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"O, dear Flora, what have you granted me?" the Doll calls quietly.
The sound that reaches her ears in response is not a sound. It is the cry of a mute child, and she smiles to hear it.
The Doll steps gently, not minding the splashes of ichor. Her sturdy boots kick up little droplets of ancient blood, staining the white flowers. She is in no rush. She breathes in the dewy air, and it smells of ozone and fresh rot and beginnings.
And, of course, an end. She takes a moment to mourn a complicated man. And then, to consider where to place his chair. If she left it there it would kill the grass.
(What she doesn't think of, of course, is how he had only ever looked into her eyes once, when the dream began, when she was fresh and born and new-hewn. And she doesn't think of how the only thing she saw, looking back at him with endless love, was the disappointment of a stranger.)
Of course, Gehrman was not the only one lost this night. She looks to the largest of the red pools, and she can almost see the shape of Flora, laying in the flowers.
Oh, Flora, Flora, the Doll thinks. Great Flora, who granted her hollow body motion and thought. Maker-mine, bless this hunter, she prays. The great moon, shining down, missing its lustre. Flora, the weakest One. Flora, of the dream, of the moon.
Always the smart one, her Flora. Always so clever.
Whiling away, awaiting a chance, a child, granting sanctuary for all the good hunters come and gone. Flora, Flora, who hides and hides, sending those good hunters to die and kill, die and kill the beasts small and Ones Great.
Flora the cruel and Flora the kind. Oh, but how she mourns her nameless Flora.
The child's inaudible cry begins anew, breaking her short vigil.
Joints creaking, she leaves the vast graveyard. The rocky path crunches below her feet, the fog splitting around her as she approaches. Gazing down, she takes in the newest form of the good hunter.
Their flesh is a dark purple-blue, iridescent and slick-looking. No limbs or face, the hunter unrecognizable now. They resemble Flora so, she thinks.
The world is fuzzy around them, the Dream rippling as though they are stretching some influence they do not understand. They writhe upon the ground, howling without throat, do they even comprehend what has happened to them?
She can hear the messengers gasping and croaking, the little ones trying to get a better view of their friends. They crowd the edge of the fountain, spilling it over, and she can see the liquid seep into the dirt below.
She leans down, gently cradling her charge. Laughing, what she says is: "Are you cold...? Oh, good hunter."
The Doll runs her thumb over their side, gripping their body gently. They are so soft now, she thinks, so small. No armor, no gun, no dripping knife, scythe, sword, cleaver, cane. No protection at all.
It would be so easy to harm you, she thinks but does not say. What she says is: "Come now, we'll set the fireplace."
She loves all humans, it is true. But you are not human anymore, she does not say.
Up the steps to the house, one, two, three, four...
I don't have to love you anymore, good hunter, I don't even have to like you, she does not say.
What she says is: "Let me wrap you up, my shawl would suit you better."
Humming a lullaby, she lights the fire, sparks to flames.
Flora's blood runs through you, she thinks and does not say, and enough of Flora's blood has been spilled tonight.
What she says is: "It is time to rest, worthy hunter. You've done well tonight. Now we await the morning."
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