Chapter 6: Blood From a Stone
"In the East, they say that doubt is the death of men, but I have seen the end of the forking path and reply this: so is certainty, only for others."
Robin stared up at the masked man. His body still disobeyed him, arms and legs twitching as he attempted to move.
A laugh sounded from the man. "You struggle still? Good. The Grimm love it when their prey struggle." There was a strange dissonance between the man's words and his body language.
"Tell me, what do you see when you look at a Grimm." The man paused for a moment, "You might see a monster, a horror, but I see a purifier. A cleanser. A savior. I and my followers are here because we recognize that truth. Awful things have happened to so many, but we survived. Was it because we were stronger? No. Was it because we were lucky? No."
The dissonance became more apparent as the man spread his arms out wide, his motions forced and jerky. However, he continued to speak. "The reason we survived… was because the Grimm seek out those who are sinful. Full of hate, fear, and awfulness. We… we have love in our hearts. Joy. Pride. These things are what makes us better than you."
A sudden shout from Dove sounded as the boy forced himself upright through trembling fingers and shaky steps. For a moment, it looked like he was about to collapse again, but he powered through it and reached the stage where the man stood.
Strangely, the man made no moves to resist as Dove tackled him to the ground. Nor did the fear engulfing the team dissipate. As Dove yanked the mask off of the man, it became clear. A serene, beatific smile was laid across the man's face—the same as the face of the dead priest back in town.
The same voice crackled to life, now reverberating throughout the entire chamber. And from the now-revealed speaker on the body of the preacher. "Fear. Many consider it bravery to continue in it's presence. When, in truth, fear is a test. Of those who have the strength to not feel, and those that do."
A laugh reverberated throughout the cave, in Robin's very bones. "Faith. Seeing is believing is the common phrase. But such is the world we live in. Where faith can be replaced with smoke and mirrors. No, I am not so easy to find, not like that. Pilgrimage. Find me, not with sword, but with faith."
The foreign fear that kept Robin forced to his knees suddenly dissipated, and one of the tunnels lit up with flood lights. They were being played with like they were barely a consideration.
"He's playing with us," Robin stated the obvious.
"I know." Cardin ground out.
"We are still going in deeper, aren't we?" Robin asked.
"We are," Dove confirmed, dropping the delirious man he grabbed to the ground. They could come back for him later.
Robin sighed and crawled to his feet. He was going to die here, most likely, and for some reason, he felt nothing in the wake of that. Into the tunnel, they walked, an unknown fate awaiting them on the other side. Or it could be just another chamber. That may be preferable to some new mysterious fate.
The lights shut off, leaving the team in pitch darkness. "Fall." Hamelin's voice rang out from what must be intercoms, and instantly, the fear returned, forcing him to his knees once more.
"I'll admit, my ambitions may have outweighed my better judgment. It's not often one has an entire Huntsman team dropped into their lap. But that is progress, is it not? A series of incremental failures, culminating in something so much larger than your simple minds could ever realize." The lights flooded back on as Hamelin's voice cut out. Allowing Robin to see a new room; cages lined the walls, dozens, no hundreds. All of them were filled with Grimm.
Hamelin continued on. "Huntsmen make their living off of Grimm. It's a simple fact of life. You would think me, a man who runs an organization worshipping the Goddess who placed them here, would hate huntsmen. But the truth is far from it. I adore them! Their emotions, their lives. They are icons to everyone. But more than any of that… they are the perfect soldiers."
The voice sighed. "Do you know why every kingdom doesn't have a military composed entirely of Huntsmen? Because every Kingdom is made up of hundreds of shit-stain towns dotting the landscape. And each and every one of those needs to be protected. Huntsmen need to go there, kill Grimm, then come back. Travel time, attrition, all because those small towns are paid for by the Kingdoms to stay out there and to afford to hire government subsidized huntsmen."
A pause and heavy breathing reverberated throughout the cave. "It's a waste!" The voice shouted. "The idiots waste the strongest fighting force on the planet, using it to protect do nothing hicks who don't realize when they shouldn't be living in the mouth of a beast. But… if there were no more border towns. Suppose there was only one City, under the protection of the Goddess, without worry of Grimm. A Kingdom that had so many huntsmen-level soldiers in one place… why, they would most certainly be the strongest nation in the world."
Hamelin finally seemed to recover, his breathing leveling out. "The Great War ended close to one hundred years ago, children. Any yet… for some reason? For all this peace, we claim to cherish. War is still coming. Tensions continue to rise—more and more intense showings of military force. I'm a patriot of sorts and a faithful man. I've made a deal with the Goddess: once Vale is under my control, we will be spared from the Grimm. The most powerful man of the most powerful nation in the world. It has a nice ring to it, does it not?"
"It's a shame you children will not live to see this future come to pass." Out of the corner of his eye, Robin noticed once more that Dove was able to stumble to his feet, overcoming the fear. While Robin's own limbs remained locked in place, the faint sense of ozone filled the air around him. "Another monument to the waste the council commits Huntsmen to. Fear not; I will build a better future in your memory."
The intercom crackled off for a final time as the cages around the area began to flick open one at a time. Grimm began pouring out, looking more like a tide of black and red than any horde of monsters, but still, the fear didn't abate; they weren't even to be granted the chance to fight back. Only those who overcame the foreign fear could… Dove.
Dove who reached into his belt and pulled from it a flare, igniting it and bathing himself in a red glow. Dove who turned back to the group and gave a smile. There was something a little sad in it. Dove who ran forward, waving his arms, shouting, attracting all of the Grimm to follow. Who turned a corner into a tunnel until Robin could no longer see him.
-2-
The tunnel met with a dead end. Of course, it did. That was just his luck, wasn't it? He was forced to turn to face down the charging horde.
He chose this, he reminded himself.
Steel yourself, he thought back on his uncle's words. Do not what is easy or what makes people happy. Do the right thing.
He fired into the horde, every shot he could get off. A Beowolf collapsed with a bullet through the eye; it wasn't enough.
A Boarbatusk was kneecapped, sending it face-first into rock; it wasn't enough.
He met with the horde in a furious melee, chopping, hacking, and slashing with almost reckless abandon.
Dove knew where his strengths lay.
He thought about his uncle's words again. Aura came from the soul. The soul came from an unbroken chain stretching back to the beginning of the world. The soul would give power to a need, not a want.
And Dove needed it.
His body felt heavy, but his limbs felt oddly light. If he were forced to describe it, he would call it a runner's high, like his body was racing to keep himself alive.
Dove parried a blow and severed a head—one against many.
Robin would pull through. He had to.
Tears wanted to run down his face, but he wouldn't let them. He had promised himself he wouldn't cry. Not anymore.
Dove fed more shots into an Ursa in the front, the body slumping over as some creeps advanced. He wished Grimm didn't disappear so quickly when they died. If they lasted a little longer, it could make more of a bottleneck to stop the tide.
He had to keep their attention on him. It was his duty. And a Bronzewing would live by their duty, or be carried to their ancestors upon it.
"My name-" He fired another shot off, and a beringel fell. His ammo was running low. "-is Dove Bronzewing!"
He kicked a creep twice in the head as his arms were busy slicing through another Beowolf. "I am a huntsman! And that means I'm gonna win here!"
He screamed as he felt his aura on the very limits. Limits he had ignored when he led the Grimm away. Robin would do it. They would avenge it. For Vale. For themselves. For Dusty. For a million little lives.
"Not for me!" He shouted out into the night. "Never for me! But I am going to win you, beasts. And I will shine a light. A light so bright that none of you will ever stop!"
He wasn't a trainee; he wasn't a fool playing with a sword.
He was a Huntsman.
If a man was willing to do what was right, no matter the risk. If a man was willing to die.
Then, he was a Huntsman.
None could deny him this.
His sword felt dull, as he felt it nearly falter as he tried to force it through a Boarbatusks skull. He swung his fist at another ursa, feeling it bounce off the armor. Duck, slash, stab, parry, fire, repeat.
How much time had he given them? A minute? Three? Ten? It was impossible to tell. There was only this moment and the next.
He wasn't sure his aura even worked anymore. He tasted blood in his mouth as he slashed a Beowolf in twain.
There was one command his tired body knew, and it was following it with a brutal autopilot. Do the Right Thing.
He could feel it—the end. Do the right thing. Someone had told him that. But with the blood loss, the exhaustion, the continued fighting, he can't even… he can't really remember who.
There was just Dove and the horde. And Dove was alive. A Beowolf charges past his defenses, clawing through his armor, his chest. He stabbed it in the neck until it collapsed.
His knees hit the ground, his aura strained. Something somewhere in the back of his mind begged him to get back on his feet, to keep fighting, to not give up.
And he… he…
Dove hit the ground on his knees. His chest fell over, and struggling to even lift his weapon, he continued to fire shots into the horde. A Creep collapsed under the incoming fire.
All he can see is red. Blood, his blood. Arms torn and aching and chewed up.
As he stared at the approaching horde, he found he couldn't really care anything about it. Even then, care was a strong word. Care implied some form of thought. Coherent feelings. Something he could express.
Dove doesn't feel that. He doesn't feel anything.
Something that remains of his blood-deprived brain twitched. Defiance.
He reached up with all the strength left in his body, grabbed an Ursa by the throat, and squeezed. Crushing its unarmored throat with all the power left in his body.
And then he fell. His mind running a mile a minute. Huh, so this is how he dies. He felt like he should be more surprised, scared, or… something.
But he isn't, and then Dove isn't anything anymore.
AN: Uhh surprise! Yeah this chapter is a, wheew it was a toughie for me to write. For what I would hope are pretty obvious reasons. Hope y'all enjoy, call out any errors, and have a wonderful day.