Day and Night

[Sigurd Fafnesbane]

The Saber's attack missed by a hairsbreadth, the sweeping blow nearly cleaving the knight's head from his shoulders where he stood. Undaunted, Sigurd continued his attack, his momentum unimpeded. The vicious spin crossed paths with the Lancer's blade, harshly battering her treacherous attack aside.

Taking advantage of this sudden opening, the other Saber lunged forward, his own sword raised in a two handed thrust, aimed at his heart.

The shining blade was a weapon of wonder, a sword that cleaved mountains. It was the holy sword Durandal, forged of fire and faith, cast of steel and hope.

All too easily turned. Sigurd, rather than attempting to dodge or otherwise mitigate the blow, daringly lunged forward, meeting the full attack. Like so many before it, the perfect strike clanged as it rattled off of Sigurd's bulwark, uselessly skiving away. The light of angels and saints quivered before Fafnir's shade, rendered impotent. Like many a man, this Saber would feel shock.

Perhaps he would even feel fear.

“Hah!” The Dragonslayer snorted derisively. He pressed his advantage in both power and initiative. He was still moving, his early, brief, taunting leap still carrying him forward. It brought him too close for one or the other to lock blades; a brief blessing for the other.

It would not last long.

First, Sigurd would have to change the battlefield. Not that it mattered overly much, but he would rather be able to see, with his own two eyes and not just his warrior's intuition, both of his enemies. At this range, at this speed... it was a problem easily rectified. He slowed his dashing pace, free hand outstretched. His cruel gauntlet grasped the other's wrist. Without skipping a beat, Sigurd skidded to a sudden stop, transferring all of his momentum towards his foe. He pivoted on the spot, dragging his foe along, turning, and... letting go, aiming his missile at the auburn Lancer.

Much better.

[Roland]

There was apparently a first time for everything. Olivier had said that to him once, and he had laughed saying there would never be a first time he lost a fight. Long before the dim days of the hordes of Saracens that flowed freely across the plains of France, every victory a pyrrhic one and every loss incomprehensible. But he had never lost, not until that final day.

For a perhaps lighter mood he was experiencing his first time as a human projectile. Sure once or twice he had thought about launching himself by catapult into the enemy fortress, but that had been in jest… mostly. Now he was hurtling through the air at Bradamante, something he most definitely did not want to do. She could avoid him, he knew but really allowing himself to be thrown at a fellow paladin well… that would simply not happen.

The building screamed as his sword tore through its stone roof, showering sparks and shards of slate into his face. Reflexively he protected his eyes as the slowing sword instantly threatened his grip. But he would never let go! His grip even tightend and his spurs came within inches of where Bradamante had stood as he swung around, his hand ever firm on Durandal’s hilt till he finally came to a halt, his knees clattering to the ground fairly unceremoniously.

He stood up easily though, grinning slightly at the great rent in the roof that Durandal had left behind him before trailing his eyes back up to the opposing swordsman. Only then did he let go of the hilt and brushed his hands against each other to get the slate dust off them.

”Really now. What was that supposed to accomplish?” He said, irritatedly smacking the leather of his gauntlets together.

He studied his opponents armour intensely during his minor display of bravado. As far as he could tell the thrust from Durandal had done absolutely nothing, not even left a scratch on the man’s hauberk when it should have pierced his heart.

“Nice armour though. The Saracens should have bought from your armourer; perhaps they wouldn’t have been cleft from head to navel so often. Though I suppose it will be a shame when I do cut through yours finally.” Well… somewhat. A master armourer was to be appreciated but this armour was misshapen, built to inspire fear… though Roland did not fear it in the slightest, simply relished the challenge. His sword, in death, had cloven a mountain. A mere layer of steel was nothing to the power he could release!

[Bradamante]

Bradamante merely took a step back, as her cousin stopped his flight right in front of her, just enough to avoid being touched.
His golden hair was just a few centimeters away from her chest.
It was not skill that made her do that perfectly calculated action. It clearly was her new supernatural instinct. Being a servant was a continuous surprise.

Their opponent was tough, and able too: he realized the mistake he made in letting himself be surrounded and promptly moved Roland on her same side after dodging her sword. Quite impressive.

Both him and Roland displayed their servant status in this warming up. Maybe she should do the same, and impress herself too.

"All right" she pointed her sword down and slightly pulled it vertically, releasing the handle from her right hand. She moved her right feet behind and reached the spear on her back with the right arm, tucking it under the armpit.

At the same time, in a single fluid movement, she grabbed the sword in mid air with her left hand.

The periwinkle knight breathed, and let the tip of her sword hit the ground slighty, enough to have the steel emit a high armonic sound before suddenly dashing on the left of Roland.

She sweept the air with the sword and aimed at the right arm of the enemy. The Golden Spear was ready to pierce a leg with all her momentum, as her fiery hair was like a trail of fire behind her.

He was now forced to guard or dodge at least one of her attacks, and she could easily deflect a counterattack, using the sword or the spear if needed: it wasn't a reckless frontal charge, it was more of a distraction to allow Roland to strike.

[Sigurd Fafnesbane]

"Hah, not now..." The Lancer was already in motion after the white Saber landed. She was already attacking, but the details mattered little to Sigurd. He could already tell that these blows would be nonthreatening. They were inconsequential. He recklessly pressed forward. Both blade and point swiftly and unerringly met their mark. But what did the accuracy and speed matter, when power was lacking? Lancer may as well have been a flea attempting to irritate an obstinate ox.

Sigurd brazenly bullied his way through the offense, sparing the merest of contempt to Lancer's presence. So long as she did not find luck, she was a nonfactor. No, he reserved his focus and fury for the white Saber, champion among Paladins.

"...Not today..." He hissed, already positioning himself right before his foe, too close a range for anyone to swing a sword effectively. This, apparently, did not seem to bother Sigurd. He held his weapon in both hands, using it as a bludgeon, wantonly smashing it against Roland, brute forcing his presence. Risky to fight up so close, where it was likely for either side to harm themselves as it was for them to harm their opponent. But it was hardly as if Sigurd had anything to fear, was it?

Roland grunted. This was no good. He could not retaliate, not at this range, not like this. He was barely hanging on, blocking every strike with the flat of his own sword. Pound for pound, blow for blow, the enemy was slowly overpowering him. He swiftly stepped back, left, right, moving against his enemy's strikes, repositioning, seeking to seize the advantage at any moment.

"...Not ever!" He roared. For a brief moment, Sigurd stepped back. He raised his sword, not for a bludgeoning, brutal strike designed to weaken, but to kill.

That moment was all Roland needed. He stepped back, and to the side, ready to meet and direct the blow. The massive blade met his own with a harsh grating, sliding into the floor with in a clap of thunder. He rapidly disengaged, at a more feasible range.

[Roland]

He grit his teeth, the force of the blow that he blocked nearly driving him to his knees, and when the second blow came the roof he was standing on gave way, and Roland narrowly avoided being slammed through the roof.
Needless to say this enemy Servant was strong. Very strong, his blows had the force of an army behind them. A third blow came, and he could feel the force behind it, the sheer pressure from the air before it was even swung. But the mustering of force made it slower!

That split second sacrificed by Saber for extra power was enough, and Roland stepped, no leapt back, and the blow crushed the roof utterly where he had been standing, flinging fragments through the air.

Had Bradamante’s blows done nothing too? Surely they weren’t that outclassed by some strange hero from ages past, though he looked not even close to the part of one. His cruel armour and weapon would place him as a villain from some story told to children.

But this was not the time to give up. There had to be a weakness, there was weakness in all things and if it were necessary… Durandal could shatter any bulwark.

“Again!” He shouted at Bradamante, running towards the Servant who was still struggling his weapon back to a ready position, and the two Paladins would move as one, with practiced perfection. This Berserker… thing could not defend against the two of them for very long, it was only his vaunted armour that allowed him to survive.

Blow after blow from the two of them railed against the armour, the giant deigning to block very few of them with his own iron hewed blade that was closer to stone than sword. But not even a single scratch was their reward.

Durandal burned with prana, as he knew what he had to do. In the blink of an eye he stepped back, leaving the distraction to Bradamante instinctively, knowing, trusting that she would know what to do.

The first miracle of Durandal was about to be unleashed!

[Bradamante]

Damn, that warrior was a battle hardened veteran. He didn't even considered her attacks. he understood she wasn't attacking full strenght and completely ignored her, even if both spear and sword landed to their destination.

The impact was null, she didn't aim to a juncture of the armor nor anything. He ignored her to fire a barrage of attacks at Roland, attempting to remove it from the game as soon as possible.
He was strong. He was fast, and he was making it.

The roof shattered under the blade of that monster they were fighting. Shards of woot and broken clay tiles flew in every direction as a large gap was now open wide on the side of Roland.

Her cousin ordered her to assail him a second time, using all the advantage they could gain from the now exposed fighter.
This time, the periwinkle knight went for a real attack to the enemy servant. Sword diagonally forward to prevent a swipe of the huge sword in her direction, the red haired servant stepped closer, her golden weapon beginning to shine as she aimed at the left knee of her opponent. That was the leg he was forced to bring his weight on to move out of his position, no matter if he wanted to turn in her direction or keep attacking Roland.
That monstrous servant wasn't left handed, and with a weapon that big it was hard, if not impossible to step in a different way without losing time to change grip.

She could feel it, the incredible power the grail gave her as she was ready to unleash her Noble Phantasm right at him.

[Siyr Arend]

Her knight was winning! She cheered him on from the rooftop, as the other Master showed up that Roland had yanked her away from. Oh… the sheer force in his arm and the fact that he carried her, it would have been enough to make a lesser woman blush. But she wasn’t a lesser woman no she wasn’t going to blush nope.
Even his fighting, and the rippling steel, shifting with his body movements… nope. She was just going to admire how her knight fought! Fought for her! Swords flashed through the air, and a lance too she supposed, but she was focused on Roland!

Wait… was he backing off now? Why?

Talons tore through flesh

The link between her and Roland swelled with power as he stepped back, holding his sword in front of his face. Power flowed through her and the sword; the very mana in the air condensed into reality. He was using a phantasm! She had to get closer to see it, it was too dark to see it’s true form from this distance.
Soooooo… she left the hat person behind. She’d make it up to him later or something, a Lord had to show their bests to lesser magi. But this was more important right now.

Her clothing did make jumping a little… difficult, but it was nothing for her to move between the tight roofs to a different vantage point, where she leaned down and looked over the roof at the fight of the Servants. She was watching them from the side, instead of from behind now.

And it was there, she felt the second presence. The air that had chilled when Roland’s sword shone, now froze with the Mana rife with the air. Her eyes were now drawn to the Lancer, she too was calling upon the miracles heroes were given? No! She would pull the attention away from her knight! A slight pout crossed Siyr’s face, but she would have more time to watch Roland later anyways, she supposed.

Yet for some reason, even confronted with two phantasms something felt wrong. Siyr had no idea what it was, but it was apparent, an empty feeling in the air.

Just looking at him… she shivered. Something was off… why? In panic she wove her words together, to stop something. Anything.

“Agor awyr, yn cymryd hedfan a thân!”

The wind, the air from her palm to the opponent separated and reformed, pouring oxygen into a highly dense stream, a bar of streaming air that existed only for an instant before being burned away in a pushing, slamming fire aimed at the armour covered knight.

…

And nothing happened. She scrambled backwards immediately as his glare caught her eyes, and jumped into the alley behind the building, landing smoothly from the one and a half story roof. She was no longer watching. She couldn’t get in Roland’s way, how had she been so foolish!? Fear had overtaken her… fear of something that she didn't even know.

[Sigurd Fafnesbane]

Sigurd could feel it. A sound like thunder, rumbling through his bones. Legends would walk the earth again. The world shivered in anticipation of their bright glory. What miracles, then, would these two knights unleash? What wonders had these warriors wrought in their lives? After all, they were heroes! Surely, they had glorious deeds attributed to them!

And Sigurd found himself laughing, beginning as a low rumbling chuckle. He despised them. These heroes, who dredged pride out of whatever they had done. Did these animals truly think that their Knight’s Code meant a thing? It was a petty construct designed by Kings to entrap and bind their betters, their warriors... and there was no doubt, merely from their demeanors, that they had bought into the illusion. It was the kind that Sigurd himself had employed, when he was younger. So these knights saw triumph in their bondage…? They would test the mettle of their legends against him…? So be it. He would take their shining legend and suffocate it, bleed it dry.

The dragon-blooded warrior raised his weapon, twisting its hilt loose-

-And a streak of fire harmlessly spattered across his back. Sigurd swiftly and harshly looked back, glowering at the attack’s source. It was… the other Saber’s master. The little mouse sheepishly met his gaze for a moment, before Sigurd paid her the attention she deserved: none. Crimson, runic lines erupted across the surface of his weapon, blazing with barely restrained power, and the world trembled, if only a little. Not a shudder of triumphal anticipation, but the recollection of an old, forgotten nightmare.

The weapon came crashing to the ground in a heap of smoking, twisted steel - no. Saber still held a sword of terrible might, fully enveloped in crimson fire, its full power revealed with its scabbard discarded. Balmung, Fated Sword of Ruin. Balmung, drenched and tempered in dragon blood and fire. “Be prepared!” Sigurd roared, all pretenses of disinterest forgotten. He raised the greatsword high into the air. “BAL-“ The crimson flames started twisting, whipping, howling in a non-existent wind. “-MUUNG!”

And for the first time in a millennium, dragon fire touched the earth again. The fire that Man had hoped to forget blazed, all restraints released. Mighty dragon fire that evoked a primal fear of a time when Man was small, and Gods and Beasts ruled the World.

[Roland]

“BAL-“ He didn’t even need to shout the name of his sword; Roland knew who he was, his sword screamed his name, the greatest demonic weapon, but did not understand in that split second why the legendary dragonslayer was like this, a dark ruinous person. A shadow of what his legend spoke of. But that was not what he should worry about! In the instant before the second half of the word, the second syllable Roland rushed with all his speed towards the knight, his own phantasm the unleashed miracle roaring in his ears with a surge of mana.

A surge that, while extreme, was single straw in a haystack compared to Sigurd’s. But it was enough! It had to be! There was no retreat, no escape from this Phantasm that already spit dark flames, only to meet it head on with his own!

Durandal contacted Balmung on its downswing, “-MUUNG!” Roland stared right into his opponent’s eyes, they were burning with hate, burning with the same fire that roared from his sword.

And the demonic sword unleashed the hellish dragonfire that threatened to consume the world. A thousand, ten thousand streams of hatred, of blazing destruction erupted at the same time, widening out in a conic shape. But Roland was ready, and the power of the miracle of the breach, the breach they named after him, soared from within.

A thousand blows, the power had chipped away the mountain in his attempt to break his sword. Time did not slow down for him; he sped up to meet the stream of power from his opponent! Each stream of flame was met with a blow to deflect it away, sending the fire careening away. Durandal’s holy blade turned aside a stream with each impossibly fast strike, cut them in half, blocked it, it could stop each and every one!

But as relentless as Roland was, so too was his opponent. The fire continue to flow, to whip and lash at him, to consume his body utterly. Strike after strike after strike… the whole thousand were consumed in a second of sharp blows. It was impossible, utterly impossible, but still the sword in front of him produced more flame. He lashed out with his blade, crushing another unholy stream. But there were still more! Thousands more! One tongue of flame ripped open his shoulder, tore off his armour, burned away the flesh. It felt more like steel than anything, but it was fire nonetheless. Another struck his sword, deflected away, Bradamante had to avoid it.

He parried again and again, the blessing gone, and there was no time to reactivate it. And his Master had run away; she couldn’t see him. She needed to use a seal to get him out of the way! Another lance of pure elemental fire crushed against his chest, and another, and a third, they beat away at him, pushed him back away from Sigurd. The stream of fire wouldn’t end! His teeth grit as he slammed Durandal into another, pushing it away as two more rammed into his chest. He struggled forward. Through the burning lances; he no longer cared. He could not deflect, he could not run. He had to kill.

His left arm went numb, he could feel it reduced to ashes as he ran forward, a large gout of fire like the breath of a dragon having destroyed it. The steel that wrapped him was suffocating, burning, so he discarded it, kept moving forward to his death. Only Holy Durandal remained untouched… it had to do! The invocation for the third miracle blazed in his hand as his body restored itself, if only for an instant, his hand reborn from the wind itself. It was whole again, only for a second, before being lashed once more. Had he waited even a moment more, he would have been burned away.

And now he was under that threat again as the Second Miracle coursed through his blood, energizing a defeated frame. His body reacted faster. Not fast enough to rid himself of all the stabbing tongues of flame, but fast enough to close that short distance, fast enough to strike!

Durandal thrust along the side of Sigurd’s armour, away from Bradamante and his Master as Roland nearly impaled himself on Balmung. He was stronger too; his body pushing hard enough to separate the steel of his opponents armour from steel, cutting open the side of his armour, millimeters from drawing blood. No… less even than millimeters, his blade rested against naked flesh, not cutting. He had lost the strength for that in an instant, his body being burnt away.

”...Fall.”

It had rejected death for long enough, it greeted him once again with a knowing wave. But he knew now, knew this man could be wounded. Knew that he wouldn’t win, and that was enough. Roland met the glare, the hate, the words that echoed from Sigurd’s visor with a confident smile. No fear in life, no fear in death.

He broke apart into mist, without any regret.

[Sigurd Fafnesbane]

The hellish fires contained in Sigurd’s sword heralded ruin, brought against his enemies time and again, and were now leveled against the best Knight that Carolus Magnus had to offer. Licking and laughing, the tempestuous blaze gratefully accepted the Saber’s offer of victims. Crimson and black flames came arcing and lashing against Sigurd's sole target, the Saber. He yelled something desperately, invoking his Phantasm... and in that moment, Sigurd knew his name.

Roland. The mighty Orlando. Wielder of the holy sword Durandal. The model knight, famed for his skill at arms, his martial training. None of which could stand against his own fated ruin. He was slashing, impossibly fast, desperately, as if trying to stave off his demise... and failing. The holy sword could not shield him against the ravening hellfires that so desperately tried to consume him. But... what was this? Still, the White Saber managed to brave his fire. In fact, he was... doing better than just that. He had invoked another Phantasm, one capable of staving off death, if only temporarily. Still, it was a losing battle. He knew it too. He raised his sword defiantly, and charged.

“Pitiful,” Sigurd snarled. “You think yourself a knight? You expected a noble clash of arms…?”

The fires of ruin hissed and spat, ripping through stone and steel and flesh alike, carelessly burning, destroying. Though they were focused upon Roland, blasting, bombarding, annihilating and ripping the knight apart faster than his miracle could heal him, though Sigurd had only eyes for the other knight, and not his allied Servant nor their masters, they hungered... and did not discriminate. Stray lances of flame carelessly howled and burned through other buildings in the vicinity. Such were the caprices of dragons, whose boundless greed could corrupt even the mightiest of heroes.

Sigurd tilted his head to the side. Such misplaced determination. Would he actually make it?... Not that it mattered. The foe was already dead, his body obliterated and devoured. What was his intention? Death and glory? His own Charge of the Light Brigade? The dark Saber readied Balmung. Perhaps his foe had another Noble Phantasm waiting to be invoked. That would be the only answer for his foolishness.“This is not a war that goes down in history and legend! There is but one aim... death, and ruin. Let me make my intentions clear...”

Then, another invocation! The Paladin's body glowed with newfound energy and determination. Sigurd made to sweep, to strike Roland's head from body - and in a single moment, the enemy was upon him before he could complete the motion.

For the first time in many years, Sigurd felt the cold touch of steel, cutting through Fafnir's plate, but nothing more, only the barest of whispers against his own body. His eyes gazed deeply into Roland's, betraying nothing, not surprise, not shock, not his terrible, cold wrath. The Paladin's eyes, however, were triumphant! A fool that thought his meager victory here meant anything? The subsiding flames within Balmung were still enough to burn and obliterate this knight! He had lost. He was dying. Only a naive knight like he could ascribe some small victory out of this! ”...Fall,” Sigurd finished coolly, venom seething.

The enemy disappeared into mist, and it was only then that Sigurd took notice of his surroundings. The roof that they had fought upon was crumbling, unable to withstand the pressure of battle, nor the ravages of his flame... the roof that he stood upon, and the many surfaces around them. He saw the auburn knight, struggling to stand, to exist. Her Master was collateral damage? Then the other Master, no doubt, was dead or dying. He loosed a cruel, barking laugh. The Saber bent down, picking up his scabbard, and in a single, slow motion, sheathed Balmung, before turning his back on her. Perhaps he would have been merciful to this girl, ended her here and then, but for the insult that her friend and ally had dared to lay upon him...

She could suffer.

[Bradamante]

Bradamante's breath was cut short. The glow of her spear fading in an instant. How could this have to happen?

Unable to advance and complete her attack when the the hellish fire from Balmung eveloped everything, she made the error of stepping back, believing his cousing would do the same.
No, the stubborn Roland attacked anyway and fell. And with him, as collateral damage expanded far beyond what she expected, her master died as well.

She didn't see Jacob fall. She felt it.
From the sudden disappearence of the power sustaining her very essence. She wanted to scream her master's name, but her lungs were empty.

She lost. She failed.
The boy that put his faith in her was no more. The cousin she never expected to meet again was no more. She was going to be no more soon.

Like it was made of golden dust, her spear faded into a magical breeze as well as her strenght. It was like the life she gained back was being ripped away from her chest. Not a scream, not a gasp. Her lungs were paralized by the sudden lack of energy.

The periwinkle knight fell on her knees. How could it end like this?
Her eyesight became blurred as tears filled her eyes. She let the person she had to protect die, it probably was a deserved punisment.

Her red hair was waving in the cold, nightly wind that was carrying the stench of materials burning.
She clenched her fists as anger filled her being.
"D-Damn you!" she muttered as her right hand met the ground and she somehow found the energy to raise her head and stand back up.

Her blue eyes ran in the distance and saw the other girl. She still was alive. It was just a matter of seconds for the demon that was Sigurd to reach and kill her. She had at the very least try to do something to prevent that. As vain as it could be, she still was a Paladin, and she still had someone to protect.

It probably was the sudden shock of her link with Jacob breaking that paralyzed her, or the newfound reason to fight, but Bradamante managed to find some power to use. A shade of the energy she had before. Maybe she was just little more than a normal human, but it had to suffice.

"Damn you!" she roared in an attempt to gain the Servant's attention, standing back up and rising her sword.
She was done for, and she was just a shadow of the real Bradamante. She'd die but maybe, the young girl could safe herself.

[Siyr Arend]

She was a coward, wasn’t she? That’s what this waiting was, this hiding, this panic that hammered through her heart from just the glare of that ironclad Servant. Her prana surged uselessly behind that fear that had never struck her before.

An earthshaking roar burnt out from the top of the building and she cowered behind the wall of the building below the fight. Tears welled up in her eyes, she should be there! But as much as she tried, her muscles refused to move, refused. Couldn’t, wouldn’t, denied her soul that screamed for her to call Roland to her.

His pain was her pain. She felt him burning, felt it, but her lips didn’t move. She could have called him home to her, but she didn’t. Her seals burned, but she just couldn’t form the words. It would attract attention. More than his glare. She just…

She was helpless.

Illusions of strength shattered as she lept off the rooftop, when her blade of fire didn’t even phase like the magic resistance she knew, but it simply did nothing.

She was powerless.

He was dying; she did nothing.

And so, because of her, a noble soul once again faded into the ether. Because of a curled up woman with her head between her knees, a woman who never grew up, a woman who hid as if it would do anything to stop the Servant if he cared.

Her seals stopped. They had been a link between her and Roland, her and her knight who served an unworthy Master, they had scorched her as she cried, as Roland fought for his very life. But now they were cool, and colourless.

Run!

Her mind screamed it over and over, but she couldn’t even stand up on shaking legs. The roar of the destructive fire still left ringing in her ears, still shook her body unrelentingly.

Run!

What was the point anyways? She would not outrun something like that, it was better to sit here in the dirty alleyway and die on her own terms. She deserved it. That’s why her mother sent her to the war, anyways. She was an embarrassment to her own family, despite her raw strength. Strength that couldn’t even serve her now.

What a worthless magus. Without her brother’s presence she probably wouldn’t have made it past fourth, unthinkable for her family. Even the Second she held was something to be ashamed of, for her lineage held some of the greatest among the tower, those who could reject the world that she couldn’t even live in.

Run! Please, run!

No. Even if she was a coward, there were still… there was still that Lancer. The building the Master had stood on was destroyed…

Was a person like her being given a second chance? Her tears were suddenly wiped away by her hand, causing a sudden jolt of shock. Since when had she been able to move? Rising to unsteady legs, she walked towards the destruction in spite of every part of her mind that was just telling her to run, to run from this city and never come back. She would have her life, if only she left.

Death was something she had never considered before, why did it assail her now? Even if she had been ignorant, why did the fear suddenly supersede that? No… she had to do something. She couldn’t run, and it would be pointless to anyways.

Even if she was a coward, with tear streaks down her face, this had to count for something?

As she turned the corner, Lancer looked at her, and waved her back, desperately struggling to her feet. The Iron Servant had his back turned and was walking away; he didn’t care. And Lancer was never going to reach him, never going to defeat him. But yet… she tried. Unlike Siyr, that was why she was a Heroic Spirit, wasn’t it? Because they didn’t just lie down and die.

Well… neither should she! Roland had laid down his life without complaint, no screams of pain, when she had screamed just from sharing a small part of his pain. She wouldn’t retreat, and so had damned him.
Siyr would not make the same mistake twice.

“Lancer!” She cried, her voice free of the sobbing that had robbed her of it before. “Make a pact with me! We can…” She paused… only for a second. “We can get our revenge another time! Run away, and live another day…” Her seals burned with her prana, forcibly this time, as she extended a hand towards the periwinkle knight, no matter how far away she was.

[Bradamante]

Roland's master...
She did want her to stop, and at the same time she did offer her the chance to meet Sigurd again, to avenge her cousin and the poor young boy she was unable to protect.
She asked to renew a pact with a Servant.
And there, Bradamante knew the meaning of all of that, a knowledge planted in her head by the Grail itself.

"I accept" she said as a new link was suddenly being established between her and the female mage. Prana surged through that link, and she could feel her strenght returning. The body she was feeling so heavy returned as light as a feather and her posture returned fatigueless.

The red haired servant felt the urge of assailing the other one, but no. Her new master told her not to. Bradamante knew they both were in no condition to provoke Sigurd to fight again. they had to fall back and lick their wounds.
They had to fall back and be prepared to meet them a second time.

The burning sense of loss was like a flame burning her fake heart. Bradamante stood there, watching the other servant disappear in the distance, without saying anything. Only when she was sure that he really went away, she turned toward her new master, realizing she didn't even know her name.
"We should leave...the town guards will probably arrive any moment now. We'd better be elsewhere"

Those words, dictated by need sounded harsh for her, as such she feld the need to add "I'm really sorry...I...failed. I'll do what I can to redeem myself and avenge my cousin Roland and Jacob Archer."