Chapter Text
Useless. All of this is useless.
A step. Then two.
What am I fighting for?
Left foot. Then the right. Then left again. He cannot stop now, even if his body feels as heavy as lead.
Was it worth it?
A world stuck in an endless cycle of light and dark. Of curses and emptiness.
It's a funny thing, fate. A bitter thing. It beckons you for so long that you don't even realize it's been there with you the whole time. That you never were truly free of making your own choices, walking your own path.
“One day, you will stand before its decrepit gate. Without really knowing why...” the fire keepers had said.
It was like this from the very beginning.
Yes. Since the beginning. He has always marched forward, without knowing why. Without looking back. Without really thinking about it. Was it a trick from destiny, him being here? Or just pure misfortune?
Nashandra was no more, but he could still feel her curse in his veins, lingering like maggots. Fatigue overtakes him. He would like to rest.
A step, and another.
The Throne of Want looks like a kiln. Under his helmet, his lips, caked with blood, form the ghost of a dry smile. He abhors the irony behind the comparison.
It's smaller than what he expected.
Link the Fire, sweet Shanalotte has told him. But was it really worth it? Link the fire, and then? Another flickering flame, a light so tiny it was bound to disappear again before any kingdom would come. No Age of Gods, or Men, or Dragons, could ever flourish with such a tiny respite from the Dark. No use Linking the Fire. It would always be put out in the end.
...No use walking away either. So many Undeads, like him. There would be someone to come in his stead, someone who would willingly do it.
Now that he finally had a choice, the Bearer of the Curse understands that it didn't matter.
He was the Monarch, fit to sit on the Throne. He could have everything.
He was also a modest knight, from a faraway land he has long forgotten. On a lone path toward his own demise, with his sword as his only ally.
In a world without an end and too many beginnings.
He was sick of it all.
He drags his massive body more than walking toward the Throne. Despite his rancor, he feels like it sings his name in a low murmur, luring him. So many times, so many souls taken, just so he could be here.
The knight inhales sharply — damn, his chest hurts — before letting his fingers lightly trace along the cold stone.
Alright. Let's see what you will do, then.
Be it an Age of Dark denied of hope, or an Age of Fire doomed to repeat itself, he would accept all. Wasn't it his only task, after all?
And thus, the knight sits, slowly, on a throne of lies.
His eyes close. Over his own shallow breathing, he has the illusion of hearing the soothing voice of Shanalotte, eerily even and kind, before everything fade to nothingness.
—
The Hunter's Dream is not supposed to be anything more than a moment of respite in a Hunter's life. It is a place without a location, and a world without real starting point or end.
It is almost like a living thing. With the potential of changing forms to adapt the wants of its architect and those who live in it. And yet, it feels still and stuck in time.
For the temporary refugees of this tiny world, those who comes and goes, it's a relief. A pause in a long, long night of deaths and battles. At first, they all seem uncertain, disoriented. Some try to befriend the strange inhabitants of this dream. Some become mad with disillusions or dread and tries to kill everything in sight — those always fail, for this place would never let its prisoners die. And some others finally, shake their head in terror, never wanting to leave, to go back. But they all have to, in the end. Because the Hunt is the only thing a hunter can do.
He was a hunter too, once.
He does not even remember when. Time is not something that exist, here. But he was. Maybe he still is, deep inside, and maybe that is why the Doll insist on addressing him as such even now, after spending what should be an eternity trapped here by his side. The nostalgic familiarity that comes with the fond name always makes his heart aches. He thinks it may be her way of caring for him, but he is not sure.
Oh, how Gehrman must laugh at him, from wherever his freed soul may reside now.
How he must have suffered too, before the Hunter took his place. Wanting to leave this peaceful prison, yet refusing to let someone else to endure the same torment in his stead. He knew, because now, he is the same. Every time a new hunter would be brought to the Dream, he would envy their freedom, yet would never say anything unnecessary and simply assist them, with few words and silent nods. Like the Doll, he was nothing more than a background figure. A convenient, mandatory support for all the beast slayers. Like Gehrman was before him. Like Moon Presence wanted him to be.
When he gazes at the full moon, so large and brighter than the sun, he knows that she is watching him. For the thousandth time, he addresses a silent plea to her. As usual, for a while now, there is no answer. Not when it would have mattered anyway.
Behind him, he can sense more than hear the light flutters of Doll's clothes approaching. Yet he doesn't feel her presence, maybe because she is simply a puppet without a soul — when he first met her, she was so life-like and reassuring that he had refused to think she wasn't human. But now, living with her for so long, it was simply a fact. It does not alter his affection toward her in any way. But it makes his loneliness take deeper roots in his heart.
Alone in a narrow world.
She does not interrupt him, she never would. She simply waits there, watching his back with kind eyes, until he would stop looking at the celestial body and turn toward her. And so, with a sigh, he does.
"A new Hunt has begun," her voice is as soft as everything else about her.
Of course. He has felt it too. Another Hunt. Another one. She says nothing else, because they both know the implications it has, and the roles they have to play from now on. They have done it so many times already. Welcoming the new hunter. Supporting them from beginning to end, against all odds. And then, when the ethereal being living in the moon would deem their job done, it would be his turn. Freeing the poor soul from a circle of never-ending nights, sending them back to a reality where death was final and the world was right.
Finally, the ex-hunter allows himself a deeper sigh — it has become a habit he developed since his arrival to Yharnam, so long ago, when he realized speaking wasn't something that was really necessary to hunt monsters — and began walking toward the workshop. It is only when he climbs the first steps that he realizes Doll has not moved from her place.
She is gazing at the horizon, her head slightly tilted in a puzzled posture, but her porcelain face is as neutral as ever.
Her mind seems somewhere else. It is a first, he thinks. Maybe. He is not sure.
When she feels his gaze on her, she turns gracefully to face him.
"Ah. Do pardon me, Good Hunter. I just had a very peculiar feeling. It was fleeting, however, so I cannot put a name on it."
He watches her with curiosity and a strange sense of foreboding. What he is sure of is that the Doll never uses the word 'feeling' lightly. Her not being able to put a name on what she senses makes him uncomfortable without really knowing why.
—
They wait for the new hunter for a while.
There is no real entrance or exit in the Dream Refuge. Things simply aren't there, until they are. Sometimes, while you are not looking, objects appear. Or people. Or a little bit of the garden or the workshop's structure change.
It does not really matter why things are this way. It is a dream after all. But everything happening here has a reason to do so. Everything is the will of the Moon and, when she is inclined to hear his requests, his as well. Like that time when he asked for the workshop to have another room tucked in the back that could serve as a bedroom, or when he asked for the tombstone representing him to be removed. (It made him uneasy.)
So he knows the new hunter would simply be there when the time would be right.
And indeed, soon enough, it was.
Usually, new hunters would wake up fairly soon after their first death in the waking world. In Gehrman's time, this first visit was nothing more than a short, dumbfounded one. The workshop was closed, and Doll was just a discarded marionette. The Little Ones were the only one to greet them here.
But since he was here, it has been a little different. He was present to welcome the unfortunate souls. Oh, he never says much, never explains anything, really. But he remembers how lost he was, back then, when he was at their place. Seeing someone, anyone, who at least looked human and didn't try to kill you on the spot, well, it could make a huge difference.
So, when he feels a prickling sensation behind his neck, the sign that something new just appeared in the dream, he gets up from his chair, mentally preparing himself for the confused questions he just can't answer that will come his way — because they all have questions, he learned. After all, all hunters are the same. Not on the surface, of course, but in substance.
Yet, as he steps out of the workshop, he can see from afar, in the garden below, that the newcomer looks like they do not belong here.
They seem to stir up, sitting against a tombstone, waking up from a very long slumber. Even from a distance, the ex-hunter can see how massive they are. But their getup is the true oddity. An armor. An actual armor, covered in fur and dark fabrics.
Not something a civilian nor a seasoned hunter would wear.
The feeling of discomfort comes back, and suddenly, breathing seems a little harder.
"Well now, that's an unusual one," he murmurs to himself.