Pokémon: The Golden Apocalypse, Chapter Twenty-Two

Red cried out and instinctively raised his hands in defense. The bird flew past on his right, close enough to brush Red with its wingtips. It wheeled about slowly in the air, presumably readying for another dive. Red took the moment's respite to scramble towards the cliff face and secret his pokémon and pack in the tiny alcove. The sodden material of the bag matched the hue of the cliff face remarkably, and in the fog seemed to meld seamlessly.
His duty complete, Red rose and looked out to where the bird had been. Nothing. He scanned the entire view, but all he saw was the same, wraithlike white. The blanket consumed his view and devoured sound. The ominous senselessness filled Red with a creeping terror, and he slid slowly down the wall behind himself until he sat beside the cloth that heaved slowly with Nyoromo's breath.
For the first time, Red envied the pokémon's size. He wished he could simply crawl in a hole and hide. But he was exposed. He drew his legs to his chest, but still felt that he was an unmissable target. His right hand held his limbs tightly, while his left worked itself deeper and deeper into Nyoromo's alcove. He made no sound in the silence, but his heart thundered in his own ears.
He couldn't have sat there for long, but while he did it was his own private eternity. His tiny, blank universe not seen nor heard. Though his eyes strained for sight, he knew only touch. The coolness of the rock against his back, slowly warming with his body heat. The faint brush of mist on his face. The steady rise and fall of the canvas against his fingers. The pounding in his chest, slowing steadily.
The tapping of recently dislodged pebbles from above.