No Strings on Me

“Dear Melinda. When last we spoke, I asked you what the difference was between myself and one of your toys. You laughed, and said that it should be obvious. The toys were tools, and people like you and me were the ones that fashioned them. Don’t you see the hypocrisy of it all? What’s the difference between a man who holds a hammer, and the hammer itself, if it cannot swing without the arm? Our tools are but extensions of ourselves, and reflections of them. The echoes of our hearts can be seen, felt, through these objects. They are a part of us. My arm would be of no use if not connected to my brain, no differently than the hammer itself. The button eyes of your dolls are like tattoos on a seasoned welder’s hand. 

All along, I felt we were kindred, for a number of reasons, but only now do I see the irony in this line of work. In this life. There are no strings on me, but I am a puppet. I do not act on my own. Perhaps I never have. 

Would things be different if I had stayed by your side? Or if you had left to be by mine? Did things have to end the way they did between us? Perhaps it is fate that guided our hands to interlock fingers. Perhaps it was fate that guided our feet in different directions.

Yet, though you are gone, I see us standing side by side. I see myself in the reflection of your eyes. There’s a vision of a furnace, fueled by the coal of ambition and fire of passion. The will to do what must be done, and change the world that we find dissatisfactory. 

I miss you. You told me that those that love are doomed to die of a broken heart. What a cruel twist that you would die because of me. In a way, you were right. 

Perhaps in another life we will meet again. Perhaps in this one. This land is full of uncertainty, as much as it is full of darkness. The light of knowledge and understanding cannot pierce the mists so easily. 

If you could find it in your heart to forgive an old, grizzled gnome, I would be grateful to share the sentiment, and cast our differences aside for one last embrace, between the coldest souls in the land. 

With the sweet and chilling embrace of a peppermint kiss, 

Dimble.

…

“This… Is unbecoming of you.. Up to this point, I’d only ever speculated that you had a first name, and that it wasn’t literally Uncle. You do not strike me as a hopeless romantic. I don’t know whether to be disturbed, or nauseated. Not to mention, unless my memory serves me incorrectly… the one you speak of is..” 

“No, you’re right, Renvarin. That’s her. The one you faced… The Devilish Toymaker herself.” Dunkle says with an ash stained smile, covered in both soot and grime as he stands near his forge, patting his gloves on a blackened apron.

“So, do you always like to leave your sentimental letters open like this? It’s quite disturbing to imagine what may have gone on between you and an almost 7 foot tall demonic Eladrin.”

The gnome laughs from the belly, as if to suggest there is a cask of holly-jolly spirit left open inside his gullet. 

“Oh Renvarin, I find your wily nature to be so endearing. She would’ve loved to hear your remarks.” 

“Is that meant to be a compliment? The witch nearly killed us, Uncle Dunkle. Or rather, Dimble,” Renvarin responds with a mocking jest of a tone. 

“No no, that name is not for you, or any of our traveling companions. You know me as Uncle Dunkle. That’s what I’ve been reborn as, and that’s what I will be for the remainder of this journey, wherever it takes us, however long it takes. No offense.”

“None taken. Let’s change the subject, so I can more quickly erase my memory of what I’ve just read, and move on from this business.” 

“Ahh yes, the Vistani surely must have an important task for you… Let me know what kind of music you’d like played at the reception. I’ll be sure to provide the brass so Vimak can play you a proper tune. And I’ll make the fanciest bubble maker so when you walk out of the chapel doors–”

“That’s enough of that, Uncle. Seriously. What is it you called me here for? I’m confused. You wanted me to watch Hilde for a time, which makes sense, but you abruptly demand I bring her down with me to Grembrek’s dirty forge. You look like the two of you have been rolling in soot for weeks. I suppose you’ve been down here every night since we’ve returned to the carnival… But still. And by the way, if you need a pointer or two about bathing and how to properly use soap to remove the scum from your fingernails, don’t hesitate to ask. I’m sure we can procure something that smells of ginger or peppermint around here…”

“Thank you, Renvarin, but that won’t be necessary. This new project I’m working on will more or less take care of that need.”

“So, you’ve invented a way to maintain proper hygiene…?” 

“No, no, I’ve been working on a new suit of armor. One that won’t be coming off much at all, so nothing underneath it will ever get dirty.”

“That’s… Not how this works…”

“The armor will stay clean, and so will I.”

“You’ll surely sweat… Bleed… And I would imagine there’s no internal cooling in that thing.”” 

“There’s a number of improvements to the suit. I won’t be bleeding nearly as much.”

“You aren’t getting the point…You know what, never mind. You’re clearly very excited about this. I presume you want Hilde to see your armor? Is that what this is about?” Renvarin asks in an annoyed tone.

“Yes. I’m glad you haven’t brought her down yet. I don’t want her to see it until I’m wearing it. Sit down for a minute, please. I’d like to regale you with a story as I apply the finishing touches, and don the suit for the first time.” 

Renvarin nods, and wanders towards the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room, imagining himself being late for yet another appointment, for no good reason yet again. He knows how the Yeuletide tales go. One thing leads to another, and suddenly the gnome breaks out into song, asking for a reminder to get him back on track towards the conclusion of his story, no differently than a horrifically mutated train desperate to stay on the tracks of its service line. 

“Very well. I’ll go fetch Hilde once you’re ready. You may begin your story, unless you wanted to bathe before you equipped your armor?”

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Right. Of course not.” 

“Anyway…” Dunkle says, smiling, clearing his throat. He takes off his goggles and apron, tossing them onto the table. “When we were finally reunited with Hilde, there’s no denying that the brevity of the situation was challenging to swallow. Our hearts were all dismayed, no doubt. Mine especially so. The situation that my poor dear Hilde has found herself in reminded me of a certain someone and many of her creations.”

“Melinda?”

“Yes. She wasn’t always the way she was, you know.”

“She didn’t always sew button eyes into unwilling toys and turn them into monsters?”

“No, she was always interested in sewing button eyes into her pawns. But they didn’t mutate the way they did after she took upon that infernal influence of the damned Kramp. Believe it or not, she was just like me. She had goals, ambitions. She wanted to change the world and what she saw in herself ended up being projected out into it.”

“Is that so? She was taken prisoner like you? A slave?”

Uncle Dunkle frowns, and shakes his head. He walks towards the grandfather clock, eyeing its arms as it ticks, and tocks, with robotic harmony.

“Not quite, Renvarin. I wasn’t a slave either.”

“I don’t understand, then. I thought—”

“Whatever you, or the others may have thought… The whole story may not be fully told. Maybe that’s a weakness I won’t ever overcome. Who knows… You know, this armor, I wear it to hide my weakness, right? Because my true form is soft and mutable, too easily so. This world would break me down without this hardened shell. I’m sure you understand. I know Raven surely does.” 

Renvarin nods solemnly, surprised by the moment of seriousness offered by the otherwise whimsical gnome obsessed with snickerdoodles and Yeuletide Spirit. 

“We weren’t slaves. My people were enslaved, this is true… Melinda’s people were more or less exterminated. Some remain with The Saint, at the capital of his lands, everpresent servants of his tidings and efforts. But Melinda was the only one left of her family. She joined Krampus out of necessity, not because she was forced to. She was frustrated with a system that left her people abandoned and oppressed. A system that encouraged weakness and naivety. She felt that the Saint had betrayed her, and her people. Why should she bleed and die for Yeule, when Yeule has done nothing for her?”

“You… You also felt this way.” Renvarin says, following Uncle Dunkle’s reasoning 

“That’s correct. I remember the day she found me… How I cried… I cursed the Saint for abandoning me. Why would he do that to one of his children? One of the dedicated few who would stop at nothing to spread Yeuletide cheer? Why was there no one to save me? To look out for me? Protect me? To love me? Why wasn’t there any hope? I was but a child when my village was razed by the forces of Kramp. My family’s dying wishes were for me to protect my nephew… But  how come they didn’t wish for my safety? Why me? It wasn’t fair! I wasn’t any more capable of raising or protecting a child… I was just as confused and scared as he was? Why didn’t I have a savior? Why was I doomed to fulfill a task I didn’t understand?”

The room falls quiet, as Uncle Dunkle realizes his tone has shifted, and he has begun shouting. Renvarin looks down at Uncle Dunkle’s hand, as he grips his hammer so tightly it shakes. Then, the gnome scoffs, and laughs coldly. 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No, please. You are only mortal, like the rest of us. We’ve all had our moments…”

“Right. Thank you for your patience and understanding, Renvarin.” 

Silence falls again.

“I thought that when Hilde was… When we found her, in the form she’s in… That the answer to her problems, to our problems, might lie in the teachings of someone like that woman who did this to her… In the teachings of my old friend, Melinda. Maybe if I knew more about toys the way they did… About how to suffuse spirits and their transitive properties… But no. I know now that this is folly. Melinda sought to create a world held together by strings, so that nothing would ever fall out of place. Everything would be connected, interlaced… That way there would be no conflict. No one would ever be hurt the way her people were again. And my armor… It represented my weakness, as much as it did my strength. My need to project who I wanted to be out into the world. To protect what I found most soft, and innocent. The truth is… My nephew is dead, Renvarin. Everything I ever vowed to protect, has been trampled, killed, or corrupted. Poor Hilde… I left her with that damnable brain… And look what happened.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for everything. You didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore. My guilt may never evade me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have a responsibility, or a duty. An oath to fulfil. A task to complete. This new armor will represent that. This armor… It represents not what I wish to be, but what I and everything I hold dear has become. And by extension I won’t let what should be most important to me slip out of my sight ever again. I’m very grateful for Mr. Grimpride for helping me with this suit, and for affording me his space to produce the parts necessary and hold onto my things while we were gone. It’s time to stop pretending, and for once in my life play a serious role.” 

“Listen, Uncle, you don’t have to do anything, you know that right? In all seriousness, if you wish to be holly, and jolly, you can still be that. Just because Hilde… You don’t have to change.” 

Uncle Dunkle laughs, and shakes his head. 

“Everything changes, Renvarin. We can’t escape it. Things happen. We have dreams. We have ambitions. Sometimes we fail, even when we do everything right. But one thing’s for sure. If I wasn’t able to protect Hilde from her fate, I will embrace her for what she is now, and love her as much as she deserves. If we can’t prevent harm from coming to those we love, you’re damn well sure I’m going to avenge them. If you’d please be so kind, allow me to don my armor, and bring her into the tent. I want her to see.” 

Renvarin nods, and respectfully bows out of the tent. After a few minutes, he returns with Hilde, now trapped in her immutable, everlasting form. A perfect specimen. A perfect, porcelain doll, who may never feel physical sensation again.

Yet, despite her nature, both she and Renvarin gasp as they enter the tent. 

Standing before them is Uncle Dunkle, wearing a brand new suit of armor.

The armor is composed of a full plate build, clearly of masterwork craftsmanship. The culmination of years of experience, grit, and innovation. The idea of someone who seeks to preserve something impossible. An idea, the essence of a soft, pure, childlike innocence that ought to wither and die in this hellscape we call Ravenloft. The armor represented something that simply defied logic through its continued existence. 

Hope. 

Dunkle grins behind a porcelain mask. His armor is polished pure white, coated in an ivory varnish that makes his full plate suit of enhanced magi-tech armor representative of a doll’s likeness. It seems to be made of solid porcelain, though it clearly isn’t. The trimmings are expertly painted and lacquered to imitate the adornments of Hilde’s new form as a doll. And the helmet is painted with rosy cheeks, and a defiant bright smile, as well as bright blue eyes matching Hilde’s. 

He extends his arms, showcasing his mighty gauntlets and the various new accouterments baked into his armor, and activates his defense field, projecting a bright, sparkly aura around him, making him seem like a shining angel at the top of a Christmas Tree. The armor whirs with a mystical, yet clearly mechanical humming noise. Finally, he walks towards Hilde, and embraces her tightly. Together, their forms are equally as cold, unfeeling, yet beautiful. 

“Uncle Dunkle… I don’t know what to say. You look… “ 

“Just like you?”

She nods.

“That’s right. We’re kindred spirits, Hilde. I will always be here to love you and protect you. And you will always be a part of me no matter what. Wherever we go, wherever we are. You are what inspires me to be strong in the face of danger, and I wish to inspire you to feel joy in the face of despair.”

“My eyes hurt, Uncle.” Hilde says softly, hugging him tightly. She wishes to cry, yet finds herself unable. 

“Mine too, Hilde. No matter what we try to do to hide our pain, it will always be a part of us. We have to show the world we aren’t afraid to feel anything or face anything. That we aren’t ashamed of who we are. Will you help me do that?” 

“I’ll try my best…” 

“That’s all we can do.” Uncle Dunkle replies, letting his faceplate retract to reveal his tearsoaked eyes, and quivering lip. 

Renvarin, stunned, doesn’t know what to do or say, knowing it would be impolite to butt in at a tender moment such as this, or to leave. Instead, he bides his time, thinking intently about what Uncle Dunkle has said thus far. 

“Let’s go do something fun. I think Mr. Grimpride is almost finished setting up his new carnival game. Do you want to see who can get the highest score, Hilde?” 

She nods, and smiles for the first time in what feels like a new lifetime.

The Porcelain Gnome takes her hand, and walks her out of the tent. 

“Right… I’ll just go then. You’re welcome, by the way…” Renvarin mumbles, smiling as he wipes a tear of paternal endearment.