Mallos tightened like a bowstring, pulled against his will. Croe’s face hardened, a shield thrown up to brace for the impact of whatever he was about to say. She was prepared, but not prepared enough. Mordred murdered Arthur. Her eyes flashed with rage.
It was not that she felt any deep loyalty to the King. He had forgiven her, after a fashion – let her live when she could not say she would have done the same, in his place. Had given her an opportunity for a kind of penance. With his death, she was freed from her obligations to him…the burden of her gratitude. In another life, she might have been relieved. But in this one, Arthur was – had been – Mallos’ truest friend. A member of that small circle of people he truly loved. To lose one of them, after everything else he had lost…
He pulled away, minutely. Croe’s fingers slipped up to the back of his neck, gripping hard. She could not read his mind, or wouldn’t, but it was easy enough to tell what he was thinking.
“You got us,” she stated, firmly. Her voice cracked with anger. She leaned back a bit to look at him. “Ángela, and me. You saved us. You would have saved Arthur, if you could. Nobody expected this from him. I didn’t, and I suspect everyone.” Heat was spreading through her body as she spoke, the rage making her magic a little wild. She took a deep breath, rested her forehead against his, tamped down her power with a firm hand. There would be time for that, later. “This is not your fault, Mallos. It is not your fault. You can't save everyone, sometimes not even the ones you’d most want to save.” Her voice flatlined a little as she said it, thinking of the day she’d arrived on Shaman – of Denny, taking fire as they ran. Croe hadn’t looked into his fate, but the fact that Alliannah hadn’t mentioned it, and that he hadn’t reached out after she miraculously returned from the dead…she knew. She hadn’t been able to save her own partner, and he’d been right there. Mallos had been, literally, worlds away.
No. It was not his fault. It was not his wrong to right. But if Mordred thought they’d sit by and do nothing, he was in for an unpleasant surprise.
Croe shifted her feet under her, gripped Mallos as she stood, taking him with her. Standing together, she fisted her hand in the fabric around his waist. “He wants the kingdom? We’ll burn it down,” she growled. It was unclear if she was being literal or metaphorical. “There are things he loves. People he loves…” her swallow was practically audible, as she fought to contain her baser nature. “Maybe we won’t take them, or kill them, but they will turn on him. We will make sure of it. When all this is done, he will be alone, ruling over ashes. His last thoughts will be sorrow and regret.” She released him, taking a breath. Her eyes were unfocused, reflecting imaginary fires. “He will wish he’d never touched the people we love.”
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