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Monday, November 7th, 2005
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3:33 am
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In 30th April. The date everything had started. The night his solicitor, Jonathan Harker, had his first contact with the children of the night. The good Count had known, of course, what had happened during his wanderings in Germany, for the news travelled as fast as the dead. He had acted. The foolish man belonged to him, just as Renfield had been.
Eerily, the full moon crowned herself the queen of a starless sky. Bleak clouds concealed it for a flickering instant before they dissolved within the intensity of her radiant halo. Alucard’s red eyes dilated as he stared at the beauty, listening to the sounds of the waves as the ship moved towards London. There were sirens hidden in the spray, singing to the ghosts of the sailors they drowned after unwisely pursuing them in the rocks.
It was a night of the supernaturals. The witches would be dancing nude in the distant mountains, or rather, on the top of the modern buildings, where no one could pry.
Walpurgis Natch filled Alucard of unwanted nostalgia.
Taking his gaze from the moon, Alucard looked forward, to the display on the banks of London. It was far, but he could distinguish the flames dancing, extinguishing the lives of the citizens. Suddenly, the aroma of the sea, the songs of the children of the night were cut by the cries of humans.
Alucard inhaled the smoke deeply, the melancholy increased – his eyes closed and he sighed. Déjà vu all over again. What happened five hundred years ago and over a century in the past… Both events of his existence were weaved together in one single night! A third time, the last chance!
“It smells of nostalgia,” he murmured to himself, to the shadow servants that were resting inside his personal hell, waiting. Alucard knew they would be released tonight. The gates would be opened by his Master. Eleven years together, the same amount of time he had been married to his Countess.
His eyes opened wide, glowing. “The smell of a man being impaled… The smell of a woman being disembowelled… The smell of a sick infant being burnt to death… The smell of the elderly being riddled with bullets.”
Alucard chuckled loudly and crossed his arms, his lips curled up in a calm smile. “The scent of death. The fragrance of war.”
He turned around from the landscape of the burning capital and strolled in the nearly devastated deck. It seemed the old warrior had no license to pilot a spy jet correctly under enemy fire. He stopped, looming over his black coffin, caressing the golden inscriptions.
"The Bird of Hermes is my name, Eating my wings to make me tame."
Alucard sat over the casket – mindful to not ruin the perfect polish of the surface – to survey the deck. His shadows had consumed the flames, as the water below the ship threatened to swallow his darkness into the cold abyss of eternal paralysis. He kept his thoughts away of that gloomy fate and watched instead the corpses around him.
The crew was dead, like British Aircraft Carrier he was travelling on. The dead should be faster than a handful knots against the wind. He had patience, though, but it was wearing down easily. His hunger, his humiliation had endured five long centuries. Alucard would not allow his opportunity to be wasted again.
“A monster like me shouldn’t be allowed to dream,” Alucard commented with amusement, glancing once more towards London. He debated to start a tempest to announce his return, but bothered not. The moon was beautiful and increased his thirst for blood; he was aware he would need it. Instead, a thin fog would suffice. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it Major? You have your dreams of war but I have my own…” he trailed off before rising and returning to his former position near the edge of the ship.
His eyes opened further to see the soil he was reborn to in this century, the mansion he had resided in. Alucard felt a sense of belonging, his home, his lands, his people. He watched with pride how Seras attempted to protect them, his daughter.
Alucard paused, feeling Integral on the ground, her light but firm steps that marked her as leader. But she was not alone. Anderson was around, and he was protecting her? Judas Priest? Where was the God of Death? He could not feel Walter near. The vampire grimaced at the implication before breaking into a loud laughter.
“So… nothing has changed? All the times–” Alucard paused his laugh for a moment. “Matthias, Abraham, Anderson… all the times a noisy Catholic has to intervene… Very well, my beloved enemy! Let’s see who wins the third round!” It was inevitable, his human enemy, his lady, it all came to full circle.
Once upon a time, a vampire embarked on a voyage to England to attain one woman he so thirstily longed for. The vampire failed, the human enemy stopped him. The Demeter is on ruins and now he set himself in a similar quest, boarded the Eagle. The symbol of national leadership, beauty, power and intelligence. The coat of arms of his country.
This time, Alucard vowed himself to not fail.
The ghost ship sailed into the banks of the river Thames, destroying the Tower Bridge amid the mist. When the craft reached land, corpses came out from it, and the lone coffin vanished from view. A big, black dog emerged, howling to the moon before it too disappeared in a red lightening heading towards the Hellsing Manor.
current mood:  nostalgic
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