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I recalled our first meeting as if it only occurred yesterday.
The Lady Maria.
A young noblewoman of Cainhurst was she, intricate garb adorning her delicate features, an emerald broach twinkling beneath the flickering torches, pale eyes hard, determined, ambitious, very unconventional for someone with a cushioned upbringing. According to her captivated teacher, her talent relied primarily on the dexterity of her fingers, hard, grueling hours spent accuminating her skill, and the passion kindling her heart.
Skill over the power of blood? Surely not..., thought I.
My ears filled to the brim with almost impossible expectations, I must admit doubting Gehrman's words of praise upon first grasping her seemingly delicate fingers into my own. I witnessed many young hunters, talented hunters, overestimate their ability, only to fall victim to the scourge, to be ruthlessly devoured by the jaws of fear..and eventual madness.
Of course, she, belonging to the Vilebloods of Cainhurst, I restrained myself from grimacing with disgust.
Though Gehrman's compliments were a gift not easily received, my experiences left me only with quiet skepticism.
His spine straightened with pride as she gave a curt, polite bow, and spoke no louder than a breath,
"Your Lordship."
Such a soft, lilting voice.
Undoubtedly, not one belonging to a trained killer.
And appointing one of contaminated blood?
Had Gehrman lost his mind?
It was not until I witnessed her for myself that I understood. With the elegant Rakuyo as her weapon of choice, her body moved with the fluidity and grace of a river flowing smoothly, steadily, yet with the strength of a violent ocean wave. Her pallid face was rigid as stone, save for the fire raging behind her eyes.
The eyes of a satisfied hunter...
I took it upon myself to commend her work, even admitting my faint traces of concern for Gehrman's .... enthusiasm.
I thought for a brief moment that my prejudice against her people was misplaced, and I have always been one to admit my falsehoods. While hers was a slate not easily cleaned, I set it aside for the time being.
In reply, she simply sheathed her weapon, bowed in that same cordial manner, and uttered,
"Thank you, Your Lordship."
I knew not but to blink rather imprudently. I had grown rather accustomed to others feverishly seeking my approval, even a second of my attention, but, she brushed by me, eyes cast to the floor, only wishing for the company of her bed.
Such an intriguing creature...
Perhaps, I misjudged Gehrman's curious mania for her prematurely...
Such were our interactions. Nothing more than a courteous exchange of a few sentences. The tiny spark of interest I developed was pushed into the back of my mind. After all, the affairs of the Healing Church held much higher importance than personal interests.
It was not until my vision, my life, my work, started to crumble before me that I felt even a trace of anything more than the serene, paternal visage I created for my followers, years worth of camouflage I began to believe.
Fear...
Terror...
Like fangs of ice digging deep into the beating musculature of my aching heart...
The words on the parchment before me became nothing more but incomprehensible nonsense. The shadows cast by the candelabra morphed into menacing wraiths towering over me, mocking me, condemning me for my reckless actions.
Perhaps fatigue settled into my eyes, but I was almost certain the serpentine, decrepit umbra of Master Willem sat before me, rocking away in his ancient chair, the words of our last conversation echoing within the twisted labyrinth of my collapsing psyche...
"I tell you, I will not forget our adage..."
"We are born of the Blood,
Made men by the Blood,
Undone by the Blood,
Our Eyes are yet to open..."
"Fear the Old Blood..."
A foolish youth was I...
I could visualize the old man now, jeering at my gradual downfall...
Anxiety inched through my veins as freezing water through a channel. The quill once resting gingerly between my fingers quivered, this apprehension slowly draining the vitality from them, and a bead of sweat trickled down the hollow of my cheek. Unable to stand it any longer, I rose to escape the confinements of my room, now threatening to suffocate me.
Even the long, abysmal hallways of the Cathedral served as a better comfort than my desk and bed. At the very least, I could shroud myself within its dark embrace than wallow in the acidic pool of regret, bubbling at my heels, ensuring my impending demise.
I wandered with little direction or reason. Amidst the pat of my footsteps reverberating within the foyers, a figure emerged within the warm glow of my candlestick.
The Lady Maria, or...a version of her.
Her silver hair loosely draped about her shoulders. Garbed only in a black, austere frock, one could easily see her spine and head sink as if revealing a invisible burden she carried day in, day out. A wine glass, filled to the brim with a deep crimson, shimmered between curved fingers, the bottle firmly clutched within the free hand.
In silence, I observed her for a moment, unsure of whether or not I should speak, until her heavy lidded eyes raised to meet mine. I became entranced as one might with the pearly light of the moon. Though clothed in vulnerability, she withheld her Cainhurst elegance, a timeless, almost ghostly, beauty their nobles were known for granted to them by their forbidden, tainted blood. Before, she was an intangible, ethereal being, a marble statue only to behold, never to touch or even converse with, a lady of high rank, demanding nothing but the respect of all who crossed her path.
Here, wrapped by this heavy blanket of darkness, the melancholy in her watery, red rimmed eyes, the slight flush in her cheeks, she was a woman, seeking solace from a restless night, pining for any comfort to soothe an agonized heart.
For once, her lineage mattered not.
How truly different was I than her in this situation?
As I approached her, my lips quirked up into a smile.
Almost immediately, she averted her gaze, quickly, as if hiding embarrassment. I assumed stumbling upon her in this state was an blunder she preferred to keep as hidden as possible.
My words ran dry, as my mind fumbled for the next appropriate move, one that would both alleviate these curiosities plaguing me ever since our first account while also preserving the little dignity she possessed in this moment. I glanced at the bottle, then the glass.
Finally, I accumulated the little bit of fortitude left within me and pieced together...a deplorable excuse for a sentence.
"A good year," I spoke low, in hopes to keep the echo's travels subdued. "Might I join you?"
She said nothing at first, only stared me down, picking apart my words, my inflections, searching for any hidden motives or meanings. Needles of ice pricked down the back of my neck, threatening to destroy my composure.
I pointed towards the wooden door, leading to my retreat.
"I am afraid I have pushed my mind to its...intellectual limits," I forced out a quiet chuckle. "Pathetic, is it not? I was in search of some distraction...if you cared to join me?"
After the ten longest seconds of my life crept by, her face softened a little, before peeling herself away from the cold, stone wall.
"Lead the way, Your Lordship," she said.
For the first time this night, I sensed a little relief easing into my chest. After I offered my arm to her, she gently eased it into the crook, and I guided her to my corridors.
"Please, discard the formalities for the time being. Address me as Laurence."
My stomach squirmed a little as soon as the words fell from my lips. I could feel the intensity of her sharp eyes upon me again. Once more they dissected me, cut apart the flesh of their wriggling test subject.
"Alright, Laurence," she said, the ice in her voice finally melting away.
Now, I could breathe.
I navigated her to a small table, set with two chairs in front of the open hearth. After retrieving a glass of my own, I sat before her, watching her again. Whatever sorrow clouded her mind still hung over her, raining down on her with only the rich, bitter fluid to numb whatever emotions dared to escape her tightly locked, jail cell of a heart.
That little I empathized with, for only after two, full glasses did I sense a hint of alleviation from my ghastly illness so wrecking my being.
Strangely enough, we felt no desire...nor need to speak. The silence proved comforting. Just being in the presence of someone filled a little bit of the emptiness sorrow tended to create.
Misery certainly loved its share of company.
As I reached for the bottle once more, she said, eyes scrutinizing me carefully,
"You seem worried."
My heart leapt into my throat, and my brain scrambled a bit. It was not often someone showed any hint of concern for my well-being, fabricated or no. Truth be told, I knew not how to answer, to articulate the fears welling deep inside.
Instead, I replied,
"You seem sorrowed."
She closed her eyes as if a sword cut through her. She rested her forehead into her fingers, sinking into her arm. A long sigh seeped from her lips, be it ire or mitigation, I could not tell.
Again, I brought the glass now tainted with my prints to my lips, taking in its strong, oaky aroma for a moment.
"Forgive me, I spoke out of turn."
"Not at all," she cut in to my surprise. "I was the one to originally pry."
I managed a smile before taking another sip.
"I assume its been quite some time before either of us experienced a normal conversation."
Surprisingly, she too revealed a most delicate curve of her lips, the corners of her eyes wrinkling ever so slightly.
My heart jumped once more - not with fear nor anxiety - something unfamiliar, something warm and pleasant.
"Far too long," she gingerly took the bottle from the table and served herself. "To think I, a filthy Vileblood, would be sharing such an experience with the renowned Vicar Laurence."
A sheepish grin eased over my mouth, a feeble masking of the flush daring to expose itself.
"Do not hold me to such a divine standard," I swirled what remained of my drink, watching the swirls of deep red and black cloud and fall. "Such a title holds little meaning..."
"I know not what you mean."
I swallowed hard, feeling the monstrous apprehension crawling towards my throat, waiting to burst through my ribs, lungs, spine, hopefully leaving me dead. Hunter or no, she could not possibly be blind to Yharnam's plight. In fact, she, Gehrman, and the rest of the sad band of hunters witnessed more of its brutal transformation than any of the fools hiding behind the walls of the Cathedral.
And all my doing...
Before I could respond, although unsure of what exactly to say, she daintily placed her glass on the table, before pressing into the red velvet of the chair. Shoulders and back erect, eyes falling on me, she regained her aura of nobility once again.
"I thought we were here to escape our troubles," she said with a smirk. "Now, you just seem to be dwelling on them even more."
I felt my mouth hang open just a bit, and she simply returned with her small confident smile.
She never ceased to surprise me.
With a shake of my head and a quiet laugh, I replied,
"The lady has some wit to her. Refreshing, I must say."
"Well, when a lady collaborates with a group of vagabonds, she concocts ways to conform accordingly without sacrificing her manners."
"Ah, you have mastered it well."
"Regardless of the nature of my people," she calmly folded her hands across her lap. "I take pride in civility and culture," she paused a moment, deep in thought. "I believe it separates me from the beasts I hunt...do you not agree?"
I closed my eyes, savoring her words.
Yes...even if those beasts are men...?
Or once were...not that it mattered one way or another.
It won't be long...
I breathed a rather long sigh, be of respite or remorse, I could not tell, but I managed a smile, albeit a shadow of a smile.
"I do, my Lady..."
"Please," she more exhaled than spoke. "Discard the formalities here. Call me Maria."
Warmth enveloped my heart, overtaking the despair smothering it so. The longer I gazed upon her, the more I failed to recall a recent moment in which I experienced such an inviting sensation.
And it only ever blossomed in her presence.
Around the other hunters, the other officials, our interactions were brief, professional, just as before, but the coldness in her eyes was replaced with a welcoming grace, one that certainly cracked my impenetrable armor more than I cared to admit. Though I frequently inspected for prying eyes, especially those of Gehrman's, I always seemed to recapture my original countenance and proceed with my usual tasks without the shadow of suspicion clinging to my heels.
Night after night, when the horizon cradled the moon in its protective arms, when everyone took to rest, she searched for me, bottle of wine in hand, dressed in modest, but refined attire. We either engaged in frivolous conversation or sat in a comfortable silence, filling the void with each other's company, the crackling of the fire, her deep, relaxed breaths, the occasional clink of the glass against the table. Even as the Healing Church, the tapestry I slaved over unraveled little by little, her voice of velvet, the hints of orange and red glinting in her silvery locks, and the shadows heightening her exquisite features, soothed the agony thrashing wildly within me.
Alas, just these mundane discussions and serene lulls weren't enough to satisfy the beast within me, shattering the chains with which I shackled it.
Even with my personified escape within close proximity of me, it dragged me further and further into a twisted horror, a horror I molded myself.
Those innocent people now morphed into bloodthirsty monstrosities, various members of the Church slowly succumbing to the madness of fear...
The flames rising higher...
The flame's finger tips scorching into my skin...
Oh, how it hurts...
How it burns...
Fire coursing through my veins....
Red...blood red...
Fear the Old Blood...
"Laurence?"
Maria's voice awakened me from my trance. My heart raced, forehead glistening, eyes wide, fixed on the warm glow of the chandelier above me. The worn gears of my mind creaked as they turned, allowing it to register that yes, indeed, much to my dismay, I returned to reality.
"Was...I asleep?" I breathed, wiping my face with a handkerchief she placed in my lap.
"More or less," a hand rested between my shoulder blades. "Trapped in a nightmare was more like it."
I felt a chuckle bubble in my throat but no strength to force it out.
"I live in a nightmare."
Her brows knit together.
"As if I do not?"
I stole a moment to appreciate those silvery pools of moonlight on a still, quiet night; no ripples, no waves, just motionless water, smooth as glass.
As I grasped her hand into my own, her hardened face softened a bit.
"Forgive me, my dear," I muttered. "I prefer encumbering myself."
"You should not..."
"Oh?"
White, frigid fingers encircled my own, the rough callouses of her hands contrasting the rest of her smooth, alabaster skin. We shared little contact - a handshake, an assuring grip to the shoulder, an infrequent kiss to her hand. We needed little of these simple delicacies, relying primarily on each other's companionship to heal these invisible wounds.
The depth of my hunger in this instance, here, now, with demons urging me further down, was a notion I cared not to explore.
"You are not unique to this type of suffering. Whether or not I utilize the crafts of the Vilebloods," her thumb lightly brushed over a vein threading, pulsating in my hand. "their nature haunts me ever still...," she closed her eyes, wincing as if in pain. "Like a hushed voice, beckoning me, enticing me..."
Slowly, I brought her wrist to my lips - warm, silky, unlike her palm, hardened from many battles fought. My eyes rose to meet hers. She showed no resistance, and even inched closer.
"If I were not such a coward...," she whispered, as my free arm slinked around her waist, pressing her to me. "I...I..."
"Silence," my breath fanned against parted lips. "I forbid you from completing that thought..."
Thus, I closed the space between us.
Her mouth felt tight, uncertain, until she felt my hand cup the back of her head, urging her a little closer. After a drawn out breath through her nose, she eased into the slow rhythm now set, curling her fingers in my sleeve.
How long had it been since I experienced the heat of another human body so close.
Taking her by the shoulders, I parted from her just enough for her to breathe, as the tips of our noses still touched.
Now, would be the time to choose: was this enough?
"You were saying?" I smiled and feathered a finger down her jaw.
She gazed up at me in silence, eyes clouded with desire, the only time I had ever seen those seas surge.
"I...am unsure," she chuckled. "Something to do with burdens, yes?"
"Mmhmm, that sounds correct," I curved a lock of her hair behind her year. "I must confess, I've become rather preoccupied."
"Oh, have you now?" she planted a chaste kiss to the corner of my mouth, fingers inching their way to my collar. "For such an intellectual, you seem so easily distracted."
My lips found their way to the graceful line of her neck as she guided me down to the sofa. Her subtle, clean perfume, the bitter taste and mellow scent of wine clinging to her, the drumming of her pulse against me, all set afire a ravaging desire within me.
How I yearned to just...devour her...
"I'm afraid my cognitive processes are slacking off," I trailed my fingertips over the valleys of her collarbones, watching the vessels throb with excitement. I grazed my teeth down to the crook of her neck, every fiber of my person quivering with anticipation.
What must that horrible, corrupted blood taste like...
"Then," she choked out, sliding her fingers through my hair. "Don't think at all...Release yourself."
Licking my dry lips, I returned to look at her face. Her expression was...strange: flushed, defenseless, yet caressed lightly with melancholy. A twinge of guilt rattled within me as she tenderly touched my cheek.
Such a loving contrast compared to savagery inside me.
"Are you certain, my dear?"
With little thought, a silent nod was her only response.
Who was I to deny her?
My reminiscing of those days blurred. How typical of time; days I longed to remember became pieces of a monochromatic puzzle, and moments I wished to the gods above never to be brought again to the surface of my mind became needles to my skin, digging themselves in further, further, until the torment melded itself to my very being.
But, I remembered the mess of sensations those salacious nights; every bruise, scar, and cut covering the pale plains of her skin, the sound of her voice next to my ear as she writhed beneath me, every fervent kiss, her nails digging into my skin as she reached her limit.
Wiser people might have ceased this nonsense long ago, more than likely never kindling this flame to begin with.
Alas, I was always a rather poor excuse of a holy man.
How many days have passed...? Had it been months? Years? The news of her departure after the Fishing Hamlet delivered such a vicious blow, I remained so dazed, so distracted, all that was left of me was a delirious desperation, a desperation to cling to what was already lost...
Beckoning the ancient presence of the moon, stealing away Gehrman, Yharnam succumbing to the effects of the Old Blood of which we partook, of which I partook, and watching the bodies of comrades and friend break, distort, burst apart into unrecognizable, eldritch revulsions, the ceaseless screams and wails of women and children, and the snarling of beasts, ringing through the city with the foreboding, chiming of the bell...
How does one articulate the harrowing anguish despair leaves...?
Can a beast shed tears...?
I sat before the altar of the Grand Cathedral. The fulgurating candles were nothing but blurs of light behind the foggy veil over my eyes. The horrid, sweet stench of blood engulfed my senses enough to churn my stomach. Faint echoes of distant moans hung like a mist, and a stream of moonlight flowing through an open window, casting its opaline brilliance upon me.
Oh, those eyes...
How I missed those haunting lakes of liquid moonlight...
"Laurence," her voice drifted through my mind. "I've come to bid you farewell..."
Poetic justice, was it not?
"Maria, please..."
What was it I said to her? What did I beg? I only recollected breaking apart...
After pulling her hand from my hold, she turned her back to me, fighting the impulse to cry.
"I....I cannot bear to see you do this to yourself, Laurence..."
It was too late....
"Forgive me, Maria..."
Forgive me...
Forgive me...
An unendurable pain shredded through my body. As I clutched my chest, I collapsed to my knees, fist slamming on the altar. It persisted from my cerebrum, to my fingers, down the length of my legs....
Fire running through my vessels...
Oh, how it burned...
But, who was I to implore for relief? What deity would show mercy on such a sinner...?
Unable to bear the weight of this torture, I collapsed to the ground, curled and trembling like a terrified child, eyes fixed forward, gazing into another dimension. Phantoms of her meandered before me: her eyes, her scent, her voice, her smile, everything I sacrificed for a repulsive delusion...
My only escape from this troubling world...
Oh, Maria...
Was there a chance you still thought of me, dear Maria....?
Would you ever consider returning to this abominable transgressor...?
Please, come back, Maria...
Dear Maria...
Maria...Maria...
Ma...ri...a....