MalloS

No matter how many he received, Mallos still never saw a hug coming.

He didn’t bother tensing as Birch advanced briskly, confident that she could do nothing to harm him. Divinity was the prime culprit in sewing the seed of arrogance which festered in every deity’s heart. Subsequently he was unprepared – shoulders relaxed, hands still balled into pockets, weight unevenly distributed between his feet – for the moment when she crashed into him and wrapped her arms around his torso. Mallos froze for a moment, his brain not yet caught up with current events. By the time he’d processed what was happening, Birch had already released him and taken a step backwards, her arms by her side and her face lit up like a ray of sunshine. With another person, in another place, in other circumstances, Mallos would have had a split second to select which mood and personality he wanted to express. Here, with Birch in this dull, grey place, he chose (partial) honesty. He met her grin with an expression which gave little away other than a flutter of irritation.

“Good news all round, then.” He answered, shrugging her hand off his shoulder. Touching a god was a dire cultural offence on Earth. Shamanites never got the memo.

Over-familiarity aside, it could only be a good thing that Birch was here. Here was someone who had moved in a similar circle of acquaintances, had died, and was now readily available to answer questions. Mallos was composing the first one when something caught his eye. His unfinished quiz died on his tongue, momentarily forgotten as he watched the grey mist rolling around over Birch’s shoulder. Embedded in the endless fog were tiny sparks of light and colour, sparsely and unevenly distributed.

Mallos stepped around Birch and moved further into the fog, keeping his dark eyes focused on one of the sparks. As it got closer, he could see it for what it was: a tiny tear in reality, as though someone had pulled the air apart and forgotten to stitch it back up together. Through the gap in space-time he could just about make out someone’s living room with a roaring fire and a red settee. The next one was an iceberg-ridden ocean, the third a cloud-obscured view from the top of a mountain. Mallos turned on the spot, his eyes flicking over the little tears in reality, brain whirring. He knew about this place. Long before he’d searched for his own way to cross between the realms, he’d questioned Aura on her experiences in the other two.

“This is the Realm Between Realms.” He said aloud, partly to Birch and partly to himself. Not exactly what he’d been shooting for, but half-way there. He glanced back at her. “How did you get here? You’re supposed to be in the Realm of the Dead. Also,” a slight frown creased his brow, “how is it that you still remember me?”