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The harsh cold wind was rustling through the long strands of his raven hair as he made his way through the unwelcoming forest. The weather was nothing to him, having withstood worse in his decades as a soldier; however, the hunger was starting to get to him, fast. He'd been in a hurry to reach the castle for the past days, so much so that he had apparently forgotten to eat. Absentmindedly, he picked a few herbs from the ground as he pushed forward, chewing on their bitter leaves.
There was no news of Raverne this time around, either. He feared having to deal such blow to his princess that her—their—beloved remained missing; yet, he dreaded not seeing her for less than a second more. So he continued onward, belly barely satisfied by the weeds he had fed it. He could get more nourishment later. He had more pressing matters to attend. The crave in his abdomen paled in comparison to that in his chest.
What bothered him most was that he would have to bring such rotten news, again, to her. He was not sure how many more times he could bear to see the pristine skin of hers twist in such despair. But there was no one else he trusted with the search, and no one else he trusted with announcing its results either. He'd taken onto the duty himself, and was determined to see it through.
But oh, how twisted she became upon hearing she will not get to see the light in the eyes of her husband for another day. How twisted her pledges to her consort made him feel when he had no choice but to witness them. This, too, was part of the job he had taken on. This, too, was a sorrow he had to suffer.
He loved them both. That has never not been the sheer reality of his heart. Yet, with each moment of his missing, he could not help but hope her heart would open towards him more. It was a baseless wish, childish, even; there was no seat he could ever claim near the throne. There was no place for him at the castle, ever the misfit, ever the unwelcome. It was only by Maleanor and Raverne's kindness that he dared approach it, even now. Yet, how he yearned to stay by her side; how he yearned to damn it all and run away with her, full of promises of taking care of her and her unborn child, despite being the weakest of them all. He would protect them with his life for sure. But Maleanor would not leave without Raverne. Neither would Raverne without Maleanor. And neither would leave with him.
And still, that was nothing if the alternative was losing both. He had long since accepted the hierarchy they had going on. He gladly embraced it, gladly fed off the scraps both fed him. Will gladly continue to do so until his last night, as dismayed as he seemed now. As long as he kept lying to himself that all was good, he could survive this. He did not even have a chance not to; Maleanor needed him. He would cross mountains and swim oceans to be at her feet. This much was not a lie.
By the time he felt he could no longer bear the twist of his ravished innards, he spotted the imposing castle. Filled with relief, he surged forward, power suddenly returning to his limbs as adrenaline shot through his body. He had made it, once again. He got to see her face once again.
When his drained legs reached the gateway, he took a mere second to calm himself down. He needed to look presentable, lest Maleanor would scold him again for living irresponsibly; so, after putting together a plan, he hurried to clean himself and grab a bite of some grub as fast as his fae limbs made it possible for him to. He was in front of her gates soon after, arguing with the guards about the 'tantrum' she was throwing and how 'ill-advised' it was for the General to enter her bedchambers at such time. He had seen worse; this much, he could take.
And so he passed through, and there she was, magnificent as always. If he tried hard enough, he could perhaps pretend she was awaiting his arrival, he count perhaps mistake the worry in her sight as meant for him. Alas, some lies cannot fool the heart.
He needn't relay the news, she could already tell—there was no need for words between them. From his demeanor alone, she knew her beloved remained without a trace.
First, he only felt the chambers tremble, before he could wrap around seeing the thunders of Maleanor's pain. Ruthless as she usually was, she never kept her emotions to herself; he liked that she was an open book, natural hazards regarded. His arms reached behind to close the gates, prepared to take in all of her. He did not feel like sharing.
The flesh of his skin ached with fiery dread, yet his heart ached for any touch, if inflicted by her. So, he strode forward, through the baleful striking light, until he was by her side. He touched Maleanor's arm ever the slightest, and it seemed to be enough to bring some tranquility to her pain ridden mind; maybe he could be bold enough as to believe it was his presence that brought her comfort.
Whatever it was, it had been fleeting. Sadness entangled with hunger as she invited him closer. She was using him. When it was the three of them, he had felt as an individual in their brushes; now, he was just a replacement. He would play the part, if that was what made her happy. It was enough to hear his sobriquet echo on her lips like a thunder, to have her mellow voice sing his name. Lilia. The most wretched word, yet it sounded ever so beautiful in the instances when it escaped from her, solitary proof that it was him surging heat in her body.
He had not given into the delusion that they were equals; yet, there had always been a part of him that yearned for it. That longed for feeling whole, as he felt when it was just the three of them, alone; it was a mere facade, a children's play they put on together as to retain the frail of the self. She was the heir; he, her husband; Lilia was as purposeless as the decor of the castle. No, even the decor saved a purpose to the Senate, he was rather a nuisance. Something to be destroyed. It was out of sheer stubbornness that he was able to remain at the side of his two beloveds for such long. It was all dust in the wind.
If anything, he could identify with Maleanor's apathy; everything felt different without Raverne, they felt incomplete. A gear was missing from the compound, they were struggling in vain. Yet, Lilia could not help but wonder whether the two ever felt incomplete without him. Not that he did not know the answer to that, not that he had not seen how they seem to fulfill one another when there was nothing to breach their intimacy. He was a breach; it was selfish of him to indulge into their harmonious bond; he did not care.
He, however, did not have anyone to replace Raverne with. That was bound to remain an emptiness inside him until (if) he would find his whereabouts. He dared not lose hope, not now. So, when Maleanor fell into slumber embraced by his weary arms, he reluctantly let go of her to resume his search. The Senate would not let him linger much either way. But Lilia would make sure to bring her husband back, for her sake. For the dread he himself felt in his absence.
Because he missed Raverne just as much. It was good that he was the heir's betrothed, truly, lest he would have no excuse to search far and wide for him while they were at war. But that was his beloved as much as he was Maleanor's. Lilia adores her feisty personality, there had never been such doubts, not since they were children; he had been enthralled by her viridescent eyes from the start. And yet. Yet he could not not miss the kind strokes of Raverne that contrasted hers in such warmness he could get drunk on the blend. He had gotten drunk from it one time too many, as such he was now haunting the lands like an addict that has been severed from his object of need.
Raverne had promised. He said he would be back, yet how much longer could Lilia dwell on such a flimsy utterance? It had sounded so perfect, the three of them raising the little one together; he would have been so loved. Little one, I will bring your father back to you, he would whisper to the egg, in rare instances when he could sneak to it (lest he would tarnish the royal heir). Both him and Raverne, all they did was lie.
Nevertheless, he refused to let the next time the three of them could embrace each other again to be among the stars.
But time was obdurate. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months passed. Forgetting what his companion's touch had felt like was one blow, but not being able to remember even the scrape of Maleanor's claws against his skin was more than he could bear. The envoy had proved fruitless; their love was nowhere to be found. Lilia had searched every corner of the kingdom. Losing war be damned, his heart throbbed with absence.
As the battles soldiered on, on the road to the Silver Owls, Lilia had come to see the appalling truth that, were matters to persist unfolding as they did, he would lose Maleanor as well. Their stubbornness only fueled this fear. Without his right arm, he had survived; render him armless, however, he was not sure he would have the will to not grovel into the darkest, deepest corner of the earth and decompose. He had to save her, at least. Not to mention, it was what he had promised Raverne.
Who was he kidding? He was doing it for himself. But, at least, with the two of them, they could keep their third's memory alive, if nothing else. They could make it work. He had to believe in it.
Sure enough, the mighty castle, home of a wealth of both sweet and sour memories of his lovers, was under siege by the filthy Silver Owls. How dared they touch the lands that had witnessed their affection. How dared they try to amputate their union. Meager humans, how veritable Maleanor's believes were.
One would think the renowned Dragon's Hand, the Running Rampart of the Verdurous Moor, would be able to shut down his emotions on the battlefield; he did so each time. But this was this too much. These humans would take all of him, would leave him alone. He had been blinded by rage; no. Dismay. The anxiety rising in his gut had rendered him useless, lest he would not walk into such a damned, amateurish trap. Yet there he was, almost losing his life without seeing even Maleanor one last time.
Almost. Perhaps there was still some kindless in this world. Perhaps there was hope, was all Lilia could think while rushing towards her side. He longed for her, as life on earth longed for light. He would wither if had to spend one last second without her by his side.
Lilia had been foolish; when she needed him most, he had left her all alone. If dread consumed him, what could she had possibly felt, awoken to see him gone, once again? He should have protected her. No, that was silly. For how could he possibly measure up to Maleanor Draconia? But, he should have been there. Embrace her and whisper words of comfort. Sleep at her side to protect her from the visions of the unconscious.
And if only he found the strength to push one more step ahead, he would have the occasion to repair what was broken. He would hold her. He would not let go.
How foolish he was, even now.
Because how could he have expected her to accept the humans' foolish duel? How could he have expected her to want to leave him? Let him go?
No. It was madness. She would be hurt. There had to be another way.
Yet the rambunctious little princess would not listen to reason. When had he ever led her astray? Could she not see the danger of what lied ahead? Leave with me. Let us take the heir and depart together. He would cry, beg, grovel at her feet; she stood tall. There was no reasoning with her when she was like this. Him and Raverne knew best. But this was the one time he could not let her do as she pleased.
I want you, need you, crave you, he wanted to scream for the whole world to hear. My love, my most beloved, how could I survive without you? Still, that would not work. She was a princess. Her duties lay further than personal affection, cursed be fate.
"Without you, this egg will not hatch," he tried instead, played his cards in favor of the kingdom, if his puny existence was not enough to shake her. Still, she remained unfazed.
"You love me, do you not? You loved Raverne as well. If you love us, then how could you not love the child who carries our blood? Such a thing would be impossible."
Love. Yes, he loved them. He had never loved anyone, but he loved them. He could love the egg as well, he could do anything if she asked. He could not leave her alone again.
"Malleus... My dear, beloved child. I leave him in your hands, Lilia. Night's blessings."
No. No no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no don't do it don't go don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me please don't leave me
She had made him leave. Vines had dug into his weakened flesh, ripping him away from her. They should have taken his life away with the blood he spilled, rip him out of his misery. Instead, he could not die, he had not the right to damn it all; the royal heir was in his hands, unborn and fragile. As much as he wished to relinquish the hatchling, Maleanor had been right: he loved it—him. Malleus. He would have him, at least, survive. And once he was safe he would save her, too. He and her son both would feel her fervency again, need he to bring ruin to the world in the process.
But. Time was obdurate. His efforts, his will, futile in the face of fate. Maleanor had fallen in battle. His iron-headed, overbearing princess had been rendered silent, cold. Her essence had been overruled by mere humans. A sick joke.
Raverne, the promise we made... I couldn't…
"This is how you repay your debt to the Draconia family? With betrayal? Useless ingrate!"
That he was. The Senate was, for once, right. He had betrayed Raverne, he had betrayed Maleanor, he had left little Malleus with no kin to love him, raise him, birth him. He was the scum of the earth, more so than the humans that attacked and attacked and took from them until there was nothing left. Their crimes paled in comparison to those of this. He did not deserve to be called the General of the Right anymore.
This was not his place of belonging with things as they were, what held him here long gone. His ties to this soil, returned to the sky. He could protect no one. There was no one for him to protect. The egg would be secure, at least,as long as it was away from him. All that he touched, loved, turned to stardust. So long, Malleus.
With the egg in safe hands, Lilia wished nothing but to join his beloveds in within the night sky; he prayed for it, under the sun and under the moon, asked them to take him by their side. He had not dared join them himself, not after what he had done. Yet, he shamelessly still yearned for their essence. So he pleaded for their forgiveness; his pleas remained unanswered.
Even when the task of hatching Malleus came at hand, he hoped bringing the little dragon to light would be enough for his parents to forgive him; yet every night, his apologies got lost in the wind, his cries dried on his cheeks with no one to caress them. He was all alone. He had never felt so alone.
Lilia assumed the little one must shun him as well, for he refused to hatch; he felt clumsy each time he met the egg, knowing he must know who perished his beloved mother and father. If Malleus never forgave him, it was alright, long as he would emerge out.
The early progress had made him hopeful, a speck of light in his darkened, mourning soul. And yet years passed, with the little one still caged. I know how you feel, little Malleus, he would tell him, offering him stories of his parents in their childhood, adolescence, adulthood; all that he knew, he relayed it to their son. This was all he could give him. It was not enough.
He would die. All that was left of Raverne and Maleanor, and he would perish. Malleus! And, for the first time in decades, the child responded to him. What joy it brought to his crestfallen heart! She had said he would be as his father, but all Lilia saw in him now was his mother. He would grab him out. It was centuries too early for him to meet his parents.
Lonely. The royal heir was lonely. One hundred years alone in that tower, with barely nobody to love him, barely nobody to talk to him. Of course the dragon was lonely. How could he have missed such obvious truth? For was he not himself lonely without the loves of his life? If there was somebody that could understand his sorrow, that would be the unborn Malleus. He had said he understood his lament, but how could he have possibly miss the chance that the little dragon could, in turn, understand him?
If there was no one to love Malleus, he would. His solacer. The pinnacle of his darlings' love for each other. My magic, my lifespan, you can have it all. You can take all of me. I belong to you as I belonged to your kin. He could not give the little one the perfect family he had imagined for him, but a graceless guardian, at least, he could be. He wished Malleus would accept his trivial attempt at parenthood.
Maleanor had been right. His love was enough.