Birds chirped in the trees. Sunlight warmed his cheek as he awoke, pressed against the uneven cobbles. Alfred groaned, blinking in the morning light, feeling whatever dream he had slipping away. He had long hunts before that left him exhausted, but never enough to collapse. He levered himself up with the shrine's pedestal.

What had he been doing last night? He had come here to recite his homemade prayer before the hunt, and then...a kind stranger had come along, taking up on his offer to hunt with him. Alfred lifted a gloved hand to block the sun from his eyes, his nocturnal Hunter's lifestyle leaving him unused to such brilliance.

Finally, he turned back to the Executioner's shrine, flinching back at the sight. The holy Ardeo on the statue was cracked, a bullet lodged in the center of it. He stepped back in surprise, tripping on an incense jar. Someone had dragged incense around where he had been sleeping, making a rough outline of his form.

As he started at the defaced monument, memories surfaced like ripples on a pond. Alfred clutched his head with both hands, then his torso. He could still feel the blade in his guts, but nothing was there-only intact skin and a phantom sensation. However, blood-not Annalise's, but his own-had bloomed from where the wound would have been on his robes. The last Executioner's robes, fully tarnished.

"Oh, Gods, Quincy, what have I done-"

Improbably, impossibly, Alfred had been given a second chance.

Boot steps rang through the Cathedral Ward as Quincy ran to the Executioner's shrine. The Doll had said it was merely a chance, but that chance had kept him moving, kept him fighting, kept him hoping. Quincy knew he would be mad at Alfred, saddened, frustrated with the whole situation, but he was also certain that the sight of him would reduce Quincy to joyful tears.

The Doll was right. Love was foolish.

He turned that familiar corner, hoping to see Alfred-perhaps praying, like when they first met-but instead, there was nothing.

Quincy slowly walked down the steps to the shrine, seeing the incense jars that he had arranged undisturbed, but no sign of Alfred. Quincy sunk to his knees before the shrine, bowing his head.

Where else could Alfred be? His terrible, cramped room? By the Forest Gate? Or was he truly dead, a beast having dragged him off in the night.

It had only been a chance.

Quincy did not even raise his head at the soft footfalls behind him, too focused on his own grief.

"Quincy." Quincy whirled around to see Alfred-just as tearstained and worn as he felt, but alive and smiling.

"Alfred!" Quincy sprung at him. "You damned-wonderful-bullheaded idiot!" He wailed his fists harmlessly against the man's chest as they embraced, fury made impotent with the joy that they were alive, both alive, and the sun had once again risen. Alfred took it with no comment, merely holding Quincy tightly.

"Why did you do it?" Quincy asked. They were both lying on the cobbles before the ruined statue, too tired to stand, Alfred having shucked off his top layer of robes and bloodstained, torn sweater, leaving it by the shrine in a graceless heap.

"Love. Devotion."

Quincy straddled him, placing his hands flat against Alfred's bare chest, gazing intently into his eyes. His expression was too unreadable, too foreign. It was a gaze that Alfred could not hold, looking away guiltily.

"I love you." Quincy said, taking Alfred's chin to make him look at him once more. "But I will never forgive you for this."

They both lay there, letting the bird song and the distant sounds of the stirring city wash over them both. Quincy laid down, resting his head over Alfred's heart, perhaps to listen to it beat, a reminder of the miracle that had occurred.

"...But I can love you anyway." He finished.

"Why?"

"Without you, I couldn't have ended the nightmare. I faced monsters, madmen, beasts, creatures beyond human reckoning, all for the mere chance of seeing you again."

"After all I did…" Alfred trailed off.

"Of course." Quincy stroked Alfred's cheek lovingly. "All's well that ends well, I suppose."

- The Carriage home -

Once again, Alfred had to rebuild his life from the ground up.

The carriage swayed and bumped and rocked on the uneven roads, nothing like the phantom carriage ride to Cainhurst. When Quincy offered to take him back to his own home, he could hardly refuse. What did he have left here, other than sad memories and ghosts?

"It's a lovely place. A large ranch, out on the plains. You can see the castle ruins from one of the hills. You'll like it there." Quincy had said, as if to convince him.

"Of course, you might want to stay behind, and help rebuild-" Quincy had begun to say.

"What help would I be?" Was Alfred's only answer. Quincy had reassured him, but his words were lost under Alfred's thoughts. How could he trust himself to know right from wrong anymore?

He had been given a second chance, just like Annalise had, but sometimes, Alfred was certain that this may be some divine punishment, to be eternally steeped in guilt, miserable thoughts, and grief. However, when Quincy rested his head on his shoulder during the carriage ride, smiling in his sleep, well.

Perhaps it was not all bad.

Quincy had somehow found a woman who had not only miraculously survived, but still had a living horse and a working carriage. She had been hard to sway at first, but had been convinced by the large amount of coins that Quincy had collected over the endless night. Even after a night of horrors, Yharnamites were still enterprising, and the abnormality and the amount of coins helped her get over her xenophobia quite quickly.

They had ridden through a corpse of a city, survivors wandering the streets, calling for friends and loved ones. Men and women crept out from behind barricaded doors, blinking in the brilliant sunrise. The gloomy-faced nun, Adella, stood on the side of the road, wringing her hands with worry outside the Chapel. A blonde woman in a red dress, Arrianna, started at the passing carriage, clutching a bundle to her chest. The man next to her, a hunched, wizened thing, the Dweller in the old chapel, in a tattered red robe patted her shoulder to calm her as the coach passed. Catching Alfred's eye, she gave a quick smile before going back on her way, chaperoned by the old man. Alfred had smiled back, before seeing something squirm slightly out of the bundle. He averted his eyes, having enough strangeness for now.

A scowling man with a crooked face passed before the carriage, barking an insult at the driver, who retalied with a cruder mockery. Alfred had drawn away from the coach window at this point, pulling up his new coat's collar. The last thing he needed was for one of the survivors to recognize him and begin to berate him for being a lousy hunter. It seemed a foolish thing to think, but the people of Yharnam would certainly hold a grudge, even after surviving such a night. The old man still glared at him under his battered hat, making Alfred shrink further away from the window.

Thankfully, it seemed that the townsfolk were too busy trying to gather up the remains of their lives. Two young girls, their hair tied up neatly in ribbons, watched the carriage pass from their open window. Alfred covered his mouth in horror as he recognized them. Gascoigne's daughters. The poor girls would be heartbroken when they heard of what happened to their father, after Quincy had told him of being attacked by a Hunter turned monster near the chapel.

They were loved by the community, much like how Father Gascoigne had been respected. He prayed that their mother had survived the night, or that they would be taken into a loving family, but what could he, a stranger, even mistrusted by his fellow hunters and Yharnamite do?

As they reached the outskirts of Yharnam, he heard Quincy stir for a moment. The man, roused from his light sleep, peered out the window, waving a hand furiously. Peering over his companion's head, Alfred caught a glimpse of a hatted, masked figure, leaning against the wall in an alleyway. Her beaked mask turned to look at the passing carriage, and she waved a gloved hand before she was whisked out of sight.

Quincy laid back in his seat,a contented smile on his face.

"I knew she'd make it. I knew that tough old bird would make it." He whispered.

Alfred had thought to look for Amelia, but after Quincy told him of killing a beast in the Cathedral, he had connected the dots. Alfred had wept silently. Quincy cried too, for a woman he had never known. The sharp line of the Cathedral, distantly fading, reminded him of this with a sharp pang.

Alfred entwined his fingers in Quincy's own. He was a murderer, a wicked man, a failure at everything he had set out to do, and yet, even after seeing him at his lowest, his worst, this man, the hunter, chose to stay by him. Why? Perhaps the Yharnam madness affected outsiders, too.

In the outskirts of town, the carriage rode past the abandoned carriages on the road, flashes of the old windmills visible through the trees. There, seated by the side of the road was Valt. Helmetless, the man seated on one of the overturned carriages comfortably as if it had been a bench. A man in foreign yellow robe-like clothes, who Alfred had never seen before sat next to him, hand in hand with Valtr. Valtr smiled, and gave a brief salute with his free hand,the stranger next to him merely nodded his hatted head. Alfred smiled and saluted back.

They traveled through miserable, destroyed Hemwick, skirted the Forbidden Woods, and soon found themselves on the coastal plains. The Ocean came into sight. He had seen it before, it was visible from upper Cathedral Ward. When he was a boy, sick and confined, he could see the ocean from his window on clear days. He often dreamed of traveling the seas. What had happened? His life had spun out of control, but when given the chance to realign it, he had only dug deeper into the structure that had consumed him.

Well. That was changing now. Even if he could not become a shining knight on a steed. He could not become a radiant warrior, standing vigilant against evil. He could not become a Saint or a Martyr. In the end, he was just a man, trying to do what was right.

Logarius had said that Acts of Good are not always wise, and acts of Evil are not always foolish, he reflected. Despite it all, Alfred could not bring himself to hate Logarius. Quincy did, but Alfred agreed with Philip in pitying the man. Logarius had lost his way long ago, capacity for love and goodness eroded by a grudge centuries old. Alfred had received his second chance and the ability to undo his mistakes, but for Logarius, a man he had loved and worshiped, his story ended with his work undone, life ended at the hands of a stranger.

"You look quite handsome in black." Quincy said, grinning. Alfred smiled back, dusting off his ulster coat. It felt strange, not wearing the clothes of a Hunter or an Executioner, but he was neither now, and neither was Quincy. Heavens, when did he wear everyday clothes? Had he always been a Blood Saint, a Hunter, finally an Executioner?

Wherever Quincy had found a clean, fresh smelling set of clothes that fit well for the both of them may forever remain a mystery. Of course, Quincy would not part with his hat or boots, cleaning the blood and dirt off best as he could.

"Blue is certainly not your color."Quincy teased, as they locked arms, walking along the dock. The Harbor was luckily mostly untouched by the night's events. Seagull cried overhead. The smell of saltwater and brine after a night of blood and death was cleansing.

"I disagree. It was more of a dove-gray, anyway."

"Well, I reckon you'd look good in just about anything." Quincy relented.

"I, for one, believe I would die of shock if I saw you without those boots."

"Hey now, these are special! We can get you some when we reach Lordra."

"I think I shall pass on that offer, dear."

"You're missing out." Quincy chuckled. Other than the few confused, milling sailors and dock hands, they were the only two there.

"We will take the first ship to any port that's a bit less chaotic, then sail to Lordra." Quincy said, gazing out over the ocean. "Again, you don't have to come along with me."

"I dearly wish to, Quincy." Alfred said. He hesitated a moment, before wrapping an arm around Quincy's waist. It felt right, natural, as if he had done it a million times before.

"I just don't want you coming with me out of guilt, or 'cause you are running away." Quincy said seriously.

"Cowardice is hardly one of my flaws, my dear hunter."

"If you will miss me, I promise I'll come back." Quincy said, looking up at him. Alfred wanted to laugh. Return to this hell hole? Chances are, if he or Quincy stayed and helped, he would be more likely chased and cursed off by ungrateful Yharnamites.

"I've never had the chance to leave Yharnam before. You can damn well bet I will take it. Besides, my family were outsiders, I do not belong in such a place."

"Fair enough. The next life altering decision is your choice, partner." Quincy said.

There under the brilliant blue sky, misted by the ocean spray, they shared a kiss.

Epilogue

A ship sailed to the west, to the land of dead gods and ghosts.

An undying Queen waited in her cold castle.

Yharnam was clumsily rebuilt. New secrets would be uncovered, and new Eldritch truths would be found.

The Doll waited in the garden, under the watching moon. The Hunt would soon start anew, someday. She cast her eyes over the two newest headstones, laying side by side.

"Quincy Morrison"

"Alfred Morrison"

She smiled.