"Ah! how they still strove through that infinite blueness to seek out the thing that might destroy them!"

― Herman Melville, Moby Dick

It was almost noon when the Princess and her Doll entered the morning court, two sets of uniform footfalls dropping in tandem side by side. Their fingers were laced, and their smiles parallel. It was a sight to behold, because if one were to squint they could find themselves struggling to identify the monarch from her toy; one's hair was whiter, and the other's clothes redder, but these differences seemed so trivial when compared to the pair they made on that late morning. 

This was to be a court day like no other, an immutable fact heavily foreshadowed by its lack of peasantry below. Had they been sent home on account of the acting ruler's late arrival? No, they had simply never been invited inside. Doll clutched its partner's hand in tight, clammy grip as it made slow, cautious steps towards the centre of the room. A month had passed since the last court was held, and Doll made sure to make itself and the Princess as sickly gulls in face of their heralded expiration. No assassin came in the night, nor the thirty that followed, but Doll knew all too well that it could not keep its lovely Princess hidden away forever. A bird is meant to fly. 

And so, it stared down the faces of the men that would seek to end its world. They were more patient than the Doll had anticipated, or they knew they simply had no other choice but to bide their time. Princess was as untouchable as she had claimed, perhaps she really could sniff out killing intent. But if that was the case, why did she not smell the dagger at her back one lunar cycle before?

The Princess had taken to the tincture a little too well, and soon found herself lost in its blue horizon. There was ivory in her flowing blonde hair, and a dull simplicity in her gaze that Doll could only perceive as brilliant in spite of its lacking lustre. Doll knew it had to do the talking, the Princess was in no state to explain much of anything while so thoroughly taken by that intoxicating high. A Doll's high. 

Paying the men that violated the sanctity of its space no heed despite the danger they presented, Doll calmly led Princess to the cushion it would usually kneel on and instructed the drugged blonde to kneel. It was akin to commanding a dog to sit, and Princess was perfectly amicable to the command when ushered by her mother. Knees found their place atop the pillow's softness and the girl sank down with a sigh, quickly remembering to fix her smile as the Doll had taught her. A Doll's smile. 

Doll sat itself upon the armrest of the throne―that was not a throne―and stroked loving fingers through its daughter's hair. Then, it spoke. "I've spent the past month shaving down this one's rough edges, simplifying, and pacifying, the one you refer to in hushed tones as 'Mad Princess'. See? She's completely harmless now." Doll spoke in an almost commanding monotone, its confidence that of an object addressing people, simply able to speak matter-of-factly as it relayed the information to them. With a glint of pride in its heavily dilated eyes, the Doll lifted up one of Princess's wrists and presented to the men of the room her previously sharp nails―filed down to flat curve. It was an innocuous detail, but it spoke to the greater implication being made. More than the presentation of the nails, Doll was showing how easily it could manipulate its Princess, like she too was now little more than a doll. It was fated to be, given that Doll had no other option in saving its reason to filter that rancid city air through its lungs. It was a Princess's destiny; a Doll's fate. 

"You've no reason to threaten her life. I will take on the responsibility of caring for my dear one from now on, I am quite sure the resource expenditure will be negligible in a trading hub like the cove, and she is still royalty. You may call her unfit to inherit the crown and appoint whomever, but allow us to continue... please." The Doll felt silly referring to itself with first person pronouns, but it knew that these men were not liable to understand the truth of its existence, nor its Princess's. 

The stone-faced Piotr removed his hand from the pommel of his sword and turned away, unable to bare witness to the grotesque scene before him. It just so happened that his conspirator, the nameless man with stubby fingers, felt the exact opposite way about these proceedings. The man leered down at the Princess, then turned his gaze to the Doll while beginning a slow, vainglorious clap that echoed through the empty hall. 

"Well done, lass!" The man's clapping picked up speed as he approached, smothering Doll with his unpleasant boozy odour. "Can't believe how well that paid off, you know these freaks far too well Piotr. Still, gotta hand it to you, friend!" The man was celebrating unabashed, turning towards his partner in crime and shaking his head at the way the king's oldest aide did not seem willing to join in on the man's ugly gloating. 

Doll tilted its head, still placating the dopey Princess with fingers gliding through that lightening head of hair. "You seem happy." Remarked the Doll, feeling far more tense than it knew to let on. It could understand relief here, but the celebratory effort was giving it pause. Just what did the man's words to Piotr mean?

"You've no fuckin' idea how cheesed I am, miss freak." The man snorted and reached into his long, tattered brown coat. "Bet you've got no clue just how many men have had the pumpers in their chests crushed by this royal bitch for the crime of trying to give this city a leader with some fuckin' sense. You so much as thought of doing something about her, and she'd be killing you dead from across the capital. Saw it with my own two eyes, two pints deep in the Dogged Bastard. Infantry man, pissed off his head, got riled up by his fellows... said he were gonna off the royal runt. Fell dead where he stood." The man grinned, showing no remorse for the man he spoke of; no, they were simply an ill-fated competitor in the game he had now won. 

"She smelled the killing intent..." Doll spoke slowly, piecing together the theatre production she had unwittingly been cast in.

"Aye, she also killed off the handmaiden we originally tried to have drug her. Guess that was a step too far, but hey at least we didn't get offed too. Lucky..." As the man spoke, colour drained from Doll's face. It had been played for a fool, and they wanted it to know. "So, what if we had you try to 'save' her instead? It was Piotr's suggestion, I didn't have the foggiest idea what it meant but... eh, I guess I shouldn't question the person who's known our dear little monarch the longest!"

"You... you tricked me?" The royal Doll felt confused, and oh so very conflicted. Even if it had been led by deceit into pacifying the Princess, was this outcome not still beneficial to them both? No, if they're telling it all of this now, it knew it did not have their gratitude for the act; it had been defeated, and its neck kissed the chopping block already. 

The man did not need to nod, because Doll already knew. It was no wonder Princess did not sense their plot to kill her, they had betted on the Doll's twisted loyalty and desperation from the very start. Now that Princess no longer occupied the game board, all that was left... was tying up all loose ends. 

Steel glinted in the flickering light and Doll stared at the unsheathed dagger pulled from its would-be killer's coat. Fear stirred, shamefully so, as the Doll considered that it was marked for death. Dying meant being taken away from its Princess, its daughter. The poor girl had already lost one mother too soon, and too suddenly, so Doll could not bear the thought of her going through the same thing again. The tincture made it selfless like that, because it was still impossible to perceive itself as anything but an extension of its owner.

Piotr did not turn to look, as the man he had invited to disgrace this royal court took slow steps forwards and seized the Doll's hair for the second month in a row. He did not require the Doll anymore, and one look at the Princess told him she was not simply pretending to dissociate as the Doll had been. Princess could not be considered conscious, which made it all the more impressive that―when dagger raised, and Doll gasped sharply in anticipation of its end―the blade was halted by searing pain in the aggressor's nerves. 

Both turned towards the Princess with a look of shock, her own expression still perfectly serene despite the pain that should have been arresting her. A single bead of sweat ran down her pristine forehead as the hall echoed with he sound of clattering metal, and the previously smug assassin clutched his chest in agony. "P-Piotr... you said..." Croaked the man, who now stumbled back with face slowly turning a deep, obscene purple shade. Doll clambered away, falling back onto the chair that was starting to feel more like a throne by the minute. Princess was not in the room, mentally speaking, but she was yet acting as her Doll's guardian angel. They would save each other, again and again, until all the men that wished to end them laid in shallow graves.

Two perfectly uniform Doll smiles found themselves in sync once again, and the man's heart exploded in his chest.

At long last did Piotr turn to face the Dolls, assessing them with the caution they were now once again due. Doll could see the gears turning in his head, behind stern eyes that could no longer hide uncertainty. Before he could open his mouth to correct course, the Doll felt emboldened to lead the conversation instead. It had been feeling more and more human again, since becoming a mother, and it was infuriated with these petty fellows. 

"Would you like to point your blade at this one too, sir knight? Does it not incense you to see a nameless Doll tarnish this vaunted chair you spend your life protecting the occupant of?" Doll's smile was, perhaps, crueller than usual. It knew that Piotr's motivation was likely not too far from its own, but it lusted for revenge regardless. It wanted to watch the man die, having developed a new taste for the good showing in the minute prior. 

In a gruff, serious voice, the man spoke―sounding just as weary as he appeared. "Where do you see this ending, girl?" 

Doll rested its elbow on the armrest and smiled down at its Princess affectionately, the blonde still kneeling with a hearty string of drool hanging from her lip. How she could protect anybody in that state was impossible to comprehend, but a threat to her Dollmother was far too great to ignore even from the world of reverie she'd spent the month drifting in. 

"Hmm... I can see myself taking that dagger from the ground there." Doll crossed its legs, planting one foot atop the dead assassin's head as it locked black marble stare onto Piotr's own captive gaze. "Taking a stroll up the palace steps... and slipping into the king's own chambers."

"You..." The man muttered angrily, despite his stoicism he was as simple as they came. 

"Any guards who draw their steel on me will suffer heart attacks, and die, allowing me to walk right on in and slit the oaf's throat. I'd be putting him out of his misery, of course... but maybe I'd make it slow just to punish him for leaving my lovely Princess all by herself. Without a parent, well, until me." Doll's smile was beaming, a perfect contrast to those gritted teeth that met it. Piotr was no fool, he knew better than to be goaded, but he was also out of his wits after all that was happening around him. The carefully contained madness in the palace had begun to unravel, and the veteran knight was at last unnerved. 

"Listen to me now, girl―"

"You are not my aide, sir knight, and I did not make any request for your counsel. This Doll means what it says, it will go upstairs right now and put an end to the dying seagull you call a regent. It will be an act of regicide, yes, but would it really mean killing the Princess's father?" Doll ground her heel down on the dead man's head, eyes narrowing as its smile only grew more combative. 

"What?" Piotr's hand fell onto the pommel of his sword again, despite him knowing the fire that he played with in such a simple motion. 

"It only occurred to this Doll recently, after making its beautiful darling daughter take proper rest and eat all of the meals carried up to her chambers. With that ill pallor removed... her adorable puppy fat restored..." Doll gestured to the Princess, who―despite the whitening hair and the emptiness in her smile―appeared more healthy than the Doll had ever known her to. "This one can see some resemblance! You would stay up with her as a little girl, in her room... and it really does make one wonder what your relationship to The Queen might've looked like..."

By this point, Piotr looked more than ready to kill. But even so, he was a sensible man, and he knew he was being goaded. The hand resting on his sword's pommel squeezed it tight as he stared upon a nameless Doll with useless hate. All the Doll needed to do now, was cross one more line. 

"The king had no other heirs, yes? I'd bet he was impotent, though none could dare to tell him. And yet, a miraculous pregnancy... aha... you dog."

...

"Do you think that might've been what killed her, perhaps? The once dignified, respected queen, fallen ill from the shame and guilt of fucking her husband's oldest friend behind the poor man's back?"

...

"Did you kill her, Piotr, with your restless cock?"

... 

"Did you forsake your loyalty for pleasure, sir knight, and turn my pretty girl's former mother into a cheap, discarded whore?"

. . .

The man could see reason in his inaction no longer, self preservation losing the war against the catharsis he sought in watching this errant-mouthed Doll be hacked into silence by his blade. 

He did not even get the chance to draw his blade fully before he, too, fell dead before them. It was anticlimactic, and it made the Doll blush a deeper crimson colour than the Princess's poor cosplay. 

Piotr died to rumours, and the Doll truly doubted that they even held water. 

"It's going to be alright now, little one." Doll smiled and relaxed back into the pseudo-throne, their throne, its supposedly inhuman lips curling at the thought they'd soon sit upon the real one. Fingers settled themselves in the kneeling blonde's hair, and the Princess tilted her head up with a face full of empty adoration for her mama. "I'm so proud of you." The Doll misspoke.

Princess lit up at the praise, glittering, dilated gaze begging for more of her Dollmother's attention. At the same time, Doll was considering their options. It had to make the decisions now, knowing it would always receive its owner's permission to proceed with the choices it made. Unbefitting responsibility for a Doll, perhaps, but they could only trust each other. In light of that, nobody else in the damned Cove could be trusted with the weight of an entire kingdom, better a pair of Dolls than a rabble of rats. Yes... they could rule. Why not? After all, who was there to stop them?

Even the staff could not be trusted, not after the close calls they've seen already letting their royal palace play host to such vulgar interlopers. Their new home would need rules...

No men.

No rats.

No humans.

Nine Months Later

The doctor from overseas, often referred to by the simple moniker of 'medicine woman', steps with a clack of thick-heeled boots into the palace's throne room. The woman has been called upon for a private audience with the Queen Regent, but she's no fool to what that really means―nor does she see the privacy of such an audience with the several curious onlookers whispering to themselves as she walks on by. The white haired Dolls are not regarded as people here, elevated from such a title by the tincture that corrects them. They're as pretty as they are identical, more or less, the medicine woman wondering if she has been called upon to tend to their cosmetic surgeries to make them truly indistinguishable. If only it were something so easy, but no, she has already deduced what this particular address will be in reference to. The number of guards that had to usher her inside past the capital cove's unruly masses was astounding, and frightfully concerning. 

"Ah, there you are." Speaks the Dollmother, with the serenity and grace of one not presently endangered. It sits upon the throne, the real deal, with Queen Regent curled up in its lap all docile and mindless. Decorating the topless Doll's breast is a coating of cerulean, a variant of tincture the medicine woman showed it how to make that is thick enough to paint onto skin. Princess sucks, and slurps, greedily on her mother's tincture-stained bosom without a single care in the world. She is pure, unburdened, not a thought in her head save for how safe and loved she feels in the other's warm lap. It is Doll's gift to its darling girl, one that has become threatened over the past couple months of their decaying rule. 

The cove is collapsing, and soon the capital will see fire. Princess is too addled to rule with the fear of her power in any meaningful sense, and the people have grown more and more restless in the face of its failing monarchy. It's just that the Princess, and her Doll, are dreamers―they exist outside of the bounds of reality, the tincture rips you from the world everyone else yet occupies and so you tend not to prioritise what you've left behind. No amount of advisors can correct that level of indifference, and the kingdom's thread has begun to fray. 

"Here I am. How may I be of service to you both?" The doctor adjusts the long mask she finds digging into her face, and stares up unflinchingly at the sight that made the rest of the palace staff, still loyal to the old regent, avert their gaze from shame. This woman cares not for loyalty, nor sanity, but for her own designs. Namely, her experimentation with exotic substances which fuels both academic curiosity and, perhaps more simply, her amusement. Care for her own coffers comes squarely third, but it is by no means irrelevant to her drive. 

Doll clicks its tongue and cocks its head stiffly, petting the sweet girl that latches to its chest so peacefully with her face smeared in obliterating blue. "We are one, as you can plainly see. Everything that makes this Doll was put there by the Queen Regent, so it is her reflected rule that you bare witness to! One sure to end very soon, sooner still should this audience proceed smoothly."

Medicine woman smirks impolitely, digging hands into her pockets to find her own destructive vice; hers is a powder, as white as the heads surrounding her. Taking a moment to rub the medicine onto her gums so that she may better focus, the woman does not show consideration nor apologise for making the twinning regents wait. After a minute or so of applying the ivory powder, the doctor from across the ocean rubs her gloved hands together decisively.

"You're to flee the capital, yes? And go where, I wonder... no, no, that isn't for me to know. I care not, though I'm curious enough to ask if you mean to take these fledgling Dolls of yours along with you? Former maidservants broken down by tincture... I could sell them for a small fortune, to the right buyers." 

Dollmother assesses its flock with a wry smirk, the incomplete Dolls looking around skittishly and settling their gazes on the newcomer who speaks in such pretty cursive voice. "The daughters are not for sale, but for what is being asked of you... that offer you make this one last we spoke... the palace coffers would be carte blanche. A small amount has already been withdrawn and saddled, for trading with merchants."

"So, you really are prisoners in your own home? Either The Queen Regents passive state has leaked to the masses, or they're simply too desperate to concern themselves with her unique threat anymore. It's a marvel you're not already under coup." The medicine woman laughs, though she does at the very least find herself respecting the Doll regent's self-awareness in knowing there's no salvaging this rule. Sit a pair of drug addicted Dolls upon the throne and the state deteriorates even quicker than it had under the pretence of a king. It cannot be understated how much bureaucracy the man named Piotr had been carrying on his shoulders. 

"Another thing. The Princess... I mean, The Queen... will she ever become more stable, like this Doll? I... it does so miss conversating with her, one sided as such talks often were." The Doll brushes back its daughter's white hair and plants a kiss onto the pretty creature's neck, seeing nothing but the eyes of an animal flick up to address it. Princess beams, still lapping up the blue coating mother's breast. 

"You did not mix the tincture very carefully when you prepared her doses, did you? I assessed her last time and my judgement has not changed. She'll only get worse, if anything. My advice would be to ease her off her current doses, but slowly, or she'll shut down entirely. It's not a guarantee you'll see meaningful improvement to bodily and mental autonomy, but it'll stop her state worsening. Can she walk, at least?" The medicine woman speaks with an indifference that cuts into the Doll who cares for its owner more than the doctor before it could care for anything. 

"Just barely, but this one would not dream of having her do so without it by her side. Again... we're one whole, so―"

"Yes yes, I quite understand. I've affairs to attend back home, so if we're doing this you must be ready tonight. You and all the possessions you intend to leave with, which does include these pretty little daughter Dolls you've curated. Quite the collection for a self-proclaimed thing that should want for naught, hm?" The doctor taunts, as she is wont to doing. 

Doll smiles, unbothered by insinuation. "It shares her capacity for want too, in particular her yearning for a family. Perhaps the next time your path crosses ours, we'll be a hundred family members strong."

"Hah... not likely, Doll. By the time I'm liable to set foot in this volatile country again, your family will have long run out of my tincture―and you'll have all clawed out your own throats, or one another's, in withdrawal."

...

There is no response to be given, because Doll knows the medicine woman speaks true. It understands that their days of endless dreaming are numbered, but then, nothing lasts forever. 

"Tonight, then." Remarks the Doll, wiping its messy Queen Regent's face with a gold lace handkerchief and drinking in the sparkling eyes that return gratitude for the care. 

The medicine woman nods, casually beckoning one of the newer Dolls over to fix the laces on her boots. 

Tonight, they leave this palace, and the cove it rests in, behind.

Tonight

"Did you see that, Princess?" Doll hugs the precious woman close to it, the affection it feels towards its special girl having lessened none after months of caring for her. The Doll's chosen daughter is no longer Queen Regent, nor even a princess, but the name simply sticks all the same. She'll always be Princess to the Doll. "The gas really worked... knocked them all out in droves even better than the stench could! Ah, how this one has missed the country air." 

Princess nuzzles into her Doll indulgently as she's held steady against her property in their slow gallop. Arms are wrapped tight around her, while the other white haired Dolls find themselves carried on horseback alongside the pair. None of them are competent, nor lucid enough, to ride these horses themselves, but their hired helpers are willing to turn a blind eye for the right coin. Where they venture to is another story entirely, Doll having chosen a destination that would keep them secluded from civilisation rather than have them reintegrate into a new one. Dolls like these can no longer last in the cities, even laying low they would no doubt fall prey to all manner of debauchery. 

Doll could only think of one place, a vague recollection of ruin, and a path rife with trade outside the fallen keep itself. 

It is somewhere that Princess has been once before, and the castle her precious Doll was born in. 

"T-Tin...ture..." Princess mumbles needily, throwing her head back into Dollmother's chest and giving the property pleading, puppy dog eyes. Her lips are faintly stained in the colour of that blue salvation, and when she smiles they take on the appearance of a crescent moon reflected on a lake as still as her soul. It's beautiful, even if it comes from little more than chemical dependence and escapist fantasy. 

The horses gallop on, growing ever closer to their destination, and under the night's watchful gaze Doll produces the flask of readily mixed tincture it had prepared for this eventuality. Its darling girl is a needy little thing, loving the taste of baby blue annihilation on her lips almost as much as her beloved mother. Doll knows all too well that attempting to make its charge drink while hurtling on horseback would be a recipe for disaster―and a terrible waste of their remaining tincture―and so finds itself glad for the fact it planned ahead. Oozing out of pewter flask comes the thicker variant of tincture the Doll had been taught how to mix by their mysterious medicine woman, the experienced mother making sure to coat both of its extended digits with its cerulean kindness before carefully screwing the metal container shut. 

Princess's eyes light up like stars when those fingers hover before her face, and Doll can hardly contain its affectionate sigh at the sight of such unadulterated cuteness. "Tincture for you, but you have to promise to behave and be a very good girl for the rest of the ride home. Can you do that for your mama?" 

The white haired royal nods eagerly, knowing that she has to be a very good girl for her Doll if she wants to continue feeling this special. When she misbehaves, acts up―which she's very proud to say has not happened in almost two entire months now―mama is not one to shy from doling out punishment. The Dollmother's admonishments come in many forms, but it learned from its own tardy teacher to ensure that the Princess did not secretly crave, nor enjoy them. One popular method of punishment involves the Doll cutting one side of its hair slightly shorter, while another consists of the Doll coating Princess's own breast in painted on tincture instead, so the poor thing is forced to lick off what it can at such an awkward angle. The latter, admittedly, gives quite a show for their harem of daughters made up of converted palace staff―the prettier ones, anyway. The Princess, and her Doll, are nothing if not vain and materialistic to a fault; sometimes that appears to be all they are, though rare hues of loneliness and deep, irremedial wounds will surface on specific occasions. They are victims, of a kind―the sort that tend to make more marks.

Their disnature, and destruction, are the only ways they know how to prove their existence to the unfeeling blueness that conquers them. 

"Good girl. You may proceed then, make sure to clean off every last speck alright? Be not wasteful, daughter." Doll smiles, feeling anxious for the uncertainty of its new life out in the country, but knowing that it can never feel true fear, nor melancholy, so long as it continues to keep its good girl safe and smiling. And Princess smiles―the same Doll smile as her loyal caregiver plaything, because she just received her favourite thing. 

Permission.

The girl's head cranes forwards and she eagerly takes both of her mother's proffered digits into her mouth, past parting tincture-stained teeth and straight to her greedily stirring tongue. Warm and already salivating, the rousing muscle presses itself flat against medicine-soaked fingers and tastes the eradication of her higher thought. The flavour is nothing, and she'd gladly let it massacre her mind again and again and again for just one more hit.

It is not long at all before the creature Doll still presumes to call Princess finds herself lapping hungrily at the fingers in her mouth, slurping the drug that paints them wantonly and without consideration for the man who steers their steed. He has been paid in enough gold to find himself deaf to the wet smacking noises Princess makes in her enthusiasm for the tincture, and her the caring digits invading her mouth deeper than they surely need to. 

Naturally, the girl slumping back into the safety of her Doll's embrace does not protest when her mother begins to indulge, taking advantage of its docile daughter's drugged-out state to pass the time. There is a ghost of pleasure, dormant in the Dollmother's caged loins, and it possesses its Princess with that lustful spectre one inch at a time. Eventually, Princess begins to gag, and mother knows she's ventured deep enough. Doll digits recede, stroking playfully across that lolling deep blue tongue, and then proceed to push deep enough back inside to receive new, special attention from its daughter. Her eyes flash with understanding, and when they flit nervously to their horseman Doll pinches the fussy girl's tongue hard enough to make her whine into the cold empty surrounding them. Princess settles, cheeks burning a flush crimson to contrast the endless blue that fills her mouth. 

"Can mama play with your mouth a little? You're due a reward for sitting still and being good, after all." They're both bound by different contracts, seeking permission in an ouroboros of dominance and submission. A spiral, that never stops unravelling.

Princess grows meek, and adorably docile, as she nods into the lecherous Dollfingers still sitting on her tongue. 

Permission.

The Doll pulls Princess back against its chest, the happy thing's favourite place in the entire world, and starts pumping its fingers back and forth inside that pliant mouth. Princess salivates heavily around her mother's invading digits, loving the way tincture yet lingers on the property's warming skin. It is an indecent scene of thrusting and sloshing, streaks of drool escaping down onto the precious girl's dress while mother pries in even deeper than it had before, violating its happy victim. Naturally, Princess loses herself to this steady rhythm, pushing herself into the fingers like the whore she can be made into so easily. All it takes is a little affection, and the lust envelops her as strongly as the medicine woman's gas had incapacitated the riotous vermin at their gates. 

Dollmother tilts its daughter's head up and the girl swallows, staring up in awe at the thing entertaining itself with her willing body. It's all so perfect, and it's going to end soon. 

"You're precious, hehe... this one looks forwards to its new life with you away from all that noise. There are rats in the Báncourte estate too, but last it checked they were far less overgrown!" Doll laughs, like a girl. "Its memories of the place are so very spotty, it was good for Doll when you took away its family's faces. Still, it hopes that the two of us... and the other Dolls... can make something of a life together in the old keep. Nobody should come looking for us there." Doll strokes Princess's cheek softly, and the placated royal smiles innocently at the object that might as well be her twin. Their obsession is a two way street, and they save one another just as much as they destroy each other. 

"Mrrgh... I l-luhf... you." The Princess finds it difficult to make the words, her mouth is made for taking mama's fingers now more so than it is fit for speech, but it speaks anyway―through deep blue stains. "Hah... ppy." 

Doll blushes, and quickly finds its rosy cheeks flooded with tears at the warming sentiment shared by its object of worship. "Doll loves you too, Princess! More than it could ever hope to convey with its trite words... what are words against a face like yours, hm?" It grins, cupping the girl's chin and pulling her into quick kiss that lingers for an age. 

When their lips break apart, Doll lifts its head and catches sight of its family ruin at long last. It dreams of a life it cannot hope for, and clutches Princess's hand in a sort of prayer. 

"Is that smoke?" The slow-witted Dollmother asks, too fucked on tincture to consider what such a thing could mean until they're already dangerously near. The Báncourte family house might've fallen, but there will always be rats to run the keep that was left behind.

Arrows strike the horses before anybody can even catch sight of the archers, and Doll finds its world turned unceremoniously onto its side. 

It was not a soft impact into the packed soil below them, the corners of Doll's vision beginning to grow black as consciousness fades. All the while, the protective mother makes sure to keep Princess clutched close to its chest. At least she had a soft landing. 

...

Lights out, Doll.

Cold stone greets the Doll's cheek when it next comes to, the royal treasure blinking away the grogginess yet possessing it and doing well to ignore the dull ache in its side; Princess had done much worse to its ribs in her heyday. The Doll sits up and assesses the strangely nostalgic surroundings, though remarks to itself bitterly that it does not recognise the view from this side. Its memory of this place is so spotty, given that Princess saved it from the burden of its past a long time ago now... but it has no difficulty at all identifying this place as a dungeon. You'd be a fool not to, with cell bars peeking out into dark central corridor, the stone as damp as the bars are rusted. 

Once upon a time, these cells held folks who were not keen to reason―drunkards, mostly, as criminals were not typically given formal trials. Now, the decrepit cavities hold nothing but Dolls; the white haired toys are not rowdy, and their jailors are most certainly not the Báncourtes.

"P-Princess!" Doll scrambles up onto its feet when it finally realises the blanket in its arms is not its daughter. In a sudden, justified panic, the Dollmother scans the cell it occupies to find nothing resembling its precious one, then throws itself against the bars with a fervent howl of frustration. "Princess! Where are you! I-If anyone touches her I'll burn down the entire fucking keep! You hear me? Fucking rats!" The Doll speaks as though it is a person, having gradually reduced its own intake of tincture―in spite of its addiction―to save as much as it could for its dear girl. 

There is no immediate response to the Doll's cries, save for the screaming wind that assaults their ears from the open lancet at the end of the corridor. 

Doll has never felt so incensed in all of its days as living property, kicking the uncaring metal desperately with legs it still struggles to even walk on. Adrenaline fuels it, taking spotlight from the pale blue nightmare that typically fronts the show, and Doll pathetically beats against its cell bars while ruining its face with pretty tears. Grief is a good look on the Doll, at the very least. 

When it has finally expended all of its energy, and sufficiently burnt its throat from bleating, Doll collapses back in exhaustion and begins to smash its head back into the wall until vision blurs. Later still, it slumps in a heap, no tears left to come and no strength left to thrash against fate's cruel constriction. It is sometime during this state of dull, apathetic contemplation that the lock to the dungeon's heavy oaken door begins to rattle. Faintly, Doll listens to the sound of keys being tried before their jailor lifts the heavy plank keeping them from the dank hall ahead.

Heavy boot-steps fall onto stone stairs and Doll counts every single footfall like it's the only hobby left to it. It used to love counting to fill the blank space the tincture pushed into its head; counting Princess's steps, her words, the time she took on any given task. Numeracy is a luxury to those whose days are numbered.

Eventually the footfalls stop. Eleven. Doll's head rests back against the wall in an upward tilt, and its vision has yet to return to focus. There's a figure in front of it, that much is certain, someone imposingly tall and dressed for battle. Funny, who is there to fight in the dying countryside?

"You, girl... what's your name?" The jailor's voice is gruff, but Doll catches enough in the resonance to assume the figure a woman. This placates it some, because it has developed a particular distaste for men. 

"This Doll does not have a name." It states plainly, surprised it even bothered to answer but reminding itself that answering questions gives one more leeway to follow up with their own. "Where is the girl? The Pri―" Doll pauses, realising divulging the royal nature of this woman's high value prisoner could spell trouble. "The pretty one... prettiest. She needs me, okay?" 

After a short pause, the woman addressing Doll from the other side of the bars steps into the light―cast in from the ground-level window above them―and fixes her fierce stare upon the former human. To describe this jailor's appearance as that of a warrior would betray her true nature: A beast, clad in black animal furs and more scars than the Doll has thoughts. 

"Ana?" 

Doll feels its ears burn hot―and its mouth becomes unbearably dry. What did this woman just say? 

"This Doll does not have a n―"

"Think I'd recognise my own damned goddaughter! Poor thing, the hell'd they do to you? Slavers... we'll kill the lot of them on our way to the golden cove." Before Doll can even process what is being relayed to it, the panicked plaything hears the sound of groaning metal and watches distantly as the door to its cell pries open. Newfound strength returns to the Doll when it recognises that slither of freedom in its peripheral vision, the path to Princess clear. Pushing up from the wall with such little strength, the Doll careens forwards and finds itself crashing directly into the strong embrace of the woman pushing closer. 

The Doll's eyes widen as it is held tight against the slab of a woman proclaiming herself its godmother. She holds it the same way it would clutch the Princess: like something precious, that you never want to let slip from your fingers ever again. 

"I-I can't believe you're still alive, it's a damn miracle... even if you've clearly gone to hell and back." What would she know? Life with Princess was... is... Heaven on Earth. "Barely recognised you but ah, I almost damn near pulled you into this world... I... sorry about your parents, kid." The woman pushes Doll back by its shoulders and grips them tight, acting so familiar with the thing that simply tilts its head in response to all this noise. It needs to find Princess soon, or it'll start to break into pieces. "Knew something had happened when they stopped writing, but with the constant battles... those Gremondts and their endless supply of fucking lumber... made more ships than we could sink." Doll closes its eyes, ignoring the rambling ogre gripping it. Think of Princess... none of this is real. Nothing exists but Her. "We returned just a few months ago and came right here to confirm my suspicion. A whole noble house eviscerated by that joke of a royal family, and for what? The gall of them to blame his dealings with us mercs... perfectly fuckin' legitimate we are." The woman is clearly furious, her tightening grip tells the Doll as much, but the ceaseless slurry of words is becoming oh so grating. "I... your body, and your head, were the only ones I could not find for the pyre we sent your family off with. Not a lot of meat was left for the fire but... ah hell, that's not an appropriate thing to say to you. Forgive me, tact got beaten out of me about a decade before you were spat out your mam's cunt. Ahaha... I'm just glad you―"

"Excuse me, ma'am... I... this one does not know who you are. Are you going to continue talking for long?" The Doll can remain politely silent no longer, trying vainly to push the woman aside so that it may find its imprisoned world and feed the poor girl the rest of her tincture.

"You're... that bad, huh? You've my word we'll raze this land to find and burn the ones who did this to you, should we have to. We had to kill the men you were riding with, they put up a fight and well, this ain't a big dungeon. Suppose there's not much point in asking you more questions until you're better. Those drugs you were carrying... had one of my lads try a nail of the stuff and it put him out on his back. We scorched the lot, so you don't have to worry anymore. Well, heh... you're gonna feel like death for a while if it's like most of the hard shit. I went through my own phase, kid, you'll be fine." Coarse fingers ruffle the Doll's white hair and the smaller of the two opens its mouth in horror. 

"Wh-what?" Doll gasps when the words hit it a second time, and it pictures all of the lovely blue medicine burning up, torched by these vagrants that have them hostage. "I-I-I... no... Princess needs it, or―"

"Princess? Hey, what's going on? Tell me, girl." The woman Doll does not know, despite her claims, desperately lifts its chin with her rough fingers and pleads for the victim she sees to open up to its supposed godmother. All Doll sees is an obstacle―worse, an enemy―and it scowls hatefully at the softened giant. Doll acts swiftly, biting the woman's hand as hard as it can before ducking down into the gap between her and cell door to flee into the dungeon hallway. 

The woman curses under her breath at the throbbing pain in her hand, though no skin had been broken, and makes no attempt to chase after someone she still perceives as family. 

Doll searches every cell in a frenzied sprint from one set of bars to the next, its self-proclaimed godmother stepping out into the hallway and catching the stumbling, weak thing in a single bulky arm as it attempts to pass her. The Doll protests, its heart has never pounded so violently, and it has never felt such vile hatred for anything before. 

"Let go of me! Now!" Its throat is on fire from the way it bellows out the words, Doll pounding both fists against that arm holding it back. 

"Calm down, kid. This 'Princess' you're searching for, she the one with the blue lips? Frightfully pretty thing, we put her in a bed upstairs. Hah... your bed, in fact. I can take you to see her if you promise to quit with the biting, not that it's the first time you've sunk your teeth into me you little shit." Doll's warden grins and slowly loosens her grip, happy to see her goddaughter placated by the promise made. 

"She needs the tincture..." Doll mumbles, digging nails into its side nervously. It hopes dearly that there is some of the medicine woman's miracle left, that they had not truly torched the entire stash, but the pitying glance the woman gives it in response tells it that the worst has indeed come to pass. "J-Just... take me to her... please." A stern nod, and an offered hand. Doll takes it, glancing through the cell bars it passes and looking upon the half finished creations it now leaves behind.

The Dollservants smile, weakly, many of them having overheard the fate of the tincture they're all hooked on. That they do not look on at the Doll in scorn is enough to make the mother feel proud... and simultaneously, deeply ashamed. 

"Princess!" Dolls spills into the childhood room of Anarres Báncourte and practically leaps onto the queen-size bed playing host to Princess. The girl is, or was, sleeping peacefully, and Doll quickly cups its cheek with a hand warm as a hearth. 

Standing by the door is Anarres' godmother, Tavia Durenberg, of the mercenary clan 'The Split Tongues.' Auntie Tav, as she would once have Ana call her in the days when the girl's hair was still brown, decides to give the odd pair she has picked up some privacy―though remains just outside with door lightly ajar, in case her intervention is required. 

The bedridden Princess stirs, lashes flapping as her eyes flutter open in a pretty display that has her Doll mesmerised all over again. Everything makes sense to her, once more, and the Doll peppers its good girl's face with kisses like she doesn't know how to stop. Eventually it does, letting the sound of Princess's subsiding giggles serenade it as it wraps arms tight around her. Doll pulls its dear one's head into its bosom, and Princess lifts her head uncharacteristically to smirk at the dutiful mother. 

"I'm... more lucid tonight." She gives a sly smile that shines like starlight, Doll surprised by the proficiency of speech. Oh, that's right... Princess is falling behind on her doses! But... there's no more tincture. 

"Oh. Th-they burnt it all... the medicine. This one was told you'd shut down if taken off it too suddenly." Doll stares down at the calm creature in its arms through welling tears. It does not wish for their wonderful, horrible dream to finally end. Not just yet.

Princess cannot help but giggle again, feeling so impossibly safe in the arms of the only thing that she could ever fawn over since her mother. "I... I see... you've been a very good Doll for me, the best a wretch like me could ask for." The woman kisses Doll's clavicle, with teeth. 

"Princess, you... you need to tell this one what to do... because it doesn't know anym―"

"Hush now, Doll... my precious Doll... my mama. Can I kiss you properly?" The Doll's closest equivalent to a twin blushes like a mirror, stroking fingers through its curly white hair like she used to all those months ago. She never asked before, though. 

"O-Of course... this one would v-very much like a kiss from its owner." It gives permission, quelling the flow of tears with what little remains of personal strength of will. 

"Ah, ah." Princess clicks her tongue, eyes still shining like they would when fully regressed but her words coming out more composed. She's like a seagull fallen ill, and this time she knows it. "You have to kiss me back this time." The woman indulges in the scent of her Doll, even if it may be somewhat raw in this instance. It belongs only to her. 

"Yes, Princess. I'll obey. You must promise to be a good girl and give it your all too, then." The Doll cocks its head and matches that stained blue arch dutifully, their fingers interlacing between them on the bed.

Chests swell with laboured breaths, and Princess nods excitedly. "I-I promise." 

A moment of tense, lingering pause arrests them both as they perfect each other's smile. Then, slowly, their faces draw nearer. Lips kiss upon lips, eyes fall shut, and hands grip into one another painfully tight. 

"Perhaps in a kinder world, the two of us could have loved one another as equals... of a sort."

How could it ever be Princess's equal, the Doll thinks to itself, tasting an angel's touch inside its mouth.

Hands begin to roam under clothing, touching wherever they feel like without permission.

How could she ever aspire to the perfection of a pretty Doll, thinks the Princess in her sleepy smile.

Tongues lock in ceaseless strife, and constant trades of breath are made. Their hips buckle into one another's possessed fingers while Tavia slowly shuts the door to allow them further discretion. 

It becomes clear that neither one of them means to stop until the other passes out, burning through the tincture like oil while pretending they can each escape the vice grip of those little blue lobotomies that had saved and spoiled them.

The two go at it, at each other, for a little while longer. 

Tavia throws her weight onto the stool beside the fire in her room and tests its ability to remain upright from such a sudden force. Before the dust by the furniture's feet has time to settle, the tower is already reaching for a bottle of whiskey and cracking herself a smile at the thought that she could do with some of that blue poison right now. 

The woman's no stranger to witnessing, and engaging in, acts of sex between women―and not the sweet nor demure kind that men oft fantasise about while they wiggle themselves into shameful, lonesome puddles on their beds. Tavia fucks girls, and she'd have half a mind to shout as much from the castle ramparts were it not well known already... yet, even the disgraced dyke of the Durenburgs had found the scene she just left to be something pitiful and wrong.

Her damned goddaughter had been fucking that bedridden girl, and seemed to be pretending the poor thing was awake.