Time is Irrelevant.
The wind slowly began to howl around the body of Feferi Peixes. Similar winds howled around Eridan, and Equius, and Vriska, and Terezi, and Nepeta and Sollux and Gamzee and Tavros and Aradia and Karkat.
Faster and Faster the wind whirled, tornadoes sprouting up around the mysteriously non-decayed bodies. For how long they span, who knows. Unlike the trolls, This Chronicler is not interested in such things.
When they finally died down, the bodies were still there. But they were clean, as they day they were born. Not alive, of course. But unkempt. Each one side-by-side in a perfectly square, Six Foot Deep hole each. it was the least they deserved. The very least.
Although The Chronicler made it clear time is not his purpose, for the purpose of keeping the flow I will tell you that the next part of the story takes place many, many hundreds of Sweeps later, and in a place where Sweeps were not the unit of measurement for the concept of time understood by all creatures sentient.
It took place on the world inhabited by humans. Well... humans and trolls. it should come as no surprise to the reader that after the human inhabitants came home from their adventure, in an earth not ravaged by the horrors of Crockercorp or Sburb, they weren't able to forget their friends.
Trolls soon sprouted up. It was difficult for them to merge with the community, but in this world they were soon accepted as equals. This may seem rather lackadaisical a manner of beginning a method to wrapping the story up, but it is rather up you to decide whether or not an ideal world is too much to ask for.
Coming off of that tangent, in one particular troll hatching factory, something incredibly impossible was happening. Something that had not quite happened before. Instead of regaling you with the detail you would rather not have, The Chronicler will instead transcribe what happened by those who were there.
In this factory two workers sat side-by-side, staring at the wriggler cages. They weren't to insinuate the trolls young were pets, lord no but it was simply easier to keep them there until they molted into their proper forms and started learning to walk. The cages are not the important detail.
The factor that had them staring was the number and the diversity. Twelve Trolls Wrigglers, one in each separate section of the cage. None of them could sleep, but they seemed to cover the entire spectrum of blood castes trolls came in. From Dark Red to bright Violet, even...
"Hey, is that a Lime blooded Wriggler? Holy shit! I thought those went extinct, how the hell is this one here?"
"Yeah, that's weird. What's weirder is that these Wrigglers keep bonkin' their little horns against the door of their section, never seen anything like it. Anyway, you want some coffee Jake?"
"Dirk if you think I am letting you get me a drink without watching to see if you spit in it ever again you are sorely mistaken. I'm coming with you."
With much fussing, the two left the trolls to their devices. When they returned, however, Styrofoam coffee cups hit the floor and they kneeled down, looking in.
All twelve had gathered into one enclosure. All of them. And if looks were not deceiving, it was... the Lime Bloods enclosure? What could this possibly mean? The other extraordinary thing was that all twelve were curled up, soundly asleep, for the first time since they'd hatched.
"Um... Dirk I don't mean to sound spiritual, but... Is this some kind of past life hullabaloo? I don't think anyones ever recorded this kind of behavior in... ever!"
"Jake, How do you expect me to answer that. What i do know is what's right in front of me. And you know what I see? Sleeping grubs and Spilled coffee. Come on, let's get refills and a mop."
And so, they left the universe to work it's little piece of magic. Or Miracle. it wasn't important. The Chronicler hears your cries, asking how this is in any way possible. Well, not even The Chronicler himself, in all the glory it takes to be able to pick up a story and finish it, cannot answer that.
What he can say is that maybe this is because it was meant to be. Maybe some friendships truly can withstand the test of a Thousand Sweeps and survive into better times. Maybe no existence truly dies, maybe it just switches design in this Magic Show of a world. Who knows. The Chronicler certainly does not.
AUTHORS NOTE
If you have had the kindness and patience to read all the way through this then all I can do is thank you! To those of you that leave reviews, critical or otherwise, thank you! You all help so much, you don't even know ;u;