Title: Wrong (Companion to 'Threads')
Word Count: 100
Location: Undefined
She stares at the creature, and they both stare back, two entities in one body, ripped and torn and terrifying.
Her fingers itch to grasp at his threads, pull them together. Someone has let the pattern go wild, and that is something she cannot abide.
But sometimes order must be sacrificed. Her siblings taught her this. The war taught her this.
"What's your name?"
"Smeagol." There is something wrong in this voice. His/their eyes are too full. But wrong can right wrong. Perhaps.
"How do you do?" A rustle of skirts, a sigh. "Sandrilene fa Toren, at your service."
