Rating: PG-13, might go up to R

Author's notes at the end of the Prologue.

Prologue

Early 1900s - ? (Undetermined due to nature of death)

Christopher Hellsing

Admittedly, fortune can be unexpectedly kind. And by my reasoning, it was curiously generous towards a lineage it had supposedly damned at the hand of its mad pater familias, when cousin Robert rode to our salvation. Cousin Robert, clad in the fantastic shining armour all proverbial knights ought to wear and leading his invincible army of solicitors and accountants from his Scottish shelter and all the way down to the outskirts of London.

Naturally, gratitude dawned upon me and my every pursuit. How good of Cousin Robert to come, and how much of a hero he was under the dreadful circumstances. I was more than fascinated by this new proof of the good old Hellsing fortitude burning in at least one part of the family that was still bearing the name. I proceeded to show my enthusiasm by a far too rigorous attempt at grasping control of the estate's staff and arranging for Robert's accommodation as well as a luxurious dinner.

A straining effort, and far too soon. Or so doctor Lewis complained, and I apologized immediately. Doctor Lewis had quite enough to worry himself with already, and he hardly required my help in sending him down that little path to the breakdown of the overworked. How selfish of me.

I could only have found some fault for my behaviour in the three unnatural stimuli in my life, at that turning point: the first had been Papa's death.

Papa who, at an age when other men were busily preoccupied with their politics and their social calls, was strolling through the New World, and then Europe some, to only run upon Mother England sporadically. He'd died a man still young, or so were my thoughts. But then, I've always looked upon death as taking people in their youth, regardless of their true age. Papa's unfortunate demise had also attracted the second shocking news: the matter of my inheritance, and the need to take over a manor and estate notorious for its management troubles, and from which I had been carefully spared from early youth.

And thirdly, a matter that, unlike the rest, pleased me greatly, Cousin Robert was coming by. I was thrilled. I was convinced that his presence would make for a heavenly influence, in more ways than one. We'd both attended Oxford, as good nobility should. I had been more than content with being allowed to finish off my academic years in accord with the rest of the class, and the double mastery in Law and Languages had somehow been more than sufficient by my tastes. Unlike me, however, Robert had recognized the potential of the British economy, and had escaped Uncle Thomas' urges towards the respectable Medicine by joining the rank of successful, first rate accountants and managers.

Professionally, all could admit to Robert's merits presently. And by all, one could understand Hellsing's – it had become habit for the manor to keep its Victorian name, whereas we, the more proper representatives of the appellative, would lurk in the shadows- personnel, who had more than once had to claim they couldn't cope. And indeed they couldn't.

Hellsing, hardly of modest dimensions, was not the problem in itself. The management of a house, albeit a huge one, could be placed on the shoulders of a more enduring gentleman, and to blazes with all else. The main concern, however, was the estate in itself. The grounds that came with it were, unlike the house, not as easily disposable. Papa, as all gentlemen who'd opted for discrete lodging a few good miles beyond the urban extents of London, had also accepted the rural disadvantages to come with this newly acquired intimacy. We had sheep and horses, for one thing, and these had to be seen to. Unless I was mistaken, and I could sadly not see how that could be the case, we also had to deal with a small assembly of tenants. In short, a great deal of work, and not one for the unaccustomed.

By the time Robert came, we were desperate for his services.

And again by own confession, one shall have to remark, however, that it was not only the economical factor for which I held a keen interest in Robert's return to Hellsing. It was also a matter of Robert himself, Cousin Robert, the only lighthearted support in my adolescence.

With Papa being constantly out on some expedition or the other, I had been left with only a reluctant but friendly nana and the Hellsing estate for company. It had all been quite sudden.

"The little angels are now playing with your brother, Christopher," nana had one day announced to an oblivious five year old with not a care in the world, but who'd then learnt that it was an awful thing whenever angels chose to play, since it invariably meant Papa would be leaving. His grief for my departed brother had been too much, poor man, and I likely only reminded him of the event. Which is why we spent much time apart, though maintaining good correspondence. He was a loving and devoted father, but there were some things that not even he could handle. I understood.

But I was still very much alone, that is, and then I had to leave Hellsing and nana, and I was desperate. Until I found cousin Robert, that is. Humorous, good natured cousin Robert, who was at his finest under Oxford's care, just barely resuming his first year in Medicine (which he was to desert completely at the end of no more than an year in his quest for the mathematical letter) when we first laid eyes upon each other.

I, four years his junior and therefore still scrubbing away at a private school that I could barely be counted for to attend, had been amazed by the lively youth that had somehow made his way to the salon at my fifteenth anniversary.

He had come to deliver me a gift of Papa's, but I convinced him to stay just a bit more, if only to give rest to his horse. He did, and he was dazzling. With no care for the boundaries between the brutal fact and vulgarity, perseverant and witty, he was, in the end, the utter charmer. And to a young man mostly confined to his quarters or even worse, his bed, this new source of constant and radiating life was enthralling.

We wrote often, but as things would have it, he left Oxford just as I joined in, and our roads parted indefinitely.

As I was later to find, after shattering all of Uncle Thomas' dreams of having yet another Hellsing in the medical elite, Robert followed on the adventurous lead of all novel heroes and completed his escapade by eloping with a Welsh girlie well beneath his own station, earning his disinheritance and producing an heir by little less than the year! Ah, such a thrilling life, and such a thrilling man Robert was, and how good it would be to have him back!

------------

The new Robert surprised me.

While during the funeral we both stoically maintained the fashionable stiff upper lip that had built the Empire and garnished its fame, we had the following day for a few more or less intimate exchanges that would decidedly depict my darling cousin Robert in quite the new light:

"My bad, old boy, such a horrid affair. And of course Uncle Abraham was a mess with such things, but, really, this oughtn't bear any substance to you – what with the way things are and the likes- and you shouldn't concern yourself with it, dear Kester. I shall tend to the whole of it."

He did.

The youthful rapacity had transformed in a frightening efficiency. And to the house I had returned to as a outsider, and an incompetent one, at that, he made several much needed improvements. He named a manager for the tenants (A Mister J-o-h-n E-l-l-i-o-t). Two caretakers for the animals. He even made brilliant use of Hellsing's capital to invest in new equipment.

By comparison, all my attempts for the past two days since own arrival had been complete failures.

Of course, under the hideous circumstances, perhaps I had not allowed sensible thought to govern over my instincts, and had indeed been in error in believing I could cope with the situation at hand on my own – it had appeared to me more than logical, almost my responsibility, to maintain appearances in my own little hell, by being outwardly bereaved for the loss of a father that half the English kin had either vowed to kill with own hands or demanded so of others. The other half had likely petitioned his sanctification.

It was, all things considered, quite the understatement that Papa had not been the most loved of creatures, even if in the eyes of the God he so cherished, he had been the worthiest and most disciplined of his disciples. It was to my belief that so pure and lasting had been his devotion, that many had been driven to somehow deter from such a radiant centre of the theological universe, in order not to taint it.

Or so one tells oneself, when one quietly speculates on the reasons behind the sole family to have accepted the official invitation to Abraham Van Helsing's last services being a cousin on the part of a family line twice removed.

------------

On this particular respect, Father had been a worthy predecessor. Throughout years, and particularly after Mama and my brother – who has grown part of Hellsing myth and was not be named so not to disturb poor Papa- had gone to the better place, he'd alienated himself from all our blood ties. He'd had quite the number of cousins himself, but they'd all done the wondrous disappearing act soon after his first discoveries in a line hastily banned as the occult.

But where Papa had been an undeniable success, I sadly outmanoeuvred him. It is common knowledge that often do orphans (and with no Mama, and a Papa constantly plaguing the continents, I was decreed an orphan in an earnest) have a certain, unfounded inclination for both finding and bestowing love and gratitude on those who've either no need or merit for it.

To the great misfortune of my fierce blood relations, I had never been the humble, quavering soul that my nana and a large gamma of tutors should have liked to modulate – therefore, when Uncle Thomas had presented himself at the door of an unsuspecting and decidedly far too cynical thirteen year old, he had not been greeted with the expected enthusiasm. There had been no wails of despair, or tears or relief, or dramatic: "Oh, Uncle Thomas, how good you are, and how kind, to relieve me of my misery and my solitude and my burdens. Please be my hero, since Papa has abandoned me."

I had not thrown myself at his feet and offered eternal allegiance as well as affection, and I had not constructed him a medieval altar as one should to the charitable god who materializes under one's very eyes. He claimed he had come to bring me to a home where I would be better cared for, in my father's absence. He also requested all documents placing myself as sole beneficiary of the van Helsing estate once I would grow of Age. For safe keeping under his instruction, or so were his words.

Well, certainly, he was likely considering my welfare. All the same, I did not grant him permission to occupy Father's apartments indefinitely, as neither did I give him full command over the manor's staff. In fact, my hospitality was barely extended to a number of meals and a very few nights' accommodation. It was with a cold smile that Uncle Thomas retired that evening, noting that indeed the little attention paid to my education was showing. Apparently, Papa ought to have refrained from his voyages and kept to teaching me manners, especially manners towards my own kin.

How wicked of Uncle Thomas. I knew my manners well – but I also knew, and this Papa had always underlined, that I had obligations, first, and then desires. I was to write to him for instruction at once, and I did. To Switzerland, I believe, went the letters of those times. I expected Papa to reply with reprimands on my cold approach to Uncle Thomas' proposal. After all, he could only delight in the knowledge of his remaining son being in better care than that of his servants, and would know to bless his brother's days to no end. Instead Papa claimed to be a touch grieved by what he considered to be Uncle Thomas' little consideration for his parental abilities, and ended an insufferably short letter with the lines:

"Stand strong and take deep breaths. And inform Thomas that I am saddened by his disposition. You were not left in London by a prodigal father who is unaffected by your condition. You are in better hands than my own, and better than his. You were left in the care of God." And scribbled, his signature, a paraphrase of his name, and then the twisted word, Amen.

In the care of God. Amen to that, then.

"In the care of God?!" Uncle Thomas was understandably dissatisfied with the new turn things had taken. He was quite capable and prepared to take on a substantial number of figures of authority; but it had never quite occurred to him that this authority might well be divine.

We were breaking our fast, together, and in what had been unshattered silence until the distasteful matter of my tutelage had been brought up, and I had had to produce the reply hastily. Poor Uncle Thomas. He'd meant well, and I was indeed obliged for his care and his intentions to see that my youth would not be clouded by the troubles of the estate's management. Laurence Fairfax, one of my few acquaintances from my time at Oxford, was to later on suggest that his had not been an interest supported only by sibling affection.

But it could hardly be the truth of it. Beyond doubt. No one could do such a thing, try to rob a child of his fortune, and particularly not one's nephew. At times, Laurence did have an unhealthy mind, but I expect this must only have been the result of the corruption he'd known at the hand of his perusals through London.

"Uncle Thomas-"

"It has never been a question of his emotional considerations, but I'll be damned if it's not one of his sanity!" Tea cups fell with a considerable cling, and then his porridge flooded the cloth, as he pushed over the table, raising. I had never known violence, in the actual sense. The most I had experienced of it were words spoken in rage on my nana's part, and then threats that God had punished me and would keep punishing me by the illness. But I could see why Uncle Thomas could be considered a violent man, and, sadly, I had been experiencing a chaotic headache that only increased when shouts and cries reached my hearing. "You are unfit to be cuddled here by an incompetent nurse, and to reign over an estate that shall be your undoing!"

"I am in my father's care, sir," I had said softly, pressing both hands to my temples. It hurt to – hurt to think.

"And your father is a fool!"

"Sir, " – I was standing now, though a touch dizzy- "Sir, I ask that you respect my father under the roof of his own house-"

"HIS house?" He spread his arms around, theatrically, twisting on his heels as if to surround the entire room in the circle of his hands. He drove the maid in service in a fit of alarm, as she sped away from the dining room, likely calling up nana. "This isn't his! This isn't yours to handle!" He stopped to look at me. "Is this to your comprehension? Do – YOU - Understand?"

My head was hurting, an ache beyond words haunting the ends of my skull and the insides in turn.

"This doesn't belong to you. And if he thinks he can stroll through Europe and leave the place in ruins and his ickle bastard tending to it," – my –my vision. My vision, blurred, and the pain in my head, and, oh God, the room, and Uncle Thomas was moving his hands, and he was now holding my shoulders, and he was shacking me, and I was disappointing him, and my head heart. There was an unimaginable array of shape and shade and colour, and my head hurt, and so did my arms, since he was pulling at them, and yelling. "He's certainly round the bend! This is my heritage, and not a corpse's!"

"I…"

Clang.

Something.

Something breaking.

I.

My hands.

Clasped.

On the- the…the- the cloth.

My head.

I-.

Gods.

And then nothingness took me along with the first of the illness' attacks, the first of so many after.

------------

Uncle Thomas left. As soon as my body permitted it, I followed on his suite. I was not to linger in a place where I was unwanted – but unwilling to disappoint Father on the matter, my one solution was to discreetly dismiss my tutors and move nana to the heart of London. I myself began to express an uncharacteristic love for study in my letters to Papa, and was quickly granted permission to join a private institution with a helpful boarding system. By the age of thirteen, I had already written up my future in stern terms: finish prep in boarding, then join Oxford under some mastery or the other, and avoid Hellsing manor completely.

As for my disease…it was quickly qualified.

------------

"Has he got bad blood, doctor?" Each of nana's questions, as she assaulted the doctor who'd come to my side after the inexplicable disaster with Uncle Thomas was accompanied by a short pet on my head, as if to calm me. But I wasn't afraid. It's been years, now, and I'm still not the one afraid of it all.

Besides, nana's claims were amusing. Bad blood, more popularly translated as dark blood or the plague, can't have made its way to the civilized regions, not anymore. But it might have so seemed to the woman frighteningly bent over me, following the doctor's moves in performing a more than ancient procedure without which she would not have agreed to let him end the consultation. A leach had been planted on my left arm – "to take the bad demon blood, if they've taken to the soul of nana's boy!"- , and as its results was creeping in the growing bulb, the doctor was frowning considerably.

"More of a question of no blood, "he said in an end, disposing of the pestering thing. I gave it a disgusted look that only intensified upon seeing the great quantity of blood it had sucked right out. Doctor Percival Fallins only shook his head, and accompanied his next remark with a certain bitterness:

"It took out that much because it didn't get to the very thing it needs for feeding." Both nana and I gave him long looks, but to no avail. He recommended a great deal of rest, that all further signs of weakness on my part be noted down, and then retired to write to Father.

"Don't ye worry, dearie," – another pet on my head, pulling back all rebel shreds of pale hair- " it'll be all right. Your blood is fine, the doctor's a fool, there's nothing wrong with it."

Now, twelve years later, I could safely attest to that my blood was indeed wrong. Your pardon, nana. But it was. I didn't know the name for it, but they say it took its time to fester. They offered a list of symptoms, and I could scribble out all of them as "do-did-done"s.

Fatigue. Weakness. Increased pallor. Reduced exercise tolerance. Excessive weight loss. Bone and joint loss. Infection and fever. Blurred vision. Faints. Blood losses.

Do.

Did.

Done.

------------

"Here, have a glass," said Robert of the present, Robert aged thirty and still looking his prime, with a playful flicker in his azure eyes. Eyes that were the family's symbol, and eyes that could shine so beautifully. I could tell why many would look upon Robert and think him a beautiful man, for, clearly, his vitality and the sheer power he emanated made for beauty in its more basic sense.

We were in what had been Papa's study, books still as neat and as organized as he had left them, years and years ago. I had half expected the dramatic layers of dust that one commonly encounters in Greek or Latin plays – and naturally I could only think of those things, since my head was now filled by Boethius and his Wheel of Fortune. And how that wheel had turned upon me, bringing me back to a place I should have liked to forget.

The claret glass was heavy in my hands, by the time I returned to reality. Robert, seated on one of the sofas laid carefully near the fireplace was inspecting me with cold precision. "You look a fright."

I nodded. I always did. "You on the other hand-"

He waved me off, then took a full sip of his own ration, clearly pleased by the content and likely assessing its nature and the time of its keep. "No time for chatter, old boy. I came here-"

"Of course, how horrible of me, forgive me, I never thanked you for your support-"

"Christ, Kester, will you let me speak word? One, at the very least?"

"Your pardon."

Alcohol brought a healthy blush to his cheeks, or so I could tell. To begin with, this image reminded me more and more of the Robert I had known and cherished. "And cease this behaviour at once! Apologizing to everything and everyone..."

I nodded again, and reminded myself of the virtue that patience truly was, devouring his every gesture as, easily enough, his hands produced an enclosed and heavily sealed envelope. I watched it in astonished silence.

"It's for you," Robert offered as one instruction, along with the letter itself. "From the very Bishop of Canterbury. We met recently, on a little official occasion. Two days ago, in fact. He asked that I should deliver it."

More nodding on my part. This irritated Robert, who was stoically in charge and tried to eliminate his exasperation by several sighs.

It was white, very white, in all truth, and the protestant blessing had been scribbled somewhere in a corner. The sheet was of good quality, and the seals, I could see, were of fine, veritable wax, and carrying the King's emblem. The Archbishop of Canterbury, first, and now the King. Oh Gods. And this likely concerned my father.

Robert handed me a knife from the study, a sleek letter opener in indisputably good taste. "Do you wish me to leave?"

I eyed him in puzzle. Leave? Why would-

Oh. Oh. Etiquette had escaped me this particular time, and it still did, as I considered the inquiry. Why should I not let him have a look? It was devious and wrongly-disposed of people to go found their mistrust on the assumption that people would betray them. The human being, at its core, was universally good – so I had concluded- and was therefore only encouraged by our mistrust to betray us. We were unknowingly incurring maelstrom. Why not give our human peers the sporting chance?

"No, no, of course not. I'm indebted to you in so many ways. I could never begin to keep secrets from you."

He retook his seat. "Quite. What does it say?"

I viciously fought with the incredibly obstinate seal for a while, before the two edges slid smoothly, and the content was revealed.

The lecture was easy. The language, though polite, lacked formality. The Archbishop was wishing us all the best, and conveying his deepest sympathies for our loss, as well as ensuring me that we had the Church's and His Majesty's full support for the task upon which we were embarking.

Robert's amusement knew no limits. "What task? One needs His Majesty's support to see to a bloody funeral? Are people expected to schedule their deaths in accordance to when His Majesty may offer his support?" I shrugged and kept reading.

What followed were many theological blessings, as well as a few awkward phrasings and Latin maximae for which Robert instantly asked that a translation be provided. I tried to put my modest and far too rusty ancient Latin skills at use and oblige.

"Recall that the evildoer may lurk within all shadows, even those of the heart and mind," I quoted solemnly, folding the Archbishop's note in two and then picking up a separate sheet, tied in turn.

"From Abraham to Christopher, greetings," I paused, choking on my sudden reluctance to go further. This was my Father, my Papa, but it was not his writing in the least. I could only imagine someone else had scribbled it down, under his dictation. Likely on his - on his death bed. It was common, dramatic practice that the dying attempt to write up their last wishes, maybe even splutter the sheet a bit with blood, and that beloved sons imagine hells in an end and think always of their parents with pride and affection as of the heroes who devoted their last breath to their earthly welfare. Well, Papa had never been one for drama. This wasn't his writing, because he'd seen to it that it wasn't. He'd taken measures that I receive proper word on his part, and so I now did.

How…lifeless.

I continued as Robert made to pour himself another glass, and was greeted by an empty bottle. I passed him my glass, and he took it gratefully. Poor Robert. He needed it far more than I did.

"Many wrongs have I witnessed, but never quite as intense, or as willed, or as crude or carrying as much life as the one made by creatures who've left sentience behind. We believe, as we have always believed, that the spirit, upon death, requires a new haven, and that it haunts the hells or paradises of our respective religions afterwards.

A truth to be detested, but not questioned. God is mighty, and God is kind, and God wills it that we believe. I believe, Christopher, and so must you. There is one that even God should not like to have, not like to receive, the primordial evil. And this one is sent back, and it must compensate for its existence – by repaying the demons that have made it with pure life, and pure blood.

We have caught such an evil, Christopher, the evildoer " – and here I stopped to eye Robert, carefully. The Archbishop's words echoed thinly upon us, this much I could tell – "of all powers and all knowledge. This evildoer is now tied to us. It is our sacred duty to preserve these connections, to keep him restrained, no matter the cost, and personal sacrifices, and…"

I couldn't go on. I couldn't. I… but I did. I read, and read, and read, and read. And all the while, I think I should have liked to weep, or shout, or do anything close to such a thing. Father described unimaginable terrors, and unforeseen and unwanted theological paradoxes. He went on about creatures living in the night, creatures I had heard him speak much of in the past, but creatures I could not quite fathom. And one of them, he claimed, they had captured. He said little of "them", and mentioned few places, save for one distinct location that he accused to still shelter the "monster" : an address in London. I shuddered to think I had a few times visited the region.

Papa then spoke of experiments, horrible events, doings and butchering of mind and soul that, he noted, were not to be regarded as tortures so much as the purging of the sin. They'd cut his limbs. Starved him. Drained him of blood. Left him to wail alone for nights to no end. And all the while, they'd claimed to be his masters.

Vampires do exist. And you must see to it, that the first of them never know freedom, Papa had finished, and then had come his signature, with the underlined Amen. Oh God, I could only bring myself to think, and "Oh God" was the only thing that escaped Robert's lips in addition to a full whistle.

"What insanity," Robert managed, decidedly more coherent than myself at the time. "You'll forgive me, Kester, but the old man was rather off the bend since then."

I said nothing to him, at first, nothing at all. But then, with a determination I could not recognize in myself (and one, too, that could have been looked upon as rude, given all the trouble cousin Robert had gone to, in order to help me), I called for the servants. Someone. Anyone. Robert's man Cadwell answered first, and it was to him that I entrusted my directions:

"Have a carriage prepared, please."

Robert was shocked beyond words and obviously felt I was either as off the bend as Papa, or close to it. "Surely you don't intend to-"

"I have to see it, Robert." A smile. He would have to understand. "They say there's evil there, and they say there's death. But" – I threw him the letters, the paper, everything – "they did such horrid things to it. If there's nothing there, we shall have nothing to report save for a distinctly amusing journey. And if there is…"

I stopped to think. Had to think. My head was hurting. So much. Too much. I had to think. Why couldn't I possibly think?

Papa had obviously wanted me to take his part, but I'd read by myself all that needed be known, and I still remembered that incident with Uncle Thomas, and how much Papa had hurt him – and, well, maybe Papa wasn't always right – not that he was at fault – this was all my fault – I should have been there – I…

I would be there.

I turned to Robert.

"If there is, we must go and make peace with death, and ask for its forgiveness."

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Author's note:

My thanks to Asenath for pointing out that perhaps long author notes that give out too much aren't all that wise a move, especially not at the stage of a prologue. Point conceded, and author note revised accordingly. Thanks again, and my apologies to all the readers of the initial notes, should they feel they have been "spoiled" to what's to come.

On the Hellsing properties. By the anime/manga, the only main property is the one in London. I think, however, that all gentlemen of the time would find it fit to keep a house in the country. Given Abraham's pursuits beyond the borders, that this manor should also bring some sort of profit (hence the estate and the sheep and the horses) would also be advisable. This is the second Hellsing manor, the one Christopher returns to, and the one under his charge.

Secondly, on Abraham van Helsing, Bram Stoker, and all such things – I've taken some (admittedly, unpardonable) liberties with both the timeline and the Hellsing lineage. Hopefully, this doesn't' make the concept unbearable. The son who died is supposedly poor Kester's brother, the one they weren't to mention in Abraham's presence, after his death. Before questions rise – no, Abraham's wife's not been forgotten.

Lastly, on Kester…the poor darling, he truly is as helpless and as in for a mess as he appears to be.