[Glimpse, RRH] The Hawthorne wand and the Doll maker.

Content warning: body harm and body horror.

Il faut souffrir pour être belle.
Beauty is pain.

They probably weren't thinking of this when they said that.


Riley sat half-naked, their front placed against the cold ivory touch of the seat before them. Their hands outstretched, the wrists would be bound if such things would work on a changeling. So instead, the Darkling had to splay their fingers and not pull away.

The Dollmaker daintily admired each of the nails that would be offered in sacrifice for the services to come. Her cold fingers assessed each in turn like one would at a gem market. Taking in their flaws and qualities before pulling forth the instrument for the job. It was a glove of sorts, with long spindly spikes for fingers. There was a liquid quality to the tool as it twitched unnaturally upon her hands. Delicately taking a nail and slowly raising it up from its seat on the edge of Riley's finger.

The pain was sharp, excruciating, and sudden. The nails peeled upward, tearing from the cuticle in an immediate plucking motion, before being de-sleeved from the flesh beneath like a knife from its block.

The Darkling gasped and tried not to flinch at each moment. It was quick, the hob moving with Route expertise in the action. However, for Riley, it lasted much longer. Their eyes squeezed shut, their jaw clenched as they weathered the pain.

Beauty was pain.
Riley thought the worst had passed, the price was paid, their compensation awaited them. They were wrong.


One, Two, Three.

Their toes buckled, cracking beneath the pressure of each step, each swift motion. The grinding of bone and cartilage.
Their feet were not enough to fly. Imperfect, unfitted for the art. They worked beyond their capacity, ground beyond flesh, muscle, to the bone. The routine demanded more; she demanded more.

The Hawthorne wand was adorned by obsidian needled, Dripped in the aether of brilliant green. Glowing with potential.
Riley hissed sharply, their back arching as the needled wiggled its way under their flesh, kissing the muscle and blood beneath.

"Do not move," The doll maker said, pressing a free hand into the Moths shoulder, pinning them to the cold flat of the chair. Riley gasped at the chill but nodded in obedience.

Their hands and arms flicked and twisted. Elegant, sharp, precise in their motion. Trained to perfection. But they were too slow; they heaved with each breath, they did not sing as they should. They were all too human for the audience's enjoyment. They had to be more, draped in colors unimagined, trailing the winds and light beneath them. They had to rise above the rest, grow, transform.

Riley focused on their breathing as the esoteric sigils were sealed beneath their skin. The spell burned, far worse than the sun that had cursed the Darkling with these scars. It ran through them like lightning to the blood. Scorching and boiling them from the inside. Their breath was haggard, their eyes couldn't see for the tears, and eventually, the pain all but blinded them.

You need this.
              You need to become.
                        Be more.
                                Beauty in all things,
else you become like those who cannot
fly.


The Darkling gripped the arms of the chair and hissed a defiant breath as the Hawthorne wand was pulled back. Their skin felt tight, crawling as the spell did its work. Tightening and smoothing, their skin was its clay. The Dollmaker's painting brush trailed their scars, guiding the spell to do its job. The hobs movements are almost sensual as she painted perfection onto the darklings flesh.


Il faut souffrir pour être belle.
Beauty is pain.