Chapter Text
That was what she was told.
The Doll was born to serve.
Gherman created her for the Hunters in the Dream.
The Blood Echoes are taken from her as she puts strength in the Hunters. The only things that are hers, and only hers, are the shreds of memories that flitter around her mind. The shadows in her chest, unknown to her.
They were named “emotions”, Gherman had told her.
Those prickles offered a new experience, something she has felt in rare memory.
A dark shadow flickered at the bottom of the steps.
“Hello.” The Hunter was covered in foul-smelling blood, the leather slick with guts and mud, her dark hair tied in a ponytail. She recognized from her gait that she had been injured. The blood dripped down from the hem of her boot. “Have you been well?” This one still kept her composure. What for?
“Good Hunter.” Doll folded her hands on her lap, “Of course. There are beautiful things to see from this Dream.”
This Hunter was a bit different than most others. She lingered longer, not bolting off into the workshop or taking the strength from the Blood Echoes before heading out of the dream, scant being here for a minute, as if they detested even smelling the air.
She would be making small talk or gaze at her for a second with a look she could not decipher. It did not resemble the usual commentary she heard many times over.
Whenever she visited, her chest was pleasantly warm.
This time, the Hunter sat down next to her and started a conversation. Talking about the state of Yharnam, showing her a sketch she had made of some surroundings. She seemed to completely ignore her injury.
“How have you been making these beautiful sketches, good Hunter? These are unlike any I have seen.”
She stayed silent for a few seconds, “Have you ever been out of this Dream?”
“It is not my place to leave home.”
The Hunter put down her sketchbook and turned her body towards her, the muscles under the leather shifting with the motion. “Have you ever seen anything out of this Dream? From the Waking world?” Her eyebrows were knitted together.
“I have seen some. In the past, Gherman brought some artifacts to this Dream. Guns, books, twisted metal, blood…. You, Good Hunter.”
Another moment of silence. This time, The Hunter looked rather embarrassed, “…Alright. Could you hold out your hands?” She took out a small knife and cut a few pages out of her notebook, being careful to not stain it with blood from her sleeves. They gently floated down into the Doll’s open hands.
“Sketches? Hunter, I cannot turn them into-”
“It is a gift, for you.” She said quickly, standing up on one leg, the blood dripping onto the white flowers underneath her, “I will bring more once I have seen more of the world.”
What were gifts? She had no time to ask as she reached out to grab the Hunter’s cuffs.
“Good Hunter.” The Doll was surprised with how firm her voice felt, “I cannot allow you to go out of the Dream with injury.”
“Injury?” She put her hand on her thigh and chuckled lightly, “It is of no concern. You musn’t worry on my behalf.”
“Will you rest a moment longer?”
“Of course.”
The Doll leaned forward and put her hand on the thigh, feeling the area out. The injury looked severe. The Hunter’s eyes wandered whilst the inspection was ongoing, returning her attention to the Doll as she slid a strange liquid in her hand.
“What is this?”
“A potent version of your Blood Vials. It should heal you, good Hunter.”
An indecipherable expression washed over her face, “Thank you.”
As strange as it was, she would do anything to see it again.
-
It became a ritual.
She would be resting in her chair or doing her every day chores. The Hunter would appear. She would find her, give her gifts, and even some trinkets from the Waking world. She would inspect the Hunter for injuries and give her remedies accordingly. Other times, she would be dreaming and wake up to the Hunter lying on the grass next to the gravestones. At those times, she seemed to think better than to disturb her.
She ran her hand over the creases of the multiple parchments, admiring the lining of the Hunter’s making, a red crusty stain on the bottom of the newest pages. A gifted music box that was laid on the arm of the chair played a sweet sound that seemed almost melancholic.
(“Why are you giving me many artifacts, good Hunter?”
“They are gifts.”
“I have been meaning to ask this for a while, good Hunter, what are they? Gifts?”
“They are… objects you give to someone to make them feel better, or something that shows them you care for them.”
“Ah. So you care for my wellbeing?”
“Is it that strange?”
“Of course. I have been created for your sake, good Hunter. Would that mean that I am your gift?”
The leather-clad woman sighed, “I refuse to believe that.” She answered tersely, her jaw set.
The Doll blinked. What was so hard to believe? She could not say anything in response.)
The Hunter even pointed out that the Doll would sometimes be smiling as she looked at her sketches.
Once, she would’ve asked Gherman about these new experiences.
As she put the papers in a wooden box, a disturbance. Ragged breaths. The Hunter’s steps were heavy, dragging onto the stone. Soon after, there was a shout, high pitched and whining. The spirits shimmered in the presence of anger.
Something was not right.
The Doll saw the Hunter on her knees near the edge of the Dream, clutching a small cloth-like object in her hands. Her head was hung low. Water dripping down her chin, blood covering every inch of her gloves.
“Good Hunter,” She said to the Hunter’s turned side, “Are you in distress?”
She did not answer. The water kept falling. The Doll stood in silence near her for several minutes.
“I have seen so much suffering, pain, and yet…” After long, the kneeling Hunter finally spoke, “This place. The dream. It is a nightmare, isn't it?”
“It is the Hunter’s Dream.”
“So it is.” She laughed sourly, gruffly removing her hat, “Forgive me. Strange questions.” She pocketed the ribbon after some apprehension.
The Doll wiped the water that was making grooves on the Hunter’s tired grime and blood covered face. It was hot, almost burning. She could feel her jerk back instinctively, although she then stilled.
“Are these tears, good Hunter?”
“..They are.”
Slowly, she sat down next to the Hunter. “A gift. Will you accept it, Hunter?”
“Of course.”
She wrapped her arms around her. The Hunter was tense. As the Doll kept her in her arms, her body soon relaxed and she allowed herself to get pulled even closer, even sliding her trembling hands on her shawl.
“You are cold.”
The beast in the Hunter’s soul was gone once again.