"She was," you affirm, your voice earnest but your gaze far away. She was all that and even more... and part of you desperately wants to believe she still is.

Sparky has settled, his sobbing ceased and his great gaze earnest as he waits for the words to fall from your lips, the stories you got to live and he only gets to hear. Guilt creeps over you then, and doubt- are you making the right choice, leaving him with her? Ma, your Ma, the Ma you adore, she's infallible, indomitable, a steadfast presence in a turbulent world. She's the warrior, the sultana, the best friend and mentor you remember from exuberant childhood years, and in your memory that's what she always will be - but Iskra doesn't know that Ma, and fear squeezes at your heart as you wonder if you stole all her best years. The Ma you see now, the one who flees instead of fights... you still recognize your Ma in her, but there's a cloud, a film, a darkness that covers her, one you can't seem to pierce.

Is it your fault, you wonder - not for the first time. You and Ma- you were close, thick as thieves, in a way you know she wasn't with the twins, isn't with Iskra. Did Ma have a fixed capacity of love, which you drank up in your youth, squandering it and leaving naught for your siblings? Did it take too much to love a crippled boy, a one-winged child, leaving her with little for her following offspring, until there was nothing, just the shell of what she was? You look at your brother, chewing your lip, trying to keep the pain from your eyes. Did you steal her from him before he was even born, only to abandon him now, in his hour of need?

"I don't know where she is," you whisper, reaching down to bury your nose against his poll. "But we'll find her one day, Sparky. You an' me. She's in there somewhere." I hope.

At last you trust your face to be composed and draw back, rising to your full (insignificant) height, a rueful half-smile spreading across your inky lips. Fondness mixes with remorse as you look upon your brother, wishing you could steal him away from the troubles of the world, knowing first hand that it's just not possible to do. He's gotta grow up the same way you did, and all you can do is help him.

But you do have a couple tools to add to his arsenal. After all, what else are big brothers for?

"I have something for you," you tell him, then turn and holler over your shoulder, "Hey, Squishy, come here!" Dutiful as ever, the golem lumbers through the sand, its malformed body glittering in the faint evening night. You return your attention to Sparky, expression serious again. "Squishy was made in the Throat, out of Throat rocks," you inform him solemnly, "And he really likes living in the Throat more than anywhere else. Will you look after him for me, Sparky? Just until I come home?" It's a poor replacement, a weak apology, but it's all you have to offer- a guardian for him, and the promise that one day, soon, you will return.