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A S H A M I N
on his own
on his own
As the little fox danced below him, making a show of herself and radiating affection, Ashamin mused on Lena's reply. "I couldn't imagine my life without her." He snorted softly, kindly, towards the little creature and stamped his forehoofs as playfully as he could muster, hoping that he wouldn't startle the white furred nymph.
Was there anyone Ashamin couldn't imagine his life without? He had thought, once, that that had been true of his father. He had never thought his father would die; even as Veril began to age and grow ill before him, he had not thought much about death. Yet it was strange, he thought, to not think about death. Death had been the site of his birth. Death was everything he was, in an odd sort of way. His life became nothing more than a product of the end of another.
And if it was true that his father had died of a slow, longing heartbreak, a deep and incurable pain, then hadn't he caused both of their ends? He could feel no pain for the loss of his mother other than his father's pain--could feel pain for his father in every waking moment, set deep in his bones. How could the stone, cold and white, be a reminder of the mother he had never met when his father had fastened it to his horn as a colt, and watched it grow into his horn? His mother's legacy was caged in him, his mother's name on his lips with every introduction, and yet his father's memory was all he had, and everything he loved.
But Lena loved. He could tell in the way she spoke of the kitsune beside her, and the light he saw in her air. Ashamin, too, wanted to love. So when she went on, speaking of the herds in the land with equal excitement, he could think only of the Aurora Basin, where she resided. If she held so much love in her heart, surely, was it not from her homeland? He had learned from his home, his father, more than he had learned from anywhere else. His upbringing had been his foundation. From his father he had learned empathy, curiousity, and yes, though he felt it now for no one, love.
The Basin had created the mare before him, hadn't it? He wasn't sure. He wasn't going to ask. But if he was right, and if her love and light truly came from her home, then he wanted to see it at least. He turned his gaze away from the active creature at her hooves, straightening the tilt of his head and attempting to let off an air of certainty. Still, there was nothing certain about the young buck; even the way his tail snaked against the earth, conveying nervous agitation, was unsure.
Just as he gathered himself and prepared to speak, the mare stopped him in his tracks with something more.
Magic?
It couldn't be. His features shifted, expressing a fear, a wonder, and an impassioned curiousity. Magic was a story, nothing more. It was stuff of the legends his father had told him in the dark hours before sleep fell upon them. Magic made up tales of ever-burning fires to keep one warm on the coldest nights of winter.
But when Lena spoke Ashamin couldn't bring himself to deny her. Perhaps it was his innocence, perhaps his consuming loneliness, but he trusted her. He trusted her too quickly and too much, he knew this, but he made no effort to stop himself. He tried to muster his thoughts again and form a reply, but the idea of magic was too shocking. After a moment he simply shook his head, the stone shifting in his horn and the mess of his mane catching lightly in the air.
He walked past her, his communication silent and perhaps even failed. With his father, he had spent days in complete silence but knowing everything his father wanted him to know. Spending an entire childhood with one stallion only led to an intense study of body-language and emotion--a full and devastating understanding of the saddened curve in his father's back, a realization that the only reason Veril stayed by his side was because he was his mother's living remains.
He turned his head to the side, looking back at Lena slightly, and quietly spoke a small question.
"There is magic...in the basin?"
Ashamin exhaled. When he drew in the next breath, it was with apprehension. When he spoke, his voice shook with a tremor.
"I think," he said, "that I would like to see it."
Was there anyone Ashamin couldn't imagine his life without? He had thought, once, that that had been true of his father. He had never thought his father would die; even as Veril began to age and grow ill before him, he had not thought much about death. Yet it was strange, he thought, to not think about death. Death had been the site of his birth. Death was everything he was, in an odd sort of way. His life became nothing more than a product of the end of another.
And if it was true that his father had died of a slow, longing heartbreak, a deep and incurable pain, then hadn't he caused both of their ends? He could feel no pain for the loss of his mother other than his father's pain--could feel pain for his father in every waking moment, set deep in his bones. How could the stone, cold and white, be a reminder of the mother he had never met when his father had fastened it to his horn as a colt, and watched it grow into his horn? His mother's legacy was caged in him, his mother's name on his lips with every introduction, and yet his father's memory was all he had, and everything he loved.
But Lena loved. He could tell in the way she spoke of the kitsune beside her, and the light he saw in her air. Ashamin, too, wanted to love. So when she went on, speaking of the herds in the land with equal excitement, he could think only of the Aurora Basin, where she resided. If she held so much love in her heart, surely, was it not from her homeland? He had learned from his home, his father, more than he had learned from anywhere else. His upbringing had been his foundation. From his father he had learned empathy, curiousity, and yes, though he felt it now for no one, love.
The Basin had created the mare before him, hadn't it? He wasn't sure. He wasn't going to ask. But if he was right, and if her love and light truly came from her home, then he wanted to see it at least. He turned his gaze away from the active creature at her hooves, straightening the tilt of his head and attempting to let off an air of certainty. Still, there was nothing certain about the young buck; even the way his tail snaked against the earth, conveying nervous agitation, was unsure.
Just as he gathered himself and prepared to speak, the mare stopped him in his tracks with something more.
Magic?
It couldn't be. His features shifted, expressing a fear, a wonder, and an impassioned curiousity. Magic was a story, nothing more. It was stuff of the legends his father had told him in the dark hours before sleep fell upon them. Magic made up tales of ever-burning fires to keep one warm on the coldest nights of winter.
But when Lena spoke Ashamin couldn't bring himself to deny her. Perhaps it was his innocence, perhaps his consuming loneliness, but he trusted her. He trusted her too quickly and too much, he knew this, but he made no effort to stop himself. He tried to muster his thoughts again and form a reply, but the idea of magic was too shocking. After a moment he simply shook his head, the stone shifting in his horn and the mess of his mane catching lightly in the air.
He walked past her, his communication silent and perhaps even failed. With his father, he had spent days in complete silence but knowing everything his father wanted him to know. Spending an entire childhood with one stallion only led to an intense study of body-language and emotion--a full and devastating understanding of the saddened curve in his father's back, a realization that the only reason Veril stayed by his side was because he was his mother's living remains.
He turned his head to the side, looking back at Lena slightly, and quietly spoke a small question.
"There is magic...in the basin?"
Ashamin exhaled. When he drew in the next breath, it was with apprehension. When he spoke, his voice shook with a tremor.
"I think," he said, "that I would like to see it."
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
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