A lone rider on horseback makes his way towards the gulf shore. The young rider clutched his side which had been hurting since he left the fort.
"Just a little bit more," he said. He saw the lighthouse, which had been guiding him in the dark of night. For this time of year, the weather would be warm and humid, but tonight it was cold. So cold that the rider was shivering.
Finally, he had reached the lighthouse and made his way towards the water. As he approached the shore he saw an unusual sight. Three robed figures around a fire. A little girl with a ball of thread, a young woman with a staff, and an old woman with a set of shears.
As the rider approached the three females all looked at him. The rider politely nods as he rides by. The little girl approaches the rider and offers him a single yellow rose.
"Why thank you little miss," he said, "You know you should never approach strangers."
"We've been expecting you," answered the little girl, "And you're not a stranger to us."
"Come warm yourself by the fire." offered the old woman.
"I do not think that would be a good idea." said the rider.
"You don't have a choice." said the young woman in a crass tone.
"And besides," added the old woman, "We can tend to your wound."
The rider looked at them with a questioning tone, then looked at his side which he was holding. Blood now was seeping through his fingers.
The trio seemed strange to the rider. The little girl would unroll some thread from her ball and pass it to the young woman who measured the thread, and the young woman passed her length of thread to the old woman, who cut the thread however long the young woman dictated. Once the thread was cut, the old woman threw the thread to the wind, where it disappeared without a trace.
"Sit here," requested the old woman. "That wound is really bad."
"He won't make it," commented the young woman.
"Not without our help," said the little girl. "And you can redeem yourself in the process."
"What do you mean?" asked the rider.
"You know what you did," answered the young woman, "And you deserve what is waiting for you when you die."
"Lachesis," cried the old woman, "Remember, we do not judge, and we need his help."
The young woman sneered at the rider as the old woman used a freshly cut thread and sewed up the rider's wound. The little girl plucked a petal from the rose he held and placed the petal on the stitched wound and the petal disintegrated into gold dust. The rider looked at the rose he was given, and upon a closer look, realized it wasn't yellow, but gold. A golden rose.
"Your life is now tied to the rose," said the little girl, "As long as you help us, the rose will remain in full bloom and you will remain alive."
"Defy or fail us," retorted the young woman resentfully, "The rose wilts and your life ends."
"Interested?" asked the old woman.
"What do I have to do?" asked the rider.