Upon a mountain she sees a figure in the distance as the snowstorm batters at her. Follicles of blue hair pester her eyes and block her vision. Her fists turn white as she grips the broom tightly and flies up, up, up.

Someone sings in the distance, in the middle of a volcanic crater and she tries to pick up speed - but the snow buffets her and a gasp can barely be heard as the witch spins out of control. Several branches, evergreen leaves, and a few birds’ nests break her fall. The resulting wail of pain echoes, echoes, echoes.

And the other singing voice responds. Boots slide down a mound of snow.

A gloved hand reaches out. She reaches back and grasps the bard’s hand.

They murmur something, a secret, as they pull their best friend up and out of the deep snow she’d become trapped in. She only thinks to respond with their name.

With clouds above stirring tumultuously, Miriam meets Kiwi’s eyes as they’re struck by–

She wakes just in time to glimpse a lightning bolt outside her window in the attic, fading out already, hands holding the blanket close to her pounding heart.

They’re alive. They’re alive, she has to reassure herself, as she breathes in and out in an attempt to calm herself down. The angry mark on her back prickles. Red, despite being healed. Aching despite it being months ago. At times a reminder of someone whose face she can barely remember - but the sword, always, always, seared into her memories. An object; a symbol.

This new world should feel safe. So why does she have to stay like this? Stuck in the past?

The mattress groans under her weight as she lets herself fall into the pillow and scream.