#// the dichotomy of the fire and the waves the fishing hamlet and old yharnam is just *chef kiss*

[aithreachas]

"Good Hunter... you shouldn't be here. You belong in the waking world." The figure stirred, setting a bundle of flowers aside to stand. His cape was tattered, and an enormous engraved sheath hanged empty on his back, shifting slightly as he moved. It was difficult to differentiate between the sound of waves lapping at the sand below, and the soft noise his clothing made as it rubbed against that sheath. "Let me take you home. You don't want to stay here, believe me."

The waking world?

World of fire and screams, lick of flames on his face and the smell of gunpowder burning all the way down the olfactory system. He wished it had been burnt out completely because even now it was living inside of him, beating like a second heart. Ashen heart, ember heart, a coalescence of mistakes and orders on a blood red night when Yharnam burned.

“I don't want t'go home,” Atreus said softly. He took a small step backwards, threaded cane scratching against the ground with the movement. It sounded too loud to be real, blade scraping like battle. It was quiet here—the sounds of his presence feeling distinctly like he was an interloper in somewhere sacred.

But Atreus didn't know where he belonged any more—whose to say it wasn't here?

“Let me stay.”

The figure hadn't attacked him, perhaps there was hope for him yet. He raised a hand slowly, unhooking the pistol at his waist to toss it at the ground in front of him. He would throw his cane too, if he wasn't currently using it to bear the weight of old wounds.

“It's quiet here. The waves almost drowns out the screaming. It's—” Words hesitated and caught in his throat while brows knitting together as he struggled to find the right sentiment to express.“—nice.... Peaceful and I'm tired.”