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[serenescribe]

the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

[serenescribe]

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

Another Prince and Physician collab piece with @serenescribe! Thank you for working with me again ell♡ check out the fic below

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[serenescribe]

the once (and many) prince(s) Twisted Wonderland | 3.3k Summary: Silver is, has always been, and will always be, the crown prince of his kingdom. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54424864 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hi everyone! @ohsleepie and I are back at it again with another collaboration based on his wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU! This fic is meant to act as a companion story of sorts to the Malleus-focused "the prince's physician," this time focusing on Silver within the AU! Once again, this fic features incredibly beautiful and amazing art drawn by Sleepie; please check him out and follow him, if you haven't already!

I hope you all enjoy!

The worst part of reincarnation, Silver thinks, is the constant cycle of relearning everything all over again.

Okay, perhaps it would be a bit of a stretch to call it the worst part. There are many negatives, many downsides, far too many to count, to being stuck in a loop of constantly dying and reincarnating. But this particular aspect is, in Silver’s honest opinion, one of the worst out of them all.

There is a bookshelf carved from expensive ebony that sits in his chambers, nestled against one side of the wall. There are several bookshelves in his room, but this is the only one that Silver ever uses, filled from top to bottom with centuries worth of journals — leather-bound books gilded with gold and silver, every detail immaculately painted and carved, the cover opening to expensive parchment made from calves. He tends to absentmindedly run a hand along the spines, eyes glazing over the muted leather colours, before plucking out a book, and reading it through.

Silver only lives a good seventeen years at best, always dying before crossing the pinnacle into adulthood. How much of those seventeen years consist of just… reading? There are, of course, his early years, where he is much too infantile to read and write. But he barely has a few years of reading simple children’s stories before the latest journal is pressed into his hands, and he is briefly explained about the details of his curse.

He pores over the words of those who came before him — the Silvers who came before him, his previous iterations, all dying to form the next one. Their handwriting ghost his own, not just similar but straight up identical, and if he stresses his brain hard enough, he can almost conjure up wispy, fading memories of putting a quill to paper, ink curling across the page in the same, sweeping cursive.

And yet, it is a necessity to read all of it, all over again. Because Silver remembers — but not enough.

His memories are shattered, like an ancient mirror that has been cracked right through the middle, fractured into thousands of tiny, individual pieces. It is akin to a kaleidoscope of lifetimes; when he gazes into this metaphorical mirror, a thousand Silvers stare back, each one reflecting his exact appearance, yet distinct and different in their own ways. And yet each piece is but a shard; Silver remembers only the smallest bits of each past life, the pieces coming together to form a jumbled jigsaw of sharp-edged recollections.

He has lived far too many lifetimes as Silver — the crown prince of his kingdom, the only living heir of their royal family. He has lived far too many lifetimes as a Silver — distinctly different with each rebirth, living a short number of years until the day he inevitably dies.

Silver is immortal, and yet he is not. He lives on as the royal, the prince, a beacon of hope—

But Silver the person changes, with each new looping cycle.

(And so he reads through their journals, no matter how much it exhausts him.)

Many a time, his gaze wanders to his bedroom window.

As the sole heir to the royal family, Silver resides in the largest chambers of the castle, a sprawling set of multiple rooms, from a drawing room to receive guests, to his private bedroom where he slumbers at night. What this also means is that he is privy to the best views of everything within his kingdom, from the area stretching across the castle grounds, to the rest of the kingdom beyond tall and guarded stone walls.

There are many things for him to peer at, but today, he is gazing at the soldiers’ barracks again. They have their own section of the castle, tucked out of the way, but Silver can view them from the sanctity of his study, a room where he pens his thoughts in his journal and reads through old ones.

The emotion that dwells within him is nigh imperceptible, difficult to describe. It feels as though someone has tied a rope around his ribcage, double-knotting it and pulling it tight before tugging at it, and pulling him forward. There are twinges and pangs that cross his heart, a hollow cavern yawning as his soul collapses into itself.

He feels this as he stares out the window at the soldiers training in their courtyard. His eyes fixate on the swords in their hands, at the way they slash and thwack their weapons against straw-stuffed training dummies. Occasionally, he will spot the soldiers gathering together, jumping and yelling as two of them spar with wooden swords, all of them oblivious to his peeping.

He wants this. He longs for this. He—

“Your majesty?”

Silver blinks. It takes him a split second, pulling himself out of his thoughts, shoving away the deep desires that permeate his heart, but he quickly turns around, eyes fixating on the familiar figure in the doorway.

“Malleus,” Silver greets, shoulders relaxing as a smile slips onto his face. Of course it is Malleus; there are few who have his explicit permission to enter without needing to knock, and his physician is one of them. He waves his hand, ushering him in. “How long have you been standing there? Come on in, take a seat wherever you’d like. And what have I said about the formalities?”

Malleus is here for another check-up, and Silver gladly acquiesces. He can think of no other person he trusts more with his very life and soul than Malleus himself. He allows the man to lead him through familiar routines, magic permeating his body as he searches for something Silver cannot see, before shifting to more physical methods of testing Silver’s health.

Still, as Malleus works in a near-silence, preferring to focus and get his duties done before they can relax and spend some time together, Silver cannot help his thoughts from wandering off again. His desires are not new; he has seen them expressed across multiple journals, scrawled in identical, curling scripts across expensive parchment. The desire to pick up a weapon, to learn to fight and defend, to learn how to wield a blade like a true prince — that is what he so desires.

But he is frail, and the council insists that he stays in, that he can learn to fight once they break the curse. So never, Silver thinks bitterly, eyelids slipping shut as he feels cold claws brush against his forehead. Never in this lifetime, and not while I’m alive.

Malleus is many things.

To the populace, he has many names, many signifiers, viewed in many different ways. He is a blessing and a curse, for his magic is by far the only thing that can cure their prince, but all of it comes at the cost of his very existence itself: A fae; a deplorable, wicked creature; a monster that is the very scum of the earth itself. The history of their kingdom is written in the blood of their ancestors, shed through grievous wounds inflicted by the sharp claws and gleaming maws of the fae that slaughtered them all.

To the nobles, the members of the council who govern over the kingdom in Silver’s stead, making decisions on his behest, Malleus is something they tolerate. They do not speak of what will happen after the curse is broken and Silver is cured, but Silver knows, from their whispers and sly glances, from the words penned by the others who came before him, that they wish for nothing more than to rid the world of the last of the wicked — not, and never, fair — fae.

Humans gaze upon Malleus with distrust, wariness, abject hatred.

But for Silver, Malleus is one simple thing alone.

To him, Malleus is his friend.

There are two distinct points in the history of Silver’s incarnations: Before Malleus, and After Malleus.

The difference is like night and day. The journals of before are dismal and depressing, imbued with a bone-deep loneliness that carried all the way through into the parchment pages, stained in the very ink used to scrawl thoughts across the pages. The Silvers of that time tried — truly, they did — to cling to hope, to believe in what their people believed: that one day, their prince would be freed from the shackles of his horrific curse.

But with the passing decades, the many years, the many Silvers that lived and died, they all seemed to suffer from the same truth: there was no cure in sight.

And then there was Malleus.

The guards found a young fae child today, lurking in the borders between what remains of the valley and the kingdom, his own handwriting reads, the parchment yellowed with age, the ink long-since dried. This, Silver knows, is the first point at which Malleus is mentioned, though not yet by name, tucked away in a notebook he recognises by the distinct fern-green colour of its cover. Even now, as I write this, I still cannot believe the abysmal state he was in upon meeting him. No child, whether human or otherwise, should have that many injuries on their body, and though I have had a stern word with those who found him, I fear for his safety.

He shall remain with me for the time being.

Though Silver does not have favourite journals — for such a concept is lost on him when all the journals are such a drag to read, recounting the day-to-day experiences of his past selves, a depressing fog seeming to permeate every page of words — this one is perhaps the closest one to such a concept. Because this journal is different — he clings to every word, phantom feelings of a fierce protectiveness flaring within him, as though this particular incarnation has stirred somewhere deep within him and seized his soul.

It is so painfully obvious how much his past self had cared for Malleus — taking care of him, granting him such patience and endless kindness, spending time with him teaching him the human tongue, of how to read and write. There is a page filled with endless delight upon learning the fae’s name, ink smudged together where the page reads Malleus. Their activities did not end at the crude essentials; there are sweeping recounts of games played together, of crayon drawings and delicious platters of sweet treats — and Silver aches when he reads every word of it, possessed by a longing to return to those simpler times, when Malleus was not his physician, and was merely his friend.

And this care is made so apparent by the last few pages, the cursive made shaky by the cold, approaching winds of Death. To the next Silver, it reads, take care of Malleus. If there is any hope of breaking this curse that ails me, it lies within the powers of the fair folk. And yet, the rest of the page is filled with sentiments, rather than explaining how Malleus is the key to breaking the curse:

I wish this could last forever, these sweet days of playing together. For much of my life, I have been haunted by a bleak loneliness, isolated by my circumstances, and haunted by the weight of all our pasts. I have never had any companions my age, and I know from my readings that all of my predecessors shared the same lonely fate. To indulge in such fleeting luxuries, to have someone to speak to as though we were on the same level, intimately so— it is a happiness unlike anything I have ever felt before.

Blotchy circles stain the pages, the ink smeared in places.

Things may be different from now on. I understand that the council wishes for him to begin his work when the next cycle begins. And it is with that knowledge that I must remind the next Silver: Malleus may be our physician, and he may be tasked with breaking our curse—

But before that, before any of that, he is our friend.

Never forget that, for as long as we may live.

“Thank you for joining me today.”

Wispy trails of steam rise from two cups of tea, sitting in elegant saucers. Before Silver, and in the middle of the round tea table, is a small spread of sweet delicacies: scones accompanied by small glass jars of jam; finger sandwiches, some filled with goat’s cheese and roasted pepper, others filled with cucumber and salmon; and a small, round cake, tiny enough that it’s perfect for just the two of them.

“Of course,” Malleus replies, his voice smooth as usual. He raises his head slightly, slitted-eyes roaming over the tea-time spread before them, before he dips his head. “I thank you for the invitation, your majesty.”

“We have been over this many times, Malleus,” Silver says, unable to hide the exhaustion that spills into his voice. “You need not refer to me by such formalities.”

He knows why Malleus does so, of course. The answer is written across several different journals — It is difficult for him to reacquaint himself with us in each new cycle, and I truly cannot blame him. How alienating must it be, to witness someone you grow close to, time and time again, look upon you with no familiarity in his eyes? There is another reason too, though one of mere speculation, for Malleus has never confessed the truth by his own tongue — Earlier today, I witnessed a council member chide Malleus for regarding me with such familiarity during our meeting. I do wonder if this may be another factor into those needless formalities.

Thankfully, Malleus always obliges whenever Silver asks this of him — though whether it is because Silver is his prince, or because Silver is his friend, he never knows. “Is there any occasion for this meeting, Prince Silver?” Malleus asks, as Silver beckons for him to help himself, unwilling to dig in first when the fae’s eyes are flickering over the food, glinting with hunger. I wonder if he has forgotten to eat again, Silver thinks. Malleus carries over a scone and a sandwich with his utensils, leaving the cake intact. “Not that I mind it, by any means; it is always a pleasure to spend time with you.”

“There is no special occasion,” Silver answers, finally reaching for the spread as Malleus cuts into his meal. “I… only wished to spend time with my friend.”

Their relationship is a strange, tenuous thing. There is undoubtedly a bond there, from the way that Silver always feels so safe and secure in Malleus’ presence, and the gentle way that Malleus treats him, always appearing whenever Silver calls for him. There are even some rare occasions where the facade of dutiful physician slips, a careful veneer crafted for the sake of survival in the court, and Silver relishes those times, watching as Malleus’ expression sours, the stinging barbs that spit from his mouth more endearing than his usual regal elegance.

But all the same, compared to the earlier journals after Malleus’ appearance, filled with much more warmth and life — even as he learnt his role, Malleus would still happily chat with those Silvers, accept his offers to play games, spend the night with him on many occasions — there is a gap between them now. Driven by age, driven by time, and driven by the eternal, scathing judgement of the many humans of this kingdom, who cycle in and out of life and death, but are all fuelled by the same spiteful hatred and prejudice, taking it out on the only fae they know.

Still, Silver tries his best. He knows Malleus does too.

He sees it in the way the fae’s shoulders relax, expression smoothing out at the edges. “In that case,” Malleus says, after a moment’s pause, “let us indulge. How have you been lately… Silver?”

It is a good day for the two of them, Silver reflects. They drink their cups of tea and drain the pot of its excess drink, and the tray of delicacies are filled with nothing but crumbs by the time they’re done.

Even the cake, a dessert regarded with conflicting feelings by Malleus, is finished by the end of it. For once, Malleus eats his slices with a small smile, both their forks scraping the bottom of the plate as they help themselves to their fill.

Death no longer scares him, unlike everyone else. Death, in its own way, is a comfort, an inevitability: Silver knows he will reach his demise at the same time, at the same age. Very few people can ever be privy to such knowledge, going through their lives not knowing if they will pass on at age fifteen or fifty.

In that vein, what does it matter if Silver chooses to speed up the process?

He is not allowed proper access to weaponry. The council states that it is because there is no need for him to pick up a blade when he has guardsmen patrolling the halls around his room at all times, but Silver knows better. This is not the first time he has longed to die earlier than he usually does; he can count the other occasions on two of his hands, based on cryptic journal endings dated months earlier than they usually do.

To an extent, a part of him wonders what the point of it is. He will die, inevitably; why inflict such pain and suffering if he knows he’s going to come back? What is the point of it all?

The point, Silver tells himself, is that there isn’t one. He’ll always come back. He’ll always return — and so why should he languish and rot in his bed as his body slowly gives out on him? Why waste those months feeling his muscles weaken and his grasp on reality slip?

Why not do everyone the honour of ending it early, ending it now?

(The silver blade of the dagger, requested from some rookie soldier who knows no better than to deny this particular request from the prince, is cold against the flesh covering his heart.)

Silver is so, so tired. His life is stagnant, unchanging; he lives and he dies the same person, the same name, the same cursed prince of the same bloody kingdom, every childhood filled with days of reading the same handwritten journals signed with the same, stupid name.

When will he be allowed to rest? The weight of a legacy, the weight of his people’s hopes and dreams, drag him down, like impossibly heavy weights that are shackled to his limbs, pulling and pulling until he’s flat against the ground. He never asked for this — and god, it’s so selfish to even think of that, but it’s true.

Nobody ever thinks about him, Silver the person. They are only ever concerned with Silver the prince, Silver their saviour.

Except—

A memory flashes to mind, unbidden — of twisting, dark horns and raven-spun hair, and slitted green eyes that crinkle at the corners as he smiles at him.

(His hands tremble.)

Malleus.

The name fills him with an ache. If there is anything Silver can take comfort in as he straddles the line between life and death, it is simply that Malleus will always be there. Malleus is a constant throughline throughout Silver’s life, and while Silver may ebb and flow, weaving in and out of the many, many years of a fae’s long lifespan, Malleus will always be there.

And though the thought of that face, rendered a child once more in its shock and sadness, causes his chest to knot itself with hesitance and reluctance, Silver steadies himself.

The humans may come and go, live and die, but Malleus will always remain.

(And the blade plunges down.)

[serenescribe]

diasomnia month // prompt 11 — au (star wars)

His father lurks in the Force like a chirodactyl, ever watchful and patient. It's an act of preservation, to draw the leathery wings of his mind close and neat, to appear blind and passive in the vast darkness as if he were merely a forgotten relic to pass over instead of the lair of a great beast itself.

It used to be a game, when Silver was younger, a ruse his father came up with to both strengthen his burgeoning abilities and pass the grueling time spent in gritty freighters as they planet-hopped— hide and seek among immaterial galactic forests where nighttime reigned supreme. No one had ever been as successful at it as he, his father would tell him afterwards with an odd smile upon his face, looking at Silver as if seeing him for the first time, each time. Silver didn't quite understand his father's surprise— no matter how the man tried to hide, it was as if his presence created a gravitational pull, a bond snapped clear into Silver's heart, leading him straight to his father as a small moon seeks the comfort of the planet it orbits adoringly.

Now, however, his father's wings are opened, and they rip the fabric of the world to shreds.

Silver flinches as much as the binders slicing into his wrists and the dull pounding in his head allow, the howls of screams outside crackling through the air in tandem with the shockwaves of painagonydeath muddying the Force like a purpling bruise. It rankles and seethes with his father's maddening rage, a culmination of sleepless days spent tracking down the scum who would steal his son from him and sell him to the highest bidder. The chirodactyl in his mind's eye screeches with an ancient, predatory satisfaction as those who would deal in human life are cleaved in two by the Force itself, his father wielding its power as judge, jury, and eager executioner.

When the door slides open with a snap-hiss, he does not see the extent of his father's gory rampage, the dissection of limbs and blood-splattered, filth-lined walls. He does not see the dark tendrils crooning in well-fed contentment, fattened like milk-heavy loth-kittens, as they eddy around his father's feet.

All that his small moon needs kneels before him, cradling his cheeks in clawed fingertips as delicate as a feather, and peering down at him with crimson eyes of raw concern as his father murmurs assurances of safety with the same tongue that curses his swift retribution to the once-slavers outside when he notices the faded mark on Silver's temple.

"—m fine," he manages to whisper, pushing gratitudehappinessfather into the shrieking maelstrom that wraps around the frayed edges of his mind with wrathful protection, leaning heavily forward into his father's hands. "They only tried to intimidate me, that's all—"

mysonmychildhurt his father's presence slinks around him, ever watchful as Lilia makes short work of the binders around his limbs, slicing through them with a viciousness as if they had done him a great personal injury. Silver sways on his feet, unsteady from the lack of nutrition and uneasy sleep, and his father catches him with ease before he can tumble to the steel floor below. He can see it without focusing, the wing unfurling to drape over the aches in his mind, drawing him down into a creature comfort of childish innocence.

sleep, it whispers to him, and in the arms of the dark Jedi, the only man who he's ever known as father, Silver cannot resist.

[serenescribe]

anyways hi guys. life update. uni is killing me. also i got into fantasy high and d20 in general so i may write that in the future BUT i am still into twst and i still love lilia and silver so. that's not ending here.

[serenescribe]

dear gravity (you held me down in this starless city) Dimension 20 (Fantasy High) | 1.4k Summary: Fig punches a mirror. Somehow, it’s a metaphor for teenage rebellion. AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54225475

I walk into the room with a steel chair labelled "Fantasy High" and begin to smash it over everyone's heads.

Anyways. Hi. This is the first thing I ever wrote for Fantasy High, and it's also some introspection into pre-canon Fig, because I love her dearly. It also fulfills the "Rage Against The Reflection" prompt of my Bad Things Happen Bingo! (Wow, me not writing something over 10k words for that? What a surprise!) Anyways, if anyone reads this, I hope you enjoy!

@badthingshappenbingo

(Bingo card under the cut)

[serenescribe]

another ficlet idea: lilia and silver bonding together in the secret garden au \o/ are they playing a game? chatting together? ill leave that one up to you!

[✐] ficlet frenzy

“Regardless of whether you may be ready or not… here I come, little one!”

He stifles a giggle by pressing his palm against his lips, back pressed against the rough expanse of bark and moss. Silver is hiding, nestled behind a particularly ancient tree with roots so monstrously large that they tangle together into dips and crannies he can hide within. He can feel his heart thumping in his chest, the adrenaline of the game seizing hold of him, but there is no real fear there, only anticipation.

It is yet another day in this secret, wonderful garden he stumbled upon in the woods. His refuge, his little paradise away from the orphanage. It isn’t as though he hates it there; his friends are nice, and he loves to play with them, and some of the adults are kind enough to sneak him a few extra treats, or a gift or two. But here, tucked away within the rounded stone walls of a secret garden, is something special — an earthly paradise of the most beautiful flora and fauna, and a friend who smiles at him and plays with him — all his, all for Silver alone.

They’re playing hide and seek again. They’ve played it many times before. But no matter how many times they do it, there’s always somewhere new to hide. Silver always discovers new spots to tuck his tiny body away in, peering out from the wispy leaves of the trees, or ducking his head as his friend peers through a crack in a wall that he’s hiding within. In this little garden, this special place, there is always something new — and can anyone really blame Silver for wanting to come here again and again, whisking himself away into a wondrous world of his fantasies made real?

He holds his breath, eyes wide as he hears a faint thumping of footsteps go by. He must’ve gotten distracted; is his friend close by?

Silver’s friend is… how can he describe him? He doesn’t have a name for him, always referring to him as mister, but he is kind to him, always welcoming him in with a fang-toothed smile, his long black-and-red hair swaying behind him in gentle breezes of springtime wind. He presses sweet treats into Silver’s hands, swings him around merrily into a dance, and plays game after game with him before they collapse into rambling chatters of anything and everything that’s on Silver’s mind.

Silver loves his friend. He really does!

And yet, there is a line he dares not cross.

Beware of the faeries, the adults have always told them. Those of the orphanage are more superstitious than most, having experienced strange activity in the woods time and time again in spite of the modern era they all live in. For as long as Silver can remember, he has been taught painstakingly about how to deal with strange, beautiful people, those who wish to lure him away. Be polite to them, reject their food, and above all else, do not give away your name.

It’s the reason why his friend calls him child and little one, affectionately referring to him as dear. It’s the reason Silver carefully puts aside the ripe fruits and sugary treats he receives, always claiming that he isn’t hungry, and always making sure to eat before he comes so he isn’t telling a lie.

And yet, in spite of all the dangers, he keeps coming back.

“Found you!”

He squeaks as a shadow falls over him, two glinting red eyes peering down at him. His friend grins cheekily, before reaching down to scoop Silver up, lithe limbs betraying a supernatural sort of strength. “What a devious hiding spot,” he teases, “to take advantage of your small statue and hide amidst the roots of the trees! You grow better at this every day, dear.”

Silver squirms slightly, though he leans into the hold soon enough. His friend smells nice, like fresh forest pines and sweet fruits mingling together into something that clings to his nose. Everything about him just brings such an ease to Silver, a happiness he could have never possibly dreamt of.

(And yet, he still hesitates. He still notices the unnatural swiftness of his friend’s movements, the otherworldly beauty that drapes off of him, the way the garden seems to shift day after day, growing and twisting at an otherwise impossible pace.

There is a tinge of iron that clings to his scent.

Silver is happy here. He is safe. But—)

“You must be thirsty after all that hiding.” He feels himself being placed down onto a soft patch of grass. Silver watches as his friend pulls out an elegant little leaf cup out of nowhere, filled with something glistening and shimmering, with a scent that makes his mouth water. “Why not quench your thirst, hm?”

(Does he trust his friend?)

Silver blinks at the drink offered to him.

And then he smiles.

“Thank you for the offer, but… it’s alright!”

[serenescribe]

OHH okay Lilia accidentally or purposely killing some kind of bug in the house and Silver cries because the bug was his friend…

six sentence story prompt ! (that end up over six sentences lmao)

the ladybug had fast become one of silver's constant little companions; more often than not, lilia would spot the tiny creature nestled innocently within those silken locks or sunning itself on the back of his hand while the boy napped, basking in the warmth of the springtime.

"five spots," silver had informed him with the solemn expression of one imparting worldly secrets as the ladybug scampered over his gentle fingertips that were raised for his father's inspection. lilia had fought to keep an intrigued face despite the creep of an amused smile tugging at his lips, so terribly enchanted by this child that spoke with the gravity of fae fifty times his senior. "five like me, papa!"

so it was quite clear by that enamored declaration that the ladybug would become as permanent a fixture within their little family as a ladybug could be— silver cooing good morning at it as the tiny insect perched on a pincushion atop their bedside table and fluttered its wings in cheerful response— and surely that was what the ladybug itself had intended . . . until it had run afoul of lilia's cooking.

"alas, yet another unfortunate vic—soul," malleus hastily corrects himself under the withering and suspicious glare that lilia tosses his way as they stand (himself with a wailing toddler clinging to his knees, his prince with royal dignity and a proffered handkerchief) before the makeshift, clumsily made grave marking the final resting place of one, terminally loyal ladybug.

"remind me, how did this— ahem— terrible tragedy occur? if i recall from my studies, although thin on such miniscule creatures, not a single treatise mentioned that these— ladybugs, was it? curious name, humans are quite determined on personifying even the most insignificant of lifeforms— were ever recorded performing self-sacrificial acts."

while there had been plenty of sympathy shown to the sobbing child between them, there is no mistaking the cheekiness threatening to break free of malleus' sonorous voice. lilia merely lifts his lip in the faintest derisive curl before kneeling down to comfort his all too empathetic son as silver sniffles miserably and the wildflower bouquet in his hands wilts as if in shared grief.

"there, there, dear," he consoles the boy, a hand rubbing soothingly against his back. "it was a very brave ladybug, all the way to the end," even if it was a fairly stupid one, but such thoughts he keeps to himself, unsuccessfully if malleus' invisible grin is anything to go by. but what else should he call it, why would any sane creature twitter its wings in a manner that could only be called desperate as silver had begun to raise his father's latest concoction to his lips, only to dive-bomb into his spoon and thus ruin the healthy meal that lilia had so painstakingly crafted for his son by seizing up and perishing with such ingratitude?!

perhaps he ought to keep a better eye on silver's woodland friends— they've begun to strangely gather around the kitchen window at dinnertime lately . . .

[serenescribe]

i hope you're doing well, my dear lettie <3 for the six sentence prompt ask game, might i request silver getting sick at school and lilia dutifully cuts class to take care of him? 🥹

"Oh— oh, watch yourself, love—"

The hand on his arm is sure and steady, and it is the only thing that keeps Silver's knees from buckling away beneath him as if he were wobbling around with transfigured sea legs, jellified and weak.

It's a familiar touch, one that he would know even in the deepest of slumbers. He doesn't need to lift his heavy eyes to know who has seemingly materialized out of thin air to support him, and because Silver is, still among all things, a child, it takes no effort at all to slump his head to the side and rest his forehead against the waiting curve of his father's shoulder.

" . . . now, what am I to do with you?"

Silver was sick.

And not the average, runny-nose and scratchy cough kind, but the roiling shower steam nausea, feverish kind— the kind that felt as if little craft fairies with lead hammers had taken up residence in the hollows of his bones and the aching sinus pockets behind his eyes, and were banging incessantly on his raw nerves with vicious, unmitigated glee.

Morning classes had been an absolute misery of sensory havoc, his mind distracted and his glazed eyes slipping shut with even more forceful vengeance than usual. His pen had scrawled aimless lines across the blank notebook pages, and even Trein had spared him a pitying glance, not that Silver had realized it, for his flushed cheeks and obvious disorientation.

(Neither had he noticed Kalim's repeated concerned glances, nor the way that his friend kept tapping on his cell phone with a worried twist to his perpetually upturned lips.)

It was little wonder then that as the students streamed in eager droves out of their lecture halls for lunch, Silver chose instead to attempt a shuffling escape towards the Mirror Hall, towards Diasomnia and the promise of a timed catnap in the gloomy embrace of its dark, cool corridors before the rigor of his afternoon classes could begin.

He'd been rather foolish to believe he'd make it there unaided with how the stone floor beneath him started to wink closer, the sinking realization tugging at his stomach that he was beginning to plummet down to meet it without resistance, until a presence unannounced had swooped in by his side.

So focused now on attempting to wrangle his breakfast into submission before it inevitably made a second, less pleasant appearance upon his father's uniform, he hardly notices until too late that the ground has disappeared under his very feet with a swiftness that spares him the nauseous threat. Bleary eyes blink past the invisible weight pressing insistent fingers against them, and Silver manages to find a glimmer of incredulity among all of his slippery, pounding thoughts as he stares up at the fae cradling him in his arms as if he were all of five again— and smiling as pleased as punch, in the middle of the grand hallway no less.

". . . Father— !" he doesn't even think to correct himself as he croaks out the beloved title, utterly at a loss as to what the fae could possibly be thinking. "Father, please, put me down! Someone might see—"

"And see what?" His father's eyes sparkle down at him with mischievous delight, but it is not enough to mask the darker currents of worry that linger there, stealing the rest of the sputtering arguments from Silver's mind. "That I'm caring for my adorable junior classmate as a good vice housewarden should?"

His mouth opens and closes more uselessly than a fish as he stares without a rebuttal at the self-satisfied fae, unable to come up with a worthwhile protest in the sluggish cogs of his mind.

The rambunctious cacophony of their fellow classmates echoes from further down the hall, and Lilia's smile creases into something tender and private, an expression reserved for Silver and Silver alone as those clawed fingertips drift soothingly through his sweaty bangs. There's no magic that glitters from his touch, and yet Silver's eyes find themselves drooping instantly just the same, his head tucking forward to rest against his father's chest where that heartbeat reverberates like a lullaby in his ears.

"Come on, dear— let's get you back to bed."

[serenescribe]

This is a silly little fic that sparked from a conversation I had with @hanafubukki, and so I wrote it! What started as a discussion about Lilia eating teabags quickly shifted into the very sweet idea of a young Silver bringing his papa some tea leaves.

I hope you enjoy!

Lilia smiles as he hears the front door open, the sound of the creaking hinges reaching his ears. “You’re finally back, Silver,” he greets, turning from where he’s been preparing something at the kitchen counter — mixing plenty of flour and berries and a little bit of sauce together for quite the splendid treat! — to face the door.

He watches as Silver, nearly five years old and dressed in a shirt and some patchwork overalls, stumbles through, a small little pouch clutched in his hands. Tilting his head, Lilia asks, “What have you there, hm?”

Silver doesn’t speak, not until he totters over to the little kitchen area where Lilia crouches in. It’s only then that he raises the pouch, a resolute expression on his face — and how amusing it is, Lilia snickers silently to himself, to see such seriousness on that chubby-cheeked face! “This is… for Toto,” Silver insists, pushing the pouch into Lilia’s hands.

Lilia blinks. “Well now,” he says, reaching out to ruffle Silver’s hair, his other hand holding the mystery pouch. “What a kind boy you are, thinking about me while you’re out in the woods!” And this isn’t abnormal by any means, because Silver always comes home with a gift for him, be it berries — poisonous and otherwise; the poor child doesn’t know any better just yet — or a wilting bouquet of wildflowers, but Lilia relishes in it anyways. Affirmative remarks are helpful for raising a boy as young as Silver — or so he’s been told by the Zigvolts.

Silver giggles as Lilia runs a hand through his hair, mussing up those light strands. “Open it, open it!”

So Lilia does, pulling on the string and loosening the pouch. And as soon as he does, he finds…

A handful of shredded leaves, some wet moss, a couple of berries — the non-poisonous ones, and Lilia sighs with relief at the knowledge that Silver has caught on — and, to top it all off, a pinecone.

Lilia blinks. “This is lovely, Silver,” he says, and he’s not lying, because anything this sweet human boy he’s growing fonder of, day after day, brings to him sparks a bit of warmth in his heart. “But… what is it?”

And imagine Lilia’s surprise when Silver grins at him brightly, and says, “Tea!”

It clicks for him after a moment’s pause, mind caught on that one word before everything falls into place. Oh, Lilia realises, eyeing the pouch, at the way the leaves have been shredded, the small size of the pinecone, everything clumped together. It looks much like the contents of the little canister of tea leaves he has, a gift from Baul’s daughter along with a teasing note about drinking it if he finds it a bit hard to sleep.

Silver has brought him tea leaves. Silver had watched him scoop them out and steep them in water, perched on tiptoes on a stool pushed up against the counter as Lilia prepared breakfast, and thought to himself that he would go out in the woods and get Lilia some tea.

Warmth swells forth within his heart in one big burst, engulfing his chest until it reaches his cheeks.

Whisking the pouch to the counter with his magic, Lilia sweeps up Silver in his arms, spinning around as the boy yelps before he giggles. “How darling of you,” Lilia coos, happiness thrumming through him. “To think of me, and to bring me such a sweet gift!”

“I hope you like it, Toto!”

“Well let’s find out, shall we?”

And though Lilia enjoys the cup of tea he brews very much, relishing in it as Silver watches, the young boy still too sensitive to enjoy a scalding drink that’s too hot for his tongue, he realises, halfway through, that there’s definitely something poisonous in this.

Oh well, he thinks, as he feels his throat beginning to itch relentlessly from the inside-out, his eyes beginning to swell slightly. That’s another thing to teach Silver in the future, I suppose.

Perhaps he’ll avoid eating the leftover tea leaves for once. He’ll have to scrape them into the bin. What a waste, Lilia sighs to himself, though there’s no real disappointment in any of it. How could there be, when he’s basking in the thoughtfulness of Silver’s actions?

[serenescribe]

A gift for @suntails my beloved <3 Based off her iconic and incredible Sheriff Silver nui. I wrote this while we were on call to flex how fast I could write. I am sharing it for the world to see.

(I'd say Silver is about... a preteen or a young teenager in this one.)

“Father… what is this?”

“Oh, just an outfit I found while out on my travels,” Lilia replies smoothly, eyes shining as he rests his fingers against his chin, his other arm folded. “I thought it’d look rather cute on you, so I decided to buy it back, hm?”

And cute Silver looks indeed! Even as his eyebrows pinch together, a v-shape forming between the brows as his lips press together, Lilia cannot deny how dashing the outfit looks on him. He wears a bandana, wrapped around his neck, covering a matching vest and shirt. A sheriff’s badge is pinned to his lapel, signifying the role the outfit mimics. With a pair of chaps covering his pants and a pair of spurred boots, the final thing to finish off the look is the massive hat on his head — a cowboy’s hat, as it is called.

Despite the authority the outfit is supposed to radiate… Lilia cannot help but grin at how sweet Silver looks in it. If he only put on a serious face instead of a confused one, he would surely emit a powerful aura that would drive any enemies into hiding!

“Father,” Silver sighs, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head, “not that I want to turn down a gift, but… why did you get me this?”

Lilia pouts; does Silver not believe his words? “Does it matter?” he sighs, shaking his head morosely. “Don’t think too hard about it.” And as he says that, he reaches out to pluck off the hat and ruffle Silver’s hair.

That, at least, elicits a smile. My little sheriff, Lilia thinks warmly.

Not that Silver knows what a sheriff is, for that matter. Or a cowboy.

(Photo taken by @suntails! What a dashing lad!)

[serenescribe]

in 2024 i will finally write that goddamn summary post of my twst dæmon au. someday. sobs.

hey feel free to poke me about it, maybe that'll kick me into working on it more—

[serenescribe]

[...] Silver had such patience with him anyway. He allowed Malleus to stay by his side, to stay in his room, eating the same foods that he did — and what a treat they were, for a child who starved as long as he had! — and sleeping in his bed.

My piece for an impromptu collab with @serenescribe! They wrote an incredible fic for my Prince and Physician au so I wanted to draw something for it! Thank you again for collabing with me Ell♡

Check out the fic on AO3 & Tumblr

[serenescribe]

the prince's physician Twisted Wonderland | 3.7k Summary: Malleus is the prince’s physician. He reflects on everything his role entails. AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52875436 Collaboration with @ohsleepie | Potential spoilers for elements of Chapter 7

Hello everyone! This fic is directly inspired by @ohsleepie's wonderful "The Prince and his Physician" AU, and wound up being an impromptu collaboration featuring absolutely stunning and incredible art drawn by Sleepie himself! Please check him out and follow him!

I'm so happy to share this, and I hope that you all enjoy it!

The days between the prince’s passing and his inevitable reincarnation always feel the longest to Malleus.

Time, as it is, is a slow-paced thing; such is life for him as the last of his kind, a single year feeling far more miniscule for him than it does for a human. Malleus loses track of the days easily, slips up on his months and years. He is only aware of the passage of time through distant observations of festivities — celebrations to herald in a new year, for one, or the prince’s birthday, for another.

But rather than track the time through each changing year, Malleus tracks them in cycles of Silver’s life and death.

With each new reincarnation, each new cycle brought anew, something imperceptible shifts in the air. A rebirth means many things — to the kingdom’s populace, it is yet another year of a curse yet unbroken; to Malleus, it is a tangible, physical mark of his failures. But failures aside, there is something so jarring, so off-putting, about seeing the nursemaids and servants whisk a cradle through the halls of the castle, a cradle Malleus knows the contents of.

It is Silver, always Silver, a slumbering baby identical to the dozens that came before him — wispy locks of silver hair that plaster against his forehead, pudgy hands and chubby cheeks, and when he opens his eyes, those same, breathtaking hues of the brightest auroras.

Malleus always stops and stares whenever these moments occur. For an instant, his breath is stolen right from his throat by some unseen thief; his mind dredges up memories of when he, himself, was young, stirring to life old cycles when he was but a child himself, unable to comprehend Silver’s passing and subsequent return. It had taken him quite some time to grasp all of it — but then again, could one truly blame Malleus when his guardian figure, the kindly young prince his age who took him in and treated him well, had died in bed, only to reappear as a wee babe?

But when Silver returns, Malleus feels as though he can breathe again, an invisible knot in his throat loosened.

Because when Silver is gone, Malleus feels… useless, for lack of a better word. His own memories of his childhood are haphazard and spotty, mainly made up of foggy recollections of surviving in the harsh brambles of fae forests. For many, many years, he has found a purpose, was given one through being brought to this human kingdom: break our prince’s curse, and save him from Death’s unyielding grip.

There are few here who deign to interact with him beyond courteous pleasantries. They turn their noses up at him, eyes narrowing, lips twisting; it is fae, they whisper to each other, voices dripping with venom. If not for its magic, its prowess, surely we would have left it to die.

Silver is kind to him, has always been ever since he was young. So is it truly so shocking that Malleus feels so lost with him gone, and feels so relieved whenever he returns?

(And yet, intermingled with the relief, buried underneath such feelings of solace, there lurks another monster. A sense of guilt which festers, slowly growing over time.

An old memory rises whenever Malleus reflects on it for too long, of Silver’s voice:

“I wish for you to break my curse, Malleus. But I do not want to be immortal. My people have suffered for far too long, unable to grow and prosper due to my unending fate.”

He remembers a soft, sad smile.

“To relieve them of that burden, to allow them to grow with my final passing… that is what I wish for, above all else.”)

“How are you feeling today, your majesty?”

It is always odd, with each new cycle. To reacquaint himself with this new Silver — so much like the one before, in his appearance and demeanour, yet lacking the full memories of his past. Malleus knows Silver recalls just enough, especially when aided with the meticulous journals his previous incarnations have kept, but it is jarring, all the same, to reintroduce himself to someone he has known for many, many decades.

Silver blinks at him from the bed, the four-poster frame draped with too many silks and gauzes, too big for a boy of his size. His eyes are tinged with crusts of sleep, bags forming under them despite the medicines and foods they all have him eat, and yet there is such a strange tranquillity resting in his expression whenever Malleus sees him. “I’m quite alright, Malleus,” he responds, voice scarcely a whisper, soft and sweet. “And you don’t need to call me such formalities. We’ve been over this many times.”

Malleus exhales, the breath slipping through his nose.

No matter how many times Silver tells him as such — and it has been plentiful, through Silvers young and old, of different years, different decades, different centuries — Malleus still abides by such titles, at least when he first speaks to him. It gets easier as the years pass, as he acquaints himself a bit closer, as Silver inches closer to another inevitable death, but all the same—

“You are to be his physician,” a voice instructs him, the memory looming to life once more, “and you do not stand on equal ground with him. As such, you are to abide by our formalities: he is to be referred to as ‘your majesty,’ and nothing else.”

“Prince Silver,” Malleus says instead, the title a little clunky on his tongue. Silver raises an eyebrow at him, but does not push. He merely sits in place as Malleus walks over, his heels clicking against the floor, tail lashing behind the fabrics of his half-skirt. “Allow me to check you over today, if you will.”

“At this point, you need not even ask.”

The days go by the same way they always do: Malleus inspects Silver over carefully, running careful hands over every inch of his body before he adjusts his magic, and delves deeper into the beyond. His instincts are carefully attuned for any little change, anything he has never seen or felt before — any anomaly at all could give a new direction for him to research in, and a new possibility of a means to break the curse.

(He refuses to let himself think too hard about what breaking the curse truly entails. Malleus has ruminated over it over the course of many, many cycles, laying wide awake in bed, staring up at elegantly painted murals on the ceiling in the dark of night. It is always the same thing — should he abide by the kingdom’s wishes, or by his prince’s?

In the end, regardless of which route he chooses, Malleus shall break the curse. But it is the eternal dilemma presented to him that tangles his soul day after day — what would truly be better, to let Silver live past the ages of youth and mature into an all-powerful, immortal king? Or to let him die in peace, freeing his people from the burdens of a monarchy, their hopes and dreams all inextricably tied to their young and dying prince?

And, to another extent, the other part of the question Malleus thinks about, what does he want himself?

There is a part of him that feels such vibrant joy and pride at the thought of Silver thriving — to live as long as Malleus shall, if not even longer; to rule with his steadfastness and kindness, resolute as he heralds a new, immortal age of glory. Malleus knows little about the history of his own kind, but what tiny bits he can dredge up have taught him of a group of creatures with such power and perfection, such beauty and bravery. They thrived in the night, ruled from the shadows, creatures of such majestic, nigh-immortal magic with an arrogance that led to their own downfall.

As a fae himself, Malleus wonders if it is only natural for him to desire such things for Silver. To watch him grow into the ages he has never been able to reach before, to witness him at his fullest might and glory.

And yet, the mere thought of the stabbing betrayal in those auroral eyes, the sadness that may overcome those soft features, is enough to give him pause each and every time.)

He was young when they found him skulking about the brambles.

For as long as Malleus can remember, he has always been alone. Though he’s certain he remembers some sensations of warmth from before he came into being, of being cradled close in a loving embrace, all he remembers, through to his earliest memories, is of being alone.

And for such a lonely fae child, wandering about an overgrown, abandoned valley, what else was there for him to do but survive? To pounce about and gulp down whatever meals he could find, to curl up in the nooks of trees and little rock caverns to try and keep warm… and to hide in the brambles, slitted eyes peering at civilisation from afar.

He’d watched the daily lives of the human kingdom after finding out about their existence, when he was old enough to try and mimic a form similar to their own. Still, Malleus had been too scared to venture too close, some innate part of him screaming at him to stay away, and so he had simply observed from a distance… until one day, they found him.

He remembers little of that day now. It’s all a blur when he tries to recollect it — sharp grips tightening around his limbs as he kicked and thrashed, searing magic that ripped through his veins, burning those who tried to hurt him, being thrown and tossed about, immobilised by something that seared at his skin… All while screaming and yelling flooded the air, his heartbeat thumping chaotically in his ears, head spinning as his surroundings whirled about him—

And then it stopped.

And then there was Silver.

He was young then. That, Malleus recalls. He remembers everything after the pain and the panic with ease, of the way the young boy — just as young as he, with silver hair and such pretty, colourful eyes, and oh-so gentle hands — had removed the searing things that hurt him, and rubbed something that stung before it began to feel better.

“My name is Silver,” the boy told him, in a soft, kind voice that made Malleus feel… safe. “I’m sorry about the pain they caused you. I hope you’re feeling better now.”

Malleus understood him, of course, in some strange, innate way. But his tongue could not shape the same sounds that he heard, no matter how hard he tried. When he spoke, all he could manage was something that chimed and clicked, something Silver didn’t understand.

And yet, in spite of all that, Silver had such patience with him anyway. He allowed Malleus to stay by his side, to stay in his room, eating the same foods that he did — and what a treat they were, for a child who starved as long as he had! — and sleeping in his bed.

Time passed; his wounds healed. His tongue began to curl in all the right ways, taught painstakingly by Silver how to speak in his tongue in-between the periods of time where he had to disappear. Malleus relished in each and every day, the loneliness that haunted him for so long no longer looming over him like a shadow. Now, he had Silver—

Until he didn’t.

Silver hadn’t woken up one day, no matter how hard Malleus tried. Nudging him, shaking him, calling his name until his voice rose in a panic, and the door slammed open, footsteps thumping into the room. He’d been dragged away, kicking and screaming again, the same terror from years ago swelling up once more in his heart; the fire that sparked through his veins, the sheer agony and pain, the lurking realisation that he was alone again.

He remembers very little of those in-between days, the foggy haze of nothingness only pierced by a baby’s cry and the realisation that Silver had somehow returned. But it hadn’t been until years later, years of being stuck in a tiny little bedroom by himself, that Malleus could finally see him again.

Silver was younger now. Younger than Malleus himself. And finally, he explained it to him.

“I have a curse on me,” Silver told him, as simply as possible, as Malleus curled around him in his bed. “And other humans believe you can break it.”

Malleus blinked up at him, raising his head from the soft, downy cushions. “I… can?”

“You can,” Silver affirmed with a gentle smile, his voice high. He reached out, wrapping his arm around Malleus and bringing him close. “Because you’re a fae. You’re so strong. If anyone can help me, it’s you.”

The truth, of course, was far more complex than that simplistic explanation. The truth was that Silver’s curse itself was fae-inflicted and, considering the immense strength of the fair folk, only another fae’s skills would be able to eliminate the curse. But Malleus had been young, and Silver, despite his youth and the fact that he still barely recalled his own memories, was kind, trying to explain everything to Malleus as simply as possible: You are strong, and we believe in you. I believe in you.

And Malleus had accepted it, taking on his new role as the prince’s physician with a regal sort of pride.

Magic slinks through his veins as naturally as blood, the two intermingling and intertwining. It comes to him so easily, far more than even the most expert mages of the kingdom, who have spent decades of their mortal lives honing their skill to a perfect shine.

But for as naturally gifted as Malleus is, he lacks the proper training one should have. That is, not the training of human mages, for he has gone through many cycles worth of such a thing, but the training of a fae.

Fae magic is so distinctly different from that of humans, rooted in their very heart and soul, and in the power of the natural world around them. And though Malleus can adapt to his circumstances, taking what the reluctant tutors teach him and twisting it to suit his own strengths, there is only so much he can learn and do until he hits a wall, and gets stuck in one place.

If only there were other fae still alive, still out there. If only, Malleus thinks longingly, a swell of frustration burgeoning within him as he hits yet another blockade in another theory he’s been trying to test, the ink of his feathered quill dragging to a blotchy halt across the parchment as he struggles to pen what he’s been theorising into written words.

He hears the whispers of the court, day after day. Why isn’t there any progress? the humans ask, as though Malleus can flick his wrist and cure anything instantly. How many years has it been here? How much longer must we suffer? How much more must our prince wait?

And the thing is, Malleus desires nothing more than to be able to snap his fingers and dispel that wretched curse, all at once. But beyond other factors, such as Silver’s private request to him all that time ago to grant him a peaceful death and free his kingdom from the shackles of his immortality, there is the very fact that this is a fae curse, a complex, interweaving system of magic designed to loop Silver’s death, all while bringing him back every time. There is intent behind this convoluted spell, and save nothing short of somehow speaking to the caster himself, there is little Malleus can do but break it all down in reverse.

He rakes a hand through his hair, a growl spilling from his throat. The quill clatters to the table as he drags his hands down his face, biting back a haggard sigh.

The sound of knocking against wood.

“You may enter,” he calls, twisting in his chair to stare at the door.

The hinges squeak as it cracks open, revealing a guardsman who leers at him. “Your presence is requested,” they state, not bothering to hide their disdain, yet having enough basic courtesy not to let it spill into their words. “The council wishes to learn of your progress on breaking his majesty’s curse.”

Dark lips twist into an ugly sneer. The council, Malleus seethes. A group of uppity, stuck-up human nobles, who constantly die and get replaced with equally awful replacements, who keep breathing down his back about any meagre bits of progress he’s been able to make despite Silver’s attempts to get them to stop.

The downsides of Silver constantly reincarnating, needing to relearn everything all over again as he dives back through journals and jostles his own memories, is that he can’t always chase them away, telling them to leave his physician alone, and let him work. This is one of those times, it seems; Silver is too busy learning how to be a human being again, leaving Malleus stranded against a group of men who seem hellbent on making his very existence hell throughout what little bits of life they live.

But it is not as though he can deny a summons. For all his title as the prince’s physician, Malleus knows — has known for such a very long time — that his rank is meaningless without the very prince he serves.

“Tell them that I shall arrive in five minutes.” Picking up his quill, Malleus dips it back into a pot of ink, a furious frustration igniting the spark within him as he turns back to his incomplete report.

It is better than nothing, and that is worth something.

Malleus holds very little loyalty to this kingdom. What else is there for him, when he is destined to outlive everyone within it, and when they are all so bent on treating him as though he personally killed their families?

He is aware of the history between them and his own ancestors, the plentiful fae who used to share these lands until they waged war against the humans, slaughtering them in a painful, bloody battle. The humans had emerged victorious, all the fae driven out or slain, but it had come at the heavy cost of all their royals killed — except for one.

And for years, they had watched their prince grow with pride, until he had died before his coronation. And then it had happened again, and again, and again — they would find him as a baby nestled within a clearing in the nearby woods, identical in each and every iteration, and they would watch as he always died before arriving at his years of maturity, always while he was far too young.

A fae curse, they realised, far too late. How foolish they had been, to dismiss the magic struck against their prince! It is a fate worse than death, they lamented, their spirits growing weary with each new cycle. What shall we do?

Malleus is their answer to their conundrum, a solution to a problem his ancestors made. And yet, for all the supposed salvation he represents and is supposed to bring, he knows what they think of him. And though he understands it, understands the reservations and hatred for everything he represents, he also cannot help but resent them for it.

Why is he treated like he is lesser, when he is trying to help them?

His loyalty lies with their prince, with Silver, for the kindness Malleus has been shown over and over, throughout countless identical reincarnations, countless ends and beginnings. It is the reason why he stays, why he endures it all, why he works painstakingly at dissecting a curse only he stands a chance of understanding, in hopes of shattering this cruel fate once and for all.

He carries the hopes and dreams of the kingdom on his shoulders — a cruel irony, Malleus knows, considering what most of the populace think of him. He is their only hope, in the end.

But the thing is — and this, Malleus has come to realise over time:

It is easy for the humans to root for their prince. It is easy for them to hope, to pray, to plead with whatever higher forces exist out there for the fae physician to break his curse, bringing them all into a golden age of their royal’s immortality. It is easy because they are human; for many of them, they will not live long enough to witness more than perhaps four or five of their prince’s life cycles, forcing them to tell their descendents of their desires to carry on the flames of their hopes.

When one does not live long enough for their awe and admiration, their all-consuming anticipation, to melt away into something far more pessimistic, it is easy to stand strong and proclaim, “I wish for my prince to live forever; I wish for him to lead us into a new age.”

But for Malleus? For the only fae in a kingdom of mortals, destined to outlive each and every one of them by proxy of his heritage alone?

He has lost count of just how many cycles he has witnessed, from the tender years of childhood into the grown fae he is today. He has lost track of how many times he has met Silver for the first time, the servants and guards and nursemaids who care for him and guard him all switching out cycle after cycle, as more of them die and more of them are replaced.

The humans see not what Malleus witnesses over time: the piles of journals that stack up higher and higher; the heavy bags that marr the underside of those striking auroral eyes; the pure exhaustion that sinks into their prince’s every movement and word, the way he gazes upon his kingdom from towering windows.

In the end, this miserable curse can only end one way: Silver must die.

(The question still remains, pressing down on Malleus’ shoulders, an invisible burden weighing him down with each soft smile and greeting he receives.

Shall Silver live forever? Or only once more?)

[serenescribe]

as promised for coming home on my only 10-pull key, a little birthday drabble for our beloved peepaw :) pls enjoy & happy new year to all!

". . . Cookies?"

He makes no effort to disguise the insulted disbelief as he stares down at the plate of misshapen treats, eyebrows flying so far into his hairline that they nearly disappear.

"He may be but a child, and a human at that, but surely he ought to understand the gravity of your former position, the glories in which you are entitled to—"

"Former, and disgraced if I might add," Lilia corrects him, a lopsided grin tugging on his face as he too gazes at the plate of cookies with a ludicrously pleased expression. "And Silver is all of seven, Baul. A seven year old child who worked rather hard today at staying awake to surprise me with something delicious, so I'd be most grateful if you could manage to tame that famous Zigvolt boom as I'd hate for him to wake up from his nap."

It's worse than Baul could have ever expected.

Lilia Vanrouge, the fearless and fearsome once general of the fae armies, the former right hand to their dearly departed princess, turned sentimental over a plate of lumpy, and frankly burnt on the edges, cookies.

He'd come over to further discuss the matter of his grandson training with his former commander, staunchly ignorant of his own sentimentality towards the halfling child who so closely resembled him in both pride and spirit, only to find the fae sitting alone at the kitchen table with an odd and unfamiliar expression vulnerable upon his face and cradling a cookie as carefully within his talons as if it were spun from glass. Baul had nearly leapt to arms, convinced that there had been some sort of spell or potion from those who still wished ill upon Lilia cast to tempt him into eating such bizarre looking food— even though it looked clumsily made, there was simply no way he would have been fooled into believing it had been the product of Lilia's disastrous attempts. It simply wasn't foul enough— when Lilia had startled back into awareness, only to laugh at him and proclaim to Baul's utter bewilderment that these...cookies, were in fact his birthday gift from the human child residing within his home.

To which Baul promptly informed Lilia that he had taken leave of his senses and he'd never once shared that he knew of his birthday before. If he had, there'd have been no chance of the entire country forgetting it for the wondrous celebration Meleanor and Levan would have certainly thrown in the honor of their dearest friend.

"You're right," Lilia had said, smiling that strange little half-smile as he broke his gaze away from the plate to the quiet hallway leading from the kitchen. "But then again, I had nothing about myself to celebrate until very recently."

And there, the crux of the matter, the elephant in the room that Baul never truly questioned out of loyalty to the fae that had given more than anyone ever could to the sake of their country, to the Draconias alone. The human child, the boy that had shown up suddenly and stolen Lilia away to the forest, bewitched him somehow into playing house. Baul cannot understand it— Lilia had more reason than any of them to loathe humanity, to shun it for the remainder of his life and seek to live in peace away from their kind after their unforgivable transgressions.

Instead, in front of his astounded eyes, he can only watch in silence as a tear splashes down upon the chocolate speckled surface of the cookie before it's hastily crammed into Lilia's mouth, the fae spinning around to grin at him as if in blissful ignorance of the redness gathering at the corners of his eyes.

"They're a bit salty, Baul, but I've never tasted anything better!"

Oh, he thinks, heart shaking in place as he too glances towards where a certain slumbering boy lies. Oh, you old fool. Do you even know how deep you've gone?

[serenescribe]

with that ficlet posted, that's all of the pre-written things i had from 2023 \o/ here's to a wonderful 2024! i hope to continue writing many things for you guys in spite of my busy schedule ;v; thank you so much for all your support and lovely words! it means a lot to me~

[serenescribe]

Hmmmm... obviously, discard if you don't want to write this BUT—

Lilia has a surprise for Silver. Usually, he goes on travels ALONE, right? Well, not this time!

Beach time? Snow mountains? Whichever, or you can choose your travel location. Silver will enjoy spending time with his father no matter where they go.

Initially, when Silver heard Lilia was leaving, he was like sad, but determined to wish Lilia safe travels. He goes about his day, although pouting and being much more downtrodden than usual, so much so that Lilia notices. He finds out why, and laughs, saying that Silver was invited to join him this time if he wanted.

Idk if writing some snippets from the actual trip would be too long, so just do you on that part. But, it'd be cute to see Silver's reaction to hearing about where they're going!

💙

[✐] ficlet frenzy

The rumbling of the train tracks lulls into a lullaby, a distant melody that sways his son to sleep.

Lilia cannot help but smile as he feels a head press against his shoulder, a pressure that dips against his limb. To his side, Silver slumbers, eyes pressed close, mouth parting the slightest bit. Today, he is dressed for comfort, clothed in a thick, fluffy sweater and simple slacks, soft clothes that are perfect for a long journey. Lilia, too, is dressed similarly; he dons a matching sweater, except Silver’s is blue where his is pink.

Beyond Silver are glass panes that reveal an ever-changing landscape outside, swathed with hilly uplands, flower-filled meadows, and thick pine forests that cluster together. The Queendom of Roses, with a geography so different from that of Briar Valley. While there are certain overlapping similarities, such as the abundance of woodland rooted across the land, there are enough differences that every day is enough of an adventure for the two of them to explore.

And what an adventure it has been! Everytime Lilia reminisces over their travels thus far, he silently admonishes his past self for being so foolish as to never bring Silver on a trip with him. Oh, how much more lively those days would have been, if he had simply been travelling with his son! There has been no greater joy thus far than to see the blatant delight plastered so openly on Silver’s face whenever they arrive at yet another city or town, head twisting left and right as he takes in all the stunning architecture.

Lilia isn’t ashamed to admit that a good chunk of his luggage is filled with gifts for Silver, cheerfully buying whatever catches his son’s fancy. What else is he to do, when Silver continuously handicaps himself from things he so clearly wants to purchase?

Even now, he still remembers the surprise that struck Silver’s face when Lilia had sprung the trip on him. Lilia had been planning it for a good while: he’d made a show out of preparing to go on yet another lengthy travel in-between his third and fourth year at Night Raven College, excitedly chattering to Silver about all the sights he was looking forward to seeing. Lilia smirks at the remembrance; it had been so amusing to observe how dejected Silver had been, knowing what was in store for him.

And when the day of the trip arrived, and Lilia sprung another ticket and an already-packed suitcase onto Silver?

“I was thinking… It would be awfully lonely to go on such a long trip by myself, hm? So what do you say to joining me, dear? …Khee hee hee, surprise! …Oh, you look as though you’re about to faint!”

Bit by bit, the train begins to slow down until at last, it slides to a stop. There’s the distant whistling of the train accompanying it, and as the doors slide open, footsteps echo through the cabin, of passengers embarking and departing, gathering up their bags and luggages as they come and go.

Next to him, Silver begins to stir. He blinks open his eyes, lifting his head to stare at Lilia blearily before he mumbles, “Wha…?”

“It’s not our stop yet,” Lilia assures him with a smile. He shuffles a little closer, wraps his arm around Silver to pull him into a half-embrace. “Rest for a little while longer, dear. Do not fear, I shall wake you before we arrive!”

There’s still plenty left on their itinerary before their flight back to the harbour, and their subsequent boat trip back to the valley. Silver still wants to show him Deuce Spade’s hometown — Clock Town, if Lilia recalls the name correctly — and there’s still a couple of other places they have yet to visit. But for once, they have plenty of time.

As the train whistle blares again, and the rattling of the wheels against the tracks engulfs the air once more, Lilia leans back into the plush cushion of the booth seat, and smiles.