Ashamin wasn't in his cavern that moment, it was true.

But someone was. Lochan was. And from behind the rock where he often slept among the silken folds of his bonded's tossed off sarong, beside fragments of his own eggshell, he stood shaking and shy. He had met Hotaru and her hellhound before, but Ashamin had always been at his side. And though Lochan was slightly bigger now, the stunt of his growth was becoming quickly apparent. Though antlers would grow, the rest of his body would stay small enough to rest at Ashamin's chest, a minor burden, a perceptive companion.

Lochan did not have the strength to be brave, but he had the will. And beside the fire the lady and Alice looked menacing to the infant cerndyr, like demons, like nightmares.

His warning cry that followed and failed to threaten was piercing. It echoed through the cavern and shut his white eyes with its force, crinkling the third one upon his brow. He wished he had the power to speak to his bonded but all he could do was search for Ashamin out in the night where he had ventured for food and try and flash an image of their unexpected company.

Though the bond was still underdeveloped and the distance too great, Ashamin heard Lochan's call faintly and came running. Snow flew in his wake, kicked up by four perfectly cleft hooves, each growing more dangerous with every passing spar. Soon muscle would build and remain, soon injury would fade into strength. But even now, if he wasn't ready, he would kill whoever threatened to hurt his companion. And he realized that in a moment struck and accented by fear of his own capabilities.

When he arrived at the cave, his sarong filled with a meager supply of grasses that had been revealed by melting snow as Birdsong threatened to arrive along the mountain slopes, he saw only a dark silhouette by his fire. Lochan came running, small hooves clicking against the stone, uttering a dwindling wail. Ashamin stood firm, prepared when Lochan came crashing into his right foreleg, his head pressing against Ashamin's knee and his chest shaking as breath forced itself in and out of his tiny, quivering lungs.

The haruspex considered calling out a threat. He figured that perhaps to a stranger his scars might make him look imposing enough. But at the right moment the breeze blew in and the flame flickered as if from the east--at the right moment he caught the faint reflection of his lady in the blank mirror at the cave's back.

He calmed--lashing tail settled against the rock. Lochan still shook, still insisted, and Ashamin obeyed by lifting him gently by the scruff to place him in the safety of his sarong. "Hotaru," he said blankly, too stunned still by the apparent urgency of the false alarm to supply the proper respect. She was a leader and he her religious advisor by rank, but he was a caretaker first and foremost. Lochan would always come first, he knew that now more than ever.

"I'm sorry, you caught us both off guard," the paint went on by way of excusing himself and his companion, though he wasn't sure it was necessary. He was beginning to question his persistent, frequent, and instinctive apologies and deference, especially when he noticed he hesitated to enter his own cave because of her presence.

Ashamin was beginning to take on a more graceful and measured walk. As he drew closer to the fire, Lochan wriggling at his breast, he seemed to almost glide. Though the flames were perhaps drying Hotaru, he still saw the streaks of wet across her features. Lochan would have too, were he not burying his head in the mess of white cloth and damp grasses.

"Hotaru, is something wrong?" Ashamin asked as he stopped, looking at her over the leaping flames, watching her carefully. The question was measured with respect; they were not quite equals. But when he looked at her now she seemed almost small, maybe even frail, maybe even weak. And he noticed too, for the first time, that her youth was shining through. He wasn't much older, maybe not even wiser, but he could hide it well enough. And though he didn't doubt she had grown far past innocence, could she hide that youth? Soaked to the bone and coming to him now with a telling look seeming like concern marring her companion's often strong features, could she really stand beside two older stallions and have others respect her the same?

Ashamin doubted it. He didn't want to, but he did. She could try, she could display all the might she surely had within her bicolored breast, but she wouldn't be taken so seriously as the two lords.

The question was, then, did Ashamin fall into that pattern? Or did he have the strength to look beyond all of that?

Ashamin watched Hotaru over the licking flames, her pale pink figure lit orange by their leaping. Without tending, the fire would die, soon. Without tending, maybe so would Frostfall.

His left ear, large, dishlike, flickered to face the storm. Without looking, without being in it, he could still feel its ferocity. And yet here he was, standing inside, in a moment of calm, across from his leader.

More than anything, then, the Haruspex longed for a proper horn. Something long and majestic, to bring him to great heights and cross over the border the fire created between them. What would it be like to greet her like that, to start battles that way? The tips of two glorious weapons, crossing in reverent respect. But Ashamin had nothing but a knotted tree, a pitted gnarl obscuring his features. He would never get to experience that simple sensation: that distant touch, that clash.

When his lady went on to speak his ear turned back to focus on her. Lochan curled up tightly, his hind hooves pressing against his bonded's chest, as if preparing to sleep. But Ashamin knew it wasn't so--he knew his young companion would be listening, all the while. Hotaru spoke of herself as if she were a failure, someone weak and to be brought down.

But Ashamin knew better. And he hardly let her finish before he spoke to her, in earnest and heartfelt reply.

"Have you ever seen a bird fall, Hotaru?" It was a sincere question, one made tender by the slow blink that followed it, one made proverb by the inhalation that preceded its second part. "The only bird to ever fall, in this land or any other, was a great one, struck by lightning. And when it landed the world rose to greet it. The world created mountains, great towers of earth to be blanketed with its white feathers."

His long tail quivered behind him, twitching as if seeking out prey. But his mind was in utter focus--his heart, lacking all distraction. "That bird was remembered by the land. That bird is everywhere, in the distance. Frostfall is nothing but a weeping tribute, a yearly shedding of a great beast's children shedding its down. That bird had no name, no age, no gender, no race, but it was remembered."

Ashamin's eyes narrowed, his heartbeat picked up as he remembered first being told this story, himself. "No one saw that lightning strike, no one saw the descent. They only saw the landing. They saw something on the top of a mountain, and they called it this," he said, gesturing out to the winter storm then with his long, curved nose. "Damnit, Hotaru, I don't think anyone even ever saw that bird. I think they saw the snow fall and they cried with some emotion they didn't understand yet, because they knew something was changing. There had been the sun in the sky, higher than they ever imagined, and then one day it was shattered to pieces like feathers that they made into myth. But it was remembered, don't you see? And no one talks about how that bird was a sun without remembering that now it is snow. And no one remembers the lightning, they just remember the bird."

Ashamin felt his throat catch. He remembered the story from his father's lips. Who had the bird been for Veril, his mate? Ashamin had believed it. He had thought it was real. He had watched for the bird to fall every winter, had watched for new mountains to rise up, had looked after every rumble of thunder, only to find he was too late. He had looked his whole life; all he had ever found was his father's grief.

"Do you really think, that if some stray bolt sought you out, this herd wouldn't be there to catch you?" Ashamin asked then, turning back to match Hotaru's gaze with intensity that was maybe lost in the deep black but gained as the fire reflected in it, "Who cares if you are a mare? Do you really think someone wouldn't rise up to hold you steady in the cradle of a mountain?"

Lochan looked up then at his companion. Ashamin had started to shake, without realizing. The cold had turned into something else, like passion for her to understand. This was important to him. And maybe not because of Hotaru, maybe because of what it had meant to him as a colt. He had for so long thought his father would catch him, and in the wake of his death he had feared he would fall forever.

Now, he knew his herd would be there. No matter what happened, someone would be there. Surely Hotaru had to understand that. Surely, she couldn't be so alone that she feared she would fall from the sky and into nothing.

Initially, the Haruspex occupied himself by trying to consider how he should respond to his lady's outburst. He wouldn't call it hysterics, for she seemed quite controlled, but there was something purely instinctive about the matter. As she continued, he realized it was pointless to form ideas before she'd finished any--and so, he settled in to listen.

But he wanted to interrupt.

She spoke of a cruelty that she possessed and he had never before seen. She talked of pasts she had lived (surely before his time here,) and the mother she'd once had. But what did it matter? The whole time, through her confession, all he could wonder was why.

She spoke of daughters he didn't know she had. She spoke of tearing others like him apart--as if she wanted to do the same to him. But Ashamin doubted it, he could not see the same evil in her that she apparently saw in herself. What had made her feel this way? Who had told her she was as cruel as this, and made her believe it? Either she was more easily swayed than Ashamin had ever expected, or she'd faced a powerful liar--a golden one, maybe.

When she at last addressed her power, Ashamin's round ears turned inwards and perked. Her expression was... he wasn't sure. Desolate, maybe? Desperate? But as he watched her shake her head and give out her last exhalation, air her last guilt, he felt his chest grow tight.

The haruspex felt full. He felt full of air, of being, perhaps of all the things she'd just pronounced with such imperative. Was this how Hotaru always felt, then? Was she unloading her burden, carrying it tiredly over to rest upon Ashamin's own awkward back, and leaving her troubles to his whim?

Why was she coming to him? The buck felt as though he hardly knew her, as if he was not worthy of her speech. Then again, didn't she too feel she was unworthy?

He considered his position, and the electricity that had covered him like a blanket at the herd's last meeting. No, he wasn't unworthy. He had been chosen, and so had she.

"None of that matters," he said, trying not to sound as dismissive as he felt. "And whatever the root of your intention, whatever the poison you believe it stemmed from, you have done nothing but good for this herd. This herd chose you--this herd decided it deserved you, not the other way around."

He stepped closer to the fire, to the point where Lochan started as the heat travelled through their bond. The companion flashed an image of it to his bonded, a brightly scribbled mass of red, yellow, and orange. But Ashamin wouldn't be burned--as he reached over the flames to extend his cheek towards Hotaru's, he feared nothing.

"It's not up to your past to determine your future, and it's not up to you to determine your worth. All you have is the fact of your appointment, and the understanding that comes with that. The Aurora Basin finds you to have good intent, they trust you," Ashamin said quietly, the crackle of the flames bursting beneath every word. "You have to trust them, too."