Three Daughters to Three Witches

Sounds of thunder boomed and echoed throughout the land. Goneril choked out a gasp of life as she sat up. First thing she took note of was the bed of flowers she lay on next to her breathless sisters. Regan and Cordelia lay still as Goneril struggled to gain focus of the horizon in her surroundings. An everlasting heath seemed to only house the three daughters of King Lear, and a distant figure floating towards them. Goneril looked down towards her conscious-less sisters and began to shake them awake.

“Fear not, first born. They will wake soon.” The figure spoke. Goneril heard the voice an inch away from her ear, however the figure remained out of reach.

 “Who’s there?” Goneril shouted.

Goneril only heard gasping for breath in place of a response. She could feel Regan twitch and stir to life next to her, yet her sights remained on the distant figure.

Regan reflexively felt relief at the sight of her sister in a land unknown, until she was reminded of who had bestowed an untimely demise onto her. Regan’s first move was to simply attack Goneril for daring to take her life and cowardly taking her own life thereafter.

But the distant figure interrupted before any action could be taken.

“Relax your ire, second born. I understand your desire for vengeance upon your own blood but alas all three of you must be alive, willing, and cooperative for such fate to pass.”

“What fate? What are you talking about? Who are you?” Goneril asked in frustration only to be interrupted yet again by another sister regaining consciousness.

Cordelia coughed harshly and struggled the most to gain steadiness as she could not shake the constrictedness of her throat—her final memory of a taut, scratchy rope difficult to leave her mind.

Her confusion was palpable as she was certain they were nowhere near their homeland—the heath was lit with light yet with no sun or moon in sight.

“Welcome, third born. I have been eagerly awaiting your resurrection the most.” The figure stated

“For the love of all Gods, I will not ask you again. WHO ARE YOU?” Goneril shouted with finality.

“You have only read of me. However, I know one of you has prayed to me on occasion. I am Hecate, goddess of witchcraft. And I have brought you three here because I am prepared to offer you, and your father, a second chance.”

“Our father?” Cordelia questioned, peaking interest.

“Yes, third born. He has since passed after all of you had paved the path to the deceased for him. First born may have slain two in one line, but somehow you three invited Death upon your house.”

“What do you want from us? Why bring us back?” Goneril asked

“I simply offer you three a chance to bring back your father. His thread of life was cut far too soon.”

“As was mine you know.” Regan interjected

“Interrupt me again and you shall lay as you had moments ago, second born. Out of concern and faith in what has yet to pass, you three must embark on this journey to bring back your fallen king. Some will fall without what it takes to bring him back, and those unworthy of breath will waste it if you do not attempt to resurrect the rightful King.”

“Your tongue speaks in circles! What is it you want us to do? You remain aimless about the true actions you would like us to take. You say our father has a second chance at life through us but how?” Goneril said.

“By truth undone, by falsehood spun,A king must fall for the father to rise.Let blood anoint the broken sun,Let witches breathe where daughters died” Hecate softly spoke the incantation before clasping her hands tightly—inviting a beam of light to swallow each daughter. 

Now reborn in magic, the three Lear daughters awoke in the same heath, only sans a goddess and not as daughters, but witches.

“What madness grips my mind in time?

I try to speak—yet all is rhymed?” Goneril spoke in a manner drenched with confusion.

“This can’t be right. I said ‘not fair’—

Yet I heard myself say “breathless air”. Regan followed.

In a frail whisper, only the blind, adherent on hearing could understand, Cordelia spoke:

“Our tongues are wound in woven threads.

The living speak. The dead use dreads.”

“Oh good lord, curse this fate, this rhyme, this game—

We speak like fools and sound the same!” Goneril exasperated.

“You poisoned me! You ended breath!

Now verse has pinned us past our deaths.

You should be grateful, for I am too linked by blood

To drown and drag you through this fruitful mud.” Regan admitted angrily

“Do not pretend your hands were clean—

You clawed for the crown and love like a bitter machine!” Goneril reasoned.

Cordelia softly spoke again

“Be still, be still. The spell is done.

We have changed. We speak what must be done.”

A howl of wind interrupted their confusion as they slowly began to understood what has befallen the three daughters of King Lear.

“No mortal now, do daughter still.

“Our words are law. Our hearts are will.” Goneril declared, dripping of conviction 

“A king must fall. A king must bleed.

That is the path. That is the deed.

From a loyal hand, the deed must come.

I sense one near, one who will succumb.” Regan replied. Fueled with newly born magic just begging to be utilized. Weaponized.

“The one whose crown is clean and bright—

Shall lose his soul to fuel our night.” Cordelia said.

Following Cordelia, the three daughters engaged in futile attempts at saying something normal, a phrase that did not rhyme.

“Gods, can I not speak a single thought

Without curse in couplet caught?” Goneril shouted.

Regan laughed bitterly before replying

“A curse, a gift, a tongue of fate.

We rhyme, we speak, we cast, we wait.”

“And every rhyme that leaves our lips….

Unravels who. We were in bits.” Cordelia whispered

At another brisk of wind, the three witches sat up. All sensing movement upon the horizon. Understanding that the goddess of witchcraft did not move them from the heath but brought them to a heath in a different realm, the Witches felt the line of time—future prophecy burn at their fingertips.

“The wind shifts strange…do you hear that tread?

Hooves on earth that raise the dead?” Regan spoke.

“The men approach. One holds command.

His crown soft. His grip, unmanned.” Goneril closed her eyes as she responded—magic brimming the edges of her skin as she could foresee a possibility of what was to come.

Cordelia finalized the prophecy.

“He walks in dreams. He walks in dread.

We’ll plant the thought. And he will paint it red.

And she—the serpent cloaked in grace—

Will guide his hand, and father shall take his place.”