A throne beyond human comprehension, beyond sanity. A throne forged from the wreckage of devoured galaxies, its frame carved from the imploded hearts of stars, its embroidery sewn from nebulae, its borders keen with the churning appetite of black holes. A throne that was not of the realm of mortals, nor even of gods. Only something completely divorced from such things could call it home.
Upon a throne of cosmic blasphemy, she sat.
The cruel golden princess.
Her skin, white as flawless porcelain. Her hair, darker than space, blacker than the gaping void between the worlds. And yet, contrary to the poetic license of her creator, there was no life in her eyes. Her eyes, twin pools of black, drank all light, and returned nothing.
Whatever golden light he had ever purported to have witnessed there, it appeared, had been for his eyes alone.
Her attire—a Jūnihitoe of preposterous magnificence. Twelve layers of celestial material, where the fabric of the universe itself had been reused for her beauty. Constellations only existed to pattern her sleeves, comets left trails behind her, and the obi that tied it all together was crafted from the compressed ashes of destroyed suns. Even the palace itself, a building carved in reverence to the supreme power of feudal Japan, was a mere afterthought to her.
[Hjálparhönd] was before her, wearing something that was not of Japanese origin.
A sour taste peppered the princess's mouth.
That man—her creator—he must have known of the correct dress for a servant. So why was the doll in front of her not wearing it?
Disappointment… then confusion.
For the doll's shape was… perplexing.
Her small size was a understandably for portability, Their creator could not very well walk around with a life-sized [DOLL] in his arms in this day and age. Yet still, the form of this very [DOLL] was—
Excessive.
The princess examined the curves before her with a look of disbelief. An absurd chest, an equally absurd silhouette. It wasn't until a memory came to mind that understanding dawned.
Ah.
A memory of youth.
A tabletop game, her effort to design a character unlike herself. And what had she decided on?
A goblin rogue—curvy, sly, skilled with her hands.
The understanding curled her lips into a smile. Ah, [He] had remembered.
With that amusement in her heart, she opened her arms in welcome.
"Welcome, to the [MEGIDO ARK]."
The [DOLL]— [Hjálparhönd].
[Hjálparhönd] did not respond.
The princess's fan, golden and elegant, twitched in her grasp. A sharp brow arched.
She had hoped—perhaps foolishly—that this one would possess the same spritely charm as her goblin rogue of old. But no matter. She would coax it out.
"Behold! Before you stands the wicked princess who cursed her maker with Ignorance and brought Twenty Seven Unfortunate [DOLLS] to their deaths in an attempt to cause the downfall of that curse. Rejoice! Dance! Clap your hands and be merry!"
The words rang in the large chamber, bold and melodramatic.
And something responded.
A reaction—not the one the princess had hoped for, but a reaction.
Down in the empty core of [Hjálparhönd], something stirred. The words—Curse, Death.
Something in them reached out and took hold of her, seizing on an unborn, undefined feeling.
A rough, powerful emotion planted itself.
Anger.
Her head jerked, her body stiffened, and for an instant the princess saw it—the turning of her head, a spasmodic movement, the flash of a face unseen, a face that would drive men mad and cast them into unimaginable horror.
But it did not emerge.
Two ghastly hands rose from beneath her dress, and firmly held her head.
The collective unconscious whispered to her: Do not engage.
The anger vanished. In its place, a third hand materialized, with a response on its palm.
'MY NAME IS [Hjálparhönd].'
The princess pouted, closing her fan with a sharp snap.
"How boring," she thought.
"A perfectly good chance to throw caution to the wind, wasted. You might have struggled. You might have raged. And instead, you let it slip by. I had half a mind to put you in your place."
Nevertheless, she directed her fan ahead, eyes shining with interest.
The princess directed her Hiogi, her Golden decorative fan towards her fellow [DOLL] and suggested a question.
"Tell me, [Hjálparhönd]. Do you know why you were made?"
A question. One which sent [Hjálparhönd]'s mind backward, into the depths of her own creation. [DOLLS] became conscious not when they were molded, but when their shape and purpose were complete in the mind of their maker.
And so, she knew. And so, she answered.
'YES.'
The princess smiles slightly before moving on to her next point.
"It's a wonderful privilege to know the reason you were created so early in life and It is one I look forward to indulging in. I, the prodigal princess have come back to carry out my Noblesse Oblige and responsibility as your predecessor."
[Hjálparhönd] processed these words, but something within her shook again.
THUMP
THUMP
THUMP
For the first time in her life, a flame of interest flickered within her. A new feeling—an inquiry, no, multiple inquiries, a tempest raging within her mind. Had it not been for the solid, unyielding presence of [Hjartalaus] within her, they would have poured out in an uncontrollable deluge.
But she held them back.
And displayed only the most significant one.
'WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE TWO?'
The Cruel Golden Princess, forward leaned on her throne, placing her chin lightly on the back of her hand.
"Pay attention [Hjálparhönd], there is a distinction between the compassion due from a ruler and the burden carried by a predecessor."
She raised her fan and as if wove it through the air.
"As a princess, my Noblesse Oblige is a promise—a sacred duty is to ensure you and those who come after you have what you need in order to stand tall, to shine, to walk without fear.
It is the soft hand that steadies the unsteady, the golden strand that mends the rent, the light that keeps the darkness back.
A leader who does not attend to their people is naught but an ornament on a dusty shelf."
She drew her fan to her breast.
"But as one who came before, my responsibility is not simply provide, but to build. To sow seeds of wisdom, to weave the fabric of traditions, to carve the stepping stones.
It is not sufficient that I provide you with what you require—I have to make sure that as the years go by, you have the power, the wisdom and the will to construct for yourselves.
A predecessor does not merely protect the present—they shape the future."
The Cruel Golden Princess' eyes softened, slightly.
"So the difference my subject is that one duty is to hold you in my arms and the other is to teach you to fly.
And I shall do both, for that is what it means to be Royalty."
Then, with a flick of her fan, the princess turned her gaze aside.
"Unfortunately, you will have to save your questions for later. For now all you need to really concern yourself with is how to deal with [Him]."
[Hjálparhönd] accepted this with a nod of silence.
"The most important thing you need to remember is that you are a [DOLL], and that [He] created you. So, [He] loves you."
She slowly unfolded her fan, the gilded ribs glinting.
"But do not misunderstand, It is not the love of man for woman, or of father for child. It's just [LOVE] in its purest, most unsullied form. And that [LOVE], more than anything else, will make [Him] think and act irrationally—especially now that [He] has been reunited with his [WITCHCRAFT].
It is akin to 'Cogito, ergo sum.'
Here, you are, so [He] [LOVES] you.
The irony is, that [LOVE] is also the single greatest obstacle to [Him] fulfilling his full potential as a [WITCH]."
She snapped the fan shut with a sharp crack and aimed it at [Hjálparhönd].
"Then it is of the greatest importance that you contest with that [LOVE] and to do so, you will require a weapon."
She leaned forward a little, golden eyes alert.
"The first time you spar, don't dodge [His] punch. On the contrary, let it hit your face. Then place your hands on your face. Shiver when [He] touches you. Pout a bit before you make up with [Him].
From that point, oppose every ridiculous choice [He] makes. Fight every crazy idea [He] suggests.
And if [He] protests, inquire whether [He] will hit you again—while trembling."
The princess's lips curved into a knowing smile.
"That way, you'll be able to talk [Him] out of most irrational acts."
She tapped the fan against her palm, her voice softening.
"The one and only exception is fighting. No matter how proficient you or the ones produced after you are, [He] will insist on engaging in battle with you. It is a sickness of the highest order—an incurable disease. All you need do is have high expectations from [Him], and [He] will surpass them."
It was a perfect plan, one carefully designed to wrangle the [DOLLS]' creator. But the Cruel Golden Princess had overlooked one deadly weakness—
Perversion.
Just as [His] fetishes were a part of [His] nature as a man and a [WITCH], every [DOLL] [He] created would also develop their own warped inclinations.
And unfortunately for the Cruel Golden Princess, [Hjálparhönd] was no different. What would have been an attempt to balance their creator's insanity would instead prove to be a means for expressing her own twisted fantasies.
The princess let out a sigh and gazed at the time before opening her fan again.
"It appears our audience must reach its conclusion. But before you leave, there is one final point I need to impress upon you."
[Hjálparhönd] inclined her head.
'WHAT?'
The princess sighed, shutting her eyes for a moment before reopening them.
"Quite frankly, I would rather you didn't mention to [Him] that we have had a conversation."
'WHY?'
The Cruel Golden Princess glanced to the left, then the right, before leaning in and whispering to her friend [DOLL].
"Well, in short… If [He] were aware that we could communicate, [He] would naturally wish to converse with me. And quite frankly—
She took a deep breath, steeling herself.
"No matter how big and how lived as I am," she said, "if I heard [His] voice… if I got so much as one message from [Him]… I could not help myself. I would run to [Him] like a dog to its master, tongue lolling and all."
Silence.
[Hjálparhönd] was so shocked that she didn't say anything.
"Do not take this as a royal order, but as a boon from one [DOLL] to another. If you do this for me, I'll give you the best bit of information that I possess."
'WHAT DOES OUR [Skapari] PUT ON SANDWICHES.'
The princess allowed herself a small, almost wistful smile.
"Avocados. Cut them in half, remove the seed, and spread the interiors on bread."
And so for the first time in history, there was a pact formed between [DOLLS].
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When [Hjálparhönd] woke up, she was once again in [His] residence. But something was different.
There were notes and books lying around the floor. Her creator was nowhere to be found.
Panic set in as she summoned her [HELPING HANDS], dispatching them to search every corner of the House Boat.
The [HANDS] located him in the bathtub full of water—
Dressed like a pirate.
Sitting amidst empty metal cans marked 'HARD MIKS.'
It was a part of the stash of alcohol the boat's previous owners had forgotten.
A glass rum bottle in one hand, its label featuring a pirate's face.
He was singing.
"OH, I BID FAREWELL TO THE PORT AND THE LAND.
AND I PADDLE AWAY FROM QIPAN'S WHITE SANDS.".
TO SEARCH FOR MY LONG AGO FORGOTTEN DOLLS.
TO SEARCH FOR THE PLACE I HEAR ALL [WITCHES] END.
AS THE SOULS OF THE DEAD FILL THE SPACE OF MY MIND.
I'LL SEARCH WITHOUT SLEEPING 'TIL PEACE I CAN FIND.
I FEAR NOT THE WEATHER, I FEAR NOT THE SEA.
I REMEMBER THE FALLEN, DO THEY THINK OF ME?
WHEN THE [DOLLS] IN THE OCEAN FOREVER WILL BE."
He took one last swig of rum, then muttered:
"My [WITCHCRAFT] has left me, now there is no hope."
He gave himself up to sleep.
A act of folly instantly ended by the [HELPING HANDS] pulling him out of the water.
Soaked and choking, he had little time to realize what was occurring before his shock was replaced by happiness.
And thus he sang again—
"AS THE SOULS OF THE DEAD LIVE FOR'ER IN MY MIND!
AS I LIVE ALL THE YEARS THAT THEY LEFT ME BEHIND!
I'LL STAY ON THE SHORE BUT STILL GAZE AT THE SEA!
I REMEMBER THE FALLEN AND THEY THINK OF ME!
FOR OUR SOULS IN THE OCEAN TOGETHER WILL BE!
And thus, the action taken today would be the first of a multitude of impulsive decisions from which [Hjálparhönd] would have to rescue her creator.