Of the regrets the filly had, numerous in her minute lifespan, she most deeply regretted that her twin had jumped forth to aid her in her explosion against Tyradon. Had she not, only Asch would have been burned by the dracon flame that so badly ruined her frame. Of the small mercies they'd been granted, one of them was that at least she'd managed to receive the brunt of it. She'd rather be dead at the cow bitch's hooves than have her sister harmed. Teeth grit and temples throb with the pain she refuses to let show on her face. She has failed. Her soul sister has been injured, because of her. In life, she had one job, and it was to keep the nether mender safe. She deserved to burn in the fires of her own magic, for how she had failed her twin. Instead she keeps her teeth clamped against the sounds of agony that wish to wind past her molars to betray her. She doesn't deserve that kind of relief. And she stares down at her hooves, not wanting to see what she hears; her mother stumbling and crashing about, just as dead on her feet as Asch feels. But she is the perfect little soldier, and she clamps her lips shut, tries to make Papa proud. Pain is the body growing stronger. Maybe she will grow strong enough to protect Arwen.

Arwen is a blubbering mess, and Asch cannot help but to snap at her for her childishly wailed words. "It's not your fault! You didn't do it to her." And she grits her teeth against a whimper, grinds them, because she won't be weak. She's had enough of being weak. Of being helpless. She will never be helpless again. And so she ignores the way the cold stings like molten needles against the dragon burn on her back, ignores the desire to cry. As long as she lives, a tear will never fall from her lashes. She will sever her emotions, remove them like a failing body part, and throw it away forever. Hardly heeds Arah's words as they stumble like a ragtag group up the halls of the home she's never seen. They look more ready to knock on death's door than their herd's.

As they arrive, her mother calling weakly for leaders Asch has only met once, she hangs back. Desires to push Arwen forward for the attention of the healer surely coming, but knowing it would alert her twin to the fact she would rather take the tired dredges of healing after her family was patched back together. And she watches, with emerald-flecked gold orbs that are dark and full of self-hatred, as they arrive. Deimos, she remembers, recalls how he had impressed her with his aura, his sense of strength. She envies him for that power. Vows to match him, someday. Her desire to voice her answers, so strong her throat trembles and quakes, but she is but a child. What worth does she hold? And her lips twitch and her teeth flash but she swallows down the scald of unspoken words reluctantly. She is given a distraction in the form of her glorious gilded Lady, her anger tangible like Asch's, something the burnished gold fae can relate to. Yes, her mind howls, sensing a similarly minded individual, let her burn them with us at her side! Asch knows the power of a herd, of a united front. But she vies for her own power, for the stealth of an assassin and the blithe smile of an unassuming maiden, for the power to rip the guts from her enemies while they sleep. She glances towards her twin, and her chest aches. It is for her that she fights, that she desires this power. The throne is not hers to conquer. She is merely the soldier that will lift Arwen upon her shoulders to glory, and she would bask in the shadow so many others despised to be placed in.

Only when a slim hoof is extended does her skin tighten and she cannot hold the roll of her eyes as she sags under a pain she has never experienced before, the strained sound of agony that streams through clenched teeth. Even now, she wishes she were able to shove them back within her mouth, because now she has selfishly drawn attention to herself. Instead she tries to overcome it, limping to her lesser burned twin and placing her cheek upon one pale flank, nudging her forward as the healer comes running. Her eyes burn like the fires she wields, an arrow pinned onto the flesh of the maiden that holds her sister's well-being in her grasp. As much as she despises to trust this stranger, especially with her twin, she has no choice. Instead, her voice is tight as she speaks, nudging her twin forth to be presented to the Mender. "Her first." There is no thread in Asch's being that desires healing. But she must be able to fight if she is to protect her sibling.

Singing graces her harks and slowly, watching her sister's mending flesh like a hawk, Asch begins to relax. Everything hurts, but she refuses to cry. She turns weathered eyes to the healer, wary, distrustful. But remains still for whatever it is she wishes to accomplish. And with ease, she falls into her place, silent as the dead her sister rules over. Similarly at her disposal, her command. She stills, and strives to become stone. To not feel.

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Everyone beat me to it! Haha