Malefor was slain, and yet they had still lost.
With the world around them breaking, there was nothing left but fleeting hope at a few moments more before the reality of Malefor's destruction could catch up to them.
Cynder found herself caught between fear and panic and the last chance of happiness before everything was devoured by the eternal darkness, unable to hold back as she begged Spyro to flee with her, somewhere, anywhere, anywhere away from here.
But Spyro, selfless, brave and never one that would willingly turn from a fight to protect those he cared about, would not easily stand by and let the world crumble into ash and dust and memory. No matter how Cynder begged it of him, he refused to stand by while their world fell to Malefor's ruin.
It has never mattered that his scales were purple; that the colour of his being was wreathed in the majesty of the setting sun; bound by the destiny chronicled forever and an age ago, and though Malefor allowed himself to be blinded by the darkness, just by being born purple never had a say in sealing their fates to bring about the end of the world.
They were the hand that guided, not the hand that led, and with his magic Spyro was determined to right the wrongs that Malefor brought about, certain that he was strong enough. He only needed to try.
Cynder would not turn tail and leave.
She loved Spyro, that was unquestionable, and yet it was only now, when the pair of them were facing the end of all things that she finally felt brave enough to bring the truth to light; bearing her truth to Spyro's light as he rose on painted wings, haloed in a bright, searing light that forced Cynder to turn away.
No matter that she could not see the power that he wielded, she could still feel the power he possessed in his magic. It was warm like sunshine against her scales; a caressing touch that could almost be familiar to her, igniting her own bravery, as if it was his promise to her that everything would be okay.
There is a smile on her face long before the light begins to fade. She is not responsible for it but neither does she feel the need to hide it away when they are victorious; no longer needing to hide her emotions as she so often has, surrounded by those that do not trust her simply because of her lineage; no longer needing to keep secrets from the one that held the other half of her heart.
And as the light of his magic begins to fade, she turns back to watch him descend.
Spyro is weakened from the use of such power to vanquish the darkness, and Cynder holds him to no fault for that; rushing forward to support him, her shoulder against his; tails entwining as if it was a habit the pair of them had long since fallen into; taking and offering moments of comfort with the same ease of breathing.
Cynder holds Spyro's tight against her, moving slow and sure to help ease him down to lay upon the World Crystal that hums warm and powerful beneath them; Cynder's mind thinking of nothing beyond her heart beside him, close enough that she can feel the way his heart races rapid and stumbling in his chest; lungs heaving as if he still carried the fate of the world on his shoulders.
They both knew that for him to use such powerful magic, it would come with the price of strength to bear it, and between their victorious smiles, Cynder is beyond proud; Spyro beyond relieved as he shares in her mirth.
"You did it," Cynder says, words overflowing with emotion, hovering on the verge of tears. In fact, she was already crying; overcome with the relief of their victory, laughter blossoming like flowers in spring as the destruction around them began to settle, heading Spyro's will and Malefor's no longer now that he was defeated and Spyro was the one that stood victorious. Semantics aside.
"Spyro you did it," she all but sings, pressing the curve of her muzzle to his cheek, lips a breath from his own, but far too heady, far too overcome with her joy and triumphant to think of such things as embarrassment or restraint.
It was as if the threat of the end of the world had caused her to abandon all restraint; no care to hold back, no reason to when the darkness was defeated and there was nothing left to fear.
Beneath the strain of panting heavily, Spyro throws her a wincing smile, wanting to share in her jubilation, but unable to lift his head, too weak from the use of his magic; his movement stiff and stilted, as if doing so would bring him great pains.
Instantly, Cynder casts her joy aside to replace it with worry. She pushes closer still, searching for the source of Spyro's pain, to help him in any way she can, not having seen him get too grievously injured in their fight against her father and silently cursing herself for not having paid better attention.
And yet, as she gently begins to nose at his wings, at his arms, at his neck and anywhere that might hide a whisper of damage that would be the reason for Spyro's pain, Cynder cannot find anything. No matter how small, there is no scent of blood, no open wound, no lingering damage that she can find beyond that of the sheer exhaustion brought upon by his own magic, pulling Spyro's body down against the World Crystal as if his body itself does not have the strength to keep itself.
Cynder does not understand.
She takes a step back, as if that might help, but the sight that meets her eyes is one that sows the seeds of fear.
Spyro's eyes are closed. He lays with his chin flat to the ground beneath him; his wings haphazardly twisted instead of tucked and folded neatly against his back, as if he had let them lie where they dropped, no matter how uncomfortable it looked; Cynder's wings aching in response. He is still panting heavily; lungs seizing no matter how deep he draws each breath.
Something is wrong.
Something is terrifyingly wrong.
"Spyro?"
Her voice feels small and weak.
Hesitant.
Afraid.
As slow as the falling sun, Cynder edges closer again, something drawing her in, but at the same time, she can feel her fear holding her back. She does not know why. She does not understand.
All Cynder knows is that she is caught between the need to be beside her heart and frozen in fear of the truth that lies here before her.
Heartbreakingly slowly, Spyro forces himself to open up his eyes. Even though there is victory and a sense of relief, there is also something wet, something shattered buried in their depths. This time, it is Cynder's turn to lose her breath; lungs tripping over one another, her chest suddenly frozen, as cold as the deepest of snows.
"No," she says, barely shaking her head as if begging for it to be impossible; even if she does not understand why terror feels her lungs until it feels like she is drowning on it; does not know why her scales feel like they have been carved from the same ice that have frozen her lungs in her chest; not knowing why her heart races wild and out of time while the other half lays weak and growing weaker on the ground before her.
But Spyro is not simply growing weak.
He is dying.
"No, Spyro, this cannot be—"
"I am sorry," Spyro says, and yet thought it is said with all the strength that he can muster, it is feeble and weak and barely anything more than a whisper; his breath a ghost of touch as it races of Cynder's scales and fresh tears press beneath her eyes. Her breath stutters in fear; claws curling forward but the strength of the crystal resists her and she finds nothing to anchor her but the pain of her heart slowly breaking.
"m' sorry," Spyro whispers, because he knows the truth just as much as she does; he had been the one to use the power, his body not quite strong enough no matter that his heart was brave enough, he himself courageous enough; selfless enough, to sacrifice himself and his magic, to keep the world from breaking.
He knows that he is dying, just as he knows that there is nothing that can be done to change that.
"No," Cynder wept, her voice near silent beneath the deathly rattle that echoes Spyro's lungs. She wanted to run, to flee, to fly far, far from this nightmare unfolding in front of her, and yet Cynder knew that no matter the pain she feels, she could never bring herself to abandon Spyro. After being bound to his side for so long, she fears to be apart from him.
He smiles up at her, and she can see the tears in his eyes; both of their cheeks kissed silver in shared heartbreak.
"I love you too."
And though they are the words that Cynder has wished to hear for so long, now the emotion they bring is tinged in heartache; love dripped in longing.
There is nothing that can be done.
It is magic that steals the strength from Spyro's heart. It is time that steals the strength from his blood.
This is the fate that Spyro has resigned himself to, having chosen it for himself; knowing the cost that his magic would ask for him, even if Cynder did not. She had been blinded by her emotions; her fear, her hopelessness and her pride that she did not realise the truth that Spyro did.
As a purple dragon, his decision cannot be defied by anyone of lesser strength. Cynder is only a black dragon, young and inexperienced. She was not even strong enough to fight against Malefor's influence, so how is she to fight the will of the one that defeated him.
There is nothing that can be done. All Cynder can do is lay down beside him.
She tucks her head underneath his; body pressed against his. He wastes strength to drape a wing over her, as slow and unsteady as he is able, laughing wetly when she scolds him. But her anger is a mask to the way her heart shatters in her chest. Her tears run free like rain; his, sweet and warm and fleeting; the warmth of his touch growing colder; the sound of his heartbeat beginning to slow and weaken.
"I love you," he says again, turning his head to whisper the words into his skin.
Cynder cannot bring herself to answer. She has resigned herself to lay here for eternity; to lay beside him long after he is gone; to remain whilst the world grew old around them. She would return to the earth with him, their skeletons sown with moss and vine and beautiful golden flowers until the two of them were one and the same.
Still Spyro is strong enough to hold on, and though time is against them, he allows himself to dream, for what else do they have if soon they won't have one another.
"We should have left," he says, weak and whispered, allowing his eyes to slip closed. Cynder closes her eyes in turn. She does not want to hear the way the air rattles in his lungs, or watch the way his face twists in pain he tries to hide from here. "Before, when you said," Spyro says, ever so fond, a smile so clear in his voice despite the pain it costs him to speak, "we should have simply left. We could have gone somewhere together."
"You wouldn't have," Cynder tells him. She regrets the way her words are sharp, but to soften them will break the restraint she holds on her heartbreak. Beside her, Spyro hums, thoughtful. His tail curls around hers, where his arms are too heavy to pull her close. "You are right. Still, if it had, it would have given us more time. There does not seem to be enough of it anymore."
Because that is all that they can ask for. More time.
But the world is cruel and time cannot bend it's rules for two hearts breaking.
One heart broken and one heart silent.
Cynder hears it the moment Spyro's heart stops beating. She knew it was coming, her ear pressed to his chest, his head pillowed on her neck, encompassing her. She could feel his body beginning to slow against her; could see the way each breath grew harder and harder to breath while the air grew stale in her own lungs were she fought the nature of surviving, wanting to follow, desperate to follow and yet unable to simply cease.
Her heart is not bound to her mind; it keeps beating no matter how much she does not wish it to.
It keeps beating on, no matter that his does not.
And still, Cynder lays there on the World Crystal, for what feels like forever and an age. She keeps her eyes closed in mirror to his; tears frozen like silver ice trails in whisper to the pain as the last of his warmth is taken from her.
The only person that she has ever loved, and loved her in return, taken from her.
Malefor was slain, and yet still, Cynder had lost everything.