The Dream presented him clean to the Doll as it had done time and time again, unbesmirched by the grim and the muck and the stench of blood, his hair and clothing no longer clumped together in masses by the burgundy now dried. He rose to his feet, fresh, anew, and unhurt as if he had slept a fortnight to rejuvenate his strength, and yet his stomach churned, utterly disgusted, nauseous, acidic bile at the back of his throat. His cleaver latched to his back and his firearm at his belt underneath his coat, Enjolras approached the Doll, glancing up at her beneath his eyelashes.
"Good Hunter." Her greeting was tender and warm, as if her voice meant to envelop him in comfort that she would not physically give.
He wished then to embrace her, for himself, for his own comfort, an attempt to stitch himself back together through touch no matter if inhuman. He glanced at her knuckles, black lines where the joints met as she clasped her hands at her midsection. His eyes trailed up to look into her eyes, seeking any measure of understanding in them, and within it all, he found grief to mirror his own. His throat worked as he stared into her deep brown eyes that shined back at him, until her gaze burned him, and he retreated to look at his feet.
"Jehan succumbed." Enjolras muttered, his voice cracking.
"I know."
His hands curled into fists, and he swallowed. Slowly, he looked up at her. "And you know what I did?"
She nodded.
He barred his teeth, clenching his eyes shut as a whimper bubbled up his throat. "I didn't know. I didn't know."
"No. You didn't." The Doll replied. "You were rash and clumsy. Your wounds made you weary and clouded your judgment."
Enjolras sniffed, his eyes stinging, and he looked up at her. Skin of porcelain, dark, kind eyes, and a voice of silk.
"But your friend would have rather faced the blade than live as a beast," she said. "You set him free."
Enjolras shook his head, "I didn't want it to come to this. I wanted to save him. He should not have turned! I could have saved him if only I had more time!"
The Doll did not flinch as his voice rose, as he yelled out into endless mist of the Hunter's Dream. Her hands folded over each other at her front, she patiently watched him, and Enjolras wanted for her touch. He wanted to know she understood, that she cared, and perhaps she could ease his grief and loneliness.
"Why me? Why am I bound to this Dream? Why am I cursed?" Enjolras asked. "Why must I murder my friends, the men I treasure above all else? Have I died and I do not know? Is this hell?"
The Doll waited a moment as if in contemplation, her eyelashes gracing her white cheeks. She looked at him, holding his gaze. "I only know what insight the messengers grant me. I only know you, Good Hunter."
Enjolras felt cold and uneasy, waiting for her as she paused.
"I know the night holds many secrets. And you must discover them and ease your wearied mind," said the Doll. "Do not let the deaths of your friends distort your path. Love them in your heart as you always have. Carry them with you. As long as the night lasts, they still live."
"And when the night ends?"
The Doll blinked and her lip twitched. It was only a moment, but Enjolras saw it, the faintest expression of sadness. It vanished as suddenly as it came, and Enjolras quietly resented that look she so desperately tried to hide. He said nothing of it and settled for her silence.
He turned from her, walking up the stairs into the sanctuary. He shut his eyes, growling. His friends' faces flashed in his mind's eye, their voices in his ears. His eyes burned, tracks staining his cheeks as the tears breeched through his resolve. He collapsed, refusing the chair that stood only a few steps away. Enjolras held his face in his hands and wept, bitterly wept. He did not know how long he sat there, and he did not move, not even when his tears ran dry and his body ached. All the while, the Doll stood out in the garden, her back to him, waiting.
His heart was heavy and his bones just as so. "They aren't of my Paris," Enjolras reminded himself. "They aren't my friends, not truly." He closed his eyes, swallowing as the words sunk into his flesh, his muscles, his veins. They were not of his Paris, but this is now his reality. And in this reality, he murdered his friends. "Beasts," Enjolras thought.
He glanced down at his hunters' garb, his red coat and black trousers. He glanced at the pistol at his side and felt the weight of the saw cleaver at his back. He was no longer a revolutionary for the freedom of France. He was a cursed man, a hunter of beasts, and his escape was his only option left.
Enjolras looked about the room until his eyes settled on the trunk. He breathed deeply, forcing himself not think any longer. He removed the blood minister's journal from his pocket and flipped through the pages, familiarizing himself with foreign words and letters. The messengers wanted him to find this. The doctor must have known something more, some secret just out of reach. Enjolras swore to unravel the truth. He must.
Lest the night carry on forever.
Enjolras stood and walked up to the trunk. He placed the minister's journal inside it alongside the notes he had found. He thought back to the clinic, the blood strewn all about, the body of the minister and all the man had failed to accomplish. He then remembered the scarf, and he took it from his belt. He did not understand why the messengers had given it to him. He had no need of it. Perhaps he should leave it in the trunk with the other various items he'd collected. Enjolras stared at the thin red fabric and glanced out the sanctuary door. The Doll stood at the base of the steps, her back to him. Her raven hair spilled down to the middle of her back, beautifully contrasting against her pale skin and complimenting the crimson of her dress. Scarf in hand, Enjolras walked to her.
"Here." He outstretched his hand for her to take the scarf.
She glanced at him, the scarf, and then back at him.
"What is this? For me?" She asked.
He nodded, her childlike innocent warming him despite himself. Hesitantly, the Doll took it from him, gasping as nimble fingers wrapped around it.
Enjolras's brows furrowed, "What's wrong?"
Her mouth opened slightly, but she paused, her eyes shining. "I… I can't remember, not a thing. Only, I feel. A yearning, something I've never felt before."
And then she looked at him, her eyes more alive, more human than he had seen, and his heartbeat quickened.
"Tell me, Hunter. Could this be joy?"
The Doll smiled, lifting her hand as she clasped the scarf to her chest. Enjolras smiled too, gladdened to know he could make her happy in the very least. But the Doll hadn't the faintest idea as to how or why the scarf had brought up such a feeling. He wanted to ask her if she felt anything else, if she knew anything else, but he held his tongue. She knew just as little as he did and such prying would be wasted effort. So he left her to her precious gift, touched the headstone, and returned to the Waking World.
Enjolras could not, would not return to the Central Paris lantern. Instead he chose the Blood Minister's Clinic lantern as it was much closer to his intended destination. He immediately left the clinic, running through the street to return to the crossroads of where he and Feuilly had parted. He followed the path his friend had taken, the messengers bubbling up from the earth to guide his way. He ran past the various corpses of beasts, the excess blood and dismembered bodies evident of Feuilly's wrath. One was even cut in half from midsection. And as he continued for what felt like an hour—the moon, full and white above him in the midnight sky—the blood spewed about grew fresher and fresher, and Enjolras smiled to himself. Surely he was getting closer!
And then the blood led him up a staircase adjacent from the street. His blood soaked boots smacked against each step he took and he could feel the blood within him rush. His stomach tingled with a wave of anxious anticipation, eager to find Feuilly just beyond the staircase.
And as he walked, approaching a bloody corpse of a man in red, white, and blue, a National Guardsman—the first Enjolras had yet to see—a messenger appeared to him, stopping Enjolras in his tracks. For a moment, Enjolras found himself annoyed with this messenger that had disrupted his pace, briefly halting his return to Feuilly. But upon looking at the creature that only served to help, Enjolras buried his irritation. The bony little friend lifted up to him a note that was splattered with blood, and he took it, nodding his thanks. He read it, noticing the frayed edge on the left side of the page.
"The red moon hangs low, and beasts rule the streets. Are we left no choice than to burn it to cinders?"
Enjolras read the name the paper was signed with and glanced at the guardsman. In the body's hand, he held a thin, bloody, leather bound book. Enjolras opened the book, a journal, and the red-stained papers within were, too, torn from the journal's backing. The one he held in his hand matched the rest. Enjolras glanced at the messenger that stared up at him. He pocketed the note and continued up the stairs.
At the top, Enjolras found himself standing before a gated graveyard, tombstones placed irregularly within the confines of the large iron gate. Dead trees still standing were scattered about the enclosed graveyard and crows sat, perched upon the thick branches, cawing as Enjolras drew near. Buildings rose up all around, blocking off access except from the gate where Enjolras stood and the other at the far end of the yard. And just above the line of buildings, he saw a faint glow of orange, a line of dusty light like fine rust. The faded colored melted into the black of night and the moonlight unwavered at the sudden streak of invading color.
Enjolras pried open the gate, pulling it back as it creaked and groaned in response, letting it go with enough prior force to watch the heavy metal swing slightly on its hinges. He then stepped into the graveyard, and the crows' caws became like erratic hisses, their dark wings flapping variously, and even a few flew away. Enjolras continued through the graveyard, spying bloody bodies lay out on the tombs. He swallowed, his eyes bouncing from body to tombstone until he heard a sharp smacking. He quickly snapped his head toward the sound, his heart hoping "Feuilly", but beyond the headstones, all he saw was a dark figure hunkered over. His back was to Enjolras, and he lifted his weapon, a large axe, its blade larger than a two human heads, high above his head. The man swung it down again and again and again, paying no heed as Enjolras made his way closer, and Enjolras then saw the corpse the man was cutting. Burgundy blood splattered with each swing, and a sick crunching, squelching sound came with it. How long had he been hacking away at the same corpse, unaware that it was long since dead? Enjolras stared at the man standing, his black curls clumped together in a mass, the dark red of blood staining the white sleeves of his shirt and grey vest on top. He knew him. He knew him before noticing the bottle the man rose to his lips. The man took a sip, but then stopped suddenly, his nostrils flaring. He lowered the bottle, hissing as he swallowed what Enjolras assumed to be liquor and turned his head.
Grantaire's eyes were bright, eager, and yellow as piss.
"What's that smell?" Grantaire rasped and panted. "Oh, the sweet blood… It sings to me."
Grantaire's walk was lazy, a smile without a care plastered upon his face as he rested the axe on his shoulder. He looked like an executioner at play. He took a large pull from his bottle, and Enjolras readied himself with his weapons as Grantaire drew close. And then just as Enjolras was about to strike, alcohol spattered from Grantaire's mouth, sparkling amber misting flooding his vision entirely. Enjolras shut his eyes and staggered back, the alcohol burning his skin like acid, and before he could get his bearings, Grantaire's axe buried itself into Enjolras's shoulder, cutting through him, and he spat out blood, unable to cry out in sudden excruciating pain. His vision faded to black before Grantaire finished the bloody cut, and within that darkness, he thought he heard someone call for him.
