“I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living again, that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in existence.”- Socrates.

The Sinclair Family Home, Castle Connemara: 1810

Keiss, Scotland

     Ellen Sinclair was a force to be reckoned with, her unyielding nature a testament to her strength. Yet, the indomitable spirit of her youngest, a mere six-year-old, promised to surpass her abilities. The child’s stubbornness and seemingly endless energy had pushed Ellen’s endurance to its absolute limit.

     Her voice rang out from across her daughter’s chamber. It was hurried and laced with tones of exasperation. “Caitriona Sinclair, high time the stars witnessed yer slumber!” Her numerous attempts to persuade the child to rest had left her weary. It often seemed to take longer than it took grass to grow around their home. 

     The use of her full name, a time-honoured tactic, finally seemed to garner her attention. The elevation in pitch did not go unnoticed; Triona halted mid-stride from across the room where she had spent far too long running in circles. Slowly, she turned to meet her mother’s gaze.

     With a cautious gait, she strode over to the bed and leapt on top. “Am I in trouble, Ma?” That crafty sparkle in her gaze was unmistakable; the art of persuasion was second nature to her, with her radiant green eyes and dainty nose. Hell come to any man that might consider giving his heart to her one day. She would surely have him bending to her every will.

     Ellen, try as she might, bore no grudge against such gambits; the woman knew well the subtle power of a fluttered lash, of a gaze held but a moment too long—the silent wiles she had herself employed in her own tempestuous youth, those same arts had once brought the mighty James Sinclair down to his knees for her. He’d fallen hard. The thought of the power she had over him always flushed her cheeks.

     Ellen stood there, almost a moment too long- with a particularly maternal fondness- and observed the playful defiance Triona possessed. Clarity that bordered almost on the prophetic hit, and she was reminded that every moment with this small bundle meant more and more with each passing day. The awakening stirrings of a spirit that promised to shake the very foundations of the world boiled just under the surface of Triona’s very soul—a tempest in the making. This force would one day command the reverence due to a queen. Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she would etch her very name into the passage of time and change the course of history.

     Ellen’s demeanour lightened, and she playfully sighed as she walked up to the edge of her daughter’s bed. “My little butterfly”, Ellen spoke with playful exaggeration as she tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “Ye’re not in trouble, but it is time for the house to settle, lest we wake yer brothers. Those trows would groan for hours should their rest be disturbed.” Ellen smiled at her youngest, as a giggle escaped between her lips.

     She sat next to Triona to wrap her in a hug. Her little head smelled like her favourite flower: the Scottish Primrose. “Ah, someone found their way into my scents again.” A muffled laugh would be the only answer she’d receive. Ellen didn’t mind. The scent brought nothing but fond memories, and a sense of calm filled the room.

     Ellen moved to rise, but a small hand, gripping the sleeve of her dress, held her in place. “Ma, tell me that story. The one about goddesses.” With an endearing lisp that accompanied the void of teeth, Triona’s request erupted like a sweet melody. Those shimmering green doe eyes could sway even the most stoic of hearts. Her smile unfurled like the petals of a blossoming flower.

     “Yes, Ma,” a mockingly high-pitched voice came from the doorway, “give my bonnie lass a goodnight tale.”

     Ellen turned her head to look at the tall man leaning against the doorframe. James Sinclair was indeed a sight for sore eyes. After over ten years of marriage, he could still kindle an ember within her.

     Ellen rolled her eyes playfully as she spoke. “Oh? If ye’re so eager to please, try yer hand at storytellin’, mo chridhe.”

     Laughing, he said, “Only ye tell the story with such justice. My poor grammar isnae match for such a fabulist like ye, dear.”

     Ellen threw her hands up. “What am I to do with ye?” The statement had his lip curling up into an all familiar smile.

     At first, she appeared amused, but he saw that tinge of sadness she often attempted to mask behind the small smile. She could hide that from the rest of the world, but not from him. Never him. The painful memories attached to the tale begged to be acknowledged and demanded tears.

     Noticing the faint yet subtle change, James gave Ellen a nod of encouragement. Only James understood how difficult it was for Ellen to feel as if she were losing time with Triona, and the reminder sat laced within the lines of the story. Sharing brought Triona joy, and that was ultimately what mattered most to Ellen, so she was determined to push through, her feelings be damned.

     “Ye spoil her, James,” she said in jest as she forced every fatalistic thought away.

     His gaze became wolfish, and she couldn’t resist beaming a smile his way. James had a way of smiling that was equal parts loving and playful. His smile was one that would make others join in gleefully.

     “I wonder,” he mused, his eyes locked on hers, “where I might have first learned to be so dotin’, not to mince yer words.”

     He was right, of course. Finding such an attentive man was rare. James has always been ever present in his ladies’ lives, his playful involvement at bedtime a prime example. There wasn’t a single thing he wouldn’t do for Ellen or Triona, equating them to a mighty queen and princess.

     Triona gently tugged on Ellen’s dress again, drawing her attention away from James. Looking down with a laugh, Ellen said, “Yes, keep yer heid little butterfly.” Ellen stood from the bed, and lifted Triona into her arms, amid laughter as she squirmed. Ellen walked across the room and sat elegantly by the window.

     As she gazed out into the dark night, with Triona comfortably snuggled in her arms, Ellen felt the warmth of James’ presence behind her. The gentle weight of his hand upon her shoulder urged her gaze toward him; his dark-brown eyes, reflecting starlight, conveyed silent promises as he softly said, “Ye are truly a wonder, Lady Sinclair.” His gaze alone had her in shambles, but those words had her hoping to speed story time along.

     In a whisper of a moment, James’ lips brushed against hers, igniting a silent cascade of understanding. He whispered into her ear, “at all costs.” That tender, unspoken phrase had evolved into an oath more poignant than a thousand declarations of love. Together, they had an unwavering bond of devotion, steadfast in their resolve to protect their families, prepared to make even the most profound sacrifices should the occasion arise. They’d built a beautiful life together, and they would valiantly defend the bonds of this family to their last breath.

     In the hush of twilight, Ellen began...