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

Sperantia?

‘We’re coming for you. We’re coming.’

Mallos closed his eyes, not that it made any difference. The world was black either way. At least this way he could try and pretend he was somewhere else, like his bath at home. Unbreaking exposure to the rancid substance leeching his power had dulled his senses to the foul stench and feel of it. An image of a gleaming white bathroom came, fuzzy in the centre and faded entirely at the edges.

I can imagine. He tried to encourage himself, but his own voice – spoken aloud or in his head, it was hard to tell anymore – had been stripped of all conviction. I can.

He couldn’t.

In the real world, Mallos had the capacity to fabricate entire fantasy universes in his mind. He could invent a story on the spot and spin it persuasively for any audience. Creativity drove his fingers to draw, compose, create. He saw solutions to problems and loopholes in rules which others regarded as fortified and unchanging.

In the real world, his skin didn’t burn, his breath wasn’t short, and he didn’t feel like he was endlessly falling even when he was sat perfectly still.

Noise broke the monotony: a fast-paced thudding, accompanied with the slapping sound of something striking repeatedly against a hard, wet surface. It was faint at first, but didn’t register fully in his brain until it was already loud enough to strike a sharp blow to ears which had grown used to ceaseless silence. Mallos wondered vaguely if he’d progressed to full-length hallucinations yet. That would be a relief. Last time, the lucid dreams had been his only relief from doing nothing, forever.

Was there a last time? Perhaps he was still here. Maybe everything which had happened in between – being freed, finding Shaman, Aura, Arthur, Tristan Morgana, Croe, Mordred, the children… maybe he’d invented it. It was mixed, for a dream, stunningly realistic. Generally feel-good with a few extreme highs and some hard lows. Grade B.

…Fuck!?

Yeah, fuck, Mallos agreed, before realising the vulgarity had been spoken in Croe’s voice. Her voice came again, startlingly real. He shook his head to try and clear it and regretted it instantly when another wave of nausea and dizziness made him feel like he was doing somersaults through the air. He heard his name and tried to say her name back, but all that came out was a dry moan which felt like it made his throat bleed. His throat felt like it was made of barbed wire and broken glass; every time he drew breath, the air shuddered painfully over it. More splashing. Water. Where was the water? Mallos had never wanted anything more than he wanted a glass of water, right now.

Hands on his face. Real, human contact. Mallos couldn’t process that until she was already kissing him, lips like feather down, breath fresh and clear. He couldn’t be imagining this; this was beyond what any god could imagine Heaven to be like. His reactions delayed by the sluggish speed of his brain, he responded to the kiss a few seconds into it when she was already running her hands down his body. He was dimly aware of more splashing noises, accompanied by a thick purring. Something wet and furry rubbed against his side. He opened his eyes to try and see what it was but everything was still dark.

Light pierced the gloom, sudden and fierce. Mallos blinked a couple of times in quick succession and turned away, staring unseeingly at the green pond scum while he waited for his eyes to adjust to this latest assault on his senses. Fire threw dancing shadows over the walls and illuminated the inflamed red marks on his wrists from where he’d fought against the cuffs before. The rusty metal had sliced his arms, shirt, the back of his hands; streaks of dried blood provided a backdrop against the white and green pus which had started to build up along the cuts. Mallos saw his own face reflected in Sperantia’s mind, flushed in spite of the cool temperature, drawn.

Oh, Sperantia. He stirred, listening to first droplet of molten metal drip into the water below with a furious hiss. You must be the wet fur thing.

Sperantia had stopped rubbing against him and was stood in front of him, staring. Only her head and tail were visible above the water; the latter was stretched out behind her, floating on the surface. Mallos had just enough presence of mind to notice that she looked worried.

“He needs water.” She said, her voice slightly higher pitched than normal, words rushing over themselves. “I’ll go and find some. Can you get him up to the surface?”

Water’s good, Mallos thought vaguely as more splashing noises receded, sleep too. He’d been having terrible sleep lately. Kept waking up in the night. Or was it the day?

Heat from the fire spread uncomfortably along his arm, warming the manacles around his wrists. Mallos had multiple defences when he was uncomfortable, but this ungodly purgatory had purged him of all but one. Humour. He stirred again, leaning his head back against the wall.

“How do you like your men,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly, “poached or stewed?”

His throat was on fire. He coughed uncontrollably, shoulders shaking, the rich taste of blood in his mouth. At least it was something wet.

He leant back against the wall, shivering even though his skin was boiling. There was a screech as the last piece of metal on the cuff caved and his newly freed arm dropped to his side. The rusty manacle scraped his wrist in the movement, reopening the cut. Mallos kept it where it was and waited patiently for Croe to melt through the second chain, freeing him from the wall. She helped to pull him onto his feet, which took a phenomenal amount of effort. Even when he was up he was unsteady, the world lurching at random. He wrapped his arm around her waist and leant into her.

Fuck. Mallos had no idea if Croe was listening to his thoughts. He didn’t have the energy to project them, but exhaustion and illness had shattered his mental defences.

The ascent was terrible. Croe put him on the outside edge, where the steps were wider and there was a wall for additional support, but it still felt like death. If this was a staircase to Heaven, Mallos would have gone fuck that and stayed in Hell. Good thing Hell couldn’t be worse than this place. His heartrate skyrocketed but his breaths remained short and his muscles burned, necessitating frequent breaks. It was only the warm, reassuring pressure of Croe’s body which reminded him that keeping going was worthwhile.

Sunlight filtered down through the last few steps, bright and abominably cheerful. The tiny room they came out into was lit only by windows, through which a Spanish afternoon beamed. Mallos stumbled on the last step, pressed his back against the wall of the room and slid to the floor. He rested his elbows against his knees and pushed his fingers through his hair, not even flinching when the chains still attached to his wrists swung and struck him in the shoulders.

Water. He thought dazedly, hoping Croe somehow understood. Then, in more of a jumble of feelings than a coherent thought, I love you.

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