Rush of Wind stood, hooves planted in the loamy soil, with his cloudy eyes staring out at the emptiness of the borderlands. The sky was clear, not a cloud passing in the sky. The borderlands were still; the noon sun was beating down on the open, sandy lands, with its sparse grass and brush, and sending the creatures that lived there to cover. It was the kind of quiet that sometimes overtook him, the kind that suppresses and boils rather than offering any kind of respite and calm.Far in the distance, much farther than his eyes could see, was the desert. Past the borderlines and past plains was the sand and the sun and Acha that had not heeded the MotherFather’s call. He could still remember the sound of their singing—it sounded different sailing over sand, unimpeded by the trees of the Swamp.
He could still remember the feeling of being alone even when he was surrounded by the singing choir.
It was a land he had thought he had been running towards. He had told himself that for so long. Hunt better; become faster—maybe he would learn to love it. Prove that not being able to see in the vivid colors of his dream or appreciate the visual beauty of the world didn’t make him less of an Acha.
He hadn’t learned how to love it—he had learned how to hate it, to hate that thrumming desire that turned him to blood.
Maybe he had always hated it and the Swamp was his chance for salvation.
Ruriska
