The clashing violence that you leave behind has stained your memory, flashing white teeth, rippling skin and faces pinched with wickedness; selfish, callous. It is something you have never known and still hatred swells not through your veins. Your small body throbs and the thin, legs that tumble beneath you are growing numb. You are exhausted, confused and completely alone in the vast wilderness which heralds little familiarity. Your mother instructed you to find a deep forest - but the only forests you know are the sparse pungent pine-lands near home, and trees scattered through the vast meadow beyond that. Naturally it is through these that you flee. A plan has formed in your mind - naive perhaps, innocent - you will run until you can run no further, and only when the blue tides of lava surround you will you stop. Your mother will find you, your father might even be there waiting already.

“Da!” you bleat at the thought, shrill, frightened, choked by the sobs that rob you still of breath.

You can barely see the landscape as it spins around you, but you are certain that your memory is not failing. Occasionally you find a familiar landmark; a gnarled tree, or a rogue boulder chipped by the elements to portray the hooked beak of a bird. Beside each you slow - but never do you stop. Already you are missing your mother terribly, her warmth, the comfort of her milk, and though hunger twists your stomach (you have not eaten since late morning), adrenaline cures its curse. The sun to the west is slowly melting into the dark horizon - the black wall of trees that seem to creep ever closer to your sprinting frame. You cast a weary eye towards them, willing them back. Be brave, Zah… you tell yourself boldly, and your skin prickles with anticipation.

The grass is long throughout the meadow, and when you finally break from the tree line of the Threshold and into it’s rolling, golden sea, you begin to bound - an actin that comes naturally, but wears you out promptly. You begin to stumble frequently, to trip and fall despite the urgency of your quest; the resolution in your infant mind. Before long you stagger to a standstill, knees grazed, smeared in the green fluid housed by tiny shoots of grass carpeting the earth. You simply cannot continue, and you begin to cry pitifully for your loss - that of your father, your mother, your hope. “Ma!” you cry hastily, miserably, and wander in a wobbly circle. “Da!” you cry again, but only the flutter of birds wings behind you answers your call.

Around you, the haze of evening is descending and you feel bitterly alone for the first time in your life. It strikes you while you dither, that it is probably in your best interests to find shelter - a sanctuary like the golden den you were born in - so that hungry eyes might not find your vulnerable position. Eyes as quiet as those pale sandy pools of your mother begin a frantic search for anything under which you might be able to hide, and they find at last an old oak tree who’s skeletal arms tangle upwards into the dark blue depth of the sky. They seem never to end, though stark-naked and uninviting they are. Slowly you travel closer, and through the murk of evening you find only the strange bulge of a pallid orb nestled between curling, wild roots.

You pass a wary glance about you, though mistrust is something foreign to you. There is no one…

Quivering lips descend to touch the object - it shudders and you leap away with a cry. Tiny ears are lured again forward when it stills then, almost as suddenly as it had moved, and you wander near once again. You have never seen an egg before, and so you cannot know of the babe restless within. Like you it’s mother is missing. You decide after much deliberation that it is harmless, it seems to respond to your presence, and you settle down to lay beside it in a hard hollow in the ground. You cannot sleep - the visions scar your thoughts viciously, though you are distracted again when the white orb begins to whimper. Your petite skull turns; your fine, downy ears are pricked forward and listening, and your eyes discover a dark line that had not marred its surface before.

Sharply you snort.

Another crack appears, and another, and soon the delicate shell looks more like a withered leaf than a rock. Pieces begin to flake away, and a strange smell floods your pumping nostrils - a creature emerges. It has fur just like you, warmth, and a voice. Though you are puzzled, your loneliness is overbearing and you slither a little closer. The creature quickly responds, its bright eyes settle upon you, and from there the bond which you seem altogether clueless about is set. Together, body curled against body you rest. Sleep is far from your reach, hunger burns two juvenile bellies and pained snivelling cancels the silence that otherwise blankets across you..

Night licks ever nearer to the hollow in the roots where you have settled, it creeps like a rising tide along the sand. You have never known the sinister face of the shadow world - those writhing arms and greedy fingers that haunt children in restless sleep - but they thicken around you now like an independent entity, a ghost perhaps, and you tremble as fear seizes your heart for the very first time. You crave your mother’s warmth, the constancy of her company; the comfort she has unfailingly offered up until now, to protect your vulnerable imagination from these menacing hours. But she does not come… not yet. Even as the lingering heat stifles and night’s cruel presence harries, you hold hope. Neither your mother nor your father have ever given reason for doubt, and your faith is strong; your trust is pure.

The small body squirms against your narrow, infant breast and you feel heat radiating from its thick, downy coat - your own is shedding and shabby as the winter months grow nearer, but nothing so cozy in comparison. Another life so near brings mild calm to your mind and the tension melts into softer lines along your collapsed, curled frame. As the bitter cycle of your sobbing eases for the moment, so too does the pitiful whimper of the pup, and for the first time you notice the coincidence. Though you have not the capacity yet to truly realise this significance, it amuses you and distracts your thoughts. Thin lips travel down to stroke the creature and the connection between you, skin against fur -sister touching sister - ignites boundless love. The feeling is unexplainable, though equally unmistakable.

It is strange, confuddling, but similar to that feeling you feel whenever your mother and your father are near - that moment their musky breath fills your lungs.

A figure looms beyond your wooden cradle and a relieved sigh escapes you. “Ma…” you hum tiredly as your blurry, tear-stained eyes trace the dim outline of another through the envelope of evening - it could only be her. You feel your entire being begin to relax, to resume that childish resignation that comes so easily - all worry evaporates. Everything is normal now.

But all is not what it seems…

The voice that dances through the zephyr to caress you is not that which you expected, its tone has not the hue of maternal mellowness; it is enquiring, not reassuring, filled with inexperience. The raw, emotional glaze clears from your eyes suddenly, and your widening gaze spills forward into the veil of gloom. Your sister too is awake now though you do not realise, and her striking green stare follows the path of your own. For the moment you forget the trauma you have fled, and the promise of company chokes out that wish for your mother’s overdue arrival (the pain of your hunger) - true to the nature of your age, you find yourself caught in another moment, forgetting recklessly the last.

“Hallo?” You mimic quickly after your last mention. Though your vocabulary remains small (barely one season spent on earth-side), you are understanding more - and this, common greeting, is quite familiar. You pause only a second before offering the next word which usually follows in sequence, “Zah-a…” and without thought you turn a silent introduction to the pup between your knees. Through the haze of grass, thistles, you are unable to discern exactly what this stranger looks like, but the sheltered life you have thus far led feeds into you no reason to feel afraid. Still nestled between roots you lay, but pumping nostrils lift to taste the damp scent of a boy.

From the heartache of isolation, the trauma and confusion of the unfolding war still vivid in your mind, you begin to climb free - at least, distracted, for now. Your soft, glassy, golden gaze is wide and wondering as it searches the growing figure overhead. He is not much more than a shadow in the low-light, some parts of him fading into the blackening wilderness beyond; but as your untrained eyes strain to see, you do trace the presence of a wing by his left shoulder - only one - like your mother. She is a rare type you have learned through experience, special, none before now have shared her quality, and you are innocently intrigued. Your chin lifts quickly into the mild evening air as you drink hungrily the colt’s presence - he is far taller than you (laying nestled amid roots), seemingly filling the fathomless backdrop of darkness behind. A small smile fills your worn, white expression.

The tone, when he speaks again, is far more reassuring than it had been seconds before, bold though tender, and your downy black and white coat prickles wildly. A brisk nod of your petite, tapering skull follows his question - Zahra, is indeed your name - and a soft, bubbling giggle passes your lips. “Cute…” you sigh quietly, figuring that the word based on its context here, was quite pleasant enough. Your small, cupped black ears stand erect amid the stiff hedge of your mane and there is no denying your fascination. He asks you another question and you nod briskly again. Each word is readily absorbed by your ambitious mind, and you listen attentively even if you are yet to piece together such unbelievably structured sentences yourself. It is well that he answers for you and you sigh, silly grin still curled through your thin sooty lips. Briefly your pristine milk teeth flash.

To you, he seems to emanate maturity and intelligence, and though not that much greater in size, you feel he is quite adult enough to understand the predicament you have found yourself in. He turns suddenly though, severing the reassuring connection formed through eye-contact between you, and concerned that he might abandon you and the puppy you cradle, your minuter figure almost stumbles forward to stand. One knobbly knee lifts hastily above the pup and then the other; two perfectly neat hooves rest forward, prepared to rise without even a second’s notice. But your friend seems not ready to leave and after only a brief time turns back. His name is Zèklè - though you copy the latter more confidently. “Ze-o…” Soundlessly you roll the word around your mouth another couple of times, pressing your lips together, flapping your tongue; and then keenly you reveal, “Ze-ro!” You turn quickly when his eyes sink to the grassy-green gaze of the hatchling, concentration setting your brow to furrow. “Tha egg…” You explain carefully and nose through the fragments of shell by your left elbow.

Of course your know birds hatch from eggs, your mother explained that much, so you figure that the suggestion of this other creature hatching is fair enough. “Cute, bird…” you continue, nodding genuinely, returning your slim muzzle to fondle the flimsy ears upon its furry head. It is not really your intention to keep it, you cannot even yet fend for yourself after all. But her small mass offers fond company while your mother cannot be near. The thought though, reminds you unfortunately of the gruesome scene you have left behind, the voice of war seems to ring again through your ears. “Ze-ro,” you whisper, eyes touched by the sudden worry in your heart. “Bird is… scared, alone, tonight.” You are not sure what is keeping your mother, what the commotion was that spurred this mad dash to deep forest, but you miss her terribly; and your father, who you have not seen for more than a week. You tuck your front hooves again snug beneath your bony body and settle your chin grimly beside the still gazing puppy.

For a long while you consider the instruction dealt down by your friend. You are touched by the concern in his voice, the solemnity in that wonderfully vivid, sun-bright gaze that holds you unwaveringly – even if you aren’t entirely sure what it means. With wide, unblinkingly earnest eyes you observe him, attention trained and ears fixed forward, so as not to let one single word of his slip by. Quietly you nod. You think you understand.
 
“Ze-ro’s ‘panion has a ‘tana” your mind repeats intently, but your fine, black brow creases – it doesn’t sound quite the same. “Ze-ro’s Ma has a ‘panion… No, ‘tana… Says you can’t be…” You are stumbling, floundering, desperate to remember because Ze-ro seems almost as wise as your parents – you cannot be mean.
 
Nervously you glance by the tiny kits’ne still nestled below. Your mother and your father have impressed upon you the value of obedience, the stark difference between right and wrong, and you have always behaved accordingly, respectfully. There is no other way. You aren’t a rebellious soul, nor mischievous or particularly adventurous; you have accompanied your father on many a trip through the months, even as far south as the shrine of your Grandfather-Earth. Your appetite for excitement has always been well nourished (even if a little shielded), and consistent schooling has rooted discipline and humbleness, deep beneath your skin.
 
You are not sure about the significance of the emerald eyes which rise to meet your uncertain expression, but you know for sure you never want to let Ze-ro down!
 
“K,” you agree firmly and touch your soft, warm lips to the soft space between the creature’s pale, triangle ears.
 
That is when your heart sinks, and along with it, your face. Your lean black leg is bony as your jaw rests across it, not particularly comfortable, but your warmth spreads soothingly all the same. Soon enough morning will leak soft light through the meadow, and forgetting the grave instruction handed down by your mother for the moment, you decide silently that you will find her. It breaks your heart to be so far away. All of the bedtime stories she has shared – those in particular about the adult world – feel overwhelmingly close, and you hope that you can be a child forever… that your parents will always be close. You don’t want to be alone any more.
 
There is some movement (the tender note of his voice), and your eyes raise mid-thought to find Ze-ro sinking closer. You lean shamelessly into the warmth he offers and tuck the little kits’ne as near to your fleshy breast as was possible – then the kind colt spreads his lone wing like a feather blanket across you. A fathomless sigh rattles your paper thin nostrils and you turn quiet eyes towards his small round knees. “Ze-ro?” you whisper as the silent night thickens around you, “Story? ‘bout home…” A deep sadness beats harshly through your veins, but your friend is brave, bold, and a story born from his vast bank of experience will surely lessen the weight of the world upon you.
 
You yawn softly – never have you been allowed to stay awake so late before. It is exciting, you suppose tiredly (not that you want to submit to sleep), and tell Ze-ro softly and sincerely, “…your best friend.”

“Caves…” you mimic softly and curiously, not quite loud enough to penetrate the hum of Ze-ro’s fanciful story.

You live in a cave - with your mother and your father – so it is not long before your imagination ignites the idea with vivid illustration. The cave you know is lined with pure, glistening gold, and it is nestled into the very heart of the cradling mountain range. Every single morning the orange sun climbs out of its leafy bed somewhere along the top of the cliffs (though determined, you are yet to find her roost), and before anywhere else, she fills your parent’s love-nest with warm light more radiant and beautiful than even the fire tangled through the long mane of your mother. You are an early riser, keen to fall into the promise of another day, but you wait faithfully each day for this marvel to occur. As dawn’s light pools in your mind, a fond smile crosses your lips.

Though she flinches often in the lightest cycle of her sleep, Bird’s expanding dreamland seems to grow ever more peaceful.

You know nothing of the wretchedness of life without a home; nor do you startle at the mention of monsters. Though night’s shadow is unnerving and moving water stirs your nerves to sing, there is nothing truly in this world that strikes honest fear through your heart. It is a blissfully unaware existence you hold in this world – though, with every hour passing, new, strange heaviness settles through your young soul. The bloodlust behind you and the haunting waver of your mother’s voice linger quietly, broodingly in the deepest recesses of your mind. You are yet to find their meaning, the anguish represented and though quite startled you had been, distraction comes far easier than it ought. You sink so easily beneath the confident murmur of your best friend’s voice.

He speaks of the Sun God and your wilting, white lashes flutter vaguely. The name is one you have heard before. Your mother, once upon a time, had served as that God’s Diviner - he was the reason she wore fire in her hair. Many stories has she shared with you about the proud, fiery lord of the baked southern land, and your heart beats a little faster as his bright, towering figure materializes, before your closing eyes. You pretend he is almost as dazzling as she who fills each day with life (at night, there is silence, stillness and sleep); that beams like those which fall at midday through the lush canopy of your homeland, spill around Him instead of the murky shadows that seem always to pool about your own hooves. Your mother spoke of a flaming horse, a giant who had both wings and two horns also, that spiral out from his head away into the sky - he is wonderfully mysterious, so different to smiling Gram’pa Earth.

Exhaustion is catching up with you quickly now, and though you can remember being told a story quite similar to Ze-ro’s - dancing dragons and two sand ‘tanas - the soft, sing song of your best friend’s words lull you closer to sleep. You feel safe beneath his wing, with the warmth of his big body and Bird’s little body radiating through you, and you wonder as he tightens his hug around you, if this night without your mother is really so awful. You are neither scared, nor lonely now and your nostrils flutter gently as he nuzzles. “K Ze-ro,” you mumble through another gaping yawn. “…don’t let the…. nest mites…” You can resist the pull of dreams no longer. You fall silent and your lean neck relaxes as you sail away at last to a land of blazing gods and twisting tunnels.

When morning breaks, you will wake confused and hungry. Your immature mind has not yet the capacity to reason properly, and you and Bird will stray from the cradling roots where your best friend kept you safe all night. You will leave for him one small, snow-white feather from your wing - a promise, a reminder, because you won’t want to stray too far without him.