You stand at a crossroads, three women on the path before you. They speak, all three of them at once.

“I see London burning, flag of the Broken Cog raised high above the flames–”

“I see a serpent, wound tight about your leg–”

“I see a ship of iron and gold, flying past the last horizon–”

No, it is one woman with three different faces. No, it is three women with the same face. One is young as the dew on the flower, one matronly, one old as old. But there is age in the eyes of the maiden and youth in the eyes of the crone.

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“I see a crown clutched tight in your hand, but blood runs between your fingers–”

“I see betrayal, ware the blue lady and the gentleman of smoke–”

“I see a love like fire, plummeting towards you from–”

You are shaken roughly awake. The women vanish replaced by, yes, that is in fact a hazy view of your own chest as your head lolls forward bonelessly.

You see…