ashamin

lochan

&rakt

His companions were tired, but that day they would not rest. All three of the stags lifted their sleepy heads at the scent of winter and the call of the wind. Ashamin became suddenly and distinctly aware of the fact that he was no longer alone.

Standing took effort. His body still ached from recent spars, and the odd chill that came from deeper in the sunlit woods froze his very bones. Ashamin was used to cold far more severe than any found in Helovia, but there was something different about the wind that pulled on him that day. He found his limbs dragged forth as if by some other entity’s design, and in a half-hoped moment he thought of the Gods and the mystical forces that played a part in this world. Lochan and Rakt followed him with senses heightened and curiosity piqued, but neither could say that their bonded was right or wrong until the moment they all stepped into the circle of snow.

What gathered there was undeniably supernatural; it was a figure both beautiful and infinite, some strange shadow of something both cervid and equine that created itself with every fallen flake of snow. The Clovenheart blinked, glimmers of white catching on his long black lashes. When he breathed the cloud that formed before him was out of place but perfectly right all at the same time. Somehow, Ashamin hardly noticed the cold.

The eyes of the creature were dark and cold—not unlike his own. He saw in their stark contrast against the snow memories of temporary statues built in the Basin. In those memories, he found the comfort of playful innocence. But he was no longer innocent, he knew this. Even his companions were grown now, and they did not frolic in this strange circle of cold as they might have in the past. No, they all regarded the scene with quiet reverence. Whatever this creature was, it was to be respected.

"I heard a voice," Ashamin said, though the words felt strange as they moved across his lips. He was not certain he was really speaking, and perhaps he was not. Perhaps this was a dream, or merely a collection of thoughts. The aching of his body numbed, and when he breathed again he began to feel lightheaded. "Were you the one who called me?" The Clovenheart asked, despite knowing that surely this must be the case.

He was naked, and this fact alone was rare. All trinkets were left behind, all armor and weaponry was put away. Before this spirit of winter, Ashamin was entirely bare. "Nevermind," he breathed, not caring any more about the voice that had called him. Perhaps it was this creature’s, and he was truly loved. If it belonged to anything else, Ashamin would not leave to find out what. After so long in a cold that felt strange and lonesome, he would not turn away from the sort that numbed his heart into oblivion.

"You are beautiful," he said, his heart in a state that combined the agony of understanding one’s mortal lack of importance with the blessing of existing in a world alongside angels. The stallion believed in powers higher than himself that were still undiscovered, this much would always be true. He had not expected to see them before dying.

""