Arthur had not invited the court into the hall; they had each of them come of their own volition. The first courtier had asked for an audience to offer his sympathy and support, and the king had been obliged to receive him. The others had followed not long afterwards, each of them bringing supposedly kind words to lay at the feet of their bereaved monarch. Arthur had not had the energy to do anything else with them. He had received their words dispassionately, offering them the rudimentary courtesies protocol demanded in a monotonous tone. They had lingered, chatting amongst themselves as the room slowly filled, and still Arthur had not found the energy to deal with them as he would usually have done. His conception of time had blurred, the days since Tristan had vanished running into one so he could not recall when one had ended and the next began. Each hour that past went by slowly, and Arthur had not felt like part of the same world as the people who bustled about him in their colourful silks. His world had become dull, and although his body was present in the throne he had been untouchable until they had dragged the pirate into the hall.
The king could feel life drifting back into his limbs and for the first time he grew aware of the draft blowing against the back of his neck. It was as if the lock of hair in his hand was breathing his spirit back into heart, and when his gaze settled on Mallos’ face, the Spaniard seemed more solid than anyone had done in days. The original turned to Morgana who fixed him with a look that asked ‘what are you up to? She soon found out. The only person on the dais who did not accept what became of Humphrey’s father with a kind of passive satisfaction was Nimueh, who gasped a little in surprised and clapped her hands over her mouth. It rather added to the effect, Arthur mused dispassionately as the room finally began to empty. The king’s mother began to look between Mallos and the chair, her large eyes even wider than usual. Mordred, on the other hand, tilted his head slightly to one side considering the lone item of furniture,
“It’s quite a handsome chair,” he noted out-loud, “so, an improvement all round, really.” Nimueh’s switched her gaze to him momentarily with a small frown before glancing at Arthur one more time to check he was all right. Satisfied, she ran down the dais steps after the guards, and caught the door just before the last one closed it. Her whispered apology (that she apparently felt compelled to make on her family’s behalf) echoing through the now-silent hall.
Arthur didn’t want to give up the letter, and his grip tightened over it automatically as he felt the magic tug at it. An instant later he seemed to think better of it and loosened his hold. He turned the lock of hair over and over in his other hand instead as he listened to Mallos laid out his plan. The longer he listened the more severe his frown became. “Them” he corrected his father-in-law sternly without looking up, his eyes looking out across the empty floor towards the double doors that faced him from the other end of the room. “If Tristan and Thoth were together, then they’re still together. I have faith in my son.” Nimueh, who had returned to the dais rested a hand on her son’s shoulder, before crouching down, her fingers travelling down his sleeve to rest upon the hand he had clamped around the lock of hair. The king still did not look at Mallos, but Morgana did, shaking her head subtly, silently urging her father not to argue. She was not so sure, but she was more than prepared to let Arthur believed it if he needed to.
Mallos was the only person present who had any idea what a bus or a pensioner was, but given the context of the sentence it was easy to discern enough of the meaning. “He means you look like death,” Mordred supplied, giving his brother a bracing slap on the back as the king climbed to his feet.
“Do it,” Arthur instructed Mallos with a firm nod of his head, finally making eye contact with the Spaniard. There was a new emotion in the grey depths of the king’s eyes which someone as astute as Mallos would be unlikely to miss; a deep-seated anger wound in on a delicate leash. “I want you to look at my thoughts, Mallos,” Arthur said unflinchingly, “I’m going to show you the face of the man who just left here.” He forced his recollection to the front of his mind before he continued, “he’s mine.”
Morgana turned away from her brothers and father and crouched down beside her mother as Avalon edged out nervously from behind Nimueh’s skirts.
“Do you know what you have to do, Avy?” asked the younger woman kindly. The hare sat up on his hind legs and rested his small front paw on Morgana’s finger,
“I-I think so,” he confirmed, his nose twitching as he steeled his courage. Avalon hopped down the steps into the floor below and began to make his way down the hall.
“Open the doors!” Morgana shouted to the guards on the opposite side, and they obeyed just in time for the hare to slip through the gap before he had to break stride. When he was gone, Nimueh threw her arms around Arthur’s neck, pulling him into a warm embrace, her fingers resting against the back of his head. “Be careful,” she whispered in his ear, before, to everyone’s surprised she turned and hugged Mallos too.
“Look after him,” she said quietly, “and bring my boys home safe.”
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