History

Bran O'Donnell was born a dreamer in Dún Lúiche, nestled in the Poisoned Glen at the foot of Errigal. His old man, Hugh, had spent his life laboring on sheep farms, while his ma, Máire, had only come after marriage and Úna's birth (not necessarily in that order, but don't tell Father O'Doherty).

Máire was full of stories, weaving legends as deftly as she wove cloth. Ireland had no shortage of myths, and she passed them to her children, each tale stitched between linens and wools. Bran and Úna were her little shadows, their small fingers helping tie bows and lay out thread, watching every movement.

Bran was young, but he already understood: hands made things, built things, controlled things. And if you worked hard enough, you could shape the world to your dreams.

1861–1865

Máire loved her little shadows dearly, but what she wanted was more: more children, more dreamers, more love. Their small farm would not be enough to house all their dreams, and Hugh could not deny the radiant rose of his wife. In 1861, he uprooted his growing family to Liverpool, a decision that would haunt his heart for years. He took work at the docks, their ma found real clients for her dressmaking, and the children were left to adjust or be swallowed whole. Úna kept close to their ma's skirts, and Bran tried to help, tried to be useful, but he was now too old to be coddled, too young to be needed.

So he wandered.

He spent time befriending stray cats, studying how they moved, how they fought off street children and other animals, how they survived. And as he learned, his dreams kept growing. When a gang of kids tied a piece of wood to a cat’s tail, Bran didn’t hesitate to intervene, even as the cat swung its tail around limply, overwhelmed and afraid, hissing and spitting. With a hopeful grin and the best intentions, he freed the creature, then set to work: a vial of laudanum stolen from his father, a clean needle and a bit of fresh thread from his sister's kit. His first attempt at surgery—removing the fabric that had worn away at the raw, bleeding skin—was crude, but it was a start. One skill so alike another. It would not be the last time he dreamed such a dream.

But he was learning that some dreams don't last.

Tenancy disputes, a cholera scare, miscarriages, stillbirths, and the tiniest boy who did not survive a fortnight; the O'Donnells had no shortage of grief. Each time, Bran watched his ma hold on, keep going, stitch their family back together as best she could. But even she could not keep repairing something that kept tearing apart.

After the last loss, Hugh moved them again, this time to the East End of London.

1865–1866

The cramped, filthy streets spared no room for a big family, but their ma still dreamed. In 1865, she gave birth to Séamus and Caoimhe (not necessarily in that order, but don't tell Séamus). She was over the moon in love with them, but brightness didn't last long in a family already drowning in shadows.

When cholera struck again, it was more than just a scare. It ripped through the East End less than a year after the twins were born, claiming over five thousand souls, their ma among them.

With her gone, the darkness she had kept at bay closed in, and there were no more moral obstacles preventing their old man from drowning his pain. He missed Eire; he missed Máire, and he found himself ill-equipped to raise four children. But while the twins did not have the reference of their ma to miss, Bran and Úna set out to ensure they did not lack her influence, her stories, her skills. They spoke to the twins in their native Ulster Irish, regaling the tales their ma shared, taking turns to make sure their young siblings had all the love they could possibly need.

But while Úna clung to their ma's kindness, Bran held onto something else.

Control.

If he could keep them safe, if he could keep them close, then maybe he could stop the next loss before it happened. But a city like London sets its own terms.

1866-1867

With their old man gone most daylight hours (whether at work or in a bottle) Bran turned to the streets, falling in with a gang of boys, some Irish, some Polish, some Russian or Jewish; other children of immigrants who had been left to fend for themselves. And among them was Danny Ó Máille, a boy with no family, no home, no rules, whose hunger for more was insatiable. That hunger fascinated Bran, challenged him, and soon, he was caught up in Danny’s orbit.

Trouble was to Danny what expansion is to the Empire. A thirst, a need. A greedy reach for something always beyond, more, unobtainable. They started with petty thefts, small distractions; harmless trouble. But in their desire to push limits, escalation was inevitable.

One night, Danny sliced a man's waistcoat with a knife mid-pursuit of his carriage. The man barely had time to react before Bran dragged Danny into the alley, not to save him, but to fight him. It was a question neither of them could put into words, but they tussled and challenged and tested until fists were bloody and faces were broken. And then when they caught their breath, they fought again.

It would not be the last time Bran would seek pain to prove something, to himself, to someone else, to no one at all. But it would be more than a year before he saw Danny or anyone else from the gang again.

1867–1870: Broken, Bent, Better.

By early 1867, Bran mirrored his sister like he had done so all his life and found a way to make things right. Looking for something steady to occupy himself, he started with a few messenger jobs through someone from his church. This eventually led to an apprenticeship under Malcolm Kincaid, a Scottish tailor with a sharp eye and a sharper tongue.

Malcolm was the loudest Scotsman that Bran had ever met (at the time, anyway; Malcolm's nephew once visited, and Bran was unaware that voices could get that loud). Boisterous, demanding, and keen-eyed, Malcolm saw something in Bran the moment he set him to his first hem. The stitches were fast, clean, and precise — too precise for a boy with no training.

There was enough risk in hiring him, but Malcolm was no fool. Bran had something his other apprentices lacked: obsession. Perfection. A talent that, once properly refined, could make him a lot of money.

Bran took to it like breathing. Tailoring was precision. Tailoring was control. If his life spiraled into something unmanageable, he could at least make something perfect.

Bran should have kept his head down and focused on his apprenticeship, but trouble had a way of finding him. His old man, already bitter, grew resentful of Bran's progress. Resentful of how much he had taken after Máire. The fights grew worse; Hugh's drunken rages were unpredictable.

One night, things came to a breaking point, quite literally. It wasn't planned. It wasn't a warning. A fight had turned to something worse, and in a moment of fury, his old man shattered both of Bran's hands. A horrible end to an argument, an end to something neither of them could take back.

The pain was unbearable. The healing, long. But what hurt more was the quiet death of a quiet dream; he had wanted to one day be a surgeon. He had wanted to fix broken things.

But his hands would never be steady enough now.

1870s

Bran didn't forgive, and he didn't forget. He should have stopped working; he should have rested. But stopping was never an option. He forced his hands to obey, working through the pain, teaching himself how to hold a needle again, how to move his fingers just enough. It hurt, Mary and Joseph, did it hurt! But pain was just another stitch, another seam. If it hurt, it meant he was still standing.

If it hurt, it meant he hadn't broken completely.

Malcolm, unimpressed with self-pity, made no allowances for him; he either kept up, or he didn't.

So Bran kept up.

The 1870s saw Bran's skills sharpen. His natural dexterity and obsession with structure made him a master of precision. By the time his hands had fully healed, albeit slower and stiffer than before, his tailoring had become its own kind of artistry. He wasn't on his way toward becoming a surgeon, but he could still cut, still stitch.

But he never stopped thinking about what could have been.

And when the pain got too much, he found other ways to dull it.

By the late '70s, Bran had earned more responsibilities under Malcolm. He could take on clients, manage the books, push himself further. The work was flawless, but Bran's body was unforgiving. Meanwhile, his old man had sunk so far into his bottle that his existence barely registered anymore except on Sundays. That suited Bran just fine.

1880s

When Malcolm finally offered him a partnership, Bran refused. He wasn't made to belong to anything. He was made to build, to stitch together, make it work; then move on before it unraveled. It took years of scrapping, saving, and forcing his hands to do more than he should, but he'd finally saved up enough to lease The Studio.

A hovel of leased space at the corner of Commercial Street and Fashion, The Studio presented a variety of Bran's facades; lean and tidy ground floor for receiving customers, chaotic workshop where the real magic happened, and the dreary living space above, which he scarcely spent time in during the early years.

By 1888, Bran was known. Not a respectable businessman, not as a gentleman, but as the best damned tailor in the East End—and a bastard who never backed down from a fight.

His hands, scarred and aching, never stopped working.

Not out of joy.

Not for some imagined better future.

Bran had spent his life trying to fix things, but some things couldn't be fixed. Some things had to be torn apart before they could be stitched back together.

And he wasn't done tearing yet.