xx

xx

In winter the little prince was quieter than ever. He walked among the people who wished him dead, and in contrast, their whispers became louder and louder. It was not until his fifth winter that he learned there was such a thing called a "birthday" and that people normally celebrated this day. He overheard one of the children boasting about a grand party that had been hosted on his behalf. Later he found out from the records that his birthday was in December. But no one acknowledged it. No one hosted a party for him. And he was sure, even at that age, that no one would attend if he held his own.

His seventh winter came and went, and from then on he celebrated his death instead.

xx

xx

"Alucard, when is your birthday?"

She asked him this on a November afternoon as they curled their toes near the fireplace. Or rather, Integra curled her toes inside her wooly socks; Alucard was not cold at all, but he kept the wood burning for her. He paused his reading, and looked up at her with red, red eyes. She had a small frown on her face, which usually followed her frustration at not knowing a certain detail. His lips curved.

"My birthday, Integra?"

"Not that I didn't find out on my own," she said peevishly, "but you didn't tell me. You said you would tell me later when I asked, as if it's a big secret or some such thing, but you never did." She was starting to appear indignant, to his confusion. "Why didn't you?"

"Is it necessary?" he asked. "I don't particularly care. It's the same as any other day, Integra."

"Oh?" Integra deliberately put her book down. "Do you maintain this opinion for all birthdays?"

"Yes," Alucard said, and realized too late the pothole he had walked himself into.

Integra stood. "Then why on earth did you make all that fuss over mine?"

Ah. He saw what he had done. Indeed, Integra never seemed to enjoy answers of this variety. Does she not understand, he wondered with a tilt of his head, nothing matters but her? She was worth more than anything he had known, including himself. Naturally he would celebrate her birthday. His, on the other hand, was a nonissue. He told her as much.

Her resulting expression was one he would not likely forget for quite a while. She looked thunderous. And because a storm was a beautiful thing, he admired her as she declared that his birthday was not a nonissue, it did matter, and she would throw him a party, just as he had done for her. Her eyes were so bright and blue that he was almost inclined to agree. Yet when her words registered at last, his insides twisted. A fragile part of his heart fluttered its wings and sang, She loves me. At the same time a hardened, embittered part hissed, She pities me.

She may have heard. She said quietly, "I hope you know what you mean to me, as well as I know what I mean to you. You're my only friend, Alucard."

"You're my only," he echoed. My only, my only.

"Don't you want to do something? With me? It doesn't have to be grand." Although it should be, Integra thought. How she hated the unfairness of it all. She continued. "We could picnic in your garden again. It'll be beautiful still."

He smiled wryly. "The tea will freeze."

"Indoors, then. Here."

"Whatever you desire, Integra," he relegated.

"That's not how it's supposed to be!" she exclaimed. But then again, things were never what they were supposed to be around Alucard. She huffed and sat back down in her chair. At least he sort of agreed.

Alucard returned his attention to his book, picking up from where he had left off.

. . . the sea-shore—that suggesting, dividing line, contact, junction, the solid marrying the liquid—that curious, lurking something . . .

"Integra," he said, "you said you've been to the seashore many times."

"I have."

"Won't you describe it for me? The shore?"

Integra's face grew thoughtful. She obliged, conjuring a memory.

"It's quiet," she began. "Which would be a strange thing to say, because it's actually very noisy. The water constantly moves and its waves clash upon one another and there's never any rest. But I say quiet, because it's the quietness that comes over you as you realize that there's nothing in front of you but this blue water for days and days, and there's nothing stopping you but your common sense from flinging yourself into it and letting it take you to places unimaginably far." She laughed. "I remember my father touched my forehead when I told him so. I don't think he understood."

Alucard thought he understood. It must be somewhat akin to the sensation of facing death.

"Why, Alucard? Have you never been to sea before?"

He shook his head no.

"I'll take you there," she said determinedly. "Someday we'll go on an excursion to the beach. We'll pick a cloudy day and take a boat out and you'll see for yourself, how blue the water is—it'll be an adventure. Just you and me."

He found he liked that idea very much.

A few weeks later, his fourteenth birthday arrived. It was accompanied, however, with a blizzard that raged white and blinding. He knew it would be impossible for her to come. The prince pressed his face to the window, watching the world disappear, and for the first time in his life he resented the storm. It took Integra away from him. He did not care about his birthday. Yet he did care that Integra had cared about it, and a very, very, very deep part of his heart, the part that still sounded like a child, cried out for the only person who would have sincerely wished him a happy one.

Then there was a knock on the door.

And suddenly there was—

There was—Integra. Standing in the doorway. Integra, standing there, covered from head to toe in specks of snow. As though she had been out in a bloody blizzard.

"What," he spat, shock turning into anger at her sheer, utter, foolish recklessness, "were you thinking?"

"That I'd like to melt. Move," Integra said, the cold clipping her words. She brushed past him, sending loose flakes flying everywhere, and headed straight toward the fireplace. Alucard was at her heels, grabbing a blanket and throwing it over her as she planted herself in front of the pitiful flames, which he swiftly fed a couple of logs. Then he rounded on her.

"You stupid, stupid girl!"

Integra regarded him condescendingly, a feat only she could accomplish while looking up at him through foggy glasses and shivering. "I deplore your estimation of me. Did you think I wouldn't be here because it snowed?"

"That is a buggering blizzard out there and you could have died," he snarled.

"Language," she chided. She rolled her eyes. "It wasn't that bad. The wheels got stuck just the once and the horses pulled through in the end."

"Foolish girl."

"Shut up and sit down."

He obeyed, even as he broiled. This had to be, he lamented, some kind of cosmic retribution. Before he had met Integra he had not known how infuriating it could be to care for a person. The fact that people were easy to kill, whether by his hands or by something as trifling as snow, had never irked him so strongly. He jabbed at the fire with a poker. All this for a meaningless day.

Integra glanced impatiently at him. "Why are you sitting so far away?"

"It'll be counterproductive," he said, referring to his innate coldness.

"I'll be warm enough for both of us." She took the hand that was poking the fire and tugged. Alucard dropped the poker. He had been squeezing it hard enough for it to leave an indentation in his palm. Their shoulders met, and Integra swept her decidedly warm thumb over the discolorment.

"Silly prince. It takes more than a snowstorm to do away with me," the twelve-year-old boasted.

And at that he let out a snort.

"But of course even the wildest winds will die down for our mighty Sir Integral Hellsing," Alucard intoned, making her laugh. He pulled the blanket over his other shoulder, despite already feeling very cozy without it.

The two curled against each other.

"Happy birthday," she said.

The little prince—who was in truth no longer little—of white and black and red was nevertheless sure that there was magic in her words. How else could there be light diffusing in his sunless soul?

"I have brought you a present, but you must close your eyes."

"Will you kiss me?"

Integra turned bright pink, to his everlasting delight. "No, you idiot. It's a proper present. Close your eyes!"

"Bossy," he clucked. Yet he complied. He always did.

Alucard heard her searching her cloak for the mysterious present, and he could not help but be curious. Almost, daresay, excited.

Then something covered his ear, and he jumped.

From the depths of the object sounded a roar. It was garbled yet violent, tossing and turning, not unlike the rush of a stream. He struggled to name it, when it struck him—waves. This must be what his books had tried to describe, when they spoke of ocean waves. How clamorous! And from beyond the tide he heard her voice, and he crossed the sea to return to her side.

"I thought that since you've never been to the sea, I could bring a little piece of it to you."

He opened his eyes, and took the conch shell in his hands. It was large and smooth and mottled. He placed the opening to his ear once more, and how uncanny it was, that it could produce such a sound. Though logically he knew it was most likely the air flowing within that made the noise, it did not make the gift any less marvelous.

"Do you like it?"

"Do I like it?" Alucard repeated. He cradled it close, hiding his trembling hands. "This seals it. We'll take a boat around the world."

Integra laughed again, and it was far lovelier than the ocean in the shell.

"We'll conquer the world yet."

xx

xx

"Well," Integra announced, "this is it."

"This is it?" Alucard asked.

"This is it!" Seras squealed.

"Who the fuck goes to the beach in fucking December?" Pip muttered.

"We do, and be quiet, Bernadotte, you invited yourselves here."

"Oh, look, seagulls!" Seras exclaimed.

"Not enough that every aspect of our daily lives is weird. Our vacation has to be bloody weird, too. Charmant." The Frenchman set their luggage down and propped an umbrella.

"Come on, Pip. Let's go feed the seagulls!" Seras dragged her husband toward the flock of birds, which scattered when Baskerville sprang out, barking madly. A seagull flew into Pip's face. A string of curses decked the air.

Integra, with an unlit cigar between her teeth, watched them have fun, then crossed her arms and turned to Alucard expectantly.

"It's wet," Alucard said.

"It's the ocean, Alucard."

"And what's all this?"

"Oh, I don't know, sand?"

"I know it's sand," he said petulantly, "but why is there so much of it?"

Integra raised her eyes to the heavens.

He sat down on the sand under the umbrella. Seeing such a vast expanse of water directly in front of him made him sulky. Not so long ago, they had tested the veracity of the vampiric inability to cross running water. The corners of Integra's lips still twitched whenever it was mentioned.

In the waves, Seras and Pip were having a water fight that bode sore throats and runny noses in the near future. Baskerville had succeeded in catching a seagull between his jaws and looked like an ambling mass of seaweed with his bedraggled fur.

"Whatever happened to just the two of us?"

"You should have kept your big fanged mouth shut, then. As soon as Seras got wind of it she went on and on about how she hadn't been to the beach in ages, and then what was I supposed to do?"

"You're too lenient with the girl," Alucard groused.

"She's family. I'm allowed to be lenient with family," Integra said haughtily. "God knows I'm forever lenient with you."

"At least the butler had the tact to stay at home." Walter had, in fact, declined the trip, citing joints.

Alucard scooped up a handful of sand. It was cold and sticky.

"Perfect for making sand castles," the knight said, and sat down beside him to scoop up some of her own.

The knight and the vampire spent time at their leisure, gathering the sand into a misshapen mound, to which they added smaller misshapen mounds, and for the finishing touch she stuck her cigar into the center. He unearthed a few shells ("Pitiful," he pronounced) and plastered them on the exterior. They leaned back and assessed their creation.

"Is this our castle, then?"

"It is," she said solemnly.

"What a poorly constructed castle, my Integra."

"I disagree. The base is solid and the turrets are sturdy. It will never fall apart."

"All things are ephemeral," he said.

"That doesn't mean they can't be prolonged," she said.

"Oh?" He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap. "Will you cheat?"

"Infidelity, my dear?" she teased.

"Only to the principles of nature, my dearest."

Integra twirled a finger around a lock of midnight hair. "In that case, though it will be against my integrity as a knight, I find that I am not above cheating."

He blinked his red, red eyes languidly, and kissed the slope of her neck.

"It won't do for integrity to be tarnished," Alucard said, and his tone was mournful.

She twisted her head and he lifted his. Their lips met. Soft, wet caresses enunciated words that were not to be spoken. She pierced her tongue and the sudden flow of blood had him clawing at the pearls of her blouse.

There was a shriek. Pip had a crab hanging on the end of his braid. Seras burst into a fit of giggles.

Their kisses turned lazy. She took a breath.

"If nothing else suffices, perhaps we could simply burn out like stars."

"Like stars," he echoed, and was peaceable.

They stared out at the sea in silence, at its greyish blue, boundless promise.

"Happy birthday, Alucard."

"We still have yet to find a boat," he reminded her.

"Give it time," she said. "The world will wait until we do."

xx

xx

Walt Whitman, "Sea-Shore Fancies."