Untitled

non-'canon' content. 

The door creaked open quietly. A moment of silence hung still in the air before being broken by a pair of slow footsteps.

“Aven?” Rylen says, squinting his golden eyes at the slender figure illuminated in the doorway.

Stepping out of the glow and pushing the door shut so the room was once more cast in a deep gloom, Aven replied, “that would be me.”

“it is dangerous for you to be so close to me, since I-” he cut himself off with a cough, “since I contracted this sickness.”

“I know that. But I would like to spend some time with you, despite your affliction.”

Rylen chuckled, shifting so more of the blanket draped over his borderline skeletal frame. “I will not fight you since I know it would be a fruitless battle anyways.”

“That it would be,” they murmured, slipping off their boots and rain-damp cloak before moving to the side of the bed in which Rylen laid.

Rylen stared at them blearily–- the illness had slowed his mind down considerably, though the sharp young king aven had known for so long was still there, deep in the foggy sickness of Rylen’s mind.

Adjusting so he lay on his side and so there was room for Aven, Rylen coughed again– but this time a whispery cough that sounded as if it had rattled his lungs, shaken him up from the inside out.

Aven clambered into the plush bed, sadly noting the painful noise Rylen had emitted. They tucked themself up next to him, deep in the crook of his side and head rested on his shoulder.

“Is there any new news of the outside?” Rylen inquired hoarsely, usually gentle voice now tarnished with the rust of illness. He wrapped himself a little closer to Aven, seeking their body heat since he lacked much of his own.

“This plague continues to ravage Syren. Even Riot herself has caught it, according to Kyrik. The death toll also continues to rise,” Aven responded after hesitating a moment, turning up their violet gaze to look at the round angles of Rylen’s face. They kept their eyes trained on him, displeased that they were the one who had to deliver such unpleasant news to a man already in the deep throes of sickness.

Rylen sighed, a dreadful sound of a king’s grief for his people, his eyes briefly flickering shut.

“But, you should be more concerned with yourself,” Aven continued, wishing dearly that the despair coating Rylen would go away, leave him alone, and never come back. “Your health has improved none, and Syren needs you to get better. You are terribly missed by everyone– even I miss the little prince I used to know.”

“I do not think I am going to get better, love. It’s a miracle I have come this far. Do not get your hopes up.”

“What- Rylen no, no, you will be alright! I am sure of it! Do not put things out into the world that you do not want to become true!” Aven moved to face him properly, panic dusting their traditionally calm, elegant expression. They studied him anxiously, searching for any indicator that this was nothing more than a passing thought and not something Rylen truly believed. “listen to me, Rylen, I’ve seen others recover from worse. You will get through this.” they delivered their statement firmly, almost as if trying to command Rylen's good health to manifest into reality

Rylen laughed dryly at their optimism, curling forward, before once more breaking off into a coughing fit, albeit worse than the others before. Dry, rattling coughs, each sounding as if it was ripped out of him by force punctuated his laughter, each more painful than the last. Finally, with a gasping breath, Rylen laid back, ribs visibly heaving through his sheer garments as he fought for air.

Aven slotted their head into the crook of Rylen's neck and shoulder, despairing in the frantic wheeze edging each of his hard-fought breaths. The sickness could not take Rylen, or Syren would shatter into a million little fragments, each withering away with sickness until nothing but dust remained.

The pair laid there peacefully, no more exchange between them, since the effort seemed to be too much for Rylen’s straining lungs by this point. Before long, Rylen’s eyes drooped shut, weariness of the ill drawing him into sleep, faint breaths barely fluttering his hair that lay draped in a silky braid across his chest. Aven closed their eyes as well, unable to bear looking at a man who was once so stunning, who had grown into his place as leader exceptionally well, reduced to a frail, emaciated shell of his former glory by a mysterious illness. Sleep eventually caught them as well, dragging them into its smooth, comforting black warmth, away from the plague-ridden city and ailing king and stormy skies that had been their life for weeks now.

When Aven drifted back into reality, head still fuzzy with the cobwebs of dreams, it took them a moment to realize that not even a whisper of air stirred from Rylen.

He wasn’t breathing

They scrambled up, untangling themself from the cold sheets, disoriented in the darkness of the room and the fuzziness of floating back down to the ground after much-needed sleep.

“Rylen! Rylen, come on, this isn’t funny! Please just wake up!” Aven cried, frantically seeking to somehow drag the life right back into Rylen’s cooling body. Panic shrilled up their veins as they practically flew into the hallway, demanding help from somebody, anybody. Nearby attendants caught the incoherent pleas flying from Aven, and they rushed to find a medic.

Aven shot back to Rylen’s side after ensuring help was on the way. Their purple eyes began to swim with fat, shiny tears. How could Rylen do this? He had to just be playing an elaborate joke on them. He looked almost lifelike, still had the same mouth that had spilled countless jokes, same hair that aven had braided hundreds of times, same ears that had heard more things than anyone knew of, and would ever know of.

Desperate grief pooled inside aven, a whirling maelstrom of tragedy and anger inside them that seemed to carry more pain than anyone could possibly bear. Tears spilled over as royal medics crowded in, shoving them back so they could attend to Rylen. Aven knew he was dead, and nobody could bring back the dead. Why were they even trying?

It wasn’t fair! Why would death come to call for a king with such a bright future ahead? Aven curled up into a dark, cobwebbed corner of the room as the medics swarmed like busy ants over rylen’s body. Round, salty tears slid down their cheeks, the vaguest of sobs beginning to build in the place just behind their sternum. Aven’s breath hitched as they tried to wrangle the grief that had come spinning into their life so violently, but there was no point in fighting. It was a fruitless battle.

The sickness had stolen Rylen away, and he wasn’t ever coming back.

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Lightning cracked viciously over Aven’s head as they stood apprehensively outside the building that would lead them to the final resting place of the now former king of Syren. Wild rain swept around their inky black cloak, tearing at the loose edges while muddy puddles frothed with rain drops around their boots.

It was a miserable day to suit a miserable occasion, they noted.

Gray, dusty gloom greeted aven as they stepped into the echoing halls of the building. Large, rain-spattered windows lined the massive halls. They drifted along the corridors dreamlike, the tip-tap of their rain slick boots the only sound in all of the polished stone walls. This didn’t feel real– none of it did. Maybe they would wake up soon from this hellish dream, next to a Rylen who hadn’t stopped breathing.

As every ascending ruler of the throne was required to do, Rylen had chosen his burial location. He had immediately decided that he wanted to be buried just shy of the Jyu sea– in the same graveyard that he had taken Aven to all that time ago for Lanternsky. The same graveyard where they had wandered the candlelit stone rows. The same graveyard where he had cheerfully fed Aven the finest sugar-wrapped delicacies that the bakers of Syren had to offer, all while laughing at their insistence on acting like they did not like the treats.

And now, it was to be the same graveyard where he was laid to rest forever, bones left to the merciless hands of eternity.

Aven came upon a wooden door after some amount of time wandering in the echoing expanse, pausing outside of it. Anxiety washed over them; this would take them outside, back into the dreary weather, and back into their grief, which had briefly left them as they meandered through the cold corridors. Stepping outside would make this all real. With a deep breath to steady themself, they gently pressed the door open, the stillness of the stone halls suddenly broken by the howling wind and lashing rain that tried to push past aven, whipping them in the face.

Despite the less than pleasant conditions, Aven fully stepped outside, letting the door swing shut heavily behind them, the thud lost in the chaos of the storm. Violent wind ripped through Aven, lifting up the light edges of their cloak as icy rain coated them thoroughly again.

Heels clicking on the puddle-ridden stepping-stone path, though it was quickly being swallowed by mud, they picked their way through the graveyard, knowing already where they would find Rylen. Jani had told them precisely where they could find him, and Aven had burned it into their mind, turning it over and over like a lucky token in their mind as the day they were due to travel here drew closer and closer.

Aven hesitated upon arriving at his grave, the storm somehow managing to pick up more force overhead. It was simplistic, a slightly raised, white marble tomb with a plain marker– it was deeply reminiscent of Rylen, as he had never been one for flair, nor theatrics. Huge bunches of weather-battered flowers in hundreds of hues adorned the place, slid into every nook and cranny conceivable. It was the Syrenian’s last show of affection for their short-lived king, undoubtedly. Flowers were a traditional symbol of grief within the province, Aven had observed.

Aven stood before the last resting place of the king, framed in front of the roiling sky. Smatterings of frosty droplets quickly dripped through their already wet clothing and chilled them to their core. The urge to cry suddenly ripped through Aven’s chest again, fiery hurt tearing apart the numbness that had settled over them over the past few days. It was shortly accompanied by a pang of grief so powerful it forced them to their knees, mud sucking at their hands as they fought to keep back the sadness just a little bit longer, so they could spend their last moments with Rylen peacefully, quietly, even if the weather was inclined to be unhelpful with that idea.

Memories of Rylen streamed through aven’s mind as they sat, bent over in the dreary mud before the tomb as the storm raged fiercely above. They saw his bright, endearing smile, heard his terrible jokes, felt his body against theirs all over again in a heart-wrenching cacophony as they sat, crushed and defeated by pain. It was unfair that the gods should take someone so beautiful, so filled with the happiness of being alive until he wasn’t. What had he done to deserve such a prolonged death? Why not take him in a way far more befitting of his nobility? Aven sighed heavily, rain running down loose strands of their hair. Rylen had been everything Aven needed, possibly even more. They missed him dearly– he had been a light in the mist of their life.

Finally, after an immeasurable amount of time, mud-soaked, rain-battered, and windswept, Aven stood again, the chill of the storm thoroughly engraved into their skeleton. They freely let their tears fall again as they turned away from the grave, reversing their path back to the door. Aven had shared their last moment of peace with Rylen, and it was then that the reality hit them that Rylen would never come back, never knock brightly on their door again, never hunt with his falcon again, never do or be anything again but instead forever remain a pile of stale bones encased in stone until the end of time.

They couldn’t remember what his face looked like already.