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Ashton is sundered, as was foretold.
For the briefest of moments— and it is no more than a moment, no more than a handful of seconds stretched across the expanse of eternity— Ashton is nothing more than the pieces of himself, hung in open space. He well and truly shatters, and there is nothing metaphorical about it. His chest ignites, his arm falls away— Ashton shatters, and Fearne stares in awe as a broiling fractal stops inches from her face, burning the tip of her nose. Her eyes are watering, but the tears evaporate before they can fall. She remembers them pulling her in, their lips against hers, and cannot recognize the broken mass in front of her. Someone is screaming. Ashton does not have a mouth to scream with.
Fearne wonders what she should've done differently.
Would this be her, had she taken it? Bits of flesh and bone instead of rock and rubble? Would she have been able to handle the boiling of her blood given her natural inclination towards fire? Would she have melted on the spot? Ashton is the picture of constitution and resilience. Could Fearne really have matched that? Could she stand to become the darkest version of herself?
Her fingers smolder, skin threatening to peel away from the abuse. Another Cure Wounds dances through her veins, ready to be cast, but there is no figure to receive it. She could reach out, could touch the shard before her and pray it puts them back together, but she doubts it would. Are these wounds, or are they ruins?
She dares not to avert her eyes. The sight of him hurts, so bright she swears she's watching an eclipse, but there's something so jarringly beautiful about Catha smothering the sun, light persisting with an unprecedented vigor. This is something that has never been seen before and never will be seen again. Her retinas sear, yet she does not look away. Ashton Greymoore dies, and Fearne Calloway bears witness.
You promised, Ashton said. Fearne will never make a promise again.