In Absence of Moonlight.
It was dark, the moon hung low and crooked over the sky, like a taunting beast laughing at the misfortune of those cursed with mortality. Garth stood over a brilliantly constructed grave atop Bittercold, he knew Malune had loved moonlit nights just like these, leaving the coffin he made facing upward, the most clear diamond refracting upon her body which he made sure was preserved. Decidueye might visit at some point if he did; never in the sight of Garth of course.
Contrary to the expected rage that would sear heaven and earth, he only felt...
Empty.
No, even that wasn't the right word... Hollow? He felt like the fires of his rage became an arctic frost in which he was trapped, a yawning abyss that gave him the sensation of drowning. He couldn't even cry, so much conditioning from home that the show of weakness would only cloud his vision and get him attacked. He turned from the grave to walk back to the caste, vivid images imposed on his vision of his dear friend Gazette waiting just like this, freezing to death in his grief and refusal to move. He wouldn't meet that same fate, he couldn't.
Never.
The frost dug into his tattered cloak, burying into his ever-burning body, though his wrath was smothered by murky depression his energy betrayed his heart of hearts. He was burning from the sheer violet strength of his dragon energy, motes of lackadaisical pink burned gently like soothing embers into his flesh. A reminder that Malune might remain with him, even partially in spirit.
He stepped through the door, the castle was in shambles, he just... Didn't feel like constantly enforcing his will, it went wholly into stopping the lizard from taking a route only a coward would, from stopping him from lashing out. He couldn't even talk to Nyrinn or DZ about this. They were celebrating, and why shouldn't they? She had hurt them, never him. Never, never himself. But just like himself, she wasn't the nicest to those she didn't love or respect.
"What should I do-" The words choked in his throat, cursing himself softly, he had from sheer habit attempted to ask a dead woman for advice. He was pitiful... Her still grinning head still dancing like a hellish mirage in his brain, bouncing around like a screen saver.
His castle, walking down to his library, it was a very odd juxtaposition; The library was perfectly preserved. His now gone village's knowledge books Malune read, so many memories, he couldn't let it go... It was all he had left, his power was useless, and it wasn't enough to protect ONE Sylveon. What use was his gold, it could rust for all he cared.
Deeper in, inside the throne room itself, the throne had fallen apart, leaving his one crooked seat standing, a mockery. His pile of gold was still as perfect as ever. Like it dared him to destroy the last vestige of joy, he would never, could never. He wasn't strong enough for that. He slumped into the throne, his half-melted crown, and burning body. The throne had sunk in from the heat of his energy as well, leaving it like a form fit mold, fitting for his rotten, decrepit form to fit a rotten, decrepit throne.
He had boxes next to his throne, and his wine kegs from his cellars. He was never a BIG drinker, he had some on occasion, but just like his father before him; these grieving moments he could recall clearly. After Mother died, he had become similarly volatile, drinking to himself before he recovered. He didn't understand why then, but now he does; was this the same pain father felt? What brought him crawling to a bottle wasn't to forget the pain, but just to forget the memory. He didn't know how long he could last sleeping only to see Malune ask why he wasn't strong enough, in that lovely voice, as calm as ever; as calm as the day she died.
Would he be the same? Would he die laughing, or would it be as disgraceful as this sign of weakness he is showing, his claw curled around a bottle, melting from his energy, stopping him from enjoying even that, downing it. He felt the alcohol dull his focus, it was why he never drank in public anymore. He couldn't care less, he needed a fix. Explorers and a few brave officers had tried to arrest him here, after Her demise, but even drunk and burning with his sin; they had no ability to stop him.
...He didn't ever feel that hungry for the past few days, staring at the corpses as they rot. Unable to dredge the effort to drag his feet over and dispose of them, the carcasses began to smell awful, just another penitance for himself he supposed. The soot lining his cloak was knocked free as he lumbered to a stand. He wandered, as though in a dream. The alcohol did make it feel that way after all, his pained expression would betray it as the nightmare it was, however.
His claws trailed walls which crumbled before them, was this how he died? Was he going to let himself slowly rot away?! There was a spark of something in his eyes. He couldn't, not yet. Chariot wasn't dead... Would Malune not want him to carry on? He thought, before sighing shakily, more of a choking gasp than a sigh. She would, of course she would.
But why was it so hard to sit up?
He just wanted to curl up where he had slid down against the wall, and sleep a little longer with his bottle of wine. It helped... He eventually dragged himself up after some time, he looked down at the blood covering- The wine on his claws, trying to catch his breath where he abruptly choked on air seeing the wine, wine, just wine. Shadows of reminiscence danced in his eye as he looked at the castle, seeing what it once was in its prime. In the brightly lit halls of marble, Malune was often at his side, just... there. Even when we had no words, her company was nice, a companionable silence, his love was awfully rigid, as stonelike as the earth he manipulated. He like most dragons type, with the volatile emotional energy we have, tended to have a single mate for a long time, our passion is intense, an inferno, he'd never felt a partner die, leave sure... Which hurt, but he got over it, this felt so incredibly different, he'll never hear them laugh, never see them ask for something that he would've laughed and helped with.
His castle was just that of decay and memories gone, ironic. That the ruins he called home would bear a name so apt; He could call himself a lord no longer, unless misery were to be his mantle? A King of Pain..? Even he would hate that fate, misery loved company, and his was gone. His passions felt dried up like he had been wrung dry. All of it for a while was devoted to Malune, it was like her death stole his passions. His wanderings stopped. He smiled, was it a sign? He looked at the ruins. An onlooker would think he was crazy, but nothing changed. What sign did he see? Whatever it was led him to laugh, a hoarse thing as he had subsisted on alcohol too long. His laughter was so great that he eventually fell at the foot of the slope, lying down, out of breath. Light headed. He should get up and sleep on his throne.
Maybe a little longer, he had tomorrow to stand after all.