In a land far removed from Equestria, there exists a large, wooden, single-story home. A house on a hill built together by two lovers. A place secluded from the world at large for the two to spend their remaining days.
Within this home, a single creature stirs. He moves among the many books dwelling in the personal library. A copper-red wing gently brushes along the spines of the books; shaking loose the thin layer of dust. Every now and then he picks up a book in his talons and lays it inside his saddlebag. Satisfied after moving through the multiple rows, he leaves and walks into the adjacent reading room.
He hesitates to move onto the rest of the house as his eyes settle upon the mantle of the fireplace. Around the fireplace rests two single chairs and a small sofa. All furniture was meticulously talon-made from scratch with tremendous care. Each project allowing the two lovers to create something new together. Upon the mantle are several picture frames. Every picture features two gryphons etched forever in time. One gryphon, the male, sports dark copper feathers, amethyst eyes, and dark golden fur. The other, the hen, has grayish-blue feathers, smoky grey fur, and deep blue eyes.
The gryphon picks up a frame capturing the two figures beak to beak in a slow dance. Their eyes are bright, youthful, and ignorant of anything outside themselves. He placing the picture in his saddlebag only to stop himself. He looks one last time in painful longing and then carefully places the frame back. He dusts the mantle, along with the rest of the pictures, and moves on.
His next destination is a bedroom. As he walks along the hallway, he places a wingtip on the wall, dragging it slowly across. It will be his final chance to feel the smooth wooden architecture and he plans to take his time sorting it all into memory. There is nothing for him to take in the bedroom, but he can't leave without one last visit. Upon reaching the room, he walks right over to the well-made bed and rests a claw on the side left unoccupied for the last couple of years.
He remains there, lost in thought until his arm starts to quiver and his heart aches. No longer able to stay, he slowly hauls himself over to the door, stopping when motion catches the corner of his eyes. He turns and stares directly at his reflection. His appearance is as youthful as it has been for the last several decades; not a single grey feather or hair located in his well-groomed self. It is only his eyes that betrays the truth within; staring back with a lifetime's worth of stories, adventures, and teachings to share.
The gryphon brings an arm in close and glares intensely at it. A swirl of pink flame surrounds and morphs the claw into a lanky, hole-filled hoof. The polish black of his chitin long since faded into a dark grey mocks his youthful appearance. With a huff and turn of the head, another swirl of magic replaces his hoof with talons. He lets out a long sigh and walks out of view of the mirror.
Finished gathering all he needs, the changeling-gryphon returns to the living den where the main entrance lies. He moves to exit but stops within the threshold. His tail twitches as an itch takes over. An itch not to go, but return the empty bed. He debates with himself but knows he cannot stay any longer. Not living like he is and extending every day after tormenting day. And so, he finishes crossing the threshold one final time.
He walks down the stone steps leading into a well-maintained garden. He takes his time pulling out any weed he spots and watering every dry plant he crosses. He eventually cannot find any more to weed or water and so reluctantly continues on his way. In doing so, he leaves all he knows behind for a chance to get away from the pain. At the revelation of this being the final time, his throat tightens up, his head becomes lightheaded, and he stumbles in his walk. He lets loose a solemn gasp and breaths heavily. Attempting to reign in his emotions, he closes his eyes and reminds himself: This place is no longer his home. After all, home is wherever she is and she isn't here. At least, not anymore.
With a final breath, Sure Claw steels his nerves and spreads his wings. He flies himself away from it all. He flies away from the hurt, from the pain, from the memories. He flies himself to one final venture; a place most far away from here. He flies over to the natural harbor and onto the deck of a large, seafaring vessel; leaving behind the house they built on a hill.