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No matter how ashamed she was of being in this state, her hands shook. It’s just a small nick, she kept telling herself, it’s not that bad, it won’t be that bad.
The Citadel rumbled all around her, nearly knocking her off her feet – her hands were too busy rubbing one another for comfort to help her keep her balance. Chambers empty around her, though she could hear from the thin walls strides away that the bugs were avoiding her. There was a thrill felt from killing them she couldn’t get from polite platitudes and pleasantries, but always she’d end up hurt and in need of Mother’s burning cold attention. Metal claws running against her body, strumming them as side effect (though surely her stiff catatonia was only helpful to the God), inching closer to the wounds, pulling snapped threads that slid against intact ones like bowstrings on a violin, though Lace never dare retort or protest lest the process be less careful – she always came out of it bright and good as new, though it never felt that way.
She chased the thought away, or perhaps ran from it, picking up her pace and when barely within reach of her pin breaking pots and ripping cloths until she reached where she needed to be. The Bellways had been out of order for long, so the room had no annoyances to slow her trek down; she jumped up to a hidden passage in vents and airways that she’d heard in passing lead to the Bilelands. The last Weaver had caught Lace’s attention on her way to Mother one time, playing a song on stray threads calling out to her own God. Asked for forgiveness, atonement, asked for that place in the family that had just become vacant – Let me be daughter, spare me the fate of the phantom of the organ. Inquiry led the pale doll to learn just what she needed to; as the organ’s song blew louder with every step she took, she became sure of it.
Hot, dusty air threw her around occasionally, back where she’d been seconds ago, blunt force and dull sensation would ache through her but with barely the body needed to feel it still rang hollow within her – and she’d feel that air blow through her wound, forcing song through her, jolting her body straight and immobile. Eventually the air stopped blowing close to her and she made her way to a large room again.
The song was clearer than ever she thought possible, without the clapping of valves and blowing of air muddying it. It felt foreign, void of the reverence and worship of what she’d heard all times before; this song was a dimly-lit room, intimate, its wordless breath was her old room, that she’d shared with just one person, free of eyes to spy on her, reminders to poke at her, a secret spoken under blankets that would never come out from under it. The phantom that haunted her ever since her sister left, speaking out of the reeds and the tubes and the keys of the whole structure; she knew without a doubt that she’d reached what she was looking for.
Once the light of the large room hit her fully, seeped into her threads, she looked at the source of the sound. A light, stained silk-spun figure sat, its whole body moving with every new sound the organ made. It felt barely alive, light no longer shone from the frayed strings pulling it together; and Lace half expected to see her sister fall straight dead in the middle of her song. She called her name out, just a hint of worry transpiring (how humiliating).
A mite dug out of the rags on the ground, and with a single swift move Lace skewered it and planted it to the ground. The song stopped, though, and as the pristine doll turned her head her sister was no longer seated at her instrument. The first few sounds of the old sibling’s name barely made it out of her, though, before she felt the slight sting of a pin’s tip against her neck.
“Are you looking to end what Mother started? Or did you too become undeserving of Her gift?” A raspy voice snarled from behind a mask right beyond Lace’s field of view. Almost voiceless, beyond exhausted.
“Do you really have such little trust in me, sister?” A feigned smile twisted Lace’s voice, or perhaps was it the knot forming at the sudden aggression – no matter, of course, there were no tears to cry in such a vapid doll.
The pin lifted off the plush girl’s neck, leaving way for a hand to grab at her chin and turn her face.
“Sister I am not. Never again will I try to be Her daughter, if I am this unwanted.”
Lace at first nearly forgot she was looking at her old sibling. Thread-spun nature was obvious, but the silk’s palor had been long tainted, and weave snapped, resewn in places in ways made obvious. The pristine doll let her pin go, and her sibling’s shoulders relaxed.
“What an enticing taste of freedom you’re giving me. Her threads bind me to her still-
— What do you need from me?”
The knot in Lace’s throat lowered to an ache in her chest. Maybe the lack of hospitality was justified, after everything She’d done, how cowardly Lace was despite the bark she had. Of course if the warden’s child came back for the prisoner, they’d fight back.
“Just another bite of solace and respite from her cold metal grasp, nothing more-!”
Her eyes closed to aid her ironic tone come through, leaving her vulnerable to surprise: the back of her sibling’s hand knocked her off balance and though she took a step or two to retrieve it she ended up falling on her side, cupping the cheek that had just been struck. She let a grunt out in frustration, but the silken phantom folded their legs down into a kneel.
“Don’t lie to me, Lace.”
The pale doll’s gaze darted across the phantom’s face, looking for something, anything, to decipher this sentence better. She’d forgotten how to be vulnerable, with anyone, and her old sibling looking like a stranger didn’t help. The secrets shared under blankets, thousands of words and caresses of comfort were dusty, put away – for decades since they’ve felt dull, and now they just ached.
“You strike me and then ask me to show my underbelly? What a lack of care, truly in Her image; maybe neither of us will ever be better than Her.”
Her voice was quivering, as she repressed a hiccup or two. She turned her gaze away, unwilling to see how the shadow would react to her tearless crying (maybe it was all a facade, a way to ensnare them too, just like She ensnared Her kingdom, perhaps really this phantom ripped themself free, but Lace always will be an imitation of everything she feared).
The phantom stayed still, vacant stare burning into their sister, even beyond what she let herself look at.
“I don’t want Her to fix my body up again, not right now, at least.”
Lace braced herself with apprehension for what the shadow may reply, but only a ruffle of fabric tore through the heavy silence. The pale doll turned her gaze to her sibling, who had folded their legs into a kneel, soft dirty hands placed politely on their thighs. Their gaze hung low, below her face, and all she saw was the thickness of their mask that the holes in it displayed. The mask, somehow, remained pristine, and beautiful, vacant of expression that would be found easy to make out – like a poem, Lace learned to read between the lines when it came to her old sister. Perhaps she’d learn again with that girl’s twin, as foreign they may seem.
Their gaze rose up to Lace’s. She could almost make out familiar care within it. Their hands fidgeted and scraped at distended weave, discretely, before they let hesitant words out from deep in their soft shell. “Show me your wounds, I’ll see what I can do.”
The white plush doll darted her eyes on her sibling for a moment, before bending her body to get her satin weave flat, letting a long gash make itself evident, going from the front of her hip to behind her leg, tearing through the inside of her thigh. The edges frayed slightly, and some threads were loose. The elder sibling could tell the blow came from a hooked pin tearing towards the back, with the worst of the injury at the front most part of it, where the pin would’ve entered. It looked pretty, how the threads glimmered in the dim lights of the organ room, though they didn’t let themself stay silent long enough for Lace to notice – they simply slid closer, to take a better look.
“There was an underworker I didn’t see, I’m usually good at avoiding blows, especially ones this bad.” The youngest averted her gaze from the phantom, but wasn’t looking at her wound, either, head almost held in a pout, fleeing the examination directed at her. She knew her old sister wouldn’t hold any ill sentiment, but it was hard to feel no judgment from gaze with intent to repair when all repairs felt like punishment.
She felt a soft finger glide against the edges of the tear, folding her fabric underneath it. Some of her threads got caught between her sibling’s finger’s weave, stiffening as they were pushed further than their natural positions, and sliding back out from between the dirty threads. She pictured the flea or two that she’d encountered, and petted with a child’s clumsiness against the flow of their fur. The sensations she felt made her wonder how those fleas never protested, how they never betrayed how strange it felt, letting another threaten to fray you like this. Another finger accompanied the first slightly deeper in the wound, digging around the layers of fabric and delicate patterning, spreading the damage open carefully. Lace’s inner filling was tightly packed and woven, and as her eyes darted back anxiously at her own wound even she felt surprised at how deep it went. Feeling the strange, vague tickle of her depths being moved didn’t reassure her much.
The phantom took their fingers off their sister, and they lingered in the air briefly, in reflection. Their mask was facing down, but it was clear their gaze was directed at vacancy; their other hand tapped fingertips against one another in a steady rhythm. It felt like a still picture in a book she wasn’t allowed to read, for just a moment, before her legs jumped back together to close off access to her new weakness. “You can just tell me if you can’t help, you know?”
The rag doll stood up. “Stay here, I’ll get what I need.” They turned around and paced wordlessly out of the room.
Mother never let Lace wait and ready herself for repairs. The pale doll’s mind blared, her hands lowered at her wound to pick at its strings as distraction. On her knees, face shoved onto the ground for better access to her back, icy cold claws sorting through threads, pulling out damaged ones; one, after the other, after the next, leaving her child bare to divine punishment for clumsiness and mistake; (she grunted, sorting through the strings of her inner thigh herself), outer layer nearly entirely unwoven, the claws sorted the deeper ones as well. Deconstruction and pure essence of form for eternal subservience (Lace’s hand slowed to a still), pain and protest never stopped Her. With time she learned to let her Mother save her with that pain, that was, she figured, her only way of showing love. “Please do not get hurt again, or you will have to go through this grueling process once more” – these words never left the God’s mouth, but there was nothing else Lace could think of that would explain any of it. Mother needed to think just that sentence, and hope Her daughter understood (and yes, yes she did, oh how she understood what came after hurt).
Mother’s face was always draped behind curtains of Silk. Maybe that didn’t help Her daughter figure out what She was thinking, either. God made of silk, was there a song that would share Her feelings? Manifestation of the lifeline of all who weaved, was She too, vulnerable to the same magic?
The phantom sat back down next to their sister. She knocked herself out of futile inner deliberation – deep down it didn’t matter what She thought, as Lace wasn’t returning, anyways – then tossed her hands behind her to open up properly for fixing. Her gaze fell onto the supplies her sibling brought – or rather, the supply; a single, thin, sharp needle.
“Don’t you have silk to use? Air won’t thread the needle and bind my tears.”
The rag spoke no reply, hands shaking barely before they tugged at one of their own loose threads. They pulled it close to the eye of their needle, tried pushing it in once, twice, approached the needle to their face and succeeded on the third attempt. Their silk was still slack between them and their tool, despite them not having much room to work with before it would get taught. A pit grew in their sister’s stomach, her legs pushed themselves to a close before she could think.
“No, that’s unreasonable.” This time no pleasantry or irony was strummed through her words, one arm came in front of her as if to shield her.
The phantom inched closer, specter of the fate Lace would await if she didn’t fix herself in time. Their body, pulled, stretched, distended by time, even when seated loomed higher than the pristine doll’s. They set a hand up in front of them, next to Lace, and their body tilted over her. “I’ll fray more anyway – if I can keep you from joining me, I’ll do it until I unravel entirely.”
Lace pushed her body forward, and caught herself on her sibling before it would fall back down. She could tell that their days were numbered now, she could feel it in their coarseness and their dry voice. Her fingers dug in the matted threads on the back of their head, and held on, in case they’d go before being able to do anything – maybe she’d feel better if a little piece of them was within her forever, a thread given lovingly among a sea of expectation. Still, she wanted to buy them some time, if she could. The phantom’s other hand was balled up in a fist between them both, holding the needle and thread tight as not to lose it. Their sister’s hands brushed as they could through the inky dark mess of torn rags behind their mask, tenderly. “I don’t wanna lose you, already fickle and discrete as a ghost you are – please promise me this is the only part of you I’ll take beyond your grave.”
The phantom’s mask buried in the frills around Lace’s neck, took a breath or few in, not letting any word come out despite how much it seemed they wanted to. The small doll didn’t want to put so much expectation on her ruined formsake, not after they’ve finally freed themself from it, at no small cost – if they couldn’t bring themself to keep such a promise, she’d be content with an attempt at it. Her legs separated again, and with one soft gloved hand she guided the phantom’s fist to her wound. In her turn, she rubbed her cheek in circles against her sibling’s head. “Or take me with you when you go. So neither of us will live alone.”
There was slight hesitation, and after a moment the elder twin wriggled themself free of Lace’s arms, with little resistance. She propped herself back up with them, and the rag doll repositionned themself to better work. They looked at her wound again, torn near clean and precise. Their empty hand came to it, thumb rubbing in circles on its edges, then stopped and held her fabric as the other hand approached a needle to her. “Just tell me if I hurt you.”
With an anxious buzzing throughout her threaded body, the plush closed her eyes and braced herself. Her sibling counted down, and at the end of it she didn’t feel any pain – just a strange gliding between the threads of her deeper layers, then her threads being pulled back together. She felt maybe about three or four pulls of thread before electric sharp pain shot through her leg and lower bowels; she yelped, and the phantom above her jumped up at the sudden noise, snapping a singular thread inside her. Lace’s arms buckled and her back fell to the metal flooring, before she folded onto herself, arms hugging each other. The phantom let go of the needle, leaving it secure on its thread, with haste and worry they tried getting close to Lace.
Their head looked similar to Mother’s, cloaked in shadow like that. She kept them at a distance, for an instant, before letting them close. They folded their body above hers, slightly, arching around her to gently pet one of her arms. It sent a shiver down her threads, the ones making up her back, as her arm’s weave tickled and buzzed at the tenderness. This kind of attention, this kind of love, she’d barely remembered it. Mother’s lack of care for a child without innocence, the reckless games she’d play with her old sister naively, unaware of the deeper meaning of their actions – she couldn’t see in her mind’s eye a time before them, but retreated to it still, and relished in the tentative warmth of this moment.
“Are you still hurting?” Their voice was hushed, Lace could hear a hint of pain or worry within it.
She avoided their gaze, turned her head towards the ground, closed her eyes. “Past mendings haunt me, still.”
Her sibling’s hand drifted higher up, and gently caressed the crown of her head. Eventually it pressed down as if to support her sibling’s entire weight, as she heard them shuffle and move behind her. “You can sit on my lap and hold onto me while I work, if it brings you any comfort.”
The pale doll lifted her upper body off the ground and turned to face her sibling. Their legs were crossed and their torso arched backwards, leaving her enough space to settle down in their lap. She picked the small needle back up, and making sure not to tangle her sibling’s threads, she settled down and handed them their tool. They set their free hand on her intact thigh, and she wrapped one of her arms around their head, the other pressing gently on their chest.
They warned her before the needle penetrated her weave, once again; she could feel it fiddle between her threads, moreso than before, trembling – the tip would occasionally catch onto a thread, pulling sounds of fear from her vocal chords, making her sibling pause and soothe her for just a few instants. Her fabric pulled tighter, got more tender, the pressure inside scorched a dull ache through her, and she could hear the phantom struggle, faintly.
They threw a gaze at her, before taking their free hand off her hip. Two thin fingers dug into her wound, pulling both edges of her torn inner layers closer.
“Stay still, or I will hurt you more.” The plush child could barely get herself to breathe, to speak, to retort some smart remark or joke as she usually would. As her Mother took Her hands off her face, she put her own in their place. Silence wasn’t asked of her, but perhaps expected, and she obeyed all the same. Thousands of fingerblades writhed inside her body, and she could feel them snap her threads, no matter how loud her mind screamed to tune it out. Parts of her were ripped out, arms coming out and digging back in for more, with fervent fury and disdain – already were the sounds of silk breaking ripping her throat and head, oh the pain overtook it all with ease. Mother went fast, but Lace felt every single thread of hers buckle and snap all the same, each one sending icy cold burning shock through the insides of her limbs, filling her throat, pushing from the inside of her head. Maybe she had truly blown up in that moment; it would explain a lot, anyway. Maybe she died, maybe only death would make her threads forget – Her threads forget. It already felt like death, like annihilation, and that feeling called to her and asked to be quelled.
Or maybe her threads could forget in a different way. Hints of warmth of the present reached through the dark, indecipherable past. Rough, tainted silk brushing against the back of her head, again, again, shaking but seeming so certain against her shivering weave. They cooed comfort near her face, pulling her thoughts away from the sting of the needle, pulling her layers closer to each other, filling the dull ache with pain then quelling it to just a distant itch – how tender they were, how loving this felt, she’d forgotten how it was to not be chastised for her mistake or for her reactions, to be given a thin slither of care that would stay trapped in the threads of her leg, forever. She’d feel content, she’d hope…
Frustratingly, her lower body hungered for more. How selfish, she felt, wanting to ask more of her frayed sibling, getting a taste of care and wanting to consume all of the one that would give it. Their soft hand caressing her body, their arm cradling her while the other cared for her. Was it truly unnatural? She’d seen the mortal bugs crave eternity, lonely bugs crave companionship, hungry bugs crave food, wouldn’t a tortured bug crave tender love? Wouldn’t a hollow cocoon crave to be filled, with the proof her life could mean something, could carry something greater than her?
Scissor hands finally reached at the intrusion they were hunting and tore it out, with no care or tenderness for whatever left of Lace was in the way. Mother was often cold and incomprehensible, unfathomable a being She was, but oh, oh was Her fury palpable this time. Her children weren’t asked to ascend to Her chambers, shamefully; She could hear the commotion, their mistake, descended Herself to make things right. Silence wasn’t asked of her, but perhaps expected, and she obeyed all the same. The notes of Death, horsemen of annihilation, blared through her silent body, and her eyes were locked on the only one she could still bring herself to see – her old sister, playmate, herself frayed, holes of her mask frozen on the face of a trembling, thin body. The soft comfort of carrying the product of her silk-spun twin within her forever, a thoughtless, lifeless, painless imitation of what Mother turned into them, torn back out by the perverted silken light, unknowingly rotten all the same. The crime was in the elder, and instilled in them by the elder of the elder. The pale child didn’t see the love that day, she only saw the punishment, the agony, and had no voice to cry suffering. Her sister had not the privilege of being mended. She was asked to leave the Citadel.
“Lace, stop moving, I cannot help you like this.”
The torn parody of an old familiar voice stabbed her through the chest, this time Mother would not hear her scream, or Her threads would keep her bound far enough away so not to reach Lace, and a shriek ripped out of her throat. One hand slapped onto the white mask and pushed away, Lace fell on her back again, squirmed and kicked her legs in the air, pushed herself away. She felt so small, her old sister’s sight landing on her from on top again. Even the most tender person in the world, even her twin in destiny, spun to fade, she wasn’t allowed to embrace, no; she was allowed nothing, and wouldn’t allow herself anything, the pain from making that mistake once was enough to teach her that lesson.
The phantom’s thread still stuck in their sister’s leg continued to pull and frog at their stitching until it snapped clean off of them, leaving a gaping hole in the top layer of their chest. Their arm outstretched, at first, then came to it and rubbed at the raw edges before their gaze landed on them. They’d given so much to her, again, and she’d asked for it; how infantile of her to change her mind, on a whim, on a filthy memory.
Lace huffed, and stood herself back up. She felt like one of those freezing metal claws would cut her head clean off at any instant, still. From how the phantom looked at her, she knew it was still obvious – and they were tense, too, arms and legs seizing like she’d never seen before. “Oh mother, it’s okay, it’s over, it’s over,” their breath huffed the words out on its own, she would hesitate to say if they were for her or for themself.
Her gaze diverted. The light around her was golden, almost a sickly yellow in some parts. Mother’s palor really did ignore these parts, didn’t it? Of course she’d find her sibling here, in the rotten air of the bilelands – perhaps they relished in it, perhaps she would, once Mother’s threads stopped calling her back to Her, too. They still reached ‘till here, threading the thoughts in her head. She looked back at her old twin rag; they were hugging their knees, looking at that same golden vastness of the floor she’d looked at just moments before. She shuffled closer, and sat next to them, shoulder to shoulder, and couldn’t help but press into them. Their head fell onto her, their arms wrapped around her, shivering still but finding solace in her anyway – they remembered, too, was the memory not enough to put them off loving her entirely? Despite how soiled and torn they were, they still hadn’t strayed too different from her, still asking for a piece of them despite what it resulted in the last time she did.
Lace combed a hand through the mess of threads at the back of her sibling’s head, again. It felt as if they had to remind themself to breathe, and so did she, but surely if they said nothing, they would be reminded of nothing more and could finish this stupid endeavor and go back to their business.
The pale doll separated her legs, once again. The wound still slid back open, less so this time around, taught on the inside and loose still further up her layers, it felt strange. She held the frills of her bodice out of the way with one hand, slid across the hole with the other’s middle finger. It was hard for her to feel pain outside of reparations – she wondered if going deeper would get a different sensation out of her. She wondered if the dulled sensation was nature or nurture, if she was cursed from the start or if her Mother made her so.
A darkened, soiled hand cupped the one tending to her wound, its thumb circling on the back of the pristine white glove that made her surface. Did the ghost beside her feel as she did?
“This was a bad idea,” the black twin’s mask faced her, and she looked back, their voice quivered as they spoke and their hand fled the touch they were giving their sister; “I’m hurting you far more than I could help.”
A buzzing, burning hot flame of desire, fury at the avoidance, at this careful, stupid dance her sibling tried to tread. Of course this was hurting, the cold metal claws haunting them both from beyond Her absence, of course in any normal circumstance they both would have long found some other way to bond, to fulfill their needs – soiled, on the outside and within, she no longer brought herself to care. This rot would kill them both, and she’d died a hundred times; may they dance and give each other the mercy of a needle or a blade, she needed this mercy, she needed any feeling from this long lost warmth even if it meant her mind would give out so as to save her from herself.
Her arms threw themselves around the broken rag as her voice ripped into a growl before they both fell to the cold brass floor, with the pristine plush toy at the top. She rose her torso higher on her sibling, curved it around their head, her legs wrapped around their waist; she could feel her loose, stiff threads getting caught in their weave again. She pressed her inner thigh harder onto the rag doll, perhaps if she tried hard enough her stitches would slip between theirs and they would remain together forever – she could feel their own loose threads pass between hers, their arms wrap around her hips, soft fingers strumming sweet caress on her back, shivering. They cannot stop, she would not let it, she needed the touch, she needed the mend, immolating her. If she could burn, in front of Mother, or as far away from Her as possible, she would.
“If She sees my threads within you again, —”
Lace burrowed her soft nubby fingers into her sibling’s chest, propping herself up on her arms, couldn’t help but circle her hips back and forth, getting more feel from both their weaves interlocking and bending, for the tickle of her deeper layers being exposed to touch she pressed and imposed onto them. Her body threatened to fall back onto her sibling’s a few times, her hips slowed, her fibers tensed, she groaned, “What She does I have no will to think about, do not remind me of such agony while you try to mend it, fool,” unpleasantly her vocal strings knotted together again, “please, I just ask of you, give me what She can’t. If I burn with a bit of you by my side, I will be safe.”
Maybe if they’d mend back what Mother had deprived them of, the curse She laid upon them would come undone. The phantom’s hands slid down, one cupping her wound, before fingers titillated inside, digging. Lace’s arms buckled, so she chose to bury her face in her sibling’s shoulder. The thread still unthreaded through her wound was tugged that, and again, pulsing delicate anxious sensation through her strings, pulling small gasps out of her. This wasn’t like what they’d done before, careless and clueless as they were; meticulous, careful movement to pull sensation out instead of pretending they were there. The stiffer parts of the soiled fingers strummed at the ladder stitch, and her threads shook like needolin strings, her voice did too. Her fingers dug deeper in her sibling’s body, oh how she’d dig a set of teeth into them if she had one. Thread still held tight, the needle slithered between the young doll’s weave again, slowly. The specter toyed with it, threatening to hook and tug at her a few times before pulling the needle back out of her. A second hand of theirs made its way between both their bodies to rub at the fraying wound, small loose threads being picked at while the doll was resewn at an agonizing pace. Her back felt bare, she felt hunted, and the delight of feeling so at the hands of someone who would never bite, how it made her whine and sing.
Slowly they made their way to higher and higher layers, making sure she had time to relish in the stress and the few sensations her shell of a body could provide her. They seemed awfully familiar with what a silk-spun child could feel, this privilege of experience only they could offer her out of all the bugs of Pharloom. Eventually, the stitching slithered its way to her highest layer of satin weave, and with the same stitch as all layers beneath, her sibling closed the wound off with a small knot they buried within her before pulling the needle away, snapping the thread, letting their tool fall to the ground next to them.
Lace lifted off. With the movement, she could still feel her loose threads within her, locked safe by her elder twin’s caring gift. She lowered her sight to the strange scar; it looked like nothing more than a clumsy fold of her body. The idea that one tainted, single soiled strand of Silk slept under it sent vacant, warm fullness through her, weighing heavy in her lower body.
They both waited a few instants, silent, immobile; the world stayed as silent as them. The phantom propped themself up on their elbows.
Her eyes darted finally at the panel she’d pulled off her sibling’s chest, by inadvertence. Her fingers ran across its edges, warm from the motion from instants ago. She feared for them, silently at first, they’d given that silk to her, and it was a sparse resource.
“How will you fix yourself? You might even get more damaged on a trek to find more silk.”
A single, breathy chuckle wriggled out of the phantom. They diverted their gaze, once again to the golden brassy room. “It’s just a small wound, it’s not that bad, it won’t be that bad.”