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starcleAO3 mirror: archiveofourown.org/works/49161283/chapters/124039549
Summary: There is a hole in the world shaped like a person, and the hunter is determined to find the identity of the one who fits the outline.
Relationships: The hunter & Maria, the hunter & Plain Doll, Plain Doll & Maria
No major content warnings for chapter 1, but things will get significantly heavier down the line.
This OC hunter uses it/its pronouns
One time, when the hunter returns to the dream, the doll is not at her usual perch. For a moment, its body is wrenched into frigid stasis, its blood freezing in its veins, before it forces itself to exhale. There is no reason to assume something has happened to her. She is capable of moving herself, after all.
Sure enough, a quick glance around reveals that she is simply kneeling at a gravestone higher up on the hill. If it listens closely, the hunter can hear the faint sound of her whispering… a prayer, maybe?
It doesn’t want to interrupt her, so it goes around the other way to repair its cane and give her time to finish.
If it clinks the small hammer against its cane for a few minutes past when the weapon was fixed, until the words outside stop, well that was between it and the cane.
It steps out the door towards her, and she stands with perfect grace, starts her usual speech asking its desires.
The hunter looks down at the gravestone. It’s not unmarked, but it seems that whatever inscription it once bore has been scratched, carved out. The doll waits patiently for it to speak. It bows before talking to her, as always. “Whose grave is this?” it asks.
“Ah, I’m afraid I do not know, good hunter.”
“Didn’t you say that these graves stand in the memory of those who passed through the dream?”
“Yes. However, this one alone was present before the creation of the dream. Or at least, before I was given consciousness.”
“Huh.” It kneels down and runs its fingers over the gouge marks. There does seem to be some sort of organization to them; they cover up spaces that look to be about word-sized. It can just barely make out what looks like the bottom of a letter at the edge of one such cluster. “Why do you pray here, then?”
“Long ago, when I had been awake for only a short time, I used to see Gerhman often sitting by this gravestone. He stopped coming by it eventually. It seemed important to him. And…”
It waits, but she does not continue on her own. “And…?” it prompts.
“Well, I do not— there is, something, about this grave, which draws me to it. I do not understand what it is. I think it must be a feeling, but I do not know the name of it.”
“Curious.” Wait. It said that out loud, didn’t it. “I mean— curiosity, maybe?”
The doll seems to think for a moment, then shakes her head.
“Grief?” She shakes her head again. “Loneliness? Guilt? Nostalgia?” She tilts her head at that last one.
“What is nostalgia?”
“It means… oh, how do I describe it… it’s a bit like, longing, I guess? For a past you can’t perfectly remember, or maybe can barely remember. It’s a feeling that there’s some life you used to have that’s gone forever, and in your head it was this idealized, wonderful thing even if in reality it was more complicated. Does that make sense?” The doll nods. “So, is it nostalgia?”
The doll does not have a brow that can furrow, but the hunter imagines that it would if she did have one. “Perhaps,” she says after several seconds, “I’m not quite sure. I do not have a past to long for, of course.”
The hunter fights the urge to start scribbling in its journal. “Of course,” it says instead.
There are several moments of awkward silence.
“Maybe… maybe there isn’t a word for what you’re feeling in this language?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… when I was still in school, one of my classes read the Aeneid. The hero, Aeneas, his character is very centered around this concept called pietas. It’s the word we get ‘piety’ from, but it’s not the same thing. Pietas is a concept that’s very specific to the culture it came from, it’s like… a certain form of masculinity, duty, humility, the nation as family, the adherence to family as adherence to the gods… that sort of thing. There’s one word that can stand for the whole concept in Latin, while in this language there isn’t. I could hold myself to the ideal of pietas, but if I didn’t know Latin, I wouldn’t have a word for it.”
The doll stays quiet. She stares down at her clasped hands.
“What I’m saying is, maybe this language doesn’t have a word for what you’re feeling. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a real, bounded thing.”
“Perhaps,” the doll says, then falls silent again.
Suddenly, she seems to stand a little straighter. “My apologies, good hunter. I am here for your sake. Do you wish that I turn the echoes into your s trength?”
“You don’t have to— I mean, it doesn’t have to be about me all the time.” It shifts on its feet. “But, yeah, that’d be great.”
It is careful as always not to let its hand brush against hers.
Next chapter
Summary: There is a hole in the world shaped like a person, and the hunter is determined to find the identity of the one who fits the outline.
Relationships: The hunter & Maria, the hunter & Plain Doll, Plain Doll & Maria
No major content warnings for chapter 1, but things will get significantly heavier down the line.
This OC hunter uses it/its pronouns
One time, when the hunter returns to the dream, the doll is not at her usual perch. For a moment, its body is wrenched into frigid stasis, its blood freezing in its veins, before it forces itself to exhale. There is no reason to assume something has happened to her. She is capable of moving herself, after all.
Sure enough, a quick glance around reveals that she is simply kneeling at a gravestone higher up on the hill. If it listens closely, the hunter can hear the faint sound of her whispering… a prayer, maybe?
It doesn’t want to interrupt her, so it goes around the other way to repair its cane and give her time to finish.
If it clinks the small hammer against its cane for a few minutes past when the weapon was fixed, until the words outside stop, well that was between it and the cane.
It steps out the door towards her, and she stands with perfect grace, starts her usual speech asking its desires.
The hunter looks down at the gravestone. It’s not unmarked, but it seems that whatever inscription it once bore has been scratched, carved out. The doll waits patiently for it to speak. It bows before talking to her, as always. “Whose grave is this?” it asks.
“Ah, I’m afraid I do not know, good hunter.”
“Didn’t you say that these graves stand in the memory of those who passed through the dream?”
“Yes. However, this one alone was present before the creation of the dream. Or at least, before I was given consciousness.”
“Huh.” It kneels down and runs its fingers over the gouge marks. There does seem to be some sort of organization to them; they cover up spaces that look to be about word-sized. It can just barely make out what looks like the bottom of a letter at the edge of one such cluster. “Why do you pray here, then?”
“Long ago, when I had been awake for only a short time, I used to see Gerhman often sitting by this gravestone. He stopped coming by it eventually. It seemed important to him. And…”
It waits, but she does not continue on her own. “And…?” it prompts.
“Well, I do not— there is, something, about this grave, which draws me to it. I do not understand what it is. I think it must be a feeling, but I do not know the name of it.”
“Curious.” Wait. It said that out loud, didn’t it. “I mean— curiosity, maybe?”
The doll seems to think for a moment, then shakes her head.
“Grief?” She shakes her head again. “Loneliness? Guilt? Nostalgia?” She tilts her head at that last one.
“What is nostalgia?”
“It means… oh, how do I describe it… it’s a bit like, longing, I guess? For a past you can’t perfectly remember, or maybe can barely remember. It’s a feeling that there’s some life you used to have that’s gone forever, and in your head it was this idealized, wonderful thing even if in reality it was more complicated. Does that make sense?” The doll nods. “So, is it nostalgia?”
The doll does not have a brow that can furrow, but the hunter imagines that it would if she did have one. “Perhaps,” she says after several seconds, “I’m not quite sure. I do not have a past to long for, of course.”
The hunter fights the urge to start scribbling in its journal. “Of course,” it says instead.
There are several moments of awkward silence.
“Maybe… maybe there isn’t a word for what you’re feeling in this language?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… when I was still in school, one of my classes read the Aeneid. The hero, Aeneas, his character is very centered around this concept called pietas. It’s the word we get ‘piety’ from, but it’s not the same thing. Pietas is a concept that’s very specific to the culture it came from, it’s like… a certain form of masculinity, duty, humility, the nation as family, the adherence to family as adherence to the gods… that sort of thing. There’s one word that can stand for the whole concept in Latin, while in this language there isn’t. I could hold myself to the ideal of pietas, but if I didn’t know Latin, I wouldn’t have a word for it.”
The doll stays quiet. She stares down at her clasped hands.
“What I’m saying is, maybe this language doesn’t have a word for what you’re feeling. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a real, bounded thing.”
“Perhaps,” the doll says, then falls silent again.
Suddenly, she seems to stand a little straighter. “My apologies, good hunter. I am here for your sake. Do you wish that I turn the echoes into your s trength?”
“You don’t have to— I mean, it doesn’t have to be about me all the time.” It shifts on its feet. “But, yeah, that’d be great.”
It is careful as always not to let its hand brush against hers.
Next chapter
