Religion – Noun: The belief in and worship of a superhuman controlling power, esp. a personal God or gods. Details of belief as taught or discussed.

Religion. God. Faith.

I hate all of these words. They spit in my face and step on my fingers, as I grovel in the dirt and beg for the love of a higher being, through destroying myself. Those I love, the land I hail from.

What has religion ever granted me?

Perhaps, gates to cower behind – something to deny the fact that I, as do many, love war. I love war. I love war.

Maybe, a ray of hope or light. A shaped piece of metal dangling from a loop of string, gripping it so very tightly in my hands until my palms bruised and bled. What did that little piece of metal do, when the sultan tossed me on the satin coated bed, tore away my clothes and...!

I hate religion. I hate religion, but I love war.

I love the war religion stirs within us, I love religion. I love it for giving me a feast of screams and canon fire. Of blood and broken bones, of death and dying. I love war. I love war.

I remember that day – the very day, that precious day – when strong, warm hands gripped my skinny, bruised shoulders. Soft-leather fingers, gently gripping me and shaking me awake against the overstuffed cushions, and a voice so deep and demonic it could only belong to an angel.

"Vlad!," He called to me. Long, dirty blond hair scattered around a strong jaw as my eyes began to open, vision swimming with haze and mist. "Vlad, trezește-te!," He beckoned me. "Vlad, wake up!"

"Yes...?," Strong arms curled around me, holding me to the cold metal of body armour, scored and nicked over years of battle.

"Frate!," He gasped, alleviated, finally holding me in his arms. Finally being held compassionately. I could not raise my own limbs, to wrap around him and hold on and never let go. "Brother!"

Mircea pulled up a satin sheet, wrapping me in a cocoon of fabric, and lifted me from a straining weight that tethered my wrists to the earth. His hold was all I could dare to dream of; he held me as if he never wanted to release me. He probably didn't, and barely did.

He carried me to a place – somewhere, so very bright and smeared against my eyeballs – and I heard something. Like voices, like a single voice calling my name with such joy and relief and panic. Smaller, softer hands grabbed my purple and black wrists, Radu clutching and shaking me, so desperately wanting a response from me.

"Frate, eu sunt aici, mă auzi?," Maybe his voice was lower than I remembered. Oh, how time melted into the darkness of that cell – how long was I forlorn on that tray of straw? "Brother, I am here, can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you...," More voices, more discussion. How much longer? I knew that one voice and hated it, as the Regele Porc spoke to the myriad of other voices and sounds. None of the noises mattered, only the hands holding me. Loving me through gentle squeezes and treatment as though I were made of glass or paper.

"Te iubesc," Mircea whispers to me. "Te iubesc, Vlad," He tells me.

"I love you, too...!"

I love war. I love war. I love war.

My dear, sweet Integra – my beloved master – and my innocent, fragile Seras – my loving servant – my beautiful ladies, my women of the night. My master, countess of the moon and stars. My servant, queen of the sun and clouds. Oh yes, how Radu would have fawned. But they are my ladies, and I shall cast judgement on all. No, none shall touch my little girls lest I give license. Any less respect and I shall cut off your fingers, one by one.

But...

No, none shall touch my priest, any less respect and I shall cut off your hands and feet. Then your nose. Then your tongue. Then your left eye, followed by your right. But your ears, you keep, and I shall tell you why. It is so that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries 'Dear God, what is that thing?!' will echo in your perfect ears. I will leave you in anguish; wallowing in freakish misery forever.

Boredom is an incredible memoriser.

Alexander Anderson. You drench yourself in religion – in the religion I hate, loath, despise – you dare chase me with silver and shriek your preaches to my ears until I wish they would bleed, and you bind me with holy chains, burning nothing but my pride and trauma. How you taunt me with that cross, that little shaped piece of metal dangling from a loop of string, hanging it before my nose and daring me to bite so it will hurt my teeth. How you grind salt into wounds burned shut and re-torn with your bayonets. How I hate you for baring everything I once clung to with every ounce of my pitiful, eleven year old strength.

How you press close, forehead touching mine, eyes hooded and voice low. When you push me down to the floor boards, pushing back lapels and placket fronts, pressing light touches to my skin. How you whisper my name so softly, so strongly, and hold me in soft-leather fingers and hot palms. Reminding me what it means to be vulnerable, to be at someone else's mercy. To be dominated and possessed, but filling me with vanilla cream and Turkish delight – sugar and sweetness so tightly bound it becomes sour yet tasteful – and peer into me with those pastel green eyes. You wait for me, until I so desperately reach upwards, fingertips brushing against toned skin and almost wanting to bite...!

You say such cute things – you say I am cute – and speak beautiful words – She walks in beauty, like the night, Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright, Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light, Which heaven to gaudy day denies – and leave me breathless as you lean down... down...!

When bullets and blades come at a restful stop, and eyes are turned away through brick walls and miles, you touch me in such ways that could not simply be virtuous. Sinful angels press me down and make me want them, staring into me with those eyes – those eyes – and I am powerless, for my fingers won't pull the trigger.

So you make me weak, Anderson, and I'll let you be strong. For as long as you want, like, need, and I'll stay for however long we aren't desired. With kisses like butterfly wings to make my skin crawl and fingertips so blunt they make my flesh bruise, how can I say no to you? Even with our spite and our blasphemy and meaningless hateful words, our war.

I love war. I love war. I love war.

"Who is Mircea?," He doesn't ask why I crumble beneath him, doesn't question why I never turn the tide and either tear out his spine or pin him to the ground. He just accepts it and pulls me against his chest, letting me draw circles on his skin with no consequence.

"What?," My head springs back in surprise, staring in mute fright at what might entail this question. He looks down in confusion, then reaches behind me head and runs his fingers through my hair.

"Who is Mircea?," He repeats. "You've mumbled his name before, mostly in your sleep, but you've said his name more and more lately...," Am I hurting you, Anderson? Is envy your lesser sin, holding hands with lust for the devil?

I grit my teeth and fist, ducking my head and hiding in the curve of his neck. I could never have noticed passed my moaning and crying, but maybe memories do trifle with the present through moments of deep satisfaction.

"I was just wonderin'... because, I din't know yeh til' some time ago. Din't know yeh preferred fellas til' a year ago. So I was thinkin', yeh know, maybe an ex boyfriend, or...," I shake my head and he goes quiet, then envelopes me in his stone arms. "I'm sorry, luv. Din't mean to upset yeh."

I chuckled, my tongue peeking between my teeth as I try not to break into hysterical laughs. "Luv, he says... you wouldn't be so tender if you knew who Mircea was."

He looks at me nervously, apprehensive but he asks nonetheless like the brave Catholic he is. "Go on...," He urges. I sigh and lean back, so he can see the apathetic, uncaring expression on my face as I tap my fingers across his chest in inconsistent rhythms, staying quiet. "Alucard...!"

"Well...," I let a smile glimmer for a moment, then lose its lustre. "Mircea was my brother."

Hm, his silence speaks volumes above the deafening quiet, and I prepare to vanish to my dungeon where bayonets cannot pierce my head. But he clutched me closer, humming thoughtfully. "Din't know yeh had a brother."

"I had two. And a half," He smells of soil and kitchen, the scent of any caretaker of orphans, I suppose. "Older and younger."

"Whut happened to 'em?"

"They died," I slowly blinked, laughing at insomnia in the closed off corner of my mind. "Mircea was killed by soldiers, Radu died of an illness... it may have been blood cancer, but my memory isn't what it used to be."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Sorry for deaths centuries ago," I shook my head. "Silly boy, condolences are useless to me now."

"You obviously aren't over it. At least, not Mircea's death."

I looked away, deliberating over this suggestion. Maybe I miss him, both of them. But then, maybe I miss my mother, and my father. Maybe I miss Mina, and Doctor Hellsing. Maybe I miss Mihnea and my grandchildren. Maybe I do. Regret is not something I tend to waste time dwelling upon.

"Maybe...," He holds me tighter. Mircea died in a battle, in a fight. In a war.

I love war. I love... war. I loved my brother. I loved my family. I loved them very much.

He places his chin atop my head, combing his fingers through my hair again. He likes to do that. "Bless those who mourn, eternal God, with the comfort of your love that they may face each new day with hope and the certainty that nothing can destroy the good that has been given. May their memories become joyful, their days enriched with friendship, and their lives encircled by your love."

"Amen." I muttered against his damp throat.

"Amen," He kisses my forehead.

"I can't stand that rubbish."

"I know, but I thought maybe yehr brothers would appreciate it, where ever they may be," Alexander smiles. I like his smile.

I smile too, and turn my eyes to the back of my skull and whisper, do you appreciate it? Are you pleased someone is praying for you?

From a ways, I hear fists bash against the lid of my coffin, and I know my brothers appreciate his patronage. "I'm sure they would." I reply. He nods, and I lie there naked with Judas Priest on the floor of an abandoned school, remembering my brothers in this inappropriate scene. Remembering how I hate religion, how I hate God, how I love war.

I love you. I love you. I love you, Alexander.

Howdy, it's been a while. Exams and whatnot, y'know? Well, I've gotten roped into the Hellsing fandom, and have come up with my own theories and character studies. Like this, for example; Alucard's way of thinking, I believe, would be poetically insane. It sounds pretty and has some kind of cryptic meaning and obscure references, but takes a lot of work to decipher. Also, yes I ship Anderson/Alucard. I also ship Alucard/Integra, Seras/Pip and Integra/Seras. So sue me.

Also, if you're wondering who all the extra characters are; well, I did some research on Vlad Ţepeș and got some information about his family and whatnot. Yes, he had two brothers and a half brother (probably several, seeing as men in power can't seem to keep it in their pants). He had a son called Mihnea, plus a couple of others but I couldn't find very much information on them. And, obviously, the dialogue in italics are Romanian.

If anyone can name the references in here, I will love them forever.

Hail to the princess, baby.