Prick
Faye pricks her finger on her love.
She pauses. It does not hurt. So, she lets it bleed. She lifts her hand from her project idly and lets it bleed, watching. It does not hurt after all. Nothing hurts much these days. Not since she became a cleric; true, magic does have a price, but it is not a price that hurts. Not anymore; not after she's been in battle both in war and in love.
The red of Faye's blood makes her smile. It feels like eons since she had last felt the pain of domesticity rather than something like an axe or sword. There were not many of those in Ram Village, but injuries borne of sewing needles? There were plenty.
Faye pops her finger in her mouth. She thinks of the story of Sleeping Beauty. She was a bit weary; of the world and of her life but she didn't think that her slight injury would be one that resulted in a sleep so death-like it spanned centuries. Faye sighs.
How she wishes she could be a princess.
Faye thinks that might be the root of her problems. She was born a peasant girl, as a pleasant girl, rather than a princess. Had she a birthright that was beyond domesticity and mundanity, maybe then she could have the heart of that whom she adores. After all, he is in love a princess. If Faye was a princess, maybe she would be loved too.
Her parents always thought she was strange. Her friends always thought she was strange. Faye was too swept up in herself to realise if she was or was not strange. It didn't matter. Not really.
Faye isn't lonely. She has herself. And she has him. But, she doesn't have him. She has the memory of him, but she doesn't have the body of him. Not yet at least. Faye is an incorrigible optimist after all.
She takes her finger out of her mouth and inspects where she had been pricked. The blood had stopped. She smiles. She began her routine of sewing. She was making poppets. Faye loved making poppets and dollies and clothes. She loved sewing in general, really. As well as cross-stitching and knitting, too. She just loved the feeling of creating something out of a loose wind of yarn or thread.
It was relaxing. Stab once, stab twice, and stab once again and over and over again. It was lovely with how repetitive it was. It was something she was good at; something she prides herself on, even. Faye is not one to brag but she was easily the best at sewing not only in the Deliverance, but in Ram Village. Maybe even the further regions outside of Ram Village too!
Faye pauses for a moment. She examines the little dolly she's made. She smiles. It's some of her better work. Its nearly finished; she just needs to give it a nice crop of hair, she's thinking chartreuse, and then some clothes. Making soft fabric mimic inflexible armour was going to be a challenge but Faye looks forward to it.
Her heart skips a beat. She cups the little poppet dearly and looks upon it with tender eyes. She brings it closer and nuzzles her cheek against it. Soon, very soon, she tells herself as she desires strongly to finish her little project. Her heart skips another beat.
For him, she has bled. For him, she will bleed. For him, she has gone to war. But what would he do unto her?
Faye sours. Alm has done plenty. She swears that he has done plenty. He's smiles at her. He has quelled her fears and she knows that he trusts her. He is such a handsome little dolly. He will be a handsome little dolly.
After all, she holds him in her hands, stuffed with cotton and bound with felt. Faye smiles. The tingle of having pricked her index faded had long faded but now, her digits were alight with a different sensation. This feeling was far kinder, far more loving. It made her feel angelic; glowing on both the inside and the outside.
Love was a beautiful emotion. It was a beautiful vow. Faye was whole-heartedly committed to the pursuit of love. It was the very reason for her being. She would not know whom she was if she were always was without amour that overflows in her pure and gentle heart. She just wishes that Alm would finally notice that she was his.
Faye lowers the poppet she's making back to her lap. She continues the routine of sewing up the body. She thinks happily to herself. Once she finishes this little project, she won't have a thing to worry about. Alm will finally understand. He will finally notice. After all, this little doll of him was sweet and good and stuffed with all of Faye's hopes and wishes. She was imbuing it with magic dear and arcane.
In his little core, she had that which is necessary for a lovesick spell of twisted chastity and earnest obsession. A little bit of Alm's hair, a little bit of Faye's blood, and all of her heart and memories and dreams and wishes. The details were in the hem stitched with love in every stroke. It was going to be perfect. It will be perfect.
Then, once Alm had realised that the one whom he was truly destined for had been there, side-by-side since they were children, Faye could finally know happiness. After all, the princess he had fallen in love, just like the heroine of many fairy tales, was soon to be punished. As ugly as it is, Faye would ensure that. It was inexcusable of that girl who did not have half the memories of closeness that Faye possessed of Alm had been the one to win his heart.
Faye was a girl who worshipped love more than anything. That was the divinity which gave her strength amid the blood and gore of the battlefield whilst she healed wounds. Now, it was time to use those powers for more glorious pursuits. She would purify Alm's heart of the sickly wickedness that possessed him: absence may make the heart grow fonder, but Faye would ascertain that one such lie would perish under her magic.
She patted the top of the dolly's head. She smiled. And if this did not work, Faye had other ideas. More malicious ideas born of pins and needles; malign curses and malevolent practices intentions sewn into the dolly of a princess. For Alm, she thought to herself with all the chipper brightness of a Nephilim girl like her in love.