Wings pressed the air beneath her, beside her, all around her. The grip, slight in some places and firm in others, was like a comfortable coat which Ampere donned. It was cozy, inviting, comfortable - it was home. No matter where she was or how she felt, the wind was always there, somewhere, and it was always the same.

Some days she was kinder, gently playing through Ampere's feathers and braiding her mane and tail into knots. Other times she was hard, blowing so strongly she pressed like teeth against Ampere's flesh and upset the otherwise steady balance of flight. She could be warm, she could be cold, she could be fresh, she could be salty. The wind existed like a being, a friend, a mother. Ampere knew her, trusted her, welcomed her.

She pitied those who could not.

It was too her friend that Ampere turned. To her home that she ran, running on feathers and clouds. Her mind was convoluted and in this place she often found peace. As with most moments of serenity however, it did not last for long.

In fact, it never came at all.

The wind blew, speaking, but Ampere could not hear her over the pounding of her own thoughts. This more than anything drove Ampere into a depth of maddening frustration. What am I doing? she asked for the hundredth time, and as before, had no answer. Her own madness did not relent, but her wings did.

Unsteadily Ampere settled down at the opening of the forest. Flight offered too much muscle memory and it let her mind wander. Previously this had helped her think and unravel her questions into answers. Today, yesterday, and the day before though, had proven inescapable, because she was trying to run from herself. The ground offered little better in the way of respite, but at least it had food and shade and darkness. She could hide here, she could live here...

Browsing as she moved, a hurried, sweat-lined pace, Ampere startled at the abrupt outcry. Her head jerked around, pulled from an internal monologue, to peer through the swell of the foliage. "Oxy?" she asked of the woods, his voice like a cracked bell ringing in her ears, beckoning his name. There was only interest in the phrase, but ire was quick to settle in.

He was certainly not the serenity she was looking for.