The Broken Doll
Dark Dream
恐怖の夜! 破片のpremonition!
Gosh, it's been so long...please forgive me, everyone. Still working, still busy. ^^ I hope you enjoy this segment...
Please, take care, everyone. This is where things actually get interesting!
Quote:
"Fair is foul, and foul is fair,
Hover through the fog, and filthy air!
By thy snapping of thine thumbs...
...something wicked this way comes..."
A doll. Splinter stared at the small item, pounding heart beginning to slow ever so slightly in rapid beat equidistant to that of a hummingbird's wing flap. Just a small, cloth doll.
But this doll didn't look right. It looked like it had been crafted from cheap material; such as the cloth one would use to make for a sack. That itself wasn't disturbing at all, Splinter supposed, but something vibed a sense of error; as if he'd been listening to a favorite tuned played, as Michelangelo would put it, 'out of whack.'
Maybe it wasn't the doll at all. Maybe it had something to do with the living nightmare standing in from of him, cream skin turning a slippery, damp looking rust, as splashes or corrosion began to melt their way into the porcelain like skin, each one absorbing the other, spreading into one whole. Rosy cheeks made way for the all-present, all-consuming, rust.
Even as the woman smiled; a horrible, horrible smile that should have spoken of elegance and charming sweetness; her porcelain teeth looked razor sharp, and far too enormous for her mouth. Splinter's eyes narrowed as the teeth continued to grow, looking like shards of broken glass reflecting the endless cycle of mirrors surrounding them.
Long, flowing hair now seemed ragged; wretched. The lady stepped forward, ghastly smile still on her painted lips as she fingered the small doll with delicately gloved fingertips-that burst into view as the cloth quite literally exploded from her hands.
Eyes enormous, cold trickling inside of him, Splinter only numbly stepped back as the woman's disgusting, revolting hands grew slippery, filthy magenta red fingernails growing longer and longer, and sharper and sharper. They had grown to talons, each tip marked like that of a dagger's gilded edge, or a predatory cat's claw curl. It had only been finery and sweet-nothings covering an otherwise hideous display.
The woman's-was it a woman?-eyes grew narrower and narrower, and charming glass eyes melted into cold sabers. Still, she fondled the small, cloth doll, idly tossing it back and forth between her hands. Splinter had the strange urge to rip snatch it from out of her hands.
The little doll had light blond hair, a white dress becoming rather tattered as her claws scraped the tips of the end, and little hands that resembled nothing more then little stubs with fingers. It had no face.
Suddenly, the woman-she-devil moved the doll's face into its palm, and, swiveling it around again, Splinter was astonished to find the little cloth doll now had a small smile on its face. There was pink in its cheeks, and it had button eyes, and a small 'u' for a smile.
The woman's dress began to rip in the sleeves, dainty ribbons and sashes tearing as buttons from her cuffs burst off. The rat, immediately alert, reflexively moved into a fighting stance, but the woman seemed to regard him as little more then a sheer annoyance. She sneered at him, but only continued to mockingly play with the doll, making it dance as she moved its arms and legs...
The scene changed; Splinter stumbled; and found himself in a small clearing in the woods, in the dead of night. Extremely startled, the rat stumbled, then started as a light crackling sound began to be heard:
He spun around.
A young woman; adorned in finery and furs, a fine bonnet upon her head, was speaking into the mouth of a cave beside a small campfire. She held a small parcel in her hands-perhaps a purse, with something extending out of it. Splinter squinted to see what it was.
Red thread. In the other hand, there was a needle tightly clutched in a fat, gloved fist-obviously, the woman had no experience in sewing. Suddenly, a voice rasped, from in and out of the darkness; a voice that made Splinter's fur stand on end-
"Are you sure you wish to go through with this...?"
The woman spoke, briskly and irritated, in return, as if she were discussing the weather. Her voice had an unpleasant, nasal sort of matter to it.
"I am. I cannot have Lord Byron, now. He's nothing but a flea-ridden corpse, God save him."
Her voice was dispassionate; dismissed. And...did she sound a little mocking in her last statement? Once again, she took as little notice of Splinter as if the rat had suddenly transformed into yet another tree solemnly surrounding the dark clearing.
The woman began to speak again:
"I did try to tell him that Cynthia has no class, no refinement; but oh, no, he had to fall in love with her, of all things."
Her voice became as bitter as wormwood, and anger laced every word.
"My cousin...the daughter of a painter!" she seethed, eyes bulging as she clenched her fists even more tightly. "A filthy, stupid, poor girl with no class, born in a squalid hovel, oh, yes, the PERFECT choice for a lord who receives fifty-two pounds per annum-"
"You've told me this before," interrupted the voice, now sounding impatient. "You've made your case perfectly clear by now, Lydia. But I digress. Is it already done? I have already heard of the one who chooses to call himself 'lord's choice from you. He offered his hand and his heart to Cynthia."
"OR HIS PURSE!" she spat venomously. The voice in the grotto took no note.
"But ah, was that not what you were seeking, dearest Lydia? After all, your father has squandered everything you own; your mother is the shame of your family for approving of Byron and Cynthia's wedding-your prospects were low."
The woman called Lydia had her voice drop to a more grudging, admitting pitch. Splinter had long since ducked behind an old oak tree to avoid being spotted, and now he had to strain to hear much of anything.
"Well...yes. But I," she said, patting herself affectionately on her chest. "I could have passed for his wife, not just some...some poetry-reading harlot teacher from the streets! Cynthia robbed my of MY birthright! I was to be on his arm; his estate was to become MINE! The way I forgave her-endured her, begrudged her for all those years was saintlike! I ought to be canonized for dealing with such poisonous vermin! I could only stand her so long!"
"Was that why you threw that engagement party for her? She was so delighted that her cousin actually took a valid interest in her, and was cheered that you let her borrow one of your ballgowns. She always adored you as a child...perhaps that's why she took to following you about the streets?"
"I gave her her night of fun. I invited nobles. I ordered the finest cooks. In my father's estate. With her as my guest of honor."
"Tut-tut, dear Lydia. I was there; I remember. It was a masquerade...such a grand event. Cynthia was exquisitely lovely, you know. But Byron's eyes were only on her that night. And...if you will recall, he was the rather short fellow in the bird mask that never released her hand that night..."
Lydia seethed; the unknown entity chuckled in the gloom.
"...well, at least...not longer then for a moment or two. But a moment or two is all it takes, no?"
Something cold began to blossom in the center of Splinter's chest cavity. The rat's eyes narrowed as Lydia laughed, appeased.
"I really must thank you for thinking up such a marvelous idea. The poison I had would have killed her immediately; I should have been at fault. But yours...during the toast at the feast, well...I am surprised she didn't suspect anything."
"It was tasteless. She could not have known what her goblet contained."
The cold prickle went to an icy hush. Splinter froze, heart beginning to hammer as Lydia let out a girlish giggle.
"It was during the main course that she began to complain of a headache. Byron thought perhaps they'd been dancing too long. Oh, how I yearned for the sweet moment of triumph...would it never come? But at last, during the dessert palette, darling Cynthia happened to, ah...what was it, darling?"
"Why dearest, she choked on the blueberry crumble. It was entirely too delicious-anyone, particularly street vermin-would be inclined to take a hearty mouthful. She just...bit off more then she could chew."
"And started foaming and spluttering at the mouth. No one could make head or tails of it. Byron seized her; and began to perform Heimlich in the hopes that she would spit whatever that was plugging her windpipe out, but nothing came. The girl's eyes rolled back while I, being a gentle lady, fell backwards out of sheer terror in a swoon." Lydia's eyes flashed in the firelight; the treetops rustled as wind began to prickle over in an unpleasant gust. Lydia's fine, raven black hair began to swoop free of the lacy confines. Splinter could hear the smile in her now singsong voice as she piped up unexpectedly:
"Darling, do you find any irony in the fact that the whole 'ring around the rosy ditty' was started by superstitious villagers attempting to ward off the Black Plague?"
The voice paused. Splinter peered from behind the tree as far as he dared, but he could see no one in the immense gloom of the cave, let alone why Lydia would not enter. At last:
"Alas, I do, odd that you mention it, dear Lydia. It was a spell to ward off evil-'ring around the rosy' means to dance around a 'fairy circle,' of sorts. 'A pocket full of posy,' well...Posy flowers were claimed to have the same properties and power of lavender springs nailed over doors." The man-for that voice could belong to no female-scoffed.
"Lunacy, in my opinion...'ashes, ashes...' that's all that's left of the 'holy flame, when there is nothing. And, my dear, when all is said and nothing more can be done...in Miss Cynthia's case..."
"Ashes, ashes, the vagrant pig drops dead."
Splinter withdrew slightly, heart pounding once again as he bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself from making a noise.
This woman was a murderer. The rat took a step back, and then another, torn between what he was to do next. Did he wait, and listen for more? Or did he make a silent break for it?
Dark eyes glowered at Lydia's haughty form from the shadows, narrowing in abhorrent disgust.
She claimed to have killed her own cousin...and she was...laughing at it all. Laughing!
A raven let out a series of caws as it fluttered over the grove in a plumage of midnight wings. Master Splinter tensed, but the girl only waved the bird off, frowning before she resumed talking to the opening of the cave.
The pale moon had risen high overhead; it was late. But Lydia didn't seem to think the hour was too late to continue hearing herself talk.
"I was so aggrieved, you know. Mother and everyone felt so sorry for my agony over my favorite cousin's demise. People continued to send bottles of port and baskets of food and flowers of consolation for nigh on a fortnight after that. I was even charitable enough to throw Cynthia an expensive funeral, with a casket driven by Black River Orlov horses in a rented coach. It was for that people began to offer me invitations to dine and to go riding and driving once I had at last faintly retrieved myself from my unexceptionably passionate loss."
"So passionate were you that you nearly flew into a fury when Byron broke with grief over his fiancee's loss, and succumbed to cholera, am I correct?"
Lydia scowled. "He left no heir. And after I showered him with so much goodwill and lavished all my sympathies upon him; the fool man still died!"
"Ah...but that is the folly of love, my pet. It is your love that brings you, to this 'other place,' as you see fit to call my part-time dwelling."
The girl flashed a dazzling smile.
"Oh, of course, Jacques. You'd know I only love-"
"-what I have to offer you?" There was that laugh again; that laugh devoid of any mirth. It sounded merely forced, high-pitched, and maniacal. Lydia winced at it as Splinter drew away, claws digging into the bark. That laugh made his fur stand on end, it did...the man sounded...insane employing it!
But the laugh cut off very abruptly, to the rat's relief, as the man resumed speaking.
"You do not love me." The voice was amused, but there was definitely something pinched in its tone, now. "You need not flatter me, Lydia, much as I enjoy your company. After all, we have been...business associates in the past, have we not? You have given me what I wanted, and, in return, I aided you in slaughtering Cynthia. You have done what I have asked you to do three nights ago, and now, well...I come to repay the favor, once again. Only this time, you will still have to pay a price for this benefaction."
"I told you already, I don't mind-"
"-surrendering your own heart to become what you most crave? My dear girl, you will surrender a warm hundred years for a cold forever."
"I care not."
"Ah, but are you so sure? You have become quite popular with society; many men would throw themselves at your feet to wed you. You would have an estate, your father's debts repaid, and many children, should you so which. After all, is that not what you want...?"
Lydia scoffed as she sank down on a nearby log near the dying fire.
"It was, but no longer. I don't care what the effects will be."
"Your heart will be cut out. You will be a living doll, child. Never aging, never growing old."
"That is every woman's dream."
The voice laughed again, much to Splinter's discomfort. What in the world were they speaking of?
"I do not think so. For some, being a 'doll' would be nothing more or less then a living hell, pet."
Lydia frowned, hunched over by the fire's light flames. Sparks occasionally thrust themselves into the dark skyline.
"I am not one of those people. You have told me it promises immortality. And thus, I can heighten my beauty to forever." the girl preened. "I need only to find some duke or count to please me for awhile until I find some richer man to be seduced when I tire of the prior man's company."
"That is the definition of a leech, Miss Lydia."
For a moment, the girl looked annoyed, but then, she simply smirked.
"True enough. You have promised to do the ceremony, Jacques. I will seal myself inside of a...a..."
She faltered. 'Jacques' took over.
"...child's play toy? Yes, my dear girl. You must win a heart after yours is taken from you. With so many men-" here, his voice became rather sour. "You will have no trouble whatsoever of earning callous affections, but you must earn the love and adoration of a young girl before you will be free to ride eternity as a living, human doll. After all," the voice said, breaking the quiet alongside the snapping and crackling of the flames. "Young girls and dolls go hand in hand, right?"
Lydia just frowned. "Cynthia never liked dolls. She preferred stuffed animals."
"She was an animal herself. She very well must have related."
As Lydia laughed, she sighed, then stood up, stretching absentmindedly.
"I have the thread," she commented, glancing down at the spool and needle in her hands. "I'm ready whenever you are, Jacques."
A deep sigh.
"I knew you could not be deterred, and yet I still hoped...ah, well. You will be have to endure one hundred years alone in the Falsetto before a child will be locked inside you-by her own hand."
"How do you know?"
Master Splinter thought he heard another, rather twisted smile.
"I have taken...steps, to procure it, as it were. Upon your arrival, you must wait. Even when the child arrives...wait just awhile longer. You need no fear of starvation or age-everything is arranged. I suppose you will become lonely, however."
"I doubt that. I have no fear of such petty nonsense when I am supplied with anything I could ever need. My cup will always be full, according to you."
"But you will have no company."
"I will have plenty when I get my hands on that wretch's heart. Do I remove it, or...?"
"Not like that. She must GIVE her heart to you, rather like you are given yours to me. My advice is this: Make her happy. I have left plenty of books explaining what to do in the library, though I realize that you are hardly fond of reading. You will have something to do throughout the years; to configurate with spell and magickery as you will, little witch. Once you have the child, give her what you know she wants most, and cement it to her. Summon it from the true world, if you must."
A pause.
"If the girl wants a best friend, snatch a candidate after you find a worthy one with the spyglass receptor I left you. Use what I have taught you to wrap the child or animal or other wretched whatnot to the girl."
"What if I cannot bribe a brat to love her?"
Silence. A deep, resounding sigh from the cave.
"You cannot 'make' someone love anybody, my dear Lydia. That is the way of things. But I have learned this: When you love someone, you must never, ever let them out of your grasp. Bind them. Chain them. Let them cry out if they will-else, they will leave you. And you are the fool upon the slope, who holds nothing."
Intense bitterness entered his voice. Splinter pressed a hand over his mouth as he continued to listen.
Such idiocy. Jacques obviously had been left with an intense array of warped 'affection' in his own twisted heart. What else could it be?
Lydia was nodding, looking bored.
"Yes, yes, I understand. Once I'm done with the child, I can leave her with her new dresses or pets or whatnot. Then, I can cross over to the living world?"
"That you may. I will miss you, you know," Jacques said quickly.
Lydia only started, looking surprised, before a light frown came to her face. If anything, the murderer looked disconcerted.
"...thank you. Now..."
Her voice edged into a purr as she stepped forwards, eyes gleaming.
"...let us begin, shall we?"
"...yes. That we shall."
Splinter ducked under a tree bough, scowling as he stared directly into the mouth of the cave, nails digging into his fists.
Why was he seeing such things? What could it possibly mean? At best, Jacques seemed to be offering Lydia...immortality. But that was impossible! Wasn't it?
...wasn't it?
A pair of yellow eyes flashed at the shaking rat from the darkness; a scream-and darkness once again.
Splinter rubbed at his eyes with the back of his fist before he jumping up once again, surrounded by wave after endless wave of...
Mirrors? he thought, lost in bemusement for a moment as he hesitantly stepped forwards to the sea of glass.
One by one, large, small, cut in every intricate or hulking frame one could imagine, there they all were, perfectly omnipresent. Unnerved, Splinter stepped into a row-and seven thousand Hamato Splinters did the same, each obeying the slightest twitch of a whisker from the original.
This place had no beginning; and no end. They littered the darkness, but for some reason or another, the rat could see his reflection perfectly, even without the aid of his excellent vision. Light was coming from somewhere; but not from the mirrors. Where from, then?
Splinter halted, then turned to look directly at the mirrors. His own troubled, confused expression stared back at him, from thousands of mirrors, compact to ridiculously ornate.
At last, the rat stretched a hand out, and brushed the cool glass of a certain mirror with his palm; and a scream broke the silence.
Splinter jumped, breathing ragged, voice quite caught in his chest, as every image the mirrors of had of Splinter immediately turned onyx. But he paid no mind as he hurriedly looked around, attempting to locate the source of a scream that sounded as if it had come from every direction.
At last, his eyes alighted to a small speck of light, somewhere in the distance.
And what he saw made him nearly keel over with dread.
There was one mirror still visible; still clean and simple, and not corrupted. But what was struggling inside of it was far from simple, and far from assuring.
There, in the glass, only half of his body present, was Raphael. But it wasn't Raphael at all!
A startled gasp escaped from Splinter as he stepped forwards, mind blank.
It made no sense. Raphael was sixteen years of age, just like his brothers.
So how in the world was a six year old turtle currently clawing at the unseen ground below him, terror in his eyes?
Raph at last noticed that Splinter was staring at him, mouth open. The turtle swallowed, and then let out a soft cry of alarm as hands began to tug at the startled chibi, pale, skeletal hands-were fighting to drag the terrified child back into the mirror's depths.
"SPLINTA!" The red-clad turtle shouted, sounding close to hysterics as Splinter sprinted forwards. "I-mmph-gghhmmppp!"
A hand plastered itself over his mouth; Raph fought tooth and nail to remove it, seizing the offending hand by the wrist, successfully yanking it back from his jaw, even as he desperately fought for freedom.
"SPLINTA!" he screamed."MASTER SPLINTA! HELP ME! PLEASE!"
Raphael had not sounded so...vulnerable, so young, in such a long time. Splinter broke into a canter, but, to his astonishment and rapidly growing trepidation-
He could not get any closer! Splinter frantically doubled his efforts.
Why, oh why, could the rat not run fast enough? His son needed him, his son was going to die otherwise-!
The little Raphael cried out, his arms extended-
Bad idea. The hands took advantage of this, and each one seized the frantically wriggling turtle, and began to drag him back into the glowing abyss of the mirror. Raph screamed again.
"I DON'T WANNA GO BACK! PLEASE! NO! SPLINTER! SPLINTER! DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-!"
He choked off. A hand seized him by the throat, another by the hand. And, just as Splinter was but feet away, Raph was dragged back inside, tears still running down his face.
The mirror too, went black.
Cold, numb, and shaking, Splinter came to an abrupt halt, chest heaving, stitches littering his chest, and a sickening sense of nausea overwhelming him. With a panicked gasp, the rat dashed over to the guilty mirror frame, and began to smash into it with as much vigor as he could muster, ignoring the pain his knuckles were omitting as he did so.
"Raphael! My son!"
Horrified, terrified, he shook at the frame, adrenaline pounding itself into his body, even as he pounded the frame, beginning to bleed ever so slightly.
"RAPHAEL!"
"It's no use."
At the unexpected voice, and having not sensed a presence, Splinter whipped around to face a small, violet clad turtle staring dully at him, as if he and his father were strangers in an elevator.
His body had shrunk...just like Raphael's.
Splinter staggered up, chest heaving as he made to grasp the turtle's shoulders, who only continued to stare at him unemotionally.
"Donatello! D-Donatello, what...what has happened to you and your-?"
He shook it off.
"Never mind that right now-my son, someone, something has Raphael!"
Don did not look remotely disturbed about his brother's kidnapping. If anything, the turtle looked rather bored. But Splinter was now fighting his parental urge to full-out panic, and was hurrying on-
"Where are your brothers? Have they...become small, as well? Where are they? Why won't you speak, my son? Those creatures...do they have the-"
A spark of gold had caught Splinter's eyes, so brilliant that the rat had to use a palm to cover his brilliant dark eyes. He peered out from behind them-
And gasped once again, hands releasing Don's cold body as if the turtle would burn him.
Don's face curled into a smile; but it looked crooked, as if it'd been sewn on by a careless craftsman. His eyes were unfocused, and he looked...
...sick.
Something brilliant was flashing in his eyes, gleaming exponentially, like a small shard of glass. The turtle stepped forwards, eyes still caught in pain, but the twisted smile on his face, even while his limbs buckled and trembled beneath him.
At last, Don spoke, voice extremely shaky:
"Start from the beginning."
And Splinter woke up gasping, flesh underneath fur broken into a cold sweat.
Splinter's shaking hand poured the hot tea into the small cup, stream of boiling liquid trembling slightly. Shaking his head, Splinter grasped his trembling arm to steady it, then lowered the small teapot to the floor beside him as he took a small sip of tea. Feeling his muscles relax slightly, the rat took another sip, taking care not to burn himself.
That dream...he had not had one so disturbing in such a long time. Splinter lowered his mug, and fondled the warm clay beneath his fingertips.
That behemoth playing with a doll...that girl's execution of her cousin, and her willingness to become...some sort of heartless creature, more of one then she already was, gaunt eyes, a young Raphael being snatched away, a cursed Donatello that seemed barely conscious...
Eyes. Dolls. Mirror. Shard. Dark.
What did it mean? His temple throbbing, brow furrowed, Splinter got up with a sigh.
It was foolish, but he needed to see them, now. His sons were undoubtedly safe in their beds, but an urge twitching in his stomach was telling him otherwise. He needed to fetch an aspirin from the cabinet, anyway. It would only be counterproductive.
So thinking, Splinter left the room, not knowing that it would be the last he would be seeing it for a long, long time.
