#Living dead wax person who has preserved so much of herself (and yet....)

[kodasea]

Neither here (nor there)

[nakedfullmonty-fr]

i rememebered i wrote this a month ago and never posted it like i intended to, so have some actual albiet vague lore in the form of one of the letters Temahae sends home to her father Kolya, in another clan

The package is a large wooden box, though it has been wrapped carefully with brown paper and string, and has been marked as fragile in several places. It is in great contrast to the accompanying letter, which is written on fine parchment, in an envelope sealed with wax. The letter's handwriting is elegant, but looks forced in places, much like some of the language used; a handwriting that was learnt, rather than a handwriting that forms naturally. It reads: 

Dearest Father, I hope this letter finds its way to you and mother, and I hope it finds you well. Regrettably, it’s been some time since I last wrote, and for that I can only apologise. I promise that I haven’t forgotten about you, I could never, but in recent times things in Ogygia have been…un-permitting. As it stands right now, I cannot share details on the recent events that I have borne witness to, but perhaps it is for the best. It seems the more I learn about the world, the less I wish to know. There are things out there that are the stuff of myths and legends and children’s cautionary tales alike, that surely should not exist, and yet they do, as if they simply walked right off the pages of whatever dark grimoire they were written into. I pray you do not encounter them. Nowadays I take the legends of the Wendigo Winters more seriously than ever. I suppose, more importantly, an update on myself is in order. I have stories, of things that have happened and the people I have met, that are far too numerous to fit into a mere letter. Over the years, Ogygia has continued to grow and grow at an astonishing pace, and just recently has found itself established as fully recognised city-state (Can you believe? Niet, a Queen, and myself, an illegitimate Princess!). For the most part it’s a pleasant place to live, although admittedly I mingle with the common clanfolk far less than I should, and dragons from all across Sornieth have found themselves drawn to it. As you, and mother, are still alive and recognised as my parents, I am not accepted as a true heir to Ogygia, but quite frankly I’m fine with that. High titles come with high responsibilities, and I am not afraid to admit that true royal life sounds like a complete bore that only serves to draw me away from my books. I have, however, found one particular duty that I will always gladly partake in. Though infrequent due to the small numbers of Ice dragon in Ogygia, occasionally it falls upon me to read the Preservation Recitations for those who partake in such religions even outside of our Flight boundaries. Even though I have not been to the Icefields since my childhood, it still fills me with pride to have the honour of filling such an important role within our culture. On that topic, if luck is on my side, then this letter should come with an accompanying parcel – please treat it carefully, it contains the bones of an Ogygia resident - named Jorlias - who, in the days prior to his death, asked that his bones be cleaned and sent back home to be preserved and buried where they belong; in the Icefields. If you would be so kind as to comply with this request, it would be greatly appreciated. My time in Ogygia has served my magic studies well – if not for my eyes, I doubt I would be distinguishable from the natives. The mixing of cultures within the city, and our various ties with other clans, has permitted that I learn the basics of Light magic, however such magic is so far removed from the Ice and Water magic that I’m familiar with, that I find progress is slow. I think perhaps this brings me to the true subject of this letter. After a great deal of self-reflection, I have come to realise that I have…settled. The Southern Icefields are my birthplace, but after living here for so long I know Ogygia is my home, it is where I belong. This is not new information, what is new to me is the realisation that I lament this fact. I left home with the goal of studying every form of magic Sornieth has to offer, for to do otherwise would be to squander the potential that I was so lucky to have been born with. I reached Ogygia very early on in my life, when I was still a child, and so perhaps stayed initially because I missed the warmth of company and family so far away from my home. For a time this worked for me, because Niet and Yastrebok were more than happy to tutor me in Water’s magic. But I had a plan. I’d always had a plan, even back then, to only spend a few years at most within one territory. To master the magic within and then move to the next, because the world is a big place and to study and master all magic I come across would take a lifetime even then. Except I became complacent, I discarded my plan and stayed because I loved these new people that I’d found, and I was happy. I understand that my existence in Ogygia is part of an allyship pact. I do not know the rules of such pact, but now, as an adult I am sure I am permitted to make my own way in this world. I have decided to move on from Ogygia. In truth, I am unsure of where I will go. The Sea of a Thousand Currents is a very central point, so any journey I undertake will be a lengthy one. Most likely I will travel North towards the Viridian Labyrinth, to study Nature’s magic, a logical next step considering its close ties to the magics of Ice and Water. That said, perhaps now is as good a time as any to take that long overdue trip back to the Icefields. It would be most lovely to be able to see you all in person again, and like I said, I have too many stories to fit into writing. I think perhaps what brought about this change in mind, is that I feel I am no longer happy. 

Midway through the letter, the text changes. A significant portion of the letter is not written in common, and instead switches to the native Ice script of Warden-Tongue. The elaborate handwriting and extensive vocabulary seem to vanish as it continues: 

It is most likely foolish and horribly irresponsible of me to share any of this with you, but you are my family, however distant, and I know I can trust you. In recent years, things in Ogygia have not been going well. The city itself and its citizens are fine for the most part, most are none the wiser, but up top, there are chips in the foundations. As I mentioned previously, I cannot currently share details on the exact events of recent times, but the most important takeaway is this: Lockheed, founding council member and head of Ogygia’s militia, has fallen heroically in battle. Mind you, she is not dead, not yet, but it is inevitable, and most unfortunate. She deserved a swift and painless death, not this. In a last attempt to save those involved, including myself, she reached within herself and tapped into the purest form of magical essence known to dragons – the soul. Such an act is rarely done, and as such there is little known of its effects and even less known on a cure. The major Gods we have reached out to have not responded, and the minor deities say it is something far beyond their power. She will die a hero, will be remembered as one, but this is not a death befitting of a paladin, a defender of good and protector of innocents. It is slow, and it is painful, for her and for us. Nowadays she is a bedridden, her sight is failing, and she sleeps more often than not – a blessing perhaps. When she wakes, she is no longer herself. Every day she loses her grip on her identity a little more. Her husband, Bermuda, does not leave her side, even though she has long forgotten him. Her wife, Magpie, has become bitter and angry, and spends most of her time on the hillside just past the gates of the city, watching only for the return of their daughter, Europa, who is away from home and blissfully unaware. Her other daughter, Io, has been doing her best to keep face as a military general herself, to hide the situation from the public, but the already aggressive flame inside her burns only brighter. It has been a long time since anyone has seen her son, Ganymede. Lockheed was as much an older sister and mentor to me as any other member of the Ogygian counsel, and to pretend that I am unphased by this would be a terrible lie. But it is not my time. I must hold my composure until her passing, because the city relies on its counsel. We must do our best to hold through the passing of one of our members, and the devastating grief of two more. We cannot afford to crumble. As the face of the city, Niet knows this, more than any of us. As her younger sister, figuratively, I can see through her well-practised straight face better than anyone. We have faced many losses through the years, but this is the first time loss has hit so close, and it has rattled her. Unfortunately, this is not the only dilemma she faces, and as things continue to pile up my worry increases. The military has a strong but generally positive presence in Ogygia – We are small, with enemies on all sides, so we value those who defend us. Sooner or later the public must learn of Lockheed’s fate, and without a doubt it will cause unrest among the people. The hints of civil unrest are already taking root in some places. As a primarily Water based society, we are no stranger to prophecies, especially ones pertaining to death and doom, but these are easily dismissed as misinterpretations of visions, or simple scams. But recently, more and more prophets have been making themselves heard, all calling on the same vision – That there is a great beast in a deep slumber, but soon it will awaken and drag Ogygia to its blackened fate. I know not what it means, nor if I believe it, but it is become harder to ignore, and soon people will want answers. Yastrebok, Niet’s mate, has been riddled with similar prophecies for all the years I’ve known him, to add to the mystery. But the people of Ogygia will not turn to him, they will turn to Niet. The people have no faith in Yastrebok – the Absent King, they call him – and for good reason. Yastrebok has always had the awful habit of simply vanishing at times. Years and years ago, it’d only be for a day or so, but as time goes on his trips become longer and more frequent and now he disappears for weeks on end. When he returns he says he remembers nothing of where he goes or what he does. I’ve attempted to use Water magic to scry on him, to find where he goes or to tell if he lies, but every time I find my power blocked, whether it be by him or some external force. It puts a strain on their relationship. Niet mourns the loss in private, but when he returns, they no longer have civil words for one another, they just fight. Mostly verbally, sometimes physically. In the old days, when I was young and they loved each other, when they disagreed they would spar their frustrations away until they were tired, and then they would lie in the golden wheat fields and talk until it was better. Now they just fight for hours and hours, and then go their separate ways without a word. Niet confessed something to me recently, a grave something, that she said she has never spoke a word of to anyone else before. I will not share it, I cannot, but knowing that and then looking at the problems she faces now fills me with dread. I have no doubt that she is strong, but everyone has a limit, and I worry she will reach hers soon. I worry what will happen to her, to the counsel, to the city, when she does. Please forgive me, Father, for unloading this unto you. I know it is not your cross to bear, and most of this means little to you. Now that I think about it, I’m unsure why I felt the need to write it all down to begin with. Perhaps I just needed to share it with someone. Yes, I think I’ve found it a little cathartic, my heart feels just a little lighter now. Previously I shared things like this with my younger sister Ricin, but she feels the stress as much as I do, and her mental health is deteriorating. In all good conscience, I cannot burden her with this. If I can ask you of this, Father, once you have read this letter, and shared it with Mother, I request that you burn it. Or, if you simply must keep it, you ink out the parts pertaining to the inner workings of Ogygia. It is foolish of me to have written it at all, but it would be disastrous if our political weaknesses were made public, even in the Icefields so far away. We are small, now more than ever, and cannot afford more enemies in this state. I trust you to do this, and thank you Father. 

Once more the text changes, and for the last few lines the text reverts once more back to common, and elaborate writing and vernacular return: 

I understand that one clan leader such as yourself would find yourself terribly busy, but if you ever find yourself with but a spare moment, if it is not too much trouble, perhaps you could write back to me? I feel selfish to have written so much about myself – Truly, I would love to know how you and Mother fare back home, and in what endeavours my siblings, Lyudmila, Faris and Tsvetanka find themselves in. And if you could, please tell them that they too are welcome to write to me, or to come and visit any time. As I mentioned previously, if at all possible, I wouldn’t hesitate to return home, under the knowledge that you have the availability of course. I am unsure of when exactly I plan to vacate my home in Ogygia; it will not be an easy feat, and my heart will undoubtedly be heavy, heavier than it’s ever been. However, once the deed is done, and I find myself on the road once more, I’m sure that through various couriers I will find myself able to write and send more letters, for I truly regret my lack of recent contact. Oh, and one more thing, if you could keep this part a secret Father, but I have found that for a Fae, I have grown rather tall, and I will admit I’m somewhat proud of it. It has been so long since I’ve seen you, I would love to keep it as a surprise for Mother. Ever yours, Temahae

[thescuttlebugg]

okay I know I haven’t done anything with Nathaliebug and Theo Noir in a minute (@ssilverstreak has been handling them EXCELLENTLY in Five Minutes and does not need my help, frankly) but today I have been struck by a sudden and powerful urge to revisit The Care And Keeping Of Kitten Noirs. >>

SO ON THAT NOTE: 

The envelope stuck to the outside of Adrien’s highest window pane is thick and durable and sealed with red wax with a ladybug stamped into the center. It is addressed, in dark red ink and very neat penmanship, “to my successor, C/O my kitten”. 

It’s not exactly particle physics figuring out it’s not meant for him. 

Or that someone knows his identity. 

Taking it to Ladybug is a terrible idea. Taking it to Ladybug is almost definitely a trap. 

But--

“LB,” he croaks into his communicator, six blocks over and tucked into a hidden corner of a convenient and easily defendable rooftop. 

“Chat?” She blinks at him from the video screen, expression both concerned and wary. She’s so pretty. He’s so worried. He shows her the front of the envelope. 

And then the back. 

“It was stuck to the outside of my bedroom window,” he says, and watches her eyes widen very briefly, and then narrow very sharply. 

“Where are you?” she asks. 

“My lady, I’m compromised--” 

“Where are you?” 

He tells her. Of course he tells her. He’d tell her anything she wanted him to, just like he doesn’t tell her anything she doesn’t want him to. She shows up red and shining in the dark, bright and beautiful and stronger than anyone else in this city, and takes the envelope from him. He wants to shred it up, Cataclysm it into ash, but he lets her. 

She opens the envelope. There’s a list inside. It’s a long, long list, hand-written in that same very neat penmanship and requiring an unexpected amount of unfolding. 

It has a title, and that title is The Proper Care And Keeping Of Kitten Noirs. 

Chat tries to read over her shoulder; Ladybug presses the letter to her chest and shoots him a look. 

“A: it’s addressed to me,” she says. “B: if it’s freaky akuma magic, it better only get one of us.” 

“But you’re the worst possible one for it to get!” Chat protests. He’s not wrong, obviously, but Ladybug ignores him. It’s her name on the letter. If it’s a trap, it’s a trap for her. 

Chat takes enough hits as it is. 

Except . . . 

Section One, the letter says, Nutrition: Favorite Foods, Kitten; Favorite Foods, Kwami; Ideal Caloric Intake Per Patrol; Emergency Kwami Recharge Options. 

Section Two, the letter says, Emotional Support: Physical Assurance; Verbal Affirmation; Bonding Opportunities; Promises And The Keeping Thereof. 

Section Three, the letter says, Training: Defense; Staff Vs. Sword; Increasing Patience And Focus; Alternate Applications of Cataclysm.

Section Four, the letter says, Emergency Communication: Dead Drops; Burner Phones; Secure Messaging Apps; Kwami. 

Section Five, the letter says, and Ladybug looks up at Chat in disbelief. Every section fills up at least a full page, if not more, and there’s at least another six or seven of them in here. She might ask him if this was a poorly-planned joke, if not for how scared he’d looked when he’d first messaged her; if not for the worry and nervousness on his face now. He looks like she just fed herself to a dinosaur again. 

She flips through the remaining sections. There’s . . . going to be some involved reading. She might need to take notes. 

The last page is a letter. 

My Dear Successor, 

Your kwami’s name is Tikki. Her favorite food is cookies. Every time you’ve doubted yourself, she told you that you were enough. When you cast Miraculous Ladybug, it feels the same way that seeing Chat Noir for the first time did. 

If this information is not enough for you to allow my advice the benefit of the doubt, you can go to the library and look me up in the old newspapers. I was last active nine years ago, and wielded the Ladybug Miraculous for two years prior to that; I spent almost the entirety of this time in Paris. To the best of my knowledge, no other information about my efforts on behalf of the Miraculous were preserved, unless the Guardian recorded something of myself and my partner for personal reference. 

I assume you have discovered by now that you were not the first Ladybug, and I certainly was not either. The earliest I ever saw proof of operated in Egypt at least five thousand years ago, but anecdotal evidence suggests that was not the origin of the Miraculous either, and the kwami, at the very least, are far older than that. There have been very many Ladybugs, as there have been very many Chat Noirs and Kittens, and also very many Moths and Butterflies. We are none of us like the others, except for how very like the others we all are, as Tikki once told me.  

People forget us. It is the nature of the magic, and unavoidable. They forget us, and they let our stories fall out of the telling and forget to preserve them. When a new hero appears some small instinctive part of them accepts that yes, of course it should be this way, but they do not remember why they accept it. 

Therefore, in all of Paris--saving the Guardian--I am the singular person who knows that a previous carrier of the Black Cat Miraculous ever lived and breathed in this city. And I would know that ring anywhere, on any wielder. Your Kitten carries it well, but recklessly, and I have enclosed in this letter all that I have known of both him and his own predecessor in the interest of helping you do what every Ladybug should: protect the partner that would die for them, and make sure that they do NOT. 

In time, Paris and the world will forget your Ladybug and his Chat Noir as well. You could forget too, if you chose to. If it is easier. It is a path you may choose to take. Until such a time as that choice becomes relevant in your life, however, and whether or not you take any of the rest of my advice to heart, my successor, there is one thing I must implore of you: I do not carry a Miraculous any longer. I can neither purify or even fight an akuma, and I cannot fix what is left broken. All I can do is try to keep my own stupid tomcat out of things, and ask that you take the best care you can of your partner--of my kitten. 

If I had more than this to give you, I would. 

Sincerely, Your Predecessor 

Ladybug looks at the letter for a much longer time than it actually takes to read it. Chat Noir squirms with restless worry in front of her the whole time. She wants to soothe him, but she isn’t sure she’s feeling very soothed herself. She does not know who could’ve left this letter. She does not know how much to tell him about the letter. 

She also does not know if a similar letter may turn up on her balcony window one day or even already be there waiting for her to come home from tonight’s patrol, addressed and signed in green ink and sealed with a neon pawprint. Waiting for Chat, and full of section after section about The Care And Keeping Of Baby Bugs. 

“It’s just a letter, Chat,” she says finally, Chat’s ears immediately pricking at the sound of her voice. 

“My bedroom window,” he stresses. Ladybug looks at him again. His mother? Maybe? His father? Or maybe an older sibling, if Miraculous users are usually their age. Someone close enough to him to have seen his ring, and close enough to feel a sense of responsibility for him. She tries to picture some other Ladybug fussing over Chat, but the best she can do is to try to imagine herself nine or ten years older, and “taller with longer pigtails” is about the best she’s got for even that. 

Chat Noir is taller and broader than her. He’s scared a lot, but always brave and always beside her. It takes literal magic--mind-controlling, will-defying magic--to stop him. Nothing else ever has. 

She’s never really thought too much about what an adult might think about him. Does he look small, to an adult? Does he look like he needs taken care of? 

Does he really seem like a “kitten” to her unnamed predecessor? 

Would she think any differently, if ten years from now Manon or one of the neighborhood kids suddenly showed up wearing that ring and started running around Paris with a tail and ears and more loyalty than common sense? 

“It’s okay, kitty,” Ladybug says kindly, folding up the letter. It’s easier to put away, now that she knows how to take it out. “Hey. Have you eaten yet?” 

[aion-rsa]

Doom Patrol Season 2 Ending Explained

https://ift.tt/30ytg7t

The following contains spoilers for Doom Patrol season 2 episode 9.

The COVID-19 crisis has disrupted all of our lives in 2020 as well as the production of some of our favorite shows. The finale of Doom Patrol season 2 is a great example of an unintentional ending presented by the global pandemic which, due to the unexpected work stoppage and missing final episode, has a far bigger cliffhanger than DC or HBO Max were expecting. With all of that said, there’s still plenty to pick apart here, especially as we look forward to a potential season three! 

The End of All Things

This episode begins with Jane lost in the well where Kay’s dead personalities go and ends with Dorothy walking into fire to face the Candlemaker. Those two stories are key here; although we see the Doom Patrol struck down by Dorothy’s imaginary friends, the important journeys are those of the two ever-young women and their fight for freedom. It’s these dual threads that close out the episode that sees the team head to the County Fair to help Dorothy try to beat Candlemaker only to find themselves all waylaid by their own trauma. 

It’s a neat way to throw back to the exploration of childhood and generational trauma that has been so key to this season whilst also introducing a solid threat level. Of course, Jesus, the Cowboy, and the Fashion Doll aren’t really the heroes’ old childhood musings but the works of the Candlemaker, who uses them to lull the crew into a false sense of security before turning them all into wax. With the Doom Patrol indisposed, Dorothy and Jane are left to continue their quests alone, giving us a little more insight into each of the complex characters. 

Over the runtime of “Wax Patrol” we get a yet unseen insight into the life of Miranda and the origin of Jane. A chance encounter at a diner where she works puts Miranda on the road to ruin when she places her trust in the wrong man and ends up putting Kay and the underground at risk. But that same horrific interaction also inspires the creation of a badass, self-advocating, brutally honest primary personality known as Jane. It’s a powerful moment that hints at emancipation and power for Diane Guerrerro’s tortured heroine, as well as hope for the fate of her team. 

For Dorothy, this season has been about a similar search for herself and what that looks like away from her father. With the Candlemaker at full power and her friends in grave danger, the young girl has to make a decision: whether to stay in a coddled faux-childhood forever or to take a step into the unknown and unleash her true power. With a little help from her mother Slava who appears as all looks to be lost, Dorothy decides that she has to break free of Niles’ control and face down the demon who’s been living inside of herself for so long. 

So, What Went Wrong?

Well, on a personal level the biggest tragedy here is that Cliff didn’t go to his daughter’s wedding! Like what the hell??? If he had gone then he would have been able to save the team as he wouldn’t have been turned into wax, but what do I know? On a bigger picture level the issue here seems to be that despite getting to know Dorothy the team never quite seemed to grasp the massive breadth of her powers. Heading to the County Fair with little preparation and even less of a plan left them at the mercy of Candlemaker. The fact that none of them even considered he might be behind the appearance of their imaginary friends seems like a massive lapse in common sense. 

But like every problem in Doom Patrol, this can all be traced directly back to Niles Caulder and his terrible decision making. Dorothy has essentially been her father’s prisoner for over a century, leaving her alone and isolated. Rather than learning how to control her powers or protect herself, she’s been abandoned without defense thanks to Niles’ control issues. 

How Will the Team Survive?

The obvious answer here is Dorothy as the monkey-faced girl has headed into the fires to fight Candlemaker. But there are other options too, namely Danny and his Dannizens. In the comics, the cosmic queer icon often comes to the rescue and now he’s a wheel it feels like he may just be able to appear when needed to save the crew. There’s also a solid chance that the wax the team has been frozen in may have sent them to some kind of alternate mindspace where they may be able to imagine themselves into a better situation and even to freedom. They’ve done it before, why not again? For now, though, their clearest chance lies in the Chief’s daughter and the hope that she will be able to defeat Candlemaker and save her friends. 

Can Cliff be Put Back Together Again? 

While most of the team was frozen in one piece, Cliff was blown to pieces by his old pal Jesus before he got turned to wax. Now seeing as he’s a robot that shouldn’t be a problem, but we know that Niles is currently dying and has bigger things on his mind than his old experiments. This could, however, be a chance for Cliff to get an upgraded suit, which he has been longing for. Maybe we could even see Cliff’s brain in a jar until he finds a new suit, which has happened in the comics. Hopefully whatever happens Cliff’s daughter will forgive him for missing her wedding!! 

What Will Happen to Jane?

Jane is a survivor. That has been clear throughout these two seasons. And Diane Guerrerro has given yet another should-be-award-winning performance. The finale saw an interesting juxtaposition between her past and her future as we learned about her origin, watching her defeat the well and uncover the truth about Miranda. But the question is now that Jane knows that Kay’s primary has been deceiving the underground, how can she explain to the other personalities who already have doubts over her capability?

It might have been a question we got an answer to sooner rather than later if the final episode of the season had been filmed. But as things are now it’s a huge cliffhanger, especially when we begin to consider just who Miranda is and what their true motivations might be. 

Who Was That Posing as Miranda?

This is the biggest question coming out of this episode. For the last couple of chapters of this story we’ve thought that Miranda was back in control of Kay after pushing Jane down the well. We even got to see Miranda’s heartbreaking story which didn’t seem to gel with her fights in the underground and disagreements with Kay’s other protectors. But the truth was revealed at the end as we saw Miranda’s bloated body in the well and Kay questioned who was posing as the woman just as she reached the most important member of the underground. 

There’s a chance that this could be a manifestation of Candlemaker, which could explain why the underground has been trying so hard to suppress Jane. But it could be another threat too, one far closer to home, as with Miranda dead it seems like maybe Daddy has returned, manifested himself into the former primary and used the underground to gain access to Kay. It’s a terrifying prospect that sets up a huge showdown between Jane and the man who made her. 

Will Dorothy be a Savior or a World Killer?

Much of this season has centered around Dorothy’s powers and the quest to control them. In fact, Niles’ fear of his own immortal child and her powers is the reason behind the creation of the Doom Patrol, his quest to live forever altering the lives of Cliff, Rita, and Larry. This makes it really hard for us as viewers to have an objective view on Dorothy’s powers as the Chief is an incredibly unreliable narrator and his fears of Dorothy and her strengths could be more to do with his own self-preservation than any wider ramifications. 

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But we do know that she has immense supernatural capabilities and is about to go to battle with one of the Doom Patrol’s most dangerous comic book foes. How she’ll fare is yet to be seen, but if we look to the comics her chances of survival are good. Also, we need a Doom Patrol season three, which means that we need heroes and right now Dorothy is the crew’s only hope. The fact that Candlemaker has thus far been controlled and captured by nothing but the hero’s brain makes us think that she likely has a good chance of taking him down, especially now that she’s finally embracing her own power and stepping away–literally–from her father’s grasp. 

Will We Get a Season Three?

Despite COVID-19 disrupting production and meaning that this season ended one episode short, fear not. After the critical response and the high viewership numbers on HBO Max it seems pretty likely that Doom Patrol will get a season three. And with DC Fandome coming up so soon it wouldn’t surprise us if the announcement happened around DC’s massive digital convention. 

You can watch Doom Patrol on DC Universe and HBO Max now.

The post Doom Patrol Season 2 Ending Explained appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[sarissophori]

Hither Yonder, Chapter 4

Escape

Winter descended on Dumbria, coating the forests and fields in frost, the first of many before the snows later in the season. Halli was out with the field-hands, chopping and carting firewood for Thargorod as a charity to the people provided by the king. Her wool coat fell over her hands and feet, and her scarf wrapped snuggly around her mouth; a rare comfort, compared to her tunic against the heat of summer. A few stray snowflakes wafted down from the low, graying skies, foretelling a dark, cold night.

      Halli filled her cart and dragged it back to the marketplace, throwing the bundles onto a pile already crowded by the common folk. For reward, the field-hands were given extra rations of bread and allowed their final work hours off, by the king’s order. Halli spent her time with Sador in his house, reading from his personal library. She looked over several books and scrolls meticulously chosen, guiding her hand across the pages. She had become literate only recently, under Sador’s tutelage, and understood most of the Dumbrian script. Yet literacy among work slaves was forbidden by law, so the lessons were carried out in secret, under the promise that she (and Yuta, while she lived) tell no one of their teaching, even a fellow serf.

      Sador glanced down her shoulder at her picks from his shelves, stories of philosophy and spiritual meaning, rewritten from their foreign scripts into Dumbrian, from Ahn, Tarmaril and all lands in between.

      “Interesting choices, my dear.”

      “They occupy me.”

      “That they will” Sador said. “I’ll put some tea on. I feel a cold night coming.”

      He grabbed a fistful of dried leaves from a jar and put it into a bag, synching it, dipping it into a cauldron over the fireplace. The water boiled, making the house smell bittersweet.

      “Sador?”

      “Yes, Halli?”

      “The legends of old, how many are true?”

      Sador stirred the cauldron. “To which in particular are you referring?”

      “The ones about the gods and the westernmost shores” Halli said. “The ones about the Undying Lands beyond the sea.”

      “Well” Sador said. “Those stories were handed down over many centuries by many tellers, each weaving in their own wants, yet I suppose within each is its original kernel of truth.”

      “Including the ones that question the mortal ban against setting foot there?”

      “That has already been tried, if you recall.”

      “With threat of war” Halli said. “What if one went in peace, with good intent?”

      Sador looked sideways at her, pouring fresh tea into a cup.

      “Why ask you this?”

      “Because I want to escape Dumbria, and rescue Yuta from the halls of the dead.”

      Sador slammed his cup on the mantle, turning to her.

      “Hush that talk, and speak no more of it out in the open!”

      Halli gave him a confused, wounded look.

       “What talk?”

      “Of escape!” he said. “Of fleeing your masters, what else? The king’s ears are everywhere, and worse, Avangar’s. Dare not say aloud any such desire again, do you understand?”

       “But dassa, I—”

      “That doesn’t mean ‘I understand’. Say it to me, child!”

      Halli shied away from his sudden intenseness, gazing down at the table.

      “I understand.”

      Sador immediately regretted his outburst, cursing his temper. He poured a second cup of tea and gave it to her.

      “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry, dear, but in my long years here I have seen many friends taken away in the night for uttering those very words, or simply for the suspicion of it. I won’t see that happen to you.”

      “You were right” Halli said. “I’m sorry too, it’s just…I miss Yuta.”

      “So do I, so do I.”

      “I won’t bring it up again.”

      “It’s quite alright” Sador said. “She was your sister, but she is in a better existence now than the one she came from. Mourn her, Halli, but also, be happy for her.”

      “I’ll try to.”

      Sador nodded. “Now drink your tea while it’s still warm. It’s going to be a very cold night.”

 So the winter months waxed, becoming bitterly cold dawn, noon and dusk. With the cattle pinned and oxen sheltered, the field-hand’s duties were reserved mostly to the animal’s warmer comforts, either with blankets or with bonfires. Halli’s chores included cleaning the barns of fresh leavings and restocking the hay, though this was by no means the end of her activities. Aside from her master’s, Halli had plans of her own, quietly formulated in the recent nights, plotted by a waking mind uncomforted by unknowns, spurred by words of philosophy and lore: of the Undying Lands, a paradise on the other side of the world where all souls are said to go, including Yuta’s.

      Was it true? Could one venture across that great eternal ocean to gaze upon its distant shore? Halli shunned sleep to entertain the notion, building on it. She decided to put the legends to the test and retrieve her sister from the halls of the dead.

      Could this be done? Who could say, if none had tried. Halli set her heart on it, though the task of escape wouldn’t be easy. Sentries stood guard over the slave’s quarters at all hours, keen to every trick and method. The barns and beds were periodically inspected while the fields were worked, sometimes at morning, sometimes at noon, seemingly at random. So Halli cooled her rasher tendencies and concluded, before planning any farther, to see how random the inspections truly were.

      Throughout the winter she watched them, into the arrival of spring, and there was a pattern: every sixth or seventh day, averaging a week between. Halli had her timeline for preparation, which she hoped remained reliable, and began rationing her own food; the meat primarily, hiding it in her tunic, preserving it with leftover saltlicks before stashing it in her pillow, waiting to do the same tomorrow. She still went to Sador and read over his books, though she lingered on the maps, studying them, paying attention to the scales of furlongs, miles and leagues, judging the distances and her ability to cross them. It didn’t seem that far on a map, yet the measurements showed otherwise.

      A small voice rose in her thoughts, warning that it couldn’t be done. It was too far, the lands too unknown, the perils too treacherous. Halli sat there and stared blankly at the maps, listening to the rising caution telling her what was plain from the start: this journey would be a fool’s errand. Her intuition demanded she take heed of common sense, and abandon such childish urgings. Yet, as she considered it, Halli looked out to the courtyard, past the keep to the work fields beyond. That would be her life if she stayed, the life of a slave. From this year to her last, old and gray, never to have the freedom she once possessed; to walk where she pleased, to one day marry whom she loved and, maybe, have children of her own. Running was foolish, but staying was a forfeit of her very future; complacency, a far worse thing than foolishness. Halli’s caution was quelled and she again studied the maps, committing as much to memory as possible.

 After five days of rationing food, she deemed herself nearly ready. That proved the easiest procurement, but she couldn’t survive on bits of salted meat alone. Water was an issue that troubled her, until she nerved up to steal one of the small grain pouches used to feed the barn fowl, then after that, sneaking off with a recently discarded goat’s bladder from the butchery. In the night she fashioned a water-skin, using a thong from her sandal as a synch. This was hidden in her pillow with the meat, replacing another handful of feather stuffing.

      Next came health concerns. For bandages, she cut away strips of cloth from her bedding, a strip a day to avoid suspicion, with a pocket knife regretfully stolen from dear old Sador she thought well enough to keep. Her thieveries, however, didn’t go unnoticed. Sador indeed noted the missing knife, thinking it only misplaced at first, until he also noted the missing portions of his herbal remedies, those that soothed wounds, staved hunger and gave energy to the body. Suspicion set in, guessing who else had knowledge of his herbs and where to find them.

      On the sixth evening of Halli’s planning, Sador waited for her timely arrival. She came in good spirits, greeting him. “Hello dassa!”

      “Hello Halli.”

      “How are—?”

      Her cheeriness froze as quickly as her steps. There, on his table, were his pocket knife and herbs, and also the food, bandages and water-skin, all pulled from her pillow as damning, irrefutable evidence.

      “You’ve been busy lately, dear.”

      For the first in a long time, Halli felt a chill creep up her spine. Was she caught?

      “How many know?”

      “None but me, for now” Sador said. “You should be more careful of who you steal from, and where you hide what you steal. It was luck alone that I found you out before any else, luck better than you deserve to be ousted so easily.”

      A cold sweat pricked her back, and her knees shook; not simply fear, but the embarrassment of being confronted, and the shame of it being by someone who trusted her having more sense than this. Tears welled, and she fought them back.

      “Will you tell anyone?”

      “Certainly not” Sador said. “This behavior must stop, or your own carelessness will do it for you. How much more were you going to steal, or have stolen?”

      “No more, I swear” Halli said. “I just need enough to last a few days in the wild, with what I can gather myself.”

      Sador lowered his head, shaking it while muttering. He began pacing, glancing at her as would a disappointed parent.

      “The wild? Then you intend to run away after all?”

      Halli clasped her hands together, keeping silent.

      “Just enough to last you, until what? You either starve, or find yourself returned for the bounty? Such folly! I thought you knew better than this, Halli, only to be proven wrong in the end. What do you have to say for yourself?”

      “I’m sorry” Halli said, her voice breaking. “I don’t want you upset with me.”

      Tears streaked her reddening face. “I have to try. I have to go to the Hitherlands, to the far shores, and bring her back. The gods in their mercy give favor to those of pure intent, do they not? A wish, some say, to those worthy of heart, ban or no.”

      “Those are legends, Halli.”

      “Then why are they written as history? Why did you tell me every story has its kernel of truth, if it isn’t so?”

      “Truth is relative to who tells the story” Sador said.

      “This is my truth!”

      A sudden change came over her as her voice awoke some dormant courage within, still humble, speaking softly.

      “Tell me, dassa, what other choice there is? Yes, running risks capture, or starvation, or thirst, or becoming prey on the plains. Death is in each, but what is the lesser of them? Is it really to stay, working fields that aren’t mine, serving lords who don’t care for me, till I grow haggard and die alone, unmourned?”

      She continued. “The way I see it, both paths lead to death as sure as the other. One maybe is shorter, but gives me chance, and hope, though foolish. I won’t die here, old and weak, despairing the path untaken. Please, Sador, I must do this.”

      Sador stood there, compelled by her words and their emotion. Reading his books had certainly left their impression. His heart betrayed him, being swept by her plea; once, too, when he was many seasons younger, that same conviction had held him. Only his love for his fellow enslaved, the desire to protect them, kept him…and he did feel that pang of an old man’s regret for that path untraveled, that chance not taken. That aged desire was flamed anew after so many winters, though tempered by the foresight of a long life, and a wisdom Halli did not possess.

      “You said your take would be of the land as well as what you carried” he said. “Yet there is no bow on this table, or arrows. That would make for a difficult hunt.”

      “I know not the craft of making one, and dared not steal one” Halli said.

      “No? Well, that won’t do.”

      Sador went to the fireplace and retrieved something wrapped in a bundle. Placing it on the table, he unwrapped a short bow of dark-stained yew bent in an elegant recurve, and a leather quiver of thirty arrows.

      “This shall suffice, I deem.”

      Halli was astonished by his gift. She ran her fingers along the bend before holding it, her eyes wide.

      “How keep you this from them?”

      “It was well hidden” Sador said. “For an opportunity never seized. If you can make better use of it than I, I will happily bequeath it.”

      “To…to me?”

      “Yes, now wrap it up again, hurry.”

      Sador then went into his pantry and removed a few loaves of dried meat, setting them on the table, with a small sack of white tablets. He showed one to Halli. “These are for water, to ensure it may be drunk if the source is suspect. Use a tablet every time you refill your water-skin, and they should last.”

      He then went to his door and removed a cloak from a peg, folding it over his arm and putting that also on the table.

      “This can protect you from all but the worst of the sun, wind and rain. The hood may be tied over the face, should you meet driving sand or snow.”

      Lastly, he laid out a roll-kit and unfurled its length, inspecting its slips, ties and pockets, then instructed Halli in its proper handling. All gathered provisions were tied in and synched, and Halli wore it over her shoulders. Sador opened the book of Tarmarillian history and turned to the folded map showing the Hither and Hinterlands. He tore it out and gave it to her.

      “I trust you can read this?”

      “Well enough to tell between a league and a furlong.”

      “Good.”

      He walked with her from his house to the courtyard, putting a hand on her shoulder and leaning slightly on his staff. They had almost left the keep when they ran into Avangar by the steps, loitering beside the archway.

      “A little late for a field-hand to be out, is it not?”

      “It is permissible, under my supervision” Sador said.

      Avanger noticed Halli’s roll-kit. “Why is she so encumbered?”

      “I am donating all of my old and unused tools to the workers” Sador said. “Halli was kind enough to volunteer her back to carry them, to spare mine.”

      “It couldn’t wait till sunrise?” Avangar said. “This seems an odd hour for such a task.”

      “Anytime is a good time, if you can spare it.”

      Avangar didn’t believe them and was about to have them interrogated when out from a corner of the garden came Siri, as if waiting to intervene.

      “Lord Avangar, the king demands your presence before him, immediately. It concerns your possible role in the attempt to poison him.”

      “My role?” Avangar said. “I was the one who foiled the plot!”

      “Even so, he demands you all the same. Make haste, lord.”

      The accusation caught him off-guard, and he was compelled at Siri’s insistence to follow her back up to the courtyard. Halli and Sador were left to be, and he hurried her along.

      “She’s going to get into trouble for that” Halli said.

      “Yes, she will” Sador said. “She and others who have been helping slaves under Avangar’s own nose. Many will be punished tonight.”

      “Including you?”

      Sador hesitated. “That may happen, and it may not. I will do what I can to stem the tide of Avangar’s wrath.”

      “How many will be punished because of this, by what means?”

      “You cannot worry about that” Sador said. “You no longer have such a luxury. Hurry along now!”

 Halli and Sador continued down the steps to the lower city, to the marketplace. Few people were out at this time, as the shops were beginning to close. The sole exception was the tavern beside the market square, still noisy with the clamor of happy and not-so-happy drunks. A horse was hitched to a corner post, a mature thoroughbred, seen to by a peasant boy.

      “Can you ride a horse, Halli?”

      “Some” she said.

      “What commands do you know in Dumbrian?”

      “Three, maybe four.”

      “That will have to do.”

      Sador instructed her to walk behind him, then distance herself completely. He strode past the boy, then clutched at his chest and fell while breathing heavily. The boy ran to him, accepting the ruse. Halli came in under the lamplight and untied the hitch, stepping up on the rail and hefting her pack onto the horse’s haunches. He kicked a hoof and snorted. Halli patted his flank and shushed him, speaking softly in Dumbrian, ut dir thennu ashin, naena, naena, urt so dath nisin (I am a friend to you; calm, calm, for the ride ahead). He quieted, letting her sit astride him and tug gently on his reins. She directed him with her heel and led him away from the tavern. The boy in his surprise stood to block her, waving his hands and shouting for her to stop, but Halli galloped by him down the road, the hooves clattering loudly against the cobble stones. Sador watched her go, and wished her luck.

      Guards in the city heard the commotion and hastened to their own mounts, riding to intercept Halli as she approached the gates. She eluded them, spurring her horse to go full gallop in the open, bucking in the saddle; a half moon was shining, coloring the plains in a silvery midnight blue that cast soft shadows on the road. They were catching up to her swiftly, for hunting runaway slaves was their duty, and the distance between them became frighteningly small.

      Halli heard them shout at her through the sound of blood pulsing madly in her ears, her own quickened breath. She was no sure rider. She couldn’t hope to outrun them. In a flash of desperation, she veered off the road onto a footpath for farms and homesteads, leading to the forest outside the city. They turned with her, unshaken, preparing nets. Halli jumped her horse over a fence and galloped across a field rutted for seeding; those pursuing split, some chasing after, some rounding the fence to race alongside and force her into one direction, in a loop back to Thargorod. She saw the riders on her right and commanded her thoroughbred to go faster; he obliged, delving into his stamina and pulling away as she barely clung on.

      Halli came to the forest barely ahead of her hunters. She stopped her horse under the eaves and dismounted, slinging her kit. She patted his flank again and kissed his nose, then sprang into the trees. The guards ran after, also swift of foot, but Halli evaded them, ducking under branches, leaping over brush and swatting the leaves from her face. Her heart pounded to where it hurt feeling it in her chest, but she was too afraid to slow herself, too afraid to even look back.

      On she ran, heaving through a dry throat and slacking limbs, deeper into the forest under boughs made ghostly from the moon’s twilight, sure-footed as a rabbit, till her final step; she tripped over a root in the dark and fell, crashing forward, rolling into a deep ditch. Dirty and scraped she lay still, cupping her panting mouth and tasting fresh dirt. Branches rustled beside her, and soft conversations were spoken. She dared not move. The hole she lay in was now her hiding place, and in her silent prayers, she begged that the darkness would be enough to conceal her. Moonlight gleamed dully on her prone form, but unless they were to stop and look directly down, she was well hid.  

       Footsteps approached her, surrounded her, then passed on by, leaving her be.  They were unsure; the guards stopped and talked, knowing that they heard a clamor around here somewhere, and cursed in frustration. They debated where to look, how far to go, and where she could possibly run. They muttered to themselves, irritated that a slave girl could best them in both chase and hunt. Halli’s nervousness built. At length, they decided to split up in two groups, one to continue searching the forest and one to return the stolen horse to Thargorod, and perhaps collect the reward for doing so.

      The remaining soldiers paused and listened for any noise not made by nocturnal creatures, then pressed on where they believed their quarry most likely to go.

      Halli was alone, sore and dirty, but safe for the moment. In her quietest breath she thanked every god she knew, those of Hanan and from Sador’s old books. The quiet and pale light calmed her, and the soft night noises soothed her to rest where she fell. She had thus far escaped them, and dared not press her luck.