Safe and Sound (Part One)

    This story is dedicated to Nikki, the little old lady of a cat who made my world brighter and who was put to sleep in my arms with what was probably the hardest, most painful decision I have yet faced. I love you, girl, I will always love you.Thank you for the hardships you have helped me overcome, and all the things you have taught me about responsibility, love, and making the decision to face loss on your own terms to save another living being from needless pain. It hurt and it always will, but having you was worth it a thousand times over.

    .

    ..

    ...

    …….

    I search here in the night

    With not a star to wish upon

    In the past you were my light

    But now where have you gone?

    Whatever form you happen to take

    Or however you have changed now

    I’ll be damned for all the difference it makes

    I will find a way to help you

    Somehow…

    ..…..

    …

    ..

    .

     Fallen leaves crinkled under Spyro’s feet, one of few noises to break the silence of the winter forest. No snow had fallen there in over a year, but the barren trees and browned dead moss left little question of the season. Each ruffle of the dead growth beneath his paws flooded him with a glint of hope.

    He wanted to be heard.

    .

    ..

    …

    “Who knows how her appearance could have changed.”

    “The convexity fury you used to mend the world could have easily warped the existence of someone so close to the blast. She could have taken on traits of anything, from anywhere, even places we’d never heard of!”

    “Young dragon, maybe it would be better not to look. If she has hidden like this, there must be a cause. I cannot see her abandoning you lightly.”

    …

    “I love you...”

    …

    “I won’t abandon her!”

    “Who’s to say that beast would want to be found? She has served her purpose. If Malefor’s monster wishes to spare us of her presence, all the better for everyone else.”

    “The council forbids you to leave, Spyro. The purple dragon is needed in this city. Would you deprive these people of their hero?”

    …

    “Spyro, bud, I get she means a lot to you. If you need to go, then go.”

    …

    “I am sorry, young dragon, that after all you have done for us, you have returned to Warfang alone.”

    “...Ignitus?”

    “There is a forest, not far from where you mended the realm. Creatures have fled it, and the water runs foul for no reason we can fathom. It should have mended quickly due to its closeness to your healing, yet it did not. Something is there that has no place in this realm.”

    “Then they’re right?”

    “The council may be short-sighted, but they are scholars of magic. Convexity’s power has been studied closely since Malefor’s time. It likely shattered the shell between worlds, and she could have been changed by factors from any other reality.”

    …

    “I know what I have to do.”

    “You don’t have to do anything, Spyro. Let’s just go.”

    “Where, Cynder? The world is breaking apart. But I think I can stop it… I think I’m meant to.”

    “Then I’m with you.”

    “I love you.”

    …

    “What should I do, Ignitus?”

    “That, I cannot say.”

    …

    “Your choice, dude.”

    “I can emphatically agree that this is a matter we can only lend our advice on. The true deduction is left to you, Spyro. And you alone.”

    “The council is a band of fools, far from the royalty that blesses my bloodlines. Think not of what they would say, but if you need advice, ask yourself: what would Ignitus do? Without him, we, and Warfang, would not still be here.”

…

    “Listen Hunter, I need a favor. Could Sparx stay with you for a while?”

    “If that is where your heart leads, then follow it. A true warrior’s heart beats in your chest, young dragon. Trust it.”

    “I need to do this alone.”

    …

    “It’s time.”

    “We shall cover for you, as you young ones would say.”

    “You better come back, purple boy. What would I do without you?”

    “You’d keep on living, Sparx. It’s all any of us can do.”

    …

    ..

    .

    And so there he was. The air felt heavy, but in a dry way. It sucked the moisture from his eyes and throat, even as his shallow breath left foggy stains in the air. Something in this place was certainly not right. He never could have imagined mending the world would sacrifice her. It shouldn't have been his choice to make.

    It should have been me. It was my decision, my fault.

    Suddenly, a strange foreign buzzing flooded the air and Spyro jolted. He jerked his head to the side, scanning the trees. A thrill of fear he couldn't place traced his spine.

    Nervously, he breathed a plume of flame onto his paw and brought it close to his chest. It threw light onto his burnished gold chest-plates, but brought little warmth.

    “Cynder?” His call trailed into silence and the fire by his chest sputtered out. The night was coming and thick shadows were crawling from the trees. This forest was all but void of colour, never mind that winter had only just arrived and the fiery hues of autumn should not yet have faded. Instead, all was cold and grey. The gnarled branches cast handlike shadows upon the earth, carpeted by dead leaves that crackled underpaw.

    Spyro drew in a slow breath and his eyes widened at a vaguely familiar scent. It was twisted and odd and stale, but it was her. He raced in that direction, following the scent, and arrived at a blackened tree. At first he thought it had been scorched by fire, but on closer inspection it looked like it had simply lost the will to live, slumped and shattered as it was.

    But something white poked from under the roots and his heart leapt with the hope for any kind of clue. Drawing out the piece of weathered parchment, he unrolled it carefully. It seemed to have been written messily in charcoal.

    ‘I’m afraid of myself. You’d think I’d be used to it after being turned into her, but still. I’ve decided to write myself these notes, like a journal, to scatter. My memory has been an odd affair and the idea of losing any remembrance of Spyro kills whatever is left of me. Maybe these can help me remember.

    I am lucky to have found this old parchment. Without even this meager form of entertainment, I fear I’d already have lost myself.’

    Even with the less than reassuring words, this was proof she was there, or at least had been, in some form. Proof that she had lived through his explosion of power. His heart leapt with that. But it also worried him to no end.

    For all he knew—or she, apparently—they were working towards a deadline, and who knew how long ago this had been written? That terrified him. He drew the paper to his chest and touched his nose to it with all the gentleness of a mother holding her egg for the very first time.

    “What’s happened to you?” he whispered, his breath ruffling the parchment.

    The strange static from before rang through his head, but when he turned, fearlessly this time, nothing met his gaze.

    “I will find you,” he murmured to the sparse, dying landscape and its haunted trees.

    They did not answer.

    On a whim, he reached into the satchel that hung around his neck and left wing, pulling out the metal bottle of ink and a long swatch of parchment he would use to give Hunter’s hawk messages, and stowed them where the note had been. He gave the note itself a longing glance before relinquishing it as well.

    It sounded like she needed it more. Once out of this dead forest, he could find birchbark. All the bark there looked old and brittle. If Cynder was still there, it would not be an option for her.

    “What now?” he muttered, missing Sparx. He wasn’t good at providing his own witty banter, and ancestors knew he needed some of it.

    The buzzing static filled the air moments later, causing him to turn and dart towards the sound. It had to mean something. He barreled past a few trees, but tried to skid to a stop when a flash of white and red caught his attention to the side. But when he managed to get himself facing the right direction, there was nothing there. His throat burned.

    He leaned down to cough, his head spinning with sudden dizziness, and flopped down on the dead leaves, determinately shoving his mouth closed with his paws as he heaved and choked until the fit had passed. By the time he stumbled to his feet, he was very sure that the thing he’d seen was running away.

    It could have easily ended him as he lay coughing on the forest floor, yet it had not. Hopefully, that meant it was Cynder—or, at the very least, something that might hold a clue to her whereabouts.

    At least it wasn’t violent. That was never a bad thing.

    “Hello?” His hoarse voice chaffed the air, grating to the ears. “Please, listen. A friend of mine might be around here and she needs help!”

    The trees love to ignore me, don’t they?

    “I don’t want to hurt you, I promise,” he cried.

    Still nothing.

    Sighing, he paced weakly to the base of a tree and curled up among its knotted roots. He held no expectation of finding shelter in such a desolate wasteland, and the long weeks of flight to get there, coupled with the late hour and his bout of unexplained coughing, added weight to heavy legs. Shaking in the cold, he covered his pounding head with his wings and forced his stubborn eyes to shut.

    “I swear I’m not forgetting, Cyn,” he murmured into the silence. “I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll fix this. Whatever it is. I promise.”

    Sleep weighed down on him. Cold mist, the only moisture that seemed capable of braving the tragic forest, covered him in a less than effective blanket, sucking warmth from his limbs. Though he realised the cold would be hell on his already sore wings in the morning, he had no energy to get away from the persistent fog, and the world of dreams—or nightmares—pulled him down into their depths.

    Spyro woke up with a gasp, shaking off the heavy something sprawled over him with raw terror in his chest. But when he spun to face his ‘attacker’ with raised hackles and writhing lips, he came face-to-face with a ratty old woven blanket. Or three of them, rather.

    Staring at the innocent things, his thoughts immediately wavered to the ‘how,’ and more importantly, the ‘who.’

    “Cynder? Anybody?” he called hopefully, but stillness served as his only reply.

     Sighing, he turned around, only to pause and stare once again, having missed the other additions to his sorry excuse for a campsite. Three straggly rabbits lay dead before him, ribs showing. They were marked only by a viscous dark red liquid that trailed from their mouths and nostrils, something he could recognize. Sometimes, when small prey animals were afraid enough, the heart could run too fast and somehow break. They could, quite literally, be scared to death.

    Spyro detected no poison through smell or observation and could see little reason for someone to leave his sleeping form quite alive, only to attempt murder through other means. So he made quick work of the rabbits, grimacing at their tough, stringy muscles and mud-stained fur.

    “Thanks?” he asked the desolate forest when he was done, but once again the dead trees did nothing to answer.

    He turned to drag his new blankets towards the relative safety of a tree, only to notice a scrap of parchment there. His parchment, gilded purple on the edges.

    ‘Please leave, Spyro. There is nothing you can do here but hurt yourself, and I cannot leave with you. I am sure others need you more than I, with problems that can be solved. This forest is not fit for you or anyone to stay in, so please, please, just go.’

    While the writing was better than the scrawl from before, it was still a far cry from the elegant claw-script he had once seen her use. Whether this meant imposter, or simply that Cynder was in bad shape, the fact remained that he was hardly leaving.

    “If it’s not fit for anyone, then why are you still here?” he murmured to the air. At least his throat felt better. “I won’t leave you, just like you wouldn’t leave me.”

    After a moment’s deliberation, he tucked the note inside his satchel and turned to face the forest, eying the trees carefully. There had to be some sort of clue to tell him which way she had gone. Hopefully, he lowered his nose to the earth and drew in a deep breath. He caught that disturbingly warped scent again and resolved to track it.

    The day dragged on after that, and the trail didn’t cease. She seemed to be wandering aimlessly, leaving only that strange scent behind. Even the cold earth didn’t seem to care about her comings and goings, as no pawprints remained. The twisting, intertwined tree limbs made it unlikely she was flying, and he certainly didn’t wish to attempt it.

    By midday, he stumbled across another note—finally, something that showed signs of life. The script was better than the first, but not as good as the note he’d received.

    ‘I never realized the privilege of eating. Not until I could no longer do it. I feel a hunger in my soul rather than my stomach, and it has become a piercing pain in my chest. My soul feels broken and drowned, and my mind is muffled from the world, like a great water is flowing through me. I don’t even know if there is a heart in my chest any longer, or if there’s even a bit of me left to find. It’s hard not to surrender what’s left. With no voice or breath and only a strange sense of sight even I cannot really comprehend, would giving up be so terrible?

    The only time I felt that ache ease was when I tried to go for help, but the first dragon that looked at me fled at once, and it felt almost as if his terror brought me back to clarity, let me recognise the pain as hunger for the first time.

    Do I feast on fear alone now? Is this what I have become? I refuse to hurt anyone, and so I’ll spirit myself away from civilization as best I can.

    I’m so sorry, Spyro, but it looks like you’ll be returning to Warfang alone.’

“What’s happened to you, Cyn? You don’t give up like this… Not ever…” After placing the note back, Spyro squared his shoulders and screamed to the dead forest, loud enough to lance fire up his sore throat. “I don’t care what’s happened to you; I’m not leaving without you!”

    He had no idea if she heard, but even promising the silent air gave him an inkling of hope. And so the wandering continued. Hours blurred from minutes and into days, and the notes didn’t end. Each one stabbed his heart with icy talons.

.

..

…

……

‘What’s the point? I cannot die, even as I starve. I don’t know what I am, or even who half the time. Life is filtering from the forest.

I…

I think it’s my fault, that I’m the cause.

I’m sorry! I don’t want to hurt anything, but I can’t help it. I just want it all over. I’d welcome nothing over whatever this sorry life is, if it can even be called that.

…

I killed a rabbit today, and it was pointless. I don’t even know how.

All I did was look at it and it seized up, coughing. I tried to flee, but I couldn't. From the second it saw me, I froze. I could only watch it hack until it collapsed. The only mark on it was blood trailing from its nose and mouth.

I knew what it was, but I hadn't seen it since I was the Dark Master’s monster. Its heart had burst. I’d tortured beasts with my fear before, but what does it mean that all it had to do was look at me to die?

Would that happen if anyone else looked for too long? If so…

I can’t even move. If that happens, they’re dead. And all I can do is watch.

I wish you were here, Spyro. I miss you. Does it hurt you just as bad? Did you even hear me? I’m sorry I left.

I love you…

Please move on, and live. The thought of you missing me…forever, not moving on…

It kills me.

…

I’ve decided to act like I’m writing to him. To you, Spyro.

Maybe it’s silly and maybe it’s ridiculous. I pray to the ancestors you never come to this forsaken place, never read this sorry obituary. Any form of my life that mattered died with this form.

I wonder who will miss me. I know you will. Will the Guardians? Hunter? Sparx? If my wishes came true, he’d be like a brother to me too, wouldn’t he? Could that ever have happened?

I dream of you responding to what I said. I haven't heard them, or any other words, for what feels like forever.

When I doze—though this sorry excuse for sleep is far from restful—I swear I hear your laugh. You were always so alive… So real in a way I don’t think this body can reach anymore. You were my home and I’d die for you. I wonder if you’d feel like that, too.

I wish I’d told you sooner. Wish we’d had that chance. You only realize what you have when it’s gone, huh? You mean more to me than my own life. I wish I’d realized, said so, sooner.

I hope you heard me, because I’ve never said anything truer. You gave me the only part of my life worth anything. Without you, I would only have been Malefor’s monster.

Even with the prospect of forever like this… I don’t regret a moment with you. Not a single snip of time. You gave me my life. I cannot regret giving it back.

It’s the least you deserve.

…

I’m so sick of the cold, and of this dark forest. Worse is that the cold feels natural.

Please, just let it end somehow.

Show me a way home.

A way out.

Something.

Anything.

…

I think I’m just about the only living thing left. The desolation has caused the closest town to flee. With no one left, I can wander the streets. Paths and old homes feel alien to me, the ghost of a memory that doesn't hold a bit of clarity or truth anymore.

Spyro, you’re the only thing that feels real from my past. Except the waking nightmares. I never would have thought that, after all I have done, tried, loved and lived…I’m a monster again. Perhaps not cold-blooded or cruel, but just as dangerous and just as cold.

I’ve tried blankets and fire, but nothing stems the chill in my blood and bone. I’m not a dragon anymore; I barely look like one. I’m pale; my claws and spines are fleshy and strange. My blades are gone. Not to mention my blank face.

My wings are useless. Just as I can’t mark the earth, I cannot make the wind move to my will and fly. My steps are light and silent; writing feels like a miracle. My elements have left me and it feels like the death of an old friend. The only friend I’ve had since I hatched. The only thing that stayed mine throughout everything.

There’s nothing left for me.

I don’t even have a way to end it.

…

I’m sick of being alone. In a moment of stupidity, I went searching for someone, anyone, with a note tied around my neck.

‘Don’t be afraid. Don’t be afraid.’

I wandered into the closest town not yet deserted. The felines took one look and ran while I was frozen. I don’t think anyone even noticed the words. I doubt they even took the time to take in what they were running from.

That town’s deserted now, too; they didn’t even pause to take their possessions. Dolls, staves, fine metal and bulb-spider’s silk. Nothing was spared abandonment.

I’m so sorry. I swear I didn't mean it. Please don’t be afraid. I’m sorry; I was stupid. Now no one’s close enough. I never hear voices anymore, except the wind and the water. Even those noises are dying as green is fading from my world.

I’ll go back to the forest. I’ll stay there and never bother you again.

Just please, please, please… Bring those voices back?

I’m sorry.

So sorry.

It was all I had left.

Come back?

Please…

…

    He yelled himself hoarse after that, wanting to give her something to listen to, barreling blindly through the woods. It was stupid. It was reckless. It ended about as well as one would expect.

    His foot was caught a tree root, sending him tumbling as a heavy crack that he felt more than heard lanced through his ankle. Pain followed a second later, like fire burning up his leg, but he had no chance to gasp. The world was spiralling out of control, a blur of colour, as the rocky riverbed rose up to meet him. Stabbing pain pierced his side, his head struck the ground, and then there was nothing.

    He awoke to tiny hands massaging his nose and cracked his eyes open to see two achingly familiar faces.

    “Mom? Dad?” His voice was hoarse. “Is that…” He shut his eyes as the world spun dizzyingly off-axis.

    “Yes,” said the gentle voice of his dragonfly mother. “Hush, Spyro, you’re hurt.”

    Hurt… Just that word was enough to jolt his dazed mind back into action. He forced his mind to think rationally, moving it away from the fact he was finally with them again. Even still, he could only force Cynder’s plight to the back of his mind, and the worry sank freezing claws into him and helped him stay focused.

    “Spirit gems. Those red, spiky rocks; can you get a chunk?” he asked, wincing in pain.

    “Spyro, we need to help you...”

    His mother trailed off as Spyro shook his head, feeling the trickle of fresh blood down his face. “Mom, trust me, that is helping. Get them here as fast as you can.”

    His mother hesitated and the look in her eyes seemed to suggest that she no longer recognised him. Vaguely, he wondered if he’d ever talked back to her as a hatchling. Maybe he was no longer the child she remembered. There was a hurt there too- and he felt bad, as if he was brushing her off. But she was fine and Cynder wasn’t and he had to get to her.

    He pleaded with his eyes and she turned to his father. “Flash, go. Return swiftly.”

    Without another word, she turned back to Spyro. He just barely caught the worried glance his father shot back at them before he darted off.

    “Is Sparx…?” she asked tentatively, her voice trailing off hopefully, wondering why one of her boys was this distant after so long.

    “I didn't want him in this place,” Spyro murmured, lowering his gaze. “For that matter, how and why are you here? It isn’t safe for me here, let alone dragonflies.”

    His mother placed a calming hand on his muzzle. “Sweetie, you're in the swamp. There is no danger here.”

    “Then how am I here?” His heart lurched into his throat and he could almost taste excitement. Was it her? Could she be there? “Did you see what brought me?”

    “No, Spyro, I’m sorry. We thought you’d somehow fallen. There were no tracks.”

    Then it was her! He struggled to get back up. “I have to go back. Someone important needs me.”

    Fire lanced in his mother’s kind eyes. “Absolutely not. Sit back down. You’re in no condition to stand, let alone travel.”

    “I’ll be fine soon as I get some spirit gems, Mom. They’ve fixed worse. If I don’t leave, I might lose her, and she’s worse off than me even if she isn’t hurt.”

    “Dear, at least explain. What are those stones, if not simple crystals, and who is it you worry for so?”

    “Spirit gems. They heal dragons—that’s what I am, Mom—because the ancestors…which are...uh…dead dragons…blessed them?” It became a question when he realized just how ridiculous it sounded against simple dragonfly beliefs. Dead was simply dead to them. “I’m looking for Cynder. She’s a very good friend who has saved my life more than once. She means a lot to me and she’s hurt badly, in a very permanent way. I need to find her.”

    His mother’s eyes sparked at the last bit, as any mother’s might. At least now she understood her son’s rush. “Is this Cynder like you?”

    “She’s a dragon too, yes. She’s from the same place I am,” he muttered.

    “So, is she a sister? From the same clutch of eggs?”

    “No. She is not.” Thank goodness. The emphatic air of his voice left little question of what she did mean to him.

    “Ah, then I suppose you should go, so long as it’s after you show us these ‘blessed’ rocks working. On you. And I expect you to return as soon as you can with Sparx and this Cynder, so we might meet her properly.”

    And properly assess if she’s worthy to look at you funny, let alone have any interest in you whatsoever, was written upon her face, if not outwardly stated.

    He might have had the strength to snap his insectine mother in two with a single toe, but Spyro quailed under that stern look as any child would. “O-of course, Mom.”

    It was to this scene that Flash returned, lugging the biggest chunk of red crystal he could manage and glancing between the two. “Somebody hasn’t lost their touch,” he told his wife, laughlines wrinkling his diminutive face.

    Spyro had missed that smile more than the world and he spent moments enjoying it before asking his father to drop the sacred gem by his feet. As it fell, it dissolved with a flash into little more than energy, which darted into Spyro’s scales and washed him with a crimson glow. It chased the pain away and he stood up without issue.

    “May I go now?” he squeaked, like he had as a child with his paws caught in the figurative cookie jar—cheeks bright and eyes wide. Many would laugh at seeing the hero of the realms in such a state. “I swear I’ll come back as soon as I can!”

    Spyro hadn’t realized how close the forest was to his old home. The trek was rough until he found some more red gems, and it wore on him even after. He felt he lacked the buoyancy to fly, and the dead landscape appearing before his paws crept into his heart and soul.

    Part of him died when he entered the withered forest again. Mentally, he’d named it the Deadlands. However terrible of a name, it fit the desolate place. Occasionally, the earth would gain a slight tremble under his pads, a faint buzz up his legs. He was convinced then that he was tracing Cynder’s unmarked steps. The buzzing seemed to travel along with her like a cloak.

    Once again, dusty old leaves crackled under his feet as he walked betwixt groping dead trees with their ever-peeling bark. This time he did not call to her. This time he knew she did not wish to be found. Best to sneak up on her, then.

    He leant down to sniff at the dead leaves that furnished the forest floor and sneezed out dry dust. His nostrils buzzed oddly for a moment as he experimentally placed his paw on that area. It was met with that same light, airy tingle.

    She may have lost the strange exotic scent she used to bear, like spice and autumn and snow. She may have lost that shimmer of life that bounded within her. She may have lost the hope that had drawn her from Malefor’s taint. But he refused to lose her. It was not a body or a husk he had slowly grown to love, it was her—the fire in her soul, her courage. Her willingness to face a world that feared or hated her, and to face it well.

    His pace quickened and each pawstep brought that same buzz with it, both a disturbance and a relief at once. As the forest flashed by, he realized he was matching strides—steps that were almost the same as his.

    Then he saw it. And everything was on fire.

    Fear clamored through his head.

    She didn’t want him there. Didn’t want him. Didn’t want help.

    His throat burned as he fought to keep looking at the still figure, to analyze what he was seeing.

    Wouldn't accept help. Would stay here. Would be alone. Forever. Left to the desolation. Left alone. Lonely.

    Were these his fears, or hers? His knees trembled and it felt like the joints were melting, an achingly dry magma that crawled up and over every bone within him.

    He’d never again see that spark in this new, vacant face. Never again see her ferocity for staying alive. Never hear ‘I love you’ again… Never see her again.

    With that last barrage of fear, it all became too much. Pressure exploded inside his head and forced his eyes closed as every bone in his body seemed to give way at once. Blackness crawled into his sight and then overtook it, leaving nothing.

    In some meager regard to his dignity, this time he did not try to attack the blankets. In retrospect, he didn’t have the strength to attack them.

    But why was he so sore? He remembered his parents, remembered his stubborn mom, remembered tracing the static… And then it came up completely blank. Nothing. Nothing but a strange blur of fear.

    Confusion set in as Spyro shook his head wearily and waited for his strength to return. He spent the time digging at his memory, desperately looking for anything that made a lick of sense. But all he remembered was a heart-quaking onslaught of terror. Fears he’d been holding onto since he’d found the traces in Cynder’s Deadlands, and before. Fears of her rejection that even predated that. They hurt, but they had never been so crippling.

    Those worries didn’t mesh so hard with physical pain. Had something spiked his fear? Drugged him? He didn’t understand.

    It turned out that Ignitus had just as terrible timing as his predecessor. Just as Spyro was stumbling to his feet once more, his eyes rolled back and, once again, he was forced to pass out. It really was an undignified habit.

    “Ignitus? Ignitus, are you here?” Spyro cried from his place on the floating stone platform. It was sad, he was forced to realize, that the secluded and likely imaginary place amongst the moons and stars was less lonely than the desolate forest in which his physical form lay. “I don’t know what I can do anymore…”

    “Young dragon, you have the heart of a warrior. If you wish to approach her, you must lay it to rest.”

    “What does that mean? I don’t understand.” Spyro stepped to the edge of the platform, trying to hold himself back from saying it was the old Chronicler’s job to be cryptic, that Ignitus didn’t have to do it too.

    “Terrador has always been wise, young dragon. Do you recall his advice on the matter?”

    Spyro shook his head helplessly. “He said a true fighter doesn't live without fear, but has the ability to fight it. But what’s that got to do with Cynder?”

    A sigh fell through the moonlit void. “Spyro, Cynder has not befallen any curse or spell known to this realm, or truly any malignant magic at all. There are many worlds, universes that are not meant to touch, to collide, in any way. Somehow, your convexity breached that barrier and tore the traits she now bears from something else entirely. I have done all I can to learn what from, but all I can say for sure is that it spurs, and feeds on, fear. To combat it, you would either have to resist that fear thoroughly, or find a way to block her power to cause it.”

    Spyro shivered. “So that’s why it’s all I can remember. She can’t help it, can she?” He shook his head. “That’s obvious. Of course she can’t. Ignitus, what do I do?”

    “Young dragon, if you are to have any hope of approaching her, you must put every worry, every ounce of fear, to rest. Instincts, nightmares, fear of failure, all such things must be completely purged from your mind. If you would like to see about blocking it, Hunter may know best.”

    His head spun with all the fears he knew he held, the things that would only keep him from her. “Ignitus, how is that even possible? Terrador said that you can’t kill fear, only fight it! I’m not strong enough for that!”

    “I do not yet know, young dragon, whether this must be accomplished by talisman, magic, or mere strength of mind. For now, all I can do is search. Perhaps while I do, you can work on convincing our dear friend to let us lend our aid. I believe that if you stay as calm as you can and try to get her to approach without looking, she will not be forced to feed from you.  Allow me to do this while you work. It is the least our world, and I, owe the both of you. In addition, think about other things that might help, but be aware I feel that you must only face your fears should you take this route, and fight them the whole way through. Should I discover anything, I shall contact you again.”

Spyro. Cynder.

I’ve never done right by either of you.

Allow me to do this.

    The last thing thought before Spyro faded back into reality was a mental plea to never hear those words from his mentor again. The thought of losing Ignitus once more was yet another fear to add to the list.

    Despite everything he had managed to do for the world, Spyro had never thought himself brave. Now, if he wanted to save Cynder, he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

    He strode to what he figured was the Deadland’s heart, closed his eyes, and yelled with all the voice he had. “Cynder! My eyes are closed. I’m not moving until I feel that buzzing and get to talk with you. I won’t try to look at you. I won’t turn in your direction. I’ll stick my face to a tree-trunk if that’s what I have to do. If that doesn't work, I’ll survive and go get some more paper and we can talk that way. I am not going to leave you, I am not going to forget you, and you might as well deal with it. I will keep chasing you if I have to. I know how now, and we both saw how well that turned out!”

    The waiting was agony. His instincts screamed against the black behind his closed eyelids, against the silence. There was only the cool blanket of chilled mist on his scales and the crumbled mess of dead leaves beneath his feet. He didn’t dare move for fear he would scare her away or make it seem he was breaking his freshly sworn promises.

    Then the buzzing came and he couldn't help but flinch. It receded again and he chanced another call. “No, it’s fine, Cyn. You just startled me. I was worried you wouldn't come.”

    The buzzing slowly, painfully, tentatively amplified. Spyro fought the sting of fear up his spine, fought against his instincts to keep his eyes tightly shut. When he started to shiver, the buzzing faded again.

    “No, keep coming. I’ll wag my tail if it’s too much, okay? Like this.” He wove his tail in a circle. “I can do that even if I’m having trouble talking. I’ll tell you where to stop. I don’t care what happened. I love you too, Cynder. I want to have you near me. I trust you.”

    Silence had never hurt so much.

    “I’ve missed you, you know,” he said, hoping to urge her closer. “Sparx has too, even though he’d never say it out loud. And, uh, if that’s not brain-bending enough, Ignitus is the Chronicler now! He, uh, I just talked to him! We’re trying to figure out how to help you. I wonder if being able to talk to him is because of his magic or because I’m a seer, like with the mystic pool. I am one, you know. I, uh, found out for sure. I don’t really like it. I have enough magic packed in here already, if you ask me.”

    His bones were starting to buzz uncomfortably and so he snuck in the plea for stopping like the most casual of sentences. “I think that’s as close as I can do, sorry, Cyn. I don’t even know where you are. Could you leave a mark or something? Knowing how close I can get could be helpful. I hope this is helping. I found the note about the voices. I wish there was more I could do.

    “So, Cyril’s got a crush, Cynder. This beautiful ice dragoness came around and now he’s acting like a hatchling! Volteer and the new Fire guardian, Inferna, won’t shut up for a minute. It’s kind of fun to watch. They're just teachers and councilmembers now. About the only councilmembers I actually like. I feel more like a flag than a dragon sometimes, some sorta weird symbol or something.”

    “Oh, uh, I was wondering, if people seeing you is most of the problem, maybe you could cover yourself? It’d also help a lot if you could just leave a note describing what you look like, as best you can. I know it might hurt, but I don’t know if Ignitus can see you, and it might help him figure out where the traits came from…

    “That’s right, you might not know. We know what happened. That’s gotta be the first step to fixing it, right? Either way, we are gonna get you as comfortable as we can in the meantime. It’d help to know if there’s anything you need or want. Ignitus thinks you literally eat fear now, so you were right about that. We’re going to keep on working at this, Cyn, no matter what.

    “Oh, and Sparx started calling you sis and now he can’t stop himself. It’s pretty much adorable…”

    Spyro talked until he was hoarse, about anything and everything, and the buzzing never got better. However, he began to cope with it. And that was the first step.

    When he opened his eyes to find her mark, he had to wonder about the symbol. A circle was etched into the carnage of dead leaves and through it stretched an ‘X.’

    He considered it for a while and shrugged before going to curl up beneath his ratty blankets and stoke a fire. There was plenty of dry wood and kindling. He only stopped to loudly—and sorely—announce to the distant buzzing that she was welcome at his impromptu camp, and that she’d caused no problems while he’d slept.

    “Well,” he muttered, curled tail-tip to muzzle under his pile of flimsy blankets. “It’s a start, Cyn. It’s a start.”

    And that it was.