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Sorrow, Leona had always thought, was a sharp and piercing thing. A dagger in your back or an arrow between the fourth and fifth rib, sharp claws tearing at your skin until they rip you apart.
He’s 22 when he learns that sorrow can be gentle.
The leaves crunch underneath his boots as he shifts from one foot to the other, his legs going numb with November slowly approaching, bringing the kind of cold that will settle in your bones and make your teeth clatter.
Malleus kneels on the ground, an unsightly display for the ruler of the Valley of Thorns to lower himself to frozen graveyard dirt but it’s just the two of them in the cold and Leona is kind enough to avert his eyes and give the other space to breathe, clouds of condensation forming in front of his lips. Normally he would find joy in puffing his own little clouds, bumping their shoulders as he pretends to be as much of a dragon as Malleus but the thought of speaking of his heritage to the other now feels cruel. Best not to bring up painful memories when Malleus is trying to rest. A weary soul longing to be unknown and unseen for a little, a kindness no king is allowed to indulge in.
The wind makes the leaves dance artfully through the air, all pirouettes and grands jetés – tour en l’air, he supposes, though his only knowledge of ballet comes from inside Pomfiore’s ball room. He threads his frozen fingers through inky strands, the wind and leaves asking long hair to waltz with them. This is not the time for dancing so Leona twirls the black curl around his finger instead. A small reassurance in the cold, a reminder Malleus is not alone.
Sometimes, Leona realizes, sorrow is gentle. Sometimes, sorrow will pick white lilies and place them next to the violet gladioli wrapped in soggy paper, petals frozen. Sometimes sorrow sits with you as you stare at the photographs your family keeps hidden inside thick leather-bound books. Sometimes sorrow is just as weary and looking for a place to rest.
Malleus claps his hands in a would-be prayer, his gloves muffling the sound slightly and squeezes his eyes shut. He breathes out another little cloud, a final goodbye before he takes Leona’s hand in his own and stands up, 202cm tall and poised, the very sight of a king meant to rule over a country that only exists in crossed out sections of dusty history books and hushed voices in sketchy alleyways. Stood in front of piled up soil, Malleus has never looked this small. The very sight of a man who has just lost his grandmother.
She breathed galaxies, Malleus had whispered into the darkness of their room, the mysteries of the universe flowing though her veins, fire in her lungs.
They were similar, Leona thinks, Malleus and his grandmother. Only dark so the stars can shine, full of constellations and wonder, the kind of being you’ll never quite wrap your head around. A supernova of a person, powerful in a blinding way, wild like a dream, burning despite the frozen air around him. But in that moment, Malleus seemed more like a dwarf, on the brink of his light flickering out of existence, too tired to put up one more fight.
Leona had nuzzled into the crook of his neck then, purring softly to fill the silence he knew would keep Malleus awake all night. A shaky hand came up to pet his ears after what felt like too long, touch so gentle Leona might have imagined it if he weren’t so familiar with the tenderness of dragons. He tried not to concentrate on how useless he felt in that moment, how greedy it felt to cling onto someone who just wanted to disappear and turn into yet another forgotten soul.
But selfishness is in his very nature, so Leona had curled up tightly around the other in the vast darkness and hoped his grip was strong enough to keep one more star from dying.
Take me back to August, Malleus had whispered, the hand not holding onto Leona’s hair for dear life coming to rest over his bleary eyes, when she sang to the ravens like a mother to her only child.
Take me back to January when she built snowmen with the blink of an eye, mirthful glee as she adds icicles as teeth and lights their coal eyes with green flames.
Take me back to July and the fireflies she called her brothers.
Take me back to April nights and the constellations only she knew of.
Take me back to March and a castle so cold during springtime only she could possibly call a home.
Sometimes sorrow is quiet, Leona realizes. Not the supernova but what comes after, settling into Malleus’ bones like the late October chill in Leona’s, silently seeping through layers of tightly woven fabric, only making itself known once it’s too late, the tips of your fingers already going numb. It was the kind of cold you couldn’t get rid of huddled underneath heavy blankets, nursing a cup of steaming hot cocoa as you listen to the distant cackling of firewood.
That night too Leona nuzzles into the crook of Malleus’ neck and purrs soft lullabies, a requiem for a woman he didn’t know. He should have indulged Malleus more, should have suffered through the long trek to the Valley of Thorns more often and wasted his time in the cold, perpetually overcast darkness that Malleus calls a home, and not lying outstretched in the golden sunlight seeping in through the windows of his room in the Afterglow Savanna, days bleeding into one another and numbing his mind. He doesn’t even know the kind of lullabies Lilia had sung to calm his children, doesn’t know what soothes those calling the Valley of Thorns a home. So he hums the ones of the Afterglow Savanna instead, the ones his own mother used to sing to him, the ones he then sang to Cheka, hoping they would give even the slightest bit of comfort to the other. He pointedly does not sing, not daring to ponder the circle of life in the presence of those who are mourning.
The hand returns to his ears, gliding over fluffy fur. Malleus had told him he liked the soft texture so Leona pretends to endure the head scratches they both know he adores. Soft things were rare in the Valley of Thorns, all sharp edges and negative space, all power and nightmares.
Give him something soft to hold on to, Leona pleaded, leaning into Malleus’ touch, desperate and selfish. Give him something soft to get him through the night.
Sometimes sorrow is kind, Leona realizes when soft lips press to the crown of his head. Sometimes sorrow lays in bed with you, taking your hand underneath the thick covers and squeezes to let you know it’s there. Sometimes sorrow just wants company as it sits and waits for the night to pass.
All Leona can do is nuzzle closer and begin the lullaby anew, waiting for the birds to sing their own songs, songs of new beginnings and hope, songs Leona doesn’t dare sing for those who are grieving. But the birds and the sun and the wind do not care about kindness and generosity. The birds will sing like they know all the answers to the questions of a boy who had a crown thrust upon his head the moment he entered his grandmother’s chambers on the day the sky had cleared in the Valley of Thorns in some twisted show of respect. The sun will rise as if dawn didn’t mean ripping Malleus away from the comfort of the night, dark enough to hide tearstained cheeks, cold enough to pull Leona close for warmth, the scent of sandalwood and jasmine a welcomed distraction from petrichor and lilies, only to thrust him onto a cold throne he wasn’t ready to call his own. The wind will howl as if a storm was both lullaby and requiem, carrying with it the distinct smell of saltwater. Nature will not care about a grieving king, swiftly melting the snowmen and distinguishing green flames to bring the rosy hues of springtime when flowers will bloom where the woman made of galaxies and fire had walked. And sorrow, Leona realizes, will stay.
Sorrow will put its hands on top of Malleus’ fists tightly curled around the dark wood of his grandmother’s scepter. Sorrow will sit next to Malleus as Silver and Sebek kneel in front of him, pledging their loyalty as if they hadn’t sworn to protect him years ago already. But Malleus does not want protection, nor does he want a liege. He wants to be unknown and unseen, wants to mourn. Sorrow will card its clammy fingers through Malleus’ hair and remind him he’s not alone.
So let springtime come, Leona decrees, just as much the king of the Valley of Thorns as Malleus now. Let springtime come and let it hurt. Let sorrow take shelter in a castle so cold only a woman with galaxies in her veins and fire in her lungs can call a home. Let it rest in the dark and let it bleed sadness. Then, let sorrow be kind and soft and gentle.
Let the king be a child.
Let the dragon be human.
Let him cry with his brothers. Let Lilia sing his children lullabies that could sooth monsters. Let Malleus mourn and weep and let Leona hold him until the salt in the wind smells of oceans instead. Let him stand among golden sand and look up at the shattered stars in the night sky. Let him breathe the name of the woman who placed its constellations there without his heart bruising his ribcage. Let dust settle in the attic where his family keeps the thick leather-bound books.
Let Malleus feel alive.
And let him be soft.