Her name was Moira.

She was the first child born after the world burned.

Her mothers found her in a charred grove of trees, a cry breaking the silence as they clucked to their herd of sheep, the animal’s hooves stirring up small clouds of white ash.

They looked to each other, one to the other to the other, before all tilting their heads in matching thought.

The smoke cloaked sky darkened as the sanguine sun began to set behind the mountains. After glancing around at the quiet remains of the forest, their sheep snorting through the long cold embers in vain hope of something green, as one, the three women nodded together.

“Lungs as loud as thunder,” Zihna remembered, plaited hair shimmering in the light like a crow’s wing as the spindle spun just out of reach of the four-year old girl sitting before her. Moira knew she was not allowed to touch the magic toy that turned fluffy wool into a single orderly thread, but sometimes temptation was too strong, and her chubby fingers reached for the mesmerizing bit of wood until rebuked.

“Hair as red as the sun,” Jadiel told her, effortlessly measuring out the lengths of newly spun thread from the bundle Moira was holding. Her curling brown hair swayed back and forth as she drew the thread from Moira’s arms, hands moving with years of unerring knowledge as the eight-year old fidgeted impatiently.

“Eyes as grey as the sky,” Mita said, scissors snipping rhythmically as she cut the string into smaller sections, handing each one to Moira without looking and seemingly without hearing the teenager’s loud sigh.

She had heard the story her whole life, but as she grew, Moira found the story only gave her questions instead of answers. The other stories they told her, while teaching her to spin, shearing the sheep, weaving their tapestry, or working the shining golden thread she wasn’t allowed to touch, all felt alive and enrapturing and magical. Her own felt…lackluster. Unfinished.

Zihna was spinning a tale about Spider Grandmother creating the world one morning when Moira interrupted, “Where am I from?”

The older woman studied her, brown eyes sparkling in her ageless tanned face as she set aside her distaff, a long stick holding the unspun wool, decorated with a small, carved crow on top. “We found you in a forest, in a circle of trees.”

“Yes, but where am I from?”

In the middle of the measuring in the afternoon sun, Jadiel paused and tilted her head at the question. “Moira, we have not even reached the part about the rainbow appearing in the sky,” she chided gently, the measuring rod almost seeming to shrink in her hands. “You love that part.”

“But who am I?”

“You are our child,” Jadiel smiled, brushing back the redhead’s hair. “And very loved.”

“That’s not a real answer!”

“And yet it is the truth.”

Growing in irritation, she went to Mita, carefully cutting herbs for tea, and before her mother could start the tale of Durga roaring her challenge to the buffalo demon, Moira placed her hands on her hips and demanded, “There must be more to the story!”

Mita, long black hair twisted into an elegant bun, regarded her with calm jade eyes and continued to prepare the tea, her posture and loud, clean snips unmoved by Moira’s aggravated tone.

Losing a bit of steam in the following silence, Moira finally ventured, “Isn’t there?”

“In fact, there is.” Mita nodded, the sharp blades of her shears slicing through thick stems.

“Really?!”

“Yes. Your story continues with taking the sheep out to pasture.”

Opening her mouth to argue, Moira caught a glance of her mother’s face and closed it with a sigh. Nothing could move Mita when she sounded like that.

Grumbling quietly to herself, she grabbed the crook from the side of the cave and her leather sling in case of predators and went to herd the sheep to the river. Bits of pale green poked up from the white layer of ash on the ground, growing a bit thicker as they got closer to the small stream.

“It’s not fair, Faunus,” she confided in the bellwether of the sheep, who chewed the meager plants sympathetically. “There has to be so much more out there, but we never go anywhere besides the river and the cave, and I’ve never even seen anyone else!”

Faunus blinked at her while the ewes plodded near the bank to munch on the sparse reeds.

“You’re right,” Moira admitted after a moment, wrinkling her nose in resignation. “I’ve never asked to go anywhere. And I don’t even know if anyone else survived the burning. Maybe we’re the only ones left.”

She shaded her eyes and looked up at the sun, shining blood-red through the grey sky. Her mothers had said the sky was once blue, before the world fire, but Moira wasn’t sure if that was another story or not.

“I’m almost nineteen. I could go explore on my own. I know how to forage and weave and survive. There’s no reason why I couldn’t.” She nodded emphatically, and Faunus baa’ed politely in agreement. “I’ll ask them tonight.”

Thinking back to the looks they had given her after her questioning, Moira amended, “Or in the morning.”

~*~

 

“Of course,” Mita responded, pulling the kettle from the fire.

Moira blinked in shock. “Really?”

Zihna smiled as she tended to breakfast. “You’re nearly nineteen. There’s no reason you shouldn’t.”

“Exactly! I mean… I thought you’d say no.”

“Whyever would you think that?” Jadiel asked.

“I… I don’t know.” Filled with a sudden lightness, Moira grinned. “I’ll start packing and head out today.”

“Oh no, not today.”

“What? But you just said⁠—”

“Today is too soon,” Mita told her, handing her a cup of tea.

“But… but when?”

Jadiel tucked an errant curl behind Moira’s ear. “Soon.”

“What on earth does that mean?”

Looking almost amused at her daughter’s agitation, Zihna sorted through a selection of small round stones before tucking one with bluish-purple swirls into Moira’s pocket. “It means we see in tapestries. Not threads.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“Trust us,” Mita’s alto voice responded, the corner of her mouth turned upward just a bit as if at a private joke. “It will.”

The next two days were spent with loud sighs and pointed pouts, which only seemed to amuse her mothers rather than guilt them. On the third morning, Moira decided that perhaps begrudging acceptance might have more of an effect than her previous attempts, and after pulling on her wool cardigan against the gusting wind outside, announced that she was heading out to find new grazing grounds for the sheep.

As one, her mothers rose to embrace her.

“Take this,” Zihna said, pressing the distaff, now clean of wool with the carved crow shining in the light, into her bag. “You have your spindle, don’t you? I’ll fetch it for you.”

“What? I’m not to be spinning, I’m just going to⁠—”

Mita embraced her, then placed the iron shears in her hands. “And these.”

“I’m not going to need⁠—”

“This as well,” Jadiel interrupted, her measuring rod now closer to hand-length than the arm-length it was a moment ago, fitting easily into one of her bag’s pouches.

“Mothers, I’m taking the sheep to the river!” Moira finally burst out.

“We know, dear. Be careful,” Zihna cautioned. “Remember what we’ve taught you. If you look close enough for threads to weave, you will find them.”

“I’ll be back before nightfall!”

“Now don’t fret, Faunus knows the way home.” Jadiel placed a few apples and half a loaf of bread in her bag as well. “For when you wake up. You’ve been practicing with your sling, haven’t you?”

Moira rubbed her temples with a sigh and resigned herself to their fussing, Mita placing a final kiss on her forehead before they sent her off, all waving and smiling as if she was heading out to save the world.

Rolling her eyes to herself, Moira opened the pen and clucked to the sheep, smacking the last ewe perhaps a little harder than strictly necessary out of irritation. The ewe turned to stare at her reproachfully before following the herd out toward the river.

Once they got to the stream, the small bits of vegetation already cropped close to the ground by hungry mouths, Moira glanced around, and on a whim, decided to take them south. While the northern parts of the forest were more familiar and greener, she had never really ventured more than an hour south, and despite the fact that taking the sheep to a slightly newer part of the river was a small act of rebellion, it was an act of rebellion nonetheless.

After walking for two hours, Moira’s temper began to cool as the sheep began to lag. Allowing them to rest by the shallow stream, she passed the time by braiding reeds together and tossing her creations into the river. A soft cracking of branches echoed behind her, but when she turned to look, saw nothing but the slight swaying of leaves in the wind. Boredom mixed with curiosity sent her into the forest, the small herd of sheep grazing contentedly on the bits of grass.

The shadows deepened and the air became cooler the further in she went, but there was still no sign of the mysterious noisemaker. Moira had just sighed and turned around to head back when a sudden gasp caused her to whip around to her left. Her eyes widened as within a bramble of dry branches, four, no, five women were all crouched down near the ground, all staring at her with a mix of fear and surprise.

“Who are you?” She asked after a moment of mutual startled silence.

“Who are you?” One of the women, blonde hair matching her ashen skin, demanded in return.

“Moira Themis. I’m grazing my sheep. What on earth are you doing here?”

“We’re hiding! Get down before he sees you!”

“Before who⁠—”

A satisfied burst of laughter came from behind her, and Moira only got a glimpse of a large, pale form before her world went dark.

 

~*~

 

A dull throbbing in the back of her head finally pulled her to consciousness with a groan. Rubbing the growing goose egg at the base of her skull, Moira’s eyes opened as the sounds swimming around her solidified into frightened whispers and she found herself trapped in a roughly hewn wooden cage with the women she had seen in the forest.

“Where are we?”

“Waiting for Pavor,” one of the women answered quietly, tan skin scratched and dirtied from their capture.

“Who’s Pavor?”

They all turned to her in disbelief. “He’s the leader of the raiding parties. He and his men kill what they wish and take the rest. He’s second-in-command to Deimos himself.”

When Moira simply stared at them blankly, the older blonde woman turned to her companion, a woman about the same age with tightly coiled black ringlets and shook her head.

“Where have you been living that you’re not in fear of Deimos? You have sheep, don’t you? And fine cloth, from the look of it. Where do you live so that he does not take these things?” She demanded, gesturing at Moira’s clothes.

Suddenly reminded, Moira felt around her waist with a growing sense of panic. “Where’s my bag?”

One of the other prisoners gestured to the ground outside their cage. “The men looked at it, then tossed it when they saw nothing but sticks in it.”

Dropping to the dirt, Moira stretched her arm as far as she could go, fingertips just brushing past the woven cloth. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned and pushed against the wood slats as hard as she could, the hewn branches cutting into her shoulder. About to give up, she felt the barest touch of smooth pine against her skin. Opening her eyes, Moira spotted Jadiel’s blessedly familiar measuring rod just within reach. Shifting her position, she clutched desperately at it, letting a huge breath of relief as the rod almost seemed to shift a bit until it fit into her palm, allowing her to pull the rest of the bag closer.

The second it was back in her arms, she dove into her pouch with a spike of fear, her shoulders finally relaxing as she felt all three of her mother’s gifts still inside.

“Is that… food?”

She looked up to see the whole group of five women desperately eyeing the apples and half loaf of bread she had pushed aside in her search.

“Yes? Would you like⁠—”

Before she could finish offering, the small portion of food had been snatched hungrily out of her hands and immediately devoured as if they hadn’t eaten in days—which after noticing how thin their wrists were, was probably true.

“What’s going to happen to us?” She asked the woman with ebony skin and coiled ringlets, who had introduced herself as Eshe and the older blonde as Lysha.

“Depends on what Pavor wants. He could give us to his men to play with or present us to Deimos as tribute. Might send some of us to the mines, or the ash fields. Who knows.”

As Eshe explained their possible fates in a flat, almost resigned voice, Moira’s grip on the warm wood of Zihna’s distaff grew tighter and tighter. Forcing herself to swallow and loosen her fists, her fingers brushed against the cool iron of Mita’s shears and sparked an idea.

Bending down, she examined the thick twine that held the rough slats of pine in place.

“This is just string.”

Eshe frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s just thread, holding the cage together. That’s it.”

“It’s enough,” Lysha remarked acerbically.

“If…” Moira glanced around and lowered her voice even more. “If there was a way to cut through it, could you get us somewhere safe? Do you know where we are?”

The women stared at her for a moment, then Lysha angled her head to keep an eye on the guard nearby while Eshe gave her a single nod.

“Yes. We’re not far from our village. Selima will help keep us safe.”

Moira took a deep breath, then bent down to the ground. “At dusk, we move.”

“The twine will dull any knife you have,” Lysha told her, raising an eyebrow.

Smiling at her with more confidence than she felt, Moira shrugged a bit. “We’ll see.”

She tried to pick her moments carefully—even with most of the other girls standing in front of her, the guards could still spot her if they looked close enough. As the men changed guard, talking with each and leering at the caged prisoners before walking further away, Moira brought out her shears, the metal cold in her shaking hands, and slid it around the rough twine before pressing down with fearless precision, as she had seen Mita do so many times in her life.

To her utter shock, the blades cut through the string with hardly any resistance at all, nearly causing her to drop them in surprise. Moira gaped at the thick cord on the ground, then looked up to meet the equally stunned expression of Eshe standing above her.

“What the blazes kind of edge is that?”

“I… it’s my mother’s,” was the only explanation she could offer.

“They’ll be coming back any moment now. Hurry!” Came the hissed warning from the front, and Moira shook her head to focus. Despite Lysha’s fears, the scissors parted each loop of cord holding the series of wooden stakes together just as easily as the first one. By true nightfall, they could push the bars apart enough to send the smallest women out into the tall grass with instructions to wait by the large oak just visible in the flickering firelight.

She and Eshe had just sent Lysha out to the tree and were about to leave themselves when a loud, angry roar came from across the camp.

“You idiots! Where are the prisoners?!”

Her terrified green eyes met Eshe’s determined brown ones. “It’s Pavor. Run.”

They both quickly shoved their way out of the cage until Moira’s bag got caught on one of the loose slats. Yanking frantically with the shears still in one hand, she tried to pull her way free when thundering steps shook the ground and a crushing force encircled her wrist.

“Let me go!” She screamed, tugging uselessly at the immovable grasp of the huge man standing above her. Pavor smiled cruelly and lifted her into the air, breaking the slat that held her captive into splinters and dropping her bag to the ground, scattering its contents.

“Causing trouble, are we? I’ll show you trouble!” He growled, Moira’s heart stuttering in fear. Without warning, Eshe appeared out of the corner of her eye, swinging the rock in her hand directly into Pavor’s face, leaving a long gash along his cheek. With barely a glance, he swung around and pummeled his fist into Eshe’s chest, sending her body flying to the ground.

Struggling with renewed effort, Moira succeeded in pulling her hand free of his grip, but he was still clutching her mother’s shears tightly. He turned to her with a snarl and backhanded her across her face, and for a strange moment, the iron scissors felt more like a taut string reaching its end, slipping from her grasp as she fell back with a cry of pain.

The sudden lack of resistance sent Pavor reeling, his hand jerking back in surprise as his foot somehow got fouled up in Zihna’s distaff. He hit the dirt with a loud gasp that slowly petered out as he locked gazes with the petrified Moira. Strong hands startled her by grabbing under her arms as Eshe’s voice hissed, “Get up! Now!”

Forcing herself to breathe, she crept forward to grab her mother’s shears out of Pavor’s unmoving hand, eyes widening as she saw the puddle of dark red beneath his thigh. Swallowing hard, she snatched the scissors, somehow untouched by blood despite clearly causing the deep slice in the man’s leg.

Blindly, she stuffed the shears and the fallen distaff and measuring rod back into her bag and followed Eshe into the darkness, trying to leave all of the night’s actions behind her.

~*~

 

The rest of the night was spent alternating between dashing while bent over and staying still as they avoided Pavor’s men searching for them with brightly lit torches. By the time the first pale streaks of dawn were creeping into the sky, they had finally left the horde of angry men behind, and were recovering their breath while gulping down cold water from a small pond, the blackened ruins of what might have been a house on the edge of the bank, now covered in moss and leaves.

Once she had regained the ability to talk, Moira approached Eshe with pressed, pale lips. “That man—Pavor. He was… he was dead, wasn’t he?”

Eshe turned to her with unreadable eyes, then nodded once.

“Did I… was it because… am I the one who…” She could not bring herself to finish the sentence. She had helped her mothers kill and butcher deer and goats and rabbits before, but this… this was something altogether different.

“His own actions brought his demise,” the older woman responded flatly. “He deserved that and so much worse.” Glancing at her, Eshe laid a firm, but not unkind hand on her shoulder. “He met his fate at his own hands. There is too little justice in this world. I rejoice to see at least some of it done in my time.”

Lysha was motioning the group to finish up and continue their journey, and as Moira kept her footsteps soft and low, Eshe’s words continued to echo in her mind.

At last, after a full day and night of constant travel, they came to a village with a small wall made of dirt and wood layered on top of long-charred remains of twisted black metal. Moira’s travel companions rushed through the open cobbled-together wood and steel gates to be greeted with hugs and grateful tears. A pang of homesickness struck through Moira’s heart. It had only been two days, nearly three, but it still felt like ages since she had last seen her mothers.

The buildings looked to be made with the foundation of collapsed metal buildings, with mud and wood serving as the new walls and roofs, an odd look of fallen structures repurposed by both man and nature.

She looked over to see Lysha and Eshe speaking to an older woman, curled auburn hair liberally sprinkled with white as her face, marked by laugh lines, turned her direction with a thoughtful expression.

Eshe waved her over with a reassuring smile, and with only a bit of hesitation, Moira stepped forward.

“Selima, this is Moira. Moira, Selima is the founder of our village. Why don’t you tell her what happened the last few days?”

Unsure, Moira shifted her weight until Selima smiled so like her mother Zihna that she found the words tumbling out of her mouth, from talking to Faunus about her frustrations to setting south of the river to waking up in a cage and the crazed aftermath.

At some point, Selima sent the other two women away, bringing Moira into a small home and pouring her tea that both eased and compounded her heartache.

“Sounds like you’ve had quite an adventure,” she remarked bemusedly when Moira had finished.

Attempting a watery smile, Moira lifted one shoulder half-heartedly. “More than I wanted. But now that I’m here, I just want to go home.”

“Hmm. Unfortunately, it is not quite that simple.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear, that word has spread. Pavor has fallen at the hand of an unknown girl with hair as red as the sun. The news has brought much hope, and much unrest.”

“But I didn’t do anything! I didn’t mean to kill him; I just wanted my mother’s shears back and he slipped and…”

“I understand, dear. But it is not so much about what you have done, it is much more about what it means.”

“What it means?”

Selima settled back onto her chair, shifting into the instinctive posture of a storyteller. “When cruelty reigns, every year can feel like a lifetime. Life becomes less about living and more about surviving, with the hope of change growing smaller each day.”

She nodded out the open entrance, where dogs and chickens wandered past knots of gossiping folk. “The sky used to be blue, you know. Before the Burning.”

“I’ve heard,” Moira said, looking up to the grey yellow horizon.

“But you do not believe?” She guessed with a grin.

Shrugging sheepishly, Moira answered, “It just seems hard to imagine, is all.”

“Yes. Because you have only known it to be so. The same way, those who have lived under injustice, under fear, begin to forget a time when it was not always so. That is what you have reminded them of. That even the weight of tyranny can be moved, can be shifted, can be defeated.”

Selima tilted her head, eyes growing distant in thought. “You know, I had a daughter with hair just like yours, before the Burning of the World.” The older woman’s fingers twitched sadly, then lifted and gently brushed back Moira’s unruly curls, the way her mothers always did. “Her name was Hope. She’s been gone a long time now, but I keep her with me always. Do you know what hope means?”

Blinking at the sudden question, Moira scrambled a bit. “It… means to wish for something, right?”

“Not quite. It is the expectation of a better future. It is looking forward, and knowing that we can continue on, despite our circumstances, because they will change, and change joyfully.”

Setting her teacup on the ground, Selima stoked the small fire and added, “That is why Deimos cannot let this go unanswered.”

“But I didn’t kill Pavor on purpose!”

“Purpose matters not. You have given people hope. They have begun to look for change, and if he leaves it long enough, they will make changes themselves. Come, we must prepare.”

Trailing behind, Moira was about to protest more when a young man rushed up and began telling Selima scouts had spotted movement in the forest to the east. Deimos was on his way.

~*~

 

At the hastily assembled gathering later that evening, Moira tried to pull Selima aside.

“I can just go. I’ll leave and then he’ll follow me and leave your village alone.”

“It’s not that simple, child,” Lysha interjected with a sympathetic look. “They’re after all of us. Not just you.”

“Either way, we’re fishers and farmers. How are we supposed to survive against men with iron weapons? There’s a rumor Deimos himself has a gun,” one of the villagers objected, the small room filling with murmurs of agreement. “He’ll be here in a day, maybe two. And what have we got? Wood and nets, for all the good it will do us.”

The arguments grew louder and louder while a distant memory of sitting at Jadiel’s feet, watching the threads spin as her mother’s voice crafted an enchanting tale slowly encompassed Moira’s mind. Glancing up, she saw Selima watching her, and the older woman simply gave her a knowing smile and permissive nod.

“My…” she started, but her words were lost to the crowd. Trying to imitate her mother Mita at her most intimidating, Moira cleared her throat and spoke again, this time breaking through the pockets of noise.

“My mother,” she nearly shouted, then softened her tone as quiet fell over the room, “used to tell me a story of a small boy facing a huge giant. The giant had armor, and weapons, and an army to command, and was threatening to take the boy’s home—to enslave his people. Everyone else was too frightened to face him, but the boy was not. He believed he would be given strength to fight the giant, to protect his people.”

She peeked over at Selima with a flicker of a grin. “He had hope. All he had was a sling and some rocks, but in the end he triumphed. He killed the giant, they defeated the invading army, and his people were safe. Even if we have nothing but ropes and rocks and weavings, can we do any less?”

A hush followed her words, with Selima giving her a proud nod, until Eshe stepped forward with a raised eyebrow.

“Pretty words. Have you a plan to go with them?”

She swallowed. “I do. Have any of you heard of a place called Troy?”

 

~*~

 

The attack came at dawn.

The horde of men emerged from the forest led by Deimos, dark hair braided and decorated with gold, a rifle over his shoulder and bloodied war axe at his belt, who studied the suspiciously quiet walls across the clearing for a moment, taking in the shut gates and absence of any guards or sentries. But the blood-hunger of his men was too loud and pressing to be held for long, so with a single sharp chop of Deimos’ arm, they rushed forward with rough axes and spears and swords towards the silent village and its shut gates.

As they crossed the open pasture at full speed, an abrupt cry went up from pockets at the front and side. Most of the men rushed onward, but soon more shouts and screams came from fallen comrades as small groups of them suddenly fell to the ground and disappeared from sight. The force began to slow a bit as they turned and saw their comrades trapped and wounded inside pits hidden by woven nets of grass and leaves, lined at the bottom with jagged bits of metal and sharpened spikes.

Word traveled back to Deimos, who growled and commanded them forward. “Are you animals, to be frightened of pits and traps?! Break down those doors and show these cowards what true strength looks like!”

His men advanced, but grew wary as even more soldiers fell into the covered traps. Soon they were testing the ground as they stepped, shying away from areas that looked too flat or trampled. As their progress slowed, paying careful attention to the ground, they did not see the woven grass mats on the edges of the clearing slowly shifting aside to reveal strung bows and nocked arrows rising from the shallow pits.

“Now!” Eshe called, and a flight of arrows from both sides of the grass launched into the air to land in unsuspecting backs. As Deimos and the remaining men whirled around to try and locate their attackers, a small trumpet blast came from behind the dirt-enforced walls, and the rest of the villagers began their assault, throwing fishing nets lined with hooks, sharpened spears, and rocks from slings at the increasingly confused army of men below.

With a guttural roar, Deimos joined the charge, using his blood-soaked axe to force his men forward even as he swung it at the groups of defenders retreating into the forest. Marshalled into some kind of frightened order, his army began returning flights of arrows at the wall and at whatever movement they could see in the clearing.

Moira was doing her best at her position on the wall, slinging stones as quickly and accurately as she could while keeping her head down and staying out of the way of the villagers around her. A firm hand squeezed her shoulder in comfort, and Moira smiled up at Selima as she continued to call out positions and encouragement from her post at the front. It seemed like the battle was finally turning their way, with the number of Deimos’ men starting to shrink and most of them beginning to panic when Deimos, face splattered with blood and hate, spotted Selima shouting out orders on top of the wall.

Dropping his axe to the ground, he unshouldered his rifle, set his cheek to the stock, and fired.

In the deafening silence after the shot, Moira watched in horror as Selima fell.

Tears stinging her eyes, she scrabbled at the ground for another rock, but her stash had run out. Breath loud in her lungs, Moira frantically looked for some kind of ammunition, hugging herself in terrified desperation as she saw nothing around. Stopping at the slight discomfort by her hip, she reached into her pocket and found the bluish-purple stone that Zihna had placed there what felt like so long ago.

With a strange sense of calm, Moira nestled the stone in the leather pouch, then gripped the woven rope and spun it once, twice, three times before releasing. The small rock soared across the battlefield and cracked soundly against Deimos’ forehead. He stumbled back, only to be hit again with arrows sent from Eshe’s bow.

Heedless of Deimos’ fate and the faint cry of victory sent up from the villagers, Moira rushed to Selima’s side, where her colorful patterned robes were turning dark with blood. She was barely aware of the gasps of shock coming from the people around her, focusing only on putting pressure on the gushing wound while Selima smiled gently at her.

“It’s alright,” she said softly. “It must be my time.”

“But it’s not!” Moira shouted at the world as much as to the older woman, then blinked as she realized it was true. She could feel that it wasn’t the end of Selima’s life yet—as if her thread was frayed, pulled apart, reaching for the rest of the cord that should be there.

She looked up to see Eshe, Lysha, and the other women she had escaped with, running up and staring at her beseechingly, as if they knew she would help. As if she could help.

“Thread,” she mumbled suddenly, reaching into her bag with blood-stained hands. “I need thread! Wool, string, flax, anything that means something to her, to you. Something to spin, something to weave. Hurry!”

Fumbling, she pulled out her spindle, a thin string of Faunus’ wool already wound at the bottom for a leader yarn. Murmuring apologies to Selima, Moira cut a lock of the woman’s greying auburn hair, then added a much larger hank of her own red mane, twisting them onto the wool to start the thread as she gave the spindle a gentle turn.

The wooden stick and disc began spinning, slow at first, and then faster and faster as Moira poured her focus into it. Men, women, and children began wrapping their gifts and offerings around Zihna’s distaff, topped with the smooth black crow, filling it up with blades of grass and bits of cloth and snippets of strings. She spun and spun and spun, her mothers’ voices filling her mind with ancient stories of power and heroes and victories and losses, slowly unwrapping the distaff as the thread began to twist and glow, the ancient stories giving way to the love the people of this village felt for their leader.

Stories of Selima’s life before the Burning, the children she raised and lost, the people she helped and healed and found in the ashes of the world. Tales of her songs and words of wisdom and tears and anger as she helped form and found this place of safety amidst loneliness and danger. Sacrifices she had made, gifts she had given, the ripples of effect her kindness had on the lives around her.

It was not yet her time.

As Moira spun, the distaff emptied, and without seeing, she felt for Jadiel’s measuring rod. She could see the end of Selima’s time, older, greyer, surrounded by family and friends and tears and love. The measuring rod sang all this to her, its song growing softer and softer until Mita’s shears somehow appeared in her hand. With a final, immutable movement, the thread was cut, and the song ended ⁠with a loud gasp of air.

Opening her eyes and forcing them to focus, Moira saw the robes still stained, the people still gathered with wide eyes and white-gripped hands, but Selima was breathing easier, and the flow of blood had stopped. Numbly, she placed her spindle, the distaff, the rod, and the shears back into her bag, then looked at Selima and managed a smile before promptly collapsing.

 

~*~

 

She picked through the forest purposefully, but without haste. As her mothers had said, Faunus knew his way home, and so did she. All she needed to do was follow her feet.

Selima and the villagers were grateful, sending her off with as many provisions as she could carry, but they also had questions. Too many questions that Moira had no answers for. So as soon as she was able, she thanked them all, and went out into the forest with a strange sense of calm about her.

As she reached the river, Moira grinned and picked up her pace a bit, following the faint hoofprints along the bank up to the cave that held her mothers, her home, her heart. The sight of Faunus and the rest of the herd milling contentedly in their pen finally broke through the steady pace she had been trying to maintain.

“Zihna? Jadiel? Mita! I’m back!” She shouted, skidding into the mouth of the cave before stopping short. Everything was as she had left—herbs drying for tea, fire crackling in the hearth, the bundles of wool roving piled neatly in the corner, but with no one to be seen. Turning her head, she set her bag down and continued to search for any sign of her mothers, stopping in front of the tapestry all three had worked on in turn for as long as Moira could remember.

It was finished, cut free from the loom it had sat on her entire life. It hung beautifully on the wall, depicting three women that looked like her mothers, one spinning, one measuring, one cutting, followed by impressive cities and rulers and wars. Near the bottom of the tapestry, Moira leaned forward to trace the circle of trees with a small baby in the center, surrounded by fire, then sheep, then three birds flying in a circle; a black crow, a white dove, and a beautiful peahen.

“Welcome home.”

She spun around to see her three mothers standing outside the cave with identical looks of love and pride. Rushing forward, Moira threw herself into their embrace, letting out a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“I was so worried when I didn’t see you! There’s so much that happened and I’m sure you have questions and⁠—”

Her words halted as a sudden thought occurred. Stepping back, she looked between her mothers and the finished tapestry and too-neat home.

“You’re leaving.”

It wasn’t a question, as much as she wanted it to be.

Zihna nodded. “Yes.”

Jadiel smiled. “It is our time.”

“And yours,” Mita said as she placed her hands on either side of Moira’s face.

Forcing herself to speak past the lump in her throat, she asked tearfully, “But why?”

Her dark hair shining in the sun, Zihna’s ageless face studied her own. “We have woven the loom of Fate for time immemorial.”

“We have been distant, impartial,” Mita explained, the corner of her lips twitching up, “immoveable.”

“But now,” Jadiel squeezed her hand, “it is time for you to carry on our work. For Fate to intermingle with Justice. That is your story, my love.”

Mita kissed her forehead and stepped back. “One only you can tell.”

Zihna gave her one last hug. “One only you can live.”

With a faint shimmer, her mothers’ forms began to fade, shifting from young girls to mid-aged to ancient women before transforming into birds. The crow, dove, and peahen all circled her, then flew upwards into the sun, disappearing from view.

She watched until her eyes watered, whether from the setting red sun or her breaking heat, she could not say. Turning back, Moira saw the contents of her bag were laid out carefully on their table. Distaff, measuring rod, shears. She touched them all in turn, savoring the warmth and comfort each gave her, before tucking them back in her bag once more.

Clucking to the sheep, Moira Themis set off into the forest, sorrow mixed with proud purpose, as behind her, the barest hint of blue crept over the horizon.