#malfernweek

"You're not like most people I've met." Was the reply he got, followed by a charming grin. The squire still managed to step on his toes though, and the smile turned into an apologetic grimace.

"O-oh! Sorry." The squire immediately stepped back. The pain receded as quickly as it came but Mal'damba was still held at an arm's length. "I haven't really gone that far in dancing lessons yet."

Mal’damba’s heart softened, just a little, without the years nor retrospection to harden it. "It's ok. I don't mind this." He shifted their hands until they were held in front him, bent at the elbow. It wasn't as extravagant as waltz position they were just in, but they could both see their feet at least.

"Still. I wish I could give you a proper dance." The squire said regretfully.

"You've given me so much already." That much was true - a chance meeting, companionship, a night of dancing. Things that were hard to come by already, much less in his future as Wekono's Chosen. Surely, Wekono would allow this.

But even if She did, the night would not. The moon was already low in the sky, and the stars were already fading. Sunrise would be here soon, and with it, uncomfortable knowledge that this would most likely be the first and last time they would meet. At least, without their weapons drawn out.

They slowed to a standstill, slightly swaying in the spot. The squire was still staring at his feet even though they weren't moving. "Let me give you a proper knight's farewell then."

Mal'damba's acolyte mask didn't cover the bottom part of his face. His smile was wide and free, much to the blushing of the squire when he glanced up. “Alright.”

Taking that invitation, the squire raised Mal’damba’s hand, brushing his lips against the knuckles. They were warm and chapped, lingering even after the squire let go. Although the action was chaste, Mal’damba felt heat rise to his cheeks.

“Until we meet again.” the squire said, smiling suavely. Or it might’ve, if the blush still wasn’t there. But it just made him all the more endearing, and Mal’damba’s chest ached. He doubted they would, but he didn’t say it aloud.

“You know, when you said ‘until we meet again’, this isn’t what I had in mind.” Mal’damba said, brought out of his musings as he rubbed the last of the antidote into the snakebite. Even with his back turned, the squire – no, the knight, Mal’damba corrected – simply stayed lax.

“I would’ve liked to have the romantic backdrop of the moonlight, but you are as deadly as I remember.”

Mal’damba paused. “You knew it was me?”

“Not at first – you are just as slippery as your patron spirit, as expected, but when you spoke, it came rushing back to me. Of that night.”

Mal’damba was glad he had his full mask, and not his acolyte one, for a terrible blush rose in his face. “I did not recognise you either.” The squire had a stubble now, and his hair was longer too (not that it was anything short before…). Not only that, but he grew, not only in height, but in sturdiness as well. It was understandable that Mal’damba responded with hostility on first sight. He should probably apologise for that. “I’m...sorry about attacking you.”

“It’s ok. I’m sorry for trespassing on your land.”

He was just as sweet as last time too. Mal’damba shook his head in exasperation, the last of the paste gone from his hands. The knight craned his over, then turned around. Because he had to remove his topmost clothing for Mal’damba to apply the antidote, his torso was bare, down to the waist. Mal’damba had to stop himself from glancing downwards.

Apparently, the knight had a sixth sense, because he winked. “Like what you see?”

Mal’damba couldn’t help but chuckle. “You really haven’t changed, haven’t you?”

“Probably not. But you have though. For instance, your mask. It’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but it covers so much more of your lovely face. I still remember it being so cute.”

Mal’damba reached up to tug at his collar.

“I would love to hear the story behind that mask.” His hand hovered over Mal’damba’s own, as if hesitating. Mal’damba then realised that he was waiting for permission to touch him. Ah. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Mal’damba lifted his hand, the back of it brushing underneath the knight’s fingers.

Now that he had Mal’damba’s blessing, the knight curled his fingers underneath Mal’damba’s palm, lifting it brush his lips against the knuckles, in an almost perfect imitation of that kiss so many years ago. “And I would love to hear more about you this time. That is, if you let me.”

Mal’damba’s rationale was telling him no, he shouldn’t be indulging in such trite, especially now that he was a chosen and not an acolyte, but a smaller voice still remembered the way they bantered and danced during the night, all because the squire heard about how lonely he was, guarding Serpent Beach by himself.

“But I almost killed you.” Mal’damba pointed out. With a poisonous snake, he added in his mind.

“Yes. And that was very impressive.” The knight replied.

Of course he would find that more admirable than fear-inducing.

“...I don’t even know your name. Even after all this time.”

“Fernando.” Just like that, the knight gave his name freely and easily. Mal’damba repeated it in his mind, testing it in his mind’s eye. The squire, the knight, Fernando.

He gave his own in return. “We have a lot to catch up on.”

WARNINGS: blood, violence, death of unnamed temple raiders.

“Mal’damba?” Fernando said, worry creeping into his voice.

It was not his lover who turned around, but Wekono’s chosen, in stilted movements, as if he was being pulled along by strings. He straightened up, uncaring of the blood pooling around his feet and staining his soles with a violent red. He took a step forwards. Fernando took a step backwards.

That was his first mistake. Mal’damba took it as an act of aggression and struck then, bloodied knife in hand. It glanced off Fernando’s chest armour. The force of it still caused him to stumble, and he narrowly missed the next swipe to his face.

“Mal’damba! It’s me!” Fernando pleaded. Second mistake. His words fell on deaf ears. Mal’damba lunged for him again.  He had yet to say a word. Fernando’s foot caught on something – a body of one of the slain temple raiders, possibly – and he fell backwards. He caught himself before he back hit the ground, yet it was in vain, for Mal’damba slammed into him. Air was knocked out of him in a heavy breath. He barely caught it again when the dagger came for him again, at the throat this time. He caught Mal’damba’s wrist with his forearm.

Then it became a struggle between Fernando’s strength and Mal’damba’s will, with gravity only making Fernando’s efforts more strained. His hand shook as the dagger inched closer and closer to his nose. “Mal’damba,” He tried, voice wavering. The chosen didn’t respond. “I know it’s you in there, somewhere.” He peered into the eyeholes of the mask, searching for Mal’damba somewhere in the burning green glow. Maybe...he could try to flip them over, wrestle the dagger away...

And then what? Would he wield the knife himself? Flamethrowers were more his speciality, but it didn’t take much knowledge to know how to hold a dagger. To grip it tightly. To drive between the ribs into the heart. It would be easy for someone like Fernando. His gaze slipped from the knight to the mask.

He raised his other hand.

And gently cupped Mal’damba’s face, thumbing where the cheekbones would be.

“It’s ok.” Fernando whispered. “It’s going to be ok.”

At the soft touch, the pressure on the knife lessened. It wavered in the air between them. Fernando could feel the blinks of confusion behind the mask. Then,

“Fernando?” Mal’damba said, voice soft and meek. The glow in his eyes faded.

“It’s me.” Fernando kept his voice low. “It’s me, everything’s going to be ok.”

Slowly, as if moving through water, Mal’damba’s mask turned from Fernando’s face to the knife inches from it. He flinched wildly, and threw it to the side, before cupping Fernando’s face. “No it wasn’t. I-I almost...”

“But you didn’t. You stopped. You came back to me.”

“I was about to hurt you, Fernando!” Anguish twisted his voice into a hiss of regret. He moved off Fernando, rolling onto his feet. “I knew this was a bad idea. I-we should’ve never met.” Never should’ve let it get this far, followed the last sentence, unsaid, but apparent.

"No. Too human. Must be magic-users, taking advantage of the fallen star's energy to conduct dark rituals."

"So they are the cause for the restless undead upon arrival."

"Maybe. Either way, ridding them would be a favour to the world."

Mal'damba nodded. It was not his place to impose his ideals on others, for it was their own roads to walk, but to raise the fallen and cause suffering to dead and alive alike...he could hear the spirits crying out from the injustice. He hissed a word in his mother tongue. His backpack stirred, and a cobra slipped out, Mal’damba’s torchlight reflecting off her green scales as she wrapped herself around his arm. Mal’damba heard the shift of a rifle as well. He snuffed out the torch with a quick motion.

They crept closer in the dark, pausing when they could see the figures standing in a circle, with their arms raised and mouths chanting incantations. Energy poured from their open palm, malevolent like smoke, buffeting Mal’damba from where he was hidden. It didn’t help that corpse were strewn around the cultists, some he recognised as villagers, others farmers, merchants, even the odd adventurer or two. His cobra hissed quietly. “Patience girl.” He murmured, even as anger stirred within his chest.

Instead, he concentrated on the centre of the circle, in the middle of a chalk sigil on the floor. A man, bound and kneeling. Mal’damba couldn’t see the face, for his head was bowed, but he could still hear the words from one of cultists – presumably the leader, judging by the overly ornate headdress.

(And Mal’damba would know overly ornate, he himself had a mask of petrified wood and feathers.)

“Why...won’t..you...submit!” The leader growled.

The man lifted his head up, and in the light of the magic and the torches, Mal’damba could see the fierce expression. “You underestimate me.” Then he surged forwards, headbutting the closest cultist in the gut, and breaking the terrible connection of magic.

Mal’damba struck in the confusion. He leapt, gourd in hand, letting his snake fly from his wrist. He heard Strix’s smoke bomb and knew he was only a gunshot away. He threw the gourd at the closest group of cultists. The liquid sizzled angrily, eating through cloth and skin. At the sound of their brethens’ pained screaming, some of them turned from the human tribute to the new threat, another chant on their lips.

They never had the chance to finish; there was a crack of a rifle, and their throats or heads exploded in quick succession. Mal’damba neatly ducked underneath the flying gore, then the shot of lightning. He glanced at the direction it was fired from. The elaborately decorated leader held an open, slightly smoking hand at him.

“How dare you disturb us!” He bellowed. “Then you’ll share the tribute’s fate-”

He stopped. Not from shock, not even from a strike from Mal’damba’s snake, but from the gaping hole where his mouth used to be. He fell forwards, dead. Mal’damba stepped back, then managed to glare in the general direction of the dark, before ducking under a swipe of a sacrificial knife.

A few more snake tosses and bullets later, the cultists joined the slain sacrifices. Mal’damba neatly stepped around the growing puddles of blood as he walked to the man who still had his hands bound behind him.

“Thank you for the back-up, even though I had it handled.” His voice was lilted from a foreign accent, smooth as well, and most importantly, smarming. Mal’damba could tell the spirit of vanity was strong in this one.

“You call that being handled?” Strix said, reappearing from the shadows with one of the knives from the fallen cultists. The man flinched wildly, but calmed when all Strix did was slice the bonds.

“Well, they’re dead aren’t they? But I digress. There are more further in, and I will not stop until they are all vanquished.”

“Then our goals are aligned.” Mal’damba said. “We need to reach the fallen star, but Diablo’s worshippers surround its cradle. We could use the help.”

Safe behind the man, Strix raised his eyebrow in doubt. The man just look delighted. “I would be honoured to escort you to the fallen star.”

Strix spoke up. “Do you have any way of fending for yourself?” He had a point – simple tunics and leggings did a fighter not make.

“Not to worry amigo. My armour and weapons should be nearby. The cultists took them when I was knocked out- I mean, overwhelmed by a whole crowd of twenty or so.” He started walking to one of the side rooms. Mal’damba and Strix looked at each other, then followed him as he disappeared through the doorway.  

When they reached to him, he was digging through a chest. “They should be around...aha!” He triumphantly pulled a breastplate in white and gold edging. He did a double-take at his audience, then grinned. “Did you want a show?”

Strix and Mal’damba simultaneously turned their backs, much to the laughter of the man. Mal’damba wandered over to one of the rickety bookshelves while Strix moved closer to the doorway, eyes out for any danger. After a few minutes, there was coughing behind them. “Gentleman.”

Mal’damba walked back. The armour glinted in the torchlight, the shield and lance engraved with swirling designs from the north. Mal’damba’s eyes widened. “You are a crusader.” He stated with a small note of surprise.

The man gave a bow. “Fernando, at your service.”

“There hasn’t been one for years.” Strix said with a frown. Fernando just winked.

“Well, I hope I’ve met your expectations.”

Strix made a face.

“Fernando.” Mal’damba interrupted. “We are not only after the cultists. A construct built by the previous king guards the cathedral basement. We must go through it to reach the fallen star.”

The crusader did not look deterred. “A worthy challenge for someone of my calibre.”

“It was not- well. If the spirits see fit, then we shall share our road.”