Somewhat Relative

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Lucca, Torre Alta
1:30PM

Tap. Tap

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Third floor up, all the way down the hallway, second door on the left- Emma took the path almost by rote. The hospital had unnerved her the first few times she’d visited. The stark, sterile environment was almost a world unto itself, permeated by the smell of disinfectant. She’d gotten used to it soon enough, what, with her closest living relative dropping in and out of the place every second day.

This was the first time that she’d visited in the company of somebody else, though, drawing a couple of raised eyebrows from the staff who’d gotten used to seeing her alone. A pointed glare had dissuaded the receptionist from commenting.

“I suppose it’s time you met the fellow who set us up,” she muttered to Bedwyr, who was matching her pace exactly a half-step behind – much like he was earlier in the day,” don’t get your hopes up.”

She knocked; a purely superficial gesture by this point, and entered without anybody answering. She doubted that her grandfather could have even heard her. The door slid open effortlessly – she didn’t quite open it all the way, slipping in silently, sliding it shut after Bedwyr.

Her grandfather was in much the same state that she’d left him the last time she visited, a small, wasted figure wrapped up in his sheets, bedside conspicuously free of any cards, well-wishes, or even just a splash of colour to make the place seem less… barren. Emma sighed inwardly- she was probably the only visitor the old man had.

“Hey, you awake?”

She dragged a chair over from the far wall to his bedside, and after a moment of consideration pulled another one up. Of course he was awake- he was probably just choosing not to acknowledge her. Sometimes she wondered if grandfather possessed the uncanny ability to anticipate all her visits, something that seemed even more likely in light of everything that had happened these past twenty-four hours.

She wondered what Bedwyr was making out of all of this; the knight that her grandfather- not her- summoned. She had gotten no answers at the church; she was sitting at the bedside of the next best thing. Somebody had to have painted that circle in the basement, and really, who else could it have been?

They sat in silence for a few, drawn out moments.

“Oi, old man,” she leaned in a little closer, squeezing his arm through the sheets, “your granddaughter’s visiting.”

The figure under the blanket shifted- just slightly- rustling the fabric. Of course.

“Aaah, la mia nipotina?” her grandfather’s milky eyes turned to regard her, his head turned to it’s side on the pillow, speaking as if he only just noticed that Emma was in the room, voice soft, feeble, “ you should have called!”

Did he mean phonecall? She hardly ever phoned in the hospital in the first place. Even if this particular visit was unprecedented for her, it shouldn’t have been so for her grandfather.

She caught his gaze shifting slyly to Bedwyr- to his ears; his hand- before he spoke again.

“It is not often you bring a companion with you, though, Bambolina,” the corner of his mouth twitched, although she couldn’t quite decide whether it was in amusement or disapproval, “I believe introductions are in order?”

It seemed that her grandfather had gotten to it before she had a chance to. Fine. She wasn’t going to beat around the bush either.

“Introductions?” she resisted the urge to snort, and instead settled with a small sigh, “You’re probably more familiar with man-” did she catch some flicker of surprise? ”-than I am, Nonno. I think I need explanations more than you do. Does ‘Grail War’ and ‘Servant’ ring a bell, maybe?”
“I would not say such things so brazenly, Bambolina,” even if he words were admonishing, she could see that smile hovering on his weathered features,” but yes. …Yes. Your companion…?”

So her suspicions had been correct. And her grandfather knew more than he let on. Of course he did. It seemed that everyone seemed to know what was going on except her. She absent-mindedly rubbed her finger down the side of the chair. Her grandfather was usually far less articulate - or had she merely been paying less attention?

“…Rider.”

She was getting better at referring to Bedwyr as that.

“Rider, mmm?”
“Yes.”
“You found what I left for you in the basement?”
“…Yes.”
“In that case… Rider,” the geezer didn’t seem fazed in the slightest, “Is Bambolina getting along well with you?”

He paused for a moment, deep in thought. Emma wondered if he’d drifted off to sleep.

“It has not been long?” he muttered, voice so low that you had to strain your ears to catch his words, “you are still unharmed?”

[Bedwyr]

He had… a headache? No, not a headache, but a dull mental throb. It was a buzzing, a sort of wrong sensation, as if he was missing something incredibly important. That other Rider…

That had to be it. She was what his mind was wrapped around as he walked beside Amaranta to where the physicians were. A hospital, something far better than any single physician, it was, as he understood it, a center where many of them came together and pooled their knowledge in a single building.

Very efficient, and it sounded like an excellent idea.

Although he had absolutely no idea why. Judging from her hands the previous night, she was no medical attendant, although of course she was better than one who had never done it.

The reminder of the wounds made the muscles in his legs flex, and he rolled his shoulder. They were healing incredibly quickly, far quicker than they should. In fact… was he only not in full condition because he thought that he shouldn’t be.

His head shook, blond Celtic locks swaying as he tried to set his mind aright. Mental control could overcome injuries, he supposed that was it. It twinged…

But there was no pain.

They were walking up stairs, Bedwyr subtly placing himself half a step behind Amaranta, but to her right, in case something came down or up those stairs. If she was on the outside, he would be in between the attacker and her, and if they came from below he would be first in the way. No matter if he could sense nothing, but this place, and its smells, just seemed to make him think this was a place the shade would call home. Spatharius may not have been at his waist, but it might as well have been with his hand ready, though looking oddly relaxed.

A true knight was always ready. But the positioning, the almost perfect sense of relaxation that would be gone in a moment should a fight actually occur was something one learned from experience. Few would talk when a knight stood ready to fight, but a knight always had to be ready.

They moved from the stairs onto long, wide hallways, with numbered doors. An even construction, designed for ease of movement. The place was designed almost like a military barracks.

“I suppose it’s time you met the fellow who set us up… don’t get your hopes up.” She almost whispered as they passed a woman garbed almost entirely in white, save a small silvery bracelet around her wrist.

So that was their purpose? But the one who had set them up? Someone had… no judging by her reaction that night… the reaction he had not understood until this point...

They had sounded like excuses, but had they been real? A piece of paper that she read from, her inexperience as a magus allowing for someone to trick her into doing this…

But why the person themself? As much as he acknowledged Amaranta as his rightful Master, a war was no place for one as unlearned as her, it was as if someone had set a sword in a boy’s hand, and told him to fight against an army…

His questions were answered as they stepped into the room. Amaranta called out to awaken an ancient man, flesh desiccated, and seeming to just hang from his bones themselves. His hair, what was left of it, was completely white, and…

And…

He looked like death. The fact he was still alive… was it a miracle, or a curse?

But either way, he stirred, and spoke to Amaranta in a whispering voice, one his ears strained to catch. A heartfelt talk, but one halting… and Amaranta wasn’t in the world’s best mood ever either.

Obviously, as he had known, the church had not helped. Whatever had happened there had made her mood worse, had made her understand less instead.

He caught one important sentence though; one that sent chills down his spine.

“You found what I left for you in the basement?”

The earrings. His earrings, bloodstained rubies that had fallen with him. The rubies that Amaranta now had… somewhere. The mark of a servant, ears pierced with hot iron. He gently touched his own studs, the ones with only a tenuous connection to reality like his armour.

How did he manage to claim both…? They… He had no idea what had happened past his death on that hill. His death, alone.

This man would have no idea either though…

“In that case… Rider, is Bambolina getting along well with you?” He took a haggard breath, one Bedwyr was for a moment afraid would be the man’s last, sighed and then continued. “It has not been long? You are still unharmed?”

He bowed to the man, finally receiving somewhat of an introduction, but he understood the delays. The man was close, somehow, to Amaranta, perhaps her grandfather, or one who had raised her. So the talk was needed first.

“Of course she is getting along well with me, Magister.” He was not sure how to address him, so the title ‘teacher’ should serve. He wondered if Magi themselves still used it, however. The words out of his mouth had not been exactly a lie… had they been a lie he would not have spoken them. He was getting along with her far better than a man like him deserved, so ‘well’ was an apt way to describe the situation, despite her confusion. “She is very brave. But I am not uninjured, although my wounds are in an excellent condition thanks to Emma’s skilful care.”

“You need not fear. I will serve her to my dying breath. You have my word as Rider” Whenever that would be. He would kill the shadow first, and most importantly though… if he could even be killed.

“If you will excuse my bluntness, Magister," His fury was already boiling, quickly heated by a man's presence who admitted that he had set Amaranta up, "What I need to wonder is why Emma was dragged into this war of no will of her own. She may be brave, but our opponents are accomplished Magi.” His voice was rapidly growing hostile “I…”

He stopped; this was not something he should be saying, even as her knight, she was the one who should voice it, not him. It was not his place.

“…I apologize. I should not have been so outspoken against a man I do not understand. Emma may have mentioned that I am Rider, but perhaps a more proper introduction is in order, for a man who probably already knows my name, judging from…” His right hand almost strayed to his earring again, before he caught himself. “…How I was called. I am the one-handed knight, as you may have guessed, Bedwyr Bedrydant. The last of Camelot.” The last title was in a regretful voice, one tinged with both sadness and hate. And he knew he spoke that way. It was something he could never speak of with pride.

It was a title he hated to have, a title that he should have never had. But it got the point across to any who might have known him under another name. It… was the thing most remembered him for.

The death of a dream, and a failure to follow one’s king. That was his legacy.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Emma listened to Bedwyr’s tirade with growing bewilderment. His simmering fury was palpable, just barely kept in check.

Why was he upset?

She surreptitiously nudged him with her elbow. Bedwyr’s heated tone and torrent of words hadn’t left much room for her to squeeze a word in edgeways, and even though he was well on his way of doing his talking for her, she would’ve liked to do it herself. After all, the man in the bed was her grandfather, no matter how much of a pain he was being.

He trailed off.

There was a conspicuous silence in the moment afterwards, and then a faint rustling of fabric as Bedwyr relaxed his posture, held himself back. He took another breath, maybe to calm himself down, and introduced himself by his true identity (she raised an eyebrow at that, didn’t he tell her not to be so open with his name?). There was something in the way he said it that made Emma shift in her seat, cast a glance at the window, stick her hands in her jacket pocket.

“Good, good, you are forgiven also, knight,” he drawled, slowly, languidly, mouth barely moving, “this is a good thing. That’s a very good thing. You are winning, yes?” His gaze shifted back to his granddaughter,” yes?”

His absurd capacity for wilful ignorance was usually just slightly grating, now it was downright maddening. She didn’t know if he did it on purpose, or whether it was an actual symptom of his senility– either way, she wasn’t in the mood to play the role of the concerned relative much further.

“Well then, since Bedwyr has already introduced himself,” she plastered an exaggerated smile onto her face (that looked more like she was in pain than anything), interrupting as her Grandfather was taking a breath,” Bedwyr, this is my… grandfather,” soon-to-be-late grandfather, going by all appearances, but she’d be damned if there weren’t some answers gotten out of the old man before that, “and before you try to shift the topic again,” she pushed on without pausing, “blondie over here was on the right track when he was wondering why the hell all this nonsense was just… forced onto me.”

She hadn’t realized she’d raised her voice until her own words rang in her ears, and when her grandfather regarded her with that expression between shock and disappointment. It was a look he had grown out of a long time ago, and the aged, sickly, pale and waxy countenance of the man wrapped in those sheets was hardly evocative of an authoritative presence in the first place.

“So?” she hissed, forcibly lowering her tone, if not her pace,” got anything to say about that?”
“Bambolina,” he muttered, barely audible, regarding her with what would’ve been a stern gaze had his eyes not been glazed over,” you must understand the world is… more vast. More than you know.”
“Sure it is,” she shot back curtly, as soon as her grandfather finished the last word, “but why did that, and Bedwyr, and this whole ‘ooh-magic-war’ crap have anything to do with me? Look - I didn’t know shit about any of this nonsense– I still don’t know shit; nobody will tell me what’s happening, and I swear everybody knows more than I do, so if you’re going to just lie there and spout cryptic… things…”

She heaved a deep breath, not realizing that she was speaking without a pause, her hands balled into fists in her pockets. The thought that she probably shouldn’t vent on her terminally-ill eighty-something grandfather flitted through her mind.

“This is not about you, Bambolina,” he replied finally, voice sounding weaker than ever,” I am sorry, but these things… never about a single person. If I were well, then it would very well be me. But. You can see my current situation. And I am not well,” answering a grand total of nothing.

Didn’t she say something about cryptic things earlier?

“Than what is it about,” she hissed through her teeth,” Nonno?”
“Blood.”

…

Not. Helping.

Her glare accentuated her point.

She had half a mind to just leave, and probably would’ve done so too if it didn’t mean abandoning answers, no matter how painful the extraction process was.

…

He wasn’t going to elaborate, was he?

“And what does blood have to do with anything?”
“Blood is family, bambolina,” he explained while not explaining anything, “and our family is… weak.”

And kind of mostly dead, yeah. But that probably wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

Alright then. How about a different approach?

“You know what the ‘Grail War’ is, don’t you?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Explain,” it was almost like talking to a brick wall.
“Your Servant should be able to tell you, no?”

AAAAGH.

[Bedwyr]

“You are winning, yes?”

…

If his fight was any proof, no he was not winning. Yet. But he had been fighting at the most disadvantage possible, and the next meeting would not be such a problem. A confidence welled in his heart that he would be aggressor in the next conflict, and would lay the shadow low.

There was an urge within to respond again to the near-dead man, but he felt Amaranta’s need to speak, her smoldering fury that if he spoke would only build more, and cause a more devastating torrent of emotions and words.

She needed answers more than he needed to affirm a man he had not known a short twenty minutes ago.

And… he seemed unwilling to provide. She raised her voice almost immediately, snapping her words out, like he had surely done. He felt each sentence coming, each scalding word before it was said. I hope that is her own anger, rather than mine transferring over this same link…

Amaranta had every right to be angry, but yet he was still worried that his own anger had contributed to hers. His emotions were spiralling out of control recently. He had never felt fear like last night’s touch his soul, perhaps that had been it?

While he did not fear the meeting of the two again, he feared… the fear, if that was possible. He feared impaired judgement, wrong decisions, feared that fearing for his own life would cause him to abandon hers.

He had motivation last night, his own life had hung in the balance with Amaranta’s, his own existence would not survive without the affirmation… he mumbled a silent prayer, a prayer of steadfastness. That he would be granted the ability to have his true mind, no matter where he walked. An old psalm…

Even though he would walk through the shadow, and court death with it, he prayed for the strength against fear.

The end of the prayer, his open eyes still gazing at his furious Master, was punctuated with a raspy line from the old man, the old man that he owed everything and nothing to. It was his fault that Amaranta had summoned him. Would she not been given the earrings, her call may have never been answered…

Though her bravery in the face of danger, the acceptance and willingness to stand he had seen last night would surely have called some spirit from beyond the cold grave. One better than him seemed highly probable, but…

He was glad for the summons. No matter what happened, he had been given a chance. But his chance endangered innocent lives.

Why was he even caring? He knew her tactics, the tactics she commanded, the tactics he had willingly endorsed, traded lives for lives, ruined lives of a few, but protected the many.

Why did he care? Was it some byproduct of the link itself to make sure he served his Master faithfully? Surely something as weak as that could not control his inner feelings.

“And what does blood have to do with anything?” Amaranta was becoming increasingly confused, and growing more and more angry each passing deflection.

“Blood is family, bambolina, and our family is weak.” It was the old man’s turn, and he spoke of something that Bedwyr strongly disagreed with. Blood… was allegiance. Honour. Not family. He did not know his own family, never knew them, and was left alone with a caretaker and his nobility.

“You know what the ‘Grail War’-“ There was no pause in her words, but there felt like one, as a sudden mental pang made Bedwyr wince, something that could have passed as a surprised moment at Amaranta’s tone. A mental echo, a block, something that was there, but unreachable. The word should have meant more than he knew, than he had told his Master. A wish… other heroes, and magecraft. Anything more brought back that reverberation that blanked his mind.

The only thing that he was able to picture was the seat that killed whoever sat in it, Siege Perilous. The seat of Percival and Galahad. The seat of the Grail. The seat of Purity, but not Humanity.

Why was his mind so empty? Why was the word so hidden from him? Why had the woman’s words that she too was Rider brought this same pain?

Had she done something to him? Why was his mind not working properly at all? The Vespa last night… the changes he had done to that mechanically, unthinking. He had never been like that in life, his motions were deliberate and his mind calculating.

But now -

And as his mind moved from the War, it seemed as if time began again “-don’t you?”

“Indeed I do.” He was getting worse… perhaps he would need water to explain it to her, to explain it to him?

“Explain.” His Master spoke the words in both their hearts, a yearning in his to pass a barrier, and a yearning in hers for sight. His anticipation was almost palpable, had anyone in the room actually been paying attention to him.

“Your Servant should be able to tell you, no?”

…

No was definitely right. Why did he think she asked?

“I…”

No. If her Grandfather found out he did not know, when he should know, the old man would surely consider him unfit to be her Servant. While that may be entirely true… it was not like she could just call again, and there was no way that he would know those two would be searching for them, would so easily find them.

Last night… last night he had been incautious. The two opposites, a cloud of light, and an empty blackness, could have easily followed his blood trail that he left behind.

Something about that concerned him. As if there would be something preventing them from doing that, but once again when he sought an answer his mind’s only reply was echo a sound of shuffling papers and scraping nails.

“I…” He began again, but was forced to stop. What was he supposed to say then? He did not want to lie, even for his own sake but…

“I… have already explained it to the best of my capabilities. She simply seeks more answers than I can provide.” It seemed all he was doing lately was covering up the truth, edge against lying to pretty much anyone. But he could not simply say he had no idea and only knew that he should know…

It made no sense. How could he know that he should know and not? What was wrong with him? Was he that pathetic of a Servant that the Grail which he sought for her thought him so unworthy that it told him nothing?

Am I that unworthy?

He had a true and honourable goal. While his heart may not have been as pure as Galahad’s, surely he was good enough? Surely he was human enough to bring back humanity’s saviour?

There were still words to speak…

“I apologize that I could not provide all that I was required, however the matter remains that I could not. So if you could, please provide what more you know than I seem to have been granted.” He specifically avoided mentioning any words that seemed to set off the mental irritance, but it was still there, scratching at the back of his mind.

That still perplexed him. How could he know that he should know more, and not know it? Were the old man in a healthier condition, he may have put him to the question to avoid this constant sideshifting of the topic. Were he not related to his Master. Were it not… so many reasons stopped him from doing what he had done too many times for his liking.

Sometimes though, sometimes knowledge required such sacrifice. Just not this much cruelty… he could not abide by it now.

[Emma Bastillo]

"I... see." Speaking these two words seemed to take most of the old man's energy. He raised a hand, elbow still balanced on the bedsheets. He held it limply, suspended, before letting it fall back down. It did not even leave a dent in the wrinkled sheets. He breathed deeply, in and out, doing nothing else. It seemed that even this brief visit was rapidly draining his reserves.

Amaranta loosed a frustrated sigh. Stalling. Again. Before she could speak, however, her grandfather pre-empted her, mumbling, "...Patience."

Patience. Patience. This from the man who had gotten her in this mess, who was utterly unrepentant about it. He pitched her headfirst into the War without a lifesaver - not even a candy one - and then had the gall to lecture her about patience? Despite herself, Amaranta found herself curling her fingers into a fist.

Patience was for people who didn't get jumped by shapeshifting stalkers with their shadowy servants.

He spoke again, each word coming out laboriously. "There was a book, was there not?"

...A massive, unabridged tome? Filled with fanciful and lyrical prose? Why not. Perhaps the part after a discussion on the nature of the Holy Grail, lifted from Arthuriana, Christian Prose, and then mixed with magical theory for one unholy, muddled mess. Or before the abridged-but-still-very-lengthy Arthurian lore? Certainly, there would be something in there, after all that. Or, she could get the answers from her grandfather, here and now.

Amaranta prepared a biting retort. However, before she could say a word, she saw that the old man was breathing peacefully. Asleep.

Wonderful.

Amaranta uncurled her fist, massaging her temples heavily. Breathe in, breathe out. For a moment, she laid a hand on the man's shoulder, considering waking him up, only for a nurse to lay her hand on her shoulder.

"Your time's up," the nurse whispered. "Signore Scifulissi needs his sleep."

"But-" Amaranta considered arguing. But what would she say? "But I need to speak with him so that I can know how to fight in a war between ancient heroes and monsters!"

Hahahaha. Ha. Ha ha. Haaaa.

So, instead, Amaranta nodded mutely, turning on her heel. "Alright. Come on." She waved impatiently at Bedwyr.