MALLOS
“The situation now is not so different,” the Spaniard replied as Arthur picked the goblet up and moved it across the desk. “The numbers of hypnotists are few, and the strongest of those is still on your side.”
Modesty never did suit Mallos.
He could not remember consciously sneaking into Arthur’s mind before, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t. It was almost certain that he had at the very least sifted through the king’s surface thoughts on their first meeting. Mallos’ psychic abilities were as a part of him as his arms and legs, and used them more through force of habit than any great need. Having Gwythr break into his mind and steal his memories, and spending so long on Shaman without magic or mental barriers, had taught him more about the sanctity of privacy and for the most part he had left others’ minds alone in more recent years. Arthur was fortunate to be knowing him now and not a thousand years ago. Acceptance that Mallos had this power and that he used it, however, had to be adopted by those who wanted to know him; he had done so for thousands of years, and was unlikely to change any time soon.
The revelation that Arthur and Aura had fostered a psychic link was such a surprise that, for a moment, it showed visibly. Mallos’ face was unchanged, but the hand which had been lightly tapping rhythm against the arm of the chair paused for a beat before continuing. This information was all new, and Mallos wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to make of it. An assurance that if he ever got carted away to a lunatic’s dungeon to be tortured, Arthur would be able to telepathically contact him? A request to have a similar setup, one which is hardly used? A test to see how he’d react?
‘Maybe,’ Sperantia said quietly from the back of his mind where she’d been listening in, ‘it’s just an understanding that when a connection is made, help can be sent both ways. You don’t have to face the world alone, either.’
To which Mallos responded in the only way he appropriately would: by shunting her out of his mind and refusing to answer. Sperantia was wrong, of course. The link could be equalised, but only to maximise its original and only purpose: Arthur’s protection. Mallos didn’t need protection. He could take care of himself.
He nodded once in recognition of the king’s decision, choosing to ignore the clause about comfort and implications. If he wasn’t happy with it being done, he wouldn’t have offered in the first place – Arthur should know that. He leant forward slightly in his chair, already turning his mind to how best to proceed, but paused for a fraction of a second when Arthur thanked him. That in itself wasn’t a greatly common occurrence – even when he did help people, Mallos usually purported the success too arrogantly or demanded some kind of payment for others to thank him for his services – but the phrase which jarred slightly was the final one: my friend. Nobody had called him that for over a thousand years. He’d returned from the Alhambra pit to find all his friends dead bar Aura, and neither of them had ever been emotionally outward enough to explicitly state their relationship to each other.
It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, just an unfamiliar one.
He stood, non-verbally indicating that Arthur should do the same, before he gently placed his fingers over the other man’s temples and closed his eyes. A grumpy Sperantia was allowed re-entry to his mind in order to attain her assurance on the best method of procedure, and then he ignited his divinity. Mallos had the presence of mind to mutter, “If there’s anything you don’t want me to see, imagine a wall around it,” before delving carefully in, doing his best to ignore the foreign thoughts, feelings and memories floating around. He reached the metaphorical centre of Arthur’s mind easily and forged the connection there, taking the time and effort to ensure it was strong enough to withstand long-distance. Like a true cat, Sperantia helped by supervising and criticising. Once the connection was made, Mallos retreated back into his own mind, opened his eyes and removed his hands from the king’s face. He left the connection open for a mind, giving Arthur time to familiarise himself with the feel of his mind, and frowned slightly as a thought occurred.
‘Does this mean I have to start thinking in English?’ He thought regretfully in that language, enabling Arthur to understand it. Sperantia chuckled.
‘Yes, and it means you have to stop smoking.’
‘That has nothing to do with psychic connections, Sperantia.’
‘Perhaps not, but it has everything to do with my hiding your cigarettes and putting up no-conjuring spells while the two of you were chatting.’
Mallos blocked her and Arthur out irritably and made a mental (private) note to unravel her no-conjuring spells later.
“That’s not a protection in itself,” he warned the king, “If you meet with a visitor, you have to open the connection and alert me – otherwise this is for nothing.”
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