“Oedon!” Gascoigne roared in anger as he finally regained some control over his body. “Where are you?! Show yourself this instant! Why am I back in Yharnam? And why is there another person here that looks exactly like me?” he asked, clearly enraged at the formless Great One.
‘That is not another person you fool. That is you. This is nothing more than a memory. Things that have long passed—or in your case, passed a few days. You have suffered enough, so I will show you mercy. You will see what you have become, what has happened to your loved ones… and you will serve me and do my bidding. Only then will you finally be able to die,’ Oedon replied. ‘It is time you saw the era of your mistakes and stop blaming others for said mistakes.’
“It better be worth my time,” Gascoigne spat at Oedon.
‘Believe me, it will be. Servant of God,’ Oedon replied in a rather grim sounding tone.
Gascoigne could only stare in confusion at what seemed to be an exact copy of him. A clone of himself. He reached out to touch the copy of himself, but his hand went straight through it, as if he was trying to touch a ghost. Gascoigne slowly backed away, but kept his eyes locked on his copy.
“This is… not good,” Gascoigne said to himself. “Not good at all. Oedon, what have you done to me?” Gascoigne asked, a hint of anger in his tone as he looked up at the moonlit sky of Yharnam. “You said you were going to show me something! Well I’m ready, Oedon!”
Instead of getting a reply from Oedon, or a sassy remark, the copy of him began to shift. Gascoigne’s hunter instincts kicked in and he slowly reached for his axe. He did not like this at all. Oedon had been playing games with him since the beginning of his time in Equestria. He was not sure what the Formless Great One was trying to accomplish with this charade, but he did not like this one bit. Gascoigne looked around him, taking in his surroundings. This was indeed Yharnam. Oedon Chapel to be precise. The hunter suddenly felt a rush of adrenaline course through his body when he heard rustling behind him. He turned around and was greeted by an unpleasant, yet familiar sight.
Yharnamites. Lots of them.
“And here I thought I’d seen the last of you,” he muttered to himself, reaching for his axe. “But I guess I was wrong, and it seems that the hunt begins yet again.”
Gascoigne was about to dash towards the group of Yharnamites, but stopped when his copy ran passed him, axe and blunderbuss ready. Ready to kill.
“…”
Gascoigne said nothing, but merely watched in slight confusion when his copy smashed his blunderbuss down upon the head of an unfortunate Yharnamite. He could hear the man’s skull crack underneath the sheer force of the impact, and when his copy dug his axe deep into the man’s abdomen the Yharnamite fell to the ground, blood oozing out of his mouth and wounds. His copy, clearly enjoying what he was doing, extended his axe and, even though the move seemed a little too much, dug the tip of his axe into the eye of another Yharnamite. Ripping the axe out of the Yharnamite’s socket, his copy aimed his blunderbuss at the Yharnamite and pulled the trigger, sending a barrage of tiny scatter shots into the man’s upper and lower body, destroying tissue and organs in the process.
Gascoigne looked at his copy and crossed his arms. He almost smirked at the sight, but that smirk was stopped when he smelled a familiar scent. It was a mixture of rose pedals and a hint of Yharnam blood. And in his time in Yharnam he only knew one person who smelled that way.
“Viola,” Gascoigne breathed out.
He looked up through the thick bandaging masking his sight to see her running across a corpse-ridden grave. On her chest was that red brooch that he had given her one birthday many nights ago.
That brooch. That damned brooch.
His copy, however, stood over the latest abomination he had killed, relishing the scent of its spilled blood. It gave him adrenaline. It owned him. Ruled him. Then his copy turned to Viola slowly, hate and madness in his dark eyes.
She stood at a distance, dragging herself to a halt from her once-fierce run here. The bottom of her dress was dirty with sludge and blood. She had come all the way from the stinking streets and through the sewers for him. Now she stood uncertainly, unsure. He did not look as she remembered him.
Gascoigne’s eyes widened and he quickly ran passed his copy. Within seconds he stood in front of his wife, panting slightly as he looked down at her. “Viola,” he said calmly, though a hint of irritation could be noticed in his tone. “What in God’s name are you doing here, woman?!” he asked, this time not hiding his irritation and anger. “Why are you not home, protecting the children? Why did you leave them?” he asked.
His irritation only grew when his wife completely ignored him and just stared blankly at him.
“Viola,” Gascoigne sneered. “Leave.”
Gascoigne reached out for his wife, placing his hand on her shoulder. His eyes widened in a way they had never done before when his hand went straight through her shoulder. He backed away slightly, confusion written over his face. “W-what is this? What have you done to my Viola?” he asked, his hands beginning to shake violently.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, time seemed to freeze. Gascoigne looked around him, and saw that his copy was floating in mid-air, axe raised, presumably waiting to strike down another Yharnamite. He then looked to his wife, and saw the pure horror that was written on her face. Gascoigne held his head, a headache threatening to come up. He could not believe what was happening. It was then, at this exact moment that he realized who was with him in Oedon Chapel.
“Oedon!” Gascoigne roared in anger, this anger even overthrowing the anger he felt towards Sombra during their fight. “Stop this madness at once! I will not have it! I have had ENOUGH!”
Gascoigne stood there, panting heavily and his body shaking. Sweat dripping down his forehead. In all honesty, he was concerned. Concerned about his wife’s wellbeing, and, of course, his own.
‘Now, now,’ Oedon replied, his voice echoing through the chapel. ‘That is no way to request something. But I suppose you have had enough… for now, at least.’
For some reason, Gascoigne feared what Oedon meant with that.
“What is this madness?” Gascoigne asked, his anger still present. He cocked his head upwards, glaring daggers at it the moonlit sky. “Why is my wife here? And why does she ignore me? And why can’t I touch her?” he asked.
‘The reason,' Oedon replied, chuckling to himself, ‘is because this has all passed. This is a memory of a time you could unfortunately not bear witness. But that is where I come into play.’
“Is there no limit to your power?” Gascoigne asked, shaking his head.
‘… I will let you ponder on that,’ Oedon replied. ‘But first, you must see the truth… no matter the pain it will bring you. You will feel like dying, but I will not have it.’
Gascoigne raised his eyebrows. Deciding not to ask questions, he turned around as the memory began to unfold. His copy, or rather his “former self,” started cutting through more and more Yharnamites, infected with the beastly plague. There was no point of return for any of them. Granting them death was the only option left.
“Run!” He heard himself growl at her. “Get out of here, woman!”
Viola saw that shuffling townspeople, townspeople who were quick when they scented prey, blocked her retreat. So she took off for the long stairs leading up to Oedon Chapel. But she was not as quick. And his copy had overestimated his own abilities and could not topple them as quickly as he thought he could. And he saw her run into two Yharnamites. With his elongated trick-axe he pushed back the group who sneered and wailed on him, and the blade cut through their chests, opening up ribs.
Just as he cleared them, cursing and shouting, he sprinted after her. Viola was brought down by claws and teeth as she tried to escape them. His copy hurtled into them, clipping them back with his weapon and blowing two away with his blunderbuss. He grabbed her and bore her easily, running up the stairs and along the paving along the high railing. From there his copy jumped down onto the roof to get away, only to be followed by more abominations.
“No,” Gascoigne breathed out as he watched his copy jumped down the roof, gazing down at the lifeless body of his wife’s killer. Running up the stairs, Gascoigne reached the roof and jumped down on it, looking down at his wife’s nearly mangled corpse. “What have I done?” he asked himself, falling to his knees as the weight of this memory proved to be too much, even for him. “What have I done, what have I DONE?!” he asked himself once more, gritting his teeth as a wet moisture soaked the bandages covering his eyes. But instead of the thick red substance he was used to, a substance that had covered his eyes for so many times, to the point where it almost blinded him, it were tears. Tears of grief, anger.
“Viola,” Gascoigne breathed out, placing his arms around his wife, only for them to pass straight through her body. Reaching for his eyes, he removed the bandages covering his eyes, revealing his beautiful ocean blue eyes as he started down at his wife. “Why did you come? Why did you come for me?”
Viola raised her head, staring at him—no, staring at his copy, who was hacking away at his wife’s killer in a fit of beastly rage. It pained him tremendously to see her this way, but the fact that this was a memory meant that this all happened. He had abandoned the one thing he cared the most about. His own family.
‘Looks like you finally got what you wished for.’
Gascoigne said nothing, no reply to the Formless Great One. Instead he looked down at his wife who was losing the last bits of life from her body.
‘Or did you not want to see your wife one last time, even if that meant doing something terrible?’ Oedon asked, seemingly mocking the broken hunter. ‘Your request has been granted; now you will watch as everything you once loved disappears in front of you. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.’
Gascoigne again said nothing.
Viola slowly lowered her head, her eyes beginning to close ever so slowly. “Gascoigne,” Viola whispered, her voice light and pitchy. “I loved you always, I always will.”
With her last dying breath she expressed her love for him. Even after he had done such terrible things she still loved him. And he threw it all away, like it meant nothing to him. The burden of his mistakes weighed heavily upon him, and if he had the strength he would have gladly taken his own life. Right there and then… but he could not move, not even an inch. His wife lay dead in front of him. His fear, fear of losing her suddenly vanished, and all that was left was anger. Anger towards the ones who caused all of this. Anger towards Gehrman, the First Hunter for not killing him, anger towards the entire world. This world was a cruel place.
“Where are they?” Gascoigne asked, albeit it reluctant. “Where are my girls?”
One word. One word was enough to break an already broken man even further beyond repair.
‘Dead.’
And it was at this moment, that Gascoigne’s heart shattered into a million pieces.
A wise priest once said that suffering does not appear out of nowhere. It starts with fear, the fear of losing something or someone. Then that fear turns into anger. That anger will eventually turn into hate. And hate will lead to suffering. And for Gascoigne his suffering had just begun, and would not end until his death.
‘But you know what they say, Gascoigne,’ Oedon said. ‘Death is not the end. Death can never be the end. Death is the road. Life is the traveler. The soul is the guide. And I am your soul, the very soul of all those who reside in Yharnam. And I will be your guide. Your guide through your nightmare.’
‘Your Hunter’s Nightmare.’