The pair of them are found, laid a stretch before the steps of WarFang.
Cynder does not know who it is that finds them first, only heeding a cautious voice that screeched into panic when whoever it was recognised the blood and pain and aching exhaustion for what it truly was. Cynder pays the cacophony of voices very little attention, choosing to focus only instead on the dull, slow beat of her own heart, wishing for eternity and forever that it was his heart she could hear, pressed against her ear, echoing through her body with all the unspoken promises they would have shared.
Around her, beyond the scope of her conscious thought, there are shadows that move and dance back and forth in front of her vision; flashes of color that should mean more to her than the glimpses of shadow that break through the veil of Cynder's exhaustion, but she cannot make sense of it all. Nor does she have the strength to try and make sense of it all.
The colors resemble shapes that she knows should be familiar to her, and yet there are no names that come to mind beyond that of Spyro's; only Spyro's name on her lips and bleeding between broken teeth; tears on her cheeks and traced over her scales as she presses close to his purple majesty and hisses, wild high and feral whenever one of the shape breaks away from the intricate dance, like it wants to lure her away from the only thing that matters to her.
The longer they linger and prick at Cynder's worn-weary mind, the more she can see who they are supposed to resemble; shapes of other dragons and Spyro's family, though their once soft smiling faces have been marred by horror and mourning; their voices as sharp as their pain; their movements sparking like wild fire, leaving smoke trails in their wake.
But while the others lingered and swarmed around them, Cynder did not allow herself to be pulled away from Spyro. Her eyes are still resolutely closed, hands curled around him, tails intertwined in semblance as to how they had lain most nights of their journey venturing to the World Crystal's cave and in the moments following his last goodbye.
She does not allow herself to hear anything beyond the slow, steady beat of her own heart, still pretending that it's Spyro's instead of her own, trying to keep her focus away from the not-quite gentle sounds of feet that cross back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; going nowhere and doing nothing.
A hand appears on Cynder's shoulder, gently easing her away, but suddenly she is chasing the ghost of Spyro's warmth chasing with what strength she is able to muster; a tightness fierce in her chest as all her fears rear up, tightness in her limbs, in the muscles of her arms and wings, braced around wrapped around Spyro's form, and had Cynder the mind to listen, she would've heard their gentle reassurances.
They're apologetic, but they keep repeating the same thing; slow and soft, like one would speak to a frightened child.
"I cannot leave him," Cynder whispers, to no one in particular, eyes still tightly closed, talons curled around cold wrists. "You have to Cynder," a voice says, breaching the darkness. "You can do nothing more for him now." But they don't understand.
"I cannot leave him," Cynder whispers again, hardly making the effort to move, because when she does, it feels like she is trying to moving through water; slow and weighted.
And drowning.
Water, confusion, pain all around her, and Cynder was drowning.
Something warm touches Cynder's shoulder, and though her first reaction is to flinch, to turn into Spyro's chest, the touch is not painful and Cynder finds herself blinking up into the saddened, gentle colour of Ignitus's pain. "Come," he says, but he does not understand. Cynder does not think she has the strength to explain, but she tries anyway, head lolling into the crook of Ignitus's arm as she is pulled from Spyro's side. "I cannot leave him," she repeats, over and over, like the words are a prayer instead of a curse; as if she was pleading that they don't take him from her, though he is already gone.
"I cannot, Ignitus, I cannot," Cynder tells the elder dragon, but the words feel like clouds in her mouth, and she can hardly speak without tears tracing silver rain down her cheeks' her breath stolen by the pain of it all. "I cannot, Ignitus. The magic—"
"Sssh, Cynder," Ignitus whispers, because he does not understand. "It is okay. You're safe now. You need to rest. You're exhausted."
Cynder does not need the others to tell her this. She knows how tired she is.
She can feel the way her heart aches just to continue beating; can feel the way her bones are as brittle as snowflakes and as heavy as lead; can feel the pain of twisted limbs and the discomfort of dried blood where the fall from the slope had drained her of what little fight she has left.
In Ignitus's arms, Cynder feels weightless. She feels the world shift around her rather than seeing; her eyes having slipped shut once more, far too dizzy, far too tired. She braces for the inevitable as heavy feet pull her away; as the shadows begin to crowd in on Spyro, still laid where the pair of them had fallen, embraced for the last time.
Cynder braces, and far too soon, she can feel the snag of magic around her throat. She can feel Ignitus's feet stall beneath him, and the deadly hush of silence that falls across those that have come to bring the dragons inside WarFang's walls.
"I told you," Cynder says, her voice barely more than a whisper. "I cannot leave him."
With every blink of her eyes, her vision begins to dull, and the world fades from her sight.