggressive. Would probably order extra surveillance on her S/O, just to keep eyes on them, but nothing too intrusive. However, she’d probably realize when she’s gone too far and would have the state of mind to sit her S/O down and explain her feelings to try and get a grasp of how they really feel.

Seras:

Quiet, sad. Likely has constant thoughts that her S/O changed their minds about being with her, not wanting to be with a vampire that could kill them so easily. Probably constantly worried about accidentally doing something that would scare away her S/O, so every time she has to drink blood or fight, she’d be desperate to ensure that they’re somewhere they can’t see her. Wouldn’t confront her partner or talk about how she feels, instead she would probably internalize everything excessively.

Walter:

His expression of jealousy depends on who he feels his partner is interested in. If he feels he’s losing his partner to a fellow human, he would likely express a similar internalized anxiety to Seras; feeling that his partner wants someone younger than him, that they’re not really interested in someone as old as he is, whether it’s true or not. If he feels like he’s losing them to a being such as Alucard, he would become very aggressive and competitive, deadset on besting this being in a fight to prove to his S/O that he’s really the one for them, not anyone else.

Pip:

Likely highly disappointed if he feels like his partner is looking to someone else. Would try very hard to keep them with him, including all sorts of romantic gestures that would seem out-of-nowhere to his S/O who’s clueless of his feelings. He fully well understands that things like this happen, but he really doesn’t want to lose his S/O, so he’ll do everything in his power to prove his love to them in the hopes they won’t leave.