MALLOS
Mallos reaches down to scratch Celidon behind the ears absently, his attention still focused on Tristan. He considers briefly how much better behaved Tristan is than he had been at Tristan’s age, before acknowledging that their situations were slightly different. For a start, he hadn’t had a father to rebel against. For a second, when he was Tris’s age no one had really expected anything of him anyway; the fact that he was one of the originals was as yet not known (at least not widely), and being blind had tended to render him useless in most people’s eyes. It wasn’t until the age of about twenty, after he had been deified and his defect cured, that expectations began to develop. Perhaps then, in some ways, his childhood had been less restricting than his grandson’s.
“The best kind of trouble,” he grins in response to Tris’s comments about girls. Honestly, Mallos cannot remember how old he was when he started showing an interest in girls (or boys). Thoth, whom he visits every now and again, has already shown signs of interest in the opposite sex – but, then, Thoth doesn’t seem to age like normal people. He gets that from his mother. As the prince moves on to mention his father, Mallos shakes his head and waves a finger at him as a teacher might at an incorrect answer. “Rule one of the original fairies,” he informs him, “never assume, especially if you are assuming you know what we want.”
Without caring to elaborate on this, he vaults easily over the fence and joins Tristan on the other side. “I just spoke to your father, and he says the session is over,” he adds casually. “You can take your armour off. I don’t want to talk to a soldier; soldiers are boring.”
While Tristan complies, Mallos wanders over to the semi-intact mannequin and studies it carefully, gaining an impression of the boy’s sword style from the type and angle of damage. Seems to be similar to Arthur’s, which would make sense. Arthur is excellent at hacking down enemies, but that’s only any use in a war situation… for other circumstances (picking up girls) there are some much more effective styles. In reality Tristan will probably be able a sword in other circumstances (picking up girls) more than he will be able to use it in a real war, so Mallos makes a mental note to include a few tips in some lessons later down the line. He doesn’t comment aloud, but simply stands by the mannequin until Tristan has removed the last of his armour and joined him there.
“Do you know what mañana means?” He asks thoughtfully while still looking at the mannequin. “Your Spanish language is okay but your culture lacking. An Englishman who speaks Spanish will tell you that mañana simply means ‘tomorrow’, but a Spaniard will tell you that there is a deeper cultural meaning. In Spain, mañana just means ‘later’ – maybe tomorrow, maybe five years from now.” He gestures to the mannequin. “You can do this mañana - your other work too. You have more important things to do. Like…” He scans the local area, shielding his eyes from the sun and considering the matter carefully. “Racing me to that lake. I bet you can’t run faster.”
He gives a second or so for this to register before taking off taking off in the direction of the water, which is several hundred yards away. With the exception of the fence, it’s a straight run with no obstacles; as before, he vaults over it without a thought but continues at a slightly slower speed to give Tristan a chance to catch up. They’re neck and neck for a few seconds, then Mallos slows a little more and ducks behind him, keeping close on the prince’s heels. When the finish line is only a few yards away, he puts on a little spurt of speed and picks Tristan up from behind, skids the last few feet and uses the forward momentum to hurl his grandson into the lake. Mallos knows from previous experience that the edge drops down about two metres, and he’s fairly sure that Arthur will have taught Tristan how to swim, so he feels no worry at all as he watches the nine year-old vanish beneath the surface with a satisfying splash. As Tris re-emerges, he surveys him with a mischievous smile.
“I guess you won the race,” he shrugs, “but at least I’m still dry.”
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