White flag,
my confession of guilt on the wall
Universal symbol for my failures
And the end

"Come on, Lochan," The haruspex said tiredly to his companion.

His heart ached. The last days had been long and uncertain. He didn't know where he was as Haruspex or member of this herd, and it seemed as if every time he tried to locate himself, to figure out where to go next, something disastrous happened. Simple conversations turned into confessions and sordid histories. Practice spars turned into broken bones and blood scattered with every blow.

How had everything come to this?

Slowly, he kicked the remains of his fire. Lochan watched, wide eyed and still, sensing his bonded's tense emotionas. The last embers had died out after Ashamin's failure to tend them any further; in the back of his cave, the ceiling dripped as ice melted, and dampened the pile of stowed away logs that could have once been used to prolong the life of the flames.

It wasn't worth it, anymore.

"Come on, I said, help," he snapped, his long tail whipping against the wall and sending sparks flying, his companion flinching at the sound. He knew better than this, but the frustration was building up. Lochan jumped back, his ears pinned and his heart racing so fast that even Ashamin could feel it through their young bond. The paint sighed, stepped closer to the cerndyr, and nuzzled the fur between his horns gently. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his eyes shut as he murmured the apology.

The pair of them had just woken up. Now, Ashamin carried the ashes from his cave to the outside. At night the faint chill of Frostfall seemed to return, but the smell of Birdsong was undeniable. The faint call of the birds rising as the haruspex and his companion went to sleep was the telltale sign. The seasons were changing, everything was changing.

And still, when he looked to the East, he found nothing.

As he passed from the center of the cave to the outdoors, where he carried the last craps of charcoal, he saw his sarong hanging from a crag on the wall of his cave. There it hung, flowing faintly in the breeze, stained with blood. Lochan had avoided the sight of it, as if reminded of the spar's horror, as if reminded of something else.

Ashamin kept telling himself he'd scrub that red away--kept saying some other day. But still it hung, draped, neglected, a flag permitting him to fail and give in.

It was going to be a long night.

""

[[Ashamin is doing some spring cleaning and being depressed about it. I started this as private but I can open it if you want to.]]

ashamin & lochan