So I got the inspiration to write this story yesterday at about eleven at night, and I worked on it from that moment up until 3:23. The story just came to me, and the desire the write pushed me forward.

And to be quite frank, I think I did a pretty decent job (Heh, oh humble me). But let's see what other's think about it.

It might be a oneshot, or maybe I could possibly be expanded. Who knows! It is up to fate to decide!

Spyro would never be too fond of the gelatinous paste that was fed to him every three sunrises for the purpose of his vitality. Ignitus had once stated –in a rather stern tone, tired of the purple dragon's complaints- that it was good for him, and that it was odd to hear the dragon protest, considering the fact that the fair natured dragon was so rarely retaliative. The purple dragon would remember his mentor's exact words whenever he was forced to swallow the repulsive, sandy-textured, green muck that was placed before him before the breaking of fast every three days:

"My young dragon," Ignitus would start. "You are weak and your powers fail you. This revitalizing potion will reattach you to the forces within your being. In no time, you will be back to your former self; but you must be patient!"

And indeed it sounded delightful to the dragon to drink anything revered enough to be called a potion, but now the use of the word potion sounded like trickery to him. In the tales Spyro would love to read –found in the vast shelves of the endless libraries of the broken-down temple, he would see the great and brave dragons of yore drinking potions and elixirs that would quench all their needs and bring liquid vitality to his soul. Both Sparx and the purple savior tried the first dose of the potion given to revitalize –all wide-eyed and enthusiastic, but were quickly and crudely disappointed. What was supposed to taste like pure bliss was to them more like 'the underside of the most terrible and foul-smelling mushroom', as Sparx remarked. The young dragon was betrayed and abandoned by his own brother after this first sample of the 'hardly-what-you-can-call-a-potion' potion, and had no choice but to swallow it himself.

But it wasn't as bad as the elixirs given to Cynder day and night by the guardians to deal with the torment of her recent escape from corruption; and Spyro knew this clearly. He hated to see her in those days when she would become weak and feverish, for they were only a warning of the terrors and pain that was to come to her. In less than a few hours of the first signs of illness, Cynder would collapse, being doused with ghastly dreams and atrocious pain. Spyro would always have to rush to the guardians for help terrified, and fearful for the dragoness' wellbeing. Ignitus would be the first one to come, and with him he would bring his healing elixirs.

The black-looking liquid was the worst. Ignitus would open the weakened dragoness' muzzle and would slowly drop the elixir into her mouth. As the dark, ominous potion would slip beyond Cynder throat, she would violently squirm to and fro; as if stabbed by the vicious dagger. Her screams were the most terrifying outcome of the remedies. Spyro would close his eyes as tightly as he could, and would duck to cover his ears. Even Sparx, who hated the black she-witch, would hover away, pitying her agony.

It was a little after this had reoccurred to Cynder for the countless time that Spyro sat before his plateful of gelatinous 'hardly-what-you-call-a-potion' potion, relentless to swallow. It was not his own distaste for the potion that drew the dragon away from the awful task of putting such a horrid mixture down his throat, but rather his thoughts for Cynder. He sat in silence, and reminisced the last time he saw Cynder collapse into that state of utter suffering and torment. He winched as he remembered her screams, and the way she squirmed in terror-striking ways. He trembled as images of Cynder's lifeless eyes would show like something of a nightmare. He shed a tear as he would swear to himself that she was dead, and that the ancestors had claimed someone he loved so dearly.

And it all lead back to a single cause: the black potion. It was as if this elixir was more of a poison, destined to kill her, than a potion of healing. Cynder would seem weak and pale-like whenever she would collapse, but the squirming and yelling would not start before she would have this drink. It nearly sickened Spyro to see Ignitus rush to Cynder with that terrible draught, and little would stop him from shouting at Ignitus to stop trying to kill the poor dragoness. He would always bite his tongue, and would pray dearly to the ancestors and gods to stop the terror.

Soon enough Cynder would cease to scream and would fall into a state of utter weakness. Ignitus would take her away to her room, and would not let her out until she fully recovered. Spyro and Sparx would be allowed to visit the dragoness, but she mostly slept -restlessly and with signs of pain, making visits only more pitiful.

But this is what Spyro was off to do now, for he missed the dragoness, and his only wish was to see her rise, strong and well. He walked through the stale, cool halls of the ancient temple and arrived to Cynder's room. The room was located in one of the highest levels of the aged temple, and the light of twilight filled the room entirely. Entering Cynder's room was always terribly alien to the purple dragon. Everything was arranged in a perfect manner, as if some ill compulsion would lead Cynder to this excessive desire to be neat. While Spyro's room had scrolls and books lying all around his terribly un-uniform and messy haystack-of-a-bed, Cynder had all of her reading material placed in the bookshelf given to her; arranged alphabetically. Spyro was careless about most of his personal hygiene, and his room smelled much like what one might imagine a wicked dragon's lair might smell like, but Cynder was obsessed with good odors. A fragrant flower was placed by a dragon's table near to the entrance, and every corner of the room had potpourri elegantly placed on heaters that would sparse the aromas.

As the dragon walked in, crossing the veil that covered the entrance to the young dragoness' room, he immediately saw Cynder lying in her hay-stack bed as she slept. She seemed decently peaceful, but from time to time she would shiver violently, causing Spyro to remain unmoved from the entrance for a few moments. He drew nearer to the dragoness eventually. He walked towards her as silently and carefully as he could. The dragoness seemed unmoved by his quiet steps, so he moved to her side. There he saw the dragoness entirely. Her closed eyelids seemed to show that she was at peace. At times her eye ridges craned and twisted in a way that showed pain and worries. Spyro sighed, pitying her still.

"Oh Cyn…" he silently spoke, as he rested one of his paws on her chill forehead. He could feel the coolness of her entire face, and was drawn to the conclusion that she was cold.

He turned, as if by instinct, to search for a blanket that might cover the dragoness. Even if the afternoon did not bring too many waves of cold, for an ill dragoness it would be more than freezing. Cynder shivered partially, propelling Spyro to look further for her covers.

He soon found them atop a small table by the balcony entrance. The ancient wood table, finely crafted and trimmed with gilded carvings of dragons at war, held a thick, linen cover on it. Spyro moved quickly to the table and grabbed the cover with great haste. As he moved it with his paw off of the table, from it fell a vial no bigger that a paw's length. Spyro heard the bottle clink as it resisted the fall from atop the table. He turned, and ceased the vial before it rolled away. The dragon lifted it up, and was in awe when he stared at it clearly. The bottle was filled with the black elixir.

Spyro craned his head around the room, as if waiting for someone to beckon him and ask for the vial. The dragon knew too well that the potion was clearly off limits to him, as for whenever he would ask anything about it, Ignitus would give him a stern look and would hide it in the pouch he used to carry all of his alchemy. Dark secrets were kept by the guardians indeed, but few were kept as carefully as this one. Spyro could not imagine the meticulously careful Ignitus making as big of a mistake as to leave this potion behind, but the purple dragon assumed that he had to make a mistake sooner or later.

For a moment the dragon moved toward the table again, and was to do his dutiful responsibility of returning the vial; for it was not his. But from the blue, a great torrent of curiosity filled his heart.

He had always wondered what caused Cynder more pain: her illness, or the remedy to it. As said before, common observation would lead Spyro to believe that it was the potion that would destroy the dragoness. Spyro could not help but to feel that Ignitus was no more than a fiend by giving her this drink, and at times would even believe Sparx's wild theory that the guardians wanted Cynder dead –even if he would brush these thought away as quickly as he could. Why would the guardian's want her dead, after all? Cynder would seem fine when she would recover.

If she would recover, this meant that the potion helpful. This is what Spyro said to himself as he stared at the potion, resisting the desire to destroy the vial.

He raised an eye ridge as he fumbled the vial about his paw. The sudden temptation to taste this elixir slowly crawled into his mind. He swallowed as he looked at the cork top that covered the dark potion. Turning, he gazed at Cynder yet again. She rested, unmoved from where he had seen her before. There was a cold sweat on her forehead, and she shivered slightly. For a moment Spyro feared that she would awake and see him with the vial in his hand. While sick, Cynder was rather hot-tempered, and would fall into fits of sudden rage. He could still remember the day she had spoken to him almost absorbed by the remnants of her corruption. She called him a scum, and with strength unimaginable for a dragoness of her size she threw him on the ground, nearly slaying him. If it had not been for Spyro's urgent pleas, Cynder would have never freed herself from the evils of her mind. She was the one pleading for forgiveness afterwards, but Spyro was ever there to forgive her.

"It was not you, Cyn," he would comfort her. "It was only the passing of evil."

Spyro looked back at the vial. His eyes were fixed, and he had now convinced himself surely that he had to drink the potion. He had to know what Cynder felt. He had to know how he could protect her.

The purple dragon opened the vial; that was easy enough. The liquid unleashed a fume that was all but strange to the dragon. The aroma was sweet and luring. It was almost intoxicating and mind-warping; but what that was left in the mind was traces of peculiar lifelessness. Spyro felt cold, and his spirits seemed to fall.

But the dragon was captured by the aroma, and its secret promises. Spyro slowly moved the vial to his lips, ever more intoxicated. He was now clenched by the potion entirely, and he poured the vial's contents into his mouth.

As soon as the liquid made contact with the savior´s flesh, a sudden and vile wave of pure pain surged through the entire dragon's body. Spyro had never felt so much agony in his life; and as it reached every particle of his being, he screamed in with all of his strength. He quickly collapsed, and began to convulse ferociously as wave after wave of pain ran through his body. He felt the stab of a million daggers and the lash of a million whips as he slowly lost his vision. He could no longer see Cynder's room, but rather the dark walls of what seemed to be a dungeon. Spyro noticed how Gaul whipped him now, and crushed his neck until he was nearly out of breath. As he looked at his paws and his tail that lashed out at the wicked villain, he noticed that these were not his, but Cynder's. Gaul threw the dragon to the ground, and Spyro -now in Cynder's body- gasped for air. He looked back hazily as a servant of Gaul gave him a serum in a syringe with a wicked needle. From what Spyro could see he noticed that the content of the syringe seemed to glow dark-purple. Before too long, Gaul took the dragon, lifted his dangerous dagger-clad tail, and dug the needle into his higher thigh. As the contents of the syringe flooded into the dragon's body, he screamed yet again. He could feel the liquid that flowed in his body. It made him cold and brought him misery. He could feel his heart speed up as a dark aurora surrounded him. It was cold and cruel to the skin. The darkness moved closer to him, and caused all of his muscles to expand in the most painful of fashions. It felt like his flesh and bones would explode, and his body would be un-seamed from the pressure within. He shouted again, and began to convulse. He could notice, from his shouts, that his voice was that of Cynder's.

Soon the pain eased, and he was numb. The dragon felt cold and lifeless.

"That will assure us that forever you will forever be our puppet," Gaul snarled in near disgust. He spit on the dragon as he kicked him with great strength. Spyro's body was numb, but from the strength of the blow he could feel one of his ribs shatter. The dragon quickly tasted blood, as he began to cough uncontrollably. He began to feel all the air he would breathe escape him. He choked as he started to gargle his own blood.

"Curses…" Gaul muttered. "I guess I kicked you too hard, scum." Spyro turned to look at Gaul. "Servant, Bring me another syringe!" The macabre ape gazed at the dragon yet again as he chuckled in a fiendish way. "Let's see if we can fix you…"

More blood spilled from Spyro's mouth, and soon there was a pool of this red liquid grazing his muzzle. Spyro felt like he was to die, but Gaul lifted his tail yet again, and stabbed him with another syringe. Once again he agonized, and more than before. He felt the broken rib on his body move back to its place in the most tormenting of way, and the flesh on his innards mended, but not in a soothing manner. He ceased to bleed, and quickly he was numb again.

He tried to crane his head as to stare at Gaul once more. The dragon's whole being ached tremendously. The pool of blood by his muzzle had spread out further, and when it got into his eye it burned and made him lose his sight for a slight moment. Spyro could feel all of his energy building up as he suddenly jerked about and roared furiously. Gaul snickered as he grabbed the struggling dragon from the tail. A triumphant grin could be seen on his face as Spyro turned his body to gaze at him.

"Come on, whelp. It's time for the real fun." But as Spyro felt Gaul dragging him through the rough and cruel dungeon floor, he suddenly felt disconnected from his being. It was as if he was distancing himself from his body, and his being was turning rapidly cold. Spyro thought for a moment that he was to die, for he lost his vision; but quickly enough he awoke to see a pair of familiar eyes.

Young Cynder stood before the purple dragon gaping at him with worn, weakened eyes. The dragoness lightly tottered as her feet could hardly carry her. As the purple dragon realized he was back in Cynder's room, lying belly down, he shot his head up.

"Cyn," he whispered in a frail voice. He could still feel the pain and torment that had come to him but a second ago, but it quickly dissipated. Cynder moved closer to Spyro with weakened legs, and grabbed a hold of the now-closed dark elixir.

"You drank from it, didn't you?" Cynder asked in a stoic manner. The dragon blinked, and could not help but to feel terribly ashamed for his heinous deed.

"Yes…" was all that could come from Spyro's faltering lips. He stared at Cynder in silence, as she gazed at the bottle in her paws. There was something different about the liquid within the vial now. Even if it was black in its essence, under the light of the newly lit torches one could see small purple particles swimming about. It was as if in the terror of Cynder's potion, Spyro had left a bit of himself. He contaminated the dark liquid with a part of his being.

"Ignitus had told you never to drink from this potion, right?" Cynder questioned Spyro further, as the warmth of the purple dragon's form returned to him in a bitter blush. The purple savior had not been explicitly told that the potion was off limits to him, but he had assumed this from Ignitus' unkind aloofness towards any of his questions about the potion. Spyro was not going to explain this to Cynder, though. He felt horrible enough as it was.

"Yes," Spyro finally answered, as he looked down in further mortification. The two dragons were silent for a moment, until you could hear Cynder quietly sobbing. Spyro looked at her sad and weak figure as she cried as silently as she could. The dragon was alerted by her distress –as he always was, and rose as quickly as he could.

"Cyn," he started sorrowfully. "Don't cry, Cyn. I am very sorry for what I did, and I promise never to do it aga-"

"You weren't supposed to see what you saw in there, Spyro!" Cynder cut him off, stumbling as her frail body could not handle her rage. "The potion could have killed you as well, and that would have been my death!" Spyro sat on his haunches as Cynder crashed her head onto his chest. Her silent whimper was now a full wail.

The dragon placed his paw upon Cynder's shoulder as he cradled her. Spyro was speechless and partially confused. He wondered what she meant with her last words. At last he spoke.

"Cyn… I didn't know," he began apologetically "If only I would have known that by dying in this dream I would kill you I would have nev-"

"It's not like that…" Cynder whisper in between tears, seeing Spyro's clear misunderstanding of her words. "If you die… I won't have a light to guide me out of this shadow. Spyro… you're my only joy in this life."

Spyro's heart skipped a beat, and the knot in his throat nearly suffocated him as it rose to his mouth. He felt such pity from these words that he laid his head on the dragoness' shoulder.

"Cynder… you can't say that," he responded. "You have the world, full of colors, and all of the ones who care for you… Please don't say that."

The two were silent momentarily.

"Spyro," Cynder spoke.

"Yes?"

"Never drink from that potion ever again."

"Alright…"

"And Spyro…"

"Yes…"

"Never leave me…"

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