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“One day, Malleus,” Lilia says sadly, clutching Malleus close to his chest, letting the young boy sob, “You will find somebody who cares to know you. A friend who will understand you like the heart understands to beat.”
“But,” Malleus sobbed, grabbing onto LIlia’s shoulders, “I’m so lonely now!”
“I know,” Lilia’s face pinched, “...I know.”
…
Malleus was a freshman.
He was sitting in Trein’s room, flipping idly through a book after an essay. It was a dusty thing, no doubt rescued from a long-abandoned corner of the Library. Its yellow pages crinkled underneath his fingertips, the ink splotchy and faded.
Like with many inanimate things, Malleus felt a sort of kinship with it.
It spoke of old folk tales, stories of cackling ghouls and silver-tongued merchants, princesses caught in storms and paupers stumbling upon fortunes. He was only half-reading, mind wandering to the stories Lilia used to tell him and Silver.
“You know,” He’d settled into the rocking chair next to Silver’s bed, gingerly plucking two stuffed animals from the young one’s hoard, “There’s an eastern myth that says we’re all connected to somebody with a string so thin, no eye can see it.”
Malleus had begun to scoff, but then he saw the excited curiosity in his little brother’s eyes, the way he examined the plushies, as if attempting to break the barrier separating himself and the string, “Nobody can see it?”
“No,” Lilia smiled, setting the toys back on the bed, “Not even the most powerful mage in the world.”
Silver looked at Malleus, almost abashed, “Not even you?”
Malleus smiled, attempting to hide his amusement, “Not even me.”
Now, Malleus looked around the room. Across from him, two blonde boys chattered about films they enjoyed. Absently, he thought if the String did exist, those two would be connected. Their eyes were intense, elegant violets growing among a brawny bramble.
Next to him, a fiery haired student tittered nervously to himself, face buried in some sort of mobile device. Malleus thought he might benefit from the hypothetical String, he’d hardly spoken their entire first week of schooling.
Behind him, a ginger boy scribbled something in his notebook. Malleus had seen him around campus with another, green-haired boy, perhaps they were drawn along by the String.
Maybe the ginger boy was scribbling their initials into his notebook, like those romance pictures Lilia liked to watch.
He inspected his hand, what finger was the String even tied to? Did it depend on the coupling?
Or perhaps each finger meant a different thing. He’d have to ask Lilia when he returned to Diasomnia.
Then, Malleus thought of his own String.
He wondered if it was orbital. If all the loneliness was simply a current pulling him towards the shore. Perhaps a hand would breach the water, and like daybreak, he would feel warmth once more.
…
Now, Malleus was a sophomore.
It was a chilly Autumn’s afternoon, though being packed in next to his peers helped guard against the biting breeze.
Of course, people kept their distance. Malleus attempted to swallow some of the bitterness, choosing to focus on Silver.
He was in the Equestrian Club, riding alongside a rather temperamental red-haired boy. If Malleus wasn’t mistaken, he was the newly appointed Housewarden of Heartslabyul. An impressive feat for a mage so young.
Next to him, Lilia hollered, “Go, Silver! Overtake him!”
Malleus grinned, clapping. He didn’t think it appropriate for him to yell, but it was easy to be swept up in the sportsmanship. Besides, looking at the two of them, Malleus was willing to wager his little brother had found a friend.
Perhaps, he thought, watching the red-haired boy overtake Silver, they were at the end of each other’s String. The excited glint in Silver’s eye, even as he was losing spoke to some of that.
It was hard not to be jealous. Sitting there, still isolated in such closed quarters.
“It’s orbital,” He thought, and then; “Actually, it is nonexistent.”
…
Malleus is a junior, now.
Displeased, he stands on the steps of Ramshackle. Leaves fall around him, cast from their branches by the tiny droplets of rain falling from dreary fall clouds.
Inside, the building glows golden. If Malleus hadn’t felt so sour, he might’ve thought the building was happy to have people in residence once more. Instead, he turned on his heels, descending the cracked stone steps.
“Foolish,” He thought, thunder rumbling ahead, “Utterly foolish.”
…
It is Winter, and Malleus is still a junior.
He walks down Ramshackle’s entry path, his body impossibly warm.
He is arm-in-arm with you, listening to you chirp about your day. You tell him about those Heartslabyul boys, about Grim, about how Crewel complimented you on your labwork. He listens, as he always does, but his focus is…elsewhere.
Specifically, the gentle curl of your hand against his coat sleeve. The way you lean into him, smiling as though nothing else exists. The way you look up at him, snowflakes caught in your eyelashes, laughing at Malleus like he’s your oldest friend.
“Hornton?” You stop, expression somewhere between teasing and concern, “Hello?”
“Yes, Child of Man?” Malleus clears his throat. Heart thrumming violently, “Forgive me. I..I am distracted.”
“It’s alright,” You squeeze his arm, and Malleus thinks he might melt, “Everything okay with you?”
It is his turn to smile, check warmth and chest fluttering, “More than ‘okay’, my dear.”
“I’m glad,” You grin, and Malleus is overcome with the urge to sweep you off of your feet, kiss you, and declare his undying love all in one breath.
But, Lilia raised him better than that.
Instead, he takes your hands in his. Even in the dying Winter light, you seem entirely blessed to him, “Child of Man.”
“Hornton,” Your face settles, content. An expression Malleus wishes he could bottle up and carry with him everywhere.
He takes your right hand, kissing the back of it, “Have I ever told you the story of the String, dearest?”
Breathily, you laugh, “You haven’t.”
“Hm,” He takes your left hand, mirroring his previous action, “I shall have to, then.”
With your arm looped back in Malleus’s, he looks up to the sky. Clear and bright, he thinks of his String, no doubt tangled up in yours. Entwined, just as you are.
“It is orbital,” he thinks, cherishing the endless, blesses, and steady warmth beside him.