They were young when it happened. She was five at the time. Five years old when the woman who could have fixed everything didn't come back. 12 years ago, where had the time gone?

Their father was a good man of the best of intentions, but the death of his wife had left him crazed. And you know what they say about good intentions. Ultimately, he wanted to ensure that none of the people he loved would suffer the same fate. And loved them he did. Even after everything, that stayed true. He loved them so much. He just didn't understand. He was too broken.

She had long forgotten what adults were supposed to smell like. Instead it turned into the belief that the aroma that followed their father and uncle to no end was normal. She didn't have to like it. It didn't smell nice, not like the smell of wood smoke that used to come from his hugs. Not like the smell of freshly cut grass that his wife always carried. Even the new baby smell stuck around as her sister grew older. Soon the bad smell covered the house and hung in the air. She hated it, absolutely despised it, but it was home. Even after she learned that it wasn't normal, it was her normal.

For a man that based all of his ideals of self-worth on his physical strength, it wasn't that big of stretch that in a grief induced haze he convinced himself that the only way to truly protect them was to make sure that they were strong like him. And she thrived. Built like their father, with her mother's height, and a natural brawler with a fire that burned in her very soul, strength and power came easy to her. She loved the pride in their father's voice as he praised her for her work and her progress. It meant the world to her. It felt like there was nothing in the world that could stop her. Not even when the fire in her soul raged and burned almost to the point of agony. Fevers that would go on for days and leave her feeling like she would never be strong like their father. She would never make him proud. It was equal parts shame and the need to prove herself worthy of his love and care. Because she had long since forgotten that there should never have been a price. She pushed through and through the haze of a fever that would never truly leave her, she learned how to turn it into strength. And it grew and grew, until she could take whatever the world had to throw at her and throw it right back. It was an amazing feeling. But more than that, he loved her, and as a child, that was all that mattered to her.

Her little sister wasn't the same. A small child by any standard, pale and sickly looking at the best of times, the idea of the child ever being strong was laughable. Their father thought it to be possible. He insisted on it. He obsessed over it. Maybe he thought he could do it, maybe he saw that he couldn't do it, but was too stubborn to quit, or maybe he simply didn't truly understand. Either way, the child failed all the same. Not even five and living in a world where their father could barely look at the kid for how much the girl's silver eyes reflected his wife's. It wasn't pleasant, and after everything her sister tried to do to earn their father's love. It was never won. Not apparently in any case. The kid wasn't made for strength, no matter how long training sessions were or how many drills were run or how much she tried to help her little sister. It wasn't right.

Whispers were thrown into the air and little ears could always catch them. Hopeless, weak, disappointing. Despair reflected in silver eyes always without pause. Sickly pale skin started looking like death. Six year olds should never look haunted. Should never wonder what they did wrong to lose a parent. Should never push themselves to the limit in a vain hope of earning their father's approval and affection. And memories of multiple nights that ended carrying a small form up a flight of stairs after a particularly nasty training session had left nothing burned her worse than the fire. She had never watched someone die, but if anything came close, this was it. Their father insisted it was only a phase that would pass like the seasons. Only, every time he said it, she believed it less and less and would often wonder if he had ever believed it. And he continued to push, his children would be strong if it was the last thing he did. She was strong, she made him proud, but her sister, her sister wasn't the kind of strong he wanted. Through silver eyes that most days reflected nothing but despair and shame, the kid would do everything to get back up after falling. Face every challenge head on, never run away, never back down, never stop fighting, it didn't matter how much it hurt, it didn't whether or not it was even possible. Try, fail, try again. The very definition of insanity. But it didn't matter, not to him. And for a child who already lost a mother, well, anything to stop from losing a father too.

Their uncle showed up often and had taken a liking to the small tike. Affectionate in a way that their father never was, just quirky enough to brighten spirits if only for a little while. It worked. It wasn't clean or even normal, but it was love, and that was enough. She often hoped that their uncle would see what was happening and try to save her sister. Loud shouting matches that were muffled by a pillow and stretched on into the dead of night indicated the attempt. It didn't fix anything, not yet, but there was always hope.

A trip into the woods to try and find the mother who walked away, her mother. A desperate attempt to save the toddler sleeping in the back of the wagon from the despair back home. An attempt that should have gotten them both killed. Tears filled with fear and shame ran down her face. She found herself wrapped in their uncle's strong arms. No words about being weak or her failure, just worry, and love, and protection. She didn't have to earn it. It was hers, given freely, and hungrily accepted. It was strange and wonderful. She was carried all the way home along with her sister who had barely stirred from slumber. Their father was asleep on the couch when they all got to the house. Their uncle put them to bed that night, no one had done that in a long while, not since the happy times. It was surprising to her that such a gruff, bitter, and sarcastic man could be that gentle. Morning came and their father was none the wiser of their little adventure, he didn't even miss them. Their uncle made breakfast that morning and her sister was so happy. She tried to dodge the concerned looks she was being thrown. It's not like it mattered, she would never do something like that again. A week later, her wagon was back in its pace in the shed.

It got bad. Bruises and exhaustion and a walking corpse no bigger than four feet tall. She had cried when she begged their father to stop. To stop the training, to stop the pain and suffering. To let her sister live. Because she couldn't lose that little ray of sunshine. She just couldn't bare it. He sighed and put a hand on her shoulder. He told her that it wouldn't be easy and that while it may look bad now, it would all pay off one day, that it would keep the girl safe. He said that he loved her, loved both of them. He asked if she loved her sister. She did, she did so much. He said that to love someone meant protecting them at all cost, no matter how much it hurt. But he wasn't protecting, he was hurting, and he was too blind to see it. Between the sleeping and the bad smell, he didn't even seem to know what he was doing anymore. From that day forward, if he wouldn't protect, she would. She was barely eight.

Too many long nights holding a shivering form, silencing sobs, and wiping away tears. She would bandage cuts and ice bruises that she hadn't managed to stop from marring the porcelain skin. It was hard work, but anything for that smile, anything for those silver eyes to light up with all the love that little girl had to offer. She had been wrong when she had thought that her father's love and approval was all she ever wanted, it was this. Definitely, this. That little girl, happy and healthy, she wanted nothing more.

For all she wanted to, for all she tried, she couldn't protect from everything. It broke her heart to see her little sister suffer. In her childlike innocence, she promised that as soon as she was big, nothing would ever hurt her baby sister again. The little girl grew to flinch at their father's touch, always standing behind her taller form when space would permit and looking agitated when it did not.

No one would ever blame the eight year old for not noticing that something was wrong. But she did, every day. It was winter, it was cold, and of course, the six year old would shiver. It was a no brainer. Shaking that wouldn't stop until she held the tiny girl in her warm embrace. The spring should have chased it away. But the shaking didn't seem to care what season it was and continued to worsen as time moved forward. From violent tremors to hands that couldn't steady, it tore the little girl apart. She knew it, though she never once heard a word of complaint. If their father really noticed, he didn't do anything about it. She would just hold her sister close to her, trying with all of her might to give all the warmth needed and more. In an innocent logic, it made sense, she had to suffer in fire, her sister, who was in every way her opposite, would suffer in ice.

She was told that listening to her read helped, so read she did. As many books as a freshly turned nine year old could get her hands on. Ones with pictures, ones without, it made no difference, she would read aloud for as long as she could. She wasn't the best reader, heck, her baby sister was far better. Still, her sister didn't care if she stumbled over a word, or mispronounced something, but she did, she had to be the best for her sister. Her teachers noted how good she became, but she didn't care, she wasn't doing it for them.

Nothing she ever did made the shaking truly go away. It followed them into late summer, just before school started. They were running drills that their father insisted that they finish before they took a break. She could handle it, she was strong, and she was used to it. Her sister was barely completing the tasks, breathing ragged, and hands unsteady. She asked their father to let her baby sister stop for the day. Begged him even. But their father was stubborn and wasn't going to be told that the bridge he was walking was fragile until he heard it snap. And snap it did, as his littlest girl, collapsed to the ground in a fit of spasming muscles. They were both by her sister's side, but nothing they did slowed the twitching and shaking. The small pained whimpers cut deep into her and would leave scars. She was sure she begged their father to do something, to not let her lose the only thing in this world that truly mattered to her.

The shaking slowed to a stop, and only silence remained of their frantic pleas. The skin as pale as death and blood spilling from a small nose and mouth told a different story than the small wheezing breaths that were way too far and few in between. One said dead, the other said not yet. For the first time since his wife died, their father lifted the little flower into his arms.

Hours later, they were at a small hospital close to their little island. Doctors trying to figure out what was wrong and she and their father living in their own personal worst nightmare. Their father was pale, paler than she remembered him ever being. She was sure she wasn't supposed to hear him whispering to the air, begging his wife not to take their baby away.

Their uncle showed up, madder than anything she had ever seen, threw their father against the wall, and started yelling at him. Called him a stubborn idiot among things that she couldn't understand or repeat. Said he'd better pray that the kid was okay because there were places where no one would look for a body. What really freaked her out was the tears running both man's face. It told of misery. Misery she would give anything to miss. Their uncle dropped their father to the ground. Leaving him in a broken mess whispering apologies that were too late and for the wrong ears.

When she finally was allowed to see her sister, she jumped up on one of the chairs beside the bed and took a small hand in her own. The adults started speaking and she didn't pay attention much past the announcement that her sister would be alright. It was hard to believe it. The bed was way too big for a kid that small, and sickly pale skin still reminded her of death. In fact, the only color in the room was the dark red and black hair that fell around the pillow in messy patches at odd angles. She almost laughed at how normal it was. Everything was about to change. The doctor had taken their father and uncle outside and they stayed there for just under an hour. When they came back their father looked exhausted, and she wondered if their uncle was planning on a repeat of earlier. It was hard to tell.

Her sister was allowed home after three days, weak, in pain, and unsteady, but going to be alright. Apparently, it was as normal as her fevers. Their father tried to make amends, tried to change his ways, and was actually making good on his efforts. The little girl seemed unable to forgive him. It wasn't out of malice, she found out one night in a whispered confession, her sister actually desperately wanted to forgive the man, but forgiveness comes hard and the effort left the little girl exhausted and sad. No one pushed. Something broke, and not even the return of wood smoke could change that. The damage had been done and there wasn't an easy fix. Even if it could be fixed, it would never be whole again. And if the little girl was spending more and more time at their uncle's house rather than their home, no one mentioned it.

The fits continued but they never got too far out of control, and as time went on she noticed that her sister had developed little things to do whenever a fit was starting. Stretches, finger tricks, running, among other things. She never understood, but always worried. Their uncle told them not to worry, that they had figured it out, it was only a matter of time. Slowly but surely, her sister started to heal. It was gradual, but before long, there was a few inches, a wider smile, brighter eyes, and a spring to each step. Skin was still pale, though, one of the things that the girl would never grow out of. The laughter returned. And she couldn't think of a more beautiful sound.

One day came when their uncle called her and their father outside and said he had something they needed to see. And an affectionate smile and a quick pat on the shoulder later, her sister beamed and she could see the muscles in the little hands start to twitch. Worriedly she took a step forward only for their uncle to throw a ball as hard and as far as he could away from them and her sister disappear in a flurry of rose petals and return a few seconds later ball in hand accompanied by a moderate breeze. A wide grin the girl was practically buzzing with excitement as their uncle lifted the kid into the air, smiling proudly. Laughter rang through the yard.

Their father looked torn between pride and sadness at the sight, but set his features in an easy smile. She on the other hand ran forward and embraced her sister as soon as both feet touched the ground. She was proud and she didn't care who knew it. This kind of happiness hadn't touched any of them in a long while and they basked in it.

It was a long time before her sister would be alone in the same room with their father. It hadn't escaped any of them. It was little things. How the little girl would run and jump into their uncle's arms as the man spun the ball of laughter around, and her embraces were always welcome even necessary some days, but even a ruffle of hair or a hand on shoulder from their father, caused all the muscles in that little body to tense. After everything, he lost his daughter all the same.

Years passed, people moved on, souls healed. She grew stronger than anyone would have ever believe. She thrived under their dad's instruction. Her sister learned to fight, not with strength, but with speed. Their uncle was a surprisingly effective teacher. She couldn't tell who was better, they were completely different styles. If it came down to a fight, she wasn't sure who would win. And her sister was still two years her junior. In retrospect, it wasn't surprising at all that the weapon her sister choose to build and wield was a scythe. It allowed for momentum to do three quarters of the work, and it kept enemies out of close quarters. Though the first time he had seen it a flash of hurt crossed their dad's expression before he smiled and congratulated the little rose on a job well done. The smile that rewarded him could have blinded some people.

The day they left for Beacon was the first time her sister willingly and openly hugged their dad in eleven years. And he held his daughter like he would the most precious thing in the world. Once they let go of each other he said how proud he was and how much he loved them both. He said that their mother would have been too. In a brief moment of final farewell, he asked that she keep an eye out for her sister. He needn't have asked. It was, after all, her job and nothing would make her want to quit.

an; and that's that. I hope you enjoyed, feel free to leave a review. ensia