Lived unbruised,
we are friends; and I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Sigh no more.

Ashamin had neither seen nor heard of the Gods since leaving the Aurora Basin, and for a brief time there had almost been some comfort to take in that. But his belief was not fickle, and his loyalty did not wane. While he may have been frustrated with the God of the Spark, the Clovenheart had taken the time he needed to, had the talks with Phantom and himself, and found there was little point in holding on to the irritation. Time would, of course, have an understandable toll on the length of one’s fuse. Being the god of all of it was surely a burden larger than one Ashamin could understand, so who was he, really, to judge?

All he knew was that now time seemed long. Contrary to what others may have felt after leaving a position granted by that god, Ashamin did not feel crushed by the sudden weight of his mortality. Perhaps that was why he had taken his time, and had not quickened his pace on the long, winding journey to the veins of the gods.

But he was here now, and after so long the whole of it looked strange and different to him. To begin with it was day, and a bright, hot one at that. The holy place wore Tallsun well, and in tragic comparison Ashamin looked rather worse for wear. Though most of his wounds from recent spars were healed, thanks to the passive magic coursing through his veins, he still stepped more gingerly on the leg Seanan had so swiftly cast into injury. His muscles were building, but so too was the count of his scars. He was only thankful that his companions, who leaped almost merrily behind him now, had managed to gain experience in combat without suffering any serious wounds.

Given the heat, the Clovenheart had chosen to leave most of his heavier gear behind in the meadow. He wore only his necklace and Mriga, held tight in the sheath made by Johnny. Ashamin smiled at the thought of the sugar stallion, but did not linger on old relationships. He was here in part, after all, to build new ones.

Which was why, despite his newfound respect for the God of the Spark, it was not his broken shrine that Ashamin stood before. He passed by the Moon Goddess’ wind-battered shrine and gave a nod of respect, of hello, for he could not know that the God of the Spark had passed along the message. And when he settled, and his two companions stood flanking his weary soul, it was before the shrines of the Earth and Sun. For these were the Gods he knew the least, and the ones whose company he sought.

In silence, he pulled Mriga from his sheath and lay its twin blade on the earth before the shrines. If any god chose to come, it was this weapon that he would ask to be enchanted. If the scars on his hide had taught him anything, it was that he could never be too prepared.

""