The Temple was quiet

The Temple was quiet. No birds that so often fluttered about the dojo stirred. A faint breeze swirled around the rafters, making not a sound in the night.

Only one creature moved. Slowly, casting elongated shadows over everything, he walked out onto the balcony that extended from the dojo's exit, shoulders hunched in a betrayal of fear and pain even the least observant passerby would have picked up.

The dragon raised his head to the sky, in his eyes pleading, webbed spines on his forehead flat against his purple scales. He stood there for a long time, just…staring. He considered sleeping out here, as he had done years ago, when he had been smaller.

That habit had vanished along with many of his others, such as exhaling smoke out his nostrils.

With a shuddering sigh, Spyro turned and headed back inside, tail dragging dejectedly along the ground.

Once he entered the dojo, the dragon paced over to where he had left his adoptive brother, a golden dragonfly named Sparx who was a little older than he was (and never showed it), and lay down wearily next to him.

An old red dragon, the Guardian Ignitus, swung his great head over to look at him, the normally golden eyes dull and solemn. Ignitus had looked after him like a son ever since a confused and frightened Spyro had accidentally stumbled, as indiscreetly as possible, into the cave that Ignitus had hidden himself in.

Spyro remembered his hatchlinghood quite vividly; for after he had met Ignitus most of his time had been spent in skirmishes between himself and an army full of mindless bastards that never seemed to stay dead.

Of course, it had been some time since he'd actually been involved in any battles. At first, he hadn't minded, welcoming the absence of soldiers. Now however, he would have welcomed any distraction.

Sparx woke up momentarily, murmuring sleepily that Spyro could've been quieter about returning, something Spyro could hardly have cared less about at the moment.

He wished he could voice his discontent to Sparx, but his foster brother, though older, simply wouldn't understand. He didn't think the same way Spyro did, and wasn't nearly as sensitive.

He curled his long tail around his feet, chin resting on his forelegs. A deep sigh issued from his nostrils, his eyes closing slowly as sleep gradually overcame him.


Ignitus watched his charge sadly, knowing that if he was somber now, after the inevitable happened, it was possible that he might become unmanageable.

The old dragon was not as affected by it, as his age and experience provided a depressing predecessor. Spyro was still young enough to be permanently affected, and it was very likely he would for weeks afterwards be depressed and possibly violent.

Well, every dragon would creep about the Temple moaning for days. The passing of another dragon was a terrible thing.

Ignitus felt very clearly the knot in his chest that had accumulated over the days since Cynder had fallen ill. It pulsed as though it was a second heart, growing larger as the days went by and the illness worsened.

It had been three weeks since the black dragon had collapsed soundlessly to the Temple floor, unconscious before she even hit the ground. They had tried everything to alleviate the fever, but nothing worked. Now they had resigned themselves until the disease had taken its toll.

To a stranger, it would sound harsh, but the truth of it was there was no cure, no way to save Cynder from death's cold grip. And they were grieving before it even happened.


Spyro silently watched the Guardians murmuring quietly together, not bothering to try and eavesdrop. He didn't need to. He could tell by their expressions that they were discussing Cynder.

He restrained himself from indulging in scraping the ground. He had no wish to ruin the intricate carvings on the marble floor, which he certainly would have done if he had continued to rake it with his talons.

The night seemed…longer, than usual. Not an hour had passed since he had returned from the balcony yet it felt like an eternity.

When the four old dragons turned and entered the cavern in which they slept, Spyro ducked his head under a wing, feeling weak. Cynder dead. The thought was unimaginable. And Ignitus was old, Spyro thought, a slight whimper escaping through his serrated teeth. He couldn't lose two of the most important people in his life so close together.

He remembered how…empty, he had felt when Cynder had taken ill. And he couldn't talk to her because she was unconscious. At one point he had been so desperate, that he had attempted to touch her mind.

And he felt nothing.


Ignitus had been half asleep when the piercing cry jolted him to alertness.

Bewildered, he rushed to the corner of the Grotto where Cynder lay, and saw her shivering, though she did not make a sound. Only then did Ignitus think about the scream.

No. Not Cynder's voice. Spyro's.


Sparx was frantic, flitting from one place to another in agitation. Spyro sat bolt upright on his haunches, pupils contacting at a furious pace.

Suddenly, he flared his wings and screamed, his voice carrying a snarling edge.

"Spyro, calm down," Sparx said, his voice breaking with fear. The purple dragon paid no attention to him whatsoever, seeming to concentrate only on something distant.

He didn't stop his shrill ululation, head pointing upwards, tail thrashing through the air, coming precariously close to Sparx.

CYNDER!

The force of his mental shout was enough to send a previously sleeping group of birds into careening hysterics, twittering madly.

He suddenly leapt forward, running towards the Grotto, a confused and exceptionally frightened Sparx following him.

Ignitus uttered a surprised grunt as Spyro skidded ungracefully into the Grotto, careless in his haste.

"Spyro, what-

He was cut off when Spyro gave a mournful bugle, trembling as much as Cynder was in her fevered state. Slowly, the purple dragon lifted his head, eyes whirling with anxiety.

"We've got to do something Ignitus."

"There is nothing…"

"Yes there is!" Spyro snapped, then immediately hunched his shoulders, his expression contrite. "I mean, there has to be…" he said in a small voice, apologetic for his moment of fierceness.

Ignitus bowed his head, then extended a wing over the shivering dragon, as he said sadly, "There's nothing we can do for her Spyro, we tried everything there is."

"But," Spyro protested quietly, "If we don't do something now…she'll die." He huddled closer to his guardian, miserable. He hadn't done that since he was a hatchling.

Ignitus sighed, "If there was anything we could do for her, we would, trust me. But the illness is too far advanced. We can't save her…"

Spyro felt a chill run down his spine, and glanced down at Cynder. Her breathing was harsh and shallow, sides rising and falling irregularly.

He suddenly saw her at another time, when they'd been hatchlings, on the balcony after the death of the Dark Master.

"He's really gone, forever."

"Yeah…"

"Do you know what this means?"

"…no more visions of doom?"

"No, it means that the land is free. It will never be controlled by evil again."

"Not just the land."

"What else?"

"You."

She was silent for a long while.

"I promised you I'd do it, I promised you we'd get through this."

"And you did Spyro, you did!"

She'd hugged him then, for the first time, happy in earnest. Spyro gave a half sob, half growl and crouched down next to the limp Cynder. He could not let her die; they'd been through too much.