She was good at what she did. Good, good, so good. Nimble, pointed fingers created and sewed and entire worlds were brought to life. Other beings made of ash and cloth and her own magic. They were perfect. They loved her and did exactly what she wanted.
Always
did exactly
what she wanted.
She wanted. Oh, she wanted. There would be a sharp pain in her chest. It ached and ached and no matter how she rubbed the bony flesh, it never went away. It didn't make sense. She made this world. Nothing happened that she didn't want. Once, her sharp metal fingers had clawed through the surprisingly tender flesh of her chest. A bitter smell of copper filled the room and black sludge slowly began to slide down her chest, down her fingers and wrist. But even then, with hungry, questing fingers searching inside the hollow cavity of her chest, the Beldam could find nothing. Nothing but the skreeee and scraaaaaape of metal fingers against metal bone. Nothing else.
And still her chest ached. She could see into other worlds sometimes. When a mother buttoned her child's raincoat, she could feel the tender caress of human hands against her face. She spied through buttons, watched the lives of families. Mothers tucking their little human girls into bed. The loving press of sticky lips against their mother's cheeks.
It made her chest hurt a little less.
And she wanted.
And she watched.
And she planned.