MALLOS
It took an overwhelming effort to bite back the churning sense of disobedience and not contradict Arthur’s orders by healing Tristan anyway. Unfortunately for the king, he had caught Mallos in a particularly unruly mood and, if possible, he was more inclined to defy for defiance’s sake than usual. The rebellious mood put together with the turmoil of emotions since receiving Arthur’s message to the present was not a good combination in anyone, let alone a nearly omnipotent deity. Mallos was not used to worrying. He had never had to worry about his friends, who could protect themselves with their own divinity; or about Estefania, who had been protected by his. Prior to being locked beneath the Alhambra, he had never had to worry about himself or his future. Before Shaman and with the exception of Estefania, he had never had any family to worry over. The sensation was unpleasant and, he believed, wholly avoidable with divinity if only Arthur would get over his aversion and allow him to help.
The internal conflict did not show on his face, but Sperantia betrayed it. She dropped the letter on the floor and hurried back over to the bed, where she pressed her body against Mallos’ leg to remind him that she was there. He didn’t re-open his mind to her, but the warmth of her body did pull him back to earth long enough to recognise the limits of divinity. Mallos wasn’t stupid – he understood that actions had consequences, and that mortals understood those consequences better than the originals, because divinity allowed deities to ignore them. For the last thousand years, Mallos had not been there to protect Estefania. He couldn’t protect Aura in the heart of the Earth. And if this war against the ancient creature took a turn for the worse, he couldn’t be there to protect Tristan either – which meant he had to trust that Arthur’s understanding of consequence, and his ability to bring up children, was more acute than his own.
Sensing that he had reached an accord, but that he was not necessarily happy with it, Sperantia abandoned his side in favour of the letter but didn’t try to push it on him again. Mallos’ strained mood, which was not detectable by his body language, facial expression or aura, was such that he was inclined to snap at the next person who got on the wrong side of him. He didn’t snap verbally like normal people, either – Sperantia distinctly remembered the occasion when he had turned her into a guinea pig after she had nagged him once too often about something entirely forgettable. Fortunately for Arthur and Tristan, he was unlikely to take his bad temper out on either of them, but Sperantia didn’t fancy the chances of any courtiers, guards or staff who tried to stop him for a conversation on their way out. She shot the king a look which warned him to tread more carefully than usual, and was glad when he confined his disapproval of Mallos’ question to a facial expression.
He pulled a slight face at Arthur’s rhetorical question. “That’s a royal we, I hope,” he responded in a mild tone which give away nothing of his internal frustration. “I’m not going near that woman.”
Tristan’s statement and its touch of personality brought a little wave of relief which went some way towards easing the mood. Sperantia smirked, remembering the last time Mallos had met the cook, but wisely said nothing. She quietly slipped the letter into one of Arthur’s pockets, the one faced away from the Spaniard, and connected with his mind.
‘Get him to read that when we leave, if you can,’ she sighed over the psychic connection. ‘He’s more likely to listen to you.’
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