I may not always know what's right, but I know I want you here tonight.

Continued on from
Version xiv switchover plots, part nine.
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The piece of paper contained just two words, Shaman and Earth, each with a corresponding string of numbers. Neither were recognisable. Now that he had something tangible to focus on, his attention narrowed and honed in on one of the sets of numbers. Without even sparing Mordred a final glance, Mallos vanished with a crack and a gleam of yellow light.

He reappeared in a dark cave with the sound of wind and waves crashing behind him. The rocky walls were just high enough that he could stand without needing to stoop, and wide enough to stand about three men abreast, but not deep enough to beyond his line of sight. Mallos barely noticed the tall, artificially square artefact wedged into the back of the cave, the spray of the rain against the back of his neck, or the gleam of fool’s gold embedded into the craggy ceiling; he only had eyes for the dim outline of a small child, lying stationary on the ground. Heart pounding in his ears, Mallos closed the distance between them, dropped to his knees and pulled his daughter close to his chest. She stirred.

“Daddy?” She mumbled sleepily, rubbing her eye with one tiny, curled fist. Her head slumped against his shoulder.

“I’m here.” He had both of his arms wrapped around her, her chest pressed so tightly against his that he could feel her heart beating. It was slower than his. Her little fingers curled over his collar.

“Daddy,” she gasped, “too tight.”

It took a conscious effort to loosen his grip. Ángela mumbled something incoherent and relaxed in his arms, unhurt, ignorant of the day’s events, completely trusting. Her eyes closed and her head lolled against his shoulder as she drifted back off into the instant sleep that only young children seem to be able to manage. Mallos stood up slowly, careful not to wake her, took a breath and teleported back into his drawing room.

Espinosa was there, apparently giving orders to two other female members of the household staff; she broke off when her employer reappeared. The rest of the room was unchanged: Sperantia’s body still lay on the windowsill where Mallos had left her, her breathing chest the only movement; the spilled mug of coffee was still on the floor; the cushion on the armchair was still rumpled where he’d sat on it. The only difference was the view from the window. Dawn had now fully broken, the gleaming sun sat atop the horizon, and a trail of grumpy-looking nobles with suitcases were being directed onto the lawn outside by Alvarez.

Juanita and Loida, the two younger women Espinosa was talking to, inhaled sharply at the exact same time.

“Ooooh, is this the Lady Ángela?” Loida asked in Spanish, her eyes lit up like stars.

“Sooo precious.” Juanita clapped her hands to her cheeks.

“Ladies.” Espinosa scolded them in an exasperated tone. “Master Edward is upstairs asleep, sir. Do you want me to return to the kitchen?”

Mallos shook his head mutely, cradling his daughter, and glanced at the two younger staff members. Espinosa caught his look and immediately instructed them to go and see if any of the courtiers needed help vacating their suites. Mallos waited until they’d trudged out before turning Ángela over to Espinosa’s waiting arms. There was a brief, awkward moment where they both held her, since he wasn’t quite willing to let her go, before he reluctantly released his grip. Espinosa transferred the child to her hip, supporting Ángie’s head with her shoulder. Fortunately, the little girl didn’t wake up and start screaming the place down.

Like all the best staff, Espinosa seemed to know what to do without needing to be told. With a brief nod to her employer, she marched out of the room after the two younger women, her spare hand arched protectively around Ángela. Mallos tore his gaze away from his daughter, extracted the piece of paper from his pocket and honed in on the last set of coordinates. Once more, he teleported.

This time, he reappeared in what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Bright daylight and the sounds of a busy city seeped under the cracks of a huge, wooden double door secured with rusty chains. Stacks of cardboard boxes formed a maze taller than Mallos; some of them even even knocked against the dusty, open light bulbs dangling from wires on the ceiling. The only movement came from the shadows of people visible through the crack under the door as they walked past on the pavement. The warehouse was devoid of any kind of life.

“Croe?” Mallos called. A car horn blasted angrily from outside. He kicked a lone box to one side and shoved two more off a pile so that he could see past them. “Croe!”

No answer.

A chill ran down Mallos’ spine. He started at the sound of a car door slamming outside; it sounded for a second like a gunshot. Kicking two more boxes aside, he vaulted over a third, scanning the room. He was about to call her name for the third time, louder still, when his voice caught in his throat. There, among the sandy brown boxes. Was that a glimmer of black…?

Mallos wasn’t aware of how he got there. He might have teleported, but for some reason there was a straight line of destruction between where he had been standing and where he now crouched: boxes squashed or thrown aside, some burst open with contents smashed on the floor. One second he was stood by the double doors, the next he was kneeling precariously across two boxes, staring down at the very still body of his lover. Croe was strewn across about four boxes as if she’d been thrown there - or had fallen. She lay face up in her dark work clothes, her limbs entangled in awkward positions, her eyes closed. Mallos’ heart stopped in the moment before he realised that her chest was gently moving up and down.

Carefully, he slid one arm under her upper back and the other beneath her knees, lifting her up and towards him. The two boxes he was kneeling on teetered uncertainly, but Croe didn’t move. Her head lolled back over his arm and her limbs hung limply. He pulled her in and closed his eyes, imagining they were home.

This time, when the burst of familiar yellow light subsided to reveal the drawing room, it was empty of all people except the sleeping Sperantia. He lowered Croe’s legs to the floor and cupped his now-free hand under her chin, pulling her head forward.

“Croe, wake up.” He gave her a little shake. “Please.”

She didn’t so much as stir. Mallos gave her another shake, slightly harder this time, and said her name louder. He shifted his hand to her neck, double-checking the pulse, and leaned forward to make sure she was breathing. He ran his hand around the back of her head, down her torso and legs, searching for something - anything - to explain what was happening. There was no obvious damage to the back of her head - could feasibly have been a bruise, but it wasn’t visible beneath the thick hair - and she didn’t seem hurt anywhere. He tried to connect with her psychically but was met with nothing but the calm, sleeping mind. If she was just asleep, why wouldn’t she wake up?

“Croe, come on.” He tried again - quieter now, more pleading. “Croe. Nepenthe.”

Nothing. Mallos pushed his hand through his hair and glanced over at the windowsill to where Sperantia was still lying. She wouldn’t wake up for hours at least. When Mallos used up all his energy and crashed out like that, he usually slept for a good fifteen or sixteen hours - but it was still possible for other people to wake him up.

He turned away from Sperantia and desperately scoured the room, searching for something - anything - which might be able to penetrate slumber. A bell? A whistle? There was nothing like that in here. The drawing room had the air of a show room in an old, antiquated house which had been opened to the public for historical purposes: it was meticulously tidy and devoid of any sign that anyone actually lived there. Alvarez and Espinosa’s cold coffee jug was the only thing on the low coffee table, and the sofa and armchairs were empty apart from decorative silk cushions. There was a fireplace with an empty mantlepiece to his left, the window to his right, and a bookcase featuring classics which no one actually read. Alice Through the Looking Glass was sat, ever untouched, next to Great Expectations. Mallos’ dark eyes passed over each of the spines before settling on a particularly thin book on the far lower shelf: Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

He returned his hand to her face, cupping the underside of her jaw and gently stroking her cheek with his thumb. After a brief hesitation, he lowered his head and kissed her. Her lips were warm but unresponsive.

Mallos sat back, feeling as though his chest might cleave in two. The teleporting around and the fire in the castle had worn down what little energy Sperantia had been able to give him; darkness was creeping at the corners of his eyes and his arms were shaking, although whether from emotion or exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. Think. He had to think. There was always a way around everything if he could just think.

In Snow White, wasn’t it true love’s kiss which had broken the sleeping curse? Mallos inhaled, mentally trying to pull up everything he loved about Croe. Her smile. The gleam in her eye when she caught him doing something anyone else would have told him off for. The little shiver she gave whenever he touched her wrists, the most sensitive part of her body, and the tug of her hands on his collar. Her witty retorts and the way she leant in to every kiss. The movement of her hands as she’d spread her healing ointment on his chest after having saved his life. When she’d told him she’d kill for him, when she’d let him name their child, when he’d brought her to his home in Granada and they’d spent half the day on his living room floor. The fact that she’d lived with him for so long without walking out.

He exhaled, summoning all of it, and kissed her again. This time he held it a little longer, clinging to the memories, the feeling.

But when he broke apart, she was still sleeping.

Mallos pulled her in and held her close for a moment, eyes shut. He took a steadying breath, gathered her up and stood. Standing again, his lethargy was more obvious; he had to spread his feet to keep his balance as the darkness crept forward another millimetre in the edge of his vision. Turning, he carried Croe out of the drawing room, down several corridors and up three flights of stairs. Thanks to Alvarez’s efficient work moving the divine court on, he didn’t run into anyone. Finally, he nudged the door of his bedroom open with his foot, crossed the room and gently lay Croe down on the side of the bed he never slept on. Her side of the bed, now.

He sat on the side of the bed and brushed a strand of hair from her face, before leaning over to kiss her again, this time on the forehead.

“This would be a shitty time to tell you I love you, if you could hear me.” He muttered. “But I’d tell you right now if you woke up.”

Silence. Stillness. Mallos took her hand and held onto it.

Mallos
I've learned enough to know I'm never letting go