Whispers began to ripple throughout Pthumeria. The Queen's pregnancy was troubled. Was Divine Mergo a mere fantasy? The stalwart supporters of the Queen rebuked any who spread such lies, but even the noble guard captain of the Queen's own, his sharp eyes and ears could not find each whisperer. All he could do was comfort the Queen as the time for her birth time drew close.
A strange sight was beheld by the inhabitants of Hemwick on one foggy late autumn morning. Windows opened, curtains were drawn back, curious heads peeked out doorways as a multitude of men and women marched down the main road of the village, their strange helms glinting through the fog. Each carried a large and ornate wheel, adding to the bizarreness of the scene.
At the head of the procession strode Logarius, golden robes flowing behind him as he led his small army towards their destination, his head easily visible from second story windows.
"Blimey, what's that, a giant?"
"What's all that noise?"
The startled cries and gossip of the confused townsfolk did not seem to reach the ears of the marchers, who merely continued straight ahead, a sea of blue-gray and gold behind their gigantic leader. Anyone not indoctrinated in the Executioner's dogma would have found it quite comical, an army of golden cone wearing, wheel burdened warriors following their impossibly tall, gilded leader. If Alfred had been present at the scene, instead of laying quite unconscious from blood loss in a stuffy clinic, he would have been moved to tears at the radiance of it all.
Unlike our misguided hero, the people of Hemwick held no such delusions.
"Heavens, what's that on their heads?"
"Yharnam Church, looks like. Why're they heading towards the castle?"
"Fools brought a load of wheels, but no carriage, haha!"
"Looks like trouble for Cainhurst. Good! Sick of sending those leeches tribute."
"Trouble for Cainhurst is good news for Hemwick!"
A few scattered cheers rang out. A few of the Executioners looked around from under their helms, waving to the assembling crowds, but a chilly glare from Logarius set them straight.
They were here for justice, not heroics.
A wild cheer rose when the crowds saw the massive, gilded battering ram the last Executioners hauled. Hemwick was a land torn between the power of Cainhurst Castle and the Yharnam Church, and they had little love for either. The King of the Vilebloods demanded tributes and ruled poorly, only sending a few of his Knights to deal with the roaming flea-beasts. The idea that the decedent nobles of Cainhurst castle might have to deal with a siege was delightful to the people of Hemwick.
The cheering people of Hemwick were the last living souls to see the radiant Executioners march past the Obelisk, down the long bridge across the Straitside cliffs, towards the gates of Cainhurst.
The blows of the battering ram rang throughout the village, continuing long into the night. The people rejoiced when the din ended. The Executioners had breached the walls! Hurrah, they would certainly teach those Vilebloods a lesson! Hooray for the Healing Church!
No one in Hemwick or Yharnam would dare near the Castle while the battle raged inside. Those possessed of morbid curiosity would train spyglasses to the castle's roof and windows for a glimpse of the chaos, which all too often, they saw, shocking them silent.
The waters of the Strait that Cainhurst castle used as a moat turned red. Those who dared watch the castle spoke of broken bodies being thrown into the ocean from the Castle roof. Strangest of all, some witnesses claimed to see the Executioner fighting each other.
No one cheered for the Executioners anymore. Reality had set in. Sure, the Cainhurst Royalty had not been responsible rulers, but other than demanding tributes, the King had left them alone, yes? The people of Hemwick prayed for the Executioners to leave. In the vacuum left by the Vileblood's absence, the damn Healing Church would no doubt move in and take over their little town, which had enjoyed some independence from Yharnam.
Finally, all activity at the castle stopped. The town held its breath. Would the Executioners emerge as swiftly as they came, victorious from the Castle? Or would they then destroy Hemwick village as surely as they had destroyed the Vilebloods? Men and women began to stockpile food, weapons and farming equipment, and stayed watchful for any invasion.
Then the bridge exploded.
The long bridge to the Castle had stood there since before Hemwick had sprang up outside Yharnam and Cainhurst. Cainhurst Castle had been built long before, during Pthumerian times, it was said. The ancient bridge, thankfully unoccupied at the time, as Hemwick's sons and daughters knew enough to stay away from a warzone, must have been rigged with gunpowder to explode.
In the stunned silence, whispers began to circulate. Had the Vilebloods and Executioners completely eradicated each other? The bodies that washed up on the cliffside shores were of Executioners and finely dressed Vileblood nobles alike.
The final act of the drama came during a brutal noctural blizzard that had appeared without any warning, a fortnight after the Executioner's arrival. One curious man focused his spyglass to the roof of the Castle as the snows arrived, wishing to behold the scene of battle one last time before the snows started. What he saw made him call over all those in vicinity to brave to storm to peer up at the Cainhurst roof.
Those without spyglasses could spot a golden glint on the distant roof, dusted with powdery snow. Visible to those prepared, glasses trained on the ancient roof of Cainhurst, Master Logarius emerged from the castle with a purposeful stride, a jewel encrusted crown gleaming in his hand.
"The old bastard has King Cain's crown!"
"Did the executioners win, then?"
"Why would they blow out the bridge? Hold on, there's a throne on the roof. What's he doin'?"
Logarius stood before the throne, slowly raising the crown above his head.
"He's cornatin' himself."
"Great, we finally get rid of King Cain, now we have to deal with the giant. Nice try getting tithes with the bridge out, idiot."
"Hold on, the storm's getting worse."
A collective cry rang out from the watching Hemwick villagers as Logarius lowered the crown onto his head, white hair, jewelry and golden robes fluttering in the strengthening breeze, the storm swirling around him and the castle, finally blocking it from sight. The last anyone saw of the old Pthumerian was him slowly lowering himself to sit upon the throne.
The blizzard, rumored to have been created by Logarius, raged for a week. Hemwick Village was deeply snowed in, and try as they might, no one could catch even a glimpse of the castle in the storm.
When the blizzard cleared, the villagers swept snow off their front doors and emerged into the frozen world outside their homes, they beheld a shocking sight.
Castle Cainhurst, a building that had stood since the time of Pthumeria, had vanished.
It had been one of the worst months of Alfred's life. He had prayed endlessly for news of Logarius's success and return. The respite from blood drawings was welcome, despite how guilty he felt about it. The bruises on his arms slowly faded, and color returned to his face.
Unfortunately, his returning vitality only meant an increase in the gnawing anxiety that waiting brought. Alone in the Executioners Workshop, with only a sullen Doctor Camilla for company, Alfred waited. He studied the left behind books, paced endlessly, and tried to ease his increasingly troubled thoughts. There was no way the Executioners could fail, could they?
Desperate for any respite from his worries, Alfred made small forays into the woods about the Executioner's Workshop. Always having been one to abide the rules before the Executioners and Logarius departed, the thrill of doing something harmlessly against direction was almost enough to distract from the stress of the dearth of news and guilt from being where he should not.
Walking parallel to the dirt road through the increasingly bald trees as fall went on, Alfred jumped at every carriage and traveler that passed by to see if it was indeed a messenger or a forerunner of the Executioners, returning home.
Each time, he would watch through the trees as they would pass by the Workshop entirely, leaving him sullen and lonelier than ever.
So isolated was he, there was no way the rumors circulating Cathedral Ward and Yharnam could have reached his ears. Murmurs that the Executioners had been unsuccessful.
'Those Vilebloods, they have tricks up their sleeves. Magical weapons and blades that cut faster than you can blink. A few dozen men and women with clumsy wheels, what can they do?' Was the thought, until news of the bridge to Cainhurst's destruction came, along with stories of the bodies washing up the distant shore of the Strait, blue robed Executioners and Cainhurst Nobles tossed about in the surf, thrown into the waves. The most eerie and unexplainable news of all, was Cainhurst Castle's disappearance.
A messenger was dispatched to the Workshop to relieve the Executioner's doctor and staff of their duties.
So Alfred waited. Day after day, night after night. He would be made a proper Executioner at last, he hoped. Oh, If only Philip had not left, but at least Bernice would be proud of him. He would become Master Logarious's new protege, certainly, once he showed Master Logarious his skills!
This was his thoughts, before the news that would utterly destroy him finally arrived.
It happened on a gray day in early winter, several weeks after the Executioner's marched off, a week after Logarius's self coronation, a fact that remained unknown to our miserable hero. A solemn knock rang through the halls of the abandoned workshop halls, echoing off the high beamed ceilings. Alfred immediately rose from his quiet prayer in his room, body tense as he listened for another knock, not even daring to breath.
He took off running towards the door before the second knock finished echoing.
The messenger, a dour faced man dressed in black robes jumped back as one of the heavy doors swung open, greeted by the sight of an excited, out of breath young man. Alfred's face fell instantly the moment he realized that it was not the Executioners having returned, but he regained his composure, carefully fixing his hair.
"Ah! You must be here to tell of our success! And why the Executioners and the Good Master Logarius has not returned yet, yes? Are they facing difficulties in returning? Oh! They must be celebrating in the Cathedral Ward! Shame on them, leaving me behind with no news until now. Ahaha! I was worried sick! Losing sleep and all! I'm glad all's well that ends well and evil was defeated! Hoorah!"
The messenger gave a deep sigh, dragging his hands down his lined face. He was not paid enough for this.
"Son...you aren't going to like what I'm about to tell you."
"No! How could this be? Impossible! Impossible!" Alfred cried out. "Surely, there must be some mistake!"
Camilla sat at the massive table, stone faced as Alfred paced circles around it.
"I told him not to go. Not enough men. Not enough resources, and almost winter…"
"This must be a trap. A trap by the vilebloods! No, the church is lying! They-my family cannot be dead! They can't be dead!"
"Gods, the poor Third years." Camilla buried her head in her hands.
"They can't be dead. They can't be dead."
"Damn you, Logarius. Taking young, innocent lives with you on this fool's crusade." Camilla hissed through tears. "Three dozen lives lost. Oh yes, the Vilebloods are dead, but at what price, Logarius. The Executioners and Vilebloods, both dead on the same sword. Blood idiot."
"It cannot be. It cannot-" A loud crash echoed through the dining hall. Camilla sprinted to where Alfred lay prone on the floor, dazed.
"Come on, boy. There's nothing wrong with you." Camilla gripped his arm, pulling his uncooperative body upwards, grunting at the exertion.
"Tell me it's a lie, Camilla." Alfred whispered, as the doctor left go of his arm, letting his upper body fall back to the floor. His green eyes were clouded, gazing at nothingness.
"It ain't a lie, you daft idiot. Logarius made a mistake, gambled with lives, and now your fellows are dead." She spat. "I don't have time for teen dramatics. You knew what they were getting into."
"Not Master Logarius!" Alfred said hoarsely. Camilla stared down to see the tears starting to flow. Reality was finally starting to set in for the poor fool, she thought.
"Everyone can die, even magical giants. The messenger said this place is being decommissioned. We have to be out of here in a fortnight. There's no more need for executioners."
"I should have died as well." Alfred cried out.
"What good would that be?" Camilla snapped.
"I would be a martyr, just like the rest!"
"Pointless! All of it! It's pointless!" Camilla thundered, stepping over his body. "You can lay there like a big lump, or get ready to leave this place. You got family, right?"
"My family was the Executioners!" Alfred rose, steadying himself on a chair. "I have none!"
The Doctor threw up her hands, leaving Alfred to collapse and desperately weep.
"Master Logarius, Bernice, Colin,...am I never going to see you again?"
Passage of time was meaningless. The days were a tear soaked blur, until the time came where it seemed Alfred had no more tears left to weep. Empty of all emotions and thoughts, he stared up at the ceiling, feeling profoundly hollow. The empty bunks in the room made his heart ache worse, seeing the decorations and abandoned belongings.
Camilla cared enough to keep him alive, at least.
"Are you trying to die? Get out here and eat something!" She had shouted at the door, before entering and yanking him out from under the sheets.
Whatever the food had been, he could not remember as he feebly fed himself, Camilla scolding him all the while. It must have been something she cooked herself, the chef had left the moment the news broke.
"An entire day locked away, no food, no water. What the hell are you trying to do? You aren't one to miss meals. Do you know how fast you can dehydrate with how much you've been crying?"
He mechanically ate, eyes glazed over as he stared at Logarius's massive chair.
"You can't afford to weaken now. You'll be going back to the church as a blood saint in less than two weeks."
Logarius would sit at the head of the table during dinners, speaking to his Executioners much like a proud father would to his many children. Now, the table was as empty as Alfred felt.
"You've been through quite the shock. They'll give you a day or so to recover. It will be quite different from here. No more wrestling in the muck or fist fights. I hope you can make a respectable Blood Saint."
Bernice would sit at his left, Philip, before he was excommunicated, at his right. Oh, Alfred had dreamed of taking the right hand seat after Philip left, but Logarius had always refused.
"You'll have to clean yourself up, too. Your hair looks like a bird's nest, and there are practically trenches under your eyes. Don't want the Church to think you have Ashen Blood again."
Snow continued to fall outside. The yard was covered, the flowers and bushes having vanished under the snow. Logarius had carefully shook the snow off each day to keep the flower bushes from being damaged by the weight of the snow, but in his absence they were fully bowed over. Another thing destroyed and lost forever.
"Are you listening to me? You need to be prepared to be a Blood Saint for the church in two weeks-"
"I will not." The words came out of his mouth, but he had to wonder if they were truly his.
"You will not?" Camilla said, staring at him sternly. Alfred rose from his seat, letting the chair fall behind him with a loud clatter.
"No one will take my blood again." He said flatly.
"You would deprive the church of communion?" Camilla asked, her face unreadable.
"It's my damn blood!" Alfred shouted. "It's my damn blood-not the Church's, not the God's-It's mine! I won't let anyone else take it just because it's blessed!"
Camilla laughed shrilly. Alfred stared at her, aware of how he was shaking. His head ached, his eyes itched from crying, and he felt sore and tired, tired of existing. Camilla collected herself, smiling without mirth.
"Good! Good boy! Finally thinking for ourselves, are we?"
Alfred glared at her, feeling the emptiness drain and be replaced with something harder-rage.
"It disgusts me. Children used as communion for blood, all because they are blessed with healing blood. Of course, a job is a job, and I will perform my duties, even if I do not agree with it..."
"I'm not a child!" He protested.
"You are hardly a day over sixteen at most, boy. Still a child. The Church has had control over you since day one, haven't they. Did you ask for any of it?" Camilla snapped.
"It was worth it!" Alfred shouted, his voice cracking. "A life where I never was part of the Executioners would be a life devoid of purpose!"
"You are one interesting case." Camilla sighed. "I'll cut you a deal. You don't want to be a Blood Saint anymore then, yes? Blood Saints belong to the Church for life."
"I'd rather die, then! I'll see my family again!"
"Do you mean it? Or do you say that because dear Logarius got deep in your head?" Camilla cut off Alfred as he furiously opened his mouth to respond. "Don't accuse the hand that feeds you of blasphemy. I'm your only ticket out of being Communion for the church for the rest of your life, boy."
Alfred tried to steady his breathing, gripping the edge of the table. "Very well. What do you suggest?" He asked, his tone clipped.
"I'll tell the Church that the Executioners brought their blood saint along. That you died in Cainhurst, so you can go live as a normal man."
"Where am I to go, then?" Alfred said softly. The anger was gone, the emptiness seeping back in.
"You don't have family. I can offer you a job with my brother, in the outskirts of Yharnam. He has a butchershop, and he will probably offer a job to an outsider if I put in a word for you." Camilla crossed her arms. Alfred looked down at the table. "You have recovered well from the blood drawings this last month, aside from these last few days. Finally getting meat back on your bones."
"Thank you." He mumbled.
"Start your life over. Get a job. Find a local girl who won't barf when she sees your outsider face. Forget about the Executioners. They don't exist anymore. They don't need to exist anymore."
As harsh as Camilla was, Alfred felt that she had offered him a blessing. A new life, untied to his duties as a Blood Saint. In a swirling mental fog, he had taken the meager belongings he had, and wordlessly accepted a set of everyday clothing that Camilla had found for him.
"You almost look normal." Was Camilla's only observation. Removed from the holy white Church attire, Alfred felt exposed, like a part of him had been stripped away.
It was what he had chosen. He did not want to be a Blood Saint anymore. Despite it all, he felt that his shackles had been removed, at the very least. He found himself touching the fading bruising on his arms from the pricks of the needle. If Camilla saw, she said nothing.
Alfred remained silent during the cart ride, containing Camilla, himself, and a cartful of her tools and medical supplies to the outskirts of Yharnam, eyes glazed as he watched the Executioner's workshop slowly roll into the distance, swallowed by the woods and barren trees. The returning birds and the hints of buds on the branches peeking out from under the light snow promised that spring would come soon. Alfred mourned the death of the flower garden before the Workshop, perishing without any care.
The air seemed to grow thicker and warmer as they left the woods behind, passing by rundown houses and crumbling stone walls dusted with snow. Alfred peered up at the looming skyline of Yharnam above, trying to see anything he recognized.
"It's a damn dump, isn't it?" Camilla snorted, urging the horse onward. "Anyone who's anyone lives in the Cathedral District. Spent my whole life getting away from this place."
Alfred coughed as an acrid scent hit his nostrils. Camilla laughed.
"That's the tanneries, boy. You'll have to get used to the piss scent to live here."
"They use urine in the leather making process to remove the hair from the skin." Alfred mumbled, recalling one of the books he had read.
"Don't act too smart around here, boy. You want to blend in." Camilla advised.
"Surely the people here would know about the tanning process." Alfred protested.
"That's not what I mean. I mean the fancy talk, the chatter. They don't like that. They don't like outsiders either, so just have them hate you for one thing at a time."
Despite Camilla's grim words, Alfred tried to keep some optimism. Looking out on the wethered streets, he wondered if they were on the same planned roads that had existed since the time of Ancient Pthumeria. He had read that several of the old walls around Yharnam were leftover from that time, and some of the city had been built precisely on top of the ruins.
Camilla elbowed him in the ribs, startling him out of his daydream.
"We are here. Get off." She said, stopping the cart without any ceremony. Alfred half climbed, half fell off the cart, his boots squelching in a noxious mixture of slush and horse dung when he landed gracelessly.
"My brother's down the street." Camilla said, pointing to a rough looking building in an equally rough looking row of houses, adorned with a cracked and faded carved sign that may have resembled a pig at one point.
"Don't you wish to see him?" Alfred gave out a cackle.
"He's a dreadful bore." She said, tossing Alfred his bag. "I'd sooner chat with a beast."
They both paused, Alfred unsure of what to do, and Camilla seeming to hesitate for a moment. She made a face like she had taken a bite of a lemon, then gave out a heavy sigh. She pressed an envelope in his hands.
"Look, I hope for the best for you. Stay out of trouble, and avoid the Healing Church. They ain't any good. Getting mixed up with the Old Blood, nothing good comes of it."
"Thank you, Doctor." Alfred gave a slight bow. Camilla chuckled.
"You are the decent sort, for an outsider." She said, snapping the reins. The horse obeyed, trotting through the slush. Alfred watched as she passed the butchershop and hollered something at the facade, then turned the corner and vanished from his life forever.
Avoiding puddles and dung as he wandered to the shop, Alfred snuck a peek inside the envelope to find a small amount of coins. He smiled.
"Suppose Doctor Camilla is a decent sort...for a rather mean doctor."
The feeling of being freed from the responsibilities of a blood saint and hope at the new opportunities he had been given kept Alfred warm during the short walk, until he knocked on the shop's door. The ancient door swung open, having him come face to face with the bellowing, crooked-faced shopkeeper and his three leering apprentices dawdling behind him. Alfred stepped back in fear and surprise. Whatever words the Butcher was saying were unrecognizable to his ears.
The massive man grabbed his arm with no fanfare, yanking him forwards up the uneven steps while the three boys jeered behind him. Alfred yelped as he felt the man pinch his arm practically to the bone.
"Unhand me, sir!" He managed out, his voice cracking shrilly. The apprentices guffawed behind the Butcher.
"He squeaks like a boy!"
"Hah! Listen to him! Sounds like a maiden in a storybook!"
"We have to work with an Outsider? No one will want to buy our meat now!"
"He has outsider diseases!" The smallest wailed.
"Shaddup you lot!" The Butcher hollered, silencing the boys. "My sister said he'd be good at chopping, 'n his bones 'n meat are good."
"His meat's good? Lets chop him up!" The boys pushed past the shop owner, who released his vicelike grip.
"Outsider boy, five coins a pound! Plenty of coins from this one!" Alfred drew back fearfully as the three boys circled him like hyenas on the narrow street, slush filled street. The butcher just watched passively from the doorway, arms crossed with a hint of a smile on his brutish face.
"He won't be sleeping in our room, right? We'll catch somthin'."
"Look at that straight nose an' eyes! Disgustin'!"
"Ugh, he's hideous!"
"I-I beg pardon, if we are to be working together, let's just cooperate peacefully then? I do not want to cause any trouble-" Alfred started, having already forgotten Camilla's advice in his worry. He realized he had been backed up into the wall on the other side of the narrow street. He felt the rough brick behind him, realizing there was no escape.
"Oh look, he's educated."
"What should we sell him as? Big Nosed Educated Outsider boy?"
"Please, there's no need for conflict!" Alfred managed out. The largest boy drew close, leering at him. Making sure not to be seen by the Butcher, he conspicuously pulled out a knife, showing it to Alfred point first.
"You'll be meetin' this if you don't stay humble, outsider." He growled, brandishing it at Alfred. The boy smirked as Alfred flinched back fearfully.
"Boys! Enough playing. Get back to work!" The Butcher bellowed, causing the three to quickly run back into the shop in moments. Alfred hardly had time to breathe a sigh of relief before the Shopkeeper grabbed him roughly by the collar.
"I can tell you're going to be a real trouble maker." He growled.
"Sir-I did not do anything!" Alfred begged. The Butcher snorted, releasing him roughly.
"Everytime an Outsider moves their lips, they lie. Get in the shop, boy."
Dazed, Alfred followed. He wondered if Camilla had really done him any favors.
When he was given a fresh carcass straight from the slaughterhouse, he knew that his shackles had only been replaced, not removed.
He had tried hard. He had watched all the steps closely, but when it became his turn to remove meat from the bones, to remove the skin, to drain the blood, he found himself growing sick.
"Sir, I must politely request...I am unsure if I can continue to clean the carcasses." Alfred stammered out, swallowing hard. The Shop owner stared at him in disbelief.
"You trying to trick me with those educated words? Trying to get me to have you at the front of the shop, scaring away my customers? Swallow your bile, boy. Even an outsider can chop up a few gibs. If you yak one more time, I'll have you thrown out in the street!"
Nightfall offered no reprieve. Alfred was indeed not allowed to sleep in the same room as the other apprentices. Instead, he was led up a rusted ladder to the drafty attic room with sparse furnishings. A tiny window on the wall was nearly coated in cobwebs and dead flies, with a small, stained bed beneath it.
"Perfect room for an outsider. Isolated, so you won't spread any diseases ya got." The butcher said, before slamming the door.
So Alfred had to adjust. Day after day, he worked. With exposure and repetition, he slowly improved at butchery. The queasiness faded, and his hand went from clumsy to practiced. The cruel Butchershop owner even seemed to be somewhat impressed, not like he would admit it.
The other apprentices tormented him, blaming him for anything that went wrong, dulling his knives, tossing bladders and other organs at him when the Butcher's back was turned. Alfred's life improved significantly after a brilliant idea came to him.
If he was the hated, diseased outsider, he would play the part. Everytime one of the horrible apprentices came close, Alfred would loudly, and dramatically begin to cough. The apprentices would scream and squeal much like the pigs that ended up under their knives as they ran away. Finally, left with some semblance of peace, Alfred's life went from unbearable to just miserable as the apprentices elected to ignore him entirely. Spring came, then summer, then fall once more.
The only solace to the gritty, dirty life of chopping meat, cleaning carcasses, and time alone in the sad attic room was wandering the outer Yharnam streets away from the shop and the gossiping, roughhousing apprentices. Most of the shops were sad, ricketty affairs, hurt by the destruction of old Yharnam's effect on their customer base, but Alfred was able to find a few hidden gems. A bakery down the street from the Butchershop brightened his days considerably, the shop owner being of the philosophy that Outsider coin was as good as native, and the prices could even fit into his meager pay as a Butcher's apprentice.
The biggest provider of solace, however, was a worn old Bookstore. Alfred had been fearful to go in at first. His lifelong love of reading had been halted when he had to leave the Executioners, no longer able to spend his free time in the sizable library, and he had been so wracked with grief that taking books with him had been far from his mind when he departed. His biggest fear was that he would be chased off the moment that he set foot inside.
After passing the store for the fifth time on his aimless afternoon walk, he finally steeled himself, formulating a plan. Carefully stowing away the bag of half priced pastries in his worn coat pocket, he slowly drew close to the door. Surely it would not creak if he opened it slowly enough, right? He would just quietly pop in, browse the shelves, then vanish before the shop owner would emerge.
Smiling to himself about the fact that he could rejuvenate his only hobby, Alfred slowly opened the door.
Ding-ding ding!
"Oh no-" Alfred braced himself for the inevitable, squeezing his eyes shut. "Forgive me-I'm not diseased or anything! I was merely curious! I'll leave now!"
"Don't do that, lad. Why would I chase off today's first customer?"
Alfred opened his eyes to see a fellow Outsider before him. He breathed a sigh of relief. The man was thin and willowy, with dark hair. His beard was peppered with gray.
"It appears you've been receiving the usual Yharnam welcome." The man chuckled, adjusting his glasses. "Ever since I came here from the East, well, things have been quite unwelcoming."
"From the East?" Alfred asked, curious.
"Yes. I've lived here for a year or so, and was able to buy this shop from the elderly owner. It's not terrible here, but the people, well. I was hoping the unfriendliness would go away after the first few months."
"I've lived here my whole life." Alfred admitted. "Yharnamites hate anyone with a face that doesn't look like it's been through the wringer."
"Strange...the Vicar lacks the Yharnam look." The man walked behind the counter, stroking his beard.
"The prejudice has its own internal logic." Alfred said, raising his hands in defeat.
"Feel free to browse, friend." The man said, nodding before going to write something on the counter.
Soon, trips to the bookstore became the highlight of Alfred's day. The place was usually and thankfully empty, but the books were fascinating. He could spend hours in one of the many weathered chairs among the stacks, completely absorbed in one of the many novels, historical dramas, or romances. The smell of old books and dust from one of the novels he would purchase and bring home was enough to give him comfort when he opened them in his meager attic room.
After the first three visits, Alfred realized he had never told the man his name. After introducing himself, the shop owner smiled.
"I must ask you, what is your name, sir?"
"It's for the best if you just call me Charles. Taking on a name familiar to the Yharnamites makes things easier." The man had said, shutting down any further inquiries on the matter.
"Why are you here, Charles?" Alfred had asked one day. It had been a miserable day at the butchershop, one of the apprentices had overcome his fear of outsider diseases long enough to place a rotten egg in one of his work boots. Alfred was wondering why he was still in Yharnam himself.
"The beasts that stalk the woods and old Yharnam, they have been appearing in my home country as well and wrecking destruction. I wanted to track the source of the monsters, and sailed across the sea to the western continent to Yharnam. I came here to find answers, but every solution only provides more questions."
"Such as?" Alfred asked.
Charles looked him in the eyes sternly.
"Why, in the name of all reason, would anyone think to ingest blood?"
Alfred stared at him, confused.
"The blood is holy. It heals us, makes us stronger, enlightens us." He explained.
"It turns humans into monsters." Charles said plainly.
"It is worth the risk. One must partake in Moderation." Alfred said earnestly, placing a book on the counter.
"Another Historic Romance?" Charles asked, quirking an eyebrow with a playful smirk.
"I...well, it's my business, yes?" Alfred said, pulling up his scarf to hide his blush.
Charles sighed as the money was exchanged. Alfred went to the door, pulling on the handle.
"Suppose you are just like the rest, then."
"Pardon?"
"You also partake in the blood." Charles said solemnly, counting the coins.
"Only when needed. I nearly severed my thumb the first week in the shop, I needed a transfusion." Alfred explained. He liked Charles, but he would never tell the man (or anyone else!) about his sickly, miserable youth or his time as a Blood Saint. He pulled off his threadbare glove and showed his hand to Charles.
"See? Hardly a scar. If I had done it the old way, it would still be healing."
"I understand. You are an outsider gone native, after all. But for God's sake, be careful, alright? I won't have the only decent Yharnamite end up a slavering monster." Charles said, with a fond firmness. Alfred stared at him, unsure of what to say before exiting.
"Goodbye!" he managed out, before hurrying down the street.
Gone native? Hardly! The only place Alfred had ever found belonging was with the departed Executioners. He opened the book as he walked, flipping through the pages.
It was light fare, yes, but the tales of Knights, maidens, monsters and well, passion enraptured him. It was very much like the fairy tales he loved as a child, but...more adult. He then quickly slammed the book shut at a glimpse of a woodcut of the noble knight and his fair lady kissing.
Alfred looked down the empty street behind him nervously. He couldn't have anyone think he was some kind of deviant, he was merely reading about romance, nothing more! There was that one time he opened a far more scandalous novel, and was treated to an illustration of a woman's ankles and more, and descriptions of passion being consummated, written plainly in text! He had put it right back, of course, after briefly scanning over it, well, perhaps not briefly, only out of scientific curiosity of course! He had never experienced such a thing himself!
He did spend nights laying awake in the drafty attic room, staring at the ceiling and wondering about what love was like. Would he be cursed to love from afar, performing deeds and heroics for someone betrothed to another like the knights in his stories? Or would he find someone he could love in a more tangible fashion, as terrifying and achingly tantalizing as that prospect seemed?
"Find a local girl who won't barf when she sees your outsider face" No, if Alfred could find love, it certainly would not come from the twisted streets of Yharnam. Until then, he would continue to live aimlessly and purposelessly as one of the Knights before meeting their lady. Of course, the Knights were rather desirable also, but alas, where to find someone so kind and chivalrous in this day and age-
Alfred quickly snapped himself out of his daydreaming. Goodness, this one had actual kissing in it! Usually the poor, loyal knight only got as far as kissing his lady's hand or receiving a coveted favor like a handkerchief after hundreds of pages of pining from a distance, shivering with desire and losing sleep over his unrequited feelings. But this one had actual kissing!
Alfred walked back to the Butchershop, a new spring in his step from excitement over his new book, the confusing conversation with Charles forgotten.
On his way up the rickety stairs that led to his lonely attic room, he overheard a conversation from the apprentice's room below.
"So the Constable 'n his mates followed the beast over the western mountains and finally into ol' Hemwick woods, the beast easily trappin' n' killing each one 'long the way."
Alfred leaned on the creaky railing, thankfully out of sight. The apprentices tended to gossip and tell crude stories, but it was rare to hear a tale about outsiders.
"When it was the old constable left, he was so maddened by the chase 'n the death of his friends, that he ate the beast whole!" The other apprentices jeered and cackled.
"Disgusting Outsider!"
"Hah! What an oaf! Only Yharnamites can stop beasts!"
"Of course," The ring leader continued, making his voice low and harsh. "The Outsider Constable is still out there, having gone made from eatin' a whole beast. He still stalks the woods today."
Alfred rolled his eyes and continued up the stairs. Just another foolish yarn spread by the unintelligent. In the solitude of his room, lit by the weak candle stubs he had saved up, he happily read through his historical romance.
Finally, the day came when he could not spend one more second in that miserable butchershop.
As winter drew ever closer, a change seemed to come over the meat that arrived daily. The carcasses of pigs sent to the Butchershop to be cleaned and cut became larger. Alfred had been initially startled by the size of pigs when he had seen his first carcass, imagining them to be dog sized, docile creatures, not beasts the size of a dinner table. While he had never seen any of the animals he had to butcher alive, something about the massive creature was quite disturbing.
He had not expected for new arrivals to be cut into pieces just to fit into the rickety wagon that brought meat every day. Legs and haunches bigger than a man's, rib bones wide as roof slates, slabs of meat crudely torn apart just to be able to be transported. Even the Butcher seemed at a loss. Alfred strained to hear his whispered conversations with his Apprentices in the front of the shop while he was made to chop and clean the gargantuan pieces of flesh.
"'S not right, pigs don't grow this big, never."
"Could they be beasts?"
"No, not beasts, they are all dead. It's some kind of witchcraft."
"I've been hearing rumors, creatures about in the woods, could the Beasts 'ave returned?"
"No, must be somethin' else."
Alfred's knife slipped along the rib bone, cutting farther then he meant to. Something...many somethings oozed out of the incision, things that had been clinging to the bone.
His knife clattered to the floor as he shrieked.
The Butcher burst in through the door, ready to howl at him for screaming until he too saw what spilled forth from the meat. Like dozens of frog eggs-tiny eyes, staring up at them both.
"Close the shop!" He hollered at the apprentices, who scurried to do his bidding. "You." He grabbed Alfred's shoulder roughly, pushing him out the door. "Get out of here. This is nothin' for Outsiders to be sticking their noses in! Come back later!"
"I bet he caused it!" One of the apprentices yelled as Alfred stumbled into the street. "He's so diseased he made it grow eyes!"
"That is absurd!" Alfred protested, struggling against the Butcher's grip. "It's your own damn diseases! I'm healthy!" His protests fell on deaf ears as he was shoved out in the snow, the door slamming behind him.
Frustrated and freezing, Alfred craned his neck to get a glimpse of the attic window. He was not going to be tossed out during a cold afternoon when he could be in his attic room, safe from the elements. The buildings were all close together enough to perhaps clamber across, but he had never been very good with heights, or climbing.
Instead, he crept around the unguarded back, through the narrow alleyway, where deliveries were made. All he needed to do was to creep up the stairs without being seen, then lay low in his room.
The apprentices and the butcher were in a heated argument in the front, loud enough that his footfall on the stairs would not be heard. He did not care to listen, but words like "witch" and "beast" and "filthy outsiders" were being tossed around quite a bit. Alfred slipped into his room, never so grateful to see the tiny, stained bed and the filthy window below the high, angled ceiling. Just as he began to rummage through his six or so books that he kept carefully stacked on the floor, he heard the sound of someone attempting to stealthily creep up the stairs. Clutching his newest book to his chest, Alfred crouched, looking around the room for any kind of barricade to shove over the trap door. No luck-the bed's metal frame was practically rusted into the floor, and there was no other furnishings besides it.
Obviously, the Butcher would have no need to creep about, and the other two apprentices were still scared of his 'sickly outsider' act to try to enter the attic. Alfred got into a pugilistic stance, knowing he may have to defend himself. It had been years since he had even practiced sparring, but if the oldest apprentice was carrying his knife…
The trapdoor flew open, and the oldest apprentices head peered over to see Alfred, trapped in the miserable attic room.
"I been thinking." He drawled, clambering up the ladder. Alfred drew up his fists, widening his stance.
"You've been causing a lot of trouble, lately. It's bad enough knowing some of our wages are going to an outsider, but now? Now, with you making the meat go bad?"
"By the gods! How could I make meat burst into eyes like that!" Alfred snarled.
"No one will miss one outsider." The man responded. Alfred saw the flash of metal in his hand as he stood upright. A smirk wormed its way across his twisted features. "Maybe we should chop you up into meat instead, like Yharnamites used to do to idiot outsiders."
The man charged, but Alfred swiftly dodged his rush. The apprentice was clumsy, telegraphing his movements long before he moved. If Alfred could get rid of the man's knife, he was certain he could beat him in a fair fight.
The apprentice tripped, clumsily slamming into the bed with a hiss of pain. He charged once more, but Alfred was ready. It was risky, but he was not going to die in a tiny attic.
Alfred rushed forward and grabbed the apprentice's wildly swinging arm, and twisted it painfully behind the boy's back. He cried out in agony, and released the knife, which Alfred swiftly kicked down the open trap door.
The apprentice looked at him, eyes filled with murderous fury.
"Think yer smart!?"
"Pathetic." Alfred sneered, goading him.
The apprentice charged. Alfred remembered the last time he had sparred with Philip. He had rushed forward too eagerly as well, although not with murderous intent, and paid the price. The apprentice charged into Alfred's swiftly thrown fist, and fell back hard on the attic floor with a loud thump. For the first time, as the man lay there winded, it seemed he had noticed just how tall and strong his one-time object of torment was, as Alfred glared down at him from above.
The urge to throw a kick into the now blubbering apprentice's ribs was strong, but Alfred instead went about bundling up what he had in the room in the old, stained bedsheet. Carefully stacking his books, bunding his other pair of clothes around them, He was halfway down the ladder when the stunned apprentice came to his senses.
"HEEELP! HE'S MURDERING ME!" A shriek came from above. Even in pain, the apprentices would do anything they could to ruin his life.
"Shit." Alfred hissed.
Boots thundered up the stairs. Seeing no other option, Alfred slipped the fallen knife into the bag, and set his sights on the window at the end of the hall. Seeing no other option, and with only seconds to spare before the Butcher and the man's posse arrived up the stairs, he swung his laden bag at the window, breaking the thin glass in shards that tinkled onto the floor and sloping roof outside.
The last thing Camilla's brother and his two apprentices saw of Alfred was a worn, tattered coat flash by as he pitched himself out on the roof as he clumsily half fell, half slid down the shingles onto the street, and ran off into the night, his boot prints rapidly covered by the falling snow, the Butcher's bellows following him.
-Present Day-
Quincy blinked in confusion. When he had left the dream, he had expected to return to cathedral Ward, but here he was, standing in the dark clinic where he had first awakened to this nightmare. Heavens, he probably left Alfred quite worried. A sinking feeling took root in the pit of his stomach as he realized that the doors above the staircase to the upstairs Clinic were opened.
The Imposter Doctor was up there, and he was not too keen on the idea of facing her again. But, knowing the dream would keep him safe, he quietly trod up the stairs.
A faint moan carried through the air as he passed through the open doors, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Quietly, he crept through the hallway that Alfred and himself had gone through what seemed like eternity ago. The hypocephalic blue creature still lurked in the corner, undisturbed by any of the night's events, lacking any interest in Quincy as he walked by.
He pressed a hand against the Clinic office's door, and slowly swung it open. The fake Doctor was on all fours on an operating table, twitching and moaning. Quincy flinched back, feeling that he had walked in on something quite vulgar.
"Ooh, you again? Dear me. Where's the other one?" She rasped, not even looking up at him.
"Never you mind that. What happened to the other doctor?" Quincy demanded. The Imposter continued, as if she had not heard.
"Have...have you felt this? The nausea...oh, but it's all worth it. It means I am worthy. I'm better than the beasts, I've been chosen."
"What the hell do you mean?" Quincy circled her, boots clicking on the old wooden floor.
"The writhing. Inside my skull." The Imposter's eyes rolled back, revealing vein filled whites that seemed to shudder and dance. "The marvelous fullness of the brain. It's rapturous. "
Quincy had wanted to stop the Imposter before. He had taken Alfred along with the goal in mind to kill her and put an end to her experiments. However, seeing her writhe and babble made him feel sickened to be in the same room with her. He could hardly strike down an unarmed, ill woman, even a wicked one. Turning away and shutting his ears to whatever the fake doctor would say next, he paused as he saw something downstairs from the office.
On the bed where he had received his blood transfusion laid a letter. Quicny quickly went down the rickety stairs, curious. Where had the letter come from? Lifting it from the stained bed, he turned it over in his hands, noting the old yet creamy parchment that made the envelope. On the back on the envelope, written in an elegant hand, read:
"Honored Quincy Morrison."
Breaking the old wax seal, Quincy removed and opened the letter.
"Brave Hunter.
You are hereby summoned to Castle Cainhurst. Head with all haste to Hemwick Crossing, to the ancient Monolith. The Stagecoach will find you there. Do not hesitate."
The letter was unsigned. Quincy scratched his head. Here was a mystery. A seemingly ancient letter addressed to him, a stranger in Yharnam, and from the place that Alfred was chomping at the bit to get to. The idea to seek out Alfred and bring him with him crossed his mind, but Quincy remembered the Doll's words.
"Any death could be his last."
Quincy folded the letter neatly, and placed the envelope carefully in his pocket. He would go to Cainhurst castle first, just to see if it was safe, then return to retrieve Alfred. He felt guilty leaving Alfred in the lurch, probably still waiting for him at the Cathedral Ward, but the amount of joy that finding Cainhurst would bring to the man would certainly outweigh any feelings about his lateness.
Approaching the Lantern to travel to a place closest to Hemwick, Quincy wondered what he would find in Castle Cainhurst. Would it be a dead, empty place after the Executioners destroyed the twisted Vileblood royalty? Or perhaps some Vilebloods waited there, lying in wait to exact revenge on the Executioners who had tried to kill them all. The thought made him shudder. The Messengers clustered around the lantern turned towards him, like eerie flowers facing the sun.
"I'll be alright. But Alfred won't." Quincy muttered, as the Lantern took him away in a flash of violet light.