A/N: I apologize for this short chapter, but it is perhaps the most important one so far. The next will be coming quick, and will be a serious Isolde chapter.
OEDON'S INTERLUDE
"I hate the moon—I am afraid of it—for when it shines on certain scenes familiar and loved it sometimes makes them unfamiliar and hideous."
- H.P. Lovecraft, "What The Moon Brings"
Gehrman cleared off the workbench, tidying up the mess that the abomination had left behind. Bits and pieces of metal and blades were scattered around to the point where once or twice the First Hunter found himself rising out of his wheelchair to better reach them.
Metal shavings cut into his hands, but it didn't matter. He didn't know what was going to happen to Yharnam when this so-called 'Aydan' girl finished playing her game. Would the Hunter's Dream remain? For all his luck, he'd end up saddled with Mergo. Hell, perhaps she'd somehow warp his body and make him the next Wet Nurse. Heavens only knew what she had in mind for Logarius' son.
So, he helped make a blade for what felt like the first time in a century. With Aydan's hands also at work with the metal, it became imbued, somehow, radiating a power he'd never seen before. It would likely cut through anything, no matter how dense or metaphysical, given enough determination and the correct mindset.
As he finished tidying up, the light footsteps reminded him that he wasn't alone.
"I've always wondered," the old hunter mused bitterly, "how is the Hunter's Dream sustaining itself without the Moon Presence? At first, I was sure it was that 'Aydan' girl, but not even she is here constantly enough," Gehrman leaned his head to look at the figure silhouetted in the doorway, the lack of moonlight cloaking the form in shadow. "How many pieces have you divided yourself into?" He asked, voice breathy.
The figure remained silent for a moment before giving its answer. "I am one of three."
Lifting his lantern, the old hunter swallowed, feeling fear for the first time in a long time as the Doll's cracked face came into view. "Which piece?"
"I am Oedon's Mind. However, it is by Will of the Formless One that this Dream remains as it is."
The Doll. The last remnant of his past, infected by the accursed Nightmare, just like everything else in the hope forsaken world.
As if sensing his distress, the Doll shook her head gently. "For a time, this body was a conduit to channel echoes and nothing more. It was when the Moon Presence descended upon Yharnam that a third piece was created. As Oedon's Mind, I am little more than a phylactery of memories. You have nothing to fear from me."
He laughed at that. "Don't I?" No, he really didn't. After taking the Doll, Gehrman had nothing left for the Nightmare to consume. No more misguided, desperate tithes to give unto Oedon.
The Doll frowned, but stepped forwards and lightly placed a hand upon his own. "This vessel, broken and imperfect as we may be, loves you."
He didn't need this. His eyes slid shut as he inhaled, heat pooling in the old hunter's chest. It would be easy, Gehrman realized, to pretend nothing was wrong, to just continue as he always did and let Oedon's plan run its course.
"Tell me," he began, "do you know who that doll was made for? Do you know whose likeness I captured when I crafted her?"
"I always assumed you made me to look like the woman you once loved. Was I wrong?"
Gehrman nodded. "Somewhat, yes, but more like a daughter. I made that doll for a promising young apprentice. I don't think she ever saw it. The real one is likely down in the old Workshop in Yharnam, covered in dust and cobwebs."
"How sad," the Doll said, brushing her segmented fingers down the side of Gehrman's face. "I'm sure she would have loved it. But it is in the past, now."
The old hunter lifted his eyebrows. "Ah, but you don't know her name."
It stopped moving, staring at him blankly. He knew why, too. Fragments like her were fragile, and such an insignificant piece as this fragment of a fragment could easily be upset by a shift in the purpose of their vessel.
The Doll had been given Mind, not Name.
Gehrman leaned forward, wheelchair creaking as he shifted his weight. He spoke only as his lips brushed the Doll's porcelain ear:
"Iuliana."
The doll, now named, stumbled back away from him, eyes searching the room in confusion.
When she spoke, the voice that left her mouth was different than before. Older. "Gehrman? Why are you here? Why am I in the old workshop? This place burned down years ago… Is this…" She blinked, much more calm. "Is this the afterlife?"
Gehrman exhaled loudly. He almost hadn't expected that to work, but now it had and it could either be the remnants of the Moon's power trying to appease him, or the ghost of Vicar Iuliana could really be inhabiting his doll. With no way to discern the two possibilities, he supposed he could ask her something only Iuliana would know, but the Moon Presence had its tentacles shoved so deep up into his temporal lobe that it couldn't be anything they'd experienced together. Or anything he'd expect.
Thinking too hard about it made his head hurt. He'd been swimming up to his ears in this cosmic bullshit for what felt like centuries and he was pretty sure he'd stopped treading water a few decades back.
Oh, Laurence. What's taking you so long?
"No, but it may as well be. Feel free to act like it is," Gehrman waved a hand in dismissal. "Your son and his little 'Pthumerian' girlfriend will likely be through here occasionally."
"What? Lael? Why would Lael be here?"
Gehrman grew weary of the Moon's games. He'd grown weary of them long, long ago. There were only so many times you could mess with a man's head before he grew jaded, refusing to believe in any possibility of hope. He would not play along.
He adjusted in his wheelchair. "It's time for a nap, I think. Would you mind wheeling me out to the back garden?"
Iuliana crossed her arms. "Why are you acting so strange? Is this some trick? Do you even hear me?"
"I suppose I could do it myself," he shrugged. "Maybe I'll sleep here..."
The Doll stumbled suddenly, crashing back into the cabinet and making the glass jars clink together. After a moment of wide-eyed shock, she calmed down and righted her posture, sinking into the statue-like stance of the Plain Doll.
Of course, Iuliana hadn't been real. The fragment of Oedon had latched onto the presumed identity, using his knowledge and the memories of other dreamers to create a mock consciousness. He'd done it to the Doll before, and every time she would act as if she remembered nothing of the episode.
She stared down at him. "Why do you hate me so?" The Plain Doll asked. "Why not be done with it? Why not kill me and end the Hunter's Dream if you find it so repulsive?"
Gehrman let out a bitter laugh. "For a piece of Oedon, you're quite dim-witted," he observed. "If I kill you, how will hunters gain an upper hand against your ilk? Without the Dream..." Gehrman's fingers tightened on the armrests. "Without the Dream, how else would I ensure Yharnam is washed of Pthumeru's tainted blood? How else would I avenge the countless deaths, the broken minds, the lives ruined by the blood? No, no, I am trapped here. Until Laurence's vision of a peaceful Yharnam comes to bare, I will not rest."
The Plain Doll narrowed her eyes. "I wish you good fortune in your everlasting nightmare, Beloved Hunter."
Gehrman closed his eyes, refusing to watch her walk out. When the sound of her shoes on the cobblestone ceased, he exhaled loudly. "As least the damned Moon Presence didn't talk," he muttered.
"And to escape this relentless thing I plunged gladly and unhesitatingly into the stinking shallows where amidst weedy walls and sunken streets fat sea-worms feast upon the world's dead."
- H.P. Lovecraft, "What The Moon Brings"
