The Return of Malice

Her footsteps echo as she marches across the cold, stone floor. There is a look of defiance in her penetrating eyes. A faint whisper exclaims, “Malice is home!”

The fortified doors swing open, the bitter wind ushering in a familiar figure. Everyone in the great hall turns to gaze at what the wind has just brought in. People are frozen in place – as much from what their eyes look upon as from the biting gales howling throughout the halls. Mothers clutch their children closely, while men stand firmly in front of their women, acting as a barrier between all that they hold dear and the force that now confronts them. Confusion begins to sweep through the crowd as folks now wonder which of the two figures at opposing ends was now the lesser of two evils.

She looks to her left and right sides, slightly nodding to the entourage that flanks her. All but one falls back behind her. The gaze between her and this foreign man holds much significance. He looks at her with confidence, understanding, and most of all, love. One can feel it roll off him. There is a quiet strength about him, an unspoken understanding between the two.

Physically, Malice has changed. She is still recognizable but there are visible differences in her appearance. And it was more than just that she has been gone for a decade. Her stance is full of power, her head held high, her shoulders back. Though she stands in silence, one can almost hear the rage rising from within her. The slightest ripple can be detected from just beneath her flawless skin.

Her curls bounce with life, gleaming in the dimly lit archways. The sides of her head are shaved down; her crown teeming with wild yet tame coils, reaching down her back. The color of her hair is that of obsidian, with hues of deep violet and cobalt. Her eyes have always been mesmerizing – shades of purple and green with flecks of gold. And when Malice looks at you, it is as if she is peering into your very soul. It is an unnerving experience, to be caught in one of her stares. One wishes to look away yet cannot bring themselves to turn away.

Malice is dressed in all black from head to toe and looks the part of a fierce warrior. Her black leather boots come up above her knees, gold hardware glinting at the ankles. Her leggings look like soft velvet, tucked snugly into her boots. A belt of gold chains wraps around her waist with a clasp in the shape of a crescent moon and owl.

The black fur of her cloak engulfs her but does not diminish her stature. It wraps around her like a layer of protection – not just from the blustery winds but also serves as a warning to others to not get too close. The fur that is draped about her shoulders seems to have a presence of its own. As if it is still a living, breathing, and prowling wolf. It appears as if the cloak and Malice are one, the movements of the two seamless and reliant upon each other.

No weapons are visible on her person, but one cannot help but think that she would not come back unarmed. However, her unfamiliar companion and entourage have made no effort to conceal the armory they possess. Battle axes, crossbows, swords, daggers of every size and material can be clearly seen throughout her retinue. There was not a shred of doubt to whom they had pledged their allegiance, vowed to protect, no matter the cost. This eclectic collection of combatants moves as one, yet as individuals.

The male stranger at her side has an imposing presence about him. His skin is smooth, the color of bronze. His features are sharp and distinct, as if they have been carved from stone. The sides of his hair are pulled back, accentuating his bold appearance. His head is covered in a hundred braids that hang loosely down his back. His chocolate locs have accents of mahogany. There are flecks of copper and amber throughout his silver eyes.

He is also covered in a cloak of fur, the blazing, red fur of a wolf. This garment is also teeming with life, exhaling, and inhaling of its own accord. His cinnamon-colored trousers are tucked deep within the umber riding boots that reach up his legs. Upon his waist is a leather belt, a deep brown, with a gold buckle. It is fashioned in the shape of an infinity sign.

As he looks about him, taking in all that is within sight, one can sense a flash of anger from within. As if he knows the horrors that have taken place within these walls. It is as though he can see the torture and humiliation she has endured, like the walls are impressing upon him their own memories of past atrocities. He is enraged at the thought that not one person helped her, protected her from the misdirected wrath of the one that stands at the altar.

And yet when he turns to look at her, his eyes soften. His caged frenzy is calmed as a faint smile turns the corners of her mouth. At the most primal level, he is her mate, her lover and best friend, her sworn protector. It is no coincidence that his name is Mikael and that his very presence carries the weight of an immortal.

Yes, Malice is home. And her long, slow procession towards the front of the hall is heavy with hope. This way of thinking was like an endangered species – barely recognizable to some, a myth to the younger generation. She had been gone for a decade, banished by those who she trusted the most. Her exile from her home meant leaving behind all she created, loved, and stood to inherit. Her return was something that people would whisper about, like an impending storm on the horizon. Most believed that she would stay away, not daring to return while HE was still in power.