It is the end of the world and yet there is no blood. There is no devastation nor ruin, and yet everything has been destroyed beyond repair.
Slow and weak, Cynder opens her eyes after what feels like an age; her body cold and stiff, aching when she turns her head, cheek pressing closer into Spyro's chin. But no matter the chill that surrounds him, it is nothing in comparison to the cold, stone touch of Spyro's scales; his color dim and pale in comparison to what it once was.
His wing is still draped over Cynder's body in what was once comforting and protective almost, but now it is unbearably cold; devoid of the warmth that Cynder has come to understand as intrinsic to the pair's journey, when the nights had grown cold around them, and the two young dragons had grown closer with one another. Now, the chill of his skin and the silence of his heart is the unrelenting reminder of everything that has been lost.
Everything that Cynder will be forced to leave behind.
For time uncounted, she has remained to lay beside Spyro. She does not know how long the world has passed the two of them by, be it hours, days or more; Cynder having spent the time at his side spent without sleep and without thought. Cynder has done nothing but exist when she does not wish to, yet no matter how long she has waited for her broken heart to slow and cease its repetitive song, it has kept tumbling, tripping over itself, marching ever on.
But Cynder cannot simply exist by Spyro's side for any longer when her hunger returns to her with the merciless strength of the tide. In her mindlessness it has grown in strength until it has reached a fierceness that was far too powerful for anyone to be able to ignore; her hunger ravenous and vicious like it is a monster all of its own design, with claws that scratch and bleed him from the inside out.
And while no pain could hold a candle to the agony of a heart shattered beyond repair, Cynder could not force himself to give up, no matter how much she wished that she could.
It hurt to move. It hurt that she has to force himself to claw her way out from the cocoon of frozen limbs, holding back tears; forced to push away Spyro's loving embrace, knowing that this would be the last time that she would ever be able to feel it, ever again.
It took strength to set his body aside.
Strength Cynder did not possess in full, but slowly, in miniscule increments she separated himself from the touch of his claws; unashamed of the tears that clouded her vision, grateful that they marred the sight of him too-silent, too-still where he lay after having used his strength to right Malefor's wrongs.
Cynder cannot simply leave Spyro as he lays.
Around them the cavern that houses the World Crystal remains standing, though it has faced damage that Spyro could not undo: stalactites having fallen in the destruction to scatter the cave floor in rubble and debris. It is not the grave that should mark such a victory as Spyro's but Cynder does not have the strength to carry him up into the light; to wreathe him in flowers and let the grass grow over him; the world embracing him back into her fold as if cradling his body in gentle, loving hands.
A cairn is no revered tomb, but it is all Cynder can offer where she is exhausted and near overcome with grief, forcing herself up on shaky legs to turn away, mind turning over the fact she will have to encase Spyro in stone herself.
There is a large stone close, near to the edge of the world crystal, though it looks so far. Still Cynder forces herself to move; turning from where Spyro lays to the jagged stone, claws clicking on the crystal, the sound echoing loud and deafening in the silence.
But before Cynder can reach the edge of the crystal, something stops her.
Something green and serpentine wrapped around her neck.
Cynder freezes in place as her blood does, her gaze falling to the artifact that has hindered her for so long, staring as its malicious colour snakes around her neck and loops back, joining her still to the other half of her heart.
No matter the strength of Spyro's magic, the magic that has connected them for so long connects them still, watching it slowly fade back out of existence once more, ready to pounce when the magic goes taut.
Cynder stares, her mind not quite catching up to until she tries to move again, mind think only of cairn stones and graves and tearful goodbyes, when the green magic rises with venom in it's humour and Cynder feels it like a noose around her neck, cold and malignant, almost as if there was a hand around her throat dragging her back.
She could not move. She could not get any further from Spyro.
In a sudden onslaught of panic, Cynder yanks back against the ethereal chain, but it is as resilient as the day she and Spyro had woken to find it binding them together. Just as unbreakable, unless the magic itself was unravelled, though Cynder is far from capable and….
And if she has any hope of breaking the bond, she needs to find help. And the only hope of finding that hope would be in WarFang, far, far from the World Crystal's cavern.
It was a cruel trick the world decided to play on her, and though tempted to give up, lie down and let the world pass her by once more, Cynder knew that she could not.
But to travel back to WarFang was not such a simple task as travelling here; Cynder's strength of will already weakened, and its painful to touch Spyro's skin where he is so cold, but Cynder has no choice, holding back tears, trying to keep her mind empty of any and every thought as she forces her body beneath Spyro's, ignoring the way he is limp and cold, ignoring the way her breath is like ice in her veins, ignoring the way her knees shake as she hauls Spyro's weight onto her shoulders.
She knows that she won't be able to fly with Spyro the entire distance, but out of this cavern at least.
She can hardly fly, weighted down by Spyro pressed against her, but soon enough there is sun on her face and even that in itself feels malicious and cruel. The world has survived because of Spyro's sacrifice and instead of mourning the death of her hero, the world continues on as if the end had not been upon them all.
It makes something burn in Cynder's chest, but there is no time for anger when the winds blow and her wings shake from holding so much weight. With grass and rock beneath them, Cynder aims to land, but it is wrong and uncoordinated; not familiar with such a bulky gait of wings that sees the wind fighting and the world pulling them down too quick, to strong and Cynder's wings give out. She lands awkwardly, not bothering to hide back a cry as her right wing crumples beneath her, crushed by Spyro's body who lands on top, though he follows he momentum and goes rolling off of her, down the hill.
Cynder gets half a chance to whimper in pain before the serpent snags at her neck and she is yanked forward, roughly, painfully. She is winded from it, choking on air and tears and the sight of Spyro's body twisted in a way that spears the reminder that he is dead through her heart and soul.
And now, Cynder's right wing aches her, grounding her in the moment when all she wants is to lay down and pretend that everything is a horrible twisted nightmare and soon enough she will wake in green meadows and warm sunshine, with Spyro's smile eternally beside her.
Even if she could hardly fly before, there is no chance now when her wing is injured. It is not broken, thank god, but even just manoeuvring it so that it lays folded against her back is a trial. Not one as terrifying as the one that lays before her, as she struggles to her feet.
Because Cynder has to make it back to WarFang, and she must do so by carrying Spyro, without anyone to help her.