𝐖𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐆𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐬
art by 0101xzz
You can’t stop hearing their voices.
At first, you figured the sounds were coming from the beast-infected streets or that perhaps they were mere auditory hallucinations from your fatigue- but after several days of those whispers shifting behind your temples, you realized it must be something more. Like the memories of Lawrence and like the strange dreams of the queen in the frozen, forsaken castle, these new voices feel as though they echo straight from your mind. The voices were both yours and not.
But perhaps the word voices gave them too much credit.
Often there are words, yes. But far more frequently they simply feel like disjointed static, like you are underwater while someone is trying to whisper in your ear. And sometimes they’re not words at all, rather strange sounds and sensations that you can’t even begin to comprehend. Not with human language, at least.
From a chorus of moans in a frequency so low they rattle your skull to the sound of teeth dragging against ribs, tick, tick, ticking down each bone, each sound haunts you long after your mind goes silent.
You think you might be going insane.
You think that perhaps you have been this entire time.
So, you choose to forgo sleep yet again— you prefer not to sleep now, sleep brings the dreams and the dreams last longer each time— obsessing over the cure that is just out of reach. You are sure of it.
Tonight you have already smoked through two rolls of crushed dreamroot, a purple haze clouding your lab, the suppressant dulling your headache while giving you enough energy to press onwards, driven mad with deliriousness and ambition. A toxic mixture, to be sure, and yet one that is unavoidable to any great scientist. Alas, just as the Church and the pursuit of the truth do not make the best of bedfellows, nor do science and sanity.
You shuffle around hundreds of blood samples– one from every patient you’ve ever treated– delicately picking two slides up so as to not mess up their dried stains: one from Vicar Amelia, one from Diluc.
Combining the recent patterns in your readings and the evidence before you, you’ve come to an understanding of what made the Vileblood lineage immune to the Beastly Scourge: their blood.
Slotting a new slide of blood under a microscope, you overlap it with one containing the Beastly Scourge. The immortal nature of Vileblood cells means they are able to naturally create an antibody that, unlike the typical antibodies in our human immune system, is self-rejuvenating. Suppose the Vileblood cell’s natural resilience is accepted and adopted into a human host’s immune system. In that case, the host can produce Vileblood antibodies– antibodies that can finally withstand the cancerous nature of the Beastly Scourge.
Twisting the knob of the microscope to 400x, you begin to count the individual cells in Diluc’s blood sample, healthy red blood cells surrounded with warping black spots, large and dark purple due to the stain you applied, almost parasitic in the way they squirm and warp even outside their host body. Viruses of the Beastly Scourge, no doubt.
This means by first conditioning cultures of Vileblood antibodies to become resistant to the Beastly Scourge, you can inject the newly evolved hybrid antigen cells into human patients, allowing their bodies to naturally replicate Vileblood cells, granting them immunity from Beasthood so long as those immortal cells continued to proliferate.
And considering all the research you’ve done on the self-rejuvenating nature of the Vileblood cells, they should never cease to duplicate and repair themselves, even with the Beastly Scourge eating away at them.
That’s what went wrong with the Hunter in the clinic- you failed to assimilate the Vileblood antigens with the virus, causing them to rupture and fail to regenerate in the Hunter, only prolonging the state as his body fluctuated from cursed and not.
You need the cells to stabilize first, then you can inject the cure.
It will work, then. It must.
But what if the host rejected the altered Vileblood antigens upon injection again? What if the Vileblood cells overtook the human ones entirely and consumed their host? If the host’s immune system simply reverted the new antigens? Then your patient would likely die and you’d be thrust back to square zero all over again, hope dashed across your clinic stairs as it bleeds out before you.
Or worse, what if the Vileblood antigens acted as catalysts for a new strain of Beasthood?
After all, was this not the exact process the Healing Church attempted so long ago?
Slamming your hands onto the table, the rattle of vials shriek along to your scream, “Why, why does everything have to circle back around to that damned church!”
Through the haze of the dreamroot you glare at the journal of Laurence, The First Vicar, hoping he can feel your wrath through the pages and down to whatever hell he’s burning in now. It sits, half-buried underneath your notes, calling you to touch it again, to look back into its past. To make the same mistakes as he did.
You don’t dare step closer.
The Healing Church discovered that the Beastly Scourge was a bloodborne disease, some sort of mutation in the red blood cells of humans that proliferated at an unearthly accelerated rate until it killed off any and all remaining healthy cells. And miraculously, they found the cure-all with blood transfusion.
But if the Healing Church already knew this, why didn’t they question the failure rate of the blood transfusions? The purpose of blood ministrations and vials was to provide healthy blood, but where did they find such a thing? Surely human blood could not cure ailments and seal wounds. And you were the first to discover the natural antigen of Vampyr blood as a potential cure. So then what blood has the Healing Church been giving the people of Yharnam?
That accused saying comes back to you again:
Fear the Old Blood.
Seek the Old Blood.
Which is it? Was this Old Blood a cure, a method of halting and reversing the mutation? Or was it the cause? Saints, it feels as though you’ve been running in circles over your own corpse.
Fear it?
You refocus the microscope lens. Unlike Vicar Amelia’s cells, which divided and burst even in their decaying state, Diluc’s seemed to be stabilized. You recognized the distorted inky blood cells of the Scourge among his healthy ones, and yet they only trembled in place, as if physically restrained and unable to proliferate.
Seek it?
Perhaps this revered Old Blood contained a more potent antigen than even the Vilebloods, one that not only processed the famed healing powers that travelers from far and wide sought but also an antigen that stops the Scourge? The healing properties of this Old Blood were the reason the Church has risen to such a position of power in the first place.
In that case, your hypothesis would be wrong, and Diluc’s natural resistance would be attributed to the rations of Old Blood given by the church, not to his Vileblood heritage.
No.
The Church Hunters aren’t immune to the Beastly Scourge. It was only a matter of time until they too succumbed to the disease. You’ve seen it over and over again, like they were being poisoned. Like they were addicted.
You think back to Amelia, how she was covered in blood before she transformed into that lupine monster. She was covered in blood… as though she had doused herself in it. As though she were addicted, drunk on it.
The Blood that heals all illness, the Blood the world thinks is holy, the Blood that is more intoxicating than even the finest of wines.
So then this Old Blood— the blood administered by the Healing Church— must be the root of the Scourge.
The Healing Church was addicting the entirety of Yharnam on a poisoned, corrupted blood.
They too had naively believed that this all-powerful Old Blood was the solution to all human sickness and suffering, and in reward for their arrogance, they received the curse of the Beastly Scourge.
Could you handle the weight of setting yet another curse upon mankind, twisting fate like some sort of corrupt deity?
Could you handle the weight of becoming a god?
Your head spins, a thousand thoughts and a hundred voices, and a dozen eyes staring, all at once. They are listening. Waiting.
"Who?"
You jolt, startled by the echo of your own voice. There is no one in the lab with you.
A wave of exhaustion hits you, but don't think you could sleep even if you tried. Instead, you look back at the microscope.
Moonlight drifts through the window and with a shift in the clouds, it douses you and the microscope in a silver fog as the air thickens with an uncanny stillness. And then, between the light and shadow, something moves.
There, in the center of the blood sample, something unseen shifts. Squirming, it coils with unnoticeable ripples, and at first you can only see it through omission- see its outline through how it writhes and eats away at the healthy cells in the sample.
But the moonlight flickers, like a candle blown out, and as it disappears so does the safety of sight and sanity. Emerging from the blood is a creature beyond human perception, a being that defies the laws of nature and reason, seeping into the fabric of reality itself as a mass of tentacles and unblinking eyes, hungry as they devour the remaining healthy cells. It’s eating away at the antigens, leaving dark sprouts of eyes and teeth in its wake. Cannibalizing the host, multiplying itself.
The Scourge.
Something else is watching.
Watching you from the inside out, their voices echo louder than your own as your skull rattles and hands quake, the sample nearly alive as it squirms and writhes in the glass.
And then, you see them.
In every sample, every vial of blood you’ve ever collected, squirms and writhes a million beings beyond description, a horror of the gods themselves. As the moonlight shifts, so do the monsters, emerging from the blood as it latches into your arm with the sting of a thousand needles, each suction-cup cavity blinking up at you as it twists further and further up your arm.
It is not a monster, you realize, nor a god.
It is a parasite.
It is the source of the disease.
And it's already in your blood. Your blood, and every other person in Yharnam, a curse marked in blood and forever hungry, forever waiting until it feeds enough to make itself seen. How, why do you see them now? Was it your contact with the Old Blood? Greed? Knowledge?
Or perhaps it was something inevitable, something given at birth and granted during the sweet release of death.
The parasite- the Beastly Scourge, the curse, the scourge of mankind- now looms over you, making you tremble with the silent fear only a god could grant. A fear so true it could be worship.
A flood of haunting memories sweeps over your consciousness, ancient recollections that do not belong to you as you fall through the sky, landing atop a lake with no surface and no bottom. Something screams inside your mind, the roar of the ocean and the cry of a child, and as you stare into Its thousands of unblinking eyes the clinic falls apart before you until you stand in open nothingness with It.
Not It- Her. And with the realization, something glitches in your perception. Beyond the horror, you could see her grace, the fleeting beauty of a bride without the promise of happiness. A wedding dress, crafted with gorgeous cascades of lace and silk, a purer white than the moon itself, rippling as though she walked on water. And yet her cries were deafening. Shackled, she watches the moon bleed as She prays with clasped hands, every step ringing with not the toll of wedding bells but the clang of chains, her eyes faded and red with unshed tears.
The front of the wedding dress, from her abdomen down, was doused in black blood.
And the moon drowns itself red.
She cries, and you cry along with Her, a grief so deep you could hardly stand. They took something from Her, they forced it upon her and ripped it from Her womb. A vow broken, a curse written.
You kneel upon the lake’s shore, unmoving as She turns to you, sunken face frozen in a wail, eyes and lips nothing but shadowed pits reminiscent of the faceless statues littered underneath the Grand Cathedral. Something inhuman. Something stolen. Something cursed.
Then, She was gone, as if a switch was flipped in your brain and you forgot how to be afraid.
You heave, gasping, thrust underwater and back to your lab. By the time you try to breathe in again, the parasite escapes the vial in your palm, and injects itself inside you. Plunging down your throat, up your nose, into your ears and eyes as you scream until the world turns sticky and black with its rotten sludge.
Be not afraid.
Let not the fear of the unknown quell the fire of revelation.
Fear not, for you are the final heir to Our knowledge and the bearer of Our madness.
And then you’re falling. You remember this feeling- the same panic as when you touched Laurence’s monstrous skull- as your body is yanked backward by thousands of invisible arms, pulling you through the clinic floors, vision tunneling as the world shifts.
Then, you’re in another body, and yet you do not recognize this one.
It’s not Laurence, and it’s not the Queen from before, either. You glance down- you’re bowing, you think- and it’s a muscular body, comparable to your Hunter’s in sheer strength and size. The body’s memories come trickling back, and the veil of reality distorts.
Mindful of any listening ears, you shut the door, enclosing you and the man you’ve come to see within.
“It has spread,” he- you- report. You suppose it was supposed to sound impartial, apathetic, but the knot in your throat chokes against each word, and they come out sharp and hurried. You’re scared. Terrified. “More than any of us could have imagined. This excursion was meant to be no more than a patrol, and yet we found ourselves locked in siege.”
The shadows surrounding the edges of the office lift, unveiling rows upon rows of books, a prayer alter, and the grand mahogany desk you still bow before. Standing, you finally see the man seated behind the desk, and your heart races. You can’t tell if the reaction is purely yours or your current body’s, for it is Laurence, the First Vicar himself, seated before you.
Laurence hums, yet his expression does not shift, as unchanging as the marble statues that surround him. He knows. He has known. “How many?”
“Beasts? Dozens. Our Hunters lost? More.”
“You purged them all?”
It was said more as a statement than a question. You feel your molars grind, the pain clearing your thoughts as flashes of the Beast-infested streets warp through your bloody memory. “The situation is becoming increasingly dire, we set the alley row ablaze before retreating. I intend to take a second party on the morrow, to check for survivors.”
There was silence, then, and a clouding of that midnight stare. Laurence parted his lips, and he released a small sigh, thumb rubbing between his brows: a rare expression of perturbation, a sign of even the slightest bit of uncertainty that seemed oh-so-wrong on Laurence’s face. “Fire spreads, Ludwig.”
Ludwig. The Holy Blade. You curse, but your body- Ludwig’s body- does not react, simply shifting under the intensity of the Vicar’s stare.
You’re aware of the risks. But the Church talks. People too. And it’s getting harder and harder to hide the Beasts.
“As does this plague. We kept the fire contained— dug a trench. We made sure to cut back any surrounding brush that would serve as kindling.”
“One stray spark…” To say Laurnece’s tone held concern would be a generosity, but it held a gripping weight all the same. Ludwig knows the inescapable fate of the Yharnam, he sees it every night when the Hunt grows longer, but it was never his call to make, and he knows Laurence would never accept a forfeit.
“One stray beast,” he- you- counters. “Flames are the only thing that kills this curse at the root. You already know what we must do to rid Yharnam of it. I only await your word.”
Laurence offers a brisk nod, but you’d know better than to think him convinced. “Is there anything else you require?”
There it is again. That painful indifference.
Perhaps it’s sinful, but Ludwig almost prefers the hysterics of the other priests– the shedding of false tears or an emotive swell of speech at least made him feel as if he had been heard, at least it offered a twisted sense of closure. The First Vicar, however, spoke as if stripped of all artifice, or at least the obvious ones. Ludwig’s concern is met only with unhewn blankness, that honesty that could be easily mistaken for god-like apathy, yet he could not fathom why.
The Holy Blade was himself at least partial to chivalry, especially when preaching to townsfolk, or when returning from a Hunt. But, to Laurnce’s credit, Ludwig had seen him act more empathetic to others before— to those, he supposed, the Vicar still felt the need to convince.
Regardless, it was not often The First Vicar offered his services first, so Ludwig would be a fool not to ask now. “With the sheer amount of bloodshed in recent Hunts, my Hunters need more blood vials. I understand tensions have been rising, however if you perhaps negotiate with Byrgenwerth to distribute less Old Blood to the populace, then the Hunters can have more for our—”
“The people need blood.” Laurnce’s voice booms across the office. The candles flicker. ”Our blood ministrations have finally caught the attention of those far beyond Yharnam. The Healing Church is becoming a beacon unlike any in our era. We are becoming the people’s hope, not the government, nor those self-proclaimed scholars.”
“And the Scourge?”
“What of it?”
Ludwig knows better than to feign ignorance. After all, he’s already devoted himself to Laurnce, body and sword. He knows Laurence has tried to stop the scourge, after all, it was the dirtier half of Laurnce’s duty.
Less than a month into the beasts appearing, the Church tightened regulation on the circulation of blood and regained control of the distribution channels in an effort to snuff out those early signs linking ministration to transmutation. Scourge symptoms were blamed on impure or contaminated strains obtained from illicit trade. And that’s where Ludwig came in, arresting any and all who seemed to breach these sacred laws: he ripped old, addicted men from street corners and screaming women from brothels, he hung or staked them and announced their false claims that their blood was that of Old Gods. Laurence has yet to kill someone guilty. He has yet to murder a sinner.
“All that we do, all that we have done. Still, the scourge did not abate.”
Laurence freezes, and you feel your heart slow at the realization.
Laurence knew.
The Healing Church knew what their blood transfusions were doing to their people, they understood centuries ago.
But Ludwig presses on. “If Bygenworth is concerned about their supply, send my Hunters and I to uncover another source. I’ve slain beasts, what difference is a god?”
“You forget yourself.” Laurence cuts Ludwig off, the Vicar raising his voice just enough for the words to ring across the empty office.
The First Vicar leans back in his chair. Ludwig cannot read his expression, cannot hear his heart, and cannot see anything beyond the icy ring of his eyes. But he can see the way the man's jaw is set, the slight tilt of his head, the tightening of his fists.
It was an emotion he knew all too well.
The two stare at each other. Laurence speaks slowly.
"I understand your concern, Holy Blade. But your duty is to the city. I’ll take your concerns into account, but I’d suggest you leave manners of the blood to be debated between the Church and Bygenworth. As far as you and your Hunters are concerned, the dungeons have been sealed.”
"That’s all?" Ludwig growls. He takes a step forward, the candlelight reflecting off his claymore. “And when the Old Blood runs out, what then? Do we continue lying to our people?”
Laurence is calm. "What is the Church without its beliefs? And what are the people without their hope?"
"Hope? When I lead my Hunters to kill beasts they don’t realize were once human, that is hope? When they die by the claws of mutilated neighbors and lovers, that is our hope ?"
"The Old Blood provides the people hope. It is not up to us to question what it is.” Laurence’s expression is cold, unchanging. He has to be, to convince himself that all of this was worth it. “I can assure you that the people will choose it over any truth.”
Laurence does not stand, he does not move, and finally it’s the Vicar’s apathy that gives him his final answer. Ludwig knows the Vicar has the power to strip him of his title, of his command, to exile him from his very city, and yet he does not fear the man. He does not fear the fire, the beasts, or the blood. All Ludwig fears is the knowledge that they are the ones doing this to their own people. The people he took an oath to protect.
"We are doing the right thing, aren't we? We are carrying out our God's will, are we not?"
Laurence meets Ludwig's gaze, but there is not a flicker of emotion nor recognition in those empty blue eyes. Only godless determination.
"It matters not, does it?"
Your eyes snap open, and you gasp for breath, clawing at the floor with nails that certainly bleed like your own. The scar against your throat burns.
Past memories overtake your current ones and you hear the cries of the damned, the senseless prophecies from the patients, the true ambitions of reaching the gods. And the price that came with such arrogance.
There is no way of stopping the Scourge. There never was.
The Old Blood was never to treat Yharnam, it was never meant for mortal beings to begin with. No, that is why the Church does not seek a cure, because morality was what they were attempting to transcend in the first place. Their ambition was never to bring the gods down but to ascend as deities themselves.
That is why the Choir began the orphanage. You were never given a cure, you had been given the parasitic gift of the gods, a vessel conduit to become one yourself. And so has the rest of Yharnam.
The microscope clatters to the ground, shattering. Your knees buckle and you grip onto the table, heaving into your arms as the entire world trembles. Faces flash before you, Hunters and Priests and children and elderly and neighbors and lovers and strangers. Innocents. So many dead innocents.
You scream.
You scream until your throat tastes like blood and your lungs give out.
Only at the very end of consciousness do you remember Ludwig’s request and Laurence’s strict denial- “the dungeons have been sealed.”
The Old Blood was extracted from the dungeons beneath Byrgenwerth.
Byrgenwerth. You have to get back to Byrgenwerth.
· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·
“I refuse.”
You scoff. “What do you mean, you refuse? In case you have forgotten, Hunter, we have a deal you are bound to carry out.”
Diluc simply snorts, crossing his arms as he glares down at your huffing form. “Correct. However, I tend to draw the line at idiotic requests that will certainly get us both killed. Those dungeons are empty save for starving Beasts and worse.”
“I’m well aware, I saw it myself.”
He freezes. “You what? When?” Diluc grabs your arm, instinctually scanning your body as though looking for wounds, even as he manhandles you around.
“Not-” you wiggle against his grasp, “Not physically.” This stops him. “In a dream- vision?- it’s hard to explain exactly, but this is hardly what’s important here. Byrgenwerth may finally hold the key to understanding the scourge and finding our cure, if you’d just believe me.”
Diluc does not, in fact, believe you. But he releases your arm and you rub your bruising bicep, grumbling. He mutters something under his breath, shaking his head as his hair falls against his face in a way that would be considered handsome had his scowl not deepened.
He is not angry at you. Rather, Diluc can never seem to stay mad at you, however much he may want to. First him, then the Executioner, and now this. You seem to have a habit of enticing Death, a sort of waltz you almost revel in spinning too close to the edge with, a deep-rooted entanglement Diluc might have gotten jealous of if he were a lesser man.
"Byrgenwerth, huh." A place the Vilebloods cursed the very existence of, a place the Church considered holy. Something unknown that both beckons and scorns him. Whatever the two of you find in those dungeons will consume you, this Diluc is certain of.
But he is a man of his word. Worse yet, he is a man in love.
"Very well. I know a passage that can take us there, although it’ll be nearly a day’s journey on foot. But you are to listen to me no matter what, no questions asked. If I say run, we run. Understood?"
"I understand.” You smile, and his chest squeezes in a way he hates.
You know very well how much your Hunter is already regretting his decision, and tug him closer in thanks. Leaning forward, you let your arms wrap around his neck, craning just to reach him as your fingertips lace against the ends of his curls, long ponytail spilling from under his Hunter’s cap and down his robe in flaming tendrils. "Your hair has grown long."
"It has."
Far too long, Diluc thinks. He reaches a hand up to your face, cupping your cheek, and he feels your eyes flutter shut under his palm.
“Can I braid it? Tomorrow, or the day after that?”
“You may.” Anytime. Every day, and long after that too.
You both stay like that for a moment, leaning slightly against each other, you balancing precariously into his chest, and Diluc stabilizing you as one hand finds its place against the small of your back, the other coming up to your cheek. He’s warm.
You look up, forehead brushing the stubble shadowing his chin. "Vow it to me."
"What?"
“Vow it to me. I’ll braid your hair, weeks from now. And if, oh," you giggle, thumbing at the rough hair against his jaw, “If you ever grow out your beard, I’ll get to braid that too.”
Diluc exhales a ghost of a laugh, "Very well. I swear it.”
He leans in, and you can't help but follow his movement. His forehead rests against your own, and you close your eyes and breathe him in. He smells like smoke- a mix of ash and kindling still raw and red and burning, a familiar scent that makes you draw him in closer. You can taste the iron on his breath, and his fingers are calloused, the roughness of his scars scraping against your skin.
He is beautiful, beautiful in the way all things cursed and deadly are, and you fear you are falling in love with him.
"I will never let them take you."
And you believe him.
· · ─────── ·♰· ─────── · ·
Diluc is almost finished packing, strapping the last case of blood vials into his belt with silence efficiency. Another buckle, and he’s about to stand up when a weight hurls atop him, knocking the Hunter forward ever so slightly as he turns to face the attacker currently curling themselves over his shoulder with a wail. Eileen’s stubby feet kick against his back and she pounds her fists into Diluc’s shoulder as she yells her grievances between tears.
“I don’t want you to go!” Another pout, but this time little sobs hiccup through, “No. No, I won’t let you!”
Diluc ruffles Eileen’s hair gently, scooping her off his shoulder and into his arms as he sets down his claymore to make room. “You never seemed to be this distraught over my leaving before, why the sudden worry?” She sniffles, shaking her head.
“You can’t go. Not this time.” But Eileen elaborates no further, only breaking into more tears when pressed.
You walk in on the two of them, watching Eileen sob into Diluc's shoulder. You frown. "I thought I told Edwin to keep an eye on her."
Diluc hums, nodding to the door behind you. "It’s no worry. Go and get your things ready, I'll watch her."
Every instinct urges you to stay and comfort your sobbing child, but Diluc insists quietly with his gaze, and you shut the door with a click. Without looking, Diluc feels your absence and promptly turns back to Eileen, softening his voice, although the tone rough and unpracticed.
"Little crow,” Diluc brushes back her black curls, and her tears along with it. “What's wrong?"
She sniffles, rubbing her eyes. "You can't leave me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You are!"
"Why do you think that?"
Eileen is silent, terribly so. Then, she whispers, "I'm scared."
“Why would you need to be scared when I’m here?” Diluc's brows knit together, and yet he continues to comfort her letting her tears soak into his cloak. The Hunter knows she’s not biologically your child, that none of the orphans are, but as he brushes tears from Eileen’s reddened eyes, he swears they look exactly like your own. So when he speaks these next words, he vows not just to her but to the reflection of you he sees within. “I vowed to protect you, all of you. Neither the gods nor men can take you all from me.”
And the stars listen.
By the time you’ve fully packed, begrudgingly adding Laurnce’s journey to your satchel, the rest of the children have come down the clinic to say their farewells too. Closing the door behind you, you embrace Alison and Edwin one last time, letting them join the Hunter and Eileen on the floor. Timmy crawls alongside his twin on Diluc’s lap, and the remaining children join the pair on the floor as silent sniffles and cries are muffled into fabric and hair. Diluc flinches at first, stiff at the center of it all, but comforts the children nonetheless.
You smile, kneeling with a scoff before wrapping your arms around them all. Farewells and sobs are muted from within the pile, and you feel your own eyes sting as you embrace them just a little tighter, and just a little longer.
And for a moment, despite the cold from the rotting city, you are warm.