Each night he wept himself to sleep, he'd have the same dream. A memory of running through the tundra with his Ma with a trail of laughter and joy. Every time, before he startled awake, it'd turn sour. His laughter morphing into desperate, frayed cries for his mother who'd disappeared into snowdrift, but left a path of blood-stained snow behind.

He's too young to decipher the nightmare, too naive to have realized that it wasn't a nightmare at all, but a memory.

So everytime he'd wake up, he'd set off across the bitter cold plains. With no general direction, he wandered around with a tucked tail and an awful sense of helpless fear. Calling for his mother, and praying that each howl of wind would bring her beckoning call.

It never did. It only sometimes summoned the mean lump of charcoal who'd began to shadow his steps, Tarquin. Llewellyn made efforts to ignore the boy, despite how badly he wished to seek comfort and alliance.

In his path, he leaves his little paw prints. His nose runs as he tilted it toward the bleary sky, his ears pinned against his sleek skull as he wandered aimless and afraid.

Ma? Are you there? He'd squeak. Each time, it'd go unanswered.