“Thank you.”
The doom of the stallion’s final words, whispered and raspy, is dulled in its dark omen by the mare’s simple hope—the foolish, naïve, pure hope that she is not willing to give up on, so sure that the world cannot be so cruel, cannot be so unfair to not give her this. For all of her efforts, for all of her fear, for all of his suffering, surely she, they, deserves this—the life of her beloved friend to be given, spared in the very jaws of death. Surely the world cannot be so unkind to take that away from them. Tiamat will not, cannot, believe that it would—she cannot believe that there is a darkness so unforgiving to overlook the true and unadulterated integrity that beats from her heart and into every last sinew of her body.
It just can’t exist.
Lowering her head to rest her cheek against Ashamin’s, the blue mare breathes deeply, comforted by the stallion’s silence, her security ignorant in its core, knowing no different. But just as her heart dares to leap in its triumph, something is wrong—a cold, chilling grievance, an injustice, crawls from the stallion’s body and to her skin, quickly spreading like a poison from her cheek to her chest. There it finds her heart, and all at once it all comes crashing back. Like a wave of her father’s embrace, the fear and pain rise to overwhelm her once again, lacking all of her father’s strength and comfort—this is heart wrenching, dooming, and terrifying. From the very marrow of her bones, Tiamat feels anxious, her body suddenly tensing as though preparing for an attack—something…something is wrong.
“Ashamin?” She questions the black and white stallion, her dainty ears intent for an answer. Hearing none, she raises her head, white eyes looking down at her friend, trying to subdue the anxiousness that is beginning to bubble angrily in her chest. He has his eyes closed—and he looks so peaceful, almost as if he were sleeping. Almost. “Ashamin, please, answer me!” Tiamat cries, more earnestly this time, hoping to rouse him from his slumber if only to quiet her fears and calm her anxiety. She needs a confirmation of their success, of their triumph—she needs him to stir, to breathe, to move.
Whipping her long, plumed tail beneath the water’s icy surface in her rising uneasiness, the ocean mare shifts her weight. Still holding his head beneath her legs, she stretches her neck out, breathing over the skin of his shoulder and she watches—watches his body, waiting, waiting for the rise and fall of breath, of life. She waits, but she does not see. Ashamin has grown still and quiet, far too quiet. “NO—ASHAMIN!” Tiamat shrieks in a voice that is trembling from the terror that has her skin crawling with its bitter chill. For a moment she is frozen, shocked, unbelieving, but somehow she wills herself into action.
Robotically at first, she forces her body to rise, stumbling and shaking over her dear friend until she stands again at his side, facing his ghastly wounds. Throwing her head to the sky, she calls with a desperation that her lips have not yet known. “Gods help me! Please help me heal him! Give me the power to heal him!” Tiamat has never considered herself a religious individual. Not that she is unreligious, but perhaps she just hasn’t thought about it before. Surely, if these Gods that govern their little lives and watch over them on their heavenly thrones are anything like she believes a deity should be, then certainly they will listen to her—certainly they will make one small exception, so miniscule in their great vision, to give her this. “I need to heal him!” She wails to them, too wrought in her anguish to consider the deafness of their ears.
Her body is racked with sobs that have yet to pull sounds from her lips or tears from her eyes, caught in silent, pained tremors as she reaches down to Ashamin. She doesn’t know how magic should feel, but she tries to will it from her soul, as if the determination of her own might would be enough, but her efforts wield no results. “HELP ME,” Tiamat howls, almost angry in her desperation, and she clenches her jaw as she struggles with a war she has already lost.
Collapsing suddenly, the blue mare falls to her knees in the cold, filthy water, the tendrils of her mane disheveled and worn in her exhaustion. Gasping for air in panting, weeping breaths, she presses her head against Ashamin’s shoulder and lets slip broken, despairing words, “Please…help me…I need help…”
Where is her God now?
Tiamat can’t help but feel abandoned in her hour of need, but she is too good, too virtuous to release the blame that settles like a cold, heavy weight over her shoulders, and she can’t shake it off. She should have healed him. The shame and guilt clench painfully at her heart. It is hers. Shifting her body just enough so that her head rests over Ashamin’s neck—now frigid and stiff with the grip of death—she lays in the dirty waters, broken, feeling the heat of her eyes sting and blur. “Ashamin…I…I—I’m so sorry,” tears roll down, glistening against the blue of her cheeks, freely now as the burden of death hollows her body in an inescapable grief. How could this be a dream when the loss of her friend claws like daggers against her heart, and the pain feels so painstakingly, so unbearably real? Did this…did this all really happen?
She’s ready to wake up now.
notes; D': -holds heart together-
tag; @[Ashamin]
“Speech.”
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