A Rude Awakening

[Bedwyr]

The day had gone… better. In a way, at least. It had started with few, curt words, misunderstandings, and an earnest fear of another Servant that he had not even sensed. But, even though he was exhausted, it had turned out better. His mind barely staticced under the light of the sun. Occasional pauses, a man had walked by dressed in leathers, and he felt the steel that hid his heart pull away for a second, before firmly rooting himself. A beast had screamed and slammed into another, and seemed to replace the fallen horses and men on a battlefield.

But she… she was still there, his mind was clear. He said an evening prayer in thankfulness when they had returned home with the setting sun. Amaranta was actually resting in a bed for once, unlike the last two nights, at the end of a long hallway, hardwood creaking under each step as he had followed her.

He allowed himself to dismiss the steel that surrounded him, and pull his surcoat around himself after she laid down, him against the door. The window held an improvised chime from his two barrettes, and two ruby earrings, hanging pendulously from the latch. One could pick the lock, but the chime was hidden, a simple thing he had learned one night from Gawain, and would ring gently with its opening.

There was almost a feeling of nakedness without the earrings as always. He did not trust his gauntlets to remain in this world apart from him, but something with such a connection surely should.

His back to the lone door in the room… there had been a bit of objection from Amaranta about that, but he had pointed out the previous two nights… still there had been objections. But in the end, he won this one small thing~ He would have chuckled, had Amaranta not already been asleep. Or pretending to sleep. It was difficult to tell.

Spatharius gently leaned under the doorknob, close to his good hand. He was ready to deal with the dreams, and this time he would hold his own. Strangely though… he didn’t feel tired at all.

Immediately after closing his eyes, the dreams came. Memories that he feared. Memories that he loved. But… it was not as bad as last night. Perhaps his mood lent to it, but he simply relived them, they didn’t seem any different.

He laid his King, he laid her against the tree. Merlin was gone; the wound was mortal, but still he held some small hope. A tree far away from the blood, the remaining curses, the remaining corpses of the battlefield.

She had never smiled. Not once. No matter how close he had gotten to her, no matter how much he saw her, no matter what happened.

“Please endure here until I return. I shall certainly bring our troops here.”

Hope.

It shifted, and he was younger, bare a boy, and kneeling, his armour shining, a heavy surcout resting on his shoulders, modelled after his own king's coat, and his shorter locks hanging over empty air, swaying with his bent head, and the breaths of everyone in the room. He had just spent two days in the reflectory focusing on the past, the future, on his king. On his goal.

His face… the king’s face… it never smiled. Never flinched. He wanted to see the King’s true self, and dedicated himself there and then to it. For two days he had repeated the promise, and now he was before him.

Clarent, the shining sword of peace, radiant in the light, dipped through the air, and touched him on one shoulder. The king was radiant, unchanged. Immortal. Perfect, save the smile he wanted to see touch his lips. The smile that wasn't there yet, but it would be.

A throng of people stood silent, bowing their heads behind him. This was a start. The start of the rest of his life.

The sword raised, and touched his other shoulder, he could feel the weight of the blade, the weight of the kingdom, the weight of his orders.

Once more the sword raised, its great burden still weighing heavily on his shoulders.

And the blade thrust through his chest, through his back, from behind him. A wicked grin larger than would fit on her beautiful face as the blade pierced his right side, as he coughed out blood. Glowing eyes, filled with dispassionate hate.

“Ar… Ar-“ His eyes looked up at the boy-king pleadingly as he felt nothing but pain. Not betrayal, his life was already given. Just dull, throbbing pain.

It was dark in the chamber. Everyone was silent, shadowed… and that grin that haunted her face…The blade pulled out of his body, he felt flesh tear, felt the searing pain. Blood… he could feel it run down his back.

He stumbled to his feet, still pressing his weight against the door. Spatharius whipped from its sheath as if he was possessed.

Laughter. Laughter. Here. They were here. He was here. Now. Amaranta!

He spared a glance back, she was rising. She was still alive. Still alive. He took a deep breath in, and then rammed the door with his shoulder, the echo thrumming through his wound, causing more blood to spill out.

“Don’t…” He coughed as he heard her startle awake. He did not dare look away, not meet the same grin that had haunted her face. The shadow, his fear. He feared. For her. Not for himself, for her. “Don’t… open the door.” It slammed shut behind him, his foot kicking it back as he faced the cackling man. He was already injured. “No matter… no matter what.” What had he hit? Bedwyr could barely breathe already. Each breath was a gasp… his lung? Something. He had no time for that.

A gladius waited in his hand, Spatharius. The dim hall… there were no lights, all he could see was the shadow’s eyes. Waiting. And behind him the twisted bright cloud, but it emanated no light.

There were no lights. He had tried to press a switch with his shoulder, but it was gone. Disconnected. But the shadow now either had to retreat, or go through him. The cackling hissing madman. The bright eyes… the grin… he would… Bedwyr coughed again.

“The gauntlet is down.” He hadn’t even materialized his armour yet. There wasn't even a point. “Let’s finish it, wraith, I am tired of you haunting me!” A bit of bravado… it seemed to be his only weapon against the man. “There is no way you are-“ More coughing, “Getting through me!” He was up straight, ready, just dripping blood. Other than his coughs, he was the picture of a knight. That and the lack of armour… no perhaps he did not look the part. But he felt the part, for the first time this war.

His sword did not gleam, only waited. Spatharius waited. There were only two things.

There was nothing to ride. And there were no lights. The shadow’s element… even on his home grounds, he was in his enemy’s element. Most importantly...

There were no lights.

[Dr. Jacob Heller]

Doors. Doors were meant to denote a threshold, the boundary between home and wilderness. Visitors and strangers alike knew to wait behind these guards of peace and privacy until otherwise invited by the homeowner.

Of course, the sacred, unwritten contract was absolutely null and void if one or the other chose not to abide by these rules. And, considering that, mere moments ago, he had destroyed the fuse box, Jack was not particularly fussed by this little brand of etiquette.

clickclck

The lock clicked into place, and the large door swung open. The good Doctor withdrew his slender dagger, twirling it betwixt his fingers. He looked out through the open door at his master, who was waiting for Jacob to work his magic from the inside. "The door is open. Come in, come in, ‘Master’ Red," Jack breathed, an eerie, lilting quality giving rise to the panting excitement in his voice.

Without waiting for Master Red's answer, Jack quietly slid down the dark hallway, silent as the grave. With every step, the night’s darkness was replaced by the blackness of shadows. He moved with perfect clarity. This was his element, his home. No plaster walls and carpeted floors for him. Not the cloying grasp of darkness, either. Not just that, at least, but the knowledge that prey was nearby. So long as there was somebody, someone who would respond just as expected, Jack felt like he could live anywhere, from a rural village to the concrete jungle.

Yet another door. The same fragile compact that had so ‘protected’ the threshold would not avail the Rider here. Jack slowed his run to a quiet, tip-toeing walk, pausing right before it. He could feel it. Rider was somewhere right behind this door. But where…? The Assassin pressed himself against the door, one ear listening through the thin wood.

Lub-dub-ta- Lub-dub-ta-

The sound was faint, almost non-existent. Jack had almost missed it at first, but years of training and practice had showed otherwise. He squeezed ever tighter against the door, practically glued to it, intently listening to the repetitive noise.
Lub-dub-ta- Lub-dub-ta-

Such a quaint sound, but such an important one.

Jack snickered to himself as he reversed his grip on his stiletto. So… easily… muffled. ”Ahh…”

His snickers precipitating into outright, guttural laughter, the Assassin thrust his surgical knife straight through the flimsy door. He heard a pained grunt as he withdrew his weapon, rebalancing it in his grip. He jumped back, not a moment too soon, as Rider drunkenly smashed the door open, staggering out. Before Jack could respond, the fair-haired man kicked it close, sword held ready.

“The gauntlet is down. Let’s finish it, wraith, I am tired of you haunting me! There is no way you are - Getting through me!” The Rider barked his challenge, faltering at the last words, either from pain or fear. Or both.

Jack ignored the unarmored knight’s words for the most part, casting a practiced eye over his patient. “Heavy breathing, dilated pupils, off-center balance… no armor, boyo,” he sneered. He feinted, chortling scornfully as Rider moved to block the nonexistent strike. “Jitt’rish as well, aye? You shoooore ‘bout that?”

Enough banter. Jack thrust with his knife, feinting again, followed by a swift, brutal lunge.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Images flash through her head unbidden. Faces she didn’t recognize, events of which she held no recollection. The flash of a white surcoat, blossoming red, a flurry of images weaving themselves into existence, then just as quickly out, spears, blades, the clash of steel, each one impossibly vivid. She sees a woman - a king? – against a tree, and with it, a sudden pang of emotion, wait, no, not a pang, a cresting wave of – no. No. It’s gone. Is it? Was it?

There he is, that same man, swathed in a great cape of ermine, and there knelt a boy, and she knows that she knows him, some barely conscious part of her recognizing that much, but no more. Oh, there was great fanfare, throngs, crowds, trumpets, kings, but she found the details fading for want of the boy, hardly a youth – she wonders why she thinks in those terms – knelt before his liege lord, head bowed, steel sitting heavy on his body, surcoat the white of fresh-fallen snow, pooling at his feet.

She watches as the blade rose – her gaze fixed not on the steel, but on him. The face of the boy at his King’s feet, those snatches of youthful features beneath golden bangs ringing familiar. Too familiar. He was a knight she knew only too well.

Pain.

“---hht!”

Emma snaps to consciousness. She bolts upright, hand groping for a lightswitch. It finds one.

Fwick. Fwick. Fwick. Fwick.

No. Not working. She bit her lip. What was going on?

Her free hand roaming her back, where she had been sure skin had been pierces, muscle torn, arteries rent. But she was whole. And the phantom blade only a dream. A dream? No. Not her dream. Bedwyr. Bedwyr’s dream. Bedwyr?

Her eyes take long in adjusting to the darkness, the moonlight negligible. But there is a telltale drip – plonk . drip –plonk . drip-plonk.

“Don’t…” she almost doesn’t register that voice, strained, thick with pain.”
“Bedwyr!?”
“Don’t… open the door.”

She heard it slam, and the room shake, mind still sluggish from sleep. She bit her lip, trying to force herself into alertness. No. Something was definitely up. She flings her legs over the side of her bed – limbs sleepy, unwilling – scoops up an overcoat and then throws it on over pyjamas.

And one ear, always, to what was happening outside.

Don’t open the door no matter what. The gauntlet was down. No way you are getting through me. And then not Bedwyr. Not hey-look-at-me-I’m-about-to-pass-out. Heavy breathing, dilated pupils, gleeful delivery of medical jargon descending into guttural cockney. Impossibly, she recognizes that other voice. She’d heard it before. It wasn’t the sort of accent that lent itself to be forgot.

But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. Why was he - were they here? In her own house?

Hands shaking as they did up the buttons, bare feet padding over the wooden floors, one hand trailing on the table, against what Bedwyr had just told her, the wood cold beneath her toes – squelch.

Emma froze.

She just stepped into something warm. Sticky. Smelt of blood. Was blood. Oh. Well. Ick. And more to the point, what the hell. She was awake now. The lights weren’t working. Did they disconnect them? It was not a blackout – she had seen the streetlights were on. She needed a light. A light…

It didn’t take her long to rush back to her bedside table, skidded, almost tripped, banged her elbow on the corner of a desk (ouch), groped for her phone, snatched it up in her hands, fingers working furiously to reach the flashlight function clickclickclickclickclick, not even waiting for her eyes to adjust to the sudden glare of the screen.

The harshness of the sudden illumination made her blink, the room flooded with a white light. By the door was a puddle of pooling red. Her own feet had bloody footsteps all over the floor. Everything else was in order, save for a splintered gap in the door, stained with yet more seeping crimson.

…

Stabbed through the door. Stabbed by that grinning madman or that psychotic shape shifter.

They really should stop making a habit of being stabbed.

Against her better judgement, she found herself wanting to open the door, both curiosity and the desire to do something, burning. The police? Stupid idea. They would never make it in time, not to mention they’d probably be useless. Friends? Even worse. And there was the added bonus of looking like a delusional idiot. Granp-no. No. Worst idea of the lot.

But not being able to do anything was just as bad.

No. Heart hammering in her chest, not being able to stop shivering (the light being cast was kind of wonky as a result) because most of all not knowing jackshit about what was going on in her own home when somebody may as well have been getting murdered was kind of high up there on ‘pretty fucking bad’.

Something warm trickled down her chin, and she realized her lip was bleeding. She had chewed it too hard. Bad habit. Very bad habit. She wiped it off with a brusque motion of her thumb, and then moved to open the door, fingers wrapping themselves around the doorknob, turning.

dripdripdripdripDRIPdripDRIPDRIP

Stop. Well, not stop. Freeze. Stop suggested a conscious decision. It was not. And Emma did not have a death wish, cellphone still grasped in one trembling hand. The doorknob twisted back to place, and with a click the latch slid back into place.

She ran a hand down the wood, feeling the grain underneath her fingers, to the gap where a blade had been jammed through, the splinters where the wood had been forced apart. She knelt there, feeling distinctly uncomfortable right on top of where Bedwyr had just bled all over, but this was better than nothing.

She pressed an eye to the gap, god damn it all for her own incompetence.

[The 1000 Faces]

Miliardo sauntered after The Good Doctor, his new facecovering him perfectly. He rubbed the back of his hand against his chin unconsciously as Doctor Heller worked on the front door. After only a few moments, the door swung open to admit them both.

"The door is open. Come in, come in, ‘Master’ Red." A small shiver rolled across Miliardo’s body as the assassin’s voice filled the cold night air. It still seemed unreal that such calm, cultured speech could mask something as terrifying as Jack the Ripper.

“Of course. Let us begin.” Miliardo’s face was that of a brusque deliveryman, one who had no time for any nonsense. That tiny bit of his personality filtered through Miliardo’s head just as the man’s unconscious behaviors did. He hardly even noticed it anymore.

The shadow flitted across the entryway without a moment of hesitation. With prey in sight, The Good Doctor was too excited to be concerned with his master at all. That suited Miliardo just fine. If he had a chance, he would kill the annoying Bastillo girl, but a battle between servants was no place for him.

Miliardo tugged at the collar of his white shirt for a moment, wondering why he had overlooked such a thing. He could turn invisible, given time, but such oversights were still unacceptable. After a moment, he discarded the shirt and tossed it into a corner. Invisibility was still an option, but there was no harm in taking precautions.

Doctor Heller paused outside a door wonderingly, leaning his head against it and smiling. The assassin pressed himself against the door with a look of ecstasy on his face; the only time Jack the Ripper looked happy was when he had a new victim in his grasp. Miliardo wasted no time in finding himself a dark corner to hide in, where he could still watch the next events.

“The gauntlet is down. Let’s finish it, wraith, I am tired of you haunting me! There is no way you are–” Rider coughed before pulling himself upright again, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. “Getting through me!” The bravado, the unwarranted confidence was nothing new in the case of the self-righteous young knight, but a tiny smile still flitted across Miliardo’s face. One would think that he would learn that he could not hope to kill Jack the Ripper in the killer’s own element, but it seemed that the boy still hadn’t. It was unfortunate that he would never have the chance.

And the battle had begun, with Rider facing terror, facing the darkness itself. There was no way that he could defeat the Servant that embodied fear now, trapped inside a dark corridor with no lights to corner The Good Doctor. There was only one outcome for this fight, and it was well deserved. Miliardo had waited too long for this whelp to die. After tonight, he would be one step closer to obtaining The Root.

But Miliardo wasn’t watching the fight anymore. He knew that there was no way Rider could win the fight, so there was no point in worrying about it. No, what interested him was the quick flash of light he had seen through the hole that The Good Doctor had so courteously made in the door. He could see nothing more through the darkness, but it was a safe bet that no one else would be in the house. Mistress Bastillo had made her appearance.

A small, predatory grin crossed his face as he withdrew a glass dagger and slunk closer to the exit, skirting the battle by a wide margin. If the girl tried to run, she would find a nasty surprise waiting for her…

[Bedwyr]

His breath came heavy and his heart hammered, each rushed beat punctuated with another ooze of blood from his wound. The longer he stood, the closer he came to death. Each movement of his sword hand, his only good hand, brought sharp pain and more blood.

It was his blood, the blood he swore to spill first above any other lives. The oath he had sworn in the dream so cruelly robbed from him by this cowardly intruder.

The shade's eyes, the only visible thing before the shining cloud, dipped forward, and he stepped back, raising his sword. Painfully. But no blow came. Blood flowed freely down his back.

He gripped Spatharius almost like he was trying to crush the sword’s hilt in his hand, he did not need light to know his knuckles were white where they were not red with running, dripping, crimson.

Drip. A single drop of blood splashed onto his bare foot. Warm, it was warm compared to the cold floor.

Another lunge, and a step back and a flickering sword that intercepted nothing. A repetition. He still took another step backwards. Blood dripped.

The Shadow’s eyes narrowed.

Stumbling from behind him. Soft splashing in something he could only imagine to be his own pool of blood. Amaranta was moving. He could feel it before he heard it, and instinctively his eyes bounced back to the glowing fog, watching. As long as he did not leave, as long as he did not try for the window into Amaranta’s chamber, he could hold this position.

Movement. The air tasted of it, and his muscles exploded into action. Spatharius rose, darted blindly in the darkness to defend against an invisible assault.

A small flash of light from behind him, his eyes narrowed, quickly adjusting to the slight change in ambience, and a glint of shining metal revealed itself inches from his breast in the momentary echo of visibility. The angle of his parry changed instantly, Spatharius trailing a sharp path through the air behind his wrist, flat impacting the knife with the ringing of clashing steel as he took a step-

Thud.

His back bounced off the door; he had taken too many steps back. Advantage was not his. The knife sliced against his indecisive flesh, course only narrowly altered. It took a small blood price from him far less than it could have, far less than had his Master not taken the most prudent course of action.

Blood ran down his chest.

A red streak, already staining the simple grey tunic he wore, along his left collarbone was little in comparison to the strike that would have pierced his heart. Deeper than it should have been, but non-fatal.

The light hovered, faded in and out as the shadow drew back, his own shadows cast on the wall behind him, moving like a candle caught in the breeze. The cruel grin, fitting any psychopath or madman, did not look anywhere as menacing when even the smallest hint of light illuminated his face.

“Amaranta!” His heart scrambled for words to say in thankfulness as it thanked every possible divine he had heard of, but a strange mix of panic and gratitude caught the most of them in his throat. “Hold that light steady!” It was less of a command, and closer to the plea of a drowning man. She had something, her blessed light a rope in turbulent seas. Saving his life. Giving him a chance to attack, a chance to move forward.

Spatharius, currently a reliable gladius not made for cutting but parrying and stabbing in the way of the Romans, shifted with a small burst of glowing gold fragments, reforming instantly into a shortsword, not much longer than the knives the darkness threw at him, but perfect for the closed hallway. Pulling it up again, he slashed out diagonally, seeking more distance to move, to keep himself at least a step away from the door.

As long as the light held out he could press onwards. But only so much. The shadow had a certain talent that allowed him to move rapidly… somehow. He did not want much space between the door and himself, but he did not want to be right next to it either. It was… difficult, and locked many of his options.

[Dr. Jacob Heller]

Ah, light. A sparking ember of flame in a storming sea, a valiantly struggling torch in a deluging torrent. That was the effect the girl had on this battle - a negligible drop of hope in a sea of fury, but still a modicum of effort. It was more than enough to grant the Rider an advantage, enough room for him to apply his training, and apply it well.

Dr. Heller came from a more civilized time than the knight. A time of prostitutes and dapper gentlemen. A land of industrial smog and paved roads. It made him a cut above the rest in finesse and taste, but left him sorely lacking in the ways of battle. He never was one for pugilism or even fencing.

And, Dr. Heller thought wryly as he danced out of the sword's range, he certainly was not going to start now. What had worked for him long ago would work now, as it always had.

But still... that light emboldened the knight, drew him on the offensive. But he could not go too far. The little toy that the girl was using had a short but effective range. With this in mind, Heller swiftly ghosted back, back, back into the darkness, enshrouded in mystery and shades once more.

Here, the Rider stopped short, either out of fear of the darkness, or to prevent himself from over-extending, leaving Jack's master unprotected to Master Red's whimsical delights. Emboldened by this hesitation, Jack slid back in, just on the edge of Rider's range. "C'mon, brave knight." His knife darted out of the shadows, lightly and playfully tapping the Rider's sword, before swiftly falling back into the darkness. "'Fraid of the daaark?" Then again. "Wot would 'er Majesty say of this iffen she e'er saw one o' her loyal and mighty knights skulking 'round like that?"

[Amaranta Bastillo]

‘Hold that light steady!” he yelled at her through the door, sending Emma scrambling to press her phone right up to the gap in the door. She found herself submerged once again in the same inky darkness that she had woken up in a wild panic to, it wasn’t like she couldn’t pull through it, right? It wasn’t like she was afraid of the darkness or anything.

It was just... off-putting.

She must not have been very good at holding the light steady, though, considering how her arm was trembling, and how her fingers felt clammy and cold and how the only way she could have possibly known what was going on outside was through the constant drip-dripping of blood and the thudding on wood and plaster and ragged breathing and she clung to those small nuggets of information with her life; she could hear Bedwyr’s faltering, the taunting, the toying, the soft grinding scrapes of steel on steel that sent gooseflesh racing up the back of her neck.

And, as it turned out, she was afraid of the dark after all.

She didn’t dare move – it was some time before she realized she wasn’t even breathing as she let it out all in one explosive burst of air; they’d tracked her down to her own home, and trapped her in her room. Why hadn’t she taken Bedwyr’s warnings more seriously? Why hadn’t the possibility of those psychopaths breaking in with their changing faces and hidden daggers and murderous nonsense even crossed her mind?

Beat.

If there was one, then the other must be near. She licked the roof of her mouth, free had clenching and unclenching, forcibly shoving her hair out of her face even if it didn’t make much of a difference, knuckles scraping her cheek, knees weak. She needed a weapon – any weapon – but she hadn’t thought to sleep with her gun by her pillow – and would have scoffed at the suggestion. She doubted it was even loaded.

Turned out the cabinet in the hallway wasn’t such a great idea after all.

I’ll need to ask Bedwyr to forgive me when we make it out of his.

If they made it out.

“Just... don’t go dying on me or anything,” saying it out loud wasn’t much of a reassurance,” you can do that for me, can’t you?”

[Bedwyr]

“Just… don’t go dying on me or anything, you can do that for me, can’t you?”

His fear may have been purged with the light, but hers was not. He could feel her voice tremble, sense her hesitance, her hope and her worry. His purpose was to die for her. Die before her, fall that she might stand but… if he died here it would spell certain death for her. If she fell before him… no, she wouldn’t! That would not happen again! Neither of them would close their eyes a final time this night.

“Of course, Amaranta.” Blood trickled gently down his back and chest; he could feel the sticky rivulet running down his skin, chilled with night’s air, that familiar feeling long heralding the death of a friend, but still a smile managed to touch his face. “I think… “ His breath was still coming hard. ”I know I can manage that.” He raised Spatharius to face level, and for a second it took on a more ornate hilt before flashing back to the simple gladius that he was so familiar with.

The shadow had backed off in the presence of Amaranta’s light, with the aid of his swordsmanship. Now was the worrisome part. He knew, he just knew, he had seen it happen, that the shadow had means of instant transmission, or at least some form of incredibly rapid movement. He had beat him across the rooftops on that first night, been where he should not be on the second… had it not been for the intervention of the steel clad giant though… perhaps he could have ended it without such an intrusion.

"Wot would 'er Majesty say of this iffen she e'er saw one o' her loyal and mighty knights skulking 'round like that?"

…Odd. He was not someone who would have known her secret, perhaps he spoke of another great King? It… nonetheless this was a duel, and so he would honour that with what she would have thought.

”What would she say?” A sharp intake of breath sent pain shooting through his chest. He had to stop this, could not appear weak, could not let Amaranta fear any more. He had to appear strong, undamaged. So he gathered himself, and continued without even a wince of a pained inhale. “She would applaud me for standing against a murderer, to protect an innocent. She showed me the way and reason I stand herself! Before I met her, perhaps I would have been different, and not fought you because killing a skulking rat holds no glory. But now I seek no accolade, no golden ring of valour.” His own Diadem had seldom been worn. While others, like Trystan, would use it to show themselves, he sought no recognition from it. The glittering chain gathered dust in all but the most formal of ceremonies. His presence… was so small compared to hers it would have felt like blasphemy to attempt to wear a crown near her.

He stepped forward, and his sword shifted. An arming sword, a grounded knight’s weapon. While it wasn’t the most suitable for the corridor he was in, it gave him the furthest reaching range. Gave him the most room to work. If the shade moved behind him, he could strike before he would even open the door. It gave him a new set of disadvantages, but he was willing to take that risk.

The floor creaked beneath his second step, the lack of the sound of steel against hardwood made him doubt himself for a moment, but it was simply a momentary flitter of nerves.

”If she saw me now,” Could she? He… prayed that it was so. That she would see he still served her past even the bonds of death… that he continued the ideals she had fought for! ”She would cheer me on, and if I died would stand as my second!” He bit off those last words, the fact that this creature claimed to know her, even were it another woman, disgusted him. Everything about the shade and its light-cloud of a master bothered him. Their enjoyment of pain, the murder, the lies they spun with their every word, even the way the shadow spoke just irritated Bedwyr to his core

If he moved one more step away from the door, that was where the light began to fade. He could still see, but that single pace was as far as he was willing to go. And it was more than enough.

He lunged forward, in the middle of the step, dipping low and then striking upwards, the sword flashing on the last gleams of light before it dove into the darkness, and straight towards the heart of the shade as blood dripped from his back, tracing his movements.

[Bedwyr]

He cackled madly. The shade, the man, the rainshadow upon the soul could scarcely believe his ears. This knight in front of him, did he really think he could stand bleeding as he was, spurred on by insubstantiality?

Apparently he did. Bleeding, and with a hitch in his walk that signalled his brain was not receiving all the oxygen it needed, the knight lunged forward with a strike straight out of the romances that were so popular during the shadow’s time.

But it was not the blow of a dying man, and that perhaps would have taken him by surprise, had the wraith ever known surprise in his life.

“Your queen’d laugh like me, boyo.” He drawled as he parried the blow with a butcher’s knife drawn from within the void of his cloak. “Scorn ya as ye fell for fallin' ter such a thing as me. 'Er majesty seeks 'igher than ya of 'er knights.”

The sword pressed hard against his knife, and he could hear the blonde’s teeth grit. Followed by a sound he didn’t know. A metallic tearing, the howl of a banshee had she choked on steel. The butchers knife was poorly made and the tang snapped, sending the knight’s sword dangerously close to his throat, but it hissed by, barely, and instead drew some meager spillings of blood.

The first time the knight had wounded him, and he hissed slightly in pain. He would need to speak to his Master about purchasing from more reputable shops as his left hand reached for a dagger.

---

Spatharius drew blood. He exulted, even as his shallow breaths made his lungs ragged. This was not the swordsmanship of a practice field, he was a man trying to cut down a thornbush with all his effort. Any instructor would have made his ears blister with a remonstrance; he would have done the same to those under his command had he watched swordsmanship such as this.

But he could do nothing else. An extended series of traded blows would leave him dead, leave Amaranta dead and that was something he could not allow! The arming sword whipped out again, to be scarcely blocked by a narrowly pulled dagger.

“What do you know of my queen, specter? Do you know what her days were like!?” Another strike, another parry. Bedwyr’s weight shifted forward. He advanced!

Once again Spatharius lanced outward, like a spear. A thrust the Assassin was forced to step back to avoid. He was attacking like a madman, and any opening would be his death. He had to keep forcing his opponent back with each strike. He had to force something, anything.

“Did you see her body bowed with decisions she had to make? Her face tinged with endless regret, seeking another way, but being forced to progress the only way she could? No!” The knight’s shout was punctuated by another ring of steel meeting steel as he sought to cut through the opponent entirely. Another step forward, another step backwards. Blood dripped from both of them, invisible, only noticeable by the sound of their splashing.

Echoes of sound and memory burned his ears. He was almost brought to tears remembering the look on his King’s face, but he could not let his vision distort for one instant. The tears of rage, sorrow, pity, a thousand emotions… all of them had been long since shed. Fighting on was his only choice.

“You. Know. Nothing. Of. Her!” Each bitten remark was punctuated by reverberation of their blades. As he forced the Assassin back. He was fighting for two women, who were both worth far more than him, he could never let them down. They both had courage to dwarf his; strength to see their ideals through… he could just follow them. Serve them to the best of their ability and lend his sword to their arm.

And that was enough for him. Sharing a dream… yes it was enough for one such as him!

---

He didn’t attack like a dying man at all. It was if there was new life in the man who seemed to only want to step forward. There was no way he could keep it up for long. In comparison the blood that dripped down the murderer’s arm was a trickle, easily stopped.

But still… blood had been drawn. And if the knight did not flag perhaps… perhaps he would be forced to retreat. No, this was it, the knight would fall. And to that effect.

“Ahahaha~” He pushed back on the next blow with all his might, sending the knight unexpectedly a bare bit off balance for a second. It was enough. “Lucky 'nuff t' draw blood, nonono, luck definitely does not favour you.” His accent was fading as he became far more urbane. The spilling of his own blood was not something he was used to.

Flashing a glowing grin, with stark white teeth standing out in the darkness that cloaked the two of them The Doctor took the opportunity to step back for a second, leaving the miserable knight standing there in slight confusion.

“Perhaps,” He somehow managed to speak while laughing, a hideous mixture that was emphasized by the pure, unadulterated enjoyment evident in his eyes. “ P'raps you should see where I fought m' battles.”

He paused, and spread his arms wide. The knight stood cautiously as the mana built up in the Assassin. Prudence. “The dark streets of misty, smoggy London. The hellish, starless night… Hollische Schwarz.”

A sheer wave of shadow emanated from within his cloaked figure. It ripped through the air, suffocating it. Even sound stopped as light was overwhelmed by the force of his presence. The knight was nearly bowled over, and even took a step back.

To him it was as if he was struck blind and deaf. Mute to the supplications of the world. To Jack the Ripper the shadow that surrounded him was an extension of his senses. He saw the girl cowering behind the door, her eye firmly fixed behind the keyhole.

She would neither see nor here her champion fall… and once he did she would pass screaming into the night.

He could do nothing but laugh as he advanced on the dying man, even if no one could hear his voice.

---

It was cold. The shadow… no he was not the shadow, this was the shadow. This had simply been what was under the man’s cloak… his true-

“Haaaaaaaaaayaugh!” He screamed, deaf to himself, in pain as a knife slid through him like water, his barest sense of killing intent keeping it from being fatal by less than an inch. His heart, beating madly could feel the cold steel touched against it. Scrambling Bedwyr struck blindly at the hand, but it was already gone.

The shadow… this man…

Parts of his memory shattered. Reformed. He had heard the name. The foggy streets. London. The murderer who ended an age.

Jack the Ripper

That name burned through his mind, from where he knew not. A killer of women, never discovered, who was a tainted spirit summoned from beyond the void of death. A murderer. A thousand men were like him but he was one of the few who rose above obscurity for the sheer brutality of what he had done.

The victims had been unrecognizable.

Hand tightened whiteknuckled around Spatharius’ grip. Those were the only senses he had left. Killing intent, and touch.

His mind spiked again with killing intent and he moved away as much as possible as a knife ripped up his left side, leaving him staggering and freely leaking blood. Another blow followed shortly after that cut a narrow ribbon into his chest. A third, a three pronged weapon like the one before stabbed into the front of his shoulder.

He was reeling. Had he been able to see his eyes would have been blurring and blacking out but they would not respond. It was more than being unable to see, he was blind. Deaf. He couldn’t even hear his own flesh ripping as steel sank again and again into his body.

But he refused to let the shadow pass. He would die standing if he had to! He had to, he must.

---

Of course it wasn’t quite as easy as he had hoped. Even with his senses muted, knowing he was here was enough. The knight, somehow, could still narrowly dodge the strikes he was throwing out. No dodge was too much of a word. His stabs, thrusts, slashes, his methodical evisceration was still drawing lifesblood, he just managed to keep the attack from being fatal. A test thrust to his head had actually made the blade draw across his temple.

There was something that still existed in that fog. His touch, so he could feel the pain. It would not be nearly as enjoyable if the pain was unfelt and he simply died there. But a sixth sense was still remaining. Of course he did have to suppose that would be expected of someone who had become a heroic spirit, even one such as the near dead man in front of him.

Easy, difficult, it made no difference in the end. He was a man of many tastes, and watching the knight in front of him break was just as intriguing as it had been cutting open a woman who gave up with the first needle like thrust.

It was minorly annoying; the knight had escaped multiple times from him already, half-dead. That is why they had chosen to attack, so this Rider could no longer retreat. He could not even ride here.

Another thrust, targeting his lung once more was waylaid, and put into the muscle on the chest. It would slacken his arm but nothing major other than the continued bleed. It was too bad he was a Servant really, had the man in front of him been a normal mortal this would have been quite an academic thing, to see how long someone could live with injuries like this. Another, the carteroid artery, just grazed along his neck, leaving a bare line of red invisible to the knight himself, but glowing like a beacon to the Ripper.

He sunk behind him after that, moving in a shadow step to limit the knight’s movements and cut the tendons to his foot, but again his blade met muscle. It was almost infuriating, had he not been a collected man.

Laughing once again he delivered a strike for no reason other than to continue the blood soaked existence of Rider. He looked drenched in blood like he had walked through a red rainstorm but his eyes, his eyes still held that same determined look. There was fear buried beneath it, of course, but determination was what had showed.

It.

Was.

Irritating.

This man just survived too much! Ran away… lived through what would fell a regiment! He- He… composed himself.

The fun was fading when each slash after the first brought no reaction. Fine then, he would look to end it. As much as the Rider was a slippery being, he could not hold off assaults to his core forever. One lunging slash to his heart and –

”!?”

---

Everywhere was covered in blood. He could feel it’s sticking, cloying warmth trickle down his body, leaving his heart empty and struggling. He was dying.

It was as simple as that. He was a dead man still standing on his feet. But resignation to fate did not once cross his mind. Their faces did, a thousand times a second, horses, the air of Britain, a million simple things as he tried to center himself. To think of some way they, or at least she could survive this.

A last stand of a lone Briton. He had done this before. He remembered a field stained with blood as his sword-!

That was it… it was a longshot, but it was far better than flailing blindly with Spatharius. A-

A slash across the muscle of his left leg, barely turned from crippling him whited out his mind for a second. A second flurry he tilted his head by, felt the knife drag across the surface of his flesh, ripping skin and leaving only an angry wound behind.

They didn’t work but…

His mind flared once again with a bare moments warning. A thrust to the center of his chest, aimed at his heart. Steeling himself for the instant before he came he fell on the knife with all his scant remaining strength, forcing it above his heart and into his lung.

Muscles tightened instantly, spurred on by desperation even with their lack of blood. He twisted himself, twisted and locked the blade inside himself.
The shade was human; the darkness that had hid him was all in the room. Human. He was banking everything on him being just that. A mortal man like him who rose from obscurity.

---

In that moment, that instant of surprise at the resistance of flesh, in the beginnings of anger, Jack the Ripper acted human. Foolishly he tugged once, seeking to recover a piece of replaceable steel.

---

And found himself with a yard of steel plunging through his heart. Spatharius had leapt in his hand, the arming sword, as the untrained murderer, Jack the Ripper committed a human error. In his surprise, in his mortality he tried to pull back the caught knife. In response to that tearing pain, Bedwyr struck. He knew where Assassin was, he had stabbed from the front, and, like so many other times, Spatharius entered between his ribs like flesh was as water and slammed into and through his human heart.

The pure darkness of the soul that surrounded them sullenly retreated, pulled back like a great net, revealing to the Masters Bedwyr with a knife in his chest first. His hand was still gripping his blade, never to let go. Rivulets of blood dripped from him, and his hair was stained red. His eyes still blazed, though Amaranta would not have seen that. Then… then the shadow retreated to Jack’s cloak and he was alight and noticeable in the lamps that flickered back and forth between light and dark, the power attempting to return.

Spatharius was thrust through his chest and emerged out his back even as the Assassin’s blade was plunged into Rider’s. His eyes still had life, and his right hand dripped blood. They both struggled onto life, but only one wound was fatal.

Eventually as the two stood, pushed and propped up by the other for what seemed like an hour to each man but truly was but seconds…

Jack the Ripper’s body went limp, and his eyes lifeless as blood ran freely from his lips as he gave one final gasp. That last breath almost sounded like an attempt at laughter… at himself? He could not even guess. It was getting hard to focus…

Coughing, blood coming up from his throat, he spoke ”Haaah… know this… as you return to where… where you came from that Bedwyr Bedrydant… has… has brought you to your end!” His voice was hesitant, but triumphant as he stared at the … Magus… who had called Assassin from beyond the grave. The name, his secret, was out. But he did not care. They needed to know.

But that was all he could take. Blood bubbled once more and even as the Assassin began to fade Bedwyr stumbled a few steps forward, towards the Magus who still threatened Amaranta and collapsed. Spatharius fell from his hand to clatter freely on the ground still buried in the Assassin's body. You did well, old friend…

He reached one hand out to the form in front of him, and then let it fall as he passed out, far closer to death than to life, his thoughts firmly with the fact that he had succeeded in his duty, finally.

[The 1000 Faces]

The magus had let a small, satisfied smile slip across his stolen face as he felt the air in the room grow colder. The words echoed to him as if they had been whispered in his ear.

“The dark streets of misty, smoggy London. The hellish, starless night… Hollische Schwarz.”

The room was blanked out, as if a screen had been drawn over it. The show was over, it said. Go home. But the man with 1000 faces knew that the arrival of a Noble Phantasm meant that the game was only just beginning. Sound was gone, swallowed by the impenetrable darkness. Miliardo was fond of his Servant’s modus operandi. The Heroic Spirit was exceptional at what he did. If his only skill was murder, who could fault him for having perfected it, adapted it to every situation?

The magus stalked a little closer, as intrigued as he was terrified by the murderous aura before him. He would never try to observe what was happening within it, but he could speculate. Surely by now the Good Doctor had cut the Rider’s hamstrings, cut apart his fingers, perhaps even cut away his armor, leaving him totally defenseless while he began the work that had made him famous.

The bodies had always been utterly unrecognizable after Jack the Ripper was done with them. Would the Servant Rider share the same fate as those women? Or would he simply fade away into ignominy without making a sound? Miliardo was curious. Would he beg for his life at the end, or decide it was nobler to fade away silently?

Ah. The darkness began to fade, small pinpricks of light shining through from the hallway. Miliardo took a step backward into the darkness, tilting his head slightly as he observed the scene. First, he saw Rider, down on the floor, countless wounds covering his body. The final one was a vicious stab to his chest, just above the heart. The shadow had tried to rip the blade free, only making the wound bigger and deeper, before flitting away again.

He had gotten away, right? Abruptly, the seals on his hand began to hurt. Badly. The pain was enormous, but fleeting. The seals faded. The feeling in the back of his head that was the Good Doctor disappeared.

“No.”

The Rider’s blade fell to the floor with a clatter as the spirit that had felt its sting vanished from this world. Miliardo was no longer the Master of Assassin. Assassin had been slain. A casualty of war. That was natural. It had been a close fight, but luck or skill had let Rider prevail. Such was life.

“No,” the magus whispered again. His hand closed tightly around the glass dagger in his hand. He would not allow it to end like this. If he was to lose Assassin, he would ensure that Rider was also slain. The Servant was already on the verge of death. It would take a miracle to save him—or a few moments to ensure that there was no such miracle.

Miliardo positioned himself beside the bleeding man and raised his knife. There would be no mistakes. It was a life for a life. He had no fancy tricks left. There was only this.

Revenge.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

On the other side of the flimsy door; the crack in flimsy wood, one trembling hand still holding up her torch and the other hung uselessly at her side, trailing in her protector's blood, Emma contemplated praying, recalling fragmented scraps from a book she'd read just to spite her grandfather a few years ago. Despite her reservations, a cosmic fix-all figure would've been a spectacularly welcome intervention, and even though she'd never believed in anything resembling a God in the past, now seemed to be a damned good time to reevaluate her life choices. She choked out something between a harsh bark of laughter and a shaky sigh.

There was something to be said about being helpless and trapped. She was intent on the exchange outside, the taunting, the banter, the infuriating back and forth of words and phrases that seemed to echo infinitely in her ears as time slowed in pace to the speed her mind was racing. Nothing the monster said meant anything, she knew, but still she paid rapt audience, maybe in vain hope that she'd be able to make a difference in a deathmatch that was so clearly out of her league. This wasn't even about her, she realized, at least not yet. Emma wasn't even enough of a threat to acknowledge, let alone waste attention on.

As the thin sliver of light dissolved into inky blackness and as a wave of cold fear so physically palpable it lingered in her flesh like the coldest winter frost assaulted her, she could feel a small spark of boiling indignation. How dare they, she seethed as her teeth chattered and her phone clattered to the floor, how dare they. As the malevolent cackle echoed against the inky blackness, and with her senses muted in an ocean of darkness and fear, she clung to those embers of outrage as a bough clung to flowers in autumn.

She hated not being able to do anything, she hated that she was too afraid to open the door, she hated that some guy she'd known for three days was out risking his life to save hers, and even as she heard the sickening squelch of a blade entering flesh, and as Bedwyr screamed and her heart fell, she hated the scum that hurt him – hurt her – most of all. And if she was going to die, it sure as hell wasn't going to be dying cowering behind a door.

Emma stood, legs shaky, blindness and adrenaline dizzying her. She brought the back of her right had to her cheek in an effort to calm herself, but the metallic stench of blood on her fingers achieved only the opposite as it left streaks of warm wetness on her cheeks. She steeled herself, fighting back her gag reflex, fingers groping for the doorknob, her mind still a frantic mess, racing to plan her next actions – maybe getting a shot in before she went down – maybe rescuing Bedwyr before it was too late (how was she going to manage that?) .

Just as suddenly as the darkness came, it disappeared – a wave relief and a flood of light as the torch on her phone blinked back into existence. The door had been opened to a crack. Her eyes adjusted just in time to see Bedwyr crumple to the floor with a dull thud. The remnants of the shadowy monster disappeared into nothing but air; the only evidence of it's existence the terrible wounds that had been inflicted on her protector; her very own white knight, she adds to herself not as dryly as she'd intended. Her friend.

Footsteps broke her from short-lived reverie. Laborious, limping footsteps from the far end of the hallway, of a hollow-eyed man who saw nothing but the broken knight bleeding out on the floor, a dagger clutched tight in his dangling arm – to finish the job the shadow had started. She felt her hands involuntarily ball into fists as she watched the figure draw near. In the murky light, without her glasses, it was difficult to make out details – she couldn't even have known for certain if it was the same man – woman – thing – who had attacked her the other evening.

But he needs to die.

The door didn't creak as Emma flung it open wide, letting it swing just short of the wall, bare feet making crimson footprints on the floorboards as the shadow's accomplice readied himself for the kill. Words written in cursive script flashed through her mind as she raised her hand, feeling fire race through her veins as she mouthed the words to a spell that shouldn't exist. Her left hand raised, with murder in her eyes, she didn't break stride as a hail of deadly shards was sent flying just before the glass knife was brought down. Scooping Bedwyr's bloodied blade from the floor, the tip scratching varnish before she grasped the hilt with both hands, cold fury propelling her towards the thing that had menaced her for the past week.

“I'm returning the favour,” she hissed, voice nothing but a venomous whisper, laced with nothing but murder.

All she knew about swordplay was that the pointy end went into the enemy, but really, that in itself was more than enough. The length of steel felt heavy and unfamiliar in her hands, but it wasn't difficult to gut a man who was already half broken. She had thrown caution to the wind, driving the blade through Bedwyr's would-be murderer in a frenetic charge, her shoulder under his chin. The wet squelch of parting flesh and the sickening sensation of muscle and skin giving way under her hands was more than enough to make her want to throw up, but she gave the blade one final, vicious twist before she let her hands fall from it's hilt, bringing her hands up to her mouth, breathing ragged and choked with hiccups as liquid trickled from her still-wide eyes.

Bedwyr!

She didn't even to check to see if the man she had just stabbed was still breathing, still alive, before she spun on her heel and dropped to her knees, then reminding herself that throwing up on Bedwyr's rapidly fading body would be doing nobody any favours. She ran her eyes up and down the length of his body frantically, trying to gauge the extent of his wounds – figuring out where to start, how to save him. But everywhere she looked there were gouges, gashes, and horrific wounds, the knight's surcoat now more crimson than white. Her hands snatched the air above his body with helpless motions of desperation.

“...Hey, come on,” the adrenaline had gone out of her body, leaving her weak, tired – terrified,” Bedwyr...?”

She placed a hand on his wrist to check the pulse, but she wasn't a doctor. She didn't know the first thing about first thing about treating any of this, and worst of all, she could hardly feel anything. If any sort of God was out there, now would be the time to show himself.

“Don't lie to me, Bedwyr,” she pressed on, voice soft, gaze flicking to her phone, weighing the benefits of calling a hospital, “ you knightly saint-types don't do that lying thing – Shouldn't. I could, uhm, call Merlin – he'll help you, right? You just need to tell me where I can find him.”

She'd just killed a man to save him, there was no way she was letting go of Bedwyr now; absolutely none. But she had no idea how to hold on – no idea short of calling authorities who weren't going to arrive in anything less than twenty minutes, and with more questions than she had answers for. She wondered if an experienced magician – was that it? Magi? Magus? – could work – if anything in any of those dusty tomes her grandfather kept in the basement held even a sliver of knowledge that could help. But there wasn't enough time – by all rights, Bedwyr shouldn't even have been alive.

But he's a Servant, summoned by you to fight in a ridiculous war that you want nothing to do with. If he had just gotten somebody who was actually competent he wouldn't be in this mess.

“Damn it, I'm sorry!” She stood up shakily, angrily wiping tears from the corners of her eyes, leaving crimson marks where her fingers brushed, grabbing her phone from where it had fallen, “I'm calling the hospital, okay? Just hang on for a little while longer with your ridiculous superman metabolism or something. Just don't scare me like this. Please don't scare me like this.”

The number dialled, she placed one hand on her heart, and started praying.

ooc:// sorry if I waSN'T MEANT TO KILL MILLARDO I CAN JUST REWRITE THE ENTIRE LAST SEGMENT IF THAT WAS THE CASE YEAH I just assumed since V was also dead im lalalalala cartwheels away im gomen

[Bedwyr]

His hand gripped feebly at the floor, attempting to raise himself up, to find the strength to wrap his hand around the hilt of Spatharius as the Magus closed in on him. What a way to die…

But at least Amaranta would be safe. The last emotion on his face would be a smile. This… there would be no threat-

The door behind him slammed open wide, echoing through the hall, faltering the cloudy Magus’ advance for a second as he stared past the knight’s fallen form. Bedwyr could not even turn to see, but he knew from the footsteps that it was her!

Her voice crackled through the air, issuing a sharp command to the world around her, and misshapen shards of ice rifled towards the Magus. The unexpected blow took him full on, staggering him back even as he had been about to deal the final blow.

A distorted hiss of pain came from within the bright figure as Amaranta’s footsteps came close together. She- She picked up Spatharius! As the Magus rose to fight, the sword, his blade responding to her will shattered the knife he raised feebly in defense.

And in the same fashion of the Servant, the Magus’ heart gave its last tremble on the cold steel in his chest. The fog faded and…

… Sight faded with it.

He had blacked out for a moment, and when he awoke Amaranta was kneeling next to him. Alive, and clutching his hand. “Hah," The laugh was far closer to a cough than anything else, "You did Spatharius… honour, Emma.”

Breathing carefully he pulled in his strength for what he had to say to her.

“… I need…” His voice was hoarse, bare more than a whisper as he struggled for Amaranta’s attention. “Not… Merlin.” The Magus was always too far away to save anyone. Even when she lay dying he… no, he couldn’t blame Merlin. His mind was darkening as he heard the noise coming from Amaranta’s torch.

“N…o.” Blood evacuated his left lung in a flood and he weakly struggled to tighten his hand against it. “Listen… I need…” His mind shattered again, the pain was long gone but something was trying to break through. He knew there was something… how. It was on the tip of his mind but it was stuck behind an iron wall. There was something wrong.

Magic. Not Merlin. Magic.

Blood… flowing through crystal veins. A soul. Fragmentary images. A connection, the beating of Amaranta’s soul.

… There was some-

“Emma… you need to heal me.” It poured into his mind, finally, letting his memories release their iron constraints. If he wanted to live he had to accept this… intrusion into everything he held… no not everything, the only thing he held dear to him now. Had to let this force manipulate his, if only so he could… selfishly… remain.

She was better off without him. He had defeated the only threat and if he returned to death’s embrace she would not have to fight any longer. No longer risk her life. But… he was selfish. Unworthy. Prideful. He wanted to stay, to… his mind blanked as the source of what had been altering it was welcomed in.

Immediately one of his memories vanished into the ether and was reformed. A medic wrapping bandages around a wounded knight with long pale blond locks… the knight was him, this was after he had fought Lancelot… his hand bandaged… no, freely bleeding now, and the field medic was replaced by Amaranta, who stood above him, bandages nowhere to be seen. Instead he felt… warmth from her. Her hand was placed on his chest, then over his wound and…

His head erupted into pain again, and the iron walls rose once more. Memories and mind sealed once more, but the damage had been done. He wanted to scream out from the sheer sting the fake memories dealt him as they ripped into his mind but he barely forced it down, he could not waste any of the little coherent time he had left.

“Magecraft… Emma. Prana.” That word was so unfamiliar… yet completely unremarkable. He had heard it before; he had never heard its like. It was… what he consisted of? “Open yourself.” His heart was beating weakly now… his eyelids were heavy. Weariness assaulted his every fiber and he just… his body needed rest. Yes, rest… he would just close his eyes for a second…

Whatever she could do… he needed it now.