Brennen
Saoirse sits curled in my lap, playing with the carving I made her for her birthday. It’s a miniature lamb, with fluffy hair and delicate ears. She giggles as she pretends it’s walking up my arm, and despite everything happening—the women, the Cutter, Bea—my heart warms.
I shift under her weight.
“When did you get so big?” I ask, wiggling back and forth, pretending to be uncomfortable.
“I'm six now, don't you remember?”
“Aye, you are. Not so wee anymore.”
Our siblings sit around the hearth, playing jacks on the floor or reading. It’s been nice being home the past three days, seeing them all healthy and happy.
“This is what I wished for on my birthday, you know. For you to come back,” Saoirse says.
“Is the lamb I sent you not enough?” I joke.
“No,” she says, tone turning serious. “Will you make me another? I think he needs a friend.”
I laugh at her blunt honesty. “Well, if he needs a friend, then, aye. Of course, I’ll make you another.”
Garrik comes from the kitchen, taking the armchair next to me. “Speaking of birthdays,” he says. Saoirse perks up at the package in his hand. “Didn’t you just have one?”
“I did!” Saoirse’s eyes light up.
“Well, I decided I couldn’t come for a visit without bringing you a gift of my own, could I?”
Saoirse squeals as he hands the parcel to her.
“Tell me, Saoirse. Do you still like scary stories?” Garrick leans in, his eyes bright with mischief.
“Of course I do.” She rips open the package, her eyes going wide as she looks at the leather-bound book in her hands.
“It’s a collection of stories,” he says. “Fairy tales. Some of my favorites.”
She turns to me. “Can I go read it?”
I’m about to tell her yes when Garrick stops her. “Why don’t we have your brother read the first story to us? My da used to read it to me, and it’s been a long time since I’ve heard it.” His eyes bore into mine, and I tense. I know this look. He’s up to something.
“Oh, please, Bren. Will you?” Saoirse asks, and her excitement curbs my suspicion enough to crack open the book.
“Of course,” I say, warmth filling my chest that she still wants me to.
In the beginning, the Three were One.
One heart. One mind. One pair of hands.
And yet, it was too much for One soul to carry alone.
With every thread she spun, she smiled. And every life she measured long. But along with endless lives came suffering. The One could not bear to cut the threads she had so tenderly woven. And yet, they begged her for death, their bodies withering away in agony, their minds slowly failing.
And because she loved her people so, she listened. With trembling, sorrowful fingers, she severed their threads, tears streaming from her eyes and flooding the realm.
And so, the river formed.
I pause, eyes flicking to Garrick, but he’s staring into the fire. Why give Saoirse a story about the river—the Fates—now? Clearing my throat, I continue.
It flowed to the end of the land, her tears carrying the souls of the departed into the After where the goddesses dwelled.
“Why do you cry?” the goddess of death asked the One. “I gave you power. I gave you magic, and yet, you still weep.”
“What good is power if I have no one to share it with? When I’m forced to kill what I created?” she asked.
And the goddess took pity on her, fracturing her into three. From that soul, The Weaver, The Measurer, and The Cutter were formed.
Three hearts. Three minds. Three pairs of hands, created to work together to allow the passage of life to be gentler for all. The living would not suffer past their time. The Cutter would not have to end her own children’s lives.
And so the river born of her tears gently flowed, nourishing the After.
For a time, they worked together. There was balance.
Until the day a thread frayed. A thread belonging to a girl meant to be the youngest of three mortal sisters. Her life had been woven into theirs before her thread ever came to be, but somehow, it was incomplete.
The Weaver believed she should destroy the thread and begin again.
The Measurer insisted she must work within the length that had been woven.
The Cutter, uncomfortable with imperfection, yearned to cut away the damaged edge, regardless of her sister’s measurement.
And because they could not agree, they did not act. The thread sat ignored, and without magic to sustain it, it turned to dust.
Unease fills my gut at the image, and I falter.
“Keep going!” Saoirse says, impatient as ever.
Garrick finally looks at me. “Aye, Brennen. Keep going.”
I narrow my eyes at him, returning to the story.
For the first time since its creation, the river faltered. The water surged, and the deep black mist of the After crept up from below. At the river’s end, darkness rose, overtaking the earth. The earth rotted where it touched; anything alive unable to survive it.
And inside the deep black mist, the frayed soul was trapped, desperate for release. Afraid and alone.
As the soul haunted the river, anger and resentment hardened the Three. One by one, pride blinded them, and each believing they knew best, began to do as they wished.
The Weaver wove threads as long as she pleased.
The Measurer measured lives too young, only to spite her.
The Cutter cut without regard to the Measurer’s will. Magic faltered, and the earth grew dark. A rift formed in the sky, and monsters descended.
“The Epoch,” Saoirse says, her delicate features flickering in the firelight.
“Precisely,” says Garrick. “Is this scary enough for you?”
Saoirse gives a tight nod. And while I do see fear in her eyes, there’s excitement there as well. “Well, what happened?”
I tuck her closer. “Is it too scary? I can read you a different story.”
Her eyes open wide. “I’m not a baby, Bren, and I’m not afraid of the Epoch. You’ll protect me from it.”
I press a kiss to her blonde curls. “Aye, I will,” I say, picking back up where I stopped.
The two mortal sisters felt the pull of their missing piece, and so they followed the river, their hearts aching without her. But when they found the young girl haunting the shore, she could not be saved.
But if she could not leave, they decided, neither would they.
Hand in hand, they stepped into the darkness that destroyed all it touched, and the river held its breath.
But the goddess had been watching.
She had seen the Fates selfish ways. Witnessed their ploys for power. But in the mortal sisters, she saw something new—selfless, sacrificial love.”
Saoirse squeezes me tighter.
She struck down the Three who ruled with so much pride, and their magic unraveled, flowing back into the earth, and with a kiss to each of the mortal sisters' brows, she blessed them.
Their bodies healed, and their lives extended past what had once been measured.
But the goddess did not grant them endless reign, lest the temptation of unfettered power become, once again, irresistible.
The sisters, knowing they would never succumb to such things, agreed to rule, and with the goddess’s blessing, they clawed their way through the After and back above, ready to govern as one.
Until once again, they didn’t.
And once again, the monsters came.
Garrick’s stare grows sharper as I finish, and when I look up, he’s leaning forward, arms braced on his knees, examining me.
“Why didn’t they?” Saoirse asks.
Garrick doesn’t take his eyes from mine as he answers her. “That’s what makes the story so scary, isn’t it? Even the sisters who had once loved each other wholly and truly fell victim to the temptation of power. If left to rule too long, everyone does. It’s a tale as old as time.”
She yawns. “I should think I’d like to be a Fate. I’d have all the magic I could want, and I would do good with it. I wouldn’t go bad, like the sisters.”
I ruffle her hair. “I have no doubt of that,” I say. She smiles softly, closing her eyes. “Alright. Time for bed,” I say, tickling her sides. She groans, but stands, as do my other siblings. When I’m finished saying goodnight, Garrick is still sitting in his chair, staring into the fire.
“A dram?” I ask.
“Aye,” he says, and I notice a letter in his hands. He breaks the tense silence as I hand him his glass. He takes a sip, raising the piece of paper. “I received word earlier of a ceatharnaich group discovered in Braemuir. Another in Dalrannoch.”
I shake my head, settling back into my chair to take a sip of whiskey. The liquid burns, warming my belly immediately.
“Why is it, you think, so many resistance groups form before the Epoch?” Garrick continues, but this time, the question is probing. He wants an answer.
“Why the sudden interest in the Epoch tonight?”
He lifts his chin, waiting for me to respond, and I sigh.
“Is it no enough that they wish to overthrow the Fates?” I ask.
“Have you ever stopped to think about why they want to overthrow them to begin with?”
I stiffen, still unsure if I can speak my true feelings aloud. “They fear the monsters that will come. Misplace their anger that the Fates are not able to protect everyone.”
He shakes his head, laughing darkly. “You really think the queens couldn’t protect every last subject, should they care to?” A dangerous ember of hope flickers in my chest. His words are just as close to treason as my thoughts about the disappearing women.
“Whatever your question is, Garrick, ask it,” I say.
The fire crackles in the hearth, a loaded silence pressing between us. “Am I wrong, that maybe I'm not the only one beginning to doubt our queens?”
The air is stolen from my lungs. I try not to react, because what if this is a trick? His way of learning if I’m a traitor myself.
I dinnae think it is, but how can I be sure? My eyes dart to my siblings' bedrooms.