THE HARUSPEX
on his own

Watching his power transform the Laurelin from rage to relaxation was fantastic. The power rushed through Ashamin just as it did his lord. He felt, more than anything, strong. And though the satisfaction could never last, it consumed him for a time. Satisfaction became pride: a deadly and horrible sin.

As the lids of the laurelin drooped, Ashamin considered it--pride. Was it really a sin? How could it be a sin to feel so fantastically good? And if it was a crime of conscience, a moral fault of any who felt its glow, what was his life like in comparison to those who did not, as he, suppress it?

Finally, the haruspex was discovering the twisted temptation of sin. He thought of the Moon Goddess, who had offered him two paths. One to strengthen himself in relation to who he had been, by first making himself weaker. Another, to strengthen himself in relation to his herd, by making them weaker.

He wanted the magic he sought to make the Basin stronger--the logic of taking away from its power had escaped him, then. But as Ashamin watched the Laurelin recover from the dullness of his slowed heart, as Ashamin heard the golden's barbed and biting words, he understood what the Goddess of the Moon had meant.

Strengthen the herd by hurting those that hurt it. Cut out the cancer, and when the wound of the surgery heals the Basin will be stronger for it. And Ashamin? Ashamin would know the skill of striking out disease. Ashamin would be stronger for it, too. How unfortunate it was that his companion was far gone and asleep. How unfortunate that no one could stop this rapid descent.

The golden's words meant nothing. As when Ashamin had spoken to the psychobabbling mare, he felt an odd frustration. They were wrong. So many, always, wrong. How could it be that he had such strong beliefs that they could try to refute? What had been curiosity and willingness had turned into empty disinterest. The more that he was forced to listen, the less he cared to learn and understand. Slowly the vessel filled. Slowly, slowly, a well of others' malformed thoughts filled Ashamin until the brim.

You are blind. The water of them licks at the rim.

You have sickened. It wets the highest edges.

You have yielded. It starts to turn out, creating a convex film at the entrance to the vessel.

Just one more. That is all it takes. One more drop, one careless slip of the carrier's aching hoof, and then the water spills. And it comes in a tongue that the haruspex does not even know: presents itself as a lunge, and the strange sounds of an indelicate, elven tongue:

Uin thang hûneg, gwarth!

At first, it happened in a split second. The magic that Ashamin had only just learned he had sprang forth, and the haruspex understood as it did exactly what he was doing.

Hurt another. Weaken the herd to strengthen yourself. Cut out the cancer. Ruin the false friend. Take down the Laurelin Lord, and use his downfall to launch your ascent. The instinct was completely impure, a desperate grab for the power that the Moon Goddess could grant him. As much as Ashamin could have tried to say it was for the good of the herd, there was something deeper, more sinister, in the lashing.

The Laurelin lunged, and so too did an electric grip upon his heart. Chaotic and powerful, a force that hastened the speed of the beat of life to painful quickness, reached out and saved Haldir from his hideous reflection.

Let the golden one suffer in that state, as Ashamin walked from the point of conflict with no urgency or fire in his empty, dead black eyes. Let Thranduil suffer, perhaps writhe upon the floor of his own home, as Ashamin walked slow and unburdened. He was tall. He was proud. He walked the earth like it was his and all the while gripped the golden's heart.

"You know, Thranduil," Ashamin said in a voice that, were he himself, would have scared him half to death, "I think you're done. Its time for me to talk."

Upon the cave floor, the cracked pieces of the vessel lay in now useless puddles. The haruspex stepped over them with ease and made his way over to the armor Thranduil had kicked to the entrance. "Are these your chains, then?" He cast a look back at the laurelin, ignoring his companion for the moment. As soon as Ashamin's gaze was upon Thranduil, he sent another shock to the lord's heart. Yes, this was his power. Yes, he had the pride to wield it.

Slowly, the haruspex looked back out into the Aurora's bright day. For once, its intrusive light did not bother him; Ashamin felt wide awake. Without looking, he reached out his long tail and tried to feel for Thranduil's face--to brush it with the coils that sparked away from his own form. He looked down at the armor with a frown. "You see, your problem is that you define something that can help you as a crutch. Your problem is that you mistake empathy for hindrance, dedication and loyalty for fetters. But those same things you despise have made me powerful. Stronger than you, perhaps." And if not now, then soon, Ashamin found himself thinking. What was this overcoming him? Was it pride or something more? It had to be, it had to be something else.

He had been beaten too long. He had listened, given in, taken too much. The puddles began to bleed, crawling towards the entrance and pooling at the haruspex's four deadly cleft hooves. "You have coddled yourself when I have suffered. You have lounged carelessly on the gold that I have broken my back and lost my life to give you. I have the knowledge you don't--the understanding that with ties, with bondage, I am someday forced to break free. And when I do, if I have not already..." Ashamin nosed the armor, as if curious and then circled it so that it rested between himself and his former, if ever, friend. He did not complete the thought: the pounding of the clay, the throwing of it to the table, the breaking of Thranduil's heart, was enough to punctuate the sentence.

Carefully, he watched the one he had worshipped for so long. And for what? To be ignored, disregarded, kicked and beaten like a dog? Maybe Thranduil was right that Ashamin had let himself live beneath others for too long. But Ashamin thought not. He thought that it had taught him something deeper, something better, something more. Now, at last, he would be free of his own accord. He kicked the armor lightly, drawing Thranduil's attention to the pile of leather and fur before he spoke of it. "What do you think, Thranduil? Would you like to see how the earth turns when I break my chains and wear yours like a crown?"

No, Ashamin thought. One could not truly arm themselves with the knowledge and power that came with freedom without having once been caged.

""