a/n: This is pure writing exercise; a pointless excuse to blur the line between poetry and prose. It constitutes the musings of some folks we don't often hear from wearing hats they usually only don in the metaphorical sense. Anyway, I blame Wildelamassu, whose works inspired me (hint: go read her stuff).
Three Sisters
"I would die for her, I would kill for her. Either way, what bliss."
-Gomez, the Addams Family
"Our love was such a beautiful thing," she mused wistfully, the fibers pulled inexorably to thread between her fingers. "He was kind, like a baby's laughter; sweet, like water from a spring."
"He was fragile: a demon in the making." The darker voice was teasing in its truth.
"But not to me. Never to me," and the thread pulled her doubts away. "I was the greatest evil that he would ever know. I was the straw waiting to break his back. With a knife. To my throat."
"Don't blame yourself," came a muffled admonition from the loom. With a clack, the shuttle passed from hand to hand: a sharp noise, a certain sound. "It wouldn't have lasted anyway." She shoved a pedal roughly with her foot, dropping one warp to raise another. She threw the shuttle again.
"I thought it couldn't happen. I thought he'd come for me." A tear fell on the spinning wheel, its moisture silvering the thread. "But those hands... I still remember them."
"Don't dwell on it." The shuttle ran its course.
"And when he finally arrived –" her shoulders shook, forming the smallest ripple in the skein.
"- it was too late for both of you. You couldn't have saved him." The dark voice mocked, but sympathized. "Watch out. You'll break the thread."
"I'd never do that. I loved him so!" Her chin trembled, though her hands were still. "But I didn't love him enough."
"And hated him just a little?" For just a breath the shuttle paused, the warps hung suspended in the moment.
A nodded confession sprinkled guilt upon the wheel. The thread stole it away into the spool.
"We understand." Two voices, warm and dark, reached out across the room.
"Do you really?" The curiosity of innocence danced in on the wake of old despair. In the corner, darkness smiled, but it was spite who answered.
"I had a son once, not my own," she hurled the shuttle on its way. "I never really saw him, all his life."
"What did you see?" the soft voice asked.
"His eyes. His hair. His father's betrayal painted bright as fire." The warps changed with a crash. Old anger seeped into the cloth, as pointed fingers twisted in the weft.
"Poor little boy."
"You might say that." A shadowed smirk accompanied the words.
"Don't take his side!" The loom bench creaked. The weaver glared, but in the end the cloth grew once again. "I hated him for what he was, but still, he brought me flowers." Beneath her hands, the weave became complex. "I hated him, and still he loved me better than his father ever did." They all shared in the memory of boyish smiles and fearful hopes and terrified submission.
"You were a monster. Revel in it. It won't change anything." A gleam of scissors echoed in her eyes.
"He was the monster, but only half. For that there's no forgiveness." Her words were cold, her mouth pressed thin; the shuttle caught within the warp.
"A taboo child?" Her eyes were wide. The spindle faltered in its turn.
"A taboo child." She fished it out, the shuttle, and sent it gently across the loom. "There never could be any love for such a creature."
"True," the spinner answered with a sigh.
"You're both such hypocrites," the dark voice laughed. And from the corner, scissors flashed; their edges stropped against a leather belt. "You loved that boy, if only half. If you could have killed his weaker side alone, you would have. As it was, you left a scar; you're part of him forever."
"That's why you understand? You loved that child?" The fibers rustled eagerly to thread. Within her voice a ghost of hope entangled with regret.
"His brother loved him more." Behind the loom, she rolled the bolt, revealing threads entwined. Red and blue wound tight and stained: an old, abandoned pattern. The weaver choked. She hid her eyes. "His brother loved him more."
"It's okay. I understand." The dark voice offered solace.
"I don't."
"You're young."
The weaver wept, but the shuttle kept on moving.
"I introduced my nephew to his death." She stroked the scissors edges with her thumb. Across the room, the spinner shivered. The weaver's tears dissolved.
"That is your nature..."
"I did it for fun." The dark one smiled, all challenge and desire. Upon her fingers, crimson blossomed, rich and deep. She licked them, closed the scissors. "I gave him chaos wrapped in guileless love."
"That can't be true!" The spinner shook her head. The weaver worked.
"I did it twice." A golden thread unraveled in her hand. She broke it down, but kept her scissors closed. "For boredom."
"And for love." The weaver speared the dark one with a glance. "That's why you keep those scissors closed. That's why you'll hand that over again. You're smarter than we are, but no less cruel."
"You could be right." She clutched the softness fondly. The youngest took gold fibers from her hands. "But spin it just a little longer, if you would."
"Of course," the spinner smiled. "I want them to be happy. I owe him that."
"Their love is such a beautiful thing," the weaver reflected, watching with only a hint of bitterness as it rippled across the cloth.
"Hmm... But let's keep it interesting," the dark one murmured, lifting her scissors and a strand of glowing wire.
"We understand."