Chapter Text
Three sons are conceived of the House of Night.
The First shall shape sorrow with his hands.
The Second shall weave chaos with his words.
The Third shall be lost, but not unmade.
All shall burn.
P O L A N D 1 5 1 1
C H A P T E R 1
The farm sat just on the north side of what would someday become Oświęcim, close enough to the Søla's breath to smell the damp reeds and hear its low, constant exhale, far enough to survive most spring floods. The land was lush, dark with river silt and stubborn grasses, generous in the summer and treacherous in the spring.
Benjamin, seventeen and the eldest son, spent most days by his father’s side in the fields. He longed for a market day, when he would run their stall in the village square and sell cabbage, potatoes, and rye, all grown on the family land. Market days required less of him. The horses did most of the heavy lifting, and Benjamin made certain to use any free time he had between patrons to practice his craft.
He drew, using charcoal from their small fireplace and parchment he had traded potatoes for with local shopkeepers.
And before he returned home, he would stop at the cobbler’s shop to visit Bartosz and Leah, his closest friend, the girl his heart yearned for.
"Come, boy," his father called to him in Polish, his voice low and even.
Benjamin sat in the field with charcoal stained fingers, sketching the landscape. The sun had already peaked; a gentle breeze moved the tall grass over the hillside in the distance. To Benjamin, it looked like what he imagined the sea to look like. He had never seen such a massive body of water but had heard of it from his brother Lucjan's stories. While Benjamin had not learned to read, he was content to listen to the tales his brother, taught by their mother, would read and pass along to him. By the fireside at night, Lucjan would weave new heroes, creatures, and monsters into existence, and Benjamin brought them to life on parchment. Lucjan treasured those drawings and consistently urged him to create more.
He dreamt of someday attending a college of the arts, but the dream always felt distant. He knew how difficult it was for a farmer’s son to step away from the work that had shaped him. His mother, who had come from nobility but had surrendered it for love, always encouraged him to pursue what he, too, loved. She had even prepared an artist's loft for him in the barn so he would have his own space to work outside of their small, one room cottage.
His father was less supportive, as he believed the eldest son's responsibility was to carry on his father's trade, though he kept himself tight-lipped to avoid arguments with his beloved wife.
Father stopped and turned, but Benjamin was too caught up in his craft. He trudged back to his son and bent to look at the new sketch, pulling his pipe of mugwort from between his teeth. "Pretty lines," he muttered. “But we are not nobles to live on pretty things. Charcoal will not fill a winter store.” He stood upright and pushed Benjamin’s head forward with a firm pat, as if the boy were still small enough to correct that way. "Enough."
Benjamin straightened and began gathering his supplies. "Yes, father."
Tonight was Kupala, marking the night the earth was supposed to be most alive.
Benjamin only felt tired.
Still, he wondered what this year's bonfires would look like from the far bank where Leah and he, with Lucjan, would watch sparks drift across the river. He wondered how the flames would reflect off Leah’s red hair and dance in her hazel eyes. The faint scent of smoke drifted from a distant bonfire, and Benjamin’s pulse quickened, despite his heavy arms.
He tied his parchment in a roll and tossed it to the outskirts of the field, to the post of the fence he had been resting against. He watched as the charcoal fell in between the stalks of grass, down to the soil. He would have to dig a bit for it later.
His hands already felt tacky from what he had already cut that day, sap and juice from the crushed hay darkening the creases on his palms. Cut, rake, stack. The repetitive action of harvesting used to make his fingers numb with grit in the morning, burning by noon. He had grown used to the labor in his adolescence, but his shoulders still ached after days when the weather offered him no mercy.
Today, the sky was clear.
That left them ample time to complete the harvest.
The hay was taller than it had been last year around this time, coming to Benjamin’s waist. Surely this meant a year of good luck for their family. The last year had been less than compassionate to them.
Illness had taken over the family dynamic for some time. Benjamin had learned to count each day with loved ones as a blessing. His grandmother, his father’s mother, had passed away a few days after Kupala last year. Some days, his mother could not rise from her pallet. Other days, Lucjan was too tired to even tell a story. Benjamin found himself paying closer attention to the rise and fall of his mother’s chest than to the crops. He knew either could be lost just by a single bad season.
A snake slithered over Benjamin’s foot and caused him to recoil. He did not make a noise, but he found himself frozen, eyes fixed on the creature, arms ready to swing, scythe still in hand.
When the snake, a simple garter, slid into the tall hay, out of sight, he relaxed and continued.
Cut, rake, stack.
Pollen caught in his throat. He swallowed hard between swings occasionally. Sweat stung knicks from the abrasive stalks.
Cut, rake, stack.
He finished later than he had hoped to. By the time he had cleared his portion of the field, Father had retreated to the cottage, and Lucjan was bringing the cattle back from the pasture. It would be dusk soon.
Lucjan was always better with the animals, with a steadier hold over their temperaments. Even at just fourteen, Lucjan knew the livestock well. When father had chosen not to name them, Lucjan had taken it upon himself to do so. He had said giving them a name enforced his sense of ownership, and since he was their main caretaker, father took no issue with the sentiment. Lucjan’s favorite was his hen named Elizabeth. He had won her affection with a pouch full of cracked rye or kitchen scraps. When he wore the pouch on his hip, she followed him at his heels, clucking gently.
Lucjan waved to Benjamin as he led the cattle to the barn. The willow trees waved behind him. Benjamin lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the setting sun and waved to Lucjan, then turned to rake the cut hay into neat windrows across the field, letting the sun and breeze dry it over the coming days. When he finished, he collected his scythe and his parchment, then felt around for his charcoal in the underbrush surrounding the fencepost, quickly giving up; he knew he could find an abundance of the charcoal in the fireplace later.
He forced the barn door open and stepped inside, dipping his head beneath the crossbeam that had taught him more than once to mind his height. There he found Lucjan, crouched near the chicken roost, smacking the walls with a long stick to evict the orange barn cat, Żar, Lucjan’s least favorite animal. The air smelled of hay and feed, and the late sun shone through the cracks of the door, sparkling off dust particles disturbed by Lucjan’s movements.
“Luter, leave him be,” Benjamin murmured, setting his scythe on the three half-hammered nails in the wall he used as a mount. He passed the horse’s stall, giving her a quick few pats on the nose, and moved to the roost.
“If I leave him be, he might maim one of the hens!” Lucjan exclaimed, waving the stick at Żar.
“I’m sure he was only looking for a good place to nap,” Benjamin said, laying a hand gently over the stick. “Besides, Żar has protected the hens and eggs from plenty of foxes. I don’t think he would turn on them now.”
Lucjan looked up at Benjamin with a frown. “I prefer my chickens have their own space.” He pulled his hand away and resumed clattering the stick against the wall.
“Luter, wait.” Benjamin held out his hand to still Lucjan. He folded himself into a crouch and met the cat’s gaze, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. “Here Żar.” He glanced back at Lucjan hovering over his shoulder, and gestured for him to move back. The cat, hunched in the corner, regarded him with cautious eyes before recognizing safety and slinked towards him. Once he was within reach, Benjamin scooped him up and turned away from the roost.
“There we go,” Benjamin said, scratching under Żar’s chin. “See, Luter?” he smirked at his brother. “Kindness and patience can go a long way.”
Lucjan tossed his stick to the side. “So can a firm hand.”
“You were using a stick,” Benjamin said, rolling his eyes. He hid his concern all the same. Father had used similar words more than once, and Benjamin recognized the echo when he heard it. He moved to the barn door, pushed it open, and set Żar outside, running his hand over the cat's back before closing him out. “There. He’ll probably find his way back in with the chickens by sunrise though.”
“When are we leaving for the festival?” Lucjan asked, changing the subject as he shut the roost door.
“After we bathe and eat,” Benjamin replied, reaching up into his loft without climbing the ladder and setting aside his rolled sketch from the day, somewhere he could easily find it later. “Eating at dusk feels wrong, but I am starving after working in the field all day.” He started for the barn door again, just as their mother called them to the cottage.
“Wait,” Lucjan called out. “I have something for you.” He dug into his pocket and produced a handful of wilted yellow flowers. “So you can make dye. Then you can finish the drawing of my river beast with it.”
Benjamin studied the crushed, drooping flowers and forced an appreciative smile. “Thank you.” He was not sure he would be able to make much of anything from what Lucjan offered. “Where did you find it?” Perhaps he could gather enough tomorrow to make a more substantial amount of ink.
“Oh, at the end of the pasture,” Lucjan replied. “There is an abundance there.”
Benjamin inclined his head, filing the location away in his mind. “Ah, thank you.”
When they left the barn, the smell of bonfire smoke and freshly cut rye brought the image of Leah by the fireside to Benjamin’s mind, and he hid his giddy smile from Lucjan.
They quickly ate their small dinner of salted pork, dark rye bread, and radishes from yesterday's harvest, eager to join in on the festival rituals. Mother reminded them that the salt would keep their strength and ward off weakness, the bread grounded them, and radishes would clear their heads. Benjamin never yearned for the sharpness of the radishes, but he welcomed the clarity it might bring him by the bonfires throughout the night.
After supper, the boys rushed to bathe in the stream that ran along the edge of the farm. The water was cold, and Lucjan was quick to give his arms and face but a few splashes. Benjamin, however, felt the pollen and hay dust clinging to him and worked to scrub his body clean with a bit of soapwort. He wanted to leave the day's labor behind and present himself properly to the villagers who would be at the festival. More than that, he wanted to purify himself for his meeting with Leah.
“Hurry up, Benjamin!” Lucjan shouted from the stream bank, tying a thin, decorative cord to his belt. “It’s starting!” He pointed to the distant glow of bonfires illuminating the riverside.
Benjamin trudged out of the stream and dressed in the clean linen tunic and wool breeches he had brought from the cottage. His hair, a soft brown with gold highlights when caught just right in the sun, he tied back only halfway. The rest spilled loose down his neck, an untidy compromise between work and vanity. His tunic’s sleeves rode short at the wrists, as if he had grown again without asking to. He rolled them up to his elbows and stepped into his boots. Pollen and dust clung to them, but he already planned on taking them off before any dancing or leaping over bonfires. He found some wild mint along the stream and rubbed a sprig on the skin of his neck and arms, then chewed on a few leaves to both freshen his breath and calm his anxious stomach. When he turned to look at Lucjan, the scent of honey and almond touched his nose, bringing his attention to a cluster of frothy, cream-white flowers that had not yet closed up for the day.
Wiązówka, or “the sweet one by the water.”
Mother used it to make tea when anyone in the family was ill, after especially strenuous days in the fields, or simply to sweeten the cottage air. She also believed it held meanings beyond pain relief and perfume.
Benjamin bent to pull a few flowers from their small, branching stems, soft but resilient, bending first, then snapping cleanly. Their scent bloomed, and a sprinkle of yellow dust drifted into the air. He shook them once to send any present bugs into the grass, looped one bunch into his belt, then turned to hand another to Lucjan.
“For youth and gentleness!” Benjamin bellowed dramatically, bowing as he extended the flowers to Lucjan with a smile.
After a moment of stillness, Benjamin lifted his eyes, the flower still outstretched in his fingers.
Lucjan had not moved. His eyes fixed on the flower, a subtle pull of disgust curling his nose.
Gentleness did not come easily to Lucjan.
His outbursts were only part of what people whispered about.
But then Lucjan dipped his head and smiled sheepishly, reaching for the flowers. “Why thank you, mój brat starszy.”
When the family was about to leave for the riverbank at dusk, Benjamin waved mother and father ahead, retrieved a lantern from the cottage, and dashed to the barn. He had forgotten something too precious to leave behind.
He climbed the ladder to his loft, retrieved his parchment from earlier, and deposited it on the small wooden table. The loft had not been built for a body like his; he had learned to move there half-folded.
As he lifted the lantern, scores of drawings pinned to the walls were illuminated. He set the light down, picked up a stack of drawings he had been working on the past few weeks, and flipped through the parchments until he found a colorful drawing of what he imagined a dragon would look like — the one he planned to give to Leah on Kupala. He had used the last of his colored ink to fill in the charcoal sketch, but he regarded this as his best work.
“Is that for her?”
Lucjan had silently made his way into the loft and was now peering around Benjamin’s shoulder.
Benjamin straightened too quickly. The low beam clipped his brow, reminding him of his place. “Y-yes,” He said, rubbing the spot, then rolling the parchment tight and binding it with a piece of rye cord.
“Can I pick one to give to Zofia?” Lucjan requested, eyes flickering to the pinned drawings.
Zofia was the miller’s daughter. They had spoken fewer times than Lucjan ventured into the village.
Benjamin thought about saying no, the idea of saving Lucjan from the sting of rejection crossing his mind.
“Sure — any but the ones in the crate,” he conceded.
The crate held his most precious creations. Mostly creations inspired by Leah.
Lucjan grinned and looked intently around at the walls.
The weight of the night’s activities began to press on Benjamin. He felt heat run up his neck, and the loft suddenly felt too small for him.
“I’m going to wait outside,” he said shakily. “Don’t forget to snuff out the lantern.”
Lucjan nodded without a word, undistracted from his hunt for the perfect image.
Benjamin hopped down from the top step of the ladder and pushed the barn door open. When he stepped outside, dusk had fallen upon the earth, and the glow of scattered fires illuminated the both sides of the river. He ran his hands over his shirt, a nervous habit, as though brushing away debris only he could feel.
His heart fluttered, light and frantic, at the thought of what tonight held.
Tonight, he was going to kiss Leah for the first time.