Having finished her evening prayers, Delilah headed to the church with every intention of preparing it for the midnight service. In particular, she was bearing a small cup with a bit of the soup that a neighbor had brought over; it would serve as a warm offering for the Cailleach and then could be washed into the ocean later.
Her head was respectfully down as she entered the church. Delilah let out a small, startled chirp as she was greeted by what she had assumed was an empty room. However, the fright quickly gave way to a warm joy that sat behind her sternum. "Cress," she purred. "Blessed nightfall to you as well."
She crossed gently to the altar to lay the cup upon it and glanced around. "Normally I'm a little early to tidy up, but seems like you've beat me to it." Her eyes sparkled with slight concern. "How are you feeling?" It was rare for Cress to be out and about, and certainly doing something as mundane as cleaning the altar.
Cressida hummed, nodding at the strangeness of their predicament. "I suppose I am the one who is early," she conceded playfully, though there was still a heaviness between her brows. "I came seeking clarity. A moment with Her, or perhaps a greater attunement to Her words. She has been coming through so strangely," Cress shook her head, as though it might cause the fog to dissipate. It only blossomed a dull ache. "Something is shifting. Certainly you can feel it--" she searched for acknowledgement with gentle scrutiny.
"Eugene Miller." Gabbi filled in the name, somberly. "You were too young to have your sigil then." Gabbi recalled. "I know, because it was the year I got mine. but I was too fresh-marked then to be given such private access." And honestly, seeing the one this time, she was glad she hadn't seen it. "I hear it's the same mark. I believe it." It wasn't a mark one would soon forget. "Have you had a vision of another body?"
"I have had...visions, yes," Cressida's brow furrowed, though her eyes stared, empty. She was seeking them out, trying to recall what had come so vividly. But now there was only haze. The Veiled One was playing tricks. "But it's unclear. I wonder...do you suppose they're connected?"
"I did." Gabbi said, after an instinctual look behind them. She felt comfortable discussing freely with one of the twelve, but it was imperative to know they were alone before she did. So although she knew it, she checked. "My Veilmother showed me. I'm sure you saw it too." She was sure it looked, to Cress, familiar.
"Do you recall..." Cressida began, voice dipping an octave lower, "that there was another death, many years ago--" Cat's father. She remembered the night -- and that fateful morning that followed -- well. Cressida chewed on her words, mulling them over with care. "Had you seen that body, as well?"
Gabbi chuckled, taking the entirely accurate jab in stride and nodding. She pulled on her wheels, bringing herself up the ramp and near the altar. “I’m not empty handed.” She corrected, pulling a little bundle out of her sack on her back. A loaf of bread, still steaming. She broke it so the smell could escape faster, and left it on the table. It was certainly less than usual, but not nothing.
“you have my ear.” Gabbi agreed. If one of the twelve wanted anything from her, her ear or her soul, it was theirs. “How can I help, dear?” Because despite it all, cress was still younger. the word came from habit more than malice. Really, it wasn’t appropriate, but it was just them and the goddess right now. What safer company could a girl keep?
Cressida watched the steam rise from the loaf, swirling, dissipating until it faded away. There were many questions she held in her heart -- inquiries that would die there, unable to take corporeal form. She wanted to ask about Eden's mother, about the way her reading had unfolded. She wanted to ask about life beyond Ridge Harbor. Were there other cities? Did they worship other deities out there?
Instead, she settled for a minor transgression: "Did you see the body? The one with the sigil carved into its..." No, not its. His. It was a person that had died.
"Is she here?" Eden asked, sitting up and supporting herself for a moment. "Mama?" she called up, looking around for her. A message had to come from a sender. her mama had to be watching. "I'm trying my best." She promised. Even though she'd always been a fuck up- too impulsive, too inquisitive, her mothers had always believed in her. and now she was running the coop and the market alone. She was trying her best. She always would. "I love you too." Because if there was any chance her mama could hear, Eden wanted to say it.
"Thank you." She said, turning to cress. "I... I needed to know." She reached behind her and pulled out her carton of eggs. It didn't feel like enough, but it was what she'd brought.
Cressida was growing in her discomfort, overcome entirely by it, by the surge of uneasiness that crept up her spine and down her throat. She nodded, wordlessly, taking the eggs. Then she bundled her sticks, stood, and walked home.
Eden didn't notice the lack of embrace- she just needed to hold something, to feel the breath. Cressida didn't hold her back, but she also wasn't pulling away. Neither did eden. Not even when she spoke again, although it got her attention.
"Who does?" she asked, shifting her head to look down at the sticks again. mama? or the goddess? one of those was significantly more welcome than the other, but Eden had always been curious by nature. She needed more.
"Your...mother," Cressida clarified, though it was difficult to be sure. The spirits were so intertwined. All energy returned to the goddess and the earth. "It's reassurance." She reached forward, grateful to slip from Eden's touch. She lifted the oak stick, "be strong." Be resilient as the mighty oak, and trust in your power. "Maternal love remains constant."
all of it was. This was Cressida doing the reading, speaking directly to the goddess. Eden sat and watched her mother's lifetime flash before them both, stick by stick, beat by beat. It was her mama. her brave, remarkable, one-of-a-kind mama.
And the last stick.
she's okay. Eden hoped, wished into the gap. she went on a long journey. The goddess will bring her back soon. but that wasn't what she heard. Really, in her heart of hearts, it hadn't been what she'd been expecting either. Carly Fisher was not the type to abandon her wife and daughter without warning. She was dead. She always had been.
But still. the realization cracked something in Eden. That last bit of hopeful denial. Cressida was right, her mama was dead. There was a beat, two, and suddenly she couldn't see straight anymore. The tears had filled up her eye sockets, until they were dripping down her face. She sniffed, and wound up burying her face in cress's shoulder. It wasn't her mama, but it was warm, and it was here.
"I miss her." Eden whined, because she couldn't cry like this to Ruth, who missed her harder. Because she wouldn't let herself mourn if there was a chance her mama was alive, and up until this moment, there had been. "She was the best."
The breath left Cressida's body when Eden touched her.
She stilled, body going rigid at the unfamiliarity -- and something like anticipation. No one touched Cressida. Only the High Priestess. Only the Veiled One. And even then--
But Eden was weeping, her body wracked with heavy sobs, and though Cressida's mother was still alive, there had been an untimely severing of their bond. She understood the sensation of loss. Of being raised by someone wonderful and having them torn from small, childish clutches.
"I'm--" What? Sorry for your loss? Cress' hand lifted, hovering uncertainly over Eden's arm. Touch, she knew, was meant to be a comfort, but hadn't she already given Eden enough? Her heart sped, pulse tripping as it quickened, and she thought about gathering her sticks, demanding her payment, and running off.
But she sat frozen, eyes still downcast on the sticks until her mouth no longer felt numb: "She has a message."
Eden sat on her knees, although she looked nothing short of extremely awkward about it. She put her hands under her behind, rocking back and forth with the words. They were familiar and foreign. It reminded her of years spent in a mother’s lap who wouldn’t speak to her now. Encouraged to cry, because the banshee would hear. And told, as she got older, not to touch anything. She didn’t hold enough favor to get that honor.
maybe she should go. Maybe it would work better.
but when she opened her mouth to suggest as much, she caught cress’s steady face in the moonlight. She looked transcendent. “Please.” She muttered instead, closing her eyes. “Hear us, see us, tell us.” She breathed it more than said it, the plea bringing emotion to her face until it was all screwed up.
When Cressida opened her eyes, the sticks peered up from their fateful fall, and she spent a silent moment observing each one in its place. The sticks had meanings, as did their order, but there was an element of divining that was needed to make the reading whole. It required attunement -- focus, connection, more a portal than a living soul. The ancestral spirits informed the wood, and Cressida closed her eyes, feeling the weight of their presence, her head lolling forward.
"Beith," she murmured, reaching to touch the first stick: birch wood. Slowly, blearily, her eyes opened. "It speaks of new beginnings and a strong, vibrant life force. This symbol suggests that your..." The skin between her brows creased in uncertainty, "...mother was born into a life imbued with promise, her spirit kindled by the natural world. Beith encourages resilience -- a reminder that every ending is also a start."
Cressida touched the second stick: "Luis. The Rowan tree is a protector, a guardian against unseen dangers. Though she faced hardships -- perhaps even threats, unseen forces worked in her favor. Luis whispers of a protective energy that surrounded her, cushioning her as she navigated tumultuous times."
She frowned: "Fearn is next. Alder wood. She reached a turning point, a moment when the veil between this world and the spirit realm grew thin. It led her away from the physical world into a deeper plane of existence. Saille, the Willow tree, tells us that loss in inevitable. That grief is part of the cycle. There is pain in every transformation, and so each beginning is born from an end. You've been mourning. Suffering. These are not eternal wounds."
Cressida offered up the final stick: Dair -- Oak wood. "She--" Her throat felt swollen, tongue too thick. This was ill-advised. She should take her payment and go. But Cressida could not leave the reading incomplete. The Veiled One forbade her from cutting it short. "Her mortal form has faded, but her spirit lives on. She is one with the goddess in sacred partnership."
"am I not always?" Gabbi asked, a hint of a smile on her face. The truth was, she always left her home early, but her residence was stationed on the border of Their Side. She had to travel the entire length of town to make it to pray, usually gathering friends or getting sidetracked as she went. It was pretty hit-or-mostly-miss on if Gabrielle would make it to the actual building early. "Blessed nightfall, Cressida. How was your day?"
"Perhaps I am merely surprised you made it alone and empty handed, then," Cressida conceded, lilting playfulness in her tone. Moreso, she was surprised to see Gabrielle without Delilah. Mentorship between women was important within the congregation, and there was no doubt the pair shared a sacred bond -- one that Cressida, admittedly, envied. It was a small sensation, an ugly little sin in the back of her heart. She'd cast it out. It could be let from her body, like blood.
"It is only just beginning," she mused, longing for the moonlight, for some external energy source. The High Priestess grew demanding at night. She said it was when the Cailleach spoke most clearly. "I'm pleased to have your ear," Cressida redirected, the soft veneer of concern shifting across her face. "I have an inquiry. Perhaps you could help me."
The north shore. Moon rise. Just as Cressida had asked.
“hello,” she called out, before she made her way to the form on the beach. Eden made veiled people jumpy. She knew that, and she could at least try not to spook the woman who was doing her such a favor tonight. “I brought the eggs.” She started, eyes cast to the ground. It felt odd, to look one of cress’s status in the eye. Even if technically she held no power over Eden, it was hard to remember it in Eden’s bones.
she saw the symbol, but tabled it mentally. She needed to ask her question quickly, before Cressida decided this was a bad idea. And cress would, if Eden asked too many questions about the mark in the sand. “I want to know what happened to my mama.” She asked. “Carly. Ruth’s wife. She’s been gone for months.”
Cressida's breath hitched, the sound imperceptible against the rush of water to shore. "It doesn't work like that," she warned, though Cressida knelt to the ground anyway, unfurling a worn cloth over the place where the mark had been. Thick, carved staves settled in the center. "If you want something concrete, perhaps you should consult the authorities--"
But they both knew that would be fruitless. Eden's expression told Cressida this was a last-ditch effort. And despite it all, Eden still believed the Veiled One could guide her. She still believed. Cressida gathered the sticks in her hands, the lot held up precariously. "Sit."
Cressida's eyes fluttered shut, though her face turned upward, the soft glow of moonlight radiating, transforming her into a ghostly being as she drew in a slow, quieting breath and began her gentle incantation:
"Ancient spirits of the living wood,
Whisper your wisdom, deep and good.
With roots below and branches high,
Guide my heart and clear my eye.
I welcome your counsel; I open my soul,
In your sacred presence, I am whole."
And then she cast the sticks out over the fabric, which hid the sigil beneath.
She dug her toes into the sand, though it was cold and damp, caking and cracking where she wished it would crumble. Cressida stared down at the grey, lips pressed together tightly. The man had been found here, with that terrible symbol carved into his back. She crouched down, hand lingering over the sand, as though afraid to touch. What if it stirred something? Something ancient and hungry? Something that was not her goddess and not her friend?
But Cressida took her pointer finger and drew the shape, carving slowly through the sand. When she finished, she paused, holding her breath. A moment passed. Then another. Nothing. Cressida exhaled, shoulders sinking in relief as she stood. "Ridiculous," she murmured, peering down at it -- that horrid, cursed sigil in the sand.
The midnight hour drew nearer, and so the veil between worlds grew thinner in turn. Cressida had returned from the northern shore, from divining power from the moon's light, and her own had dimmed from exertion. In place of prayer, which required so much spirit, she tended idly to the church. She tidied the pews, then replenished the altar -- replacing the wilted flowers, pouring mulled wine into a goblet, nicking her thumb and spreading the blood along the metal rim. Stepping back, Cressida took her thumb in her mouth, laving over the wound until the metallic taste faded, and she turned toward the low creak of the wooden door.
"Blessed nightfall," she greeted, tucking the weariness away. It made her too mortal. "You're early. No one else will be here until at least a quarter to."
Ogham sticks, she hadn't used those since she was little. It had been awhile since she'd been allowed to touch them, even. her bad energy polluted religious things. She didn't want them, but it was an interesting offer. Didn't need tinctures either. In fact, it would've been smart to take coin. She opened her mouth to ask for it, but instead...
"Can you ask the goddess a question for me?" she asked. "with your sticks? She doesn't speak to me the way she speaks to you."
Cressida considered the request, the hesitation evident. Divining with a tool required less energy, but it still took from her. And to ask a question of the Veiled One? For one who had strayed? "Yes," Cressida replied, cautious hand splaying over her satchel, where the sticks were wrapped in a strip of thin leather. "But not here." Which was to say not now. There was no hiding from the goddess, but her instruments were mortal. Theirs eyes and ears could only reach so far. "It's a full moon tonight. I'll admire its rise on the north shore."
Before she was molded into the cold, unyielding weapon of the divine, Cress was a curious child – a lively girl enamored by the Cailleach’s creations and by the enormous possibility of the world. But she was plagued with visions – flashes of a future too potent to ignore, and too fragmented to understand. Others whispered secrets of a fate intertwined with the ancient powers of the Cailleach, and they hinted at a destiny of both glory and unbearable sacrifice.
Her best friend was Cat, and their lives were a vibrant tapestry of whispered secrets and daring escapades carried out in the rare blindspots of Ridge Harbor’s watchful eyes. Their friendship tinged poignantly in adolescence, nurturing a budding, forbidden love. One secret, starlit night, away from prying eyes, they shared a delicate, tentative kiss — a fragile rebellion against a world that demanded unyielding obedience. But when they returned at dawn, chaos had erupted.
Cat’s father was dead.
Suddenly, Cress was overwhelmed by a violent vision. Collapsing onto the shore, she traced an unfamiliar marking into the sand — the same marking carved into Cat’s father (a body she hadn’t seen); the same marking carved into a man who would wash up years later. She began to seize, losing consciousness, though when she awoke, their lives would be forever changed.
When her gift became known, the Twelve convened in hushed urgency. They seemed capable of governing fate itself. And so Cress’ was altered. Their decision was swift and irrevocable: Cress was to be given, without question or recourse, to the High Priestess, the austere and unyielding custodian of their sacred rites, to be raised deep within the confines of (and therefore within the control of) their church.
Under the High Priestess’s stern tutelage, Cress was remade as her ward.
Her childhood curiosity was gradually replaced by an all-consuming devotion, her every waking moment dictated by endless prayers and ceremonies designed to honor the ancient Cailleach. Cress became not a person with dreams and desires, but a tool forged in the crucible of ritual, crafted to embody the will of a power far greater than herself. She was transformed into a living symbol, an icon revered and idolized by the devout who saw in her the flawless manifestation of divine destiny.
In the now seemingly impenetrable cage of her upbringing, Cress encountered the Rafferty boys. Courage was tender and kind, good with animals. Honor was eager, devout, talented at spinning stories. Their father, Joel, served the Twelve, and so they were some of the few people permitted in close proximity. She clung to any thread of connection, any momentary companionship that came her way. Courage cared for the other Rafferty children, and as Cress wormed her way into his sphere, he began to care for her too.
She and Courage shared whispered confidences and gentle dreams of liberation. He never shied away from her questions, though they bordered on something dangerous, and in an act of confidence, he shared with her a terrible, wonderful secret. His forbidden love for Thomas Baker – a spark of hope that offered a glimpse of a life beyond the rigid confines of divine duty. Cress had felt her own longing, though she knew little of love. She treasured the knowledge – and the trust it signaled. For a time, Cress thought the Cailleach had blessed her with a new family.
But it wasn’t enough.
The High Priestess was brutal and exacting, and her inquisition – which left Cress heartbroken and battered – was misguided in its quest. The High Priestess couldn’t marry. Her life belonged solely to the Cailleach. And yet, given her closeness with the Raffertys, there was fear that Cress had fallen in love. That she had forgotten her place. That she had prioritized her own selfishness, forsaking the Veiled One in pursuit of evil, which was to say autonomy. The High Priestess demanded a confession. There was still time for atonement. Penance could be made. Cress begged against it, fighting an inevitable end she’d already known – the vision of this having plagued her in fragmented pieces for years.
In a moment that would forever alter the course of both their lives, Cress divulged Courage’s secret – a revelation that served as both punishment for Courage’s defiance and a demonstration of her own unwavering faith. That betrayal was the final price she paid to secure her place among the sacred. Courage was taken, and Cress was rewarded with her seat among the Twelve. One step closer to the ultimate throne.
Her public mask is flawless. To the faithful, she is the unshakeable embodiment of divine grace and sacrifice, destined to merge with the Cailleach in a final, transcendent ascension. Yet behind that mask, her soul bears the indelible scars of betrayal and loss. The visions that once heralded her unique destiny have grown ever more brutal, their torment a constant reminder of the heavy cost of her ambition. With each passing day, her body and spirit weaken under their relentless assault, and the memory of her betrayal of Courage haunts her like a ghost.
In the silent, oppressive corridors of Ridge Harbor, Cress endures as both a monument to duty and a prisoner of her own choices. The bitter irony of her existence is etched into every scar and every whispered prayer: in securing her ascension and earning her place on the Twelve, she sacrificed not only her own humanity, but also the chance at a love that might have freed her.
And so, as the promise of divine union looms ever closer, Cress faces a harrowing truth – one that questions whether her destiny is one of salvation or of an eternal, unyielding doom.
Jericho paused with the jar still on his lips, eyebrows raised in anticipation. "It's interesting," he mused, smacking his lips. "You only seem to finish sentences when hurling hurtful - but, I'll admit, fantastically worded - insults. Is that just how your brain processes information?" He lowered the jar and licked his lips, looking her over as she... gave herself a nice little hug.
"I would," he continued, rolling his head to dolefully look back at the ocean, "but my skin itches whenever I make the journey back home. Probably the radiation poisoning, but I've heard I can get a cream for that." He shrugged and let the jar bounce against his leg.
"But I get it." He took a single step sideways and away from her, the water pooling into the footprint he left behind. His face fell into a practiced neutrality. "Hopefully that helps with the rancid, radiating... radiation."
Surely, she was being punished. Yes, that's what it was. A test to pass, or a toil to endure; this outsider was sent to deter her, to see if there were limits to her faith, or...
Or...
"Is that of interest? The way my mind works?" Brigid felt the heat of her palms radiating against her chest, proof that there was energy coursing, completing her metaphysical circuit. She thought to snap again, to recommend he bother Zelda then (for a tincture to soothe the itch, or for something stronger, that might hopefully rid the world of him), but she merely watched him sidestep. A foot farther without any reprieve.
She swallowed, feeling smothered, choking on the odd, twisting vines of his energy. It slithered over her, up her thighs and around her torso, snaking higher until her neck was encircled in its grip. And all the while, he sat there nonchalantly. Placid on the surface, and yet beneath... She could feel it: the storm in him, having been long eager to brew--
Abruptly, Brigid stood.
"Fine," she sputtered, backing away unsteadily, fingers at her throat. "Stay. Pollute the--" A gasping breath, "the ocean. I'll go."
Eve's brow furrowed because what kind of fucking question was that? Her mouth opened and then closed a few times and she felt more and more like a fish than a person. Finally she came up with an answer, "Try again? Look at things from another angle?"
"So there is no question you cannot answer? No mystery that evades you?" No, Brigid didn't believe that. They were human. They were flawed. Small and inconsequential, incapable of understanding the true metaphysical powers present within the world. Eve could look at this a thousand ways and come up empty, but the truth was that she'd likely settle. A half-truth, or a lie -- something the human mind could handle. They were so adverse to uncertainty, so afraid of the unknown. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the heel of her hand, leaving her skin red and warm. "You're a fool."
"Okay. Y...yeah." She could do that. It was easy enough, actually. Eden nodded, a brief pause in her usual response time. Eventually, she stuttered into motion, the habit catching up with her. "I make the carton's myself. There's a deal with them. If you bring back your carton next week, I'll give you an egg for free. You barter for the rest. Which, oh, speaking of... what do you have to trade, Brigid?"
"Quite the steal," she appraised, without any sincerity. Brigid's expression was hollow, eyes empty, vision elsewhere and here. It was like this -- and had been for as long as she could remember. The odd sensations, like a second sight, ghosting over this moment in strange ways and from beyond her (or something above, or behind...). "Coins. Tinctures," Brigid spoke, gesturing to the basket hiked up on her hip. She felt far away, not entirely within her body. "For maladies, for protection. Or...I did bring my Ogham sticks, if you wish..."
There was a pause then, as if Brigid were waiting for Eden to make her selection, or that she had perhaps forgotten that they'd been exchanging words at all. Brigid blinked, eyes focusing, narrowing in on the girl. "What would you have for payment?"
