MALLOS
Mallos raises his eyebrows a fraction. “Neither are necessary, of course,” he replies in a slightly dismissive tone, “not for me. Some of the other originals, yes… have you ever seen Gwythr trying to talk to girls?” He makes a noise of derision. “He would have better luck pretending to be me more often.”
Arthur’s tone is notably lighter, and some of the lines have dropped from his face. For a healthy mourning period, two things are of necessity: time to think about what was lost, and time to be distracted from thinking about what was lost. One could argue that Arthur’s work should be distraction enough, but performing dull, mediocre, stressful tasks is not a good way to relieve the mind. Mallos also knows from personal experience that those with the most power rarely have the most friends. It’s difficult – as Arthur says – to extricate those who appreciate the personality from those who appreciate the crown, and it’s easy for one to spend his life worrying about sorting the difference.
For Mallos, there is an additional problem that Arthur doesn’t have: immortality. Ordinary fairies’ lives are so fleeting to him that they’re rarely worth the time and effort to create close bonds with. This place and time is an exception, because in the here and the now, he has children. The fact that he’ll outlive most if not all of them is something that cannot be dwelled on, because the very thought would impede his experiences. Likewise, Arthur cannot afford to spend his days wondering who is genuine and who isn’t; with time and careful observation, the fakes are nearly always distinguishable from the real thing.
The Spaniard doesn’t answer the Englishman’s question about celery verbally, but he does pull a face to indicate his feelings. Arthur continues on the subject of Tristan, to which Mallos responds with the occasional nod to show understanding. At the final question, he does laugh out loud.
“No sex education,” he confirms. “Boring classes only.”
He smiles slightly as Arthur moves the paperwork around to the correct piles, a mischievous gleam uncannily similar to how Tristan often looks awakening in his eyes. Without explanation, Mallos picks up a different piece of paper and moves it onto another pile. The tiny, harmless act of rebellion has no real purpose, as the light expression on his face indicates.
“I was a king once,” he says reflectively after a moment, picking up Arthur’s paperweight and moving it across to the other side of the table. “The king of Spain died without an heir and I was, unfortunately, the most favoured courtier. I abdicated after two days.” He picks up the quill Arthur had been using to write with and waves it lightly in front of the king’s face. “Rubbish job. No time to myself, no sex life, lots of paperwork, lots of meetings with boring people… and there is always that one person who is annoying you, and you can’t just tell them to fuck off.” He grins impishly and drops the quill onto the floor, before leaning back in the chair and adding, “They usually do it on purpose too, the bastards.”
He places his hands behind his head in the universal image of showing ease, watching to see how Arthur will respond. After a few minutes, as if in afterthought, he continues. “Maybe what a king needs sometimes to run a kingdom efficiently is a little time away. Maybe he needs to take a boat or a horse for a week and go and explore somewhere.”
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