The ashes lie heavy in his hands. Rough and dry, they spill through his fingers, into the urn. Men try to speak to him, to offer condolences, but he barely grants them a turn of his head. He cares not for what they might say; he cares not for anything. How can he, when the one he loved beyond all others, beyond his own life, is dead? How can one shriveled soul survive without its dearest friend?

He releases a battered cry.

Dearest friend, great-hearted lover, gentle companion. Those titles don’t matter anymore—not to him. The body they once belonged to is gone. Reduced to ashes and dust and charred bones. And for what? Gold, glory, gods? The worthless things he once so desired? Oh, how he hates, truly _hates_, them all now. Stabbing pain throbs beneath his veins with each heartbeat, as if his blood were not blood at all, but rather poison. An unbearable stinging weight pools in his chest as he crumples to his knees, tears at his hair, whispers the name of his beloved like a prayer.

He stays like this, bent over himself, screaming, beating the ground with his fists. Each minute passes slowly, and yet they all remain a blur. His mind rings, unable to think of anything but the one he lost. Bubbling anguish seethes under his skin as he remembers each broken promise, each wrong choice, each time he turned away, and one terrible truth emerges.

This death is the result of his own actions.

His brow sets as he finally stands, cold, glassy eyes glaring at the reddish horizon without mercy. Harsh tears crawl down his cheeks; he pays them no notice. There will be more ashes to collect come sunrise. He should only hope that he may be among the lucky ones.