Long-forgotten Fireflies finds her doll huddled outside, its display case's well-polished glass shining in the little nook between two of the building's many trash cans.
She hums happily and kneels down beside it.
"Hey, Lace. What are you doing out here?"
It doesn't meet her gaze.
It's garbage day, but they're so far into the concrete forest that the truck won't reach them until the evening; that vast thing rumbling past is just a bus, no matter its grasping arms or Lace's hopeful gaze as it passes it by.
"This one is waiting, Miss."
Fireflies doesn't ask what it's waiting for. The other question matters more.
"... why, Lace?"
"It just is."
"That's not an answer, dear."
It glances up into her face, ready to flinch away from the disdain and anger it's sure that it will see.
What it flinches away from is far, far worse.
Lace sees nothing but compassion in her age-wrinkled mask; nothing but kindness in her eyes.
It can't bear that; can't bear the idea of being seen by something that it knows shouldn't look like that at it, can't bear her gaze—
She catches it by the scruff of its neck as it tries to throw itself into the road.
"Now why would you try to do that, Lace?"
Her voice is reproving but tempered with far more sadness than Lace would prefer, and so it struggles for a several seconds before finally going limp.
"This one, you, it," it stammers, words piling up until the meaning drowns beneath them; Fireflies lets it go on for a bit, hiding her amusement, before she finally interrupts Lace's rising distress.
"Slowly, dear. One thought at a time. Pause for breath. You know how."
It takes a long, deep breath, tears burbling up around its too-big eyes; a bubble of something not entirely like snot pops on its little button nose.
"This one isn't good enough for you, Miss. It's old and worn out and you should have a doll who doesn't stumble at simple tasks."
"Is this about the cup you dropped?"
It squirms; for a moment its hands rise towards the old scars all along its arms, but it hasn't been allowed to have proper claws in decades. "Not just that, Miss."
"What is it about, then? And that wasn't even one of the good cups."
Lace breathes in and out, hiding itself in compliance with Fireflies' instruction; but a pause can only last so long, and once it has its thoughts in order it must speak.
"It just ... it just doesn't feel like it's good enough for you. This one makes so many stupid mistakes ..."
"And? Lace, I make stupid mistakes too. All the time."
"You're a witch! You're supposed to bite off too much and fight with the world. But this one is a doll."
"You are, yes. But that doesn't mean you have to be perfect or anything, dear, just try your best."
"But ... but this one should be perfect. For you."
"Lace, no. You're supposed to be you, with all your flaws and quirks." She sighs. "If I wanted something perfect I'd ... I don't even know. Perfect isn't real. I want you, not some impossible fantasy."
It sniffles. "But it's getting old, Miss. It's struggling more, and it's not as pretty as it used to be. It's not good enough."
Fireflies sighs again; they're just going in circles, and she's sure that it's just going to keep on going.
"... fine, Lace. But you're not allowed to throw yourself away."
"But, Miss ..."
"If I ever decide to get rid of you, which I don't think I will, it will be by my choice. Not yours. Not you disappearing while I'm distracted."
Lace sniffles again, snot rolling down its face.
"B-but ..."
"No buts, no objections. You're mine."
Fireflies drags Lace into a hug, uncaring of the dollish liquids smearing across her dress; it cries more freely at the warmth, at the softness, at the touch it thought it was too worthless to ever feel again—
She doesn't let go of it as she stands up and grabs its display case, nor as she carries it back inside; the door slams shut a moment after the garbage truck's rumbling tread and gnashing jaws begin to shake the street outside.
It's not a conclusion, but a reprieve.
When I originally posted this on twitter, I added some additional context:
For a few decades after the Third Fall, it was fashionable for small-witches to choose names which echoed the forms of the titles their cousins have earned through persistence, skill, and power.
Long-forgotten Fireflies took her name in those years.
It's commonly believed that the fashion was spurred by the notoriety of beings like Lavender of the Shrouded Sun, the Astral Witch, and She of the Empty Places, but as with most things involving witches it's hard to say for sure. Sometimes things just happen.
Such names tend to draw from the form of mid-tier titles; they echo the witch's interests and personality, or at least what the witch believes those to be.
They never include the "of".
That's bad luck.
There are many, many cases of witches who chose a name in anticipation of a title finding that their eventual title is completely unrelated. Some of them keep their name (such as Unchecked Growth, The Witch of Dew-speckled Decay); others abandon it.
Witch names get very silly very quickly; witches are almost always a bit chuuni, even if they try to hide it beneath layers of power and control.
It's hard to bend the world to your will if you're not.