A/N: Again, feel free to share any thoughts. Even if you don't like it; just be sure to tell me why :D


"Mama, may I go to town with you and Papa today?"

You say it in the sweetest voice you can muster, eyelashes batting in innocence. With a wide, doe-eyed stare and an angelic face, many would have swooned and accepted your request, no questions asked.

Your mother, on the other hand, simply raises her eyebrows as she gets ready to leave. She has a scarf, a thin shawl, and a jacket for the cold weather. "Have you finished your chores?" she asks.

You go through a mental checklist: the house was cleaned, the yard was tended, the laundry was washed, and the herbs were stocked. All in perfect order and organization. But of course it'd be—you spent the entire morning making sure everything was right. You nod. "Yes."

"We have an order for migraines—"

"Feverfew or butterbur," you recite. "Done."

"—and muscle pain—"

"Wintergreen."

"—and sore throats—"

"Agrimony. Fennel."

She looks at you appraisingly, pride evident in her eyes. You smile back. You aren't the daughter of a herbalist for nothing, you know.

"Alright," your mother concedes. "Camille, you can come with us if you manage to convince your father."

Your heart drops. "That is not fair."


As expected, he shoots you down.

"Of course not," he says in monotone, hands on a clay bowl. He isn't even looking at you as he speaks.

"But, Papa—"

"No means no. How many times do I have to repeat myself?"

Seeing your dejected look, he sighs and pats the space beside him. You fold your long skirt under you as you sit down, watching him continue to shape up the ceramic. The whirring of the pottery wheel echoes in the silence.

"It'll be your birthday soon," your father muses, after a long pause. "So my daughter's finally going to be seventeen."

A tingle of excitement courses through your veins. Maybe you could coax him into letting you choose your present in town today? "Yes...?"

He seems to know what you were thinking because he laughs. "Harbingers. Always looking for trouble, aren't they?"

A flinch. On habit, you pick on your gloved hands. "Not fair," you mumble. "Not my fault. I didn't choose this life."

He softens. "Of course not. Did you think I chose to be born male?"

"Not a good comparison." But you try to imagine him with long hair, a feminine body, stereotypical woman features. Incredulous, you wipe it away from your head with a shudder. "I can't picture you as anything else."

"Same with you, Sunshine. But unlike me being a man, you need special precautions."

Wiggling your fingers in front of his face, you grin and say, "Been there, done that."

"Can't have episodes around others either. And why do your mother and I suddenly have a daughter we've never mentioned before?"

"I could always pretend to be blind." you point out. "Wrap bandages around my eyes or something. Say I had a horrible accident that's plagued me nightmares for years. Then I'd have to cling to either you or Mama all trip long and it'd explain why I've never made an appearance."

"You thought about this a lot, didn't you?" He smiles wryly. "Shame you get your stubborn streak from me."

You try another tactic. Your batting eyelashes won't sway your father, but you've learned that he's got a weakness for 'his darling daughter's whining.' Eyes wide and mouth pouting, you ask, "Papa, will anything make you say yes?"

"Have you ever had a vision that showed otherwise?"

His roundabout refusals cause you to groan. Glaring at the bowl, the whirling motion of the wheel helps calm you down. You were never one for the craft—your mother always made you her little helper—but your father made the most wonderful pieces. As a kid, you'd watch him make vases and cups and dishes for hours upon end. There was always something mesmerizing about the way he could create such beautiful things out of a lump of mud.

And your visions... They started the same way. A blur, like the world was spinning right before your eyes. Dizzying but electrifying. Exciting, even. But the worst part was how they made your eyes bleed—jet black tears that rolled down your cheeks. They always hurt, heat searing in your eyes as a multitude of images flashed in the span of seconds. At first, they made you scream. Now, you've learned to rein the pain in.

Pottery made you hate them less, made you think they couldn't be such ugly experiences. You hated the fact that they could never let you have a normal life, but you never shunned them away.

Not anymore.

Which is why your next words are hard to say. You run your tongue over your lips. "Papa, I'm almost seventeen."

"I know," he says.

"I'll be leaving soon."

"I know," he repeats. "That's why I'm scared."

You snap your eyes to his. He doesn't look at you.

"Did it tell you why you're leaving?" he asks quietly.

You shake your head. "But it tells me that you and Mama will be safe. That, I know for sure."

He purses his mouth. "I don't want you to leave. It's dangerous."

"I know."

"So why would you want to leave earlier than intended?"

Startled, you lean away. Guilt gnaws on you but it's an earnest question. You decide to give an earnest answer. "I'm just curious, about what it's like over...there." You rack your brain for an explanation. "Your stories sound so happy and—and full of life. I wanted to see why."

He nods.

You take a deep breath and continue. "But you're right. It's scary. I don't want to meet anyone before...before..." The pottery clears your head. "Maybe I just want to see it from a distance. Maybe that's all I want."

He nods again, solemn, and says, "Then why don't you let me be selfish for a few more days and keep you all to myself?" It sounds like a joke but you can hear his voice cracking, and the way he patches it fixed.

You smile, bumping your shoulder against his. "Fine. Just... I'll always be Papa's little girl, right?"

He smiles back and lets the wheel answer you.


Your parents said the worst vision you had was your first.

Your family was having dinner. Your mother spoke of a patient she had earlier in the day, and you and your father were listening intently. You were only three then, when the motions happened. The table spun into your village. It felt like a hot fire, a strong forge. As if your flesh was iron-branded a hundred times over. As if you really were going to be blind.

You Saw a flash of red. The temperatures were warm. Inside a kiln, so hot, so hot—

Slash, metal. Blades. Masked men. They carried torches across the streets as they laughed towards the night sky.

There was yelling, so much yelling. Pleading. Crying. Women sobbed, children screamed, husbands tried to fight back only to be chopped down...

Houses were charred and ransacked. Bodies were mutilated and abused. Raw flesh smoked with the ashes. It smelled like death and murder.

You clawed your face as if you were there yourself, begging it to stop, begging anyone—anything—to stop it. All the while, your parents couldn't do a thing. Your mother hugged you to stop your scratching. Your father barred the doors and windows so the neighbours wouldn't hear. Those that did were told it was a nightmare. "You know how kids are," your father had said.

When it was done, you couldn't stop weeping. There were so many lives to be lost, homes to be ruined. These were livelihoods and families of people you knew.

And you couldn't do a single thing but throw up.

That night, you couldn't sleep, even when you shared a bed with your parents.

The next morning, your family said their goodbyes and left, travelling a month before you chose to live at the outskirts of a small town, in the woods of where you currently lived. Self-ostracism, at your own request, because you couldn't bear to See and lead anyone else you knew to their deaths.

Another month after that, your father heard news of a bandit attack from where you once lived.

For weeks, the three of you sat in vigil. You spent your days creating makeshift graves.


Grass chains are a challenge. The blades are pesky thin and they rip easily. At least they keep you busy.

"Child Me was stupid," you mutter, as you prop your elbows on the table. Stupid grass won't cooperate. "Why did I ever have the bright idea of living in the middle of nowhere?"

Advantages: peace, quiet, and lots of alone time. Disadvantages: peace, quiet, and lots of alone time.

You sigh. For over a decade, your only friends have been your mother and father. You don't even know what people your age do or look like. You're ninety-nine percent positive you'll end up spewing crazy nonsense if you ever get alone a stranger. And it's not like you can run away from them either; all this time for yourself, and you've never really built up your energy.

But people skills and stamina aside, you guess you're pretty good with your hands. A good memory to boot, if you can remember all those herbs and their uses. Maybe even some dexterity? You can't exactly be clumsy if you're making medicine, no?

Deep in your thoughts, you jump at a sudden clatter. Wary, you realize it's outside the house. Might just be an animal. Rabbits come here sometimes and knock over the gardening tools.

You continue with your business.

Clack.

Almost done that knot...

Clack.

...Is it getting louder?

Clack.

Your hands work fast to stop themselves from shaking.

CLACK.

Screeching your chair back, you run to the kitchen and rummage through the drawers. When you find a pan, you clutch it tight. The noise pounds at the entrance.

CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK, CLACK.

As you draw near, you whisper, "Whatever you are, I hope you're weaker than me."

Slowly but surely, you take a deep breath. Then you fling the door open, shout a war cry, and raise the pan to strike—

You freeze.

In front of you is a snow white bear, its sheen gleaming under the afternoon sun. Bears, you've seen plenty of, but this colour was completely unheard of. You're almost mesmerized, but that's not what startles you the most.

On its back, bleeding on its fur, is a cloaked girl who can't be older than you. Her skin is ghostly pale. Her hair looks like jagged straw. She seems familiar, though you don't quite know her.

When she raises her head, you see green eyes.

Your own widen.

You're about to lower the pan when the bear snarls and pounces at you.


End note(s): Camille = Monaco