Shake and quiver, little tree,
Bring gold and silver down to me.
...
There was much that could be done with a child.
...
Needle pulling thread, do your work well,
Work your witchcraft, seal your spell.
Your heart's desire may be told,
Should you find a girl of gold.
For close to her, resides your chilver,
The girl of gold,
Shields a sister of silver.
...
The silver gleam of the needle pervaded the black fabric in her hands and emerged from beneath at her guidance. Practiced, effortless. She'd done this many times before, and had detested the work of it, the humiliation of pricking beneath her fingernails as she'd sewn, frantically, ceaselessly, for scathing criticisms wrapped around crumbs of praise.
She refused to look back.
Sewing belonged to her now. It would serve her.
The irony of it was not lost on her; had indeed, made it bearable in her most desperate of times.
The needle breaks through. It damages the body, and then does so again, draws a thread of influence within, just so, until it is stronger, until it will serve.
People were much the same way.
Cinder held needle and thread and cloth and life in her hands.
She'd stopped using thimbles. A little prick here and there did good for her focus, and she took advantage of the insight it provided.
She blinked and glanced down at a familiar sensation of pain, watched the silver of the needle piercing her skin, and then-
The drop of bright, bright red that welled.
She smiled.
These colors together were the same as her, and she knew.
This was missing something.
...
Shake and quiver, little tree,
Bring gold and silver down to me.
...
The faunus girl was out often, as were the other two, planning for the dance.
She needed only wait for the silver eyes to close, before she could steal that which she'd come for.
Stray hairs from her pillow, forgotten and then found. The petals that bloomed from the red cloak that blanketed her as she dreamed, so sweetly. She touched them and held sparse handfuls to her nose to breathe their saccharine poison, feel their velvet upon her cheeks.
The life of this girl, that pooled around her like blood as she slept.
Sometimes, she'd be lucky enough to steal a stray eyelash from the edge of her round, rosen cheeks.
No matter how much she took, it was never enough.
She would steal the red from her face and elbows and shoulders, if she could.
She would bottle her breath.
She would drink her tears.
She wanted the blood from her lips.
The needle was idle between her fingers and she poised it with purpose, probing the swell of her own bottom lip, feeling for the pain for when the skin was broken and red dripped in a warm line down her chin.
A thread, meant to connect.
The needle sank against Ruby's lips and the girl was still. The drop spread along the crease of her lips and painted them dark and rich and irresistible.
It was probably the taste that woke her, but be it that of copper or that of the deep and hungry kiss that followed, none could tell.
...
Little Red, a perfect meal,
What more from you, might I steal?
You sweetly beg, you plead and shout,
There's nothing left I won't find out.
...
She forced the struggling, disoriented girl face-down into her own bed, wicked fingers curling around her shoulders and dragging her dress down from around them until it bunched at her perfect, tiny waist. Straddling her, she brought each wrist to a bed post, bound her there tightly with scraps that she'd sewn just for her: fabric with their hairs woven in, dyed darker with pinpricks of blood.
Ruby was calling for help, was sobbing with fear, and Cinder slid her searing, silken touch over her bared back as she spoke, warned her not to resist. She held the space just above her waist, but no higher: the space that caged her vitals, that which quivered and expanded with each frightened, shuddering breath.
"I won't hurt you." Cinder lied sweetly. But when her thumbs trespassed to the dimples of her lower back, coaxing with purpose, Ruby wailed with fear. She wrenched a hand into her auburn hair and pressed her face against the mattress, just long enough to frighten her.
"Be a good girl, if you want this over quickly. Disobey, and you'll know all that I do to you."
Ruby went limp. It was not out of obedience; rather-
She had hyperventilated until she'd fainted, frightful tears still rolling lazily over the curve of her cheek.
Cinder smiled as her canvas rested before her, unresisting,
and took up her needle,
and set to work.
...
She was careful, and for it, Ruby did not bleed badly.
The pattern she inscribed into her back now matched her own, and the girl still lay sleeping.
Cinder sidled beside her, walking two fingers up and down her spine, watching how she breathed as they neared the wound. Occasionally she stopped to stroke damp hair from the nape of her neck, or to drape an arm over her waist and trace circles along her hips.
She'd already taken the liberty of exploring and touching her body, privately. There wasn't a single part of her that did not belong to her now.
And Ruby would not remember it. Her mind was fragile and she needed to be mended with each breaking, to be of use. She would serve, when the time was right.
She would remember the experience as something of a vague nightmare, like always.
Her stitchwork would hold, and with another press of her lips to the wound at her back-
The thread of blood that connected them was set, the red string that stole into them both.