Regular

This wasn’t normal weather even for midwinter, and this was springtime. It was a challenge. Or perhaps it was just a game. It was hard to tell, with the Wintersmith.
Only it can’t be a game because the lambs are dying. I’m only just thirteen, and my father, and a lot of other people older than me, want me to do something. And I can’t. The Wintersmith has found me again. He is here now, and I’m too weak.
It would be easier if they were bullying me, but no, they’re begging. My father’s face is grey with worry and he’s begging. My father is begging me.
Oh no, he’s taking his hat off. He’s taking off his hat to speak to me!
They think magic comes free when I snap my fingers. But if I can’t do this for them, now, what good am I? I can’t let them see I’m afraid. Witches aren’t allowed to be afraid.
And this is my fault. I: I started all this. I must finish it.

– on responsibility |
Terry Pratchett, Wintersmith