Better... and Worse.

[Bedwyr]

Perhaps he should have known. He had not excelled last night, at least not after his start. It had only gone downhill from there. The Saber, then Amaranta getting stabbed, and Merlin. They all combined to make a horrific mess, and he did not help in any way. In fact… I don’t think I could have done any worse.

Had Merlin taken offense to the spinning of the Vespa, he would only have let his Master likely die in a cold warehouse, alone and for no reason. Had…

He shook his head. What was done was done, and what happened, happened. But… if there was anything he could take back it would be the shouting.

Her shouting.

After the warehouse… while they were riding, she had no uncertain words for him, words that brought him to silence and words that he felt to the very core of his being. Words sharper than the shade’s knife, stronger than the brute’s blade.

After that, the ride had been silent, and he did not enjoy it. He simply went, one of the few times in his life that he could not clearly visualize it, that there was no smile on his face as the beast sped through the dark streets.

There was nothing he could have responded to that, she was simply right. What had he done? He had endangered her, and then with no plan in mind ran around in circles.

She didn’t even let him help her to the door, even though she was still drained from the Magister’s healing. He entered the house first, and after a quick sweep of it had left her to her devices for a short while.

This is nothing like the last night… How obvious…

He quickly found himself outside, staring at the stars. For once he did not feel like riding, a feeling that only existed a few times in his own life. The site of the Vespa only sickened him. His good hand clenched into a fist. Why was nothing going as it should! He was a knight! And he kept doing all these stupid things, all he did was ruin Amaranta’s life by existing. She would never have been…

Roaring, his clench fist slammed into the wall by the ruined gate. Slammed through the wall, shattering stone as his bare hand received slashes from the exploding fragments. Wounds and slashes that healed almost as simply as they had formed.

What was he? A Servant, a prana construct, that healed faster than normal. That healed based on the prana his body contained. He knew that now, but last night had he not asked for traditional healing? Did he even need anything he did? He did feel tired, and his body had felt hungry before eating. But he was unnatural, did he even…

Sighing, he withdrew his hand from the stone wall, and shook remaining fragments from his hand. The wall was not particularly up to par; it would easily be reduced by siege engines. At least it was made with something resembling a technique from his life.

And there it was again, his mind wandering further from his responsibilities. Off on tangents that were completely pointless. There would be no siege engines in this time, none that he saw. But that didn’t matter; his mind was leaping to take his mind from his own failures. Any chance it took, it could. Constellations, trees, the cobblestone walkway, even the grass he tried to analyze, devise some strategy, think of some use for in combat.

But every time he simply brushed it away. He would not become distracted, could not become distracted. Would not forget and marginalize defeat.

His greaves clicked on the stone path as he returned to the manor. With disgust he dismissed his armour, felt even the surcoat now with two holes in it fade away, and knew they would be there when he called it back to garb him. It had felt heavy, and unfitting. Too tight, too loose, too something. It just didn’t feel right as he walked into the building.

Grey now clothed him, a string knotted tunic, slightly open, and barely darker breeches, separated with a simple brown belt with a silver clasp as he stepped up the stairs. His earrings remained; they always would, as well as the two silver barrettes in his blonde hair.

He was going to apologize to Amaranta, he had made up his mind. There was no way out, he would beg forgiveness on his knees. But seeing her as he came into the main room, reading a large tome on the replacement of the table he had broken last night, he could not bring himself to even talk to her. Only look, occasionally, and watch her as he sat on a distant couch. Every time he attempted to say words, they only caught in his throat, or he decided they were terrible, or a million other reasons.

There was no way he could speak. And so, he only watched, still occasionally attempting to raise words, and with slight awkwardness just continue doing nothing.

Absolutely nothing. He could not even pretend to do something else. Wouldn’t pretend, either. For some strange reason he found himself…

Afraid. A different fear than the one he felt when fighting the Assassin… but fear nonetheless. Fear of the wrong words, fear of making her hate him even more, fear of disappointing her. Fear… this fear he had not felt before, but it was there. It was what caught the words in his throat.

It was what kept him silent when he should speak. But it was not a fear he could overcome, like so many others he had stood against. This laid him low, and gripped his heart, paralyzed his voice.

And there was nothing he could do.

[Emma Bastillo]

wreeeeeeeeeeeeee

The reedy howling sound reached upstairs. Amaranta silently slid the heavy book away before getting off the chair. She walked to the stairs, unconsciously massaging her shoulder. She quickly trotted down the steps, heedful of the demanding shriek originating from the kitchen. The kettle was whistling, its water boiling, demanding her full attention.

Amaranta reached over, and turned the stove's knob, extinguishing the fire. The kettle stopped whistling, loosing a few more unsustained screeches, before falling silent, leaving only a thin trail of steam to rise in small wisps. She turned away from the kettle, rummaging within a shelf for a teacup, ignoring a slight twinge. She found a white one with a slightly ugly floral pattern and set it down on the counter. She paused, sighed, and took down another cup, this time a mint-green one with a golden trim adorning the rim. Then, she slid over a porcelain teapot and a jar. Opening the jar, Amaranta took out a small handful of tea leaves, dropping it in the pot. She slipped the teapot onto a cozy on a tray, and then took the kettle, emptying its contents into the pot. She let the boiling water hiss and slurp its way down, before capping the pot. Carelessly sliding the two cups onto the same tray, Amaranta walked back to her room, setting the tea in the middle of the table.

She was still feeding two here, after all. “Tea,” Amaranta said curtly, pouring the drink into both cups. Without waiting for Bedwyr to accept her invitation, the impromptu Master took one of the cups, taking a sip of the tea. She allowed herself a small, satisfied sigh. At least one thing had gone right tonight.

[Bedwyr]

Steam rose from the table, curling intricately in the air as it wove. From two cups, not just one. However the single word spoken since they had left the warehouse that accompanied the enticing smell was curt and almost challenging.

He debated moving and picking up that cup. Amaranta’s glare could lance into his soul like cold steel, or even the fact that she was serving him tea even dug the pathetic fact that he could not apologize, not for lack of words any longer, although that did present further difficulties, but the fact that apologizing meant to change. Would he change? Going over the same situation in his head again, and being brutally honest with himself, he probably would not. Could not. Thus, he could not apologize for something he was so ready to do again, even as he prayed that he would not do so.

But tea… offering of drinks was a piece offering he was not even sure he could accept. Even if it was in a resentful tone, still full of the bitterness of minutes, or hours ago. The fact that he was spending this long thinking on tea and its implications was actually beginning to disgust him, so he threw any remaining objections out, and simply sat down at the table. Still flitting the occasional glance at Amaranta, but trying not to stare, or give her any worry that he was watching her at all.

One word. That was all she had said, and he could not even respond by thanking her as he took a sip of the burning drink. It was well made, and a delight to taste, but not a flavour he was even slightly familiar with.

Civilization. He sighed and leaned back slightly in the high backed oaken chair, the silver barrettes gently brushing against the wood and producing a sound almost like wind chimes. He was unfamiliar with anything in this era, it all too often seemed. Had he lived in the height of the Roman Empire, with its available goods from across the world, perhaps this time would seem more familiar to him. During the height of Pax Romana, where walls like the one in front of the manse existed not to deter any military action.

But he was not. He was from a time where a man risked his life when he stepped out of his house to farm… No, risked his life simply by having a home and food, in a time when anyone would kill for either without a second thought.

And because of that, silence ill-suited him. Men were cheery, almost wordy even, the day they went to die, but in talks like this, that held no lives in the balance, he could find no words? He did not even want to thank his Master for the tea, because it would involve him talking again with speech that he could not hold onto.

Yesterday he had slightly provoked his Master to get a response to burn her anger away at him, for her to let out her emotions, but for some reason now it felt like a thousand warning signs told him to let it go. To let Amaranta wait on it before talking again, to let her feel normal once more. To not have to talk to… how had she put it?

…A gender androgynous cosplayer, yes. One she had attempted to strike on the head with a vase, one she had stitched up shyly.

He had tried one way, and it only ended in disaster. So he decided to remain a silent knight for the remainder of the time, and try the second. Speaking to her was only pleasing to himself, anyways. He was an accidental creation, a being that should have never come, according to almost every conversation they had together. Reminding her that she had been thrust into a war of life and death simply seemed like folly.

The final sip of tea drained down his throat, and he placed the cup gently down on the tray from which it had originated, and stood up, returning to the couch on which he had sat. He did not even need to look at her anymore, he could watch with the rest of his senses, and protection should be his number one focus now. The Assassin was a creature of the night, and there was no telling if he would follow them back, or perhaps now he even observed the awkwardness, laughing to himself in madness.

Bedwyr did not care. Even were it impossible, he could stop the Assassin. Would stop the Assassin. After that…

After that I can thank her for the tea.

[Emma Bastillo]

Swish. The cup rose to her lips, the hot tea swishing.

Slp. A sip.

Clink. The cup touched the table.

Rustle. A page turned.

Swish. Again.

Amaranta's attention was divided solely between her tea and her book. Her warm tea, which was rapidly cooling down, and the same tome that she had read three days ago. The same tome that had given her the ritual. The same tome that had summoned the Arthurian knight, gotten her into this mess.

The heavy book that reeled off knights and kings, swords and grails, Servants and Legends. Romances intermingled with fact. The full truth of the Grail War lay hidden within these pages. She only had to find it. Just...

The girl stifled a yawn with her sleeve. Amaranta was more tired than she thought. The magician's healing had taken quite a huge toll on her... on a good night, she'd be able to soldier on for another few hours. She took another drag of her tea, letting the herbal mixture reinvigorate her.

Hmm. Empty. Nothing left except the smallest of tea flakes.

Amaranta took the teakettle, only for it to fill her cup half-way through, before running out. Did she really pour out that little tea? So be it. She was far too tired to get up, go downstairs, and make yet another pot of tea. She took a sip, then earmarked page 214. Next page – Lancelot whining about Guinevere as if he were in upper secondary. Again. Next page. Sir Bedwyr disrupting a diplomatic meeting in a fit of rage over some perceived insult, causing a war.

Amaranta blinked, rereading the passage. She allowed her eyes to flicker up to the silent knight, the very model of demure calm. That... Bedwyr? Really now. A moment's consideration. Then she earmarked page 216.

Rustle.

Swish.

Slp.

Yawn.

[Bedwyr]

She was ignoring him, which was one of the two options he actually expected. Silence, or shouting. A rather polarizing difference, but both had that sense of fury, just whether it was cold or not was the question.

Still couldn’t thank her for the tea. He felt gratitude, but could not voice it. He could not until he reformed, or actually succeeded.

Remembering back to mere hours ago, where she spoke of him retreating… He did not retreat, but what had he done in every conflict so far?

His first one, he lied. The second, he tried to guard, but ended up forced retreating. If he even separated conflicts further… the lying ‘Rider’ he departed from without challenging, he stood doing nothing against the Assassin, and he was completely outmatched by the monstrous construction of steel. He even departed from Merlin, although that could perhaps be explained by orders from his Master.

Even the most forgiving tournament dropped a man after suffering three straight losses. The fact that he was still here was some gift of fate that he was undeserving of.

Well… at least there was something he could do to show gratitude, if he did not say it. Amaranta glared at the teapot in almost a weird sense of a challenge and disbelief, after it only filled the clear glass she used to its half mark.

It would also be the dregs of the pot. Well, when he had wandered around the night previous, he had found the -.

Odd… how did he recognize the drink? He mentally went through his life in a flash, and never remembered drinking it. It was quite good… but he…

The headache and annoying scratching sound came back. Why was… the Grail must be telling him what it was by looking at it, but why was it making him believe he knew what it was? Had tasted it before, and knew how to make it? When he had never done such a thing in his life.

He shook his head and stood up as Amaranta marked a page. This was annoying. It’s like the thing was playing with him, distorting his mind and memories, providing him with useless information, and denying him the useful.

It was aggravating to say the least as he made his way to the kitchen, where he would make something he had never made in his life, but felt as if he had done it numerous times. The place he had discovered last night while searching aimlessly for the… creature Amaranta rode.

The Vespa.

He…

There was…

How had he done that? It was completely modified, but he absolutely knew there was no such thing in his age. I… there were images… guides? In my mind. He stopped, and rested his good hand on the wall, doubling over slightly as he painfully tried to remember exactly what he did.

But he could not. There was the complete creature on the landing in his memory, and then he laid a hand on it… and the next moment that he could remember was it being completely modified to suit him. The more he focused, the more his mind blurred, the more his head ached.

He fell to his knees trying to focus. What was happening? His mind, his memories felt like they were bleeding, mixing blood with things he had never heard of, things he had never done. Tea was in his memories, replacing parts and pieces. The Vespa sat in a stable where he had commandeered a horse, and that was the one he picked, giving the owner useless pieces where he should have returned to him the saddle and reins. Lights blurred the night sky. Constellations moved. Soldiers sat on roaring metal beasts, still armed with lances.

His mind almost screamed in pain, but he stood again and with sheer will forced out his past from his head. He could see the overlay behind his memories, a horse was the Vespa, and the Vespa was a horse; he rode both at the same time. He saw real and unreal, forced overlays to disappear as he raised his head and continued walking.

Memories were most important to him, the only thing that kept him alive, kept the madness in his soul at bay with duty.

If he had to live in this world without any idea what it was, if he had to live in this world recognizing nothing other than duty and honour, things that never changed or faded, to keep his memories, he would. Even if it meant he did not understand the war anymore. No matter what it meant.

For some reason his armour had formed around him again, the surcoat still containing two jagged tears from where he had been stabbed. He did not even notice until he was in the kitchen, and put his right hand on the marble countertop, noticing that his hand was covered in steel once more.

Why? was the only thing he could think before returning it to mist again, and reaching, mindlessly grabbing a kettle.

And then in between one of his blinks and the next he stood with the steaming kettle in his hand. His eyes, his mind failed to record anything that he had done. Knowing… knowing what had just happened, and reasoning that this would happen, he simply brushed it aside, accepting it.

It would not impede him any longer. It was not as if his mind would blank when fencing or riding… although the fact that his riding did not blank his mind almost seemed odd. But those were what he was born, no what he was bred, destined to do.

The tea was merely a consequence, a thought, a thank you, an apology. If those could be ‘mere’ considering how important they were. And they were. All of the things were important, but if he worried about… but he had to worry. The memory bleeding… it was still there, he knew it. He did not understand, what would happen when it was no longer mere overlay, and his worlds chained into one in his mind? When his memories distorted? Could he even fight without a cause like that?

There was… too much to think of now. For now he had a duty to perform. Once he had defeated the Assassin perhaps he could worry. Perhaps he could think once again. But putting worry of his mind above Amaranta was inexcusable.

And so he began to work his way back to the central room, but despite himself worry gnawed at his very soul, and he could not stop it no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he willed.

[Emma Bastillo]

Rider stood up, apparently in a semi-confused daze, stumbling out of the room. Amaranta watched him leave with a questioning glare, before turning back to her book. Still nothing useful. Just something about this guy named Balin. Normally, she'd just skip this section, like she did with every other Arthurian story.

Honestly, who wrote this thing.

Five minutes. All she got from it was that this Balin person needed to calm down. Impetuous, reckless, hard-headed.

Perhaps it was because she was tired, but for a brief moment, Amaranta allowed herself to imagine what happened if she had summoned the Knight with Two Swords... a lot of blood. A lot of decapitations, too. But then again, maybe the Assassin would already have been -

No, Amaranta. Focus. The student reprimanded herself. As if to prove a point to herself, she immediately took a thick handful of pages, flipping ahead. The next moment, she mentally introduced the heel of her hand to her face. Great. She lost her place. Amaranta carefully leafed through the book, going back page by page, pausing to take a sip of tea every now and then.

Dagonet... Lancelot... Gawain... Gawain... Lancelot... Trystan.... Lancelot again... a brief musing on the metaphysical nature of the Grail (That was getting marked)... more Gawain...

Amaranta loosed a titanic yawn, hand trembling as it brought the teacup to her lips once more. She upended the last of its contents into her mouth, and then started coughing and gagging as wet pieces of tea leaves slid into her throat, accompanied by the occasional drop of water. She leaned over to the side, decorum forgotten, spitting the last of the dregs into a nearby trashbin.

Out of tea, too. Well, she'd have to keep soldiering on through this mammoth of a book, but later... she felt oddly tired. She closed the book, sliding it to the side, clearing a space. She could use a nap... some sleep...

Five seconds later, Amaranta rested her head against her arms, breathing lightly, sleeping.

Of course, the student would realize that she had forgotten to mark her place the next morning.

[Bedwyr]

“Amaranta I bro-“ He instantly silenced himself as he stepped through the door, and looked at his Master. She had her head down, resting on the book she had once been reading, soft red hair draped over its hard bindings.

He lowered his head, and even his steps became quieter, as he gently laid the kettle on the table. After a moment, he gave in, and poured his Master a cup, then himself. Even if she was sleeping, he could not just drink this himself. Sitting back down, his silver barrettes controlled this time to prevent even the slightest noise, he took a sip of the now useless tea.

…

It wasn’t as good. Of course it wasn’t… well he could not say that, he did not truly know how to prepare this drink, this tea.

Another sip.

She looked at peace like that, her body rising and falling with each whispered breath, and he could not help but smile despite himself. Despite all his worries, at least she could relax at times. Dreams, dreams and sleep were important. Dreams where were one would not worry, the world around them was faded, and no matter the man, sleep was enjoyable in all but rare cases. In rest there was no life or death.

For her, this was perfect.

But he… every time he closed his eyes in this world, only those memories would haunt him. He had dreamed the last night, had seen Britain. Had seen rolling fields, and felt the blessed breeze. But now his mind…

Now stone bisected those fields in his mind, the stone roads of this era, and the brilliant lights draped over the fields, shining like the sun where there should have only been stars.

His eyes opened again, and he saw Amaranta still lying there. His steel shod fist was clenched on the table, having instinctively given himself armour, and he knew his knuckles were clenched white under that gauntlet. He could feel his nails digging into his hand, even coming close to blood.

And he saw her relaxed. She could sleep, despite her own troubles, and he did not even want to close his eyes!? What kind of knight was he? He had strength far surpassing hers; he had more of a chance of surviving any attack from the Assassin. He was clothed in steel; her garb would not slow a dull knife.

Yet he was the one trembling! Every time… she surpassed him. Well… if she was strong enough, he could at least pretend to be the bastion that he should. Him breaking down, him being without sleep, would only crumble the very foundation he found strength from in this era.

He drained the rest of the tea down, and found himself sorely tempted to crush the glass in his hand, like he had done once in a similar situation so many years ago.

A promise from the previous night jolted him.

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

Had his speech really changed that much? Could he return to being like that again? He had slapped her across the face. Right now he could not even think of shaking her awake.

The difference now was that he felt like he had lied. He had a chance to stop the Assassin, the man in the shadows. And didn’t, couldn’t. Not only that but all his motivations were a wreck. His own pride in his skill was all but gone, when the steel giant smashed him through the building with a single strike. His sense of vengeance was overcome with fear. His love of his liege was cheapened by Merlin’s games.

Even his service… the ruby studs felt heavy. His own words, his forever promise was disappearing.

Still swathed in steel, he stood again, carrying the chair over to the room’s single door, and affixing it under the knob. It would not stop a Servant’s strength, but it, along with him, would stop a soft entrance. Sliding down onto his hand, and then to the floor, he leaned back against the door, Spatharius forming from air to aid him. If she could sleep, so could he. Soldiers were of no use tired, when they could be full strength.

So his eyes closed, and his head leaned against the door with the rest of his body.

He knew what he was going to lose tonight, knew what he would dream. No other memory had touched it yet, but it was coming. But if Amaranta could manage it, he could stand dreaming of her and her.

And with that knowledge, that guarantee, his thoughts faded, his mind closed, and he fell into sleep.