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It’s shortly after the whole Strykore affair is settled and done with that the little purple menace seeks him out.
He drops down with his head hung low and his eyes scanning the ground. If Malefor couldn’t recognize the look of a molting dragon, he’d likely have responded with violence. But the poor boy’s scales were horribly discolored and he was shuffling his wings like he couldn’t find relief.
“Do you need something?” He tries to sound menacing as he leans in close and snorts a puff of smoke at the boy, but the paternal instincts far outweigh whatever grievances he had with the boy’s kind.
Spyro speaks through grit teeth, “I’m- I’m in a- a lotta pain right- right now-” he shakes his wings, scales flake and fall off and his eyes widen. The sheer terror in his expression gives Malefor pause, “sorry. I’m- I’m sorry-” he tucks his wings against his sides, eyes narrowing, “I didn’t- I didn’t mean to-”
Malefor flaps his large, large wings once and in an instant the scales are lifted into the air and swept away by the breeze, “they’re only old scales, you can rid yourself of them now. They no longer serve you.” He answers patiently. “What do you need?” He asks again, he’s never seen a reaction quite like this.
Spyro gulps audibly, “I don’t- I don’t know-” he gasps out, "I’ve never- I’ve never done any-anything for this.” He sounds like he’s holding back sobs, “I just- I just stay in my room- s-so no one sees the- the scales fall-” he chokes, it sounds like a garbled sob, “Cynder says- says there’s stuff th-that helps.” He shakes his wings, Malefor shows him mercy and presses down on his back until he gives up on resisting and lets his stomach hit the cool stone. He almost relaxes, wings drooping for a split second before he’s tensing again, eyes moving around wildly, “what-”
Malefor shushes him, “count backwards from a hundred,” he instructs, “focus on counting.” Spyro does, counting aloud and eyeing him in distrust.
He grabs a bit of discolored scales, dry and stuck together painfully, then, as little as he wants to, he tugs. The dead skin gives quickly, but he can hear the pain, Spyro sobbing on 80 and thrashing in his hold. He doesn’t let up until it’s off his wing, then he moves onto the next one despite Spyro sniffling and pleading with him not to. When it’s finally off, he releases the boy and shoots a message to Cynder, telling her to bring post-molting salve.
Spyro’s shaking with the force of his sobs.
Cynder narrows her eyes when she sees him, then she spots the scales that came off his wings and frowns.
“Are you molting?” She asks.
He nods, still teary eyed. “Sorry-” he rasps, “I didn’t mean to-”
“Shut it,” Malefor growls, “you’ve got nothing to apologize for, everyone molts.”
Spyro shakes his head.
“This might hurt,” Cynder warns, getting closer to help apply the salve. She holds it up to Malefor, who tends to Spyro’s other wing at the same moment.
He gasps and jerks away.
Malefor presses down on his back again, “what number were you up to?”
“S-Seventy-s-si-ix.” He sniffles and begins counting again.
When it’s done, Malefor drags the tip of one talon lightly over the plates on Spyro’s back and the effect is instant. He practically melts into the ground.
He sniffles again and Malefor finally feels like asking, “why do you keep apologizing? It’s just molting.”
Spyro coughs and sobs harshly, squirming listlessly in a way they can tell cools the stinging burn of molting. “B-because-” he grits out, mucus running into his mouth, “no-body e-lse ev-er molts,” he’s hiccuping and sobbing, “I’m always- I’ve always been-” he turns his head to the ground, pressing his snout into the dirt, when he finally peeks up at them, it’s clinging to his nose, he sneezes before trying again, “people are mean,” he whines, rolling onto his plates and writhing on the ground like he’s being poked and prodded at, “I-I get looks, I get called n-names- made fun -of,” he chokes and sobs some more, “I got hit!” Cynder’s eyes widen, Malefor’s narrow. “I-I was- was in so much pain,” he claws at his eyes, Malefor flicks at either hand once and he stops, covering them instead with his palms, “and they hit me and made fun of me- said it was gross, I’m gross.” He wails, “I just wanna be normal! Why’d I get stuck with stupid horns and scales?”
Cynder’s tearing up, “Spyro…”
Malefor stares and frowns.
Finally, Spyro begins to wipe the tears from his eyes, “fine,” he rasps out, “I’m fine. It was years ago, I don’t- I don’t go to classes when I- I molt anymore. I just say I’m sick.”
Malefor’s eyes finally widen, “you were going to classes?!” He bellows, and Spyro flinches away.
“I couldn’t miss them! Eon would’ve-”
“You were molting!” Malefor’s never felt rage quite like this, burning hot all around like molten lava spewing during an eruption, “There’s a reason we allow people time off for molting! Even with-” All at once the red hot rage is replaced with a sinking feeling in his gut, cold dread filling every part of him, “you- you’ve never had any of our fixes.” Cynder lets out a pained gasp, Malefor almost does the same. “You’ve never used a molting bed cover or post-molting salve, have you?”
Spyro shakes his head miserably and flops back over to lay on his stomach, shifting around like he’s trying to put a dent in the island they stand on. “No, I- I couldn’t really- eat either, not till after. Then uh-” he looks from Cynder to Malefor and back again, “uh- I found a- er- not necessarily healthy fix, but it helped me eat and sleep, so,” Malefor assumes the way his shoulders twitch is his attempt at a shrug.
“Meaning…?”
Spyro curls in on himself, “pot. I- er- get high when I get like this, cause I get hungry and then I eat and drink till I feel better, and then I fall asleep before it can leave my system.”
For a long moment, no one says anything.
“We have- we have foods people purchase before they molt, it helps with their appetite, and it stays down.” He can’t imagine Cynder molting alone and afraid, disgusted with herself for something entirely natural; he can’t image her cowering in her room because she’s worried she’ll be attacked for molting; he can’t imagine her sobbing and apologizing for the scales that fall away; he can, but the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach and angrier than he thought possible. What a failure he’d feel like, if he ever found she felt remotely like how he seems to. “We’ll get you a bed covering, just send us measurements for- you do have a proper bed, yes?”
Spyro blinks, “I don’t know, it’s circular, cos that’s the most comfortable.”
Malefor nods, grateful that, if nothing else, the boy has a bed he can actually fall asleep on. “We’ll get you some fans too, one for molting and one for after. Cold air helps during, but heat helps following.”
Spyro squints, “cold air makes me freeze up, er- literally.”
Malefor nods, “we’re cold blooded, not all dragons are, but we are. When molting however, our internal temperature tends to rise with the effort of shedding our scales, as with our metabolism.” Another thought strikes him then, “have you- what did you do before you started… smoking?”
Spyro gives a weak smile, “lost a lotta weight mostly. First time it happened Eruptor kept trying to overfill my plate, him and Elf argued so much about it. She didn’t want to pressure me into overeating, but he kept arguing I wasn’t eating enough.”
“What did they say?” Did they keep you company? Offer you comfort when you needed it most?
He shrugs, “they mostly left me alone. I don’t think Elf liked seeing my scales around too much.”
Malefor growls before he can think better of it, and Spyro jumps.
“They weren’t trying to hurt me,” he says, “they just didn’t know. It’s fine, I didn’t either.”
Cynder begins to cry, “it’s not fine! That’s so- so awful! I can’t imagine being alone when I molt!”
Spyro tilts his head, “what?”
She sniffles, “usually you have company. I stay with my parents for most of it, but recently I’ve been doing video calls with my friends.”
Spyro nods numbly, “yeah, I uh, used to have company.”
Malefor quirks an eyebrow ridge and leans in dangerously close, “what changed?”
Spyro shrugs, “I got older, and felt like a bother. It was embarrassing, you know? Needing help like that. Made me feel like…” he gulps, refusing to make eye contact, eyes looking every which way wildly, “like I wasn’t good enough.” He moves his wings to shield his face and for a moment, their family’s rivalries mean nothing.
Malefor lifts him gently by the plates on his back, the plates towards the middle of his back and not the scruff of his neck that hadn’t faded properly the last time he picked him up. Then he settles on the ground, belly flat against the island, and curls himself into a circle. Cynder settles against his wrist, grabbing one of Spyro’s hands.
They sit in silence until Malefor continues, “I’ll have one of our doctor’s make you a booklet or something, and we’ll send supplies. You’ll never deal with this alone again.” Not if I can help it.
Spyro blinks and his expression becomes carefully blank, guarded, “thanks.” He whispers softly.
Despite the years and years of building walls to protect himself from the people that were supposed to be protecting him, Malefor doesn’t think he’s ever looked more like a child. It’s that thought that has him curling his tail closer to the two, shielding them from the harsh world around them. He was a parent to his core, even if it was the enemy’s child he was defending, it was still a child.
He’s made a good number of mistakes in his lifetime, though he’d never admit this outloud, but letting Spyro continue to be uncared for- properly at least- will no longer be one of them. It’ll never be one of them again.