The mountains are familiar to her now.
Cynder would've wept when she saw the shaped peaks, had she the tears to cry, but instead she was beyond exhausted and all that she allowed herself was a sigh, not quite relieved but something comforting, nonetheless. Her journey was nearing its ends.
Just beyond this valley, and just beyond those haloed mountain peaks that rise in the west, WarFang lay nestled in the valley.
And once she crossed it's threshold; once she brought Spyro home, her journey would finally be over and Cynder could finally lay down and rest.
It was not the feeling of hope that pushed her on, but still something wreathed in the colours of the dawn, nonetheless. It stayed with her like a ghost on her shoulder as she forced herself on, battling the pass as it began to steepen sharply near to the peak; towered by giants of stone that would not have been an obstacle to her, should she have flown. Except Cynder cannot.
Even with her wing nearly healed, even if she had not tested it since her fall and subsequent injury, Cynder could not fly with Spyro's weight dragging her down anyway.
She is simply thankful that the sled has held up so far, no matter that she has had to repeatedly retie the willow twine where the drag of ground and friction has worn at inadequate knots; feet worn from the endless trek and tough ground; neck sore from the weight of drag and death that she has had to carry for so long, for so far.
Cynder is not hopeful when she sees the silhouette of the city on the crest before, but there is something lighter in her footsteps; something less pained at the grit of blister and burn around her neck where she has been dragging Spyro behind her for so long. Her scales are strong and yet the vine chafes as the ground beneath them shifts from tussock and grass to worn dirt where the wind is harsh and rocks are too steep; rain running too quick and too fast to allow plants to take root and grow tall.
There is no rain now, thankfully, but the path is one still hard to walk; harder still with the burden Cynder has been forced to carry and she strains at the throat to haul Spyro's sled over the rocky ground towards the city haloed in the coming evening light.
But the scree is scattered, the slope is steep and Cynder's foot slips out from underneath her; rock kicked loose and shifted by weight; Cynder falling with a cry punched out from her lungs with the weight of fear; the tether slipping from between clenched teeth. She does not fall far, but it's far enough for the collar around her neck to surge to life; green magic snaking between her throat and Spyro's like a noose; Cynder hardly having the breath in her lungs to cry outrage as she throws her head back to watch him tip forward, the sled sliding with him and tipping into the downfall.
Cynder is not blind to the disaster unfolding in front of her and she only has a moment to react; sinking her claws deep into the slope to anchor herself, teeth snapping towards the dropped tether, but she is only able to snag a hold of dusty tatters.
They're not strong enough to keep Spyro's sled sliding any further down the slope, and Cynder can feel the way that they fray and tear beneath the grip of her teeth.
Beneath her, the ground is nothing more than scree and loose stone that slips and shifts when she tries to find an anchor to hold herself above the drop; Spyro's weight like a noose around her neck, and she watches in premeditative fear as the green magic snags taut, and she is yanked forward to follow.
But unlike before, after her crash landing that had brought them both from the yawning abyss of the World Crystal's cavern; where there was smooth grass and a field to cradle the pair when they fell from weakened wings and a broken heart, Spyro's dead weight yanked Cynder down the steepness of the sloped pass, dragging her mercilessly over the coarse of rough stone and razor rocks that negate scales, cutting her with the vicious impartiality of talons.
The collar yanked and Cynder had no choice than to follow, eyes scrunched tight as if that would offer some sense of protecting, wings deliberately tucked tight to save herself the worst of the pain, knowing that she wouldn't negate all of it, but also knowing that she could not risk to injure her wings again, even if she cannot fly.
Her pain is torn from her in pitiful cries; Spyro's name breaking on pleading lips, begging for him to stop as if he had any control on their descent. She could not catch her breath with the way the magic coiled tight around her neck and kept them close; the sound of shattering wood splintering around them as the speed of their descent rapidly increased and the flimsy, make-shift sled that Cynder had carried Spyro so far shattered under the resistance of the slope.
Jutting stone spires bruised her shoulders and haunches; Cynder's head cracking on stone, eyes rolling into the back of her head just as something cold and strong wrapped around her. It felt like his wings. If felt like the familiarity of his touch never mind the chill, and as their fall began to slow and the ground began to level out, rooted by tree and bush and soft silken grasses of the valley floor, Cynder could almost swear she heard the sound of his laughter, soft and breathless and embarrassed like he'd stumbled on the path and carried her down with him; not simply a slave to gravity and the whims of a world that should honour him in every regard.
Cynder did not want to open her eyes.
She hurt and she ached. She could taste blood on her tongue and feel the warmth of it crowning her forehead; silver tears salty at the corners of her lips, but it was all ignored for the sake of a weight around her.
Wings, wrapped lovingly, protectively, delicately. The ghost of warmth she could feel between them; her own sweat and exhaustion alluding to a gift he could no longer give, but Cynder kept her eyes closed, stubborn and pleading in the way she twisted her mind, wanting herself to believe—to take comfort in the sound of gasping breaths that she knew were her own, and yet at the same time, wished to believe they were Spyro's
They became heady with laughter, soft and far too high-pitched, but Cynder kept her eyes closed, head tucked beneath his, tears like the ghosts of kisses she could not bring herself to share; pain and blood and an ache like an immovable anchor in homage to this moment, when, before, her talons had been far too weak, far too pitiful to hold anchor to the pair of them atop the slope of the steep pass.
"Wake up," Cynder whispered, pushing herself deeper into Spyro's cold embrace. "Please. It is all I ask. All I will ever ask. Just, please, for me, I beg of you to wake up."
But Spyro cannot wake.
He cannot hear her.
Because Spyro is dead.
Cynder knows this, but somehow, it is here, beneath the steps of the gates that lead into WarFang, it finally begins to make sense to her.
She had mourned briefly, back in the cavern that stole the light of her life from her and yet now, once again in an embrace that she though forever lost—and will be, forever lost, when the time comes to stand and share the news with the world that the bravest, strongest Purpled Dragon to ever live, has died; sacrificing his life for their sakes—Cynder can feel hear heart breaking all over again.
But this time, Cynder's heart does not simply break.
This time, it shatters.