Everything fades into a pinpoint, a moment of absolute between you and your Ma. Even Iskra is other; for a minute all there is is you and her, and you are a baby and she is your flame, your source of sustenance and safety and warmth. You want to disappear beneath her and close your eyes, deny the cruelty of the world - but you can't, Zèklè, and you know it. The days of coltish denial are over- you are a stallion now, a patriarch of sorts, and it is time for you to be an adult, even when your mother cannot.

You hold your tongue as she turns around, the 'What?' a harsh whisper on your mother's lips. Dark ears find their way into the mess of your mane, but you keep your silence, waiting, hoping, your body coiled and retracted and small. More explanations rise to your lips, and you want to tell her more about Iso, about Mesec, to confess the pile of secrets you now carry so heavy in your chest, to give them to your Ma to carry. But you do not.

You do not run away, either. You consider it, as her face flashes from disbelief to dire fury and your stomach fills with mercury fear. Her rejection of your plea - come with me - is a slap in the face, but though your eyes close in response to the pain, you do not flinch. What had you expected? Your Ma is the desert, hot and wild, the wind that whips sand into devils and and the waves that break like thunder across the shore. She is the desert, but you are the sea, gentle and inviting, unpredictable and full of life. She is drying out in the face of too much grief, and you- you are only barely getting started. You want to run from her sorrow, and in a way perhaps you are, but you have also promised to stay, to care, to be there despite the distance. So you do not run.

And then, when she continues, her voice venom and her eyes ablaze, you do not look away. In the back of your mind you wish Iskra was not here, that he did not have to see this side of Ampere. She is ugly like this, a flawed, broken simulacrum of the Ma who raised you, but she is still Ma, still yours, and you will not lose her again. You hold her in your sunbeam gaze, unwilling to let her escape it, terrified that if she does, you will never get her back. The fear in your belly is hot now, urgent- you know something awful is about to happen, but you cannot bring yourself to move or speak. Your tailfeathers are a tight plate against your flanks, and your wing wraps around you like a blanket. All you have is eye contact, and you hold onto that with everything you have, hoping, praying, that she will see you through her pain, and it will be enough.

In the moment of silence that follows, you feel a flicker of hope. She's still pissed, obviously, but you've seen her pissed before. Perhaps now that her rage is spent, she can be calm. Perhaps now is the time to try again, to catch her before the bridges between you can be permanently burned. Carefully you step forward, extending your nose to her. "Ma," you breathe-

-and just like that, she's gone.

Iskra takes off after her, but you're standing in the dust, bewildered and alone with your shattered heart. Why? Why? Your head spins, and you realize you aren't breathing, because sobs are choking your windpipe and you can't, can't, can't inhale, can't make your body work well enough to get oxygen in, can't do anything because she's gone, again, and you cannot follow because you're stupid and broken and weak, because there's metal where your wing should be, because you were born wrong. This is what you get for thinking you're worth something, for trying to do right when you don't know anything, you're just a stupid little cripple with delusions of grandeur. You knew this would happen.

Your knees wobble, and for a second it looks like you might fall right there where you stand- but then you see Iskra, his small voice bleating, his baby wings rustling uselessly, and you know that you can't. Because as much as you might hate yourself in this moment, your brother needs you, and you cannot let him down. "Iskra," you call weakly at his retreating tail, your body struggling to follow him through the sand. By some miracle your legs still work, and before you know it you're running. You reach him as he turns around, his tiny face wet with snot and tears, his blue eyes bloodshot, grief contorting him at such a young age into something he never deserved to be.

Hate runs through you, fury with your dam- but you do not let it onto your face, because as fucked up as you and Ampere may be, Iskra does not deserve your pain. "Iskra," you murmur, reaching down to nuzzle the small body that has retreated to safety between your legs, his voice muffled by sobs and skin. "It will," you agree firmly, though you seriously doubt the validity of the claim. Maybe it will be okay for him, but will it be okay for you? Can it ever be okay? You've argued with Ampere before, but never fought, never anything like this, and part of you fears that an insurmountable distance has grown between you now.

But Iskra doesn't need your fear. You continue to nuzzle him, your wing coming around to hold you both, your body still tense with unspent emotion. "I'll stay with you, 'k? We'll wait together." You keep your voice quiet, keep the tremors (mostly) out of it. You'll be strong for him.

"Do you wanna hear a story, Sparky? A story about Ma?"