Pretty Little Things

Eira... Without Vynter and his wonderful concoction of healing herbs, Eira’s rash had began again to fester, and spread, inching now beyond the scrawny length of her neck to dissolve the finer hair of her cheeks. Angry red pustules erupted upon the naked, rain-soaked skin, itching awfully and stinging beyond bearability as they burst and began to bleed; they covered her breast, rump and thighs, and also worried down the length of her legs to knee and hock. The only respite she could find from the pain and discomfort, was beneath the frothy salty waves of the murky, black ocean. Doubling her feeling of malaise, was the lightning that yet continued to stalk her hind leg. Intermittent volts of electricity still exploded from thin air to zap her, antagonise her, and the limb which was their target was so numb now that Eira could barely muster strength enough within it, to step properly. It dragged along with less vigour than the wispy silver spray at the end of her tail, but she managed along regardless - because the only other option available was to perish. Her curse (both of them), had become an unfortunate standard well expected, and though at times she tired terribly, withered and frayed, thought of beloved Indra, pulled her momentum forwards. Thunder bellowed through the heavens above her, stirring the wounded follicles of her hide to pickle and ache, but the icy caress of the rolling sea soon soothed them back down to sleep. As lightning streaked like a labyrinth of veins through the moody sky, the bathing yearling was able to note the rising swell and her drifting place within it - the current was sucking her further than expected from the dull span of the rain-misted beach. Paddling hard with the strength of three legs, she began the turbulent journey back to land. As the waves threatened to crash violently down upon her, she inhaled deeply and threw up her head (for the little Eriucla was there within her ear), endeavouring to defy the rousing fear and stay calm; the malspira aided her breathing nicely, as planned, and soon her chipped hooves were treading land.     Hurrying up the shore to the jagged horizon of gloomy cliff, Eira dodged the damned forks which followed and searched for the doorway to the dry, crystalline wonderland: Ultima. It was nestled beneath an unfittingly ordinary - if not ugly - outcrop of sedimentary rock, and, having visited the beautiful destination already a few times since the start (of this nightmare), the young hybrid was able to pick it with relative ease. Sliding inside, and down the sea-lined passage to the lit cove below the forest, she quickly found herself stepping and stumbling between queer piles of plant, shell and stone.   "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden