MalloS

Mallos accepted the limb proffered to him, a glint evident in his dark eye in spite of the lack of light in this misty grey no-man’s-land. His softer hand met her hard, calloused one with a firm, unwavering grip, sealing the deal. Birch’s obvious hesitance sparked neither regret nor concerned in him; Mallos was broadly unmoved by the plights of others, and understood Birch’s character too well to suppose that she might later try and back out. She was as true as he was dishonest.

“It’s señor,” he corrected, only partly humorously. Mallos was far less inclined to the proper use of titles than his godly peers, but Shamanites really were appallingly relaxed with their invocation of his name. “I’ll accept sir if you’re incapable of wrapping your English tongue around a superior language.”

He released her hand and turned on the spot, trusting that she’d follow him. They walked for about ten minutes in silence – unnecessarily, since the fractures in reality were omni-present, but it served the dual purpose both in giving Mallos time to think and making it look as if he knew something Birch didn’t. Every now and then, for show, he stopped and pretended to examine one before apparently dismissing it and moving on. Eventually, he paused beside a crack which was marginally wider than some of the others and reflected only a blue sky freckled with fluffy clouds beyond. He reached out to take Birch’s hand again, interlocking fingers in an almost intimate manner.

“Keep quiet,” he advised, as though this were some form of sage knowledge required to mysteriously raise the walking dead. Mostly he just wanted to take stock of his own thoughts without being peppered with incessant mortal questions. Pulling her along after him, he tugged the rip in reality apart and slid through.

The ground was absent from their feet; they tumbled, dropping like stones through the sky towards a pressing, angry, red earth. Keeping a tight grip on Birch’s hand, Mallos twisted in mid-air and summoned his magic. Golden-yellow sparks of divinity spiralled down his arm, briefly enveloping them both, before the world around them vanished in a burst of light. They landed heavily, feet-first but stable, in a cloud of glittering black dust. It billowed around them, temporarily obscuring all other sights, before gradually settling back on the thin, weary grass. Mallos released Birch’s hand, observing the scene around them with the casual disinterest of one who might be glancing through a newspaper. They were stood on a clifftop overlooking a harsh, stormy sea, dimmed by dark cloud coverage. Gulls shrieked their objections to the large, black birds circling above. Littered around them, between trails of the strange black dust, were half a dozen bodies of young men in military uniforms.

Mallos was less curious about their untimely demises than he was about the odd sensation he had felt before dispensing of Birch’s hand. His senses heightened by divine magic, the beat of her pulse could be felt through her fingertips. It hadn’t been there only seconds before.

The impossibility of the miracle would need to be analysed later. For now, he needed to act as though her newfound life had been intentional and of his doing, rather than a baffling mystery to them both. He took her hand again and brought it gently up to her neck, letting her fingers curl over the pulse.

“You’re welcome.” A not altogether pleasant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Now, where am I dropping you off?”