Chapter Text
Beside the lonesome grave, in a different Hunter's Refuge, the lantern flickers and the fire goes out. In the midst of purgatory, where the mist never fades, a Crow lingers about with Fire Paper ready to restore the flame.
The warm tangerine glow spills onto a Beak Mask and Crowfeather cloak, as the old Hunter of Hunters kneels down to pluck a few withering lilies from a patch of flowers dancing around a burial mound. After countless nights spent dreaming, after so many dire confrontations, the once steady hand now trembles.
Shrunken petals float to the ground, fleeing from the dried up husks in the old woman's grip. She watches their slow descent in ruminative silence and, after a while, huffs a dry laugh. For Eileen the Crow, the image of these withering flowers is much like the brittle bones and sagging flesh of the aged body beneath the garb.
In her former glory, she had never been one for drawing attention with her ubiquitous appearance and strict principles. But when she adorned the mask...residents began to take notice of her existence. And those she hunted, quivered in fear at the silhouettes of crows.
However, her glory days are long gone now. There are no more prey to slaughter. Such trembling hands can barely tend to flowers, let alone hold a weapon. She can no longer be the lawful watcher of Hunters. The long nights of pursuing dishonorable Hunters, who have become more savage than Beasts, have come to an end.
In her old age, she is holding on by a silver thread. If not for the Hunter, she would have been another corpse strewn about in the Cathedral Ward. Somehow, she survived that day and crawled away to lick her wounds.
Eileen the Crow lost her wings on those bloody steps outside the Grand Cathedral. She will never fly into battle again. Even though, on occasion, the glimpse of a black feather will still cascade from her back.
She is damaged goods, with an expiration date close at hand. Or so she once thought, when she broke away from the senseless dreaming and discarded her immortality. She should be unable to visit a Hunter's Dream, or even the Little Doll, again. Yet this new Hunter, so stubborn and persistent, is of an unique caliber.
This Hunter has sealed her wounds and frozen her time. She is old, and only good for a chat, but this Hunter won't allow her to shrivel up and die. Even these dry lilies, ones favored by the Little Doll, will surely stay alive if the Hunter wishes.
Days spent dreaming should have been over. 'Ah, how long has it been since the last time?' She sometimes wonders, while working to bury the old flowers beside the burial mound.
When she arrived at this peculiar Hunter's Refuge, things were already barren and lifeless. The Hunter was like a walking corpse without words or expression for such a long time afterwards. Everyday, the Hunter would touch the lantern and leave without a single farewell.
With each Moon Phase, the radiance of the lantern would flicker and sometimes be snuffed out. She understood this bad omen quite well, and always rekindled the flame to beckon the Hunter's soul back home.
This continued for numerous cycles of the dream, until she got fed up and blocked the Hunter's path to the lantern. She tore off the last of her wings and offered what remained of her legacy to the Hunter. Her treasured Crowfeather garb and trusty Blade of Mercy ...she stripped away everything...giving her life to comfort a grieving child.
...
"What is it with you, Hunter? Take better care of yourself for this old woman's sake. I'm not much without my gear, but I still have my fair looks intact. I'm sure I can mimic the Plain Doll, and keep you company. Oh, I'll even try it now─ahem─ 'Welcome back, Good Hunter.'" She softens the sternness of her usual tone, and suffers no embarrassment when drawing haggard lips into a cordial smile. "'Does it please you, Hunter'?"
After such a long time of waiting, the Hunter finally looks up to stare into her unmasked features. Bloodstained eyes, and an ever frowning face, seem to take in her state of undress and effeminate maturity in a soulless manner. She has known for many moons that the Hunter will never touch her with the desires of a man seeking the embrace of a woman. Even the Little Doll is not to the Hunter's tastes.
Rather, what she sees in those listless eyes is something akin to pain and loneliness. Her feeble attempts to encourage and cheer up the Hunter have done more harm than good. Perhaps she misunderstood who the Hunter mourns for in each desperate hunt. Yet, in time, the Hunter accepts her legacy and swears to the Covenant.
Now, when she resurrects the flame, the Hunter returns to bow by her side. Every death brings another lily that the Hunter slides into her palm as a gift. She plants each one beside the burial mound, and then rises to Dust Off the poor child she has grown quite fond of.
The Hunter still barely speaks a word and hesitates each time before bidding farewell to her when leaving, but she is beginning to understand the sensitive nature of this Hunter. On the third Moon Phase of an unknown cycle, she blocks the burning lantern again and addresses the Hunter as herself and not the Doll:
"Straighten up, Hunter. There will be no more mentions of farewell. Heed this old woman, and spare a bit of kindness in your departure. You whimper over every loss...do you also fear losing this wingless Crow? Hmm? Then offer no goodbyes, Hunter. A mere 'see you soon' will suffice. After all, I will be here at every return and go nowhere else─
─Now, off with you! No more mucking about. Isn't there someone you wish to see?"
The Hunter seems startled by her reproach, but shuffles away in a hurry while muttering the reassuring phrase.
At their next meeting, an abundance of lilies are pushed into her arms. The Hunter looks truly worse for wear, yet humanity has been restored in the Hunter's gaze. She is quickly drawn into the embrace of Crowfeather arms, and shocked when the silent Hunter whispers heartfelt gratitude into her ears.
Her spirit soars for this gentle child. Reminding her of the 'Eileen the Crow' this Hunter respects no matter how much time goes by, or what lines she recites. Thanks to this Hunter, she is able to spread her ebony wings and relive her glory days with fondness.
The earth shifts beside Eileen as the Hunter finally makes an appearance and bows down beside her crouched form. She tends to the soil a bit longer, creating graves for the wilted lilies in her grasp. At her side, the Hunter is quiet as usual and waits patiently with new flowers to give to her when she is ready.
She spares a sidelong glance to the Hunter's hands and swallows a sigh of relief. In the beginning, the Hunter was quite reckless and struck into battle with little care for Blood Echoes or self-preservation. After countless phases and reoccurring dreams, the cost of leveling any higher had become such a burden. And, since the Hunter continued to grieve in silence, dying over and over meant little to a goalless Hunter.
However, after their talks and the appearance of this Stranger the Hunter mentioned only once, the amount of floral gifts have lessened considerably. The Hunter is taking better care to survive, though the Beasts seem to be more aggressive and insightful than all prior nights.
In the Hunter's hand are three lilies worthy of three deaths. She is used to receiving bouquets of flowers, enough to plant a whole garden, so this much is acceptable.
Eventually, she finishes her task and gestures for the Hunter to pass her the flowers. The Hunter's gloved hand is trembling as curled fingers brush across her open palm.
Eileen is tempted to inquire about the horrors the Hunter endured in Nightmare of Mensis, but the Hunter chases away her words with a shake of the head. Instead, the Hunter drops the lilies and reaches into an inventory pouch to offer her two bloodied weapons: Chikage and a Repeating Pistol.
When she takes them into her hands, the Hunter surprises her again by placing something else on top. In every cycle, the Hunter has given her the white lilies that the Little Doll loves and she has accepted them on the Doll's behalf. But, in this moment, the Hunter christened the scarlet offerings with the strength and integrity of a gladiolus flower.
...
'So the night has reached this point again…' She thinks, while her talons scrap across the sheath of Chikage, as she squeezes the pair of weapons against her chest.
This is the Red Moon phase, when the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst spilled her blood all over the steps of the Grand Cathedral. These are the formidable weapons that lingered as a reminder of her old age, and as a conclusion to her story as Eileen the Crow.
She is no longer there to impede the Bloody Crow of Cainhurst, however, the Good Hunter has taken up arms in her place. Though this offering is a first for the Hunter, she did strongly appreciate the sentiment. The Hunter is honoring the burden they both have carried as Hunters of Hunters, cherishing her legacy and remembering the sworn oath of their Covenant.
Eileen lowers the weapons to the ground and plucks the gladiolus to begin planting it amongst the bed of lilies. The Hunter stops her in an instance, and directs her to plant the flower at the peak of the burial mound where no lilies have ever been planted. She appeases the Hunter and hides a tender smile, feeling venerated by the thoughtful attention.
When all is as the Hunter wishes, she turns to pat away dirt and grime from the Hunter's cloak as she has done many times before. In a stern voice, dipped in honey, she addresses the Hunter:
"Okay, out with it. Why are you buttering up this old woman? Shall I comfort you and help you lick your wounds, or do we have serious matters to discuss?"
She is startled when the Hunter slides closer to lean weight onto her side, hiding a most harrowing expression in the crook of her neck.
The Hunter has experienced many dreadful things since meeting The Stranger, Khonsu. Rape and torture...the Hunter can come back from such ordeals if the kindle remains. But Eileen, oh Eileen──the Hunter finds facing her more grievous than all the pain.
She is all that breathes, all that flourishes in the ceremonial garden, and all that remains of the Hunter's humanity. She is irreplaceable. Even the Plain Doll cannot replace the esteemed Crow safeguarding the Hunter's soul.
But the Hunter is guilt-ridden and ashamed.
Amidst such atrocities...the Hunter became one of the Beasts she once hunted. An Abhorrent Beast, consumed by beastly idiocy and insatiable cravings, with thoughts spurred by the Blood and Affliction.
Driven into madness by Micolash's insufferable chattering and by the Beasts ravaging the Hunter's body asunder, the Hunter exploded into a truly majestic hysteria. After emitting a despairing howl, the Hunter tore through all of Mensis with Micolash's desecrated frame mangled and twisted into a filthy monstrosity of a weapon worthy of putting that steel cage to fine work.
Smashing and pounding everything into a fleshy pink pulp… until the scholarly sanctum flowed scarlet rivers from its windows and doors. The Hunter could at last take in the euphoria set forth by Brother Alfred in the Vileblood Queen's Chamber.
That unmistakable, triumphant release and gratification was truly divine! And the Hunter could do no more than slosh through gore and battered remains with an exuberant smile distorted with nightmarish hunger.
Until… the voracious yearning sprouted wings and soared beyond metal contraptions with their iron levers and dangling cages. To the upper levels where a Pthumerian Queen stood bleeding from her gown, pleading for the crying infant kept in the loft of the raven Wet Nurse.
Locked in a blood-soaked rage, the Hunter turned a cold-shoulder to the weeping mother and pursued the exquisite scent of the Great One nearby. More of a Beast than ever before, the Hunter transformed into a creature of bristling fur and dripping fangs with each step closer to the prey not slaughtered.
There, at the castle spire of the highest tower in Nightmare of Mensis, the mellifluous voice of the Wet Nurse sang a gentle lullaby. Unseen, behind a veil of shadows, she danced across broken stone and withering weeds in her flowing gypsy dress of the darkest purple. She twirled and jingled embellished rings, bracelets, and necklaces to and fro, while spinning large sickles in 4 of her 10 arms. [1]
This Wet Nurse appeared as a humanoid monstrosity like the rest, and wore her beauty amidst great tragedy. She sang virtuous notes, yet performed amidst a grave scene stained in vermilion puddles. When the Hunter stepped onto her stage, the Wet Nurse's honeyed voice squalled as loud as a banshee and the sweet lullaby came to an end.
...
Continuous and unrelenting, the wails of an unsoothed infant echoed in the Hunter's keen ears as whetted sickles cut through darkness and shadow to attack the Hunter from all sides. The Wet Nurse warped in and out of familiar portals in rhythmic patterns no different from the dances she performed while singing her songs. She flowed so quickly from one attack into the next that the Hunter could see her body and limps multiplying into additional copies.
Each duplicate strike felt like a hundred visceral attacks tearing the Hunter's flesh apart. But the Hunter, so hungry and so immortalized by the thirst of the Hunt, endured the bane of her onslaught and made short work of ripping her limb from limb. Such a thrill should have been electrifying, but the Hunter starved in wake of the Wet Nurse's demise. [2]
This Great One does not bleed! And the Hunter cursed the moon in a desperate howl, while frantically swiping through the vanishing haze of her ethereal form. When nothing remained of the Wet Nurse to soothe the Hunter's rage, the desperate cry of an infant teased the Hunter's senses.
Those insufferable wails beckoned the Hunter over to a now abandoned stroller. Bloodstained eyes, gleaming and quivering, looked down upon the blubbering child with no remorse. The Hunter could smell that wonderfully delicious scent again. That raw urge, that abhorrent sensation, that made the Hunter salivate and crave such dastardly things...took control.
Slowly, the Hunter's maw untightened and sharp teeth parted to welcome a dripping tongue. Humanoid paws latched onto the edges of the stroller nestling the crying infant, as the Hunter leaned in closer...and closer.
Beastly jaws widened further, and then suddenly smothered the child with a sickening CRUNCH! In an instance, the wailing stopped. The atmosphere grew cold and still for a long time. Soon, the echo of crewing and gnawing could be heard as the exquisite nectar of freshly spilled blood trickled down the Hunter's throat.
Occasionally, a bone or two would clatter to the stone floor to collect at the Hunter's boots. And in time, that would be all that remained of the nameless child. When the meal was done, the Hunter licked at scarlet chops and seemed to finally simmer down...but still frowned in want of something more. [3]
That's around the time when a stranger's voice called out to the Hunter with a most befitting offering: "Oh my, what have you done, Hunter? Where are your morals, your fine judgement? Have you lost all your humanity? ...shall I help you find yourself again...maybe, with a bit of communion? I promise you won't be disappointed or, at least, if nothing else, I will offer you a better meal?"
Khonsu, the Stranger, stood to the Hunter's left side with a serrated grin as his spindly tail swayed behind him. He offered a pale hand to the Hunter, one holding a special blood vial sure to purge the oncoming sickness from the Hunter's recent hors d'oeuvre. For, once again, he must teach this untamed Hunter how to cure the ache without having to devour contaminated blood to puke up later. [4]
'That fine body, favored by Kin, is incomplete. You must behave…' Khonsu hummed to himself, and clicked his tongue when the Hunter made no move to approach him. He continued to grin, taking no offense, and simply tossed the vial over for the Hunter to catch. "Fine, pup. If you need some more time to lick that infant's bones and to savor the atrocity, then I shall leave for now. But, if you find yourself starving for redemption… then you'll come to Oedon Chapel."
Khonsu clicked his tongue again, and turned to walk away. As he moved, a blackened portal opened up and snatched him inside by a familiar hand. In his departure whispered the fading sound of muffled laughter and a lingering comment:
"Oh, Good Hunter, be sure to offer my condolences to the Bloody Queen. Kkkkk!" [5]
…
Silence weighed heavier than usual, as the Hunter gripped the vial in hand and tried to make sense of the Stranger that seemed to come and go so quickly. Humanity still avoided the Hunter like the plague, and penitent thoughts were far from the Hunter's current state of mind. All that remained was an eerie sense of excitement, and a rather confusing need to go somewhere.
On wobbly limbs, the Hunter crossed over discarded bones to maneuver across cracked stone and withering weeds to abandon this empty stage. As the Hunter proceeded, a gurgling discomfort began to churn and squeeze from the inside. Bursts of pain caused the Hunter's spine to lurch forward in gagging huffs and puffs, but the Hunter refused to stop moving and continued onward even as the symptoms escalated.
Out beneath the full moon, after descending from the tower of the Wet Nurse, the Hunter stumbled to the ground and heaved on every breath. A warmth, blistering and scorching, burned from the inside out and seized the Hunter in a deadly grip. The Hunter whimpered in anguish, refusing to wail like a babe, as something truly vile seemed to claw at the Hunter's womb and beg to get out. [6]
Writhing and squirming, the Hunter shuddered on the ground and dreamed of death where a wingless Crow might be there waiting. But what came for the Hunter was the snow white hand of a Pthumerian Queen. She bowed down to cover the Hunter's forehead and chase away the burning heat with a bitter touch.
Just for a moment, and no longer than that, she soothed the aches and pains away with a murmured voice:
"Mergo, my dear Mergo, no more crying. Go back to sleep."
The Pthumerian Queen spoke these gentle words before fixating the Hunter with a disapproving look conveying a wordless promise. She took back her hand and vanished from sight, yet something about her touch left a mark on the Hunter. Surely, they would meet again. [7]
With the absence of the Queen, the Hunter was thrown back into great affliction. But the clawing sensation had faded from the Hunter's belly, and a measure of relief had surfaced to ease some of the torture.
The Hunter groaned, cursing the long night, and finally squeezed the hand holding the forgotten vial. Without hesitation, the Hunter slammed the needle into a bent thigh and injected the serum. In a couple minutes, a nauseating feeling overtook the Hunter and sprang forth in a violent spasm of heaving and gagging.
Blood and chunks of flesh spewed from the Hunter's mouth into pools on the ground. The Hunter shuddered and tensed, while straining to breathe through the intensity and foul stench. There would be no soothing hand this time. But, as the Hunter suffered through another fit brought forth by the Beast growing inside, a most preposterous satisfaction teased the Hunter's womb.
Mergo had tasted divine.