As Tiamat places the herbs on the stallion’s exposed wounds, she counts her breaths. One, two, three… in an effort to try and calm herself down, to slow her heartrate enough so that the pounding won’t be so loud in her ears and distract her more than she already is. She feels her muscles quivering beneath her satin skin, trembling and threatening to give out beneath her—but she mustn’t, she can’t. Ashamin—her dear, dear friend—is counting on her now, and she can’t allow her anxiety to get the best of her. She tries to swallow past the lump in her throat and blink through the blurriness of tears that are quickly building along her lower eyelids.
His shriek of pain is quiet at first, muted—she can hear her breath hitch in her throat and the beat of her heart slow. For the short moment when the stallion’s scream first pierces through the frost, Tiamat feels a haze wash over her again, pouring over her head like the quick seal of ice. Sounds are muffled and all she can comprehend is the air moving through her lungs and the thudding against her ribcage…all reduced to a slow, drawn-out second for just this moment, this blink, this breath…
. . . l u b - d u b . . .
And then everything is back.
Ashamin’s agonized howl rings, amplified in her ears and tearing straight through to the core of her body, reaching with fiery fingers and gripping her heart until it aches tightly. “I know it hurts—” The blue mare whimpers, her voice pained and her brow knitting in anxious, grieving concern. She hates this. She hates causing pain—she should be healing, relieving pain and not causing it. This isn’t how it should be, but perhaps sometimes it needs to get worse before getting better, right? That is the healing process, sometimes—she needs to understand that, as unsettling it is and no matter how much she wishes it to be different.
Having hunched over her friend as if she could absorb his pain and endure it herself, the sudden thrashing of his leg does not go without its mark. His cloven hoof collides with the breast of her chest, not enough to cause severe damage, but it leaves her breathless and her flesh throbbing with the promise of bruising. Tiamat stumbles back a step, his blood spraying up from his torn wound to dress her cheek in stark red spots. She breathes raggedly, clenching her teeth against the pain, keeping her eyes on Ashamin and fearing for his sake.
“You’re killing me!”
Suddenly her own discomfort is forgotten. Lips curl in horror, white eyes widening in terror and she leaps back to his side, hovering, worrying. “No! No—Ashamin!” She screams desperately for him. The fear in his eyes is unmistakable—as she would imagine with the blackness of death breathing down his neck. But what she doesn’t expect is for the painted stallion to writhe his head around and snap his teeth just inches from her face, his jaw clenching with the force of the words that break through his teeth like a knife through wood—frayed, deep, and raw.
“You’ll never be a healer…!
“Wha—what?” She gasps, her eyes fixing on the stallion’s face, enraged with pain, and her body freezes still. Is—is she really hearing this? Is this really happening?
…if you can’t help a simple man die!”
“Ashamin, stop!” Tiamat cries, pleads, her voice trembling, “please…please, stop.” She doesn’t move, frozen in the mess of blood and muck that churns around her legs, her mouth agape and her eyes round with shame. His words peal like a siren in her ears long after they have faded, the knife finding its way straight through her lungs and to her heart. She doesn’t realize that she’s not breathing until black starts to dot the edges of her vision. “I’m trying—I’m trying, Ashamin,” Tiamat whispers; her voice would have been a whimper were it any louder, but she barely finds breath enough to speak, her chest tight and choking from her disgrace. “I’m sorry,” she says, louder this time, her plea genuine and imploring for forgiveness.
She watches as Ashamin throws himself down again, seemingly exhausted from the effort of his agony-induced wrath. Tiamat is still hesitant, still tip-toeing around him, the fire of his accusations still burning in her mind—but she can’t focus on herself now. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t mean it—he couldn’t have.
Is she really unfit?
Should she not be a healer?
His eyes turn to her, but Tiamat is already looking at him. She purses her lips at his apology, tucking her head in towards her chest, the filthy water rippling beneath her from the tears that fall. He doesn’t need to give her an apology. But when he tells her to try again, she stiffens, the fear returning to stain her shame. “What?” She can’t…she can’t do that to him again. His flailing, his scream, his rage flashes behind her eyes, and she shakes her head, uncertain.
“It’s going to be alright, Tiamat.”
Her gaze finds Ashamin’s again, searching. Are you sure? She seems to ask him, wordless and desperate. How can you be so sure? She needs his strength, his endurance—his faith. “Okay,” she murmurs, still skeptical of herself, but continuing to recite what she has from the beginning. She can’t give up on him. “You are going to be all right,” Tiamat insists, finally moving, extending her nose to breathe against Ashamin’s face, brushing his cheek gently before moving back to the thick gashes at his thigh. “It’s going to hurt again…” the uncertainty is evident in the trembling of her voice, and she takes a shuddering breath before lifting the herbs from the water. Perhaps after soaking they will not be as searing this time—but she hopes their effects will not wane.
She needs to heal him.
Surely this—all of this—has to be a dream, it can’t be real, it can’t be happening. Surely Ashamin would never say the things he had—he wouldn’t. But…but it feels so real. Even as she lowers her lips to Ashamin’s wounds for a second time, the haze of her mind flickering between fogginess and clarity, she doesn’t know what to think, what to feel.
What is happening?
tag; @[Ashamin]
“Speech.”
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