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“I just don’t understand,” I grumble, dipping the bowl into the lake and refilling it after yet another failed attempt. “It came so naturally before when the Severed attacked.”

I set the bowl down, fold my legs under me, and lean back on my hands. I moved everything to the floor a few hours ago, worried I was going to pass out if I made myself stand much longer.

“Tell me one of your Mother’s stories,” Branwen says, sitting down next to me. Reaching out, I run the tip of my finger around the bowl’s smooth rim and glance at her warily.

“Why?”

She shrugs. “I’m just curious. My mother always told me stories growing up, but they were the same fairy tales every kid hears. Snow White, Cinderella, etcetera, etcetera.” She leans over, bumping her shoulder into mine playfully. “I want to hear one of yours.”

“Alright,” I reply, thinking back to the dozens of stories my mother told and retold over the years. There were so many of them. So many random tales she wove from nothing but her own memory and imagination. I don’t even know where to begin.

I think back, remembering the sound and cadence of her voice. The way she used to play with my hair absently while she talked. The sound of her heartbeat in my ear when I laid my head on her chest.

“Once, a long, long time ago,” I close my eyes and my mouth tips into a smile. She always began her stories like that.

“There was a weaver who lived in the forest. She was widely known to be the best weaver in the kingdom. Butchers, Blacksmiths, housewives, and Kings alike would come to her, begging her to make them one of her beautiful creations.”

“The Weaver had a secret—she knew how to weave life into her designs. Her art was beautiful, but it was the special pulse of life that brought people from far and wide to offer her riches beyond compare for just one of her weavings.”

“One day, a messenger from the palace showed up. The Weaver greeted him cordially and offered him refreshment, as she did with all her guests. But the messenger was in a hurry and refused. He told the weaver that the Queen was going into labor, and the one thing she asked to have for the child’s birth was a blanket made with the life of the Earth, so he may stay grounded all his days and rule justly when it came time to take his father’s throne.”

“Oh, is that all? Just the fate of the entire kingdom, that’s all they need,” Branwen mutters, but when I open my eyes, hers are twinkling with mirth.

Smirking, I let my eyes flutter shut once again and continue the story. I run my finger around the rim of the bowl, the action soothing and repetitive, making it easier to recall the story in a strange way.

“The Weaver agreed. Who was she to deny the Queen, known to be kind, gracious, and loving to all her subjects? She told the messenger he was welcome to bed down in her barn, and in the morning she would have the Prince’s blanket ready.”

“The first thing she did was mull over the Queen’s request. How could she weave the life of the Earth into a blanket? After a long walk through the forest surrounding her cottage, she came upon a stream, and the answer came to her. She would weave the tiny Prince a blanket with the pulse of the stream. For nothing in this world would exist without the steady, constant presence of water. It flowed through the land like blood through veins, steady, strong and grounding.”

“Decision made, the Weaver returned to her cottage to gather her supplies. She returned to the stream just after midday to begin her work. For hours, she sat by the bank and dipped her fingers into the gentle current before touching the threads. But every time she tried to weave the water’s pulse, the pattern unraveled. The threads snapped, and the colors bled in protest.”

“By evening, the Weaver was distraught. She had never run into this problem before. She’d spent decades weaving life into her creations, but now—the first time she’d ever set out to weave something special—her gift abandoned her.”

I open my eyes and glance at Branwen, who sits still beside me. Her chin rests on her hands, and her eyes are unfocused and distant, like she can see the story playing out somewhere. With a smile, I soften my voice for the next part, just like my Mother did when I was lost to one of her stories.

“By the time the moon began to rise, the Weaver was exhausted and heartsick. She tore her work apart and threw the threads into the stream in anger. She raged at the water, demanding to know why her gift refused to work when she only wished to honor it.”

My finger continues its lazy path around the bowl. I can almost feel the stream's gentle currents—cool, calm, and patient.

“The stream didn’t rage back. It didn’t answer her at all. It simply continued to flow around her threads and her anger, gentle and constant. The Weaver kept shouting, and the water kept flowing, sweeping her ruined art away on the current.

“And when she finally stopped shouting, she realized she could hear the water speaking to her.”

“What did it say?” Branwen asks, leaning closer.

“It laughed at her. For the stream knew something the Weaver did not. The Weaver could bring life to her creations because the Weaver was life. Just as the bird in the trees, the flowers in her garden, or the great mountains on the horizon.”

I hesitate, frowning.

“So she sat again, and this time she didn’t touch her loom. She placed her hands in the water and let it run through her fingers. The stream ran steadily, loosening silt and sand, guided by the wind that flowed through the trees and the Earth that made way for its path. She closed her eyes and listened to the water, and soon it was all she could hear. It was life—the pulse of the world just as she was…”

I trail off, dipping my own fingers into the water in front of me. It’s cool and refreshing, gentle and strong at once.

“So the Weaver returned to her task, and when she picked up her threads she found they were already wet—a gift from the Earth. She worked tirelessly through the night, guided only by the light of the moon, the sounds of the forest, and her own heartbeat beating steadily through her veins. Her work was perfect, more beautiful than anything she had ever created, for the Weaver had finally learned that her gift to imbue her creations with life came not only from the Earth, but from within her. They were one and the same.”

I freeze. My fingers still in the water, my breath catches. For a long moment there’s no sound. No movement. Nothing but the faint rush of water and my heart beating in my ears.

There’s something… something I’m missing. It’s right there. So close I swear I could reach out and grab it if I just knew⁠—