First things first

[Amaranta Bastillo]

tick tock

“…Nhmph…Mrnphhh….”

Something hurt. She tried to shift into a more comfortable position.

Rustle. Shhhhct.
…
Thonk.

…Ow.

Well. Not doing that again. No matter how effective introducing her face to the corner of her desk worked as a wake-up call.

But oooouuch. Nose. Hurting.

“Smart, self,” she mumbled under her breath, ”Reaaaal smooth.”

She propped one arm up onto the table to right herself, the process slow and laborious. In fact, Emma had half a mind just to fall back to sleep – right there on the floor. Except that couldn’t be good for her back – which was at this moment protesting with all the fury of an assignment scorned.

tick tock

Emma yawned, blearily rubbing her eyes in a vain effort to wake up, plonking herself back onto the chair – resisting the urge to just fall right back asleep. At the very least, she’d have to invest in a more comfortable chair if she was going to keep this up. Absent-mindedly tracing a pattern on the carved wood on the back of her chair, she frowned as a vague mess of names, places, and events surfaced in her mind, each and every one of them defying closer scrutiny.

Oh. Right. So that was what she was doing last night. as opposed to other things

tick tock

She groaned incoherently, and then yawned, regarding the great volume of Arthurian tales that sat in front with dry curiosity. She wondered what she had expected to find in there. A cursory glance at the book offered no profound insights, nor did the pages upon pages of tales and stories clarify what she needed to know (although she did get few juicy tidbits about Bedwyr that she had already filed away for later). Not for the first time did she wonder if, some time in the previous few days, she actually had gone down the deep end.

Maybe, she ventured in her mind wistfully, it had all just been an all too vivid dream.

Haha. Yeah. Right.

If only.

With a sigh, she let her eyes flick to an old monster of a clock, pendulum swinging with rhythmic tick tocks in it’s cabinet as it had done for probably many decades. Just past four, was it?

tick tock

…Light streamed in from the gaps in the curtains.

…She would have to adjust the clock later (was everything in this house breaking down?).

tick tock (oh shut up you’re not even working properly)

How she even managed to sleep with her back bent over like that for so long in the first place Emma chose not to dwell on for too long, and nor did she choose to think too hard about that crick in her neck which was absolutely begging to be cracked. Instead, she sat up straight (ow – where did that stab of pain come from), and stretched (ow ow ow please never not sleep on a bed ever again).

“I should probably fix breakfast or something, huh,” she righted herself with a reluctant groan, the sudden rush of blood from her head making her feel the slightest bit woozy, “hey, Bedw…yr…”

He had propped himself up against the door, blocking her way out of the study.

“…oh.”

tick tock

tick tock

tick tock

Huh. So he sleeps with his mouth open.

tick tock

She kicked herself. Right. Staring at people while they sleep. Not creepy at all. Though, granted, it wasn’t as if recent company was a good influence in that regard.

tick tock

“A-ahem,” she cleared her throat softly, making conscious effort not to wake him, “h-hhhm.”

But of all the places to get some shut-eye, did it have to be there?

…Really?

tick tock

Once again, she found her eyes inexorably drawn to the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest; the puff of mist that hovered in the air each time he expelled his breath, the contour of his neck as he breathed in, out, and with each subtle movement the shift in the way the curtain of silky hair fell over his shoulders.

And then her mind screeched to a halt with NO CREEPY CREEPY CREEPY STOP STOP STOP.

She took a deep, purposeful breath. Right. She was going to wake him up. Right now. Just walk u-

Rustle

Her breath caught in her throat, arm hovering in the air suspended mid-action. He moved. He moved. Was he waking up? Did he notice her staring (Self control! Self control!)? How was she going to explain that if he did? Oh god she really didn’t want him to think she’d caught on to some middle-ages stalking-rituals or something.

…

A few, tense moments later, nothing had happened.

“…Haaa-aaah.”

Emma expelled a breath she didn’t even know she was holding in, all thoughts of jolting Bedwyr back into consciousness forgotten, or dispelled. He was probably tired – more tired than she was. Besides, the college student wasn’t particularly looking forward to when she would have to meet him in the eye again, where he’d probably stare back with that kicked-puppy look that shouldn’t have been legal on a grown man like him.

She wondered if he dreamt, and if so, of what.

His face was inscrutable if he did, always set in that perpetual mask of vague displeasure – even when he slept, she realized with a start, his brows were furrowed, jaw gritted, hands clenched into a fist.

Maybe he was having a nightmare?

“Probably my fault, huh,” she went back to the chair, flipped it around, and rested her chin on her arms, gazing at him with an inexplicably gentle countenance,” I guess I should apologize for being such a cruddy, whatchamacallit‘Master’.”

And then she wanted to kick herself for bringing that relationship to the surface again. For a few moments, she had been able to entertain the notion that he wasn’t a person-of-mass-destruction. That, maybe, if she tried, they could possible relate to each other. That, perhaps, he wasn’t from another age, another era, and another world and he was just some guy who happened to, uh, fall asleep. In her study.

Oh. Right. Even if he was just some creeper stalker guy who just happened to fall asleep in her study.

“Maybe I’ll just talk to you like this until you wake up,” she muttered softly into her arms, “because that’s always a good idea, right. Just. Talking to some dude who’s sleeping. Who’s probably well on his way to hating me as well.”

She gave a dry snort. The universe sure had a sense of humour when it decided that the two of them should’ve been partners.

“But, seriously,” she yawned again, voice barely audible, words not addressed to anyone in particular, “I just something to keep myself from falling asleep again, really, since who knows when I’ll wake up if I let myself drift off again.”

“But seriously, you should stop blindsiding me with these things,” she stretched, “first you appearing out of nowhere, then this whole Grail-War thing, and now letting me catch you sleeping. Pretty sure not something you’d want an enemy to catch you doing.”

She leaned forward, chair rocking precariously on its hind legs as she yawned again, finding herself with a sudden, overpowering craving for coffee; one that she’d, invariably, have to soldier through – at least until Bedwyr wakes up.

“Pft. Of all the things you’ve make me suffer through,” she quipped, voice dripping with irony,” this has got to be somewhere up there.”

[Bedwyr]

A wooden floor creaked as his iron greaves were placed gently, easily on them. That almost made him pull the blade at his side out of the scabbard. A monster, a creature, many of them lay on the ground, circled around the looted house’s floor. Invaders. Enemies.

They flickered for a moment, becoming men with beards and short helms, crude weapons instead of claws, before fading back into creatures. Six soldiers waited for his command, their swords upraised over the varying creatures. Horrors.

Seven swords plunged into seven sleeping beasts, that responded with human gurgles, human screams, and the knights moved again. He had been commanded to do this, distasteful as it was, but he would obey his liege.

The entire world flickered again. He was kneeling in the reflectory, awaiting his knighthood. The roar of a motorcycle together with the whinny of a horse interrupted his hours of silence. Even at holy times like these, there were dispatches, always bad news from the outskirts of the kingdom.

What kingdom? His mind sought and searched, and for some reason he could only remember protecting a house.

Again it all shifted, and he stood in the snow, his left hand gone once again. Smoke spewed from the enemy horse lines, glass lamps that adorned the streets while he rode the Vespa lit up the camp, emitting the light of only flames, however. Detached smoke rose from seeming open air, as if there was an invisible fire beneath the lampposts.

His head hurt.

He knelt before his king. His head hurt. Screamed. Rebelled. She was garbed in her armour, it was only moments before they would ride out to battle, to the last battle. There was no way he would ever leave her side. He looked up at her young face, unaged while he had grown to his prime. She did not change. She did not flicker. Each time he felt it coming, his mind forced the world of his dreams to conform to his wills. She would never flicker in his sight. A paragon.

What was the flickering? Why wasn’t he letting her image flicker? Was it some sense of strange duty, not allowing her to hide behind the illusion that broke only in the last moments, when he truly knew her?

His head hurt.

What harm could the flickering do? Why wasn’t he letting her image flicker? It was just a dream, just a memory, just his already written past. Was the image of a paragon that unyielding in his mind? It had to be. For some reason it had to. He could not let it change. There was no reason behind that decision, just a need. If it changed, so would he. He did not need to change.

The scene pulsed, blinding him with white light.

A wrenching, tearing sound greeted him. The final strike. Clarent was raised over her completely stable image, Mordred… he couldn’t make out Mordred, but knew he was dying as her spear pierced armour so much like his.

A scene he had seen a thousand times, filled now with mental static, strewn pieces of machinery, dead horses, dead men, and one dead woman. He stepped over the woman, and cradled her to his chest, tears streaming freely.

The wound was mortal.

The image flickered, and her blond hair flashed red for a second, everything flashed red, before he stared out alone at an oncoming ship of steel, and men and monsters composed of darkness pouring forth from it, ravaging for blood. He sat on the yellow Vespa against the charging hordes, most of his left arm completely gone now, he had bolted a shield to it once, but he could no longer move it. One of his lungs was collapsed, he could barely breath. If he was forced to the ground, it would be hard to stand as well.

Yet he roared his own guttural shout back at the men, and slammed his feet in the creature’s stirrup, his eyes blinded by blood. Not his blood, although that flowed freely from his head. Her blood.

His eyes snapped open, and he roared again, trying to draw his sword, trying to draw his…

Where was it!? The sole hand grasped blindly across hard ground, searching for the thing to save his life. No, not to save his life, to end his enemies’ lives. To end her enemies’ lives. Her dream… it would stay alive as long as he lived! As long as he protected Britain, as long as he killed! He saw only blackness though, he had to have vision to stand against those who would invade these shores. Shaking his head, he blinked; there were no more men, no more monsters, in front of him. His breath came easily and… he was sitting down. He pushed himself up immediately, ready to swing a non-existent sword. His eyes darted around the room seeing the light of the sun creeping though… curtains, and a wooden floor again. Where am I!? One more blink, and finally his memories returned in a flood.

His head hurt.

It hurt not from the sudden rush, but the same pang that troubled him in his dream. Was this another one? Was this a dream of his first day in the world? No… it had been night then. He… just…

His eyes frantically swept the room again, and finally found Amaranta. She was sprawled on the floor nearby, a chair topple over, and looking at him in utter shock. Shock from his… roar? Had he shouted here or there? Had he… ugh… just thinking about it brought back the fuzzing blurs, the grey static, the pain.

“Sorry… Master.” He extended his hand down to her, to help her up, but it was still wrapped in steel, so he simply lifted the chair out of the way, and then once again offered her his arm. She brushed it aside, and stood up herself, not taking his offering of aid.

Had he really slept through her waking? He did not feel any more rested… had he really slept? There was no tiredness, but no renewal. No feeling of freshness, or even the tiredness from a short sleep.

Perhaps his shout had even woken her from her sleep? …No, she would not have come this close after a shout like that. Had she been watching him sleep? Like he should have been watching her?

He understood nothing right now. “Sorry again… I… did not rest well. I should have woken earlier. For this too, I apologize, and have failed. I did not even hear you step by me,” Had he ever creaked that wooden floor when he ambushed the sleeping group of marauders? Or had that been her? “And yet I seek to guard you from the Assassin, who would have much more silent steps...”

The door would have prevented it but… if he had not woken up before, perhaps the Assassin could simply cut through a wall, slide into the room without him even noticing.

No… surely he would wake up from that? Surely… hopefully that would never have to happen, but he had to make sure.

“I…” He had absolutely no idea what to say. Nothing came to mind except apologies. Nothing. “Do you need anything?” A basically default response came out as he met her eyes. She was waiting for something at least. Even off balance there was a hint there. He had been in her way? Why had she not awoken him then? She could have easily… had she awoken him would he have killed her? He prayed not, but the force with which he had awaken… the urge with which he had sought his sword, what would have happened had he found Spatharius, which still leaned against the door.

“I… sorry, Master.” His head bowed to her, chin pressing against still materialized armour. It was… cold. Steel always was, but for some reason, his breastplate felt like ice. His entire body felt cold, and hesitant for some reason. Weak. Freezing, like that time he stood watching… that camp that should not have been. The dream… he shook his head again, white-gold locks shaking, and silver barrettes ringing against each other twice as he tried to drive the thoughts of the nightmare from his mind. To no avail.

His head hurt.

[Amaranta Bastillo]

She coughed lightly, ducking under the proffered hand to stand up independent of his help, maintaining cool distance between them in lieu of the manic roar that must have rocked the entire neighbourhood. Nodding in vague acknowledgement of his apology, she goes to pull up the chair, settle it in its spot under the table, and avoids his gaze - all the while listening to him speak, not knowing what to say in response; all the many dozens of sarcastic remarks, cool observations, unenthusiastic amends - all dying in her the moment the one whom they were meant for had woken.

“It’s fine,” she manages finds her voice when their eyes finally meet, but her tone is cold; frigid, hostile, and her words are clipped, “just forget about it.”

Leaving the Bedwyr’s offer hanging in insubstantial space, she doesn’t wait for what he has to say in response as she walks past him, their shoulders brushing as she makes her way to the door.

“I… sorry,” the door clicks as his voice cuts through the air,” Master.”

Emma suppressed a shuddering sigh as she closed the door behind her, fighting back the rising wave of guilt that was clawing its way up her chest, through her throat. Her? Guilty? The sheer absurdity of it made her want to choke. She wasn’t the one who had cannibalized somebody else’s vespa, or destroyed the front gate, or pulled someone into a Conflict-That-Was-Very-Likely-To-Kill-Them that they had no interest in whatsoever and aaaaaAAARGH..

Was it so wrong that she really wanted to kick a puppy?

With a groan, she gave herself a gentle nudge in the right direction, fingers pushing off the solid wood as she moved in half a daze to where she remembered the kitchen to be. She’d feel better after coffee, she tells herself as she walks, one hand trailing on the wall behind her, bare feet padding softly the timber flooring.

Biting her lip, she forces herself not to bring her thoughts back to Bedwyr. She had only known him for two days – logic dictates that it shouldn’t be too hard to just forget about him for a few moments, right? Even if she’d long given up on the idea of evicting him from her home, it shouldn’t mean that he was welcome to take up residence in her mind as well.

Aand there she was doing it again.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Even more so now that she had realized she had totally walked past the kitchen, and almost collided with a ten-foot-tall painting of her great-great-great-uncle on her father’s side who was at that moment glaring at her beneath impossibly bushy brows with all the vindictive rage of the hypothetical puppy she had wanted to kick.

Way to make someone feel like a stranger in their own home, Uncle Fabio.

With an explosive sigh of frustration, Emma spun on her heel to march straight into the kitchen. And get it right this time. Instead she rammed her shoulder into the wall with a painful thonk thanks to misjudging the distance she needed to perform such a manoeuvre.

Uncle Fabio shuddered violently, before settling down - though this time a few degrees skewed to right.

[Bedwyr]

She looked… frustrated. Tired. Angry. Confused. She looked a lot of things, as she bit her lip and headed off towards her kitchen. All of it added up to the fact that she probably wanted to be left alone. While he was loath to let her be, he knew sometimes she would have to work out her frustrations herself.

The assassin could come, but he was a man of shadows, fearing the light of day. The command seals still remained on Amaranta's wrist if all else failed on top of that. So she should be safe a few hundred meters from him.

Although that left him at odds for what to do in the meantime. He could… work on the Vespa… however his dreams actually made him shy away from the thought of grooming his mount. Perhaps something routine, something he used to do regularly, every day, to take his mind off the static, the pain that seemed to swamp his thoughts.

Perhaps… training then. Yes, that would work perfectly. Practicing the forms, although he had no dummy, but then again he had no… no he did have a training sword. He reached down, grabbing the hard leather scabbard that Spatharius rested in.

He then opened the second story window that he was at, grabbed the ledge, and leapt over it, his arm still holding on to the windowsill, and his sword in his teeth, before he let himself drop to a crouch on the pavement of the driveway with a slight crashing sound, as metal landed on stone.

Standing up, he grabbed the hilt of Spatharius, and with a flick of his wrist, removed it from the scabbard, sending the leather sheath fading into silver mist. His feet crunched onto dry grass in the overcast sky, threatening a storm. Probably in a day or two…

It felt like the coastal storms he had seen all too many times before. Foreboding… nothing in the world happened without reason.

But enough of that! He levelled Spatharius in front of him, and with a flash of light its edges dulled, becoming a practice sword in truth. Closing his eyes, and inclining his head, all his armour faded around him, joining his scabbard as silver sparkles that shone as they slowly twinkled out of existence. After that he stripped off the second shirt that Amaranta had given him, a powder blue dress shirt that actually fit rather comfortably, and tossed it to the side, landing on the driveway. Now, bare-chested and ready to sweat with a workout, he began to flow from stance to stance, even weapon to weapon.

His mind blurred, a good blur this time, as muscle memory and routine took over. Gladius, short sword, saber, cavalry saber, claymore, zweihander, bastard sword, long sword, arming sword, Spatharius took all their forms as he went through the practice, parrying and striking, thrusting and blocking, rolling and dodging.

Sweat trickled down his hair, down his chest, running along muscles honed from life or death training from so many centuries ago. Train, eat, fight, sleep had become his routine in life for so many years that they were inseparable from each other. The best was when he was able to ride, freely, without war in his wake.

Those moments had been far too few.

Another thrust, this time as Spatharius flashed to a spatha, and he turned, slicing down towards where an opponent’s neck would be as it become a cavalry saber. A back walking stroke, for distance, and it became a claymore that weighed down his lone hand.

Each weapon was dulled, and beaten looking, as his mind remembered each training weapon he had used, each weapon that had never broken while he held it. Never had his sword shattered on another man’s shield, never had it failed to serve. Just like he would always server her, it would always serve him.

And he thanked the blade for that each day. It was him, his reflection cast in metal. Did it too dream of its world warping? Did steel even have a world of its own?

A dodge, sliding to his knees, and a rising strike with a forming saber came next. A kick, and… a backhand. His routine stumbled; he stumbled, falling to his knees once again, his unbound hair brushing against the ground off his right side.

Tch… had he really not practiced that form for so long that he had not altered it after losing a hand? He tried to push himself to his feet, but his muscles decided against it, the cool grass was far to enticing, and he ended up on his back, lying flat on the ground, and just staring up at the grey sky.

While the night had certainly changed, it seemed at least that rain had not. He could have placed this cloud in Britain, and none would be the wiser.

Heh, just the thought of him dragging off a cloud, the impossibility of it, brought a bit of laughter to a day without it. A war that should have been without it. The last time he laughed was so long ago, it seemed.

… Just the memory of that silenced the laughter again, and his face once again settled on a stoic expression. The grass was no longer comfortable, it became a reminder of his inability to save what he wanted… no, what he needed to save.

He pushed himself up from the grass, leveled Spatharius again, and angrily began to fix the form that had caused him to stumble. It would not do so again. He would not be defeated, killed, or let her be killed just because he had forgotten to adapt a simple form.

As the downward swing leveled out, he snarled at empty air “I will not be crushed! lose, any longer!”

[Amaranta Bastillo]

Emma grimaced as she took a sip.

It was bitter. Far too bitter.

Had she forgotten to put sugar in? Silly thing to forget, really; she never forgot the sugar. Making a noise of displeasure, she set the cup down onto glass coffee table – only then realizing she had forgotten to use a coaster. Intelligent. So very intelligent.

Emma told herself she blamed the terrible night’s sleep for her mind’s state of utter disarray.

The beverage swirled in the ceramic cup, a thin stream of steam evaporating into the air as she stared and mulled, stroking her chin with her index finger. And though she had been set on not thinking about it, her mind invariably let itself wander to the Grail War, and to the man who had taken up residence in her home.

It had already become a well-worn track, revisited time and time again. But the constant forays into the topic brought little ground, and she once more, she found herself stuck in a rut, in a cycle; a dog chasing its own tail.

She shivers.
And she realizes it’s cold.

Groping for a jacket, Emma realized that she was already wearing one – the same one that she had fallen asleep in the night before. So she pulled the fabric closer to her, and tried the coffee again – despite how little it suited her tastes. She made a face, but swallowed it all the same – the hot beverage from a few moments ago noticeably cooler.

Perhaps, she told herself, standing up, while she attempted to smooth out the folds in her clothing that begged for ironing, she just needed to take a walk to clear her head.

So she stood, picking up her drink, moving to the do-

crash.

Huh. Oh. Nevermind then.
It was kind of amazing what she had adapted to take in stride.

There was barely a pause in her movements as she changed her route to head towards the windows – the five-foot tall red-and-gold ones were still obscured by the heavy swathes of rich scarlet fabric that had been drawn. So she grabbed a fistful of the fabric – velvet, probably – and, without hesitating, casting the curtains clear of the glass.

The sudden brightness made her finch, but her eyes adjusted quickly as she cast her gaze out into the courtyard. And…

…

What was he doing?

Emma had to catch herself before she let go of the cup in her hands to shatter all over the floor as she stared at the scene before her with incredulity - her grandfather’s shirt had been torn off, and thrown, discarded, into a crumpled heap on the drive way, but that was only the least of it. Still not quite understanding what she was seeing, she threw open the windows and leaned out – dangerously far – into empty air to reaffirm what she was seeing.

Where were her glasse- More importantly, how did he even get out ther-

Ah.

Her question was answered for her by a length of fabric that fluttered a short distance to the left – curtains flapping in the breeze – and windows cast wide open. Letting her eyes follow his trail, she then saw a small crater in the stone underneath, now crisscrossed by a small network of cracks. And then. Uh. Well…

Him.

Topless, waving his sword around like a fool, and, oh, let’s not forget sculpted body glistening with sparkling rivulets of sweat illuminated by the brilliant dawn rays. The skin of a killer and all that.

Ew. Seriously. No. Even if he did have a nice body.

“The. Hell.”

…Stop showing off Bedwyr. Please. For both our sakes.

[Bedwyr]

“The. Hell.”

He stumbled. Again. Her voice was unexpected.

…

How long had she been watching him? Had she seen him stumble before? Spatharius faded into grey-silver mist, almost unwantedly. He felt… oddly abashed. But why had she spoken like that? Was his training to be compared to hell now? Strangely confusing… perhaps she was complaining about the damages he had inflicted on the wall the previous night? Still. A comparison to hell seemed a little odd.

But… he found he could not reply. He simply stopped, turned, and walked to the stone path back to her house.

“I apologize for offending you so, Master.” What should he do? What did she want him to do? Should he ask? It… was uncertain. He did not wish to offend, or appear worse than he already was.

He picked up the discarded shirt, and walked along the road to Amaranta’s door, bare feet feeling cold on the unflinching stone. Deftly avoiding the fragments of stone he had caused from his landing, he reached and opened the door.

Ascending the stairs, he realized he had need of a bath. Or a shower, perhaps. That fuzzed his mind for a second, a word he was not supposed to know. His scent was not all that pleasant at the moment. Amaranta would not be impressed if he remained around like this. But that was to be expected. He would have preferred a tepidarium, with fellow knights, but it seemed he had very little in the way of friends in this war that he could potentially share a bath with.

…

He would have never accepted Merlin in that position, even in life. Now he would probably do something of a practical joke to him. Taking her form, what had he been thinking!?

The bath was the room that he had drawn the water from the night previous, that was right. It took him a second to navigate through the house, avoiding the room his Master was in. She… he wasn’t about to confront her at the moment.

He blinked. Why was he standing in the large basin, with water streaming down already? He was fully undressed, and the water was boiling hot, running down his entire body, and dripping down his long locks. His mind was full of static again. From the looks of things he had been in there a while, the room was full of steam.

This is getting worrisome…

[/i] What if he blanked out when Amaranta was in danger? He… couldn’t control it. It seemed to happen every time his mind wandered now, or while doing mundane tasks. At least battle wasn’t mundane. Training didn’t even appear to either, despite the routine of it.

Confusing…

He stepped out of the basin, turning the water off, and then wrapping a towel around his waist. The water had not even felt refreshing on his sore muscles, he had missed the time as the first sprinkles of water ran down his muscled body, missed breathing in the first breath of heated air, filling his powerful chest with steam. He had missed all that, from the time he blanked out.

…

His muscles certainly felt more relaxed.

The soft silk shirt was pulled over his smooth skin without any problems, in fact it was done almost absent mindedly. The slacks followed shortly, and a belt to hold them up.

A deep breath filled his lungs, ok, he was ready to speak to Amaranta now. Why was there so much fear of talking to her? Was it the fact that he still felt unwanted? He… couldn’t say. But perhaps this talk would solve it.