The end.
Cold ash drops from the sky slowly like the snowflakes he last saw around Christmas when he had intended to return home. It lands on his messy featherdress as he crudely flaps his wings against the harsh winds of the dark north, a sailor of air lost in a sea of grey. His feathers are sticky, brown from the dried blood upon them, muddying the feathers that once were of a brilliant obsidian.
He could barely tell where he was, but he knew where he was going. He was functioning entirely on instinct, if supposed immortals even had anything like that. He didnât feel immortal at all anymore. He felt the force, the scource of his life drain from him with each beat of his wings, and with each flap, he came Closer to the Destination that had enough magical energy to transport him where his mind told him he was meant to be. Make it there, do it, you have to, his mind told him. Otherwise, how would she know? How would she know he didnât abandon her? How would she know he loved her more than anything he had ever loved? That he wanted to see her prosper and conquer and be the force that creates change in his stead for all those that would come into her life and get to witness her wonderful character, and lovable self? Or who had the misfortune of crossing her and learning how much of a mistake that would be?
The wind blares. Itâs drowning his ears. He cannot even hear his own heartbeat. The drums of war within his head had silenced, and for the first and last time in his life, he heard anything but his calling. He could finally hear the world. He could hear life, and he could hear itâs absense. He hears the crackle of energy when he enters the radius of the area designed for interplane travel. A place he had frequently utilized when coming home.The sparks infront of his eyes were smudged in his blurry sight, and a single, hollow caw escaped his burning lungs, his sore, avian throat when he opened the portal, mindlessly diving into it in his frenzied haste. The bright light of the wormhole blinds him. And in what barely feels like a second later, he plunged into a severely hotter place, one he was familiar with. His caws echoed in the hallways of the palace of hell, barely audible anymore as he desperately made his way through them. He had to land and take off anew multiple times, unable to keep a steady flight. He is so tired. So tired. He wants to close his eyes so badly, take a nap, sleep for a while. But he canât. He doesnât know why, but he keeps trying and trying and trying again. Each attempt and subsequent failure more futile than the last, and shortly before the throneroom, where he heard her voice, he just. He canât fly. He canât. His wings are too heavy. More fresh blood seeps out of his wounds. It stains his formerly brilliant coat in crimson, makes it messy, sticky, ugly. The tracks of blood he leaves in his wake are smeared by his slow, shuffling steps.
He comes into the doorframe. And there he sees her. He sees his daughter. Her pristine, golden hair is just as rich and wonderful as it is in his memory. He caws, sees her head turn, in surprise, in dissappointment then at first, then with shock wide stare at his state.Â
War collapses. He cannot even make it to the throne anymore. Cannot make it into the embrace of his child. His wounds, seared into him by otherworldly, uttermost godly influence, drag him into oblivion.
And when he finally gets to close his eyes, all he feels at last is how his small, flayed body is scooped up in a hurry.
War was now dead.
And yet, he left no peace behind.
