THE HARUSPEX
on his own

Alone? No, she never would be. But maybe Ashamin was. Ashamin the haruspex with his cerndyr safe at home, safe from this mess of his life. Who was he but a killer now? Some sort of evil beast?

Every morning he shook with the pain of remembering all that had happened. He bore no scars, for magic he hadn't yet noticed had taken care of that. But he would never forget. He could never forget. The sound of a heartbeat, so perfect and pure, dying.

It would have to be his first, wouldn't it? Didn't he need that? Could you really live life in a world as harsh as this without ending someone else's?

And Ashamin truly believed that he had done exactly that. Maybe not born but still there, still alive, still ready to breathe. That child, her child, would have been beautiful. Maybe as callous and wicked as she but still so beautiful. And he had ended that beauty, taken it from this world before it could be brought into it.

There truly was no greater sin. Ashamin the painted buck, Ashamin the haruspex, Ashamin the God-damned clovenheart. Whatever he was he was certainly broken. In this dark world of snow and sky, where the aurora snaked like a living being but somewhere a foal was born dead with his rage, Ashamin wasn't sure he could be fixed.

Seeing Ki'irha, alone at the entrance to the cave where she lived (why was he there? Had he meant to find her, how long had he been wandering?) did not help matters.

She was beautiful, of course, because she always was. Ashamin loved her for that but not as much as he loved her for her bravery, her passion--the very soul of her being. And who had he been to limit that love? Maybe a fool at the time but now he had proven himself wise. She wouldn't know, of course, but he had spared her the love of a murderer.

It did not occur to Ashamin that, had he given the starlit mare his love when she'd offered him hers, he might not have been fighting the Mountain That Knows at all.

Mriga, strapped to his side like an old worn out medal despite gracing his jaws only a few indelicate times, burned. The dagger was ancient. The dagger was pain. The dagger was Ki'irha's kindness when he did not deserve it. But he was selfish, he was in pain. He kept it close to him because now more than ever, now that he was so far from being the sort of man Ki'irha deserved, he wanted her to love him again.

"KI'IRHA!"

He comes into his being like something clawing out of a grave. He is desperate, and runs towards her silhouette in the night. Where was he before? He is un-grounded, he can hardly feel his hooves in the snow, his own weight crunching the ground beneath him. He is lacking all foundation. Is it his tail that flies behind him or his sarong? Is that left behind or is it what weighs him down now? Or his necklace? Or his armor? When had he become such a collector of useless things (all left in his cave save for Mriga) when all he had ever wanted was love?

"I'M SORRY!"

He was crying. Had he ever done that before? Ashamin's eyes were so wet that he couldn't see, or maybe that was the dark and the lack of his companions set of eyes to guide him. Their inkblot maps were gone, he was alone with the untamed monster of his love.

The clovenheart twisted his neck, bent his face to brush against the soft strap Johnny crafted. His lips fluttered, his teeth snapped, and Mriga sprung forth from its sheath. In the moonlight the etchings in the blue were blinding; Ashamin could not see beyond them.

Not far from her now, he threw Mriga to the snow. His body followed, falling into a state of nonexistence, of sorrow. Ki'irha wasn't alone, but he couldn't comfort her now. Ashamin was the broken one tonight.

"I'm sorry."


""