also the one upside of breaking the fuck down mentally last night was that at some point i got sick of sobbing on the couch, so i grabbed my notebook that was on the table and started channeling all that misery into the upcoming vena cava chapter so yeah silver lining and all that jazz
I hope it won’t become a common occurrence, that would be rather stressful , : (
However, I have faith that you and others will keep Mal happy and safe : )
"thank you, I just pray that they'll eventually lay off him as he's having emotional complications, his emotional coding turns out to be missing a few things and he's been stressed over it so, there's a lot of heavy weight on his shoulders"
Seeing posts about what is going on in Twisted Wonderland Chapter 7, and all I can say is
Malleus is the only one who can actually say the both his parents died before he was born/ weren't their at his birth and it's true
Also I just wana know how did he look upon hatching. Like did he just look like a little dragon and then a more human form came later or did he have his humanoid/current appearance and just popped out of the egg
A look into Mal's origin story, my oc from @ghouljams cod Fae!au.
Warnings: Child in distress, and risk of drowning. The child doesn't actually drown, and the situation is resolved by the end.
In the moment, it didn’t occur to Maeve how sad it was that she was the only person struck with a sense of urgency at the noise coming from the well. No, it took her several days before the anguish, anger, and despair properly took her body and froze it stone cold. But we’re not there yet. We’re here in the now. And right now, there is a haunting, bone chilling wailing emanating from the well.
Maeve nearly falls in herself with how quickly she runs, pail forgotten as she peers over the edge. The desperate sound of a child’s scream echoes off of the stone walls and pierces her ears. But it’s the sight of the small child, face contorted in fear and confusion as it tries to find purchase on the wet stone that truly breaks her.
“Shhh, sweetheart. Ye’re alright, I’ll get you out don’t ye worry,” Maeve called down, calm and steady.
Unfortunately the communal bucket and rope were down the well with the child, who most likely pulled the free end of the rope out of its temporary mooring in an attempt to climb out. There would never be a time where Maeve was happiest to be a crafter, pulling a long length of cordage from her rucksack and tying a large loop on one end of it. When she was done she tossed it down, keeping a firm grip on the free end.
Over the continued panicking cries of the child she yelled, “Put your legs through and rest the loop under your bum sweet thing. Now grab the rope and hold tight.”
Fear and determination fuelled Maeve as she heaved, struggling against the weight of a sopping wet child as she slowly pulled them out of the well. There was a brief moment of terror where her hands slipped on the second half of the cordage that had become wet when it landed in the water. Despite the burning feeling of rough and woody fiber pulling through her palms she held fast, regaining her grip and pulling with all her strength. Bright red hair peaked over the edge of the well, and Maeve desperately held the tension in the cord with one hand as she reached out with the other, scooping up the child into her arms. They latched onto her like a leech, nearly squeezing the life out of her as they cried into her neck.
“There there, I’ve got ye now. Don’ worry a thing lovely,” she murmured, wrapping the child in her cloak, the bright yellow accompanying the mop of fiery red hair nicely.
By the time they walked home, the child had settled down somewhat in her arms, no longer crying the blood curdling scream from earlier, but still shouting and bawling something fierce. Out from the front door rushed her daughter, long flaxen hair streaming behind her as she came to investigate.
“Ma, who’s this?”, she said, poking at the bundle in her arms.
“I haven’t a clue darling, But first, let's get them warmed up. Feed the fire will you Niamh.”
Maeve sat in front of the fire, cradling the bundle in her arms as Niamh set it blazing hot. She cooed, humming under her breath and rocking gently. Niamh sat down next to her, watching intently as the child continued to cry, but said nothing. They sat there so long that her daughter fell asleep on her shoulder, snoring gently. And still they cried, and still Maeve soothed, all the way until the morning dawn. Only then, did the cries turn to sniffles, until finally they stopped completely.
“There we are,” she murmured, “feeling better darling?”
Pulling away from Maeve's shoulder, the child finally turned to face her for the first time, face still scrunched tight and wet with tears.
“Come now, relax,” she gently brushed her fingers over the child’s face, soothing worry lines and wrinkles until their face was lax and still in her hands.
“Open your eyes wee thing.”
Now, there were plenty of things Maeve was expecting, such as brown or maybe even blue eyes to peer back at her with the whites bloodshot and red from the river of tears.
What she was not expecting was the set of four large, perfectly circular black eyes staring back at her. To her credit, she did not flinch or otherwise spook at the sight, peculiar though it was. At that point in time, all she was concerned about was making sure the poor thing was alright.
The next thing that happened though, she did startle at. The child began to squirm, turning their head this way and that desperately in search of something. It wasn’t until they spotted Niamh did they stop their search, going stock still as they looked upon her daughter. Almost imperceptibly, the child pivoted their head at multiple angles, as if they were studying her. Then, their outline began to blur into the surrounding air, as if looking at a mirage on a hot day. Suddenly, they came back into crystal clear focus, except now in the shape of her sleeping daughter.
Maeve’s eyes widened in shock, arms squeezing slightly at the new development. Had she had too much to drink? Was this some elaborate nightmare? But the more she looked, the more she saw the differences. For a start their hair was still shockingly red as ever, but there were other things too. The mole was on the wrong side, and the scar across the brow Niamh had gotten as a toddler was missing, and a multitude of other small discrepancies revealed the poor attempt at what Maeve assumed was blending in.
She’d heard about creatures like this. Faeries swapping a human child with their own, tormenting their new family until it drove them into destitution and ruin. The child's eyes were still large and black, although seemingly reduced from four to two in the mimicking attempt. How could anyone believe that those eyes wished them harm? Staring up trustingly at her, completely at her mercy. She could have let them drown, or tossed them into the hot fire, and yet it trusted her not to.
“Do you have a name?” She wondered aloud. Just as she wondered if they knew how to talk, the child spoke.
“My name is Malcontent,” they whispered, thankfully not in Niamh’s voice. Maeve didn’t know if she could keep it together if they did.
Pity crossed her features, “What a terrible name for a child. We should change it to something more pleasant.”
“NO!” Malcontent screamed, face contorted in anger, “My name is Malcontent!”
The irony of the situation did not escape her, “Why would your parents give you such a name?”
Like a switch, anger was replaced with sadness, “My parents didn’t give me that name. The ones they left me with gave it to me. Kept saying how I couldn’t be their child cause their angel was never as unhappy and angry as I was. I just wanted to go home. But I don’t know how.”
Maeve listened intently, tears poking at the corners of her eyes, “You sure have a lot of words for a child so small.” To that, Malcontent had no response, so she continued, “It was unfair of them to give you such a burdening name. Names have power, and what else could you do but be upset and angry and sad being called something like Malcontent all day?”
“But I was sad and angry and upset before them. And I always will be,” they mutter determinedly.
Maeve made one last attempt, “I think you should consider trying another name for a while. See how it feels?”
“Fine. But I don’t know many names.” they scowled, as if inconvenienced by the fact that Maeve was trying to save them from the most upsetting name she had ever heard.
She paused, thinking of the options. There were a multitude of names to choose from, many of which could be a fitting and pleasant name to bear. However, it also felt wrong to completely wash over and erase a part of this child's history and experiences.
Mal reappeared carrying a big brown paper bag full of socks, all in bright colours. He passed the bag to John first. He grabbed it in great delight. He chose several pairs of orange terry towelling socks, then passed the bag round for the others to have a dip. The previous night he had said, just in passing, 'Socks, Mal.' After the socks had been handed out, Paul asked Mal if he had managed to get any real mystery tour posters. Mal said he had been round the bus stations all day looking for them. But he couldn't find any. They had hoped that some real posters would have given them some ideas for the words of the song. Instead they all tried again to think of some good words, apart from 'Roll Up, Roll Up', which was still all they'd got. As they shouted ideas, Mal wrote them all down. 'Reservation', 'Invitation', 'Trip of a lifetime', 'Satisfaction guaranteed'. But they soon got fed up. They decided they would just sing any words that came into their heads, just to see what happened. So they did.
Hunter Davies, The Beatles: The Only Ever Authorised Biography
