When Meru had been much smaller than she was before she encountered Dart and Company; before she first laid eyes on a slim, sleek, deadly hammer on a window display, before she decided she absolutely detested the idea of trousers, she had a small friend named Guaraha.

Guaraha was much like her in that he was small and cute and prone to sudden fits of napping, but there the similarity ended. Unlike Meru, who found mud to be the most agreeable and entertaining of all her toys, Guaraha was quiet, introspective, and utterly unwilling to get dirty.

One day little Meru actually managed to persuade him to follow her to the river, where all the other kids were splashing, fighting, poking amphibians, and seeing how far they could fly before their wings gave out and sent them plummeting into the water. Obviously, this interested Meru very much, purely on a philosophical basis. Guaraha only came because she threatened to break everything in his room unless he didn't.

When they had gotten to the river, instead of going along with it and wading into the water with the rest of the kids, Guaraha balked at getting his clothes wet, and then flatly refused to take them off, saying that it was indecent.

Meru wasn't sure she knew what that word meant, but ground his face in the sand anyway, and ran off, leaving him to run screaming to his mother.

Years later, after the fall of the Never Setting Moon, she'd dragged him to Lohan so that she could fully integrate him into human culture. She took him to her favourite restaurant and ordered the biggest plate of fried chicken they had, so they could eat it all as fast as they could, throw up, and eat more.

Guaraha, who'd nearly thrown himself into convulsions after stepping in a pile of ox-droppings, sat stiffly next to her with a cup of barely touched tea, not looking any of the humans in the eye. He didn't eat any of the meal, and then refused to head to the Coliseum to knock monsters over with rocks.

So she did the same thing she did to him all those years ago, only instead of grinding his face in the dirt, she substituted it with a plate of leftover chicken, and when she flew off she didn't come back.

That had been some years ago. She'd tried to go back to Donau and take up dancing again for old time's sake, but only as long as it took for her to remember that dancing in front of strangers was one of the most degrading careers, ever.

Her next stop had been more west, through the bones of the desert, with barely enough water to keep her going long enough to follow the glimmer of life in the center; Ulara. She didn't know why she went, or why she stayed so long, but there she immersed herself in the whole sorrowful and beautiful culture of the last true Wingly City.

They were dying, she knew that. They'd been dying before the Moon ever fell, and now it was just a matter of time. Sure, there were Winglies all over the city, just as tall and ethereally beautiful as ever, but it was as simple as that there were no children in the city. Anywhere.

Charle was kind. She took her in as her own, and designated herself as Meru's unofficial teacher. Meru learned far more about Rose than she had ever known- such as that Rosie dear had been terribly, terribly afraid of spiders as a girl, and had nearly decapitated Ziegy darling after he dangled one down the back of her neck.

Meru thought of cold, competent Rose with her long heavy hair and milk pale skin and how carefully she held herself at all times, and laughed her head off. Then she'd cried, because that's what you do when you remember things like that.

So she stayed, and seasons came and went, and she lived there as best she could. She lived in that strange city that was part forest, part garden, and part palace. But one day the sun came up and she saw its light glinting on the silver gilt of her hammer on the wall, and knew she had to leave. So, she'd kissed Charle on one parchment powdery cheek, stepped into the green buzzing center of the transporter, and set out.

She had to…. Oh, see the world. Or something.