Licking One's Wounds

[Bedwyr]

She had left the room, soaked in his blood. Medical supplies or some such things. I suppose she probably can’t use magic to heal them then. He had been sewn up on the field many a time, and being stitched up always felt strange, but it did help heal them, and he supposed it would while he was a Servant as well. It was almost strange, he had had more scars on his body when he died, but apparently the grail brought him back in his prime. This was the same body that had thrown the holy blade into the lake, never to be seen again. After that, his mind had… deteriorated, and he had sought death in combat, rode wishing for it to happen. Eventually it did.

Perhaps he could be summoned as Berserker; those last fights were definitely not the sanest points in his life.

He had developed his swordsmanship more one handed, taught himself how to ride even above what he had before. Lancelot had almost given him a boon, and if Bedwyr didn’t want to kill him, he may have thanked him.

His fight with the traitor had been a brutal lesson in swordplay, destroying Bedwyr’s illusion of being even a moderate fighter with the sword. He had only paid with his overconfidence with his left hand; many other knights had paid for their complacency with their lives.

Of course his hand had not been his only wound; he had been closer to death at that point than now. He could of faded into obscurity, in fact it was even suggested that he should retire from the field. His skill increased after that point, and he surpassed the three Diademed men of Britain, becoming Diademed himself. He had trained for her as well as Lancelot’s eventual return.

But he never did. So he became his leige’s greatest weapon. He led her cavalry, from the front like Alexander had. She relied on him, trusted him to do what she ordered, whatever she ordered. And he did it, unquestioningly.

When she ordered a town stripped for supplies the first time after his injury he no longer baulked at doing it. He would serve.

He rolled over and tore off his surcoat and bloodsoaked tunic, the thing itched at his wound. Of course it faded away when he tossed it aside, he probably just could have dismissed it but he had forgotten. His removed surcoat still lay on the floor. He could dismiss and resummon it whole, but the knife strike in its back would serve as a decent reminder to not dismount unless he absolutely needed to. He always needed reminders, especially his earrings. The mark of a Hebrew slave when he accepted permanent service, he had heard about it from a priest, he pierced once when he failed at a task, and again when he failed another task he pierced them a second time. I am a slave, her slave.

His leg was somewhat numb compared to the pain in his back, even if the one on his leg was what limited him. That would heal properly after being set and bandaged.

He touched the wound in his back, and pain rocketed through his body as his fingers probed the inside of his own flesh. How long did she take to find a needle and thread? Then again she had seen sights today that probably unnerved her, made it difficult to remember where she had placed things.

She returned, and gaped at his unclothed back, the fingers in his bleeding wound. The seat he lay on had only begun to be stained with his blood. It was a beautiful piece, probably ruined now. He had no way to repay her for the thing, but it probably mattered little when he would give her the Grail itself. He only had one wish, after that she could do whatever she wanted with the trinket.

“Well, Am- Emma,” He remembered she wanted to be called that, he had no idea why. Amaranta was a beautiful name, and suited her. Emma was too brief, too undescriptive a name. “I am ready. Stitch my wound, if you please, Master.”

[Amaranta Bastillo]

What.

Without any further bidding from her, he just rolled over and threw everything he was wearing to the ground, right in front of her. Obviously medieval, or wherever this so-called ‘Bedivere’ came from, standards from shame were different from modern ones. She hastily averted her eyes with a small squeak, raising one hand to shield her vision.

“Well Am – Emma,” at least he remembered her name, “I am ready. Stitch my wound, if you please, Master.”

She did not please. And even if he was ready, she wasn’t. She almost just stood up, turned around, and left altogether, except then she remembered he was the one bleeding over her couch, and she was the one who offered to patch him up in the first place, not to mention it would’ve been very counter-productive. Besides, he couldn’t very stitch up his wound by himself, with only one hand.

Except in her haste she had overlooked the very things you were supposed to stitch things up with in the first place.

“Eh-“ there was no needle and thread, and there was nothing to clean the wound in,” Um. Whoops. Stay he- there!”

She just barely refrained from asking him to put some clothes back on, disappearing off into some other room to fumble around for needle & thread, and, now that she thought about it, a basin of water. Not for the first time was she glad she was the one who organized where things went, but even so, it was difficult to locate things that she never used, especially in such a large house.

When she returned, she was once again greeted by the sight of a half-naked man on her couch, and all of a sudden, she was rapidly becoming intensely grateful that the wound was on his back. Even despite that, though, she couldn’t help but be aware of his phys-

She cleared her throat again. There was really no point in getting flustered over the strangest things.

Right. First she had to clean the wound. Lightly wringing out the cloth, she dabbed at his wound. Should she have applied the vinegar? Almost as an afterthought, she poured a little bit of that onto it too. The water in the basin became crimson before too long, and her hands were slick with his blood, but at least the area around the wound looked clean enough. Hopefully.

But just thinking about the next step made her wince. Was she supposed to sew the wound up now? The knife wound deep, but clean-cut. It couldn’t possibly be that hard, right? Setting her jaw, picking up the threaded needle, she drove it into his skin. She was certain that she was going about things in the clumsiest manner possible, but the one lying face-down on the couch wasn’t making a sound as she dug the needle into flesh, and she was the one who had a rather pained expression on her face while she was bandaging him up.

The procedure was performed in an awkward silence.

There was the nagging feeling that she had done something wrong, but she dismissed it. He was some sort of ‘Servant’, right? And to top it all off, he was apparently Bedivere, knight of the freakin’ round table. He could deal with it. Probably. She didn’t even have to make him her problem to begin with.

“Right then,” sitting back onto the table with an expression bordering on exasperation,“ that’s all I can do,” what she could do didn’t really amount to much, “Just stay on the couch for now. I’ll bring um, stuff like blankets and stuff down in a bit.”

What she really wanted to do was take a shower and wake up to realize everything was all a bad dream. The blood on her shirt had already crusted and dried into a disgusting brown, matting her hair and scraping against her skin. Then again, she probably shouldn’t have been worried stuff like than when there was a guy on her couch with a stab wound, even if he seemed to be taking it amazingly well.

“...Anything else you need?”

[Bedwyr]

She squeaked and then bolted. She does something completely different than I expect, every time she reacts. Is she expecting me to chase her down again?

He almost got up, until he heard the sounds of objects being hastily moved and rummaged around. She was looking for something; perhaps she had forgotten an item. His eyes seemed to recall her not having a wash basin, so perhaps that was what she was searching for.

The cushioning on the couch was somewhat relaxing, and he could have easily fallen asleep on it. Although he was not the best judge of how comfortable something was, he had slept on the ground with nothing but his surcoat to cover him, napped in the saddle, and actually fallen asleep amongst the dead on a battlefield, too tired to move from where he had stood.

He had almost been counted as a casualty then. Not the brightest thing he had ever done.

Memories. He had been so lost in them he did not hear Emma return, did not see her until she cleared her throat. It had to be stopped, but they kept coming back to him, near unbidden. It was almost like the second mind, providing information without asking, altering the way he did things because of it. The feeling of being controlled like that… It is useful though.

A cloth dabbed at the wound on his back that held a burning sensation. She really did not know much about Servants at all. A Servant would not take ill, would not be infected, unless it was a part of the opponent’s Noble Phantasm. If that was so, the cleaning she was applying was useless.

Yet he did not interrupt her. Why not let her hands continue their gentle caress of his wound, why surprise her with something she may still not yet be ready to handle?

And then she began to sew up his back. He would not have called her ham-fisted, but she was certainly not being delicate about this part. She was similar to one of the giant field medics he remembered, he had been able to set bones, and do so well but ask him to sew up a wound and…

He would not interrupt. From what he judged so far of her temperament that would only make things worse. At least the wound was closed now; it would probably heal by morning.

“Right then that’s all I can do, just stay on the couch for now. I’ll bring um, stuff like blankets and stuff down in a bit… Anything else you need?”

Wait. He had flagged in his duties. The two of them could have followed them here. And he had left her alone to search for supplies to heal him. He almost leapt from the couch. And once again onto his bad leg. That was getting annoying, at least now it was bandaged. A stumble sent him headlong into the table, and instinct brought out his blade, slicing the thing out of his way. His Master had been sitting on that. Not anymore. He wrapped his bad hand around her to keep her from falling.

Of course what he didn’t quite count on was the fact the he fell. Well at least he wouldn’t fall on her. He twisted, to make her land on top of him when he fell.

It worked, but he landed on his wounded back. At least the stitches didn’t break. She was on top of him, and his brain congratulated him dryly. You saved her from yourself, well done, Bedwyr.

“I apologize, Master Emma!” He really did. There was a burning nervousness in his chest. “But I cannot let you go alone. Do you have a boundary field to detect intruders? Even if you do, that Servant may be Assassin, he could easily pierce such a thing. I apologize once again, but I will not be letting you out of my sight again.”

He could strike at any time; they could even be following his trail right now. They knew who she was. He had let her wander alone, she could have died. He had failed. Again. But he would not do so, she would not travel anywhere without him now. In the position they were currently in, she would be serving as a shield to him the way she laid on top of his bare chest.

Of course she would probably disagree with the measures he was going to take. Often ones being protected did get angry about the protection, but it was necessary. He would serve whether she liked it or not.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

“Wha-huh,” all of a sudden, she was sitting on nothing, “ Y-th-Ah!”

In a flurry of movement, a brief moment of vertigo, and with the sound of shattering glass, Emma found herself on top of Bedwyr. A half-naked Bedwyr. In her face. Her cheeks flushed red, but there was nowhere she could avert her eyes.

“I apologize, Master Emma!” He had better damn well mean it,” But I cannot let you go alone. Do you have a boundary field to detect intruders? Even if you do, that Servant might be Assassin. He could easily pierce such a thing. I apologize once again, but I will not be letting you out of my sight again.”

“Yes, bu-,” she was still on top of him. Why was she still on top of him? “Uh.”

She hastily righted herself, only to stumble backwards and fall gracelessly on the couch without so much as a ‘sorry’. She found herself concerned for just a moment if his stiches held, before she quickly rid herself of that notion. It was his fault to begin with, after all.

“Uh, y-you’re, um, reimbursing me for that table later,” she closed her eyes, removing her glasses, and began to massage the bridge of her nose. That never happened. Of course it never happened, “But let me get these few things straight first.”

“One,” she held up a finger to emphasize her point,” we’re meant to be participating in this ‘Grail War’, which I never signed up for in the first place. Two, that very same grail war almost got you killed just then. Three, the only reason I stitched you up was because of some warped sense of gratitude for,” she paused,” ‘saving me’.”

“Don’t go around thinking that I’m actually going to participate,” she continued, “So you can just run off now and find another ‘Master’ to leave me in peace, and worry them about all this ‘boundary field’ and ‘holy war’ crap. Besides, all things said and done, I’m pretty useless, aren’t I? You’ll be better off with somebody else, and I’ll be better off pretending none of this ever happened.”

[Bedwyr]

“Uh, y-you’re, um, reimbursing me for that table later,”

Table, couch, probably the vase she had swung at him, her door to her stables, and the iron wall surrounding it. She would probably make him replace the mount he had ridden as well. There was a lot of objects she would probably want him to reimburse her for, a lot of things for a knight who took a vow of poverty. If she won the Grail, it probably wouldn’t matter though. And if she didn’t he was dead anyways. Amaranta seems to use these empty threats a lot.

“But let me get these few things straight first. One, we’re meant to be participating in this ‘Grail War’, which I never signed up for in the first place. Two, that very same grail war almost got you killed just then. Three, the only reason I stitched you up was because of some warped sense of gratitude for ‘saving me’.”

Her points annoyed him, again. Had he not solved this with the fight? With the riding? Had she not accepted him? He was growing tired of this again. Last time had ended in disaster… well she had accepted him because of that, but it seemed like she had conveniently forgotten.

Well now that he had a Master he could take her on a faster ride. Much faster. I’ll hold that idea in reserve, at least until I fix the way one controls that beast.

The annoyance flickered away when he thought of mechanically altering the mount. Once again the separate mind provided all sorts of ideas. He pushed away the thoughts, shattering them. He had to focus on this. On this all rested.

It was true he did not want her to fight, to engage in battle, but as a Master sometimes it was necessary to be there, to be close. Separated, a Master was often an easy target. Not to mention these people knew who she was. And he seemed to doubt they would leave her alone, even if she claimed not to be a master.

The annoyance returned. In full force.

He stood up, walked over to her and looked directly into her eyes. Sometimes there was only one thing to do to people like this. “I’m sorry.” He said regretfully. The look on her face was… interesting to say the least. It would only get worse. He put his good hand on hers. And slapped her across the face with her own hand.

That was almost painful for him to do. His body ached with the blow. But need was need, and she needed to be snapped out of whatever mood had taken her, as well as her brain.

“Listen!” His voice was louder than he anticipated. It would do. “You accepted me as Servant!” He was flying off the handle again. Usually he only did that when someone close to him was hurt. Then again she had basically threatened to hurt herself, and a Master was one close to a Servant. “Useless! You stood up to… something with a tiny inch long knife! You were willing to do such a thing! You! I wish I had that bravery!”

He quelled any attempt to interrupt his speech. He would finish, dragging his stubborn Master into the light. “You have a kind soul; you repaired my wounds, even when you couldn’t by magic. You helped me walk, you rode with me back here. I am glad to have such a Master” His voice was quieting, but he was about to yell again. His annoyance was taking form, all that he had held in since being summoned was flowing out.

“And there are some who would take advantage of this, of you! You think those two… things will not strike at you if I leave! They would be glad to!” His voice dropped to a cold yell, his eyes hardening “At the very least I will be here until they fall beneath my blade. Even if I have to tie you to a wall!” He meant it. He would not enjoy such a thing, but what had to be done had to be done. His eyes met hers once again, almost attempting to make her accede to his demands by his glare itself.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

“I’m sorry,” he said solemnly, mere inches from her face.
“Wh-?” Emma felt her arm being forcefully jerked by the wrist, “What ar-“

The palm of her hand cracked painfully against the side of her face, snapping her head sharply to the left.

“Listen!” his voice was loud, “You accepted me as a servant!”

That was out of necessity, she wanted to say, but something in his stance, or something in his tone stopped her. His presence became imposing, threatening, even, as he towered over her, hair still matted with blood. Her cheek still stung, and her hand was still sore.

“Useless!” the decibels only ever went up, “You stood up to… something with a tiny inch long knife! You were willing to do such a thing,” it wasn’t really like she had a choice, “You! I wish I had that bravery!”

What sort of backhanded compliment was that? She didn’t even do anything in the end; she didn’t stand up to anything. She couldn’t believe how naïve the man was in his thinking. Bravery? Stood up to that thing? There was a difference between self-preservation and courage.

“You have a kind soul,” she almost snorted at that, if not for the expression on his face, “you repaired my wounds, even when you couldn’t by magic. You helped me walk, you rode with me back here,” she did, and she was regretting it already, “I am glad to have such a Master.”

Yes, but she wasn’t. It was some strange sense of obligation. The more he went on, the more she felt the need to justify her actions to herself. Why didn’t she just leave him there? Why didn’t she call the police, and why did she bring him back with her?

“Like I said,” she began half-heartedly, “I ow-“

“And there are some who would take advantage of this, of you!” he ignored her, and continued, “You think those two… things will not strike at you if I leave! They would be glad to!”

Just thinking about those two made her shiver. She had foolishly bunched them together with the rest of the things that had happened that day. Get rid of one, get rid of all of them. Rubbing her cheek with her hand, she avoided eye contact, gaze wandering every which way but at the furious man in front of her.

“At the very least,” his voice grew cold, “I will be here until they fall beneath my blade. Even if I have to tie you to a wall.”

There was obviously something wrong with that guy’s head. She bit down on her lip, hardening her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. Steely grey, biting. There was definitely a threat in there. Fine. Have it his way.

“Get off me,” she said cooly, standing up, brushing him aside, turning so he wouldn’t see her face.

There was definitely a furious blush rising to her cheeks as she drew her arms closer around her, lowering her gaze to stare at her feet. She had forgotten to take off her shoes. Wait. No. Focus.

“I don’t know who you think you are. I don’t care if you’re Bedivere, I don’t care if you’re some freaky superhuman,” she tried to make her voice firm, unwavering, “ This is my home, and it is only through my goodwill that you’re standing here right now. I don’t need to take this from you. I shouldn’t take this from you,” with every word, her voice gained more conviction, “especially not if you’re supposed to be my Servant.”

“It’s late. You’re injured, and we’re probably both tired,” she made an effort to sound reasonable, “You need to heal, and I need to sleep. Nobody’s tying anyone to any walls. We can discuss this at length in the morning. And now I really need a shower. ”

She began to walk off. But the bathroom wasn’t where she was going. The basement. Each one of those tomes she had dismissed as fiction could’ve actually been anything but. She needed knowledge, and information. Sleep was for the weak. She needed to cram.

[Bedwyr]

He had won. Maybe. He could see a tiny bit of a slight, grudging acceptance in her eyes. That would be enough for now. He could back down and let her speak. It would solve problems, if she let out her feelings. Perhaps he would understand his liege better, understand how to serve better.

“I don’t know who you think you are. I don’t care if you’re Bedivere, I don’t care if you’re some freaky superhuman This is my home, and it is only through my goodwill that you’re standing here right now. I don’t need to take this from you. I shouldn’t take this from you, especially not if you’re supposed to be my Servant.”

Her voice was strong, unafraid. He could have swelled with pride in his Master. It took bravery to stand up to any Servant, even one such as him. Well that or ignorance. She could have been meek, and yet she rebuffed him. What luck, to receive one such as her as Master.. Meekness was far too similar to lying for him; it belied one’s true feelings.

“It’s late. You’re injured, and we’re probably both tired. You need to heal, and I need to sleep. Nobody’s tying anyone to any walls. We can discuss this at length in the morning. And now I really need a shower. ”

And she left. Ostentatiously to have a shower, which the second mind providing it as a bath that fell on someone… slowly? That seemed strange, and yet his mind assured him it was effective. He almost wanted to try it, but that would be a waste of his time. He could use the washbasin she had provided to clean his wounds, and the small cloth as well. That way he would not be isolated from her, at least for long.

She headed towards the basement, the basement where this night had begun; he supposed gravity would help run the water down through a shower if they had a reservoir above. His mind said nothing on that subject. He could feel where she was, at such a close distance, through their link.

That would be enough for now, it would change when he actually rested. He picked up the basin, and looked for a place to empty the bloody water. He chose the window. After quickly opening it he heaved the water from the pail a decent distance from the house and into the lawn. One handed.

He picked up his surcoat and wrapped it around his shoulders, the clasp now the crosses he had promised himself to wear earlier. The tear in it let air hit his wound, let it be exposed enough to heal.

After searching around the manor for perhaps fifteen minutes, and arriving at her stable twice because he decided to follow his instincts, he arrived at something that looked as if it produced water. It was particularly close to a latrine, but the thing was sealed and self-contained. This age was a marvel.

He filled the basin with water, and washed the rag thoroughly, for he wasn’t sure what she had scoured his wounds with. He grabbed a larger cloth for drying himself, as well, and left. Already he had spent enough time away from his Master, too far.

The stairwell she had gone down had two doors, and was underneath the earth. The staircase spiralled, a good area to defend. He would choose here to stay, until she returned. Anyone who tried to get at her would have to go through him.

Then he had a thought. He needed to be productive; he could save the water to wash out his hair for later. He returned to the stables, about five times to bring necessary parts, and tools. And on the sixth time he carried the blood covered steed he had ridden earlier. The thing would suit him better soon, he was glad his Master provided him with it.

First his mind told him it was a good idea to get his hair out of the way, so he would wash it then braid it whole. He seldom did that, it made his problem of looking disturbingly feminine more accentuated. But it would be necessary, hair in this thing’s delicate parts could cause problems, or so he quickly learned.

The washing was hasty, quick, just designed to get the blood out of his hair so he could attend to other matters rather than care for it. He braided it carefully, and doing it with one hand was tricky, but he had learned the knack for that. One often learned such things when they were down a hand.

He was being driven by an urge to learn.

The stairwell was not particularly spacious, so he ended up spreading the tools he needed up the stairs, and used the landing to work on the mount.

First was the steering, it would need to be moved back and lower. That was the most important part; it would be shifted and sidestepped, steered and controlled all by his lower body, his thighs, shins and ankles, the shifting of his weight, and the moving of his feet.

His mind kept flashing images, instructions at him, but he was not sure what he was doing, other than that he enjoyed it immensely. He shifted the steering column back to underneath the saddle, where it would be controlled by the tightening of his thighs.

The accelerator and brakes swiftly followed, and the accelerator was switched from dead man type, to the point where it would maintain the power he set it at. Is what I’m doing even possible? But he had stopped caring, he was enjoying this far too much, it was almost like riding itself. The brake would now decelerate at ridiculously unsafe speeds, and was proper instead of halting. The brakes had been designed to allow one to turn and stop at the same time, probably for unskilled riders, and he could do that much better on his own, so he converted it. He increased the sensitivity of movement that the thing took, so that he could turn at a 90 degree angle with barely a twitch of his muscles.

The round hooves, tires, would not take the speed he needed, but that could be accomplished by the light sheath of prana that would surround him as he rode at speeds that might make the pieces of the machine fail.

He completed numerous other changes, mostly increasing response times and basic performance, so it would stand in battle better, and removing redundant and stylistic pieces, except for the second saddle, which might come in handy.

All in all the thing looked absolutely nothing like it had originally. One would find it difficult to believe that the thing was the same vehicle, Bedwyr had acted faster, and with far more skill than any mechanic in this age. And he barely knew how he did it, only that he did. It was also completely and absolutely unridable by any normal person, unless trained in its specific usage. He could teach someone to use it easily, however, and would probably have to show his master.

He had hated training people, and had realistically only done it because of his promise to his her. He could probably put off showing her, but if something like that night had happened… When she has time. He promised himself.

The tools were scattered on the stairs, but he was too tired to return them now, so he just cleared a safe unobstructed path up them, with tools, and pieces of the Vespa and scrap lining the sides. He left the reconstructed mount at the bottom of the stairwell, out of the way of the door, but barely.

He would sleep at the top. A man carefully opening the top door and sneaking down may be able to kill him while he rested, but if he waited at the top the being would have to open the door there, and he would be ready.

Traipsing up the stairs again he felt drained, and rested sideways along the frame of the door, his surcoat covering his still half-naked body like a blanket, his sheathe unbuckled and propped underneath the doorknob, to make entering even harder than just with his body in the way. This would be sufficient, for now. He hoped his Master was getting at least some rest, but he sensed her mind, furiously at work.

There was nothing he could do about that now, so he closed his eyes and slept.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

The basement stank, but that was okay. She stank too, and she could have a shower any time. What was more important were the stacks upon piles of old tomes and papers that were scattered around the dimly lit area, each one of them as likely as the next to hold information on her current predicament. Of course, Bedivere would probably have been willing to explain the mechanics if she just asked, but there was too much to absorb in too little time, and she doubted that the ‘grail war’ was the only thing that was happening behind the scenes.

Grabbing a musty blanket that had probably been flung carelessly on the floor some weeks ago, she only dusted it off briefly before slinging it around her shoulders, disregarding the filth that had managed to gather on the fabric. It wasn’t like a bit of dirt was going to make a difference now anyhow. It was only then that she realized how chill the air really was. She didn’t think catching a cold would’ve been very clever, especially not in the circumstances.

“God, this room is still a mess.”

Of course, she had planned to clean it earlier that day before, well, the summoning. The large, now-faded circle still sat in the centre of the room, those lines and that had been so carefully scribed now faded, leaving gaps in the ink. She dismissed it in an offhand manner. Out of all the odd things today, flaky-paint would’ve been the least of it. She had half a mind to tidy everything up there and then, before she remembered what she was there for.

Making her way to the small table in the corner, roughing pushing aside scraps of paper, she sat down for a night of heavy reading, flicking on the small, fluorescent desk lamp, grabbing the nearest book she could find. The title was faded, and she couldn’t make out parts of it, but it was as good a place to start as any.

She started from the beginning.

She read about application of thaumaturgy, theories of magic, the history of fictional organizations, and of famous figures whom never existed. Despite that, she was so absorbed in her reading that that she hardly the sound of her Vespa being dismantled outside, doing her best trying to memorise the facts and the theories.

It was a large book, and even just skimming it took a long time. After the first few chapters, she even gave up attempting to understand the complex diagrams and schematics, focusing on keywords and core ideas. It wasn’t at all like when she was humouring her grandfather, pretending to play at being a mage. It was serious study. Her life was on the line, after all.

There was no clock in the basement, and it was easy to lose track of time. She even managed to lose count of the number of books she had just flicked through. By the end of the first tome, she had settled for flicking through the pages and reading through the bits that seemed relevant, caught her interest, or seemed like the things she could understand. It wasn’t like she was in danger of running out of reading material any time soon, and she had already found several bits of information covering the grail war, all of them matching with what Bedivere had told her.

Settled snugly in the warmth of the blanket around the shoulders, hunched over a dimly-lit table, though, it was no small wonder that she managed to last as long as she did. The pages had blurred into each other, the finely scribed text turning to scrawls before her eyes by the time she was done. Even then she told herself that she only needed to close her eyes for a while, only a short break to recover herself. But by the time her eyes closed, she knew that she wasn’t going to wake up again anytime soon. Sitting snugly in her blanket, resting her cheek on her arms, open book illuminated by the dim light from the lamp, she managed to drift off without meaning to.