Like a Gust of Wind.
"Like a lion, without fear of the howling pack; Like a gust of wind, ne'er trapped in a snare; Like a lotus blossom, ne'er sprinkled by water; Like me, like a unicorn, in solitude roam."
--Hymn of Buddha

She runs through the land, silent as the wind, quick as a thought and no-one looks at her, but for the children and some maidens who suddenly find themselves happier than before, maidens who sing to their beloved.

Her heart aches. She knows one name, one voice, eyes where she only saw herself. Her love still exists. She remains.

She runs near the ocean shore, as if she had to be sure that there are no unicorns trapped in there, and she hears the mermaids sing about love and faith, about the sun and the moon. Once upon a time, she sang with a voice that was sweeter than the mermaid's, she laughed the way young maidens do, and she danced in the moonlight with tiny careful steps of her own.

She doesn't dance now. She can't. She shouldn't. She won't. She runs instead, through forests and meadows, from kingdom to kingdom, running away from humans and beast both.

She runs through the lands, eats fruits, listens to the way the animals whisper about her. She is not like the other unicorns that now have hidden further into the lands, her kin that has probably hidden themselves forever from the human sight. She was taught pain and love, and she betrays her kind by keeping those memories. Unicorns remembers, but not like this.

But she had laughter, she had sunlight making Lir's hair golden, she had tears that were kissed away.

Seasons go, one after the other, and she greets the winter and it's cheerful whirlwinds of snowflakes, she moves through spring and its lazy awakening of the land. Summer tries to make her sing, blowing promises of warmth and crops, and autumn wraps tanned and red arms around her as she arrives to the kingdom with a unicorn upon its flag.

She doesn't remain there for long, but she makes sure that at least one maiden sees her, makes sure that she runs near the castle, she makes sure that the moonlight shines like silver upon her mane, makes sure that she is seen by humans that still believe in unicorns. She makes sure that the rumors of a unicorn touching Lir's land will reach the king's ears, and she prays for him to remember her at the same time that she hopes he has forgotten.

Because years go by one after the other, five years and then ten and she has not forgotten. Her dreams are that of a human and sometimes when she sleeps she thinks she stands on two legs again and she reaches Lir's kingdom once more, reaches him, stays by his side like the fairytales Shmendrik has spread say. 'And the maiden stepped from the water, the foam revealing her human form so that the prince could embrace her'. In her dreams she remains human, and at the same time she remains unicorn, wise and old and eternal, growing older year after year within her heart, within her soul.

She runs through the years, through time, runs free as the wind, free as the thought, the one chain she has the one she decided to keep, the one that will only break when Lir dies and not before.

Her name remains, Amalthea. Yet, she has no name.