darkSpyro

I wrote this as a break from one of my more serious fictions. Thought about giving it more exposure on DS and said 'why not?' here be the link

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/86...lack-Don-t-Work

And, it will be a two-shot.

I wrote this as an angst warm-up. Too chicken to put it on ff, so I shall place it here.


AN: I woke up and was like “Whaaaaat……..OOOH, I’ll write ZHAAT!” so I thought this was ok, freestyle!

Summary: He didn’t have an understanding to as of why… but the abandoned grotto always made him feel safe.
It always stayed with him. The pressure, the expectancy from everyone, it was always there. Even if he could never end it, there was always some sort of solace in the abandoned grotto.

The other guardians never entered it, Ignitus especially. The guilt of the situation so many years ago, it never left. Not for one moment.

It was true that Cynder was redeemed from everything she had ever done, even though it was taking time and patience to forgive her, things were still touchy with the issue at hand.

Spyro sometimes took a moment to imagine what it would be like as Ignitus. How did it feel to believe with all his being that everything was lost? That it was his fault for making the world fall under Cynder’s rule? Did it feel like losing an unborn child?
Now that he took the time to think about it, that may have been how he felt…

Spyro walked into the musky room, his loud and clacking barely making a noise in the deafening silence. It was untouched, the incident forever plaguing the four guardians. Spyro could understand, had he been attached to them, he would never do the same.

Spyro paced over to the smashed pedestal where he was once sleeping. It was hard to comprehend the fact the he had once been here at all, that at one point and time, he was sleeping there with only the comfort of the other dragons. While it would’ve comforted most dragons, it didn’t do anything for Spyro, and in fact, to be honest, it kind of scared him.

He often wondered why, as he pushed his paw into the molding purple plush, why was it always him? How many lives had been sacrificed, how many hatchlings had had their life severed and disconnected? Sometimes he wanted to change the past, so that maybe somebody else could do a much better job at this. It was always him. Often in his young life, he wished something would go wrong, for once.

He pulled away his paw and tip toed slowly into the center of the room and crumbled. It was a comfy position, comfortable to make him fall asleep. Yet, there was the nightmares, always plaguing him. Maybe some sort of solace could come from the unborn. It often did, like a cloak over his eyes.

It’s cold. Dew is gathering at the surface of the stones, but he doesn’t mind. It’s his way of paying respect to those who died in place of him. It’s all he can do. He can only be there for them at night in this grotto. This lost place. This abandoned hatchery. This lost home.

It doesn’t feel alive, but he knows better. As he drifts off into a realm of comfort and sleep, it’s all he can say, for nothing can change the past.

“I’m sorry.”

FIN