Chapter Text
He went through the motions of life. He hunted, he spoke, he signed documents, and he did this-that-and-the-other-thing for the church. It was mindless, but simple.
Gehrman was tired, a deep fatigue in his bones, but no amount of rest would fill the gap between his exhausted mind and his body.
It was late when he examined himself in the mirror, lifting up his shirt, tracing a hand over the many scars that littered his body. There were many old ones, many new ones, but the most apparent one wasn’t really a scar yet.
The giant beast had ripped his scythe out of his hands, he could even weeks later clearly remember the motion, but it’d also nicked his arm, nearly tearing off his wrist had he not taken one more step backwards.
He traced a finger gently along the outline, the short but deep slashing cut. It was numb to pain at this point and mostly healed, but he could nearly feel the exhaustion emanating from this point. A nagging, tired feeling arising from the dark red strike.
Gehrman narrowed his eyes, squinting at the slash. It shouldn’t have caused him this much misery—he’d been hurt far worse before.
He grumbled and went back to sleep, but rest would not come to him easily.
How could he? Gehrman asked himself, staring at the empty ceiling.
How could he lie about the vicar so flippantly? So easily?
Gehrman resolved to confront Ludwig about this. He did not know when or how, but he knew he could not run away, not again.
Gehrman asked Ludwig to meet him on the great bridge overlooking the city. It was a beautiful sight normally, as the sun was high in the sky, illuminating everything that happened in Yharnam with a sunny disposition. Gehrman only felt his heart begin to beat faster, his thoughts milling about.
Ludwig met him early into the afternoon, jogging out.
“Forgive me friend, I was late.” He was breathing hard, but still smiled.
Gehrman turned slowly, sighing, “I know.” He responded.
Ludwig’s smile disappeared within an instant, lips turning into a slight frown, “What’s wrong?”
Gehrman meditated on the question for a moment, feeling the anger rise in his chest, but he would not shout again—Ludwig needed more composure than that.
“Was it that easy? To hide the vicar’s circumstances? To sweep it all under the rug just like most problems in the church?” Gehrman questioned, still leaning on the rail.
Ludwig stared at him, appearing blindsided by the question, “What did you want me to say? Tell the whole church ‘Oh yes, Vicar Laurence was really a terrible man all along’, what do you think would happened then?” Ludwig huffed.
Gehrman turned, furrowing his eye brows, but reducing his glare, “That is not what I’m asking you, Ludwig. I’m asking you if you found it easy to treat Laurence like a rogue beast, like all the other clerics who lose their minds.”
Ludwig opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, starting sentences but never following them through, before finally saying, “That is my job, Gehrman. Hunter for the church yes, but Laurence entrusted me with making sure no issue would damage the church’s reputation.”
Gehrman let a long breath out of his nose and sparks of anger tried to light a fire within him, “Yes, I understand.” He stamped them out.
Ludwig looked around for a moment, as if looking for a way to escape if need be, or perhaps a way to kill Gehrman discreetly.
“I could not let Laurence’s lifework go to waste, Gehrman. What would happen if, suddenly, the public believed the blood to be evil? Or that the church was? There’d be panic, uproar. You and I, everyone we care about within the church, would probably be killed or have to flee.” Ludwig explained, putting a hand on Gehrman’s shoulder.
Gehrman gently placed his own hand on Ludwig’s, turning around to look the man in the eyes, “But what if the blood is evil, Ludwig?”
Ludwig’s face turned in disgust and disbelief, eyes widening, but he bared his teeth in a snarl, “You tell me I am somehow dishonoring Laurence! Yet you have the gall—to—” Ludwig stopped himself, the hand on Gehrman’s shoulder suddenly tightening, fingers curled like claws.
Gehrman felt his heart begin to beat faster, part of his brain telling him to get out of there, that he was too close to Ludwig. The man had every capability of tossing Gehrman over the rail, and who would question the Holy Blade?
But Gehrman resisted.
“Look at yourself, Ludwig! Look at the city! Look at the beasts that roam the night—what if they are a product of the blood? What if they’re not just bad people? Laurence wasn’t a bad man—we both know that, so why would he become a beast? Why?” Gehrman put both of his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders, reaching up.
If Ludwig wanted to throw him over the rail, now would’ve been the time. Gehrman braced himself for the worst.
Ludwig hissed, eyes filled with fire. He yanked his hands away from Gehrman, balling them into fists. Gehrman could see the tendons in Ludwig’s hands tense.
Gehrman was certain of two things about Ludwig, One; that he was an honest man—or at least, he had tried to be, and Two; that he did not shout, never in anger at least.
“I will not hear anymore heresy Gehrman!” He shouted in his face, close and loud enough that Gehrman could feel heat in his voice, as if he were about to breathe fire.
“Leave! Get out of my sight!” He shoved Gehrman away, and for a brief moment Gehrman feared for his life.
Ludwig stuck a finger to the exit, looming over Gehrman, “LEAVE!” He said so strongly that Gehrman’s legs weakened.
Gehrman scurried away, feeling terror grip his heart. He felt like some frightened rabbit, and no less a coward than before.
Gehrman did not speak to Ludwig for a long time. He observed him occasionally, but he refused to address him whenever he could. He followed Ludwig’s orders without dispute, and could feel—but did not respond to—Ludwig’s icy glares boring into his skull.
Gehrman did not protest when Ludwig finally elected his scapegoat—some innocent man at the wrong place at the wrong time, who had no alibi and no one to fight for them. The church tore them to shreds.
Gehrman bitterly thought Ludwig would designate himself vicar, but instead the title passed onto someone else without Ludwig’s hands being delved into the business.
Like few other things as of late. Gehrman thought to himself, resentment growing in his chest. It made a heavy, boiling feeling high in his ribs, but he resisted every urge to yell at Ludwig or speak his mind.
Gehrman did not know the new vicar very well, but he did not wish to. He did not wish to reside within the church at all.
For a while, Gehrman simply believed that Ludwig’s anger would reduce to embers; that they could speak once more—but Gehrman only grew more afraid of the man, and Ludwig made no motion to speak to him.
Gehrman was even more so terrified of his fate if he left the church. Ludwig could have outed him, may have told the whole church of his questioning of the blood. After watching that innocent soul murdered on the church’s behalf, he did not wish to suffer the same fate. Ludwig was a kind man—but a vindictive one. There’d always be some sort of revenge, even if Gehrman didn’t always believe it’d been justified.
Gehrman endured the church, and found a sliver of peace within the workshop. At the very least, the hunters under him did not glare him down. He had a hard time being nothing more than a teacher however. He did not mind though; he enjoyed what company he had, with his workshop so tucked away into the city. He wasn’t sure if he’d made many friends—not in the same way that he had and Ludwig had become companions—but he valued them highly, almost too highly.
His repugnance towards Ludwig waned to apathy; he could not let his fear of the man shackle him any longer. Ludwig seemed to notice this, as he simply regarded Gehrman coldly and went on his way.
But even years after their divergence, Gehrman still fondly recalled the memories they’d shared. It briefly filled him with a warm feeling, a honeyed kindness satisfying a cavity, but it gave way to the truth not soon after. A pain, a longing for the past, resided within the sweet memories and it ached in his chest so terribly he felt like crying.
“The past is in the past.” Laurence’s voice softly entered his head.
Nonetheless, nostalgia burned so deeply within him, he did not want to let go. But he needed to confront Ludwig if he was to ever even possibly start to pick up where he left off.
But Ludwig, and the entire church, was truly sealed from him. They’d walled themselves off with the burning of Old Yharnam, and there was nothing he could do—but perhaps there was. He was technically a member of the church, and he could just sneak in or something, probably.
But Gehrman did not wish to confront Ludwig. Every ounce of him told him to turn away, that no good would come from his meeting. He agonized over it for a few days, but he knew that it would solve nothing. He had known—for a long time—that any more time spent fighting with this decision would result in him or Ludwig being hurt.
Gehrman waited until the church finally reopened its grand doors, but he did not storm in straight away out of any fondness for the organization, it came more or less from a wish to respect Laurence’s wishes.
“Please be kind to the church. Many people within only wish to do well.” Laurence had said, taking Gehrman’s hand softly, but his eyes full of fire. Gehrman nodded, then. The man may have been just a scholar at the time, but he did not lend himself to being trifled with.
Gehrman set his jaw as he entered Ludwig’s chambers. He could remember them near perfectly, but it felt colder now. No warmth spread between the walls, and the wood seemed to have darkened considerably. Ludwig kept the place firmly cloaked as well, with his curtains still drawn, preferring to do whatever he was doing by candlelight apparently.
“Ludwig.” Gehrman said softly.
“Gehrman.” Ludwig replied numbly, looking up from his desk.
“It has been some time.” Gehrman commented. His voice hardly disturbed the looming silence in the room.
“It has. Do you still believe the blood to be evil?” Ludwig asked briskly.
Right to the point as always, Gehrman thought.
“I do not know. But I wish to—maybe, I... I don’t know. I wish to see my friend once again, and that is all. I understand that I… I was not, that we—we did not leave on good footing, and I should have—I know that I…” Gehrman fumbled with words, but they seemed to flow through his hands like quicksilver.
The recent business with Old Yharnam had muddied his beliefs even more than they had been more a long time. To burn an entire city—to murder that many people—who had called for such an act? But he did not come here to question Ludwig or himself, so he shook the thoughts aside as if dusting a blanket.
Ludwig considered him for a moment, standing to full height. Gehrman took a step backwards, anxiety filling his chest, making electricity jump up and down his spine and his arms.
“Forgive me, old friend.” Ludwig asked gently.
Gehrman tilted his head, “What? Why?”
Ludwig tented his hands, standing by the desk, refusing eye contact, “It is not your fault, and it was never a matter of… revenge or anything like that. But the church no longer needs service of guarded hunters.” He answered.
Gehrman opened his mouth to speak, but he found himself having a hard time forming words, “There is always need for hunters.”
“The church is enlisting the service of the people. We can no longer course amongst the shadows to hunt, now that everyone knows of the beasts and the threat. We must bolster the ranks.” Ludwig explained gravely, it seemed almost constructed, practiced. He appeared almost entirely hesitant, but his response was nonetheless straightforward.
“They’ll be slaughtered.” Gehrman whispered.
Ludwig looked upon Gehrman, confirming his words in silence. Gehrman was not angry—not yet—but terrified. Terrified of many things; for the people, for himself, of Ludwig, of the church, for Ludwig. A deep seated terror that split down his mind, filling him with a desperate horror.
“So, the workshop is just… closed? Is that all? Is that really it?” Gehrman asked, taking another step towards the door.
“I…” Ludwig began, but he turned his head away to the floor, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Forgive me.”
“Forgive me as well, Ludwig.” Gehrman murmured.
The door made an unfriendly sound as it creaked close. Gehrman caught one brief glance of Ludwig, and then left him alone.
Gehrman saw Ludwig but once afterwards.
His hands clutched the cord tightly. It was cold on the outside, but he could feel life within. Power beyond explanation humming deep within.
His fingers curled around it, considering for a moment. A brief second of reconsideration, a fleeting moment of pause.
He scoffed at this, and clutched it tighter.
A cold laugh rang from his throat, echoing in the catacombs distantly.
I will protect my hunters whether you like it or not. He'd committed.
No matter the consequences, he would provide a safe haven for his hunters and himself. He would not let fools be the end of all he'd—all that his friend—had built. He would not allow the hunters to be so easily thrown aside—hunters’ hunted beast, not men. Men were to go about their day without fear in their hearts.
It had taken him far too long to come to the conclusion—to seek the fragment of the Old Ones at all. Dark places within his heart whispered to him it would lead him to ruin, but he didn’t care. He sought some sort of way to convene with them, and had found it after countless days going through all information he had on hand and all information he’d retained from Laurence.
He let the ecstasy of the moment enter his voice, cackling to himself. To briefly let his mind come undone, to revel in his victory without any sort of consciousness tearing it away.
He composed himself, putting the cord away. Gehrman needed to square a few things away before he completed his task.
He returned to the abandoned workshop, glancing to the pale porcelain doll. He could try—one more time, right? No. It would not… replace what had been lost. He cast the thought aside and travelled towards one of the many empty cabinets.
He placed it inside gently, covering it with a scrap of cloth and covering his tracks, dusting around. He didn't wish to have it stolen, and he couldn't ensure he wouldn't be searched.
The church was so keen to cast the workshop aside anyway, they wouldn't look back inside. The church never looked back always forward, like Laurence had planned—but both Laurence and the church had failed on some level to acknowledge the past.
He left, making his way. The crisp night air began to sink onto the city, but Gehrman was performing a different type of hunt.
He still killed beasts, but that was not his objective. He gathered the attention of a few, some who remembered him and some who had heard of him.
“The old man's still on the hunt?” One whispered in the shadows.
“All alone no less.”
He huffed and walked off. He needed to find an old friend, but he knew it'd be unlikely he'd find him on the hunt, but he wasn't traveling that route.
They were the church's executioners, clothed in black with shrouded faces. He wasn't sure if they'd be conducting the actual hunt, but he'd search anyway. He figured they’d know the most about whose where, but he also guessed that any of the church’s hunters would do.
He moved amongst the shadows, watching a single executioner go on their ‘patrol’ or whatever the hell else they called it, and waited until an opportunity arose. They exited the house without blood on their hands for the fifth time in a row, and they looked significantly more relaxed than others on the hunt. Tranquil, calm, perhaps fatigued.
Gehrman stepped from the alley he'd been observing one from, shot once to gather their attention and swept forward in an attack. It'd been awhile since he'd fought another hunter, but they were shocked enough at his presence he disarmed them and knocked them onto the ground.
He pressed his boot at the base of their neck, his eyes narrowed. He felt anger simmer low in his chest, but he expressed it coldly. He did not wish to become distracted, not on the night of the hunt.
“You're still alive?” She asked with wide eyes.
“No, I'm dead.” He huffed.
The black robed woman grunted, “What’d you want? If you wanted me dead then I would be, am I wrong?” She asked.
“Where is the Holy Blade Ludwig?” He cut her short, he didn’t have time to address her question. Too many beast about, and he didn’t want to delay his plans.
She stared at him for a moment then questioned, “How should I know? He went mad and ran off.”
Gehrman pressed further on her neck, feeling anger lick at his lips, savage words anxiously awaiting to be spoken, but he did not allow them out.
“Tell me what you know, that's all I ask.” He let his anger out in a long breath, lifting his leg as to not crush the hunter’s windpipe.
They struggled for a moment, but relented, “He went mad—started laughing to himself, and then one day he snapped and attacked some people in the church, screamed about the blood. Then he ran off—some people tracked him but they got killed too.”
Any sort of anger residing in Gehrman’s heart faded within an instant. He did not want to believe what he had heard, and cursed himself for being so childish. He’d wanted to badly to yell at Ludwig, to have someone to blame. Ludwig had not once reached out to him from the day Gehrman left his office, and Gehrman was only left with distaste for the man.
He’d cursed Ludwig’s name, and then only desperately wanted to claw it all back, to rake it all away. He knew—that he and Ludwig had a falling out, but the man did not deserve this, and no one deserved to deal with a beast of such woe.
He lifted his boot some more, feeling the chilling water begin to submerge him again. A sense of realization beginning to drain in once more, but more slowly this time.
“Where?” He asked, lowering his voice.
“One of the older cathedrals, not far from the main church. Can you get your foot off my neck now?” She asked, hands ringing around his peg-leg. She tried shoving him off, without success however.
He lifted his foot, feeling anxiety build in his chest. He muttered his thanks and ran off into the night, leaving a confused hunter behind.
Gehrman found the church quite easily. It’d become abandoned, but he could smell a rotting odor originating from it. Out front there was patches of blood, streaked across the stone pavement. Long since dry, but it was still quite a copious amount to be disheartening.
He ignored the caustic smell that assaulted his senses, ignoring the stench of blood, and allowed himself to focus on the entrance gate of the church. The tall wooden doors were ornately decorated, and as he placed his hand on the reliefs, he felt a shiver go up his arm.
Nothing had changed. He was exactly where he was all some many years ago.
He closed his eyes, feeling his nails bite into the wood.
How many other friends shall I have to put down? He asked himself, but a part of his mind bit back, I don’t have many left.
How many hunters? How many clerics? How many men who were simply no more than men?
Too many, too many. He promised even more thoroughly that he would continue with his plan—so long as the cord was safe.
He pushed through the doors, stepping into the cold and dark. Dust filtered through the air, illuminated by streams of moonlight travelling through broken windows. Blood streaked across the floor, dark and dry.
He allowed himself time to gather his thoughts, to tie his mind back together. He could not allow himself to become forgetful; Ludwig had already killed before, and Gehrman could not count on their distant attachment to keep him safe.
He walked through the dappled shadows, stepping into what may have been a sort of main area, maybe a place of prayer. It was quite large, not as detailed as some other ministries, but still held the same adornments that were characteristic. It had a staircase towards the back that its tallest was about a man’s height.
There was more blood on the floor, but now there were bodies to accompany it. They’d been rended in chunks and slashed in half, and they stared distant with pale eyes and pale skin. They must have not swelled like most bodies did because they’d been so divided that any gases were simply let free, evidenced by the terrible stench in the room. He could no longer ignore the disgusting odor of blood and the various stages of decaying flesh.
Gehrman paused in the center of the room, looking up the steps.
“Ludwig?” He asked, his voice echoing in cathedral, answered by no one. His own voice nearly assaulted him, hitting him sharply. Perhaps the hunter had lied, perhaps Ludwig was already dead.
He almost hoped such was the case.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” He heard someone reply, stepping into view at the top of the stairs.
Gehrman had seen a great many things that had disgusted him, that had repulsed him in life. He’d seen plenty of horrifying beasts, and as he’d delved deep within the history of the blood, he’d learned more than he’d ever wished to learn. The state Ludwig was in, however, rivalled some of the more disgusting things he had seen.
It was not as though Gehrman hadn’t known that men did not simply transform within in an instant—not usually—but he never paid any heed to those who were not already malformed.
“Is that a familiar face I see?” A voice entered the silent void once more, Gehrman froze.
It was a bit raspier than he remembered, but it was very acquainted with.
“Gehrman?” The voice asked again, soft, gentle, but ragged.
Gehrman’s eyes widened as the voice became tangible. A man stood at the top of the stairways, a vast glowing blade illuminating him. Even from the distance between them, Gehrman knew that he was filthy. Blood and dirty stained white church garb. The clothing itself was in tatters, detailed cape faded, its edges beginning to fall apart.
He could almost not believe his eyes.
“Ludwig, is that really you?” he tested, taking a tentative step forward.
The man before him was hardly a man at all. Its eyes were pale and yellowing, with one beginning to blind, and its hair was tanged and wild. There was a large sore between its neck and its shoulder, but it appeared less like a wound and more like… growth of some sort.
His skin looked like it was started to rot on him, turning a dark red color like he was bruising.
“Really me? Yes. Yes it is really me. Is it really you, however? I can’t see you very well.” Ludwig answered.
Gehrman stepped until he was a foot away from Ludwig, and felt a great sense of pity fill him. It hurt; His heart ached, like something was shattering within him. Horror turned away, allowing a clarity to form within Gehrman’s mind; Ludwig was alone, shambling in the dark, losing his mind, and Gehrman had let him. Gehrman should have been there—he should have always been there.
Nothing had changed.
The man looked like he was in a great deal of pain, as he seemed to always grimace, to constantly tighten his muscles as a way to force air of his lungs.
He looked even taller than Gehrman remembered, but it was until Gehrman examined below the injured expression on Ludwig’s face, he felt another wave of guilt hit him once more.
Ludwig long ago discarded his shoes, for his ankles had begun to shift and move upwards, and he was essentially walking on his toes.
“Yes, it’s me Ludwig. What are you… doing here?” Gehrman asked carefully.
Ludwig laughed hysterically; it started like Gehrman had told him a joke, but had grown until he was sobbing, almost wailing.
Gehrman stood, his stomach tightening. He didn’t know if he could trust Ludwig in the state he was in, and as Ludwig leaned more heavily on the holy blade, sobbing, he found the man he once knew slipping from him.
Ludwig stopped abruptly, staring at the floor.
“Forgive me, I am not myself. I’ve degenerated, and they know. They’ve already sent a few after me.” Ludwig explained, then looked into the dark, as if remembering something.
“Hunters. A few of them, oh yes, they sent a few indeed. Some of them were even church hunters!” Ludwig answered, a large smile spreading across his face, too wide. He bared too many teeth for Gehrman to feel comfortable, like Ludwig was trying to smile the skin off his face.
Gehrman nodded, readying to flee at a moment’s notice.
“Why did you come here, friend, did they send you here? Do you want me dead as well, yes?” Ludwig asked, his voice breaking, but he continued to smile and Gehrman, lurching forward.
“No—not at all. I came here because I wanted to know if you were alive.” Gehrman replied, shaking his head, pulling himself backwards.
“No, you must. I should have fought harder, I should have argued more. ‘There will always be a need for hunters’ I should have said, like you did. I did not, however. Of course you’d be mad, of course he’d be mad too. ‘Be kind to the church, be kind to Gehrman.’ He said, Ha! What a jest.” Ludwig seemed to clarify to no one, “I have done neither.” His expression suddenly dropped, growling, snarling at no one.
Gehrman felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he extended his hands once again. They slowly came out so that perhaps Ludwig would not flinch under his touch, or perhaps that if need be, Gehrman could tear them away.
Gently, he placed his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders. He could feel Ludwig’s blood seeping from the sore spread onto his hands.
“No, no you poor man, I am not mad.” Gehrman said softly.
Ludwig’s eyes flickered, staring at him, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.
“You must leave, old friend. They will be here, and there is nothing you can do.” Ludwig said, a sudden clarity washing across his face. Horror flickered in his eyes, concern into his face as he closed his mouth.
Gehrman felt himself nearly clinging onto Ludwig. For so long, he’d left him alone, and now there he was, losing his mind in some dark lonely place, left to be killed, just like all holy men turned into beasts. He didn’t want to leave Ludwig alone again, he was almost as deeply resolved as he was to beckon the Old Ones with the cord.
But Gehrman knew he could not remain, as deeply as it hurt his heart to admit, even slightly.
“Ludwig, do you wish for me to cut you free, now?” Gehrman offered solemnly.
Ludwig seemed to think for a moment, eyes going about the room, and then he met Gehrman’s, and laughed again. It reminded Gehrman of the way a horse cried out when it was terrified, a strange repeated blubbering sound. He laughed and laughed, and his hysterical voice crushed the fragile silence. It seemed he would do so forever, but almost suddenly he shut his mouth.
“No.” Ludwig replied shortly.
Ludwig raised a dirty hand, steeped in blood, and placed it on Gehrman’s shoulder. He nodded, and retracted, only to shamble off into the darkness, the blue light of the holy blade disappearing into nothing.
He fell to his knees, covering his mouth with his hands. His eyes watered so greatly he could not properly see the floor, everything became a blur.
Gehrman sat in silence, muffling his sobs, feeling the cold night grip him.
Gehrman never saw Ludwig again.