He sits upon the throne, motionless, stilled. An ash flake flutters down and gently lands upon his white hair, but he gives no reaction to it. His hair is a mess, tangled about with its ends splitting in two. His unkempt bangs fall over his crimson eyes, covering them like a pseudo-eye mask. It further adds to his fatigued posture. A matching crimson cloak wraps around his whole body. Beneath it, his supposed skin is made of blackened soot, creating the shadow of a figure resembling a lean, taut boy. Underneath his soot flesh lies an empty ribcage. There is no heart, no soul, only a blackened abyss of emptiness.
Cold—it feels so, so cold.
The stone throne that he sits upon is chilling to the touch. It has been that way for many centuries, but he cannot get used to it. He can only ignore it. When he exhales, he sees his vaporized breaths disperse into the dusted air. The sound of his breath is the only thing that fills the throne. No banners hung on the wall portraying a righteous zeal; no majestic carpet unfurling on the ground leading to the throne; no prestigious lords and ladies dressed dainty-like; no clandestine plots of assassination. There is just him; and a throne—a throne that does not truly belong to him.
Cold—it feels so, so cold.
It is lonely in the throne room. But it is neither daunting nor forbidding. His solitude is like a warm, fuzzy cloud that dissipates into the sky; like a childhood friend who jokes at his expense before saying his goodbyes; like a mother who kisses his cheek one too many times as he leaves his home. Not that he ever has experienced such things, but imagines that is the closest thing he could describe his seclusion.
Deciding to finally move, he slowly rises from the throne. His muscles feel tight, his bones creak against the cartilage in his joints. His steps feel as though they bear the weight of hundreds. The pitter-pattering of his steps echoes throughout the solemn throne room. His feet are bare, covered only by the cloak that drapes around his body and onto the floor. Finally, he reaches the set of double doors. He places a weak pair of hands upon the marble handles and pushes. Slowly, the doors open, letting a gust of dust blow onto his face. But it feels soothing—as if the specks culminate to form a hand that gently caresses his cheek.
It is quiet, almost silent had it not been for his labored breaths. He shivers slightly as he steps out of the room. In front is a series of steps that formulate a spiraling staircase descending downwards. He gently claps the marble side railing as he makes his way down, step by step. A crescent light shines down in the middle of the staircase, similar to pillars of light from heaven when a god dies. But there were no gods, no foolish children of divinity earning for entertainment. There is just him.
A looming gate met him as he finally reached the bottom. He began walking toward it, walking in a manner as if he were in a trance. Step, step, step. He stopped mere inches from the gate. He placed his hands upon its metal frame and leaned forward. His forehead gently rested on the door. It has come to this. He cannot bear the weight any longer. He pushes open the great gate, and the veil of oblivion awaits him. A husk of nothingness, the shell of nihility, the apotheosis of a void greets him.
He lets the cloak fall from his body, leaving him naked. He is no less cold than he was wearing it. He looks callously at his long, jagged fingernails. They resemble something akin to a beast. He points them at himself. Slowly, he sinks them into himself. There is no blood when they pierce his soot stomach.
Grasping underneath his flesh, he pulls upward. His skin folds into flaps of flesh as he raises it up higher. Reaching the nape of his neck, he places his chin upon it as if he were raising up a shirt. His ribcage is visible in its entirety. Sitting in the middle of it is a tiny ember. He reaches within himself and gently holds it in his hand. He lets his skin fall back into place as he delicately cups the ember. It's warm, faintly so, but warm nonetheless.
Holding it up to his face, he softly whispers to it. "Go. Find him..."
His voice is like jagged glass. His tongue is dry and coarse, feeling like sandpaper as it slides around his mouth. He feels the faint urge to choke on the dust that had settled at the back of his trachea.
He holds the ember out and gently blows, sending it out towards that great nothingness of the universe. He watches as the ember flutters about for a few moments before collapsing onto the floor, the cloak acting as a frail cushion. His eyes are empty as he stares at the ceiling.
Cold—it feels so, so cold.