Chapter 21

"Remember the days of old; consider the generations long past. Ask your father and he will tell you, your elders, and they will explain to you." -Book of the Healing Church 32:7

Fredricx would have liked to have considered himself an honest man. This would not be his most upstanding decision, but it was necessary still. The cane had many uses, and Fredricx settled on using it as a glass pick. He used the weapon to spray said glass all about. The shattering and splintering echoed in the narrow alleyway. Knocking away window for himself from the actual pane, Fredricx stepped into the shop with the door he had made as the front door was not as welcoming to intruders.

It was dark inside. In fact, it was too dark for even the shadows. However, this was not an issue for Fredricx. It would have before the blood as he would have been a complete fool, bumping and knocking into the vendor's wares.

Regardless, he did not seek knick knacks. Instead, he came for something far more tactical, boots. Ones that would not fail him with lack of friction or slide when the streets ran red. The store, smelling strongly of urine for the leather, had a few pairs. He sat, plucking off bloodied dress shoes, and replaced them with a pair of dark boots. They were strong and would hold well against the streets, and more surprisingly, they fit comfortably.

Before leaving, Fredricx emptied his pockets of pence onto the counter. It would be more than enough to pay for the shoes, but the window would require more indulgences than that. The Church's spire loomed overhead as he exited. The Church knew his sin, but Fredricx doubted they would condemn him for it.

The Hunter flinched first for the noise, resisting the urge to drop the cane to cover his ears. The gunshot reverberated from the alleyway. It was the ringing that tensed his muscles. He flinched again, but this time for the penetration. It was an unwilling kiss that lodged itself into his person, reaping a burning sensation in his whole shoulder and down his arm into his fingertips.

The shooter was at the top of a flight of stairs and was reloading. Instead of allowing an additional shot, Fredricx sprung toward his aggressor. The cane willed itself into a whip as he clomped up the stairs in couples and triads. With a jerk of his wrist, the Hunter brought the whip around, missing the target by near centimeters.

Luckily, the beast had finished its task and leveled the rifle again with Fredricx. This time, however, there was a much closer, thus much easier, target. The hammer flexed. The trigger squeezed. The bullet shot.

This one nailed Fredricx in a far more conspicuous place, sending him reeling backwards in surprise. It was backwards just enough to loosen his footing on the stairs. He tumbled and tumbled. When he was finished doing so, his back protested and brain cried from impact. Even the whip betrayed him as it fell second. The links slapped across his torso. Gasping to drink in the cool air was his first step before unsteadily pulling himself up into uneasy standing.

Fredricx cursed himself. He cursed the Healing Church. He even cursed the Queen. He would kill for a firearm. This was not figurative.

The Hunter disregarded his predatory inklings. Instead of lurching up the stairs again, he slinked into a doorway, pressing his back flat against the wood grain. Red glued his skin to his coat and his coat to the door. The sugary smell from the apartment's incense lantern caused Fredricx's nose to crinkle and tongue to feel heavy in his mouth.

Another shot discharged. Prayerfully, it zoomed past him, and so did the next one. He took the opportunity this time to traverse the stairs again. This time, he did so successfully, avoiding the bullet. Surely, two was enough.

The cane embedded itself into the beast's skin and was torn out. Its clothes were ripped from its gangly torso. The skin cried with blood underneath. The creature attempted to use the broad end of the rifle as a club, but Fredricx was quicker. Just as the whip would pierce flesh, it would be brought the opposite direction until the beast crumpled, cursing the Hunter with its pseudo language.

Fredricx decided to abandon the rifle. It was useless without bullets, but far more useless in close range combat. He needed a pistol or blunderbuss, something that could be managed with one hand. A mask would be helpful as well to guard against the stench and keep from drinking the blood of the beasts. He spat red onto the cobblestone. To describe the taste as sour was an understatement.

The tingling of his arm caught up with him. The appendage rendered itself almost limp at his side. Fredricx noted the lone blood vial and decided to use it. Dropping the whip after a foolish attempt to reach with the flaccid arm, his functioning fingers fumbled about his pockets. There were not very many, just the two of his trousers. The stiff leather reminded him of the additional pockets of the coat. Fingers, as if on their own, spilled the matches, snapping the fragile wood. Where had the vial gone? Certainly, he had not used it. No, he had not.

The coat was deceptive to Fredricx in these moments, hiding the compartments on the inside. Cursing the buckle across his chest, he drew scratches as he fiddled with the metal prong. His breathing was labored as if searching his person was equivalent to boxing or the like. Sweat stuck his hair flat and beard itchy against his neck.

Finally, he was able to unlatch the binding. The coat slumped slightly, pulling at the injured shoulder. Fredricx fiddled for some unknown amount of additional time. Skillfully, he missed the inside opening of the pocket over and over again until his hand was slick with error. Shaking his head caused the Church's spire to dance across the moonlit sky.

He would fall. His lulling head took him in directions he thought he did not want to go. Bleary vision, of all things, revealed an advancing figure. Fredricx could not greet it as he toppled himself to the stone. It was so cool against his burning cheek. It was such a welcoming hug. The figure was dressed in the strangest way. It was covered from tippy top to down low in the most amusing get up. Of all things, the figure was made up in fur with a very convincing mask that had moving black marbles for eyes. The fur clad, marble playing eyeballed figure held a hunk of something in one stilt long arm.

Fredricx hummed in amusement, lulling his forehead further into the ground for its fridgedness. His eyes fastened themselves for he was overcome with tiredness. This was the comfiest option in Yharham, maybe in all of Europe.

Then, it struck him. It quite literally struck him.

XXXX

The soft light was far too much, even for his closed eyes. Upon peeling them open, his headache intensified, so he opted to tighten them again. This treated him better, and he was able to ungrit his canines.

Then, it struck him. It quite figuratively struck him. Fredricx tensed, feeling the adrenaline start to surge. He lunged up, finding the whip in his clamped palm. Head swiveling, he was disappointed. Breathing at once slowed.

There was no beast looming overhead as he watched below from the dirty, rotten streets. His face had gingerly been spooning and fawning with the feces ridden stone. He aggressively rubbed his cheeks and forehead with the sleeve of his coat. The coarse leather irritated his face and pulled at his wiry beard. He would never be rid of the disgusting feeling on his cheeks.

White flowers were planted in neat rows before the house. The gravestones were not nearly as tended. Fredricx spotted his. In perfect, serifed script, it made him shudder. Bumps formed on his arms and neck. He was not sure if he should curse or bless his brain. The hallucination was back. Was it a blessing that his imagination had conjured the same, tranquil house with the same woman and the same eerie gravestone? Or, more likely, was it a curse that his creativity was so damaged that it could not develop anything other than the same, tranquil house with the same woman and the same eerie gravestone?

The woman's cream eyes found his in a warm, but impersonal way. "Welcome home, Good Hunter," she bowed slightly at the waist. Her voice was level, showing no particular conviction.

He nodded back at her.

She stared, watching him shift about his weight with the cane. His arm was no longer useless as it responding to the messages his brain was sending to twiddle his fingers and hinge at the elbow. Her silver hair was being gently blown by a slight breeze. There was something mechanical about her, in the way she moved and did so with such slightness.

"What do you call yourself?" Fredricx asked the hallucination. He was not sure why he addressed her with such formality as there was no reason.

"I am a doll," she replied curty.

Why would she defame herself? It was hardly how a woman would refer to herself.

"I will be here for you," she continued, "to embolden your sickly spirit."

"Thank you." He offered nothing else, but a sour expression. Fredricx decided to take little offense to his own imagination.

"Did you speak with Gehrman? He was a Hunter long, long ago, but now serves only to advise them."

This was the second time he had been told this by the woman, the doll. He decided to give himself the go around, "Where is Gehrman?"

The woman raised her wrist, gesturing vaguely up to the house. Stairs, lined by gravestones including his, led to an ajar door. There was unnatural light leading him inside. As he transversed the stairs, additional skeletons, small and moaning with their agape mouths, gripped loosely at his pant legs. Fredricx's skin crawled, feeling as Ettie did with cockroaches. They were almost as plentiful, and he decided to dismiss them the same way.

The skeletons cried and disappeared under his boot, but there was no crackle like with the roaches that they would have found about the counters, coated with flour. If there was anything he would change about the blood driven hallucinations, Fredricx would be rid of these skeleton beasts.

Disregarding his gentlemanship, he brushed past the ornate door into the house. It was incredibly small as there were larger apartments in Yharnam, but everything else was otherwordly. It was not in Yharnam's industrial, dirty style. It was not London high fashion either.

The single room was covered in browns. Bookshelves lined both walls closest to him. They were piled with books, stacked in all directions along with trinkets and dusty knick knacks. Dingy mirrors were tacked unevenly on walls and yet others were simply propped against it. A fireplace broke the monotony and was followed by a wooden workshop table, lined with dull knives and other tools. On the farest wall, there were lit candles upon an altar. Suspended from the ceiling on shipyard chains, there were blades of all lengths and viciousnesses. The room was practical for nothing, but in the middle of the room, a man sat in a wheelchair.

XXXX

He was old, and that was an understatement. He looked like he belonged under, under the ground that is. Brittle, scraggly hair poked from a black, wide brimmed hat. The wrinkles on his face were his most prominent feature. The man had long lost any semblance of any muscular distinction as age must have atrophied his form.

The rest of his clothes were just as stagnant, dark trousers and collar with an equally dark scarf pouring about his neck and leaning haphazardly to one side. His pallid knuckles, poking so far out that Fredricx thought they might burst forth from the very skin, rested upon an actual cane, which was for the elderly, not for a Hunter.

The man's breathing was shallow. In fact, his whole person rocked slightly. It was not particularly tempid, but the man shivered slightly about himself. At once, dull eyes made contact with Fredricx's.

"Ah-hah," he snorted, acknowledging and flexing his veinous fingers around the handle of the cane, "You must be the new Hunter. Welcome to the Hunter's Dream. This will be your home, for now. I am Gehrnam, friend to you Hunters."

He inclined his head toward Gehrnam, "Fredricxon Vinge."

"Fredricxon, you are sure to be in a fine haze about now, but do not think too hard about all of this."

"Where am I?" Fredricx was not sure why he even bothered asking as if he could get reliable information that he did not know himself from a hallucination from his own mind, but he asked anyway.

"The Dream."

"Where is the Dream? What part of Yharnam? I've never been here before tonight."

The old man laughed, wheezing slightly, "Just go out and kill a few beasts. It's for your own good. You know, it is just what Hunters do. You will get use to it."

Fredricx decided his irritation was not worth blossoming into anger. He was asking stupid questions to a mere figment. He turned, intending to exit the house.

"A word of advice, Fredricxon, if you are downed by a beast, you will return here, but if you slayed by another Hunter, your contract will end, and you will never see the Yharnam's sunrise," Gehrnam offered matter of factually.

This chilled him. "Clarify yourself."

"Be wary."

Fredricx nodded, not feeling any sense of relief from having received such ominous clarification, being just as vague as the first statement. Having nothing else to ask, he left, descending the stairs.

"Good Hunter," the woman, Doll, spoke up as he brushed past, "Are you leaving so soon? You may rest longer if you would like."

"I have to find Ettie," he said, locating his gravestone. Fredricx knelt beside it, placing a hand on the top. The rock was smooth and cool to his touch. Feeling nauseated at once, his eyes closed.

The woman's words chased after him, "May you find your worth in the waking world."

Author Note: I realized it has been too long since I updated. I'm sorry.