A/N: hello friends I'm in Bloodborne hell and I will protect the Plain Doll with my life
The first time the Hunter awoke, he was still clutching the fabric of his shirt, right above his chest where there should be long, jagged lacerations. He uneasily came to his knees, emerging from the fluttering cloud of black that had brought him there. There were no bloodstained hospital beds, no obscure bottles, and more importantly, no beast and no evidence of any prior existence of one.
Instead, there was a doll.
It was slumped against the brick wall, cradled by the leaves that tumbled down from the structure above. The tranquility of the area calmed his racing heartbeat, enough for him to inspect the doll. A plain doll, staring lifelessly at him, its eyes as glassy and gray as the rest of its face.
He'd reach out to touch it, but another thing called to him. The messengers that he had seen in the brief glimpses of memory that he had retained from the transfusion had gathered on the staircase leading up to the building above. Their long, pallid arms vigorously beckoned him over, offering him gifts of blades and firearms.
The messengers seemed to be delighted at his pick of an axe and blunderbuss. They then beckoned him over to the nearby gravestone. He followed, hesitantly at first, and as he placed his hand on the gravestone, he took another look at the doll.
It stared back at him, not once blinking, never truly seeing.
The Hunter had grown accustomed to waking up alone amongst the flowers. He was also used to the doll that stared blankly past him each time he walked past it to the messenger bath. Then there came a day after a particularly grueling fight with the Cleric Beast where he wasn't truly alone in the Dream.
The doll that was once frigid and glassy was standing at the mouth of the path that led to the messenger bath. Her skin was pale, full, and he briefly wondered if it would feel warm and natural. He neared her cautiously, and surprisingly, she offered him a dainty curtsy.
"Hello, good hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you," she said in a voice softer than he had ever known, in a register far too polite and plain to be as memorable as it was to him later.
"I, ah – hello," he said clumsily. He was grateful for the mask that hid the blush burning fervently on his cheeks. "Are you – I mean, do you have a name?"
There wasn't a trace of emotion evident on her countenance. "I am just a plain doll."
He wasn't entirely sure how to respond. Such manners were foreign to him, especially when stuck in a place like Yharnam. He sidestepped closer to the messenger bath, offering awkwardly, "It's . . . nice to meet you."
Seemingly unfazed by his behavior, she said in her usual impassive demeanor, "Likewise."
It had been perhaps the sixth or seventh visit to the Dream, though the Hunter didn't know for a fact; he didn't tend to keep count for his own sake. So far, the doll had only spoken when directly addressed, her blank stare never once leaving the Hunter as he inspected his quickly diminishing supplies.
On the way down the cobblestone path to the Yharnam headstone, he was stopped by her polite call, "Good hunter, if I may?"
For a few seconds, he merely stared, then caught himself by abruptly blurting out, "Oh?"
"Perhaps I could channel the echoes of blood to your strength, should you save any." She explained delicately, "Hopefully to make your journey less troublesome."
At the silence that followed, she turned her eyes down to where her hands clutched the handle of the lantern she held. Her face was inscrutable, as a doll should be, though the Hunter supposed the gesture was bashful, done as if she genuinely believed that she had overstepped a boundary.
"Uh, yeah," the Hunter finally answered, nervously tugging his scarf higher up the bridge of his nose. "I've never really thought about it. . . ."
An idea popped into his mind, and he reached into his rucksack for something. The doll tilted her head, watching with mute curiosity as the Hunter drew small container. Droplets of coldblood smoldered a deep velvet within the glass.
"Will this do?"
Something tugged on the corner of the doll's pale lips. It was nearly imperceptible, too enigmatic for the Hunter to discern what it meant.
"Of course," she answered. Placing her lantern on the ground, she reached out to him, saying, "Let me stand close."
He did as he was told, kneeling on the ground before her. She stepped closer, her smooth, wooden hands clacking quietly as it touched his shoulder. Under her, shielded from the sun by her bonnet, he could now see the forest green of her eyes. The light danced in them, speckled in her irises, conveying much more warmth and life than her hands could have.
His gaze lingered on her face, yearning to touch something so ethereally smooth and diminutive when it had been cold and glassy not too long prior. Her pale lips moved, and he curiously watched them, fascinated by it. It took him a moment to render what she had said; "Now shut your eyes. . . ."
With a painful regret, he did as he was told.
While still new to the art, the Hunter was very pleased with himself, having an axe now fortified to its fullest with bloodstone shards. He walked over to the glossy chest where he stored all of his items, rummaging around clumsily for the music box that the young Yharnam girl had given to him. It took a while to sift through the mess, but he finally found it and stored it away in his coat.
Deciding to use the elongated form of his axe, he accidentally knocked over the stacks of books lined up next to the workshop's exit, not yet fully aware of the space that it took up. He didn't care enough to look back, instead hopping down the cobblestone path towards the furthest gravestone. The doll, always alert and tentative, watched as he raced along.
Before he knelt, he checked his pockets to ensure that he had the supplies he needed. In the corner of his eye, something moved, and he looked over to the doll's now empty spot. Curious, he returned to the workshop, only to find the doll silently gathering the books that he had knocked over without a care in the world.
A small gasp left the doll's lips when he had quickly crouched down and took the books from her hands. She started with a voice a slight pitch above her usual deadpan, "Good hunter, there's no need –"
"No, of course it is!" He waved her off with a guilty laugh, "It's my fault for being careless. Don't you worry."
As requested, she relinquished and stepped away from him. For a long time, the doll said nothing, then finally left with a nearly imperceptible huff. Now done stacking the books and rearranging them to imitate how they previously were, he stood and ran back over to the Yharnam gravestone.
For the first time in a long while, he gave in to the urge to look back at her. Her large eyes scrutinized him, and for once, her brows were furrowed ever so slightly as if in contemplation.
When he returned to the Dream later to retrieve more Molotov cocktails, he found that his storage chest was organized impeccably.
The doll had been tending to the flowers when the Hunter returned to the Dream. He slung his blunderbuss over his back, readying to shorten his axe for fortification. As he ascended the cobblestone path towards the workshop, he said to the doll, "Good day, Plain Doll."
She immediately looked up from the flower bed, ceasing the flow from her watering can. She incredulously stared at his retreating back, unsure of how to respond, or of whether she was even capable of forming one. The Hunter took note of the lack of response, his heart racing, face burning from embarrassment. Not regret, he reflected; he could never regret showing the doll some courtesy.
Inside the workshop, he found Gehrman sitting at one of the desks in his wheelchair, hands clutching the head of his cane. Upon entering, Gehrman said, "I hope you've been making progress."
The Hunter shrugged. "I suppose you could call it that."
"Remember, you're free to use anything you could possibly find in this Dream of yours." The hunter hummed in acknowledgement, placing his axe down upon the workshop table. As he opened his rucksack for the materials he had gathered hours prior, he heard Gehrman's solemn murmur, "Even the doll, should it please you. . . ."
Looking more closely now, the Hunter saw the gauntness of Gehrman's face, the heaviness of the bags that hung under his eyes. The negative association between the workshop and the doll had become more apparent, but still remained terribly nebulous. Just below the workshop, within the Hunter's line of sigh if he neared the messenger bath, he could still see the doll.
On her face, a curious look, one of lost wonder and mute confusion. And on Gehrman's, something akin to pain, perhaps along the lines of lost hope as he, too, looked out the opened door and towards the flower beds.
When the Hunter left the workshop and neared the Yharnam headstone, the doll called out, "Farewell, good hunter."
The Hunter paused. Her eyes, sea foam green in the bright reflection of the flowers, filled with such hope and wonder, were trained on him and only him. Her countenance remained as inscrutable as ever, could even be described as emotionless and as impassive as a true doll, but her eyes sang such beautiful melodies when they rested on him. It was almost impossible to analyze, but he knew it wasn't necessarily a bad thing.
His smile was hidden behind the mask, but it was evident when he said, "Until we meet again, my lady."
She blinked a few times, seemingly taken aback by the way she had been addressed. She turned back to the flowers, her contemplation evident on her face and something very, very close to what could possibly be a pleased smile on her lips. The Hunter yearned terribly to see it again.
The more badges that the Hunter had gathered, the more messengers seemed to appear in the bath. There were only two not long ago, reaching out towards him with offerings of blood vails and cocktails; now there were several, all clapping enthusiastically the moment he reached the bath.
"Are they always this . . . excited?" the Hunter asked one day, drawing the Doll's attention.
Her gaze lingered on the messenger bath, where several messengers were vigorously beckoning the Hunter over. "They worship you. Don't you see?"
"Worship. . . ." the Hunter echoed hollowly.
These messengers, as grotesque as they may appear, seemed as delighted as they could possibly be the moment he arrived despite having done nothing for them besides exchange echoes for supplies and, occasionally, weapons. He never paid them any mind, not even as they silently cheered at every purchase, nor as they waited ever so patiently at each lamp to take him back to the safety of the Dream. If he wasn't careful, he'd overwhelm himself with guilty, hateful thoughts.
"Is there something on your mind?"
The Hunter wasn't entirely sure how to respond to such a personal question. It was far from the doll's usual demeanor, from her personality that labeled her as silent, impassive, a watcher in a constant vigil. He shrugged and said, "No, nothing that's particularly bothersome."
A day or so later when he returned to the Dream, he came bearing a gift for the messengers that worshipped him so. A white ribbon, thin and delicate, smoother than silk against his skin, which he gave to the messengers waiting for him in the bath. They were delighted, carrying the ribbon high above their heads, their low, hollow moans echoing in celebration.
On the next visit, he found that the doll had tied the ribbon to a bow on one of the messengers. She gave him a pleased look, and for the first time, a kind, exquisitely beautiful smile. It was the loveliest sight that he had ever been graced with.
If it weren't for the doll, the Hunter's Dream would be incredibly lonely. He realized that when he found her outside of her usual spot for the very first time. Then, he found her descending the workshop, having apparently dusted off the wood shavings from the workbench. Her boots against the cobblestone brought a fluttering sense of ease, a tranquility that he could only ever experience in his Dream.
"Welcome home, good hunter," the doll greeted.
The warmth in his chest was foreign, almost frighteningly so, but it clarified the thoughts in his mind. Home. Awakening in the Hunter's Dream was like returning home. Or maybe not merely awakening in the Dream.
The Dream itself isn't home. But when he set his eyes upon the doll, watching as she entertained the messengers, it felt right to call it home.
The abandoned workshop that he found above Cathedral Ward was a haunting memory that he wasn't sure that he could truly ever forget. Unlike the workshop in his Dream, it was frigid and filled with an old fog of forgotten memories and mere echoes of what it used to be. And, most chilling of all, behind the decrepit rune table was a doll.
It was a doll, another plain doll, but it was not her. It couldn't be her. Glassy, lifeless, artificial, lacking the warmth that she had radiated when they interacted. Its dreary gaze was unsettling, so he did not take his time to explore, to discover each secret that the true workshop beyond the Dream may hold.
However, he did find a small hair ornament, one that complimented the vivid memory of the doll in his Dream. Naturally, he made an immediate trip to the Hunter's Dream, where he was met with the comforting sight of his doll, the true doll in his eyes, waiting patiently for him.
She greeted in her usual impassive, yet undeniably fond voice, "Welcome home, good hunter."
He buried his gloves hands into his pockets, stating with an anxious fidget, "I have a gift for you. Something that I found in my travels."
The doll tilted her head. "Oh?"
When he pulled out the small hair ornament and presented it to her, she gasped. Immediately, she reached for it, bringing it up to inspect closely. With an exhilarated fascination, he saw the expression on her face change, witnessed the recognition and the undeniable onslaught of emotions that she felt.
"What is. . . ? What's happening?" She clutched it close to her chest, cradling it so fondly. "Hunter, I cannot – I only yearn, I –" Her breath left her in an incredulous laugh. "Is this – could this be joy?"
For the first time, tears welled in her magnificent eyes, an act far beyond what any doll could ever be capable of. A plain doll, she calls herself, even when the skin of her cheek where the Hunter ran his thumb across was soft, smooth, alive. Just a plain doll, she would say, when she was everything but.
Gerhman visited long after advising the Hunter to ascend to Oedon Chapel. He sat in his usual spot, resting in his wheelchair, the shine of his cane evident in the light after he had presumably shined it while waiting for him to return. Gerhman watched, all the more tired and painfully empty, as he lingered to converse with the doll.
When the Hunter had finally entered the workshop, Gerhman pointed out with a frigid deadpan, "You've taken a liking to the Plain Doll."
Upon seeing who he presumed was a friend, he stowed his blunderbuss away. "I wouldn't call her a doll, really."
"That is what she is. A doll, considered a tool to strengthen a Hunter to efficiently pursue echoes of blood."
The Hunter's mask saved him from betrayal by any facial expressions. Instead, his lone eye was trained on Gerhman, scrutinizing him for a long time after the bitter response. Then, he finally said, "She is a companion." As a second thought, he clarified, "To me, she is a companion."
Gerhman didn't return for a long time after that. His grim demeanor during contemplation of the Hunter's response made him unapproachable, perhaps for the better. There weren't many friendly faces in Yharnam, and there were even fewer individuals he could trust. Gerhman's absence was considered a loss – not a heavy one, but a loss nonetheless.
The doll gave the Hunter a pitiful look a few visits later. She didn't have to bring it up for him to know that she understood.
The Hunter wasn't sure how many times he rewound the music box, allowing it to play as he walked along the empty, bloodstained path to the lamp. He hadn't touched it since his battle with Father Gascoigne, which felt like centuries ago. Now, the tune drifted delicately along the path with him, its melody soothing and tranquil. How its melody could have haunted Gascoigne was a mystery to him.
He still had it in his hand when he awoke in the Dream. It had stopped playing upon his awakening, the dust he had emerged from scattering along the cobblestone path while he walked towards the spot where the doll typically sat in her typical silent vigil. It was empty, but she was not too far away, standing near the messenger bath where she idly played with the messengers.
Hearing the footsteps behind her, she turned, her sleeve falling out of the messengers' grasps. "They're lovely little creatures, don't you think?" Her attention immediately fell to the music box in the Hunter's hand. She pointed out, "You've always carried that with you."
He set it down on the brim of the messenger bath. The messengers immediately reached for it, enthusiastically waving it above their heads. "It's never been bothersome to carry with me. The melody was painful for an enemy I've faced long ago." He stared at the music box that the messengers were carrying, the memory of Gascoigne's tortured expression eliciting a terrible sinking feeling in his stomach. He murmured dimly, "I guess that's why I've never used it again."
The doll held out her hand expectantly, and with slow, reluctant moans, the messengers gave it to her. She wound up the music box. The messengers quieted when the melody rang out ever so delicately, their moans nearly imperceptible now, wringing their hands together above their chests as if entranced by it.
The doll seemed to contemplate the melody, eventually asking him, "What would one call this music?"
He took his time to muster an answer, allowing the music box to play until the song faded and fell dormant, waiting patiently to be played again. "I'd call it pretty." Haunting, perhaps, but undeniably pretty.
"Pretty," the doll repeated. "I remember . . . I may have seen a contraption like this, a long time ago." She looked up at him, almost whimsical in her expression, and said with a gentle shake to the music box for emphasis, "With a maiden atop who would spin as the music played. It was . . . pretty."
Usually impassive, sometimes even deadpan, the doll typically did not convey much about what she meant, or what she felt during a given situation. But now, when it was still so enigmatic but also so painfully obvious, the Hunter couldn't help but ask, "Would you like to dance, my lady?"
Soft, seafoam green eyes stared incredulously at him. "Dance. . . ?"
"Like the maiden," he explained, "with a melody like this, why shouldn't we?"
The Hunter held out his hand in an encouraging manner. While still tentative, she reached out to him, beautiful wonder evident on her breathtaking face. His hand never left hers, nor did she ever dare pull away. Messengers emerged amongst the flowers, reaching excitedly towards the music box, and she allowed them to take it. The small cluster of them clapped vigorously as the messenger in the middle wound it up once more.
He didn't hear the music box. He wasn't even entirely sure if he had moved along to the slow, exquisite melody. Hesitant and undeniably clueless, the doll stuck close to him, her eyes never leaving his as he pulled them along.
It flowed naturally, delicately, like a promise whispered between them amongst the flowers. He didn't dare blink, leaning his forehead down to rest against hers with a brief fear that the moment would end all too soon.
For a long time after the music box stopped playing and the messengers took to curiously toying with it, they stayed there, gliding amongst the flowers.
The act of channeling blood echoes into his strength was no longer new. It had become mechanical, almost, to kneel before the doll, for his heart to race as she leaned in close. This time, before he pulled away at the absence of her hand, she asked hesitantly, "Good hunter?"
He paused in the motion of standing. He remained where he was, answering, "Yes? Is something the matter?"
For the first time, her eyes darted off in another direction, seemingly meek and diminutive. She then said in a small, quiet whisper, "You've never removed your mask before, not even in a safe haven such as this."
"Does that . . . bother you?"
"No, good hunter, you could never bother me," she said, her tone rising from its monotone to something that sounded like the beginnings of concern. "I'm merely curious, I suppose."
"You could remove the mask if you wanted to."
A long silence followed that. The Hunter wasn't sure if he should be angry with himself, if he should perhaps punish himself, for offering something so bold. Then, the impossible occurred, and any panicked, shamed thoughts in his mind slowed; his breath caught in the back of his throat when the doll's hands slowly reached towards his mask.
Her voice was smooth and warm enough to make his head spin as she asked, "May I, truly?"
It took strength to steady himself before he answered, "Of course."
The doll removed his hat first, cautious and uncertain, and set it down beside her. Then, her fingers hooked over the fabric that stretched over the bridge of his nose and his right eye, the silky slide of wood against his skin wracking a shiver down his spine. She tugged the material down delicately, lovingly. The air felt cold against his skin, now bare and exposed to her after having gone so long hidden from the rest of the world.
Her face was tantalizingly close to his own. The only thoughts he could retain were how beautiful, how ethereally lovely she was, how perfectly her eyelashes curled upwards, how pale and thin her lips were.
With a soft, wistful breath, she was unable to refrain from asking him wondrously, "Is this what beauty is, my hunter?"
My hunter.
His heart soared.
The doll wasn't in her usual spot when the Hunter returned to the Dream. Instead, he found her standing amongst the field of flowers, looking ahead towards the great, gnarled tree atop of the hill. He unhooked his blunderbuss from his belt and set his axe aside with it before he neared her.
She looked over her shoulder at him, a smile etched onto her lips, as it usually was when he arrived to the Dream. "Welcome home, good hunter."
He stopped at her side. "Something on your mind?"
Her lips parted to speak, but naught a sound came out, and she closed them, instead staring at the moon that perpetually hung low behind the crown of the tree. For a long while, they gazed at the moon together, the flowers swaying with the breeze that brushed past them.
The doll eventually whispered, "I remember what old hunters have told me about the Gods and their love." She tore her gaze away from the great tree and towards the Hunter. "Love. They described it like . . . like home. Like joy. Like everything wonderful."
The Hunter felt the flames ignite in his chest, his heart racing as she reached up to pull his mask downwards. His hat was knocked out of place a bit, but he readjusted it, the fabric of the scarf that he tied to mask his face hanging limply just below his chin. The smile on her thin lips widened a bit, becoming all the more beautiful.
Her soft, honeyed voice sent his mind swimming when she said, "If love is everything that they've described it as, then I do love you. Even when there was the threat that the blood would control you, turn you . . . it never became apparent to me." She turned her gaze back to the tree, continuing wistfully, "Your presence has become . . . soothing. The ancient echoes that course through your veins . . . they aren't changing you. They are one with you."
The Hunter couldn't deny the lure of the blood. He could not deny the craving that was embedded within him, a muted thing, one that lurked quietly in the corners of his mind. But while each drop of blood on his tongue whispered to him, it was not mind blowing, not breathtaking, not absolutely stunning like the doll was.
Her gaze turned to him, the light dancing amongst the seafoam, and the sight was far more tantalizing and alluring than blood and the road to beasthood could ever become. He leaned forward, unable to deny the calling like he could deny the blood, unable to ignore the urge like he could ignore the beginnings of beasthood crawling on his skin, and kissed her. It was a brief press that was as soft and warm as her smiles, as wondrous and curious as her lovely eyes.
The tightness in his chest was too foreign to fully comprehend, the spinning of his head too complex to explain. All he could focus on was her, always her, never anyone else. And she seemed absolutely delighted, a stark contrast from the impassive mask that she had carried long ago when they had first met. It was exhilarating, life-changing, groundbreaking; it was, if he had to guess, love.
"I will always be here in this Dream with you, my hunter," she said softly, delicately, like another promise.
Sometimes, he would find the doll asleep in her usual spot. In those cases, he would allow her to sleep for as long as she'd like, brushing off any apologies that she may offer him when she woke up. Other times, he found her amongst the flowers, enjoying the breeze that brushed her hair and the tranquility of the flowers swaying around her.
This time, she wasn't asleep or resting in the field.
Instead, the Hunter found her kneeling at a gravestone, hands clasped together, eyes squeezed shut. She murmured against her hands, ". . . O little ones, O fleeting will of the ancients. . . . Let the hunter be safe. Let him find peace and comfort in the waking world . . ."
Under the blood moon, which was visible past the waking world and into the Hunter's Dream, there was an air of anxiety that lingered. She typically paid it no mind, as inscrutable as ever, unconcerned with the actions of the waking world so long as the Hunter returned to her. Her concern, the fervor of her prayer, urged the Hunter forward to rest his hand on her shoulder.
She gasped, unclasping her hands to clench to his own. Immediately, she apologized, "I'm sorry, good hunter, I must have drifted off –"
"No, don't you give me that," the Hunter interrupted. "I'll always come home. Wherever I am, I will come home one way or another."
Her brows furrowed, delving her into either confusion or contemplation, before she tentatively repeated, "Always?"
"Always."
The Hunter's Dream, usually a pearly, ethereal white was engulfed in an angry red.
While the flames never did spread, they engulfed the workshop, nearly catching on his robe as he passed through to repair his axe. Below, waiting patiently near the messengers, was the doll, her countenance no longer stoic, but filled with pity and remorse. She did not greet him as she usually did.
"Gerhman awaits you at the foot of the great tree."
The solemn tone that weighed heavily in her voice haunted him, cruel tendrils of frigid panic wracking shivers down his spine. She reached out to him, and immediately, he took her hands in his free one. He reassured, "Don't you worry about him."
"Shouldn't I? I don't know what to do, or how to feel. The flames, the messengers, they're –" Her breath caught in her throat, the hesitation strangling her and smothering the thoughts before she could utter them. She eventually took a slow breath, then said, "Dawn will soon break. This night . . . this dream . . . will end."
It didn't take much to understand that she knew of the nightmare that the Hunter had slain. He had unveiled the blood moon, tore down the curtains of the nightmare, and silenced its harrowing cry. If the doll had known, then humanity itself would know, its throne shaken and possibly permanently disrupted until some higher power distinguishes a reality in the absence of the looming nightmare.
If the Hunter had done enough damage, then it wouldn't be a surprised that he, too, would soon be silenced. He never knew how to leave the nightmare, or how to truly end this Dream and return to the waking world. But given the doll's careful words, her grim demeanor, the way she clung to him so desperately, it was Gehrman, the keeper of this Dream, that would release him.
"I won't fail you." Her wooden hands creaked when she tightened her grip on his. He released his blunderbuss, allowing it to fall to the floor with a metallic clatter, and clasped both hands on hers. "I made you a promise. I told you I would always come home."
"And if something happens to this home?"
"Then we go elsewhere." He looked up to the burning workshop, adding fiercely, "Somewhere safe. Somewhere perfect. Anywhere. It will be home with you."
The doll nodded at this, diminutive and bashful in a way that made his chest ache. She let go, urging him with a better foothold of confidence, "Go on, good hunter. To the great tree where he waits."
He collected his blunderbuss, ascended back to the burning workshop to collect the runes he had saved solely for dire situations, and answered his summons.
"The night is near its end, good hunter. I will show you mercy."
The Hunter did not flinch, not even as Gehrman rose from the wheelchair with ease, not even as the burial blade was pressed up against his throat. The Hunter, dangerously enigmatic, only brandished his axe, jumping back to ready his blunderbuss as well.
Gehrman gave him a pitiful look. He slung his burial blade over his shoulder.
"What was it? The hunt? The blood? What a mess."
The doll waited ever so patiently in her usual spot, trapping herself in a constant vigil to refrain from running to the field.
In the distance, the clap of gunshots, two different voices crying out.
Soon enough, she found herself praying at the gravestone.
Everything felt as if they were engulfed in flames. The Hunter could not distinguish if the blood that had covered him was his own or not. He was unable to think much past the deep lacerations that wept across his chest and back. His axe had been thrown aside and his blunderbuss lay forgotten a few feet behind him, no longer loaded, but that didn't matter.
Gehrman's head slumped onto his shoulder, his body falling as if the strings were cut, suspended only by the beastly hand that was embedded into his chest. The Hunter closed his fist over the fluttering wetness from within, the sloshing of ripping flesh nearly drowning out the low groan.
Crimson bubbled on the corners of Gehrman's lips. He wheezed, "The night, and the dream, were long. . . ."
Then, the Hunter tore his fist out of Gehrman's chest.
The blood moon, hanging so low in the sky, blurring the lines, brighter than anything he had ever seen.
Blinding, captivating light, filling his senses, mending his wounds.
Everything was tranquil once more.
The breeze felt nice against the Hunter's face. The creaking of the wheelchair fell short as the doll halted before the cobblestone path. The workshop, no longer in flames, welcomed them both home. She knelt by his side, and he reached out to touch her cheek.
He sighed blissfully. "I told you I would come home."
"Of course, my hunter," the doll responded, leaning in to his touch.
In the night sky, there was a bright, glorious moon, shining like the most precious jewel.
And so, the hunt begins.