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In the end, Lilia still leaves.
After the overblot, the tears, the emotions—
The frantic reunions in everybody’s dreams, hands finding comfort intertwining in each other; the promises whispered to each other to break free, the defiant attempts to strike back at and stop Malleus—
Lilia still leaves.
“I shall keep in contact,” he promises with a smile, the corners of his weary eyes wrinkling. It’s more sad than anything else, a stark contrast to the lively send-off he’d wanted back before Malleus had ruined everything, cast all of Sage’s Island into an unyielding, neverending dream. At the very least, this time they have had some time to process everything, to recover and work through all their unspoken fears before the day of departure finally arrived. This time, it is not a sudden, abrupt exit with no closure. “But you all know I cannot remain here, not with my magic as weak as it is.”
Malleus’ expression is pained. It has been, ever since they’d all dragged him back from the throes of his overblot. There’s a seemingly permanent downturn to his lips, pressed thin, and his eyebrows always dip downwards, leaving creases in his forehead. “Lilia—”
“Shush, Malleus.” With a single flick of his wrist, Lilia effectively silences the prince. Perhaps before, Malleus would have pressed the matter, pushed harder — but now, humbled by the outcome of his selfish decision to throw everyone under his magic’s effect, he is quiet. “I know what you wish to offer,” Lilia says, with a dip of his head. “My answer, however, remains unchanged. I do not need, nor do I desire, any of your magic. Understood?”
The stormy silence that fills the air says it all. Distantly, there is a rumble of thunder somewhere outdoors, the sound peeking through the half-opened window of Lilia’s room.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Lilia sighs, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Is that truly how you are going to send me off? And I’m not just talking about Malleus for once,” he adds, eyes turning to the two other figures in the room. “All those sour looks on your face… I ought to have thrown another farewell party if I knew the mood would be as sullen as it is.”
Silence fills the air again, a palpable fog of far too many emotions, tangled together until it’s thick, sticky, and oppressive.
Sebek recovers first. He shouts something about how grateful he is — and shall always be! — to Lilia for teaching him everything he knows, for training him to be the guard that he is today. Malleus is second, his dissatisfied expression softening into one of a reluctant acceptance. Despite the sadness that seems to permeate his eyes permanently now, he still embraces Lilia, leaning down to wrap his arms around the smaller fae.
And Silver—
When strong arms curl around him, he clings to them, leaning into the hold. His chest aches, a visceral, tangible pain that has been with him for such a long time. Silver has felt it for weeks, ever since his father had first dropped the bombshell that he would be leaving in a matter of mere days, completely throwing Silver’s world upside down in that one, small instance. He leans down, rests his head against Lilia’s shoulder, and as he feels his father’s arms squeeze him tightly, he cannot help it — tears prickle in his eyes, a sob escaping his lips.
“Shh, shh.” His father tries to calm him, rubbing his back, soothing him, but— Damn it. It still hurts so badly, a gaping wound cleaved right through his core, one that Silver thinks will never heal, will never scab over or scar. It will remain with him for as long as he lives, leaking rivulets of blood that no one can see, a broken heart caged between his aching ribs.
He almost whines as Lilia pulls away, the sound only cut off when two cool hands come up to cup his cheeks. “Do not cry, dear,” Lilia murmurs. “Otherwise you’re going to make your old man cry too. And then where will we be, hm?”
Silver tries to choke out a laugh, but it only emerges as another sob.
It hurts.
The cabin is yours now, Lilia had told him, pressing the keys into Silver’s hands in the lead-up to his initial departure, days before Malleus’ overblot.
At first, when he was still at Night Raven College, going through the remaining years of his education, Silver held a particular plan in mind. He would move back into the little cottage, help to maintain it — for it was where he had grown up, so many lovely childhood memories nestled within those wooden walls.
But upon his graduation, upon returning home and spending more than a few weeks living there—
There are ghosts haunting every nook and cranny, hiding in the corners and shielding themselves away until Silver stumbles upon them. He finds letters and drawings in a chest of drawers in his father’s room, and spends hours sitting there on the floor, looking through every scribbly artwork and wonky letter he’d ever given his father as a child, silent tears dripping down his face until it grows too dark to read. He discovers old gifts Lilia had given him after returning from his travels — trinkets nestled in the back of his wardrobe or under his bed, covered with thick layers of dust that makes him sneeze. He finds his father tucked away in everything he left behind — the ruined kitchen utensils, the dusty clothes hanging in his wardrobe, the weathered books on the shelves, all of it.
It grows too much for him to bear, every moment spent inside his house causing the wound in his heart to tear open a bit more. Blood gushes out as tears involuntarily gather at the corners of his eyes, time and time again.
Before long, he begins to spend more time at the castle, or at the Zigvolts’ place, staying away from his childhood home.
(A home that is little more than a house now, for Silver knows—
His true home is somewhere far away, in the Land of Red Dragons, all by himself.)
Even with the letters they receive — individualised ones, delivered every once in a blue moon, that familiar, messy scrawl indicating whose is whose — the pain still does not get any better. If anything, it feels worse.
Lilia writes with such informality, in a way that makes Silver able to imagine him speaking the exact words scrawled on the paper. Every time he cuts open the envelope, unfurling the paper to read ‘My dear boy!’ or even just ‘Silver!’ written with such an enthusiasm that he can practically hear him, Silver has to stop himself, put the letter down in favour of sucking in a deep breath. To quell the permanent pain in his heart before his emotions overtake him, drag him down until tears stain the ink and paper.
Lilia is fine. He’s content, even, spending his days travelling around the region he’s moved to, befriending the locals, assisting them where necessary. Even without his magic, his father is still capable of a great many things. His body has not begun to fail him yet — but it is the yet that Silver lingers on, every new letter reminding him of just how much time they are spending apart.
Him, growing older, attaining the knighthood status he’d been training all his life for.
(His father, growing older, tucked away somewhere far and foreign, his body slowly, steadily, beginning to give out on him.)
‘I hope you are doing well,’ Lilia writes, as he always does in some variation or another. ‘Malleus has told me of yours and Sebek’s knighting ceremony; I only wish I could have been there to witness it.’
Lilia learns of these things through Malleus, through Sebek, because they write back to him. Because they send off letters to take the long voyage to where Lilia stays, keen to keep in touch, sharing their lives with smiles on their faces.
Silver has never written back to his father. It has never been for a lack of trying; he has wanted to pen a response so many times, aching to spill his life, everything he has done, to his father. To speak to him, to get a response back telling him how proud Lilia is of him, how much he loves him, to ask questions about every little detail of what Silver tells him about.
But every single time he sits down with a pen and paper, every time he tries to write—
He can’t. He can’t.
(‘I’m proud of you,’ Lilia always writes at the end of his letters. ‘I love you, Silver. I always will.’
It is those words that break him over and over again, tears splashing into the empty parchment in front of him until he inevitably crumples it up, throwing it to the ground in a fit of childish rage.
Of a desire, so deep and innate, to see his father again.)
The years pass. Silver gets older.
He stumbles through life, clings to his routines like a lifeline. Time only makes the wound ache worse; he has never managed to finish a single letter to send back to his father.
(He keeps all the ones he receives tucked away in a locked chest in his room at the castle. He has long since moved out of the cabin, only returning every so often to upkeep it, to keep it clean and pristine.
He strings the key to the chest around a chain, tucked away under the cloth of his clothes. It lies there, close to his broken heart at all times.)
New faces come and go. He and Sebek get the honour of training future soldiers and guards, settling into a routine with a refined ease.
Sebek matures, though slower than Silver does. He is less scathing with his words, less derogatory with the way he treats humans. He smiles more now. It looks nice on him, Silver thinks.
Malleus looks the same as always, save for a mature air of composure that surrounds him, a certainty he carries himself with. He opens up more now; the servants have gossiped about getting swept up in conversations with their prince, tittering to each other as Silver passes them in the hallways.
Silver changes faster than them. His physique shifts, appearance maturing into something he knows people whisper about. He has been subjected to his fair share of suitors clamouring for his hand, the fact that he is human irrelevant to them in favour of his beauty. He accepts the compliments with a small smile, having learnt how to express himself better over time, but always turns down anyone who requests to court him.
Whenever he looks into the mirror, an unexplainable feeling always overwhelms him. A hollow ache in the middle of his chest. A vortex that always churns and eats at him.
(The wound over his heart still leaks blood. Over a decade has passed, but it has never healed.
Silver knows what he feels whenever he looks into the mirror. He feels vulnerable, young, a fervent desire within him to run back into the arms of his father and never let go.)
Lilia still writes to them all. His letters always arrive consistently at the same times.
Silver has still yet to ever reply.
“I am dismissing you from your duties as a knight.”
Silver blinks. He stares, not quite wrapping his head around the words.
Malleus stares back at him, narrowed eyes piercing from where he sits, one leg crossed, on the elegantly curved chair used at the table in his study. There is no room for argument in his expression, only a resolute firmness, the made-up mind of a soon-to-be king.
And then he processes the words. “What?” Silver blurts out, undignified and startled, his usual decorum with his prince lost upon him. His heart hammers against his chest, the sound pounding in his ears. Fear seizes him. “I— My lord—”
“Malleus,” the fae corrects, with a swift interruption and a dip of his head. “There is no longer any need for such formalities between us, especially not in the privacy of this room.”
“Malleus,” Silver corrects, still trembling, feeling weak all over. Like he is a teenager again, his emotions a struggle for him to comprehend, his heart too big for him to express. “I strongly urge you to reconsider your decision—”
“I have already made up my mind.”
Silver sucks in a breath. “Why?” he asks, the question coming out as a soft pathetic whine. Has he failed somewhere? Shirked his duties as a knight? But Malleus had expressed no discontent prior to this — and even now, as Silver calms from the surge of irrational emotions that swung him by surprise, he can sense no dissatisfaction from his prince, only a calm certainty. It only serves to puzzle him even more.
Those sharp, yellow-green eyes almost seem to soften as they land upon him.
“Is it not obvious, Silver?” Malleus says, not unkindly. “Your heart is not in it — in any of it. It has not been for years. My only mistake was not realising sooner, how unhappy it made you to remain here.”
Silver stares, shell-shocked, mouth parted in his confusion.
“I—” A lump chokes his throat, and he swallows it down. “What gave you the impression that I am unhappy?” he asks, a little carefully; his hands ball into fists, shaking by his side. “I have always wanted to serve you, my lord—”
“Malleus.”
“—Malleus,” he corrects, wincing at the pointed look shot his way. “It is what I was raised for, is it not? Everything I have gone through, it has all been for your sake.”
Malleus hums, pressing a hand against his chin. He looks contemplative. “Perhaps,” he says, after what feels like a tense eternity to Silver. “But is that what you desire? Or is that merely what has been instilled in you since young?”
Silver freezes.
(A realisation looms over him, one he has always pushed out of his mind from how deeply it hurts him, burying it after it had gotten too much for him to bear.
A fervent desire shared with Malleus long ago, on an abnormally snowy night at Night Raven College, during the eve of his father’s departure.)
“I have always wondered,” Malleus says, “why you have never written back to him.” He does not need to specify who he is talking about; Silver already knows. “At first, I had presumed it to be out of anger. A betrayal, perhaps, similar to what I had felt when I overblotted. And yet, such an assumption directly contradicts how you act whenever his letters arrive. You are always first to retrieve yours, retreating to your room to look through its contents.”
Malleus exhales, closing his eyes.
And then he opens them, and smiles.
“I give you my permission to depart,” he says, in a firm voice that leaves no space for any protest. “And with that, my blessings alongside it.”
In the softest, kindest voice Silver has ever heard from him, Malleus says:
“Go home to him, Silver. You have waited long enough.”
The wound in his heart has stopped bleeding.
It is still not healed, still open and raw. But there is nothing dripping from it, a strange, suspended feeling that Silver experiences as he packs what meagre belongings he has into a single bag, and prepares to depart.
(He brings all the letters. He has to, after all.
He needs to answer every question written in them when they meet again.)
Malleus sees to his departure, ensures that Silver has enough funds to get there, readies the magic mirror within Briar Valley to take him somewhere with an airport. He sees Silver off personally, smiles at him with such a knowing look in his eyes — “Give him my best regards, would you?”
Sebek shows no surprise when Silver springs the news upon him. All he says is, “IT’S ABOUT TIME!” in that booming voice of his, slaps Silver on the back and laughs heartily. He is there when Malleus sees him off, a private affair shared between the three of them. Silver is surprised at how teary-eyed his friend is when they embrace — though when he brings it up, teases Sebek with a light smile, Sebek merely says, “I am only crying because I am thinking of all those suitors of yours I must handle!”
When he steps through the portal, he blinks in jarring disconcertion at the modern world, so unused to it after so much time tucked away in Briar Valley. The valley is still far behind the times, modern inventions only slowly beginning to snake their way into its populace’s daily life, and to face the sleek shininess of an airport is a little much for his mind to handle.
Still, he somehow finds his way through everything, asks for assistance wherever necessary — he is taking a flight to the Land of Red Dragons, would someone happen to know where he must go? And before long, he has boarded the plane, settled in for the long ride, leaning back in his seat as the vehicle takes off.
A ball of anxiety unfurls in his chest, threads of nervousness creeping their way through all the corners of his body. Though he tries to sleep it off, sinking back into his habits as easily as ever, he wakes with consternation still festering in his veins, claws still gripping his chest.
The Land of Red Dragons is as he expects when he steps outside the airport, mind dredging up every little detail described in his father’s letters over the years. Slowly, with his nerves only mounting as he goes through each necessary step, Silver finds someone willing to drive him as close to wherever his father is staying as they can.
He dozes off during the drive.
(In his dreams, he stumbles into his father’s own, watches at a distance as he has done countless times over the years.
How long has he longed for this? To reunite, to embrace, to hold him again in his arms, allowing his tears to spill easily, some inner child within him finally soothed?
He does not remember anything when he wakes, as he always does.)
Before he knows it, Silver is here.
He is dropped off at the edge of a wide and open plain. The wind whips at the tall strands of grass, blows at his hair and clothes as he stares down at a little house nestled between bumpy hills. There is smoke emerging from the chimney, the walls made of burgundy bricks, and there is a little wooden porch out in front, a swing chair resting there. The lawn is unkempt — and Silver stifles a smile at that, a warmth swelling within him at the sight of thick throngs of weeds and wildflowers — and there is a little mailbox with the red flag turned up. Peeking over the fence around the backyard is what looks like a large, wooden coop.
He makes his way down slowly at first.
And then he speeds up. A leisurely walk turning into a run, until he’s sprinting and panting, heart swelling so full with a longing desire that he has stifled for over a decade, unwilling to wait any longer—
(The cut through his heart is beginning to stitch itself back together, mending itself in a way that it has not for such a long time.)
And when he stumbles up the porch, rings the doorbell, rocking nervously backwards on his heels—
The door swings open, a familiar face peering through the crack, crimson eyes widening with a thousand emotions upon landing on him, before the door is flung wide open—
Silver surges forward, sweeping Lilia up into an embrace long overdue, arms curling tightly around his father as he buries his head in his hair — longer now, reaching just past his shoulders, streaks dyed a pale, delicate pink. He just about sobs at the scent of that familiar shampoo, tears beading up at the corners of his eyes.
And when he feels arms curl around him, returning the embrace?
He finally breaks.
“Father,” he gasps between choked sobs, fingers curling into the soft knit of Lilia’s sweater, tears dampening his cheeks as he cries unabashedly — an adult now, a grown man, rendered but a child after so long spent missing his papa. “I missed you so much, I—”
The words escape him.
Silver only sobs, trembling and shaking in Lilia’s hold, soothed by the circles being rubbed into his back, the gentle murmurs of his father’s voice as he whispers, “There, there, dry your tears, dear.”
And when they finally pull away from each other, after what feels like an eternity of letting loose every emotion he has buried, Lilia raises his hands to cup his cheeks, and Silver feels like bursting into a fresh flood of tears all over again.
His father smiles at him, face more wrinkled than it was before, his age finally catching up with him. And yet, he still looks young, young enough — It is only how the fae age, Silver thinks with a small, shy smile, graceful and glorious until the very end.
Soon, Lilia will usher him in, will demand to know why and how he has come here. Silver will tell him of how Malleus relieved him of his duties, knowing before Silver did what he needed, and granting him the opportunity to take it for himself. Lilia will show him his house, the guest room filled with all his various trinkets and junk, and the spare bed that Silver will take as his own. They will talk and laugh over a meal, before clinging to each other on the sofa, catching up after over a decade apart.
But for now, Silver allows himself to relish in his father’s tender embrace, feeling thumbs brush over his tear-stained cheeks so delicately.
(The wound in his heart has finally healed, after everything.)
He is home.