It wasn't so bad, dying— He had anticipated some sort of agony, fear, anger, sadness… Yet, he was greeted with nothingness. She had vanished long ago— they all had. And thus was the immortal's curse (everyone dies, he told himself this many times to try to cope. It's the nature of this world. Everyone and everything dies…)
And with this concept, he was certain that he'd be able to die as well. The castle around had fallen into disarray, it had been that way for centuries now, as he had lost the will to continue (once she vanished, and he should've known, he can't transfer immortality) So he now saw what she meant—
This is a grave, yours and mine. The magnificent air of Laputa had left long ago, and he didn't mind. He's standing in a dead throne room in a dead city which he tried long ago to revive and he doesn't care— he stopped caring a long time ago.
And so he finds himself on the floor of the throne room, the sound of the outer walls crumbling the only comfort he has left— (How odd, he thinks, Centuries ago, I feared this day…)
He's laying on this cold floor and his passion for her is painted upon the rotting walls in beautiful silvers and crimson— because nothing lasts forever.
And he smiles (what an odd feeling, he hasn't done this in a while—) he smiles and that strangely contented sigh escapes from parted lips. I'm coming home… Sheeta, I'm coming home just as I promised.
"Just as I promised…"
