Singing Sisters

Originally posted here May 1, 2019

writing-prompt-s:

After beating the hero near death, the villain is finally told that the hero isn’t even 18 yet. Now the villain is taking the hero to go fight the gods who had sent him, looking to stop them from endangering kids for their own benefit.

A/N: This is… not quite what was asked for.

He came shouting accusations, he came with god-touched weapons and interrupted their singing. He threw the spear at her and almost caught her a painful blow. Silphia nearly struck his head from his shoulders in one swift blow, before she saw that he was shaking. Before she saw the youth etched in his face. She caught herself in time, and nearly snatched the other weapon from his hands. The net she threw into the fire. Her hearth had been burning since before apes were born, it could destroy anything wrought by man or god.

“You stole my little sister!” He was quaking with anger. “You made the drought! The gods told us!”

“And they sent you, an untrained child, with weapons you cannot wield, against me,” she said. “Come inside. Hyacinth and Anise will sing for you, and we will make you supper.”

“You will not steal me so easily.” He launched himself at her.

She caught him around the waist. “I could kill you easily,” she said. “I have not taken any children. I have not seen any humans, not for centuries. I thought you had forgotten us.”

He raged like a cat, but she scruffed him neatly as a kitten. She picked up his spear and broke it in one strike on the ground. “That would have killed you,” she said. “If you had laid it into me? It would have struck you dead.”

“What?”

“There is good hearty soup to eat, with crusty bread and honey,” she said. “You have been sent to die, but I will not allow it, not on my lands. The waters of your birth soaked the earth I sowed, long ago, but your heart’s blood will not darken it this day.”

He blinked at her.

“What’s your name?”

“Mileos.”

“Mileos, the Bold,” she named him. “You’re a growing boy, and you’re scrawny. You need food. You can tell me all my evils while you eat.”

He was from a village. Which village didn’t matter, every village, town, and city was near her. Every place that touched earth was. His village was suffering a series of woes, including the loss of almost all children under the age of ten. She listened attentively, and he ate ravenously. He was furious with her, but his fury died as his hunger was sated. As he spoke, he began to nod.

“You drugged me.”

“I fed you,” she said. “You are hungry and scared and you’ve been marching for days, of course you’re tired. You’re safe. I’ve offered you my hospitality, no harm will come to you under my roof. It’s a law older than your gods.”

He was too tired to do anything but accept it, and when he woke he was more trusting. He told her more.

The others were coming, other children with god-touched weapons.

“How old are you? Fifteen?”

“Sixteen,” he admitted, kicking the dust.

“Where are all the adults?”

“The gods said that only children could wield the weapons.”

She shook her head. “The gods made the weapons, they make the rules. Do you not have battle-ready adults in your town? Veterans? Hunters?”

He swallowed, and nodded.

“Who makes more sense to send after me? Callow untrained youths, or hardened warriors?”

“The warriors,” he admitted.

“You are strong, and brave, but you would do better tending to your flock.”

“How did you know I am a shepherd?”

“You smell of lanolin,” she said. “You are a shepherd of sheep. I’m a shepherd of the earth, I know these things. Now, where are they coming from?”

It took almost no time to gather the other children. The more she had at her side, the easier the rest folded. She brought good bread and honey and hard cheese to eat, and they supped, and went on, gathering the rest. Then they returned to the town, her sisters in tow, singing sweetly.

The townsfolk turned out. They did not know how to react. Some were armed, some ran to their sons and daughters.

“I am Silphia the Deathless and I have many names. I am here because I have been accused,” Silphia said. “Tell me your grievances. Form a line, and accuse me.”

They didn’t know what to do, but they perched on chairs that the children brought out, and the whole village turned out to watch. 

Accusations came one after another. “You brought disease. You brought drought. You drowned the lambs. You soured the milk.” One rang above all the others. “You took our children.”

Finally, everyone had said their piece.

She raised her hands, as there was angry muttering. “I am Silphia, this is Hyacinth, and Anise. We are sisters and we are older than the earth. We are drought and heat-baked earth. We are plague and pestilence. We are floods and furious storms. We are many things. We are the wind, strong and gentle. We are the sweet days and gentle nights. We are the patch of land the spring lambs found to save them from the running waters. We are the good harvest and the sweet milk. We sing for the dead. Death touches our earth and we remember their names and sing for them, so they are never forgotten. We were here before you rose from clay and we will be here to sing the final name in the growing dark.”

Nobody knew how to respond.

“Here is what we are not. We are not child-takers.”

A sigh went up. Somehow, in their hearts, they had known it. 

“The gods did this.”

“We will fight them!” Mileos shouted.

The crowd shouted. 

“No.” The three sisters spoke with one voice.

“That is not the way. Tend your crops. Herd your flocks. Weave and mend and sew. Do not pray to them, do not rage at them. Forget them. We will find your lost children and send them home. But first, we have gifts. Mileos the Bold, step forward.” 

To each child that had come to her, armed. To each child she had disarmed, she gave them something. Mileos received a shepherd’s crook that would point the way to lost lambs. Linna the Littlest received a hatchet that would remain sharp and never cut her. Borea the hunter received a spear that would kill a boar with a single blow. 

She gave them gifts fit to their station. A loom that would never need to be repaired for a weaver, needles that were sharp and would thread easily for menders and sewers, awls that wouldn’t puncture flesh, only leather. Gifts for hunting, for mending, for farming, for home and hearth and food and warmth. 

“Mind your flocks. Tend your crops. Mend your rent garments. We will send your children home.”

And one by one, the small children came home. Bearing bread and cheese, smelling of flowers and anise, they came home. They were clean and had been fed and were smiling. They said the earth was warm under their feet and that singing sisters sent them home. 

The gods were defeated, not in great battle, but in loss. The gods who asked so much and took so much and offered so little, they withered in the wind, forgotten.

The deathless sisters were forgotten, too. They prefer it that way. They are still here, of course. There is iron and copper in their bones. Instead of blood, the mud of the earth and hot magma pumps inside them. They are stronger than gods, and will not wilt just because they are forgotten. They are not here to be remembered, they are here to remember.

They are the earth and the sky and the storms that rage and the quiet rain, they are spring flowers and winter blizzards. They are the joy and rage and quiet and fury of nature, and they will endure.

They tend the earth they weave they mend, and they sing our death song. 

If you smell hyacinth and anise and a flower you can’t name, and turn your face into the wind, if you feel the earth warm under your feet, walk until you catch the scent of bread. 

If you do all this and listen carefully, you can hear them singing. You may even hear the names of those you’ve lost, your own dead, and know that they will never be forgotten. Long after you are gone, their names will still be on the wind.

And yours, of course. And yours.