You look down at the twinkling lantern at your feet, take a deep breath, and blow it out slowly.
"I'mma head ta the Dream and deal with the elephant in the room. Ye stayin' here or headin' back?"
"Figured I'd take a look at the parts of the Research Hall we skipped. I'll meet you back on the Chapel roof in a bit."
"Good luck."
"You're the one that needs it, Father Anderson."
With that, Simon strolls through the open doorway and takes a tremendous leap out of sight. You kneel down and close your eyes, bracing yourself for what's to come.
Hope rises to greet you as you materialize in the Dream and you share your customary bow. Her smile dims at the sight of your grim expression.
"Is everything alright, Hunter Anderson?"
"Gotta talk ta Gehrman. He around?"
"He is in his Workshop. Is there any way I can aid you with what troubles you?" You try to picture that earnest gaze on Maria's face and fail utterly. Somehow, the eyes without blood within them are infinitely warmer.
"It's somethin' he and I've gotta deal with, but I do appreciate that."
"Very well."
The man in question wheels himself around at your approach, placing the streamlined chunk of Amygdala he was tweaking on a shelf beside some bells. "Father Anderson. The prostheses aren't quite ready yet, but it won't be long before-"
"Maria."
He starts, his hollow smile twisting into a strained rictus. "Excuse me?"
"I met her in the Nightmare. She wanted ta know the price o' yer Dream."
His composure disintegrates. You've seen him shaken a few times, but never to this extent. Half-formed sentences pile up on his lips as he steals glances towards the moon, one hand bobbing uncertainly in your direction and the other gripping his familiar black blade with white-knuckle fervor.
"Is she suffering?" he manages to say.
"Only thing makin' her suffer is her own conscience. What was the price, Gehrman?"
His visible sag transitions seamlessly into the upright posture of a pallbearer. "Come with me."
You follow Gehrman to the grave with which you access the Nightmare. At his approach, the Messengers scatter.
"Read," he says. You kneel down to get a better look at the inscription, unfaded despite its incredible age.
Lady Maria of Cainhurst
Prized Pupil
Beloved Compatriot
Friend
"She was beautiful, smart as a whip and twice as deadly. When I spoke with her, when I sparred with her, when I just looked at her and delighted in the fact that she existed, I was alive. I was
home. She was such an amazing, such an impossibly amazing woman that she made that whole mess of a world worth living in.
"And then she killed herself and left me alone. I was, I couldn't...I built the Doll, spent hours and days and weeks getting every last detail down to the millimeter right. I brought her with me into this Dream and she stood up and smiled and for one second I thought I had Maria back. I thought I had a home again."
He's crying, ugly wet sobs that he's barely managing to speak over. "But it
wasn't her. Maria wasn't some, some servile little
tart who'd grovel before every blasted Hunter she saw. But she'll say things, she'll say 'Good Hunter' like Maria used to and it'll be that first second all over again and it hurts
every time."
Heaving, trembling, he glares at you with bloodshot eyes. "I've been in that next second for longer than you've been alive, Father Anderson. That's my price."
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