"Eight bullet wounds. Well, you've brought him to the right place."
"You're the only blood minister in this forsaken city. Save him."
Enjolras could faintly hear the hushed, low voices from across the room. He lay in the dark, his vision blurring and fading in and out as he struggled to make sense of his surroundings. Candlelight dimly lit the room, and he slowly lifted his head to see the two shadowed figures in the corner. But as soon as he raised his head, his body twitched and tingled, a raw, hot, unbearable pain tore through him, and he winced, calling out in agony. His senses overwhelmed him, turning him into a writhing heap, wet and warm focused at the source of his pain. And yet, here as he lay in the dark, his memory failing him, an emptiness, he could not remember any moment of his life, not the circumstances that brought him here, nothing before, nothing save his own name.
One figure strode across the room, his boots clomping against the wood flooring, the man sure to keep out of the candlelight until he reached the door. He twisted the knob, the door creaked open, and he was gone, his heavy footsteps echoing and fading until he could no longer be heard. The other figure was much closer to Enjolras's line of sight, a hulking mass. He heard squeaking as the man approached him, and as he came into the candlelight, Enjolras understood. The man, a minister of blood, was bound by a wheelchair.
"Ah you're awake. Don't struggle, son. You've lost a lot of blood." The minister said, his hair long and unkempt just as his eyebrows and beard. Shadows were thrown across his face that created a sharp, eerie contrast, and Enjolras searched to find eyes within the dark cast upon his face.
"Where… What…" Enjolras' rasped.
"Be still, boy. The bullets passed through cleanly. Lucky for you." He grinned, a full smile of yellow teeth that was unpleasant rather than comforting.
Enjolras could feel himself fading, dizzy and disorientated, black spots behind his eyes that caused his head to ache. He rested his head back, surprised to feel a pillow beneath it, his eyes closing for only a moment. When he opened them again, a contraption hovered above him that his mind could not make sense of, except that fine-tipped needle at the end.
"Now, let's begin the transfusion." He slowly looked over at the minister at his side.
Enjolras swallowed, glancing between the minister and the needle.
"Ah, don't you worry." The minister said, catching his reaction. "Whatever happens, you may think it all a mere bad dream."
Enjolras could feel himself slipping again much faster, colors blurring and darkening, his body tingling, turning cold, and as all he knew faded to black, he could hear a low, far-away chuckle.
A cool breeze swept over him, inviting the soft scents of fresh grass and dirt that slowly awoke his other senses. His eyelids were heavy as he opened them, moving his arms as he lifted his head, his hands touching grass and earth. He lay on his stomach, forcing his weakened muscles to work as he lifted himself up, blinking to clear away the fog in his vision.
He stood in the middle of a garden, rose bushes and sunflowers and all sorts of greenery, and a cobblestone path that led up to what appeared to be a building on a small hill above the garden. Enjolras sluggishly walked along the cobblestone towards the house, and along that path was a large gravestone, long vines growing on its edges, an engraving that was too faded and scratched away to read. Upon reaching the great wooden doors of the building, a sanctuary it seemed to be with its long, sloping rooftop and large windows, he pushed open the doors and entered.
Inside was a quaint library with a fireplace, a burgundy rug that encompassed the entire stone flooring, and thick, velvet maroon curtains hung over the windows. But it was not the library, the fireplace, the furniture that left him dumbfounded as he walked inside the warm room. Standing before him was a doll, a plain doll just as tall as him, in a velvet crimson dress and hair as black as crows' feathers and just as soft. She smiled at him, her dark, unblinking eyes warm and inviting in the firelight, her white fingers—the joints black that held them and the rest of her body together—interlocked as she relaxed her hands at her stomach. She did not move, waiting patiently for him to approach her. Warily, he did.
"Welcome Good Hunter. I am a doll, here in this dream to look after you." The joints at her mouth moved, her lips elegantly molded to make the gape that moved less frightening.
Startle by her voice, by this doll-come-to-life, Enjolras found it difficult to speak. So many questions and all he could utter was, "Dream?"
The Doll smiled, "This is a dream. And you are a hunter."
"A hunter?"
"A hunter of beasts." The Doll replied simply.
This is a dream, Enjolras thought. But it felt so real. He felt real. And the Doll… She lifted her hand—she looked just as real, as real as a doll can be—pointing to a large trunk, and Enjolras obeyed her silent command. Opening the trunk, he found weapons and vials, nothing his poor memory recognized. He glanced at the Doll.
"The saw cleaver." Enjolras took it in his right hand, testing its weight as the Doll continued, "With its blood-letting teeth, it draws much blood from beasts. It transforms into a long cleaver, should you find it more suitable for you."
Enjolras placed it at his side, eyeing the grotesque weapon, swallowing. I cannot be a hunter, he thought, wincing at the thought of such a weapon covered in blood. Looking back into the chest, he took out the only other weapon, a firearm.
"That pistol is specially crafted to employ quicksilver bullets, much more effective than regular bullets. Twenty are stored for you. Use them wisely, and be sure to search for more on your hunt," said the Doll.
"What am I hunting for? Why must I do this?" Enjolras asked.
The Doll said nothing, and Enjolras grit his teeth, frowning. "How am I to trust your word if you cannot give me the answers I seek?"
"I do not have an answer for you. But you are a hunter, and a hunter must hunt. You shall find the answers you seek in the Waking World." Her voice was soft and gentle, comforting, and Enjolras found himself drawn to them, drawn to this doll.
He beckoned to vials inside the trunk. "What's this?"
"Blood."
He looked back at her curiously. How could he need such a thing? What will blood do for him?
"You will need them on your hunt. They are essential to surviving the many horrors you will face. When you lose too much blood, inject one to heal your wounds and replenish your strength."
Enjolras could feel his blood run cold, his stomach drop to the stone floor, and his heart slow all at once. He felt weak already, and no blood had been shed. "Will I die? Are you sending me to my death?"
The Doll, with her warm eyes and a tug at her lips, smiled. He could have mistaken her for human. "Dear Hunter, do not fear death. It can't touch you here."
Enjolras found little comfort in those words, but he did find himself trusting them. She, this doll that was so much more than plain, knows more than he could hope for. She does not hold all the answers though. He'd need to find them out there on his own.
He equipped all that was necessary, all that the Doll had given him, the saw cleaver at his back and the pistol, bullets, and vials hanging on the thick leather belt at his waist. Dressed in black trousers and a red waistcoat, he looked, as best as he could imagine, the hunter's part. He wore gloves too that concealed underneath them blades to use in case he ever became detached from either cleaver or pistol. The Doll then led him out of the sanctuary, down the stone steps and to the tombstone. Just as they approached it, little creatures crawled out of the earth at the base of the large slab of stone, eyeless, bony little things with wide, gaping mouths. They turned their heads to look up at Enjolras.
"They are messengers," the Doll said, her voice light, as if happy to see them. "Inhabitants of the dream. They find hunters like yourself, worship and serve them. Speak words, they do not. But still, they will guide you in the Waking World."
Enjolras looked at her, his heartbeat quickening, "You won't come with me?"
"I cannot leave this Hunter's Dream. The messengers will do what I cannot," the Doll replied solemnly. "You will hunt beasts. And I will be here for you. To embolden your sickly spirit."
Enjolras nodded, turning back to the tombstone, his nerves threatening to take over. What awaited him in the Waking World? But he could not think on that now. A messenger had taken his hand, the frail creature seemed innocent, almost charming. It guided his hand to touch the tombstone, and the Hunter's Dream blurred and faded, and he left the dream as black as he had entered it.