In the dead of the night, he hears her voice call to him through the halls of a rotten empire. Through his home, through the decaying streets, her voice beckons and beckons, sometimes taking him in circles, sometimes taking him to places they used to frequent when they were young. Today, her voice took him to the place where she had taken her last breath. Her blade, now an annoyingly terrifying cane that seemed to scowl at him with no eyes, hovers to the spot, lingering with longing.
Again. Once again, he hears her siren call. He hears her memories, the memories that fill the ruination before him.
Her sweet lull brings him back to a better time…a better time.
He stands at the top of the stairs. What was once a grand throne, a jovial, lively, castle that welcomed natives and foreigners. They were loved - he was loved. Tired eyes glaze over, the void and ruin. They were once bright, citrine and jade that danced with pride and vitality. Now, barely more than glass.
Behind him, the fae stand guard. The Governance of Heart, the Governance of Soul. So long as he remains on an undecided path, so too must they protect their charge. He is so tired, though. The Skyrot bears a heavy burden upon his broken heart.
The memories that he refuses to allow die, the memories of his people, his family, his heart, overlay upon the decrepit land. He doesn’t wish to see what is, not while he’s remembering what was.
In his eyes, heavy paws slowly lift, a leisurely gait as he walks with his love. He still remembers her, as she was. The deep ultramarine, the lustrous rosewood red. She glistened, shining in the sun in a blinding beauty.
They watched in heartache. A withered, fatigued frame dragged itself through empty streets. There was no one here to greet him anymore. No one here to comfort him.
Ears lifted, perking up at an invisible voice. He heard her, she said it was time. Time for what?
As if forced out of a peaceful slumber, he shakes his head. Loose, dark purple fur fell from his form, and his ears fall. This was not the elysium dream he was hoping for. There’s nothing here. Black, ruin, the remains of death. This was his reality. This was the world that the Skyrot had claimed. A soft whine. He knows this location all too well. How could he not, this was where his heart died, after all.
It takes him another moment to realize he is not alone, though. His breath catches as he lays eyes upon the cane. The pattern, the aura, the scent. It looked different now, but he knew it all too well. Myrrah’s blade..
The blade that bled her dry.
