Disclaimer: Clearly I don’t own Hellsing.

 

A/N:  It’s been a while since I updated.  You might want to re-read the previous chapter

 

or so.  

 

 

 

Pan’s New Flute

 

Chapter 6:  The Eye of Ra

 

 

Mine is a heart of carnelian, crimson as murder on a holy day.

Mine is a heart of corneal, the gnarled roots of a dogwood and the bursting of flowers.

I am the broken wax seal on my lover's letters.

I am the phoenix, the fiery sun, consuming and resuming myself.

I will what I will.

Mine is a heart of carnelian, blood red as the crest of a phoenix.

 

           

A deep purring floated softly within the small, gilded room.  Blue and gold paneling on the walls mirrored the temples of ancient Memphis, hieroglyphs painted lovingly beneath various figures solemnly marching in a procession of the dead.  Amongst the static and time-imprisoned figures, a young female with the head of a lioness, appearing deceptively demure, sat behind a veil of pomegranates.  Not entirely Egyptian.  But the symbolism was lovely and, she felt, highly flattering.  And besides, as far as gifts went, it was the thought that counted, right?  The young woman could clearly imagine the thoughts behind such a beautiful mural.  Fear of a fate worse than death was likely at the top of the list. 

            In the center of the room, a fire burned warmly, its flames licking shadows against the young woman’s face.  Her skin was ivory, smooth as porcelain and softer than a newborn’s.  Ebony hair flowed past her waist in dotingly curled ringlets.  She flexed her hands gently against her knee, where she knelt on a nest of pillows and silken throws.  Gold rings adorned her long, slender fingers.  Never silver.  She abhorred silver.  Not that the element could harm her at this point, but really it was the principle of the thing.  And she was all about principles.  Standards to be kept.  A particular image that must be maintained.

            Her stark green eyes hardened as they swept past the pitiful old man shivering at her feet.  For a vampire, his skin already showed surprising signs of advancing age.  His chalky skin sagged and hung in lumps around his neck.  Bags swung beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.  His stone gray hair flopped flimsily across his white skull.  Slobber dribbled from his mouth, foaming against his lips.  His very existence disgusted her. 

            She regarded him as one who promised dire retribution for faults not his own. 

            “Thank you for delivering my message, Liam.”  She spoke softly, her words caressing him with all the gentleness of a lover’s lips.  Liam shook in fear and avoided her eyes.

            “To be in the presence of one so mighty,” Liam spoke, “and beautiful, is thanks enough, my Lady.”  She smiled.  Flattery always amused her.  She knew she was beautiful; though she couldn’t see for herself, she felt it within her, knew it when she thought of herself and when she looked in the eyes of her followers and victims.

           “Do go on, about how you live and bleed to serve me.  How you adore the very ground I walk upon.”  She sneered.  Liam made to speak, but one look silenced him.

            “Tell me about her.”  Liam looked up at the order.  His queen’s eyes had taken on a faint, golden glow.  “Tell me what Integra did.  What did she say?”

            “She, eh—” Liam tried to recall the madness of the fight.  For once, he regretted his cowardice.  “Her servant hid her, my Queen.”  Swallowing on a dry mouth, he continued.  “As your followers made their presence known, Alucard hid her.  I don’t know how.  It was as if she disappeared.  Then, Alucard,” Liam paused, remembering the ghastly sight.  “Alucard—attacked the other vampires, and killed them.  I left after that.”  He dared not look up at her now.  He could feel her anger flowing off her body in waves.  It was almost a tangible weight upon his head.  He felt sick, and could hear her voice in his head, beating upon his mind.

            “She disappoints me.  I underestimated her dependency upon that creature.”  She finally said.  She picked up a mirror, studying the vacant reflection intensely, as though she could somehow see her face in the glass.  “But I know her strength, her beauty like my own.”  Her eyes widened, her mouth forming a half smile, of anticipation, longing.  “She is terrible in her power; beautiful in her hatred and fear.”  Liam cringed, disturbed by the excited gleam in his mistress’ eyes.             

“Forgive me, my Lady, but are you not concerned that your servants were so easily slaughtered?”  Liam asked, then instantly closed his eyes, expected the fatal blow to come at any moment.  Instead, she moved, on her hands and knees to where he knelt, her breasts exposed for him to feast his eyes upon, should he be interested.  She tenderly lifted his chin with one finger, her nail sliding gently against his neck.  Liam whimpered helplessly.  She lingered momentarily along the remaining bruises from his encounter with Alucard. 

            “Why do you ask?”  She purred, her lips close to his, her face slowly moving down to his neck, where she buried her nose.  He shook his head minutely, mouth moving mutely, terrified of her whisper touch.

            “Servants are…” she sighed against his skin.  “Unnecessary.”  She bit hard into his neck, tearing apart the muscle, skin and bone.  Liam didn’t scream; he couldn’t.  A bubbling gust of air escaped his windpipe, and he fell back against the floor.  The woman sat back on her knees and wiped her mouth.  As two silent eunuchs shuffled through the doors, heads bowed, eyes hiding their revulsion and fear, she cleaned herself off with one of the throws.  “I lied.  Without servants, I’d have to clean up your mess.”    

……

            As pleased as Alucard was about his master’s preternatural ability to charm other men into doing her bidding, he was nonetheless bored and more than slightly irritated at having become an errand boy.  And that was how he thought of himself at this moment.  Stalking through the streets of London, following Integra’s utterly enticing scent—fruitlessly, in his mind—to a man he hated, without even knowing him.  Julian Hascross.  A simpering fledgling in the art of hunting the undead, and Integra was soliciting his aid. 

            A cat’s screeching in a nearby window momentarily distracted Alucard.  He thought briefly, again, of consuming animal blood to satiate his desire.  What a paltry substitute.  The memory of fighting the vampires, and the smell of human blood—begging to be drained—swam through his mind.  He had loved every minute of it.  The thrill of the fight, the feel of Integra in his mind—an almost painfully physical touch—and the smell of the human hunters’ blood all nearly drove him mad with desire.  He could feel the cold blood in his veins begin to pound and beat through his body.  He wanted human blood so badly.  Not the bagged, cold, donated blood to be found at the Hellsing Organization.  Fresh, hot, living blood.  Human blood.  He could smell it even now in the deserted streets.  Amidst the foul odor of garbage, food and human waste, he could sense the presence of another close by.  Footsteps clicked softly on the pavement just around the corner.  Alucard’s mouth curved up into a smile. 

            The young man shoved his hands in his pocket, mentally raging against his girlfriend.  They’d had a nasty fight, and he’d left.  He just needed some fresh air.  In accordance with that, he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.  Fuck her.  Fuck her and her stupid security issues.  Fuck her stupid Fred, I know you’re going on behind my back.  His pace increased in his anger.  He could get any girl he wanted.  And had.  He’d never had any shortage of women wanting to shag him.  He smiled in spite.  Teach her a lesson.  Maybe then she’d realize how good she had it with him.  He rounded the corner and stopped abruptly.

            “Oi!  Who the fuck you think you are?  Some sideshow freak?”  The tall man standing before him was dressed outlandishly in a red trench coat and tall black boots.  He didn’t reply to Fred’s snide comment.  Simply stood still in Fred’s path.  “Move out of my way, fucker!  I’m in no mood!” 

            Alucard walked toward him, slowly, giving Fred time to run away.  Part of him hoped the man would run; he’d not had a chase for centuries.  He felt the man’s heartbeat, steadily rising.  Fred’s breathing was erratic, but he didn’t move. 

            “What are you on about, man?”  Fred asked, angrily, though his voice wavered.  Alucard lifted his hands to gently, lovingly, clasp the back of the man’s head, tilting it down to expose the smooth skin on his neck.  Hands grasped Alucard’s coat, simultaneously pushing and holding on.  Fred’s eyes were alight with fear and invitation.  He didn’t think about his girlfriend, or how many other women he’d slept with.  He shook his head, trying to shake off the fog that had closed around his mind.  Alucard bent his head to the man’s neck, sniffing the blood that coursed through the human’s body.

            “You’ll do.”  He sank his teeth into Fred’s neck, nearly groaning in ecstasy of taking warm, human blood.  Images of taking Integra in a similar fashion raced through his mind, and he felt himself harden.  Cursing, Alucard threw the moaning human to the ground, having only drunk a little.  Not enough to satisfy a child.  He spat the blood out and walked away in disgust, leaving the man writhing on the ground. 

            It was a sad day for Alucard, when he could not enjoy a simple meal without thoughts of Integra ruining every bite.

……

Chief Inspector Richter was going quietly insane.  Around him, his subordinates buzzed like flies.  Flitting back and forth, going about mindless tasks they thought might help the situation, when in reality they had no idea what the situation was.  It wasn’t that Richter was worried.  He simply was fed up with being pulled in two directions. 

His most recent order had come from the Round Table.  An organization most of England, including its military, liked to pretend didn’t exist.  Now a group of 10 men, Richter perceived their power to have lessened considerably.  Had the gentlemen of the Round Table lost any two other members, in particular anyone besides Hellsing, they might have retained some of their glorified status.  Now, their power was equivalent to the queen’s: just for show.  More of a tradition than anything else.  No one would have the guts to take them out.  Their power was a whisper that went around their subordinates, enough to keep them in line, but not enough for the Round Table to actually accomplish anything. 

The order came this morning.  They were apparently renewing their efforts to search for Integra and the monster she escaped with.  Admittedly, Richter had little knowledge, beyond that of the Round Table itself, of the vampire Integra kept in her employ.  The vampire Alucard was as much infamous for his immense power as he was for his utter mystery.  His true nature was unknown to the members of the Round Table, or so Sir Perrin had informed him.  Idly, Richter wondered if Sir Integra herself even fully understood her pet. 

It didn’t matter.  Richter had orders from another.  She was infinitely more powerful than the members of the Round Table, than Integra, or even Alucard himself.  Richter positively glowed when he thought of her.  The Lady Sekhet was a power unto herself, and he was well pleased to be in her service. 

Capturing Integra would be easy enough.  What to do with her was another matter entirely.  Of course, the Round Table would want her re-incarcerated.  That was not going to happen.  His mistress had use of the woman. 

“Sir, we’ve got an id on a doctor we believe may have administered to Sir Integra the night she escaped.”  Officer Shank broke through his reverie.  Richter took the file from Shank and flipped through it. 

“Dr. Lilian Ambrose, Meier Medical Center.”  Richter snorted ungracefully.  “A free medical clinic.”  He said with distaste.  “This is now high priority.  Arrest the doctor on complicity.  Now.”  Shank nodded and left immediately.  Richter continued to idly thumb through the doctor’s profile.  He knew exactly what to do with Integra Wingates Hellsing. 

......

            Integra sank gratefully into the warm water, wincing as it touched her wound.  It felt so good though.  She could almost feel the grime and sweat—actual dirt—melt off of her.  She closed her eyes and lay back gingerly, sinking down to her shoulders.  Her hair floated around her in greasy waves.  Her knees were bent double, the bathtub too tiny to accommodate her long frame.  She indulged in a rare feminine sigh as she scrubbed her body hard, not once but twice.  Integra thought she’d never felt anything so lovely.  Emptying the tub of gray, soapy water, she refilled it, and sank down to relax. 

            The day’s events pleased her.  She knew they shouldn’t, because nothing was tangibly gained.  But now there was some hope of her and her sad little entourage gaining safety and perhaps carrying on with their mission.  Millennium had yet to be dealt with, and she wasn’t about to quit.  Integra was livid.  The message sent to her by the Millennium organization automatically involved her in whatever new terrorist attack they were planning.  Aside from duty, Integra had a vendetta against those who would play games with her life.

            Integra absently picked up her Players and lit a cigarette.  It felt good to be alone for once.  Since having escaped the Tower, she felt as though Alucard or Walter, even Seras, would not give her a moment’s peace to stop and think.  To calculate. 

            Integra lifted her hand, seeing the small cut on her hand.  Already it was healing nicely, the clean pink line merely a memory.  Or a dream.  She hadn’t thought much of the dream.  So much had happened since.  Too much to think about.  But its meaning perplexed her.  She didn’t know whether to be frightened or excited.  Some small part of her, a part she didn’t want to acknowledge even existed, quickened at the memory of the woman’s touch.  The press of her cold lips, her voice like a soft sigh in her mind.  Integra closed her eyes and remembered.  Unconsciously, she slid her hand over and between her breasts, across her belly, let it rest between her legs, moving against and through the curls. 

            Sharp metal sliced into her hand.  Something hit her in the chest and she fell hard on her back, coughing up blood and angrily spitting it to the side.  She knew she had very little time left.  This was her one chance, and maybe this time, she could pull it off.  Integra grasped the hilt of the unfamiliar sword and lunged.  She could hear the clash of steel against steel.  Her opponent countered every move she made expertly, as though the other knew her intent.  As though she were fighting herself. 

            Integra came up out of the water, legs splayed over the side kicking maniacally at the faucet and wall.  She choked on the water and flailed about uselessly before looking around, half blind, panicked.  A furious pounding on the door made her jump and stare in battle-ready anticipation.

            “Miss Hellsing!  Integra!  Are you alright?”  Walter.  It was just Walter.  She was in the bathroom.  There was no weapon in her hand.  Beside her, the cigarette floated harmlessly in the pink tinged water.  Her hand was bleeding again, the cut newly opened.  Integra clinched her fingers together, thrusting them into the water.  A quick check to her side wound assured her that nothing had torn. 

            “I’m alright, Walter.”  Integra called out quickly.  He was bound to break down the door.  “I fell asleep and had a,” Integra paused, looking at her hand, where blood steadily dripped into the bath.  “I just had a strange dream.  I’ll be out momentarily.”  A few seconds later, reluctant footsteps retreated into the hall and further.  Integra sat for a minute, allowing her breathing to calm and her mind to cool.  Alucard had said he wanted to discuss the dream with her, but she really had no desire to speak to anybody about it.  She felt curiously possessive; it was hers, meant for her alone.  It seemed important, something she hadn’t felt in a long time, since the destruction of the Hellsing Organization.  It was not a pretty sentiment to admit, but though Integra was naturally concerned about the series of bizarre events—from the Millennium letter to the dream—she was also excited, anxious to be doing something, to be involved in something that required her.  She couldn’t understand why she felt that way, but it didn’t really matter.  As she told Alucard, she—Integra—is the Hellsing Organization.  All that was left of it was embodied in her.  She didn’t mind filling the shoes. 

Slowly, she stood up, bracing herself against the walls of the bath and froze when she heard gun shots down the hall.

……

            “No, there are no problems, Sir.”  Captain Dobbs spoke confidently.  He listened as the echoes of guns carried down to the street where he awaited the capture of Miss Integra Hellsing.  Richter wanted this done quickly and efficiently.  There was no room for mistakes.  Dobbs never made mistakes.  He had his sights on Richter’s job someday, and getting there required his record be impeccable.  A military man by nature, Dobbs had frequently been called—somewhat jokingly, yet with respect—by his underlings as the Bulldog.  The name suited him.  Not only was he stocky and strong, like his namesake, Dobbs never let go once he bit. 

            His mic beeped once and the voice of Officer Shank reported their progress.

            “Sir, we’ve got the target in our custody.  Two casualties, Sir.  One civilian and one, well—” Shank hesitated.  That was unacceptable.

            “Shank!  I want the full status.  Report now.”

            “Yessir!  Sir Integra’s retainer and a young woman are dead.  Sir Integra is currently in our custody.  We are searching the rooms for other persons, Sir.”  Dobbs nodded to himself. 

            “Good work.  You’ve five minutes, Shank.  Out.” 

            Dobbs smiled.  It would appear that rumors of Sir Integra Hellsing’s invincibility were greatly exaggerated. 

            Exactly 3.5 minutes later, Shank emerged from the building.  Following him was a loud screeching noise, proceeded by the forced removal of Integra from her refuge.  She was wrapped haphazardly in blue, blood stained towel—already falling off to reveal wounds from an earlier skirmish, Dobbs could see—her arms and legs bound, as well as her mouth gagged.  This did not prevent her from fighting her captors as much as she could.  Dobbs shrugged at the unorthodox arrest, but Richter had made it perfectly clear that the target was to be taken immediately and by any means necessary; and she must be alive.  The others, he didn’t care about.  Integra was wanted by “upper management.”  As such, the operation was to be kept quiet and completed as quickly as possible. 

            “Alright, we are gone.  Get her in the van; make sure she won’t be a problem along the way.”  Dobbs ordered.

…..

            Hands all over her.  On her thighs, against her ribs, in her hair and folded within her own fingers.  Some caressing, loving even, the touch almost whisper soft and filling Integra with longing.  She leaned into those hands, as though desperate for the contact.  Others, hateful.  Pulling at her hair, grasping her chin, a thumbnail running cruelly over her lips, breaking the delicate skin and perhaps drawing blood.  Integra couldn’t tell.  She couldn’t even tell which hands were which.  Which ones might even be her own?

            And then she didn’t feel anything.  Hearing her own breath, the thud of her heartbeat in her head, Integra knew—or hoped—that she was alive.  But she felt no heat or cold, even though a moment ago, she was sure a pair of sticky, hot hands had grasped her arms quite firmly.  She knew this should concern her, and perhaps on some level it did.  But she found also a disconnection from whatever might be happening to her at that moment.  She could see nothing, feel nothing.  At any moment, Integra expected the searing flash of pain that she supposed occurred in the millisecond before death.  She waited.  And waited.  It never came.  Surely that was a good sign?  But Integra could not find it in herself at that moment to care.  If she were dying, perhaps some film-like clips of her life should be flashing before her mind?  Maybe a sudden knowledge would over-come her, or a feeling of anger, or perhaps contentment?  At the very least, Alucard would be there before her, with his wicked smile that promised many things she didn’t want to think about.  Perhaps he would offer his blood again, or something else?  Nothing.  Not even thoughts of Alucard could provoke Integra into feeling anything—emotional or otherwise.  Idly, she wondered where he was.  Shouldn’t he be here by now?  He was usually with her.  Integra had noticed that as the years with him passed, she could hear his voice in her mind almost constantly—whether he was talking to her or not.  Or perhaps she had just been hearing voices?  In either case, it felt nice to finally have some quiet and solitude.  Is this what death is?  Nothingness?  No pain, no pleasure, no real thought or meaningful emotion.  It was so simple.  And yet, something was terribly wrong.  Hadn’t she been dead before?  Integra was almost positive she’d died at least a couple of times in her life.  She was sure she’d died, albeit briefly, after Buvanche bit her, and she stabbed her own throat.  It hadn’t felt like this—this non-feeling.  There was intense pain.  And she had been angry—livid.  And oddly, comforted.  By Alucard.  He had been with her.  How silly of her to think he could not transcend death to speak with her.  So, she was not dead or dying.  He would be here.  So something else is wrong.  Integra thought about moving her hands, curling her fingers into themselves and beating the floor—or whatever she was on.  But truthfully, she could not tell if she moved her body or not, or even if she was laying on anything.  Perhaps she was hanging?  She could be upside down, curled into a fetal position, sitting cross-legged.  Where is Alucard?  Integra thought she might have licked her lips, but really did not know for sure.  She tried to talk, and maybe she did, but she could no longer hear anything, if indeed there was anything to hear.  If a tree falls in a forest, and no one’s around, does it make a noise?  Or is the word “sound”?  That makes a difference.  If the word is “noise”, then the answer is no, as the definition of noise is sound that is heard.  If the word is “sound”, then the answer is yes, because sounds are waves—and like light, whether or not anyone is there to record them either sensibly or through a machine, they still exist.  Where is Alucard?  Integra was sure he could tell her the answer.  After all, he’d existed for so long that he’d had to have watched many trees fall when no one else was around.  And did he really count as “somebody”?  The man was not a man, even.  He was a phantom, for all his physical appearances held.  And yet, Integra could remember touching him, him touching her—the few times she’d allowed it.  Even the brush of his mind against hers had felt like a physical touch.  And when he appeared out of a wall or thin air—it seemed like he was made of nothing, but Integra always felt a slight parting of the air around her, a thickening of it, almost.  So, he had to be physical, right?  Vaguely remembering some smart-assed remark she’d made to him as a child about his penis or lack thereof, Integra told herself it didn’t even matter to her, if he was a physical being or not.  Why should he be on her mind, when she couldn’t think clearly enough to know whether or not she was dead?  What had he told her, in response to that verbal attack so many years ago?  Something about jars—glass jars.  Some sort of container.  She remembered that it was funny to her at the time, truly amusing.  One of the few times she had actually laughed completely.  He had too—they were both laughing.  Where is he? 

            “He cannot hear you.”  The woman’s voice sounded vaguely familiar.

            “Why not?”  Integra asked.

            “I don’t know.  Perhaps he does not want to.”

            “You are lying.”  Integra knew this.  “He always hears, me, even when I don’t want him to.”  Polite and condescending laughter echoed though Integra’s head.

            “I am not lying when I tell you that your mind is closed to him.”

            “What are you?”

            “What?  Not who?”

            “I don’t care who you are, or who you expect I believe you to be.  I want to know what you are.”  Integra demanded.

            “For shame, Integra.  We are the same, you and I.  You know what you are, don’t you?” 

            Integra was tired of riddles.  She opted not to argue, for once. 

            “Very well,” the woman continued.  “I am a very old creature, older by far than Alucard, though a woman never likes to speak of exact years.  Let us simply accept that I do not look my age.  And though you do not wish to know, I will tell you that I am called by many names, but I wouldn’t mind if you addressed me as Sekhet.  But I did not bring you here to talk about me—as fascinated as I am with that subject.  I want to talk about you.”

            “Where is here?”  Integra asked.

            “Your body is in a storage facility on the bank of the Thames.”

            “I ask again, where is here?”  No answer.  “You don’t know, do you?” 

            “It doesn’t really matter where we are speaking, does it?  Because, after all, you are not really speaking, you are thinking.”  Integra tucked this information away for later.  “You have remarkable control over Alucard.”  Sekhet’s voice dropped considerably, as though she were still digesting this bit of knowledge.  “His power is immense—as I am sure you are aware—and yet, a little girl can somehow wield such influence over his nature.” 

            “It was my ancestor’s doing.  Not mine.”  Integra surprised herself by admitting.

            “No, actually, the bonds you speak of were broken over ten years ago, by your father.” 

            Integra felt this information was highly pertinent to her life, but she could only manage a mild curiosity. 

            “Then why does he serve me?”

            “An excellent question.  And perhaps, when I see him I shall ask.  However, I don’t really want to talk about Alucard, either.  As I said, I am very interested in you.”  She paused, and Integra sensed the woman’s confusion.  “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?” 

            “If you wish something from me, then ask.”  More laughter.

            “You are beautiful, Integra.  Completely vulnerable, in the presence of the oldest vampire in existence, and yet still enough brass to be rude.  I understand completely how Alucard must feel around you.  I want a great deal from you, but not at this moment.  Right now, I simply wanted to see you.  Talk to you.  I enjoy talking to you, Integra.  You are very stimulating.”

            “I’ve heard better from Alucard.”  Integra felt a sharp scratching in her mind—the first she’d actually felt since the hands first accosted her.  Pain seared through her, burning like acid in her veins.

            “I’m sure you have.  Be sure to ask him, if you see him again, why he is warm at night, when you lay cold in your bed.”  The pain abruptly stopped, and Integra felt she could breathe again.  “The fact is, I’ve unfinished business with you, Integra.  I cannot, shall we say, progress and grow until I know that things are right between us again.”

            “You mean our relationship has always been so unhappy?  Shocking.” 

            “Cheeky!  You should be grateful to me for even allowing you.  Alucard is disgusting, killing his own kind, but you, my dear have become an abomination.”

            “What I’ve done must indeed be wretched if you look down on it.” 

            “As gripping as this conversation is, I am afraid I must leave you alone now.  I’m afraid you won’t be with me long anyway, as the mind can only take so much havoc wreaked upon the body.” 

            Integra heard no more.  But she began to feel her body and wished fervently she couldn’t.