#schoolcatering | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prince-kallisto · 4 months

Text

Happy birthday Malleus!! I started this fic a long time ago, but I realized yesterday that it would be perfect time to finish it for his birthday. This fic is from Crowley’s point of view, and Malleus doesn’t actually appear in the story. However, he is an integral part of the overall plot. Haha, I’m not used to posting my fics directly in tumblr…my Ao3 fic might be easier to read? Whichever format you’re more used to ^_^ I’d appreciate any comments! 💖🐦‍⬛

4.4k words (Angst, Grief/Mourning, Dissociation, starts off as Slice of Life, Crowley is an unreliable narrator)

*****

But I Loved Her More

Every other week, the Ramshackle janitor- er, prefect, arrived at Crowley’s office with a stack of photos taken with the Ghost Camera. With a mere click, all shenanigans occuring in the school’s campus were documented and viewed at his discretion. Convenient, yes? Far more preferable over those dastardly reports. Although Mr. Rosehearts was one of Heartslabyul’s finest Housewarden’s, Crowley had to confess (to himself only, for Great Seven knows what a whipping Trein would give him otherwise) to disposing of the reports without giving them a second glance. Honestly, the paragraphs droned on and on over absolute rubbish- frankly, he did not care if ten students didn’t wear pink on Wednesdays or whatever rule 249 was. And imagine being forced to read such drivel twice a month! Ahh, what burdensome work~

Sorting through the photos revealed a pattern of a certain trio of first-year troublemakers appearing more often than others. Spade accidentally broke a beaker in the Alchemy classroom, Trappola snubbed yet another pile of homework, and Grim stirred up yet another rivalry between him and a Savanaclaw student. Crowley bit back a laugh at how the sequence of photos revealed Grim’s unfortunate fate with the Savanaclaw boy. What did Grim expect when picking a fight with a grown beastman nearly triple his size? Well, he was sure Grim put up a noble fight until the very end.

Entertainment for himself aside, this trio’s penchant for mischief vexed him. These boys were a set of promising young mages with…decent grades, but Crowley has had to redo the school’s monthly budget several times due to the destruction of property! Perhaps it meant a few thaumarks here and there were pinched from Ramshackle’s share, but the prefect was a sturdy individual. Skipping a meal or two never hurt anybody, and the lack of a functioning heater builds character! Really, he was doing them a kindness by giving them this opportunity for growth. Besides, if there were any protests, the prefect had no one but themselves to blame for the friends they associated with.

Although no major incidents occured this week, Crowley gasped in utter horror at the next set of photos. Sweet merciful Seven! Making immature gestures towards a rival dorm’s mirror did not befit Night Raven College’s prestigious name! It did not break any school rules, per se, but etiquette was certainly wanting. Did these children learn nothing about cooperating hand-in-hand with their fellow classmates in Vargas Camp?

He slumped into his office throne with a drawn-out sigh. He shan’t get so worked up over a schoolboy’s(schoolcat’s?) typical immaturity. Whether he liked it or not, times have changed since his early days of being a Headmage. Such insolence wouldn’t have even occurred in those boys’ minds back then! Why, they used to bow and unfurl a carpet of praises whenever he graced them with his presence. Now, the boys hardly paid him a second glance when he greeted them! It didn’t bother him, of course. He was an adult, which meant he had thick skin and wasn’t troubled by typical teenage snark. Still, perhaps he should talk with Trein or Crewel about teaching these boys some proper etiquette, such as responding to their Headmage’s greetings with zeal!

He jotted the future meeting down on a scroll. This behavior had to be remedied straight away. Tapping the quill against his lips, he observed his calendar for the upcoming weeks. Hm…he could reschedule the meeting with the Department of Education to next month. If it was important enough, they’d send him another message. Rescheduling his massage appointment was out of the question- getting an appointment with his preferred masseuse was akin to being a gladiator fighting against the odds in an arena. He simply couldn’t risk losing out on a much needed session.

Vargas did not treat his shoulders and neck kindly the last time Crowley complained of an ache. Why, his muscles got thoroughly tenderized from the “treatment” he received. No matter the brand of silk pillows and adjustable mattresses he used, the ache in his bones that never lessened. Crewel claimed Crowley’s age was finally getting the best of him, but he was still quite youthful, mind you! (At heart, at least.) Even now, he felt a tightening ache in his chest and a twinge in his neck. His jaw clicked as he tried to loosen up its tension. There were far too many things to do and so little time. So very little time.

Wanting to rub at his eyes, Crowley scratched the beak of his mask as a compromise. He rose from his seat to further stretch his legs and peered out his office windows. Built from floor to ceiling, the grandiose windows provided him a view of the entire campus- perfect to monitor the comings and goings of all. The leaves of the courtyard apple trees shimmered from the light of the full moon. Night Raven College had not a soul wandering about due to student curfew; it looks like no one tried to sneak out tonight. Even his raven companions found refuge in their nests weaved from twigs and cloth. The poor dears had a tendency to collect trash for the lining of their beds, due to some uncouth students who apparently lacked the self-respect to use a trash can. Crowley often flew into the crevices of campus, cleaning up any nest and provided more suitable materials like fur or wool.

Only the ghosts remained on campus, who were in the process of retiring after a long day of work. Fascinating creatures, they were. Why, if he was granted an afterlife, he surely wouldn’t be spending it as a cook or a groundskeeper. But perhaps he wasn’t the best fae to judge. After studying human nature for many decades now, Crowley drew to the conclusion that the ghosts could only relax for so long, before the remnants of their living restlessness stirred up inside. The idea of a peaceful afterlife simply didn’t exist for humankind. It was in their nature to yearn for more and more.

Sinking back into the velvet cushions of his throne, Crowley swiftly flipped through the photos, paying no mind to the rest of the shenanigans in them. Any troublemakers should consider themselves lucky he wanted to call it a night instead of wasting his time on another pile of reports. The Ghost Camera photos were occasionally hijacked by Diamond, who took photos of himself or artfully arranged drinks- all with the most optimal lighting and flattering of angles. Crowley slid the photos to the side to give them back to the prefect tomorrow- he had no use for these. Besides, he’d have to inquire about the drinks. Perhaps the trendy cafe Diamond frequented would grant him a teacher’s discount!

Crowley paused at the last photo in the bunch. It seems to have been taken in secrecy, due to the low angle, bushes framing the photo, and the unfocused gaze of the subject. Crowley should speak to the Ramshackle janitor to have more respect for other’s privacy, but for once, he didn’t mind. The photograph wasn’t artfully taken, but the subject himself made up for it in spades. This was exactly what Crowley was looking forward to.

As he gently brushed his fingers over the filmy surface, a glow emitted from the photograph. Light filtered through the darkness of his office as a halo of green fireflies burst from the frame, drifting in the air like dandelions. Crowley’s breath caught in his chest. Despite being mere projections, the fireflies tickled at his cheek and danced around his shoulders. He yearned to pluck at a few and keep them safe in a glass bottle to watch them float forever. And yet his hands slipped through the light, transient and untouchable. An inky substance pricked at his eyes, and he dabbed at the eyeholes of his mask with his silk handkerchief. Oh dear, he truly was getting up there in age if this was all it took to lose his composure.

You see, the deceptive nature of the Ghost Camera was its reenactment of the scene of the photo. When the bond between the photographer and the subject grew deeper, a representation of their intertwining souls came in the form of the projections. It seems the Ramshackle prefect managed to worm their way into the heart of the young fae, whose eyes shone brighter than any treasure.

Malleus Draconia.

A name befitting the Draconia family heir, a name honoring the Thorn Fairy herself. How lucky Crowley was to have such a fine student under his tutelage. For a long while he has wondered if he’d be granted such a privilege in his lifetime. The saying is true, that paths do eventually cross in the most unexpected ways.

Setting the photo down, Crowley admired the ghostly image of Malleus, whose miniature recreation roamed around his desk. In the projection, Malleus inspected the bent and rusty gates that caged Ramshackle Dorm, before flitting over to the statues that looked as if they would crumble at a mere touch. Moss and grime lined every crevice of the limestone, making their features much more unsightly. Crowley grimaced at the thought of these creatures coming to life. Gnarled fangs that could puncture the sturdiest of hides, those bulging eyes and wicked claws stirring up a primal fear in a warrior’s heart. Thankfully, those monsters only reside in fairytales. To be fair, so does he. He couldn’t discard the possibility of these creatures indeed existing in the flesh. Miracles of magic could conjure up any beast, as they could be imagined.

Crowley poked at the projection with a golden claw, wanting to peer into the fae’s mind. What was so beautiful about moldy shingles and decaying statues? What was so beautiful indeed, about something ruined beyond repair? Not even the spiders graced the ruins with their prescence, torn lace of old cobwebs blowing in the wind.

As his claw brushed over the projection, the image rippled like water, distoring the fae’s features. Crowley jerked away so quickly, too quickly, that the muscles in his neck twinged in protest. The projection slipped back into its frame, equally spooked from the sudden touch. Crowley cleared his throat as he attempted to regain his composure. Thank goodness the hour was so late. There was no chance that someone bore witness to that embarassing scene. My, my, did the ache in his neck ever smart…

He reminded himself that he would store the photos and call it a day. Store the photos and call it a day. Nothing more, nothing less. Crowley lifted one of the golden keys from his belt, unlocking a drawer in his desk. He shook the knob of the drawer impatiently, the sharp thuds of wood echoing in his office. He would need to have a repairman take a look at his desk- the drawers were ever so cumbersome to open these days. With one final and insistent tug, the drawer flung open.

The pile of photos were carelessly flung into the drawer, scattering as they joined the heap of previous ‘reports’. Despite the mess, a corner of a book peeked out from underneath. Crowley swallowed. Store the photos and call it a day. The mantra looped in head as he made no move to grab the journal nor to close the drawer. It was as if he was frozen in time, the pages coaxing him to take a closer look. Just one peek wouldn’t hurt, right? It was his office- he could do whatever he wanted. The only rules here were his mental ones, and his resolve could easily be shattered.

As he grabbed the book, he shook the Ghost Camera photos off it as if they were disruptive insects. Through his gloved hands, the weaved texture of the cover bumped over his skin. The edges of the book’s pages were speckled yellow and the corners seeped with brown. There were many ways to safely archive such books, of course, but even the bodies in coffins would decay to time. Nothing could last forever, not even this journal he cherished so much. The spine cracked as Crowley pried open the heavy tome, the parchment crinkling underneath his touch. Each page contained excerpts of writing or sketches beside the guarded photos. The archival black ink used decades ago was still etched onto the paper. Did this ink manufactuer still exist? He must have wrote the brand name of the bottle somewhere…he must leave some generous praises online later.

Crowley smoothed out the wrinkles in the page as he deciphered the scribbles. In one of his many past travels, Crowley unearthed this journal in a withered castle long ago. Its contents depicted the knights and princesses of days yore, reduced to nothing more than a mere fairytale. This book has been his little pet project for quite some time. Perhaps five decades by now? Or was it ten? A hundred years sounds about right, but so does three hundred…In any case, He’s been considering using some of these pages for assignments for third-years to decipher. The script was written in a rather archaic fae language, one that he had no problem with reading, but one he had to take his time with. He ought to brush up on his skills a bit more- this book was the only practice he got with his language in quite some time. Crowley has yet to share this book with Trein or any others. Trein was an old fellow he trusted dearly, and his expertise on human history and magic was one of the finest in the land. But even then, Trein could not yet be privy to this book. Crowley wanted- no, needed- just a bit more time with it.

The photo quality in the journal improved the more he flipped. Technology has improved more swiftly than a blink of an eye. The photos became sharper, losing the grain and burned spotting. Color livened up the monochromatic photos, making its subjects look more alive than ever. As he reached the most recent page, Crowley slid the Ghost Camera photo into the journal, snug in its enclosure of vinyl. The Ghost Camera projections could no longer burst out, the floating lights in his room dissipating into nothingness.

Crowley squinted in the dark of his office, trying to make out the album but to no avail. Oh, how silly of him to forget to light his candles tonight. A brief tap of the candelabra’s wax cast a harsh purple flame in the room. He admittedly preferred the docile fireflies, but this would do for now. He would retire to his bedchambers in just a minute anyway.

Crowley flipped back and forth between the book pages. He’s noticed it quite long ago, but there was a woman depicted in this journal that resembled Malleus all too greatly. Photographs weren’t all too reliable in those days, so there were countless of her in the thin pages, likely mimicking royal paintings. Whoever drew her must have had quite the fancy for her, as there were miniature pieces made from paint, charcoal, and oils. Due to the withering of the journal, the paint has long since lost its saturation, and the charcoal sketches of her figure were smudged. Some of her features were indecipherable, but the curves and ridges of her horns were undoubtably the same as the fae student.

He detested those statues Malleus admired, but those same monstrous features of horns and talons were quite enchanting on this woman. He could not blame the artist’s fancy. With swift gestures made of various mediums, the artist captured not only all her silver regality, but also moments of intimate repose as she slept. Lucky devil, the artist was, to have such a closeness to this lady. Judging from the name he managed to decipher, Meleanor Draconia must be a distant relative of Malleus. Well, distant as she could be, with Malleus’ features being a replica of hers.

Despite being a princess of the Draconia family, Meleanor hardly appeared in the historical texts Crowley could get his hands on, even in the castle he found this journal in. Any scrolls and painting were no doubt raided. Her castle showed signs of being taken over by a rivaling kingdom, with thrones being crudely painted over and banners poorly replaced, and until it too fell. Traces of her beauty were lost to time and conquest, burned beyond repair.

What an embarrassment, to mourn over a woman as if he knew her. But thinking of the liveliness fading from her eyes, her waterfall of hair flowing no longer…it made him want to rest alongside her grave all over again. Crowley could no longer blame the eldest Shroud for his obsession over those characters of his. Perhaps in his own way, Shroud felt a connection to fiction, to the lives unlike his own: stories of grandeur and freedom, of love and triumph. Or perhaps it was a case of usual teenage ennui, and Shroud really ought to get more friends in real life. Speaking of, his parents would not stop pestering Crowley with emails of how Shroud was doing. How’s he getting along at school? Has he made new friends? Has he been practiced healthier eating habits?

How was he supposed to know?! Wouldn’t the younger Shroud have a more accurate report on this?!

But like any respectable and humble Headmage, Crowley responded to each parental concern with complete sincerity. Not because these were the heads of Styx or anything. Perhaps he fudged the truth a bit, but if it made them happier, the better it was for his well-being.

As he shifted in his chair, his spine cracked in the most unpleasant of ways. Oh dear, he truly has been sitting here for far too long. Where was he again? Right, the journal. The journal. His journal. The woman. Meleanor.

The later pages depicted drawings of her with a child- or rather, an egg speckled with stars. Her eyes glowed brighter than any treasure as she cradled her pride and joy. His throat tightened. How unfortunate indeed, that such a life was cut short. Meleanor undoubtedly perished before the hatching of her child, as the journal no longer depicted her beauty. After the last drawing of her curled up and napping with the egg, there were pages upon pages marred with furious stabs of ink.

Her death brought many questions to Crowley. There were infinite possibilities of how her life could have played out if she lived. But in regards to her egg- which, who knew if survived or not- would she have been the doting mother that Shroud’s family was?

Based on the depictions of her alone, Crowley could imagine how she’d coo over the egg as she decided on a name.

“If it’s a girl,” Her spouse began, before Meleanor swiftly cut him off.

“A boy,” She said firmly. “He will be a prince, I’m sure of it.”

Her spouse’s eyes twinkled in amusement, a wry grin on his face. “Is that so? How can you be so sure?”

“A mother’s intuition!”

Levan pressed an ear to the egg. He could feel the soft thumping of a heartbeat inside, his and Meleanor’s blood circulating inside. Nothing really told him whether or not their child was a boy. But Meleanor was likely right, anyhow. “And a father’s intuition tells me that you’re right! So what manner of a name shall we crown our little prince? Mmmm…Maximilius? Melly?” Those were silly names and he knew it, but he enjoyed the way Meleanor giggled. She laughed the same way she did as a child, rather scandulously but filled with mirth.

“Dearest, don’t be so daft! I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Malleus’. Don’t you think it sounds like both of our names?”

It sounded nothing like his name, to be honest. But he’d humor Meleanor and her antics. “Well…I suppose if you sound it out very generously, it does sound a bit like me. Or perhaps more like Lilia? In any case, Malleus has quite the ring to it. I quite like it, my dear.”

Gently lifting the egg from Meleanor’s arms to cradle it himself, he caressed the egg, the bumps and ridges of it reminding him of the feel of Meleanor’s horns. A malevolent star, this child would be. One that would break Crowley’s heart into pieces, yet the shards of himself would still manage to love and love and love, even when little of who he was remained. Malleus. Dear Malleus. Please, do forgive me.

Oh, how times have changed, and how much his little star grew. His star burned bright to the point when Crowley tore his eyes away, the silhouette was burned into his eyes, floating in his vision no matter where he looked, taunting him even as he closed his eyes to rest.

The flow of her hair, the cutting edge of her jaw, and the hundreds of needles serving as her eyelashes. From the way his eyes fit in his skull, to the degree of his cheekbones, Malleus’ features stitched together in a mockery of her beauty. So close, but not quite as Crowley remembered it to be.

His breath shuddering and throat tight, Crowley flipped back the most recent pages, with the new Ghost Camera photograph still safely inside. He slipped the photo out of the vinyl to write in the margins. Uncapping a bottle of ink, Crowley scribbled down today’s date with his quill underneath the photograph to keep track of time. The nib of the quill scratched against the pages as he did. Suddenly, Crowley paused in his writing. He craned his head to look at his desk calender, tapping on his phone to confirm it.

January 18th?

No, surely it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Yet the spread of information confirmed it, his eyes refusing to be deceived. Crowley grimaced. Yet another set of birthday celebrations would be held for the prince of Briar Valley. Crowley had ordered the decorations long in advance, stretching out the school’s budget just a tad for the extravagance of it all. As the Headmage, it was suitable that he showed up at any birthday of his students. He’d had to remind the Ramshackle prefect to take plently of photos of this celebration. He doubted the prefect would forget, but a reminder wouldn’t hurt. He’d like the capture Malleus’ toothy smile, and his uproarious laughter as he got along with his peers. His little star grew so much. Growing ever more distant, growing ever so bright. Perhaps Meleanor would like to see the photographs of Malleus’ birthday celebration when she came home. Tomorrow he’ll meet her again, with today all being a nightmare, hours stretching into days and months and years and centuries and-

With a startled jerk of his hand, Crowley realized a pool of ink built into the photograph due to him not moving the quill, staining several of the journal pages underneath. His thumb and fingers squeezes around the useless feather. The fireflies in the photograph were obscured with blots of ink. Malleus’ face had ink running up it, and Crowley desperately tried to save at least the view of his emerald eyes. His hand ended up smudging the ink further, his little star’s face hidden for good. The quill in Crowley’s hands snapped from the pressure, ink splattering over his suit and hands. A black substance soaked up into the paper, spreading among the delicate fibers.

As if broken out of a trance, Crowley stumbled out of his chair to see the damage done on his clothes. More damage seemed to be inflicted on his neck and back, as he winced from the sharp aches in his body.

He hasn’t been feeling like himself for a long time. He hasn’t been well for quite a long time.

With deep, shuddering breathes, Crowley felt the ink stains on his previously pristine white sleeves soaked into his skin through the fabric. How unsightly. He would have to go to a dry-cleaners posthaste when it opened up in the morning.

Crowley picked up the Ghost Camera photo, ink dripping from the ruined film. No longer did the fireflies burst from its frame, as the ink covered its main subject. Crowley’s hands trembled as the photo crinkled in his grip. His entire hands, covered with ink he couldn’t remove. His entire face, covered with ink he couldn’t remove. Felt it circulating through his body, his blood no longer his own alongside his heart. His little star was no longer his, as any part of who he originally was broke a long time ago.

A warm glow filtered into his office through the laced windows. Daytime.

Surely it hasn’t been all night? He only settled in at his desk just a few minutes ago, surely. There were already hushed and bleary voices coming from down below, as the students were rising for breakfast. Oh dear, there wouldn’t even be time for him to take a nap! At least the dry cleaners would be open soon. He could clean up this mess and forget any of it ever happened.

Crowley took one last lingering stare at the crumpled and stained photograph of Malleus, before summoning a flickering fire at his fingertip, light glinting off his golden claws. Within seconds, the stranger in the photo began to burn, edges crinkling into themselves. How amusing it was, for how easily his life’s work could be turned to ash in one simple moment. The ashes intermingled with the puddles of ink on his desk, creating a horrible concoction of his own foolishness.

Crowley locked up his journal into his desk drawer again, keeping it safe from further harm. Readjusting his coat and composure, he stepped out his office and locked the door without a single glance back. Meleanor only existed in his drawings and scatterings of his memory- but he’d have the real thing someday soon. The gestures of her figure would come to life, and everything would be the way it was again. He couldn’t quite recall those times, but surely those days were better. Anything over today. Anything over Malleus. He couldn’t stand the mockery of Meleanor’s features no longer- and yet today was a celebration of her son’s life. If only she didn’t sacrifice herself. If only she had left their precious unhatched pride and joy behind. Anything over Malleus. Anything for Meleanor.

Somewhere deep, deep inside, a quiet guilt cried out.

But he loved her more.

______________________

Haha, I apologize if parts of this story felt disorienting! I feel like in my vision of Crowley, his own inner thoughts are rather conflicting, as if he himself cant get the story right. Whether he quite literally can’t get the details right, or just refuses to comprehend his own tragedy- his thoughts spiral quite easily. I hope in the end, it made sense regardless of how strange some sections were. I have a lot of fun with the Crowley-is-Levan theory. I imagine many different interpretations with him, but this one, I took the approach of him being both sadly confused and in denial of his own memories. His own inner dialogue is confused whether he is Levan or that Levan is a desperate entity- and I think Crowley’s guilt has made it that he can hardly recognize himself anymore. He holds a great love for Malleus, but Crowley isn’t always in the healthiest state of mind. I hoped you enjoyed reading, thank you for taking the time to do so! ^o^