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

Being loved was nothing new, but there was something different about it this time. Perhaps it was the intensity of it, or the reciprocity, or the fact that Croe was fucking fantastic. Last time Mallos had been locked in that rancid prison, no one who loved him had come looking for him or even noticed he was missing. Last time, when that snake had worn his face and committed those heinous acts in his name, the people who loved him believed that villainy of him. None of them had ever pulled him out of Hell and knelt with him, holding his hand.

Mallos became vaguely aware that Croe’s hand felt different, but couldn’t quite work out why. His brain started to slowly tick through the sensory information it was receiving before it became distracted by a strange feeling in his own hands. He pulled his hand away from his hair and tried to inspect the back of it, a feat in itself when his hand felt like lead and his vision kept slipping in and out of focus. It took a minute or so of watching the skin knitting itself back together before he registered what was happening, and another minute to realise that it was Croe who was making it happen. It was strange, to feel a relief from a pain you’d forgotten you had. Like waking up when you didn’t realise you’d been dreaming. That small respite was like a drop of water in a desert of bodily destruction; Croe’s magic, apparently, could do nothing for his barbed throat, somersaulting stomach and burning skin.

Burning skin. He glanced at her hand again and recognised the freckling blisters which were slowly de-escalating. You’re hurt, he thought at her stupidly in what was simultaneously a question, a statement, and an expression of as much outrage as he had the energy to muster. If anyone had hurt Croe, the eternal prison under the magnificent Alhambra palaces would be finding itself a new occupant very soon.

His train of thought was diverted again, thankfully, by the sound of her voice. I love you too, he thought vaguely, forgetting that he’d already said it.

Light footsteps and an odd scraping sound. Mallos noticed that Sperantia was back a split second before Croe lifted the bottle to his lips, presenting him with his first taste of water since… how long had it been? It was impossible to keep time in purgatory. His throat closed up against the first drop, making him cough and splutter, spilling some of the precious liquid all over the terracotta tiles. The second attempt was easier. The water slid smoothly down, like liquid gold, easing his throat better than any medicine could. Blood pounded in his head. Water, the miracle that it was, instantly lent a heightened awareness to his own body and surroundings, exposing a headache, chest pain and arm ache which he hadn’t previously noticed. He could now recognise, dimly, the scent of roses from the gardens beyond the walls – and differentiate them from the stench of infected pondwater which still clung to him from the lower torso down.

He heard her whisper, a breath in the still wind. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, he answered in a mental response which was a little less delayed and a little more directed than before, bouncing back the words she’d spoken when she’d risen from her coma.

Sperantia, on the floor, was shaking her head. The action made her look blurry.

“I stepped in it, so I can’t use magic until I dry off.” The cat mumbled. Mallos was fairly sure he’d never heard her mumble before; she usually spoke in a clear, no-nonsense voice. “I’ll run back and get some hop loops. Wait here with him.”

She rolled her shoulders a couple of times and bolted out of the door. How long she was gone for was hard to judge, since Mallos’ perception of time had apparently broken along with the rest of him. He focused on his breathing, trying to lengthen and smooth over the breaths so he didn’t feel so much like an asthmatic who had just run a marathon. He had to drop his hands, weighed down by the swinging chains, to the ground – but kept the fingers of one interlocked with Croe’s. Sperantia’s return was hailed by the swing of the door and the patter of paws, and the sharpness of her breath as she deposited two hop loops on the ground. Her sides heaving, she tapped at the smart screens with one paw, presumably programming in the destination. Croe was the one who slotted Mallos’ around his arm while Sperantia jumped up onto his shoulders, her wet fur brushing uncomfortably against the back of his neck.

“He and I should count as one person,” Sperantia was asserting to Croe. “Just put your loop on and press the button.”

If he had more presence of mind, Mallos might have taken offence to the idea that he was one person with a wet cat. As it was, he wasn’t really given much of an opportunity to think about it, even if he’d been able to. Sperantia reached down and touched the button on his loop, transporting them both to the open plan lounge-diner-kitchen in his penthouse suite in Granada. The curtains had been drawn fully back on the floor to ceiling windows, revealing the usually hidden Alhambra complex, but everything else was as he remembered it. Sperantia leapt off his shoulders just as Croe reappeared in front of him, still in her kneeling position. Mallos reached out and took her hand again, correcting the imbalance in the world her brief absence had cast.