She simply didn't know; know what to do, nor where to go. Her heart was leaden with the painful memories coaxed forth by her constant company with Yseulte. Of course the Vasílissa of the Valkyries did not intentionally wrest forth the burning images that Hespera had tried so very hard to bury. But it was impossible to not look at her and not see Berian, the little bay mare, and then their wonderful and terrifying adventures. Even her clean, burnished-beaked companion, miffed at the tiger cub who rudely pushed him aside, agreed with her that they must stay with the lavender maiden, even if what she conjured forth was not the pleasant memories a pretty flowergirl would have.

So she became a silent ghost, half-guard and half-friend, who followed Yseulte even when her legs trembled and her breath heaved from the long hours of walking and tripping and stumbling through the dark like a blinded fool, cuts opening up on her legs as branches snared her, trying to keep her in their thorny clutches. Her oath she took seriously, etching it deeply into her spirit and heart, repeating it over and over, letting it become a simple mantra for who she was. In this world, she was worth nothing. Like all the others, she would be forgotten except by the closest of family; for people say that people will remember, they try and say that you are worth something to the history of mankind, but you are nothing. Nothing worth remembering- you will be forgotten quicker than the lost man's footprints in the desert, or a unicorn's light steps in a snowstorm. One is simply a grain of sand on the seashore; even the curious child will not pick up every grain and admire it.

The cold wore on her more than anything, the constant nibble of it on her ears and muzzle. Hespera did not know if winters were always this cold- neither did Otienu, for he was still a hatchling, just as new to the world of sensations as she was. She wished it was gone- it hurt her lungs as she inhaled, even as her nostrils warmed the air. Darkness was tiring as well- her eyes had stopped aching, stopped trying to adjust, but even the faintest gleam of light scalded them as if someone had put fire up to her eyeballs. Needless to say, it was an unpleasant sensation. Sometimes she wondered when the lights turned on- if they ever turned on- if her windows to the world of images would even work.

Otienu flared his wings, furling them to his sides as he landed heavily on his paws-slash-talons. He was always a little difficult to describe, with his mismash of body parts. Of course, the little griffon wasn't as bothered as Hespera was by the darkness. Perhaps it came from him knowing not much else- but he didn't mind it at all now, nor did he fear it. On the other hand, his companion being in the dark- mostly alone apart from a measly annoying tiger cub and haughty annoying mare did spark up a bit of fear in him- as one may observe, the griffon didn't think the highest of the pair. So the little boy tried to be a man, and was always watching for trouble.

The softest of exhales tumbled from her dark lips, the stormchild moving quicker to approach Yseulte's flank. Most of the blood had dried on her flanks, some of it worn away. A glimpse of scarlet here, a touch of dark brown there.

But it was nothing compared to the scars decorating the thin gray equine's face.

She had seen this type of thing before- in Paen, painted blue and white and red, wielding the white reaper Weneoa, the paint never hiding the hideous gray scars that clung to him like ticks to a dog; the hardness in his eyes as he reared, dust billowing beneath his ebony hooves, issuing a battle cry that would haunt for the rest of her life. The mare did not look like the chief, yet nevertheless the look in her eyes was the very same, and it sent chills crawling through Hespera. It took an effort to conceal how frayed her nerves were- yet she hid it well, and no trace of emotion disrupted her serene, but watchful, features.

Otienu uttered a peculiar half-meow, half-screech, with a bit of rumble in the back of his throat, rubbing his body up against the stormchild's legs. The warmth of his hide was a soothing cup of tea on a winter's day, and the tension eased from her muscles.

There were many words lying on the tip of her tongue, ready to be spoken with eloquence and the careful craftsmanship of a master, but she refrained.

Remember, here she was nothing but a body guarding another body.