the Good Hunter
"Farewell, good hunter. May you find your worth in the waking world."
The Good Hunter left the doll, without saying a word. She took a last glance at the burning workshop. Its purpose was done but, yet, she could feel a sense of wrenching nostalgia, looking at what has been her home for who-knows-how-much time being left to the flames. Slowly, she walked toward the field of flowers. The gate, formerly locked, was now completely open. She passed through it. She took a moment to glance at the field of beautiful flowers but, in the end, her gaze fell on the man who was sitting under the tree.
Gehrman
The First Hunter rested on this trademark wheelchair, staring at the infinite horizon beyond the Dream's fences. The first time had seen him, she didn't notice it but his entire figure was so… worn down. Like… compressed by unbelievable weight… Was this his guilt?
Probably, it was guilt.
…
…
Okay, it was definitely his guilt.
Fuck, she had hoped that slaying that gross wizened newborn would at least ease his suffering. Also, she hoped that he wasn't uncomfortable because she was wearing the very same clothes as her pupil-slash-creepy-obsession.
…
Meh, she didn't actually care. Lady Maria had style and the Good Hunter rocked with that set. Especially the hat. She loved that hat. It gave her a badass, yet elegant, appearance that reminded her of her lover.
"Good Hunter you have done it well…"
At those words, she could not help but reminisce about her memories in Yharnam and the dream. When she first came here, she just a cancer-stricken carcass unable to even stand up on her feet. Even before cancer came, she had always been so… insignificant: a pathetic little cape-groupie whose greatest accomplishment was hooking up with one of the meanest, strongest, and most importantly hottest supervillains of the Northeastern US Coast. To look at herself now: strong, powerful, and 100% cancer-free: a cape... No, a Hunter... A slayer of beasts and eldritch gods alike, thanks to the Old Blood surging through her veins… well, she had to admit that felt quite proud of her accomplishment.
Also, she was certainly sure to have gone insane at some point, probably when she lost the count of the number of times she died. Was that was the victims of Gray Boy felt like?
Yeah, she had become definitely a crazy bloodthirsty monster but, eh, that's okay: Nobody survives the night, unscathed. And besides, as already said, she was a badass crazy bloodthirsty monster.
"…the night it's near his end. Now I will show you mercy: you will die, forget the dream, and awake under the morning sun…"
The Good Hunter stiffened at those words. Her hands slowly moved without the need of her command, reflexively lunging at the weapon on her left hip. Her Saif. She had a large collection of weapons but the saif was definitely her favorite. She found it in Hunter's Nightmare. She just loved everything about the weapons: the edge, the weight, the style, the arcs of arterial blood that she produced with each slash. It was just like the type of men she liked: with class, with sass, and the ability to pull a curved blade from their insides that tore flesh like tissue paper.
She didn't need long before she realized why she felt so threatened by Gehrman's words: There was a part of her that didn't want to leave the dream. To return to the waking world. To the same pathetic old life that she lived before the Dream. The same little groupie walking thought the same streets in the same little old world, powerless, insignificant, and utterly worthless. She was so much more, now. So much more..
Part of her wanted to strike down Gehrman where he stood. To brutally fight to the last drop of blood for the right of being the undisputed master of the Dream, of the hunt. Part of her wanted to remain in the dream. To continue killing. There was only one thing stopping the Good Hunter.
She thought about her. Her little daughter without a mother.
"You will be freed from this terrible hunter's dream…"
She took off her hat, freeing her beautiful (she wasn't vain, it was a fact) wild mane of curly dark brown hair and revealing her equally beautiful (again, she wasn't vain, she was objective) face covered in freckles.
"Gehrman…" She called him by his name. He slowly raised his head, staring at her intently.
"Yes?"
"I…I have a daughter in the waking world"
"Yes, you already told me…" He paused, absorbed in thought. "Do you love her?"
"More than anything else."
"I see"
She put her hat back and then she knelt in front of Gehrman, making clear what is decision was. To relinquish the hunt. To forget the Dream. For her daughter, this was nothing. The First Hunter stood up from his wheelchair, slowly and almost ceremonially, wielding his massive scythe with a somber expression.
"Farewell, my keen hunter. Fear the blood."
The final thought that went thought her head, before it was severed from her body, was of her daughter. Her little Amelia.
In the Dream, a lone doll prayed in front of a nameless little tombstone. Far away, in another world, a young girl woke up from a terrible nightmare, covered in sweat.