The hunter limped out of the shadowy interior of the keep, though the transition to the exterior was better discerned by the gusting wind than by any change in lighting. The false dawn had fully faded, and the world was dark. Even the crisp brightness of fresh snow had faded to a muddled gray, and the hunter felt their sight struggling to make sense of depth in the dimness. They looked upwards, and the snowcapped peaks of the keep's rooftops cut faint lines of paleness against the black sky. For a few moments, they searched for the withered figure of the martyr. He was no longer there. Something in the hunter's chest went cold. For him to now either not want to or not be able to watch the hunter's attempted escape— the crown on their head felt heavy.
They kept moving. The hunter's eyes widened in an attempt to take in as much residual light as they could. They had lit the small lantern at their hip, but the feeble circle of illumination spread no further than their arms could reach. Even in Yharnam, the world had never seemed this dark. After the sun had set, the deepest streets had gone chiaroscuro, draped in pitch by crowded rooftops and then thrown into relief by torchlight. In the Cathedral Ward, however, the city was cast in silver. The bright moon loomed so closely that it may as well have been peeking over the hunter's shoulder. When the occasional curtain of clouds passed by, the hunter could still feel the weight of its light pressing through, and the surrounding stars still glimmered like another city glimpsed from afar.
In Cainhurst, however, the feeling was missing. Perhaps the clouds had grown so thick as to block out the starlight, but the hunter had a sense of a vast, yawning nothingness above them. No stars, no moon. In Yharnam, the cosmos were close enough to touch, but here, the heavens shunned the sky.
They had now run up to the edge of the parapet; this was where the martyr had pointed. Below them was the angled slate of a rooftop. Past that, there was a low turret and a crisscross of crenellations. Some thin stone jutted out from the steep walls, hardly enough for a foothold. The climb could have been traversed with some difficulty on a bright day, with no precipitation, and certainly without someone on their heels just aching to kill them.
Would the crow try to make them fall? Having the hunter splatter far below in some courtyard could certainly ruin whatever treasure the knight sought from their entrails. Even so, the hunter expected no help in their descent from the crow, and so they swung a leg over the parapet wall and sought a safe passage down. The height was dizzying, even with the odd flattening of depth offered by the lack of light; their perspective swayed and the rooftop below them suddenly seemed impossibly out of their reach. The hunter allowed themself to pause and look at the prospective path once more, hoping that it would assuage the animal fear that had locked every muscle in their leg, but the architectural jumble of the castle below was only making less and less sense. When compared to the gulf of empty air beneath them, facing the crow with nothing but their fists suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.
The tattered end of the tapestry was still clutched in the hunter's right hand. The cording that had once affixed it to the wall was just wide enough to wrap around one of the decorative merlons lining the parapet. It wasn't long enough to let them climb all the way down, and it could easily rip with their weight, but if it could modulate their fall and prevent a shattered ankle…
They looped the braided cord around the stone and let the tapestry fall. It would only offer a few extra feet to hold on to. If they had time, and a knife, they could have cut it into strips and re-tied it to be longer. Or, the delicate threading would have given out, and they would have been left with nothing but a fragile and useless tangle of string.
The hunter did not have the luxury of time to debate the drawbacks of strategies unavailable to them. Despite the gut protest of vertigo, they swung their other leg out over the parapet, gripped the tapestry in their fist, and then they plummeted.
With their weight, the fabric snapped taut, and then it tore; a few staggered rips slowed the hunter's fall, but not by much. They kicked their legs with an instinctive wildness before restraining themself and angling their feet towards the slope of the roof. They intended to throw themself forward as they landed and spend their momentum, but the slate lurched up to meet them all too soon. Instead of rolling, they slipped and landed hard on their shoulder. The brittle stone beneath them clattered and broke. As shards of it skittered down the slope and careened over the edge, the hunter realized that they were sliding down, as well. They flung their arms out wide and clutched at the shingles, gasping at the pain that then bolted from clavicle to wrist. They didn't think that they had broken anything with their messy landing, but their body still complained of the impact.
They slowed to a stop and the hunter laid flat against the roof as they caught their breath. Just to be sure, they flexed their fingers individually: each one responded. Their arm was indeed still fully functional, albeit laden with pain. They sat up, dug their heels into the tiles, and looked behind them.
The ruined tapestry hung limp from where they had fastened it to the parapet. The crow was standing a few paces away from it, peering down at the hunter and waiting to see what they would do next. Upon noticing that the hunter was looking back, the knight leaned forward over the wall and rested with arms crossed against the stone. The movement was hard to discern, but the hunter was certain that they saw the pistol held in the crow's hand.
At least the knight didn't seem to be in a rush to take aim. Still, the hunter had to be wary of any shots taken on a whim. They tore their gaze away from the crow and instead looked out at the rooftops ahead. The slope of the roof on the nearest turret was easy enough to allow careful steps without much risk of slipping. There was another drop onto statue-crowded stone, and then the careful scaling of a wall. A few lit braziers splattered light across a balcony; if the hunter found a way to land there, they'd have an easy route back inside. If they were remembering correctly, that entrance wasn't too far from the dining hall.
The darkness around them and the distant shifting of the fires made shapes squirm at the corners of the hunter's vision. Or, they thought as they adjusted the gold upon their brow, the crown was peeling back the world to reveal more horrors yet. They glanced from side to side, pursuing the movement. There was nothing there except the pallid spans of snow and the occasional carved gargoyle.
The hunter edged forward and approached the conical tip of the turret. Icicles dangling from the edge made them pause; they didn't want to have to tread over a slippery sheet of ice, but they didn't have much of a choice. They tested it with a brush of their boot before leaning on with their full weight. The fresh snow offered good traction.
The sight of the ground far below made each contraction of every muscle feel like a conscious choice. Even their breath came slowly, as if an unmeasured inhale could disturb their balance. The threat of nausea twitched in their gut; they were still contending with the drinks shared with Elaine, and atop that, the queen's blood was a far heavier poison. The taste of it was still an iron lure hooked somewhere deep. The hunter only hoped that it was hideously addictive, and not instead hideously addictive and transformative. The city had already warned them of the dangers of becoming some kind of sanguine sommelier, not that they had taken heed of the constant reminders snarling and trying to kill them— as if the healing blood hadn't already laid a claim to my pelt, they thought as they bit their cheek. I just had to overindulge on something even worse, didn't I? Stupid.
Soon, though, the mental self-flagellation ended; they had crept their way around the turret. Now they faced a drop to a walkway studded with statues. It was less of a distance to fall than what they had managed with the tapestry, but the challenge would mostly come from finding a safe place to land. The thought of knocking over the marble forms invited a vision of the hunter's own limbs shattered alongside them and the bared bosom of some athletic spirit crushing their ribs.
The hunter squinted. If they hung down from the turret by their fingertips, they could swing their legs into a clear spot. They ran the risk of landing on the closest statue, but its crouched form and broad back meant it had less of a chance of then toppling on top of them. Its carved wings were angled out wide, and so there was also little risk of injuring themself on stone patagium. It was a better place to land, then, than the surrounding kings waving immovable scepters and queens with tiaras like bared teeth.
They gripped the frigid edge of the roof, feeling grateful that no icicles had accreted there, and after a swing of their hips, they fell. The landing went far more favorably than before. Their shin smarted as they crouched and then lurched, rolling their knees as their weight sprung forward. The hunter righted themself and staggered to their feet, pushing their palm onto the gargoyle's shoulder for balance—
It was frigid, but leathery, and with far too much give under the pressure of their touch. The hunter recoiled, almost stumbling; the creature, as if similarly surprised, thrashed its arms and yawned its mouth wide. Wrinkles folded deep across its face; it yowled like an infant but at the pitch of a whistle. The eyes, milky and sightless, blinked wildly as it swung its tattered-batwing claws towards the hunter. They dashed back, knocking their shoulder against the statue of some bearded man that, to their relief, did not reveal a secret life of its own.
The gray shapes crawling at the perimeter of the hunter's awareness suddenly resolved. The creatures were dotted all over the castle, crouched along gutters and awnings. The things looked achingly thin, with concave, withered bellies and gaping mouths. The limbs, though, as twisted as they were, still shot out with strength; the hunter dodged another clawed swipe.
They had nothing to fight it with. Getting inside and barring the door was their best option, but the gargoyles traversed the castle exterior with far more ease than the hunter could manage, and they still needed to descend to the brazier-lit balcony. They grasped the neck of the noble statue at their side and shoved it as hard as they could, hoping that it would land on the damned thing's head, but the marble did not budge. The hunter exhorted a curse against the fine craftsmanship and scrambled backward as the gargoyle leapt for their ankles. Its bared teeth gleamed like grimy pearls.
There was a crack in the air, and then two splashes of quicksilver sizzled against the ridges of the gargoyle's ribs. It howled and contorted in its pain until it lost its balance. Its limbs flopped as it wriggled belly-up. Agony etched its face. Excepting the monstrous body, it looked like an old man weeping. It was awful and pitiable.
There was no need to search for the crow's new perch, to look up and confirm that the knight had taken the shot. The hunter ran.
The interior hall was well-lit, but there was something sickly to the candlelight, and the winter cold pressed down on everything. The hunter's breath came out as staggered puffs of vapor. The sweat beading on their neck invited the chill to their skin, but much of the hunter's body remained feverish from exertion. The arch of their foot twinged in time with their pace, having overextended from a risky foothold failed while trying to reach the balcony.
As they ran, the hunter thought they could recognize the pattern on the carpet, the golden ivy climbing up the marble columns; an open set of tall polished doors ahead of them opened to the feast. Perhaps the nobles were still partaking in their usual banquet. Elaine might still be viciously guarding the seat at her side, waiting for the newly knighted hunter to come claim it. The thought made them wince, and so they pushed it away. Still, they had to pass by the threshold, and hopefully do so unseen. Surely the nobles would be distracted by their food and wine. The hunter ducked their head down and hurried past the opened doors.
An eruptive shattering of glass turned their head as strongly as a slap to the face. The hunter involuntarily looked into the room and the fleeting image struck their sight. Their legs pumped faster, fueled by the electric jolt that came with the core of them choosing flight over fight.
There had been: A shin stretched and bent insectile, smacking restlessly against the soiled tiles of the floor. Flea-bellies bloated red. A tight cluster of the creatures, like a clique of ticks forming a swollen blackberry on the flank of a dog. They were eating something. A suckling roast that had been snatched from its silver tray, or a servant who had forever entered at the wrong time. Their ribbon tongues darted out as needles and flicked into meat. One of them, searching for another morsel that had caught its fancy, had leapt up onto the wooden table, but its weight had toppled it. Joyous in the wreckage, it hung its pale face over shattered goblets and licked the shards.
The nobles were now, had always been— not Elaine. Surely not Elaine. A deep pit yawned wide inside the hunter, echoing with misery, but then they felt the distant flickers of rage.
When the time comes, you 'll know exactly what to do. It's the simplest thing in the world.
She had known. She had always known exactly what was to be expected of the hunter, and she had no qualms with it. The sacrifices made at Annalise's request were not a secret; the hunter, if they had asked a little more before of their acquaintance Executioner, could have easily been forewarned. But they hadn't. Stupid—
Before they could cycle through the same routine of inward frustration, the hunter found themself before her door. They shoved it open and the handle hit against the wall with a harsh crack. The room had been tidied, and the avalanche of clothes no longer tumbled out of the vast wardrobe. It would have been nice if the hunter's gear had been folded into a neat stack upon the vanity chair, with their cleaver set carefully beside it, but the space was empty. They gave the room a rapid once-over. No scrap of familiar dark leather caught their attention.
The hunter furrowed their brow and yanked open the doors to the wardrobe. They pushed their hands into the tightly-packed rainbow of silk, linen, and lace, and then ripped out whatever was in their grasp. A mass of cloth landed at their feet. The space was deep, the back of it perhaps deeper than their arms could properly reach, but the hunter grabbed anything they could and threw it behind them.
A shadow passed in the corner of their vision; expecting the crow, the hunter whirled.
It was only Elaine. She took tentative steps into the room, her expression blank; once she was a few feet away from the hunter, she slowly swiveled her head, looking at the clothes strewn across the floor.
"My things," the hunter said. "Where are they?"
She blinked. Her lips pursed, as if she was preparing an answer, but then her expression slackened. She looked around again, confused.
With shoulders hunched, the hunter returned to tearing the innards from the wardrobe. A box topped with swirling mother-of-pearl went clattering to the floor and sent jewelry flying. Elaine meandered past them, pausing at the vanity, then at the foot of her bed. She approached the tall panes of her window and let her hands rest against the sill. The hunter shot a look back at her, and then out at whatever she was staring at. Her room had a decent view of the main courtyard. The sturdy lattice of the portcullis had been dropped down from the towering entrance archway.
The hunter scowled. Unless they managed to find the portcullis mechanism, the easy path to the mainland bridge was blocked from them. Ascending to the parapets again and climbing down would have to suffice. The gowns at their feet could be fashioned into a rope— or perhaps the sheets from her bed would be better.
The wardrobe was almost completely emptied. The hunter snatched the final remnant crumples of taffeta and looked at the deepest part of the cabinet. Excepting the possibility of some secret compartment, their belongings were not there.
They wanted to remain focused on their escape, but their thoughts were cut with acrimony. They looked back at Elaine and the corner of their mouth twitched. "Are you not surprised that I'm here?" they asked, and when Elaine didn't even deign to look back at them, they took a step towards her. "Were you not surprised," they added, "when I returned from the duel alive? Or— how little you must care, to be completely unbothered whether or not I live or die! Did you keep the other hunters on your arm, as well? Ask them to warm your bed, to keep you company? Did you invite them in, knowing—" and the anger in them hit a crest, causing them to run up to her, to grab her shoulder, to make her pay attention. "Does none of this matter to you?"
"I was going to bed," Elaine mumbled, and the hunter froze. They stared at her, caught between disgust and confusion. Their grip on her sleeve tightened.
"What's wrong with you?" the hunter asked, their voice veering towards a desperate pitch.
"I was going to bed," she repeated, "and then I looked outside." Her fingertip tapped the glass, disturbing the hazy sheen of frost.
The hunter realized that the skin beneath their touch was just as cold. The shivering urge to recoil passed through them, but instead they put both hands upon her and forced her to turn away from the window. She wavered where she stood and focused blearily on the hunter before letting her gaze drop to the floor. She absently touched the rubies resting on her collarbone.
"Emmeline always waited the longest, as her love was always last to return, and she couldn't bear a cold bed," she said. "She was still waiting for him. We all went to sleep. I looked out the window. My sister—" She paused, rocking from toe to heel, and her eyes were glassy. "She always waits by the door. I always tell her to come inside. She's wasting her time. She never listens to me."
Her face crumpled into a sob. The hunter's throat tightened. Elaine clutched at their arms, clinging to them for support as if she was about to fall; despite her body leaning against them, she seemed to weigh nothing at all.
"They couldn't have her screaming," she said between unsteady gulps of air. "It would wake us up. But I saw them. I should have screamed, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't—"
Tears spattered against the hunter's shoulder as she collapsed against them. Instinctively, they wrapped their arms around her, and they pressed their palms to her back. She wept, but their shoulder was too wet for it to be from tears. Crimson slipped down their back and dripped onto the floor.
"It's okay," the hunter said; they knew that it was false and meaningless, but a kind platitude was the only thing they had the strength to say. "It's okay."
The hunter held her, and she sobbed, a gush of blood escaping her with each straining breath. It soaked their back. They tried to offer comfort, but they doubted that their voice was reaching her. The hunter glanced back at the open door. The hallway was empty, but the crow would catch up with them soon. "Elaine," they said, quietly, desperately. They felt selfish and stupid. "My things. Please, if you can tell me—"
She began to struggle weakly. Her thin hands pressed against the hunter's chest and tried to push them away. The white band of cloth holding back her hair had fallen over her eyes; the rubies were a red slick. Her shoulders were hunched with fear. She was still crying in short, hiccupping gasps as she scratched wildly at the hunter's neck.
The hunter pushed her. She stumbled to her knees and knocked her side against the windowsill. Elaine sobbed anew, the sound of it raw and wet as the line sliced across her throat dripped onto the carpet. They waited, tense and aching. She made no move to get back up and attack them again.
The hunter backed away and, while watching her warily, pulled the blanket from the bed. They gathered the sheet in their arms. They glanced around; there seemed to be nothing sharp in Elaine's room, not even a letter opener.
Recollection struck them. Sofia had tended to their weapons when they had first arrived at the castle. She could have other blades in her workspace. Her room was close to Elaine's.
They spared Elaine one last glance as they left her room. She was crouched beneath the window, shivering, bleeding, suffering in a way the hunter could not allay. Awful and pitiable. The sight of her remained with them long after they closed her door.
