Zèklè

You leave the Throat at daybreak, crossing the flaming bridge as the sun peeks over the Eastern horizon. You tell yourself that you aren't afraid, that you'll be fine, that your nightmares have pretty much stopped, and anyway, it's not like you can stay in the Throat forever, just hiding from your fears. So you steel yourself for an adventure and leave, taking your thoughts with you.

And Squishy. You take it, too. Just in case.

It starts out okay. You're pensive, but that's to be expected. You struggle with the mountain of emotions that circumstances have laid upon you, trying to pick them apart one by one, talking companionably to Squishy, who responds with its usual, slightly unimpressed stare. You venture north, but not too north. The grass feels good against your hooves, and the sunlight that warms your back reminds you of of your Da. Is he watching, you wonder, a big angry ball of sunlight that looms above and keeps an eye on the Throat? Probably. You wouldn't be surprised. You wonder if he likes the golem you made of him, which now wanders through the desert sands, waiting for some sort of direction. Does he know about Iskra, about the herd meeting? Somewhere, wherever he is, can the Wildfire see the ashes left in his wake? You frown at the sky, your eyes a narrow squint. These days you've found yourself thinking about it more and more: what would Gaucho do, in his crippled son's shoes?

Not have gotten crippled, for one. Not have gotten his ass handed to him by... by...

By a wolf, you've decided, though something at the back of your mind questions the validity of this belief. You do your best to ignore that voice, though - thinking about what you can't remember would make things even more complicated, and you straight up can't deal with that shit right now.

Squishy keeps pace with you, and you tell yourself it's because of your limp, and not because you're reluctant to leave it too far behind. Every now and then you stop to grab a particularly interesting rock, or to pry a crystal from the ground. You're beginning to seem like your old self. In fact, you're so much like your old self that you completely lose track of the time, and where you are, until suddenly you're in the forest and it's evening and the shadows are looming and-

-and you can't find your way out.

Panic begins to rise in your throat; you swallow it, and grit your teeth. This is the Deep Forest! You know these woods! You love these woods! What does your brain think it's doing, trying to make you-

-ohshitwhatwasthat?!

Something moves in the dimming light, and you, well- you do the only thing your body can think of. You run, your bum left hind burning with pain every time you press down on it, your eyes wild with terror. Every time you turn you see it, see him, those silver eyes glaring mockingly at you from between the trees. You can hear its breathing, except it's your own breathing, your blood in your ears- but you don't know that. You just know to run.

You run until you reach the pond, drawing short seconds before tumbling into the dark water. Your eyes widen further at the sight of it, and the red water smiles back, a broken canine grin dripping with blood and sharp teeth, growing closer and closer as you stare in horror, your mind blank with flashbacks, your sides slicked with sweat, your-

- snap!

You spin around, the whites of your eyes still visible in the dim light, your body quivering with unquenched fear. "Who's there?!" you cry, your voice a few notes higher than usual. "S-show yourself!"

You must look a fright, all fresh scars and tense muscle, abject fear and quivering flesh. Where is the Badass, the Lightning's Son? He is reduced to wreckage by a betrayal so great, his mind cannot fully remember it.

Because if he did, well...

Let's just say, you haven't seen bad yet.