The castle twisted in upon itself in long convolutions, weaving from interior to exterior through decorated halls and bridges of stone. Annalise led the hunter along the labyrinthine path to her chambers; or, at the very least, the hunter was able to keep up with her pace. More of the castle's glories passed by in a blur: courts of proud statues, walls with more paintings visible than wood, and the hunter almost stumbled when their boots trod over what must have been the well-brushed fur of a skinned beast.
In time they reached a room that seemed to be a precursor to the proper royal bedchamber; there was so much to catch the eye that the hunter struggled to focus on any one part of it. There were the statues, of course, the inescapable stone audience that stood in most every part of the castle. Dotted between them were tall and spindly metal candelabras left mostly unlit. Thickly brocaded fabric hung from the walls to soften the stone walls of the room. There was a gold-gilded vanity with a tall silver mirror, and adjacent to that was a narrow but plushly cushioned chaise strewn with tasseled pillows.
Shoved into a corner was a writing desk; it was plain only in contrast to the room. The wood was well-polished but unadorned. It must have been moved here from the library, the hunter figured. The surface was covered in neatly ordered documents; the hunter recognized a few that they themself had helped sort out from the chaff.
Above the desk was something that made the hunter stare: it was a skull, mounted as one would any other hunting trophy earned far from the terror of a Yharnam night. This was certainly a specimen worth keeping. One could see the perfect balance between the rounded slope of a human cranium, the elongated sharpness of a beast's snout, and from the crown sprouted the familiar twisting horns of the Healing Church's most devout.
"An old gift from our crow," Annalise said, and she pulled one candle from its holder to light its fellows and brighten the room. "'Tis always a pleasure to see the true face of the Church scoured bare of their pretending."
The hunter recalled the vicar in the cathedral and the eruptive abruptness of her transformation; this cleric must have been struck down with incredibly precise timing. Humanity was still clearly evident in the skull's shape, and the antlers were nascent compared to the tangled, massive growths the hunter had seen before. The hunter kept their gaze upon it as they sat down on the chaise.
Oh, but the seat was so comfortable. Their attention turned to just how far they were able to sink into the cushion. They ran their hand over the luxuriant velvet softness of the nearest draped-over blanket. Before they could think to resist it, the urge to yawn gripped them.
Annalise paused. Her hand stilled, holding one candle to the wick of another, and her head turned towards the hunter. "Thou'rt tired."
The hunter pursed their lips. "I— perhaps. I am not sure. Nothing but night, nothing but day—the body loses track of the time."
She completed lighting the candle and then turned to face them. "Our most ancient of forebears lived without the guidance of dawn and dusk. Deep within the earth, other habits sufficed to measure out the passage of time. They are rituals that We have replicated here."
"The banquets?" the hunter asked. "I suppose it's easy to sleep after such a meal."
"Indeed, and it will soon be time for another. Some preparations must be made." She sighed. "Indulgence and familiarity. In this We thrive."
"Do you tire of it?" the hunter asked.
Annalise went on in silence; a candle was lit, then another, then another; finally, the first was returned to its place and the collection of little flames burned steadily.
"Thou'rt asking if We truly take part in the same joys Our people do," Annalise said.
"You know the truth of the night and they don't," the hunter said carefully. "It's heavy knowledge to bear alone."
"And alone We are," she said, her voice flat, and she lowered herself onto the gilded seat in front of the mirror with her back towards them, "lest companionship prove itself afore Us."
Annalise sat at the vanity, her back straight, her shoulders stiff. The silence was densely expectant.
The hunter rose from the chaise and approached, step by tentative step. They wondered if there were usually ladies-in-waiting to attend to the queen; here, though, the task had been entrusted to them. Perhaps the queen did typically tend to herself, they thought. She had gone to light the candles when she had entered the room, and such a simple task could have been given to a servant.
Or, they realized, the candles had been lit entirely for their benefit; whatever senses the queen held behind the helm likely did not need the light.
They stood behind her seat. Annalise remained silent. The hunter took quick inventory of their surroundings. The vanity did not seem to be oft-used; the various containers of powders and creams were all beautiful but untouched and arranged in careful, tight rows. The only thing out of place was a silver comb. The hunter picked it up and ran the thin tines across their thumb before gathering Annalise's hair in the loose curve of their palm. They gently pulled it back from over her shoulder.
Delicately, they took the comb and swept it through her hair. They began near the bottom, easing the tines through and smoothing out any tangles as they went. It was easy work; Annalise's hair was soft against the hunter's hand, flowing pleasantly as the comb pulled past. They began the next brush higher, near the nape of her neck. Their knuckles grazed her skin as they brought the comb down to her shoulder blades.
She tilted her head slightly forward; the hunter drew closer and pressed the comb to the lower jut of her helm. They brought their hand down and the comb traveled in one long, silken movement. They repeated the motion and their gaze flitted from the queen to her reflection in search of anything unspoken. Had her posture eased? Her shoulders appeared less tense, her hands less stiffly held upon her lap. They pulled the comb along again and again, hoping for some further tell of her enjoyment.
With the next stroke of the comb, Annalise tilted her head, stretching her neck along the path the hunter's hand took. There was a sound, incredibly faint, that may have been a satisfied sigh.
Enthused, the hunter continued. The comb smoothly pulled through several more times. The hunter idly wondered who was enjoying themselves more— Annalise, in having such attention lavished upon her after a long lacking, or the hunter, who had gone dizzy with the opportunity to dote. They would gladly stay, they realized as they had several times already. They would call Cainhurst home, and here they would care and be cared for, and on some true sunrise they hoped that they would play this part again— pulling the comb through her hair before the banquet, offering steady comfort and the knowledge that the night had ended.
(But the night hadn't ended, not yet, and for how long could one smooth back the fur of a raised and bristling hackle? What instincts had hounded them about the queen's own hunger for insight, and did they trust her enough to ignore them? Did the hunter feel safe here, or merely comfortable?)
Eventually, the hunter gathered her hair and pushed it back over her shoulder in the style they were familiar with. It flowed over the curve of her collarbone and draped further over her chest. The hunter ran their fingers through a few lingering strands, their touch dragging over her bare shoulder. They could sense the warmth of her skin, see the subtle swell of inhale as she breathed. Their hand settled on her shoulder. Her helm inclined back, coming to rest lightly against their chest.
It may not be wise to linger so, the hunter thought as their fingers drifted one last time through her hair. With hope and fear set safely aside, the facts remained. She was the queen; they were a guest with nothing to their name, and even then, it was a name that she had rediscovered for them.
To have found such a thing again…
Besides, there was the draw of her blood, pulsing thickly through her every vein. The awareness of it had been burgeoning at the back of their thoughts, welling up in the memory of iron on their tongue. Biting at the crow's wrist was one thing; to press their mouth to the pale neck beneath them was another.
Lest companionship prove itself afore Us…
Their stance shifted as they considered drawing back; in response, Annalise gripped at their wrist and the helm turned to face them. "Thou offer'd thyself and now withdraw," she said. "Thy heart must lieth elsewhere. Doth it beat only for blood?"
"No," the hunter said. "I merely fear…I fear…" They trailed off, unsure, as her hand held tightly to their own.
The helm tilted minutely. "Of reputation, worry not. No further tarnish could possibly find purchase on mine."
The hunter made no move to pull away, but they chewed at the interior of their cheek and frowned thoughtfully. Annalise's thumb rubbed reassuringly against their wrist, but there was the force of her unseen gaze freezing them. There was no way to put their warring instincts to words under the pressure of her perception.
Slowly, the helm turned away, and Annalise faced the mirror. "What is thy want?" she asked.
"You," the hunter answered in a murmur.
"Then what doubts are held?"
The hunter remained silent.
"We will not order anything of thee," she said quietly, "unless thou maketh that request of Us."
They took a deep breath and kept still. Annalise's helm remained rigidly turned towards the mirror; the hunter ventured a look at themself. There was a long-held exhaustion evident in their eyes, and for all the comfort the castle had offered, they still had the look of something both cornered and hungry.
"I fear hurting you," the hunter finally admitted.
There was a laugh, not mocking, but hollow enough that the hunter wished they had hesitated yet longer. There was a pull at their wrist; their hand was guided lower, down from her shoulder, over the ruched neckline hem of her dress— the hunter inhaled sharply as their palm was pressed to her breast.
"Thy fear is unfounded," Annalise said, her tone honed to a strange sarcasm. "And if thou'rt to be Ours, then be Ours—"
Her breath hitched in a sudden rising jolt. The hunter pushed their mouth against her neck, their worry washed away in their desire for closeness— and heat bade hunger to wait. They kissed her, again and again, venturing as high as they could with the obstruction of her helm. Her head arched back and the span of her neck was granted to them. The hunter pressed their lips to her throat, to the path of her carotid, to the delicate hollow center of her collarbone— searching for sensitivity, for any prized reaction from the queen. They delighted in the sound of her breath, muffled but heightening, and the way she shifted beneath them to bequeath more of herself. The hunter, directed by her movement, brushed their lips against the soft slope of her chest.
"Ours," Annalise repeated breathily. "Thou'rt ours."
Snow cast a cold pallor over stone. Wind wailed over restless water. And in the city, the pale moonlight had found that it had no shadow left to cast.
