A/N: This is a pretty old fic, which I did sometime in November, 2009, but never submitted. So here it is uploaded, just for kicks.
End of the Road
He races across the vast, desolate wasteland, the only place he has left to call home. Frozen crystal tears fell lifelessly from the dreary sky; the color of his glorious coat. Head still held high, he strides seemingly effortlessly with the wind. Yet that is but a delusion. He keeps on running, running forwards; never looking back to see the red trail written fresh upon the snow and ice behind him. Each time he springs forwards, he flies; and for one more moment, he feels that his soul has reached the sky, where the tip of ecstasy lies; and then he comes back crashing down to the ground, paws crushed in bone-shattering impact. Each spring is harder than the last, infinitely more painful. His breaths grow labored; shorter and raspier than the last. With each passing second, his strength ebbs, legs weakening. Yet he continues on, head still held high.
There comes the time when drips of scarlet grow into unending cascades, when the white coat forgets to gleam and merely hangs down, limp and matted. Dulled golden orbs stare on into space, as if seeking some faded mirage. Shortened springs become forced forward thrusts; in turn, they fade into mere staggering steps, each slower than the last - until finally, his strength gives way, and he sinks down into the snow after dragging one final, weary step.
Frantically, his mind screams out for him to get up once more, yet no muscle would obey or react to the flurry of commandments thrown upon them. He lies there quietly panting, yearning and desire burning within him. Yet he still stayed quiet; it had been long, long since when he learnt not to whimper, not to shed tears.
A sudden impulse of instinct suddenly seized control of his whole body. Gathering all his remaining strength, he shakily arose one last time, head still held high. Ere he lifted his great muzzle to the blood-red orb hanging yet so delicately in the midnight sky, hidden in the flurry of ice and snowy wrath. He moaned and sobbed, crying the pains of the grief within him, the sorrow of his ancestors, the melancholy of the earth itself; a song as old as time. He cried out desperately, uttering such sweet sorrow to the stars; the primordial lament which flowed through each and every one of his veins; the fibers of his being, the corners of his soul, lost and forgotten, and the dust of his ancestors left in the depths of his existence. Ere he told the tale of his life, adding a new note to the age-old saga which bound his kind.
Yet this time, no one was there to answer but the wind.
He fell then; collapsing into the white, endless bed which he only knew too well would be his grave. His breath rose and fell in ragged gasps, and the crimson pool formed beneath him once more. This time, he couldn't move any more. Even as the wind cut into him like a thousand knives, he did not stir. The wind howled and howled, yet he did not answer back this time. And lying there, after a few moments stretched into eternity, he felt strangely warm. He no longer seemed to mind anything; the cold, the pain, even the memories now seemed like they were of worlds from beyond, and he no longer felt as if he were part of this world.
And thus, he knew. He knew that he had reached the end of the road, the end of his road, the road which he took, the road which he knew none else would ever tread upon again. He had reached the end of his trip. Yet he had not yet reached his destination. The wind howled before him, continuing on that journey, on that path which he could follow no longer.
Then, he closed his golden eyes one last time; golden as the rays of the sun, brilliant as the tears of the moon. His breath suddenly fainted to a whisper, and he shuddered one; then grew still. And no more but the still ever-howling wind and snow raged on. And after a moment, even they died down. And all faded to darkness.
Peaceful, soothing darkness.
And then nothing.