There was nothing worse than feeling nothing at all, not the sands beneath your hooves or the warm winds of the Dragon's Throat tussling your hair. It's all just black against bitter cold clawing against shrugging shoulders, howling winds taking up any subtle sounds. I'm helplessly alone, uncharacteristically far from home and oh so lost— not having Mama or Yseult proved difficult, unable to navigate the borders of the Throat without them. I had begun to develop a permanent state of caution, always on high alert as I stumble through life on unsteady legs. There was always something new awaiting me, with every quiet step there was always more lingering at the edges

I'd begun to notice there was something off when the world became too quiet, too still and harshly cold, all that could be heard were the crunches of brittle snow beneath weary hooves. It was treacherous and unsettling, crisp air burning as it enters my lungs and leaves my eyes dry and irritated— I'm threatened by tears, growing plump at the edges of my eyes and daring to spill over. Hopelessly alone and shamefully about to admit defeat, ready to collapse and let the cold consume me, I hear it.

A wail, frantic calls and hushed sniffles that linger at the edge of my hearing, a cry for help. I flourish with desperation, a need to find who called so softly, whose voice trembled with such panic. "H-hey!" The childish squeak of my voice, accompanied by the sheer fear of solitude, leaves my word a quivering disaster tumbling gracelessly from my lips. I follow the sounds of a wet nose and sore throat, of wallowing despair at the loss of oneself. I come upon a saddened someone, a cry against the desolation.

I know they are there, can hear their sobbing much clearer now, the sharp inhales of breathe as they indulged in their panic. I don't know where their is, choosing to face their general direction and hope for the best— they sound young, with a cold side and trembling shoulders, reminiscent of my own youth (I am still young). "It's okay, I'm here. You aren't alone anymore." The words are soft and soothing, perhaps meant for them or for me— both, maybe. It's the same tender hum Mama had used on me when I brought myself into a panic, overwhelmed with crumbling walls and distant cries of false realities. She would hold me tightly and whisper uncertainly, promising to always be there for me. Bullshit.

"Just relax, breathe." I offer an example of a very specific method of breathing, one I'd learned to use in times of need, when my throat constricted and everything seemed pointless. In, I took a deep breath, held it there, and let it out. I hoped they were following my example. I take in another breathe, repeating the process for several cycles before my crippling anxiety offered me a tattered sense of reality and proceeded to recede. "I heard you calling for your mother," just as I often do. My nights are plagued by the sound of her voice in my head, cursing my sleep as I tremble, desperate to reach the fading syllables before it's all too late (it always is). She's always too far, and I never no where to reach out to— what it is I should be reaching for.

"Would you like me to help you look?" This question was useless, a pitiful offer to a lone child. I had no working eyes to spy her with, no magic power to instantly find her, I was no help at all, just a companion to the lost child. It's better than being alone, though. So companionship was all I had to offer, held out by trembling fingers and uncertainty, held loosely and with hesitance. "words."

Shahrokh