Burns and swirls in her veins to remind her where she comes from, the long road from her home to this new world. How does she end up in these messes? It’s like something picks her up and tosses her to the wind and she lands, usually with some difficulty, in places she’s never been before. Life is an adventure and it makes her feel nauseous. Echidna would rather be left to her own devices, or better yet, left to rot. Like the world she left behind, or worlds rather, she’s been in so many places -- she’s been so many things.
Her body feels hollow. Her mind feels endless. She has galaxies contained in the infinities of her existence. Echidna remembers both her younger self and the many things she was between then and the now she lives in. It’s like living in a room full of disguises. She picks them up, puts them down, but never forgets each one. Now she’s just a simple mare, with simple bones. Her idea of the world is limited to the body she is in, which is both different and the same from the one she was born with. She can’t feel the earth beneath her feet, can’t hear it sing, can’t taste it on her tongue -- it’s empty. The entire thing.
But in the emptiness there is also a strange sort of peace. She feels oddly content, but oddly restless. It’s like starting over except the ghosts of her past are there with her, they follow her around, and sometimes they taunt her. Echidna doesn’t know who or what she would be without them so she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t feel a thing. Feelings are weakness and like she used to say, weakness is something she can’t afford. Not anymore, not since she met him.
Lost him; found; lost.
It’s a dirty, vicious cycle.
She lost him again, maybe not lost this time. She left him. That’s not right either, he never even knew she was there but she made sure he never would. It was too painful. Echidna never admits she’s in pain, call it a character flaw.
The little mare is used to the cold, however, and her appearance says a lot. Her thick legs, short neck, shaggy coat. She’s got a crudely shaped head, pinched eyes, big ears -- she’s lopsided and ugly and covered in mud. Echidna is not beautiful and never has been. It doesn’t matter to her, there is more to life than beauty. She doesn’t see much that’s beautiful. But the meadow is quiet enough, stretched out all long like a lazy house cat. The sun is setting somewhere far off and the sky is lavender streaked with tangerine, there is something lonesome in the air.
With a quiet chuff, she walks through the snow. The drifts she stays away from, it’s the little crooked path with a light dusting that she stays on -- Echidna knows the cold. She was born and lived and died a thousand times over in the cold. She doesn’t know where she’s going or if she might be lost, well, technically she’s always been lost. For now, Echidna walks slow and steady with her head down through the meadow. There’s not a single emotion that flicks across her face and she doesn’t care if anyone approaches her on her way.
Way to what?
Ruin?
That’s a laugh. Ruin was a long time ago. Echidna snorts softly, her ears flick backward, forward. It’s just life, it always has been.
echidna
no care in the world