Work Text:
Leona’s developed a small habit. When no one's looking, he takes a couple of sheets from Falena’s ever-increasing pile of paperwork, runs back to his room, sits by his window overlooking the royal gardens with a pen in hand, and pretends he's working on ingenious kingdom blueprints with his father. The birds, chirping incessantly in the background, add to the scenario—he imagines them as Kifaji, always lecturing, always scolding, hovering over him with that same severe frown on his face. Not that Leona ever cares what that squawky codger thinks. Maybe.
If no one comes looking for him after several hours, Leona pretends not to notice. He's helping Falena with his paperwork after all, like a good prince. The servants should know not to disturb him while he's planning out the future of their kingdom. It doesn't matter that Leona’s only nine—he’s smart enough to know the adults have no idea what they're doing, so it's up to him to show them. The capital could use some restructuring here; the slums need renovations and resources there; some of the sewer pipes running underground need rerouting; and if they set up some industrial factories, it could provide more energy, more jobs.
Leona’s still young and there's a lot he hasn't learned yet, as reluctant as he is to admit it. So, whenever he gets stuck trying to work something out, he takes some of the thick textbooks Kifaji often forces into Falena’s hands and reads through them. Bookmarks pages he thinks are relevant. Rereads difficult paragraphs until he understands them a little better. Highlights key terms and ideas he wants to learn more about later. From infrastructure, business, economics, politics, agriculture—he reads about them all and jots down his findings on his papers, his set of revolutionary kingdom blueprints in the making.
There’s a lot he hasn’t experienced yet, too. Like magic. In their history, the kings of their land were often mages, and his father is no exception. Even Falena has magic, a warm, carefree, life-giving sort that matches the blazing red-oranges of his mane. It stands to reason Leona’ll have his own too, sometime soon. He hopes it’ll be more powerful than his brother’s, more life-giving…
If he continues reading into the late hours of the night and still no one comes looking for him, Leona pretends he’s the one ignoring them. Great things need peace and quiet, he tells himself, even if it comes with enveloping shadows and the moon as his only companion. Nothing he doesn’t enjoy. But, when it gets a little too cold and a little too lonely, Leona illuminates the silence with his dreams and ideals.
He writes it all on his papers—the visions he has of Afterglow Savannah, radiant in the wake of the rising sun; the people cheering for him as he stands upon a replica of the fabled Pride Rock; himself, older and wiser and king of everything the light touches. He pictures the servants bowing their heads in his presence, not out of fear and thinly veiled contempt, but respect, addressing him with words of genuine praise instead of careful lies. Then, after curling himself under his quilts and closing his eyes, he lets his dreams grow bigger, brighter—Kifaji being a little kinder, Falena listening to him instead of treating him like a naive, clueless child, the council elders acknowledging his efforts. And, in his sweetest fantasies, his father finally smiles and watches the stars with him.
Falling asleep is easy when Leona’s surrounded by the warmth of his dreams. He wants to be the greatest ruler this land has ever seen. No matter what Kifaji or the elders or Falena or his father say—he’ll show them that he can do it, that he's worthy of the throne. He’ll bring life and growth and show them he's not just some brat who doesn't know what he's doing, not when he has proof of his efforts in his hands. His papers, his desired futures, lie scattered around him like a cocoon. Constant, present, all within reach.
When he manifests his magic, he thinks. When he turns ten, he resolves himself. Leona’ll show them, then, the culmination of his ambitions. They won't be able to deny him anymore.
He'll be the smartest and most powerful, and maybe then will he finally be king (loved).
When Leona wakes up, it's to an itch festering in his fingertips. It worsens when he's done getting ready for the day, sparking through his skin, hairline cracks that make his nerves tingle like he’s burning alive. Even now, while he’s being tutored by Kifaji in the royal library, the ache makes holding his pen frustratingly painful. There’s a… sensation swelling within him, but he doesn’t know what, and it’s unsettling.
Did he fall ill with something? Slept on his arms the wrong way? Falena can’t know about this—if he does, his nagging will only get worse.
“Kifaji,” Leona says, interrupting the old chamberlain’s lecture on how their hierarchical traditions came to be, “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.”
Unsurprisingly, Kifaji stops and gives him a frown of disapproval. “We’ve only just started, Your Highness.”
“But I already know this. It’s boring.”
“Don’t be disrespectful, it’s important to understand the roots of our country and people. Boring or not, as prince, you must learn this.”
The throbbing in his hands intensifies, gnawing at something deeper inside him. Leona slaps his pen on the table and pushes himself away from it, chair scraping harshly against the floor. “I don’t care, I’m tired of this.” He stands and balls his aching hands into fists, half-aware of his tail thrashing by his feet in obvious discomfort.
Of course, the chamberlain notices it. “Is something wrong with your hands, Your Highness?”
Leona’s face scrunches into a pout. He shifts his gaze to one of the bookshelves nearby, refusing to look at Kifaji. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I will tell His Highness Falena.”
“... They hurt.”
“You could have simply said so.” The chamberlain sighs, reaching out and taking Leona’s hands in his own larger, more calloused ones. “Where does it hurt?”
“It’s…” Leona hesitates. How can he describe the ache in his fingers? That it feels like something is sapping his flesh dry? That there is something roiling bone-deep, soul-deep within him and it’s eating him alive?
At his continued silence, Kifaji traces the skin of Leona’s palms with his thumb. Frowns, suspicion flickering in his dark eyes. Finally, he stands and ushers Leona out of the library, saying something along the lines of getting him checked out by the doctors, and then something else that sounds like worry, but Leona is barely listening.
His throat is suddenly parched, and no amount of swallowing his saliva and licking his lips is helping. He fidgets, a hand reaching to his flattened ears as they start to ring. In the depths of his mind, he thinks he can see words swirling about—a chant, maybe a blessing, or a curse. His heart is beating too fast, too loud, blood sizzling under his skin, breaths shallow and chest taut and gut hollow with a hunger so pervasive he wants to recoil from the depths of himself, from whatever that’s trying to claw its way out of him.
Kifaji is still saying something, but Leona cannot hear him. He tries to back away from the chamberlain until large hands press against his back, urging him forward, and Leona stumbles into the stone corridors. He’s vaguely aware of the servants bustling around him—even through the haze of pain, he can feel their pointed stares digging into him. Watching him. Hating him.
Distantly, he remembers his dreams. The hunger becomes more intense.
Don’t look at me like that, his mind sobs, a plea so desperate it sends a shudder through him. Then hands push him again and there are voices and he stumbles and trips and the world whirls, full of bright lights he cannot reach. He crashes into a warm body, his fingers dig into cloth and skin, his palms grow hot and dry and—
Something cracks.
Someone screams.
That deep, deep hunger lunges out of him in a flash of gold, and with it, everything feels right again. The pain eases, his fingers relax, he can breathe. There’s something wet on his hands, gold continues to fall all around him and, for a moment, Leona thinks it might be raining—the Savannah’s greatest wish and blessing.
But what lands on his face is not warm or life-giving or carefree—
It’s sand.
Dripping from the ceiling crumbling above him; he stands in a pit of sand that seeps between his toes, clings to his clothes, gets in his eyes and makes him flinch. It’s everywhere, falling like the rain of nightmares, desiccating everything and leaving cracks—everything but him.
The ringing in his ears subsides. All he can hear now is screaming.
“The prince is cursed!”
“What terrifying power!”
“Get the doctor! She’s dying!”
And Leona finally sees it—a maid spasming on the floor, half her clothes disintegrated, her lips open in a raspy wail, and her skin…
It’s cracked open. Bleeding, yet not—her blood has dried so thoroughly it crusts around her wounds, tendrils of red-brown trailing up her legs to her hips and beyond. It’s as if her very flesh became glass and porcelain and everything too fragile, sucked dry of the life that usually thrums within her.
Other servants are running around, yelling, pointing, trying to help, and Leona doesn’t know how this all happened. They’re staring at him, he realises. Why—
He looks down at his hands, and it clicks at last.
There’s blood on his fingertips, crumbling into dust. Not his blood, the maid’s. On his hands. Then he takes in his surroundings and sees more cracks, more desiccation, nearby plants shrivelling up, insect carcasses on the ground. The eroding ceiling, the broken ground, the bleeding, hateful people and this overwhelming sand—
This is the result of magic. His magic.
Leona did this.
The servants continue whispering, their eyes round with fright, bodies trembling with apprehension and disgust. “Cursed power, cursed child, cursed second son,” he hears them say. “He almost killed someone. He can kill someone.”
No, Leona wants to scream. No, he’s not. He didn’t.
“He’s a drought, a disaster, death.”
He’s not, he’s not he didn’t want this—
“The kingdom will fall to ruin.”
Ringing returns to his ears, accompanied by dread so frigid it seizes in his chest and leaves him gasping for air. He whirls around, sees more hateful gazes, feels them stab into him, rip into his skin. Sees Kifaji trying to manage the chaos.
“Kifaji—” Leona sobs. His tears fall and wither away. “Kifaji, help me.”
The chamberlain turns, shoulders tense, and any semblance of comfort Leona hopes to find crumbles into the sand he stands upon.
Kifaji’s face is pinched with stress. Anger. Something sorrowful. His feathers stand ruffled, and he looks years older. Agitated. As if unwilling to move closer. Unwilling to help.
And the only reason Leona can think of is that he’s afraid.
Just like the others.
Before the chamberlain can say anything, do anything, Leona bolts away. He tries (fails) to ignore the cry he hears behind him, pretends it’s cheering. Tries (fails) to ignore the way the path ahead opens up as the lingering servants move to avoid him, pretends it’s a parade dedicated to him.
As he runs, he keeps hearing their whispers—death, demon, doomed. Feels their fear clinging to his skin, choking him. Tries to pretend they’re praising and smiling at him instead.
But it fails, he fails, it’s not it’s not—
It’s not my fault, he wants to cry. It’s not him. He never wanted this. His magic was supposed to be warm, life-giving, like Falena’s, like his father’s. Not this. Anything but this.
I’m not a curse.
Deliriously, Leona thinks—he has proof of it, of his efforts, his desires, his want for the sunlight like everyone else. He just needs to show them his dreams. The servants, Kifaji, then Falena and his father will see them, see how bright and worthy they are, and realise this is all one big misunderstanding.
Leona can do it. He can still do it. He won’t ruin the kingdom. It’s not his fault.
It won’t be.
Yet, when he skids in front of his room, tumbling past the door towards his dreams, he fails to notice the cracks splintering the walls and ground in his wake. Fails to notice the shadows creeping after him as the lights dissolve one by one into dust. Fails to register the same desperate clawing in his gut from before as he reaches his desk, reaches for his papers, his—
The moment he touches the fragile sheets, they break apart into golden sand.
And Leona forgets how to breathe.
The world comes to a halt around him as he watches his efforts—his dreams, his desires, his futures—slip through his fingers, almost mocking in how gently they go. Like wishful thinking. Like they’ve never existed and he’s only realising it now, nine years too late, forced out of his self-made cocoon by his own accursed hands.
No no no no no—
Something raw and wretched falls from his lips, a sound he never thought he could make. Desperately, he grabs at the sand, tries to piece each grain back together until they are whole and warm and worthy again. Remembers in vivid, wrenching detail the smiles and praise and fanfare his ideals promised him.
Give it back. Give it back to him.
That sweet, fantastical, beautiful future—
His face burns with dry tears. Around him, his room shakes from the force of his magic, his sorrow, cracking and crumbling into more sand. The curtains fall and he’s swallowed whole by the shadows, denying him warmth and growth and life, and it’s too dry, too harsh on his lungs, he can’t breathe, let him breathe, it hurts hurts hurts he needs help won’t somebody help him—
But all that answers is silence.
His throat is parched, his skin freezing, his gut squeezing with unbearable hollowness. There’s no moon to accompany him this time, not while the sun still shines yet refuses to bathe him in its rays, leaving him to drown in a golden grave of his own making.
No one looks for him. Not Kifaji. Not Falena. Even though it’s not him, it’s not his fault, he never wanted this—
Why would they?
He is hunger.
He is thirst.
He is the one who robbed himself of tomorrow.
And even though Leona is smart and powerful, a child who’s seen as a curse will never have the chance to be king (loved).