"It scares me," she says after a pause, her voice cracking slightly. "I don’t understand it, and I don’t know how to control it. And... and it’s not just the power." She bites down on her lip again, harder this time, until it turns white. "It’s her. The Morrigan. I can feel her, Tiernan. Like she’s watching me. And I don’t know what she wants, but..." Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head.
"Brigid," I say carefully, stepping closer. My instincts scream at me to reach out, to take her hand or something, but I hold back. She’s already vulnerable enough without me pushing into her space. "You don’t have to go through this alone. Whatever’s happening—" I stop myself, unsure how to phrase it without sounding dismissive. "I’ll help however I can. We all will."
Her shoulders tremble, and for the first time, she looks up at me fully.
"Thank you," she whispers, and for a second, she looks like she might cry. But instead, she straightens, taking a shaky breath. "Tiernan, it’s not just the Morrigan," she says again, softer now, her words careful and deliberate. "It’s like I can see these, I don’t know, threads. Lines, strings, whatever they are. They’re everywhere, connecting people, places, choices—" She stops, her hands twitching at her sides like she wants to reach out and pluck the invisible strands from the air. "And when I look too closely at them, they move. They shift like they’re alive. Like they’re waiting for me to do something with them, but I don’t know what."
I stay quiet, letting her speak, even as my mind races to piece it together. Threads of fate. Connections. It sounds ancient, divine, yet unlike anything I’ve learned in druidic teachings. My first instinct is to ask questions, to analyze, but I stop myself. This isn’t about figuring it out; it’s about listening. So I listen.
Her voice drops lower, almost a whisper. "Sometimes I’ll catch sight of one thread, and it—it pulls me in. Like I’m supposed to follow it. But when I do, it’s overwhelming. I see things I shouldn’t—" She stops, shaking her head. "Things that haven’t happened yet. Or maybe they have. I don’t know. It’s chaos, Tiernan. And I can’t stop it."
"How long has this been happening?" The question slips out before I can stop it, but she doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, it feels like she needs someone to ask.
"Not long. A few days," she says, glancing down at her hands. Her fingers curl slightly. "At first, it was just flashes. Glimpses in the corner of my eye. But now..." She closes her eyes briefly, and when she opens them again, I see fear there. "Now it’s constant. Everywhere I go, everything I touch—it’s like stepping into a web I can’t untangle."
The imagery she paints lodges itself in my mind, vivid and sharp. A web of fate, infinite and intricate, ensnaring her. How could anyone navigate that without losing themselves? I want to tell her it’ll be fine, that we’ll figure it out, but the truth is, I don’t know if we will. And I won’t lie to her. Not about this.
"Brigid," I say after a moment, my tone steady despite the unease twisting in my chest. "You said the threads shift when you look at them. Do you feel like they’re reacting to you? Like they’re tied to your emotions, your decisions?"
She hesitates, her forehead creasing as she considers it. Then she nods, slow and reluctant. "Sometimes. Other times, it’s like they’re leading me somewhere. Like they already know where I’m supposed to go, and they’re just waiting for me to figure it out."
"That’s heavy," I admit, running a hand through my hair. It’s all I can think to say without turning this into an interrogation. Because, as much as I hate to admit it, I don’t understand what she’s going through—not fully. I can only imagine how suffocating it must feel. And I hate that I can’t take any of it from her. I have visions, but they are nothing like what Brigid is describing.
I fall silent. The grove feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath with us. She’s looking at the ground, her fingers twisting at the hem of her sweater in that nervous way she does when she’s trying to keep herself steady. Vulnerable, but not breaking. I wonder if she even realizes how strong she is, standing here and sharing this when I know it’s the last thing she wants to do.
The threads of fate. Shifting, leading, reacting. I try to make sense of it, piece it together in my head like a puzzle. Is it connected to the Morrigan? Or is it something else entirely? If it’s tied to her emotions, then what happens if she loses control? What happens if—no. I stop myself. Thinking like that doesn’t help her. It doesn’t help me.
"Do they… hurt you?" I ask finally, keeping my voice low, careful. "When you see them. When they pull at you."
She exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Not physically," she says. "But it’s overwhelming. Like being caught in a storm you didn’t see coming. Like drowning.”
My stomach knots at her words. I want to reach out, touch her shoulder, anything to ground her. But I stay where I am, letting her have that space. "You’re not drowning," I say instead, my voice firm. "You’re still standing. You’re in the storm, Brigid, but you’re not losing yourself to it. Don’t forget that."
She doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in, slow and deep, eyes lifting to meet mine for a second before darting away again. There’s so much in her expression—fear, exhaustion, determination—but also that guarded edge she keeps around herself like a shield. I don’t blame her for it. I’d be the same, maybe worse, if I were in her position.
The silence stretches between us. It gives me time to think, to really take in what she’s just told me. The threads of fate, the pull of them, the power she’s barely holding onto. I can’t ignore the implications, or what it might mean for her—and for everyone around her. This isn’t just about her anymore; it’s bigger than that. Bigger than either of us.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s carrying all of this alone because she doesn’t trust anyone else to help her. Maybe she doesn’t think we can. And maybe that’s why she’s telling me now. Because she needs someone to hear her, even if they can’t fix it.
"Brigid," I start, but then stop myself again. The words feel too small, too useless. So I let them go, falling quiet again. Another beat of stillness passes, and I watch her carefully, waiting for her to look up.
"Brigid," I try again, quieter this time, but steadier.“I don’t know exactly what you're dealing with,” I say slowly, choosing each word like a stone to step on, careful not to misstep.“And I’m not going to pretend I do. But I know you’re stronger than you think. And whatever this is—whatever it becomes—you’re not alone in it.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak right away. I wait, letting the quiet sit between us for a moment longer, because I know she needs it.
“You don’t have to carry all of this by yourself,” I add, softer now, but firm.“I’m here. For as long as you want me to be. We all are. We’re your mates and we’re not going anywhere. I promise.”
Her shoulders drop just slightly, and she exhales through her nose, a sound that isn’t quite relief but isn’t resistance either. Then she nods once, almost imperceptibly.
"Thank you," she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I don’t push for more. Instead, I offer her a small, faint smile—one I hope doesn’t come off as pitying—and turn toward the path we came from. She falls in step beside me, her pace matching mine without hesitation.
By the time we reach the edge of the grounds, Brigid’s hand finds mine. This simple gesture feels more important than anything before it. Her fingers are cool against my skin, but the grip is firm.
I squeeze back, a silent promise that I’m here, that I’m not letting go.
Chapter Twenty Six
