When she arrived, Ashamin could not help but hear the faintest sense of relief. He may have hated himself for it, were he aware of its twinge, but it was true. The God of the Spark had made him wait and offered him nothing but a sarcastic and biting tone that Ashamin was not yet tough enough to withstand.

In time, the haruspex would be better suited to his own God. But when the Goddess of the Moon arrived and appeared to be not so cruel as her brother, it was a blessing. She was as beautiful as she had been when he had first seen her in the Green Labyrinth, but here she was in her element. To see her here was to see her in a place of pride. So many, Ashamin was sure, had worshipped her.

What could they find to fault?

As if embarrassed, he curled his snakelike tail forward and around his hind legs. The rope of it ceased his motion, too. It was a good way to force himself to rest--to mask the quaking of his limbs before the Goddess. Ashamin had been shocked but Lochan had not moved a muscle the entire time. Where he had watched, the Goddess had appeared in smoke. The Goddess' presence now only affirmed the companion's attention to the stirring of magic in the wind. Perhaps it was luck or perhaps it was the dark magic that Lochan possessed and Ashamin did not, but no matter what it showed the way they complemented each other.

"This coil? It was gifted to me by a spirit on the night of Lochan's birth. Whether it was sent by the God of the Spark, I do not know..." Ashamin tilted his head at the memory of the watcher, such a strange singing shadow, "...but it had a beautiful voice, and it sang the most mournful of songs."

Of course, memory was likely tricking the haruspex. Lochan looked up at his bonded now with white eyes that, though appearing blank, were searching. Was that really how Ashamin remembered the watcher's song? Was that really the truth of the matter?

Ashamin looked at the Goddess now, watched her face turn softer; why it had been branded by a frown at all, he did not know. Those memories were not something he was privy to--not now, perhaps not ever.

When she touched the earth and brought herself into his realm for a time, his breath caught before her gaze. Perhaps it was not as soft as she thought, perhaps she too had some disdain for the haruspex. What was it about him, he wondered, that warranted such looks? Was this simply how it always was? He was humbled as always, humbled as before. Slowly, Ashamin returned to what he had been.

Ashamin was shy before her. His hocks turned with a nervous energy. When she asked him a question he found himself without an answer until his companion impatiently nudged his knee. Why was he here? Ah, yes.


"I wish to be made stronger," he said with a quiver in his voice but a confidence in his heart. "The magic that I have is a boon, but I wish to do more for my herd. The same electricity that powers my and so many hearts... I can only imagine how many I could aid if it could be made manifest."

He tried to meet her gaze--to match coal with diamonds. Would she respect that, or should he look away?

"" ""

ASHAMIN

The Goddess spoke, and Ashamin listened with consummate care. He noticed, for a mere second, that he stood at her exact height. Perhaps in this way alone, they were equal. But he knew better than to think that, knew better than to figure that the form she bore before him now was her truest one. Had he not just seen her as mist and dark, as shadow and smoke?

No, this was a goddess. She was something and everything more than he was. In his humility, he would never dare to think otherwise.

As she dismissed the trinket's origins, he too followed. It was not the point of the matter, here. He had wandered to the veins and been met by her. He was her audience, to her he would listen. And when she pondered on his own words, considered and turned them, he knew that was what he had to be thinking of. His coal eyes watched attentively, his long tail flickered and hovered ever so slightly above the ground. Lochan was still--entranced.

She was correct; strength was comparative. So the question was what would his point of comparison be: himself or his herd? Her logic was straightforward enough, but the implied difficulties of its moralities tripped the haruspex up. Hurt his own herd? He could not picture it. He loved them all, cared for them all. Not now, and so he falsely thought not ever, would he have the animosity within him required to harm a member of the basin with such cruel and selfish intent.

But maybe the haruspex did not know the extent of his limits, yet. These were things that perhaps he would learn.

Still, standing before her, the answer was clear. "If one must be weakened before they can gain strength, the plant before it grows back again tougher, then let me take that pain upon myself," Ashamin said. He thought of those in life who had taught him--he thought of honor. To say anything else would be a horrible thing, he thought. Certainly, he was not the kind who could just hurt for his own gains. "I will do as you ask, and return to you with the injuries you require," he said.

Ashamin didn't think about fear as he stared into the darkness that surrounded the moon's mistress and her shrine. He didn't think about the sheer horror and pain his body would need to endure to complete the task, he thought only this: never, never could I hurt the ones I care for with such cruelty.

But oh, how wrong he was.

"" ""

ASHAMIN