Tiamat does not know death—not that she remembers, at least.
The early years of slaughter and abuse have been erased from her memory, mercifully taken to leave behind the good, the pure, and the innocent. To her knowledge the world has not been unkind or unfair to her, as oblivious as she is to the blackness of jealousy or the cold loneliness of distrust, but rather has been forgiving and compassionate in its mercies for her. This just knowledge, this unadulterated belief, has never before wavered—until now.
White eyes, widened with the distress and anxieties that have swelled uneasily within her belly, focus intently on Ashamin’s wounds. The ocean mare tells herself not to look away from the miniature hills and valleys of his mangled, bloodied flesh—she must focus, she must succeed, she must heal. Because she is a healer, right? No matter how loudly or how painfully the stallion’s enraged accusations continue to assault her ears, or how strongly Tiamat’s resolve is shaken and her heart hurts, in her core she knows that it can’t be true. She knows, somehow, what she must do—what she must learn. She just needs to keep reminding herself, she can’t allow herself to forget.
Even so, her own little confirmation does not make this any easier to witness. The damp leaves settle into the grooves of Ashamin’s mutilated muscles, and his reaction is nearly instantaneous—he kicks out like before, his body shuddering violently against the pain she is sure is burning through his veins, lighting his blood like flames to gasoline, spreading to every corner and crevice of his broken body. Tears fill Tiamat’s eyes and spill over onto her cheeks, but still the blurriness can’t hide the thrashing of Ashamin’s body. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” she continues to mumble, the words little more than a sobbing mess of passion and pain that cry brokenly from her lips.
After a time—she doesn’t care to know how long—her friend eventually stills. It is only then that Tiamat blinks away the blurriness of her teary vision, and everything comes into sharp, excruciating clarity before the haze begins to return, drifting and dancing around them. “Ashamin?” She murmurs gently, fearfully…hoping against all hope. Wearily, the painted stallion raises his head from the filthy water—which suddenly seems far too large and bulky for his thin neck—and she almost feels as though she could cry out with relief.
The blue mare nearly laughs at herself, giddy with this sliver of release, and clings to it as an escape from this pain and turmoil that have devastated them. She sighs to herself, thinking that there might at last be a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps the worst is over now.
“Just lay with me.”
Ashamin’s invitation has her smiling through her sadness, the gesture not quite as optimistic as usual, but still a beam of light through their cloudy night. “I’m not going to give up on you,” Tiamat insists earnestly, encouraged, lowering her head and pressing her cheek against her friend’s extended reach. Nonetheless, she lowers her body next to his, wanting to do anything and everything within her power to help him. Her forelegs fold and move underneath Ashamin’s head, holding it out of the water, with the main part of her body angling so that her hind legs are nearly intertwined with his forelegs, the thick hair of her tail floating to span out just below the lake’s surface. The water is cold and bitter against the part of her skin that hadn’t been exposed, but she doesn’t complain.
It is only a moment until Tiamat begins to hum, her voice soft and trembling, without words for fear that her throat would tighten and silence her. She hums for the both of them. Maybe a part of her is comforted by the sound, reminded by Lena’s songs of healing and hoping—by some miracle—that her own voice would, somehow, do the same.
After a short while her voice fades into an unfinished close, her chest breathing in a ragged sigh and then she glances down to Ashamin. There is hesitancy in her expression, and she bites her lip before speaking. “What is it like?...Dying?” She fears to ask, not sure if she wants to hear the answer. Tiamat still worries for him, she is still scared—the blood has not gone away, churning around them like a sick omen—and it isn’t long before she shies her gaze away from his. “No—no, don’t tell me. You will be all right, I will heal you,” she murmurs, to both of them, lowering to press her lips against his forehead in a wordless promise—a promise to Ashamin as well as herself.
White eyes trail up over his body, eyeing his terrible wounds. “Do you feel any better?” The mare’s voice is louder now, but still trembles against her teeth, fearful of his reply. Her eyes are virtuous, childlike in their understanding and pure in intention. Tiamat doesn’t know death. Ashamin’s body no longer thrashes or writhes in agony, and she mistakes the cold, black fingers for the reprieve of pain, which her innocent mind can only comprehend as an accomplishment—as healing. Maybe, maybe, she has been successful after all.
tag; @[Ashamin]
“Speech.”
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