A/N: I wrote this oneshot quite a while ago when I was musing about what could have happened to Spyro at the end of DotD. I guess this is my version of what occurred, plus some of my thoughts regarding the existence of purple dragons, because it interests me. :P Anyway, nothing too special. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.
Thanks for reading. :)
Threads of Existence
He was everything, but nothing. He was darkness, but light. He was freedom, but restraint. He was pure, but tainted.
He was all.
But he was none.
It spread from his body and his soul, from every scale, every pore—energy so warm, and yet so cold. He was aware not of the crumbling world around him or of the warm presence beside him, only of the pure, unrestrained energy that engulfed his mortal soul. Somehow he felt panicked and yet calm, full of strength and yet drowning in exhaustion.
A whisper, just a whisper, echoed through his thoughts, entwining with the outpouring of energy from his soul. He tried to focus on the words, but they were as elusive as wisps of smoke on the wind, as delicate as the wings of butterflies. He yearned to hear the whisper one more time, to confirm the words he thought he'd heard.
Love…
Silence.
He was floating in void without anything to hold on to. Even the energy had dissolved into nothing and he was left a shell without a soul—or so it felt. There was a name on his tongue, belonging to someone he couldn't remember. He tried to call, but no words would leave his mouth. He wasn't even sure he had a mouth anymore, or a body.
Perhaps he was just a jumble of confused thoughts, lost in a sea of nothing. Where he was, he didn't know; where he had been, he couldn't remember. It could have been dreams or reality, or somewhere in between. But he was alone, so dreadfully alone.
Am I flying?
…or falling?
Perhaps he was not moving at all. Movement was a concept long lost from his memory, like the wisps of energy slowing peeling away from his very existence. He was a spirit without form.
Or he was nothing at all.
Then a sudden rush of feeling engulfed him, like he was experiencing the emotions of the entire world all at once. It was overwhelming, choking, constricting; his heart, if he still had one, was swelling, expanding. He couldn't breath, couldn't escape from the emotions that tormented and pulled at what was left of what he was.
Drowning in emotion.
Suddenly, it stopped and he was no longer floating in nothing—instead, he was gazing upon everything. Everything that had ever been and would be was laid out before his eyes, all the threads of existence. He saw the stars and the moons, the earth and the sun, and felt the tantalising energy of life all at once.
What should have awed and astounded him left him only in a state of accepting calm, like a dying creature gazing upon death and accepting it. Both sadness and happiness existed harmoniously within his consciousness, which was all that remained of a once living dragon. As he gazed upon existence, he knew he clung to the threads of life no longer.
He was the stars.
He was everything.
"Welcome, Spyro the dragon."
It was a warm voice that hailed him, somehow familiar and yet strange to him. For the first time, he became aware of the presence of others, all gathered around him. Somehow he turned his gaze away from the world, and saw them; five dragons, standing in the stars. Their bodies were formed of energy and through them he could see both the stars and the dark sky.
Warmth washed over him and he felt a rush of belonging. How strange, he thought, that now he should suddenly feel like he was something more than a tangle of disembodied thoughts. Standing upon the stars, he realised he was the essence of a dragon once known as Spyro.
"Where am I?" he wasn't sure whether he had spoken the words or just thought them, but the spirit dragons seemed to have heard.
"Look at the world," they said, their voices combining into one. "What do you see?"
Spyro stared, "I see a broken world reforming, mending… But how?"
"You know, Spyro. You have always known. Look again."
Spyro looked—and, for the first time, he saw the aura that surrounded the world. It was vivid and bright, a violet colour, like the scales of the dragon he had once been. It was then that he understood, with a sort of contented sadness, what was happening.
"It's me," he said. "That aura; it's me."
The spirit dragons nodded. "It is your spirit that is reforming the world, binding the pieces together, giving it new shape. You have shed your very existence to save this world and now you have become it."
"Then I truly am dead."
"That depends on what your understanding of death is, Spyro the dragon."
"Who are you?" Spyro asked suddenly, his voice echoing amongst the stars. He saw the spirit dragons smile as though they had expected no less.
"To the dragons that live upon that world, we are known as the ancestors," they said together, "but you may know us as the first guardians. It was to us, many millions of years ago, that the first elements were bequeathed, gifts from the natural world we protected. And those gifts we passed on to the entire race of dragons. We have been watching over the world ever since, giving guidance to those who ask. We have been watching you, too, young dragon."
"And Malefor? Were you watching over him?"
"We were."
"Then answer me this." There was a sadness to Spyro's voice. "Was Malefor right when he spoke of the destiny of the purple dragon? Were we truly intended to destroy the world?"
"Do you believe that?"
"No!" Spyro exclaimed, and was surprised to hear himself answer so quickly. "I don't want to believe it."
"Then it isn't true," the ancestors said simply, voices merged as one.
Spyro faltered, "But... I-I don't understand…"
"Yours is a peculiar existence, Spyro, foretold by a prophecy long before your egg was even laid. Your life was shadowed by a destiny that others had picked for you."
"But it is not destiny that decides our path in life. Like any other living creature, it is the choices you made that led you on the path you took. You could have easily chosen a different path and the world could have, in turn, been a very different place. That is what makes you special, Spyro. The purple dragon holds the entire world in his claws, and his choices will shape and form the world he exists in."
"Malefor made his own destiny and the path he took led the world into an era of destruction. And, in turn, you created your destiny and with it reformed the world. No prophecy can decide the fate of any creature. Both you and Malefor are living proof of that."
"But if the purple dragon's existence is so disruptive to the world, why did they exist in the first place?" Spyro asked desperately. He was no more than essence now, but all the same he felt the desire for the reason for his existence.
"Dragons are a fortunate race; they have been bestowed with powers no other creatures in their realm will ever wield. But—I believe you have heard this saying before, young dragon—all gifts come with a price. The purple dragon is that price."
Spyro gaped wordlessly at the ancestors, but they merely stared back impassively. Was there sadness in their eyes, or was he just imagining it? Anger crept through him, bleeding slowly through his essence. This was not an answer he had expected to hear.
"So we were the price dragonkind had to pay for all the power of the elements?" Spyro said, his voice trembling with anger. "You created us just to punish them? After everything…how am I supposed to accept that!"
"You have every right to be angry," said the ancients, their voices heavy with an emotion Spyro couldn't place, "but hear us out. We did not create Malefor intentionally, but it is because of us that he—and you—existed. In the days when we were living, dragons would travel from far and wide to learn the secrets of the elements from us. But when the time came for us to leave the mortal world, we realised that there were still others who had yet to taste of the magic of the elements. So we cast the elements from our bodies and let them take their own shape in the stream of existence."
"No longer were we needed to teach dragons the secrets of elemental magic; instead, they learnt it from the world. It was, and still remains, an invisible force that ties all things together—and all dragons are able to tame that force and use it. But every element is separate, just as we had been in life, and each single dragon can only tame a single element. We cannot say what attracts a particular element to a particular dragon."
"Malefor was the first of his kind—a kind of fluke, one could say. Somehow, unlike other dragons, all of the elements were attracted to this one dragon. In the days when we had taught elemental magic, we never gave a single dragon the secrets of all elements. We knew that such power would be far too much for a single dragon. But when we expelled the secrets of the elements out into the world, we gave up control over them. And it was of their own accord that they converged within Malefor when he was hatched."
"Malefor caused great calamity throughout the world and so began an era of chaos. But nature has a way of balancing itself. And so you were born, Spyro, the second purple dragon. You could have easily chosen to walk the path Malefor did, but instead you chose a different path and in doing so reformed the balance of the world."
"But do not be mistaken," the ancients added gravely. "You will not be the last of your kind, Spyro the dragon. There will be others—not for many hundreds of years, but there will be others. And they will shape the world in turn as they see fit. It is a never-ending cycle, but one that all dragons must accept. It is the price they must continue to pay for the gift of elements that was given long ago and will continue to be given long into the future."
"All gifts come with a price," Spyro murmured. He remembered, long ago, how a certain dragonfly had once said those words to him. Strange, he thought, that they should return to him now; that it should all come down to this.
For what could have been eons he gazed upon the world below him and watched as the last pieces were fitted back together by the pulsing violet aura. The world had been reformed and here he was, gazing down upon it from the stars. He found his thoughts returning to a certain dragoness, one he'd almost forgotten while drowning in the void.
"What's going to happen to me now?" he asked the ancients, who had been standing around him in silence.
"What do you want, Spyro?" they asked. For a moment he was silent.
"I want to see Cynder again," he said at length, "and Sparx, too. Even if it's only for a while; even if it's just to say goodbye."
"Is that truly what you want?"
Spyro hesitated and answered slowly, "What would happen if I said yes?"
He heard soft laughter that reminded him of twinkling stars, and waited patiently for the ancestors to speak again. When they did, their voices were warm and kind.
"You have done much for the world, Spyro. Ever since Malefor's rise, we have watched over the world in sorrow, wishing there was something we could do to help our descendants. You were the answers to our prayers, young dragon, and there is no gift in the world that can be given to repay you for that. But if there is anything you desire, we will do what we can to grant it."
At first Spyro wasn't sure what to ask, but he couldn't shake the mental images of faces, swimming like ghosts before his eyes; Cynder, Sparx, the guardians. He wanted to see them again. No, he wanted to be with them again. To live and exist beside them.
"Can…can I go back?" he asked hesitantly. "I mean, is it possible? If my spirit is what is holding the world together…"
"Do not underestimate the threads of energy that tie the world together, young dragon," said the ancestors. "Though it was indeed your spirit that pulled all the pieces of the world back together, what will continue to hold it together is the same as it has always been—the threads of life. In time your aura will fade from the world, but the world will continue to exist as it always has."
"We can send you back, if that is what you desire."
"Wait!" Spyro exclaimed suddenly. "What happened to Cynder? She was in the core with me when I…"
He faltered, unable to explain or truly understand what had happened—what he had done. But the ancestors seemed to understand.
"Cynder's soul was preserved," they replied. "She would have been destroyed by your energy had we not intervened. But she has proven herself well and earned her reward. Her life was restored when you mended the world. If you choose to return, she will be there waiting for you."
Another rush of warm gratitude washed over Spyro's essence, and he gave a ghostly smile, "Thank you. I would like to return. There is so much I still have yet to experience. I'm not ready to move on yet. I want to be there for Cynder and for Sparx. I want to exist for their sake."
"Then it shall be, young dragon," the ancient guardians nodded. "You shall be returned."
"Before I go," Spyro said quickly, already feeling a strange tingling sensation within his essence, pulling him back towards the world, "there's one more thing I want to ask. What happened to Malefor?"
"His essence was sealed in the core of the world," the ancients replied, their voices slowly fading. "His body no longer exists, and his spirit and essence will slowly dissolve until he is nothing more than a memory. His essence will never return to the threads of existence, unlike other dragons. He will simply cease to exist. That is the price he must pay."
Everything was fading around Spyro. The ancestors had disappeared, the stars were blinking out, and the world was slowly fading into nothing. He was falling back into the void, but this time he didn't feel alone. He felt the presence of the ancient guardians beside him, guiding him, thanking him.
"You have done well. Know that we will always be watching over you, Spyro the dragon."
Silence.
He was falling through nothing, and everything. Memories he'd almost lost were flicking back through his mind, faster than he could keep track. He was weightless and free. Energy was seeping back into his body like wispy tendrils of smoke.
He wasn't falling, but rising.
Then, it all stopped.
He thought of nothing, remembered nothing, felt nothing. But then a rush of awareness swept through his newly reformed body, and Spyro the dragon opened his eyes.