✵ ➥ drown in your ideals and die
He hated this place.
Orange orbs alight with a rage akin to the roar of fire stares past the entrance of a doorway they remained in with body. Boxes laid scattered within this room filled to the brim with objects left to collect dust like the memories locked within his mind. Where once joy was found in this place, only despair remained. Where everything had started he would now finish it. It was what he always told himself even in the future— wait where was that thought process going?
Digits crunched down on the steel framing of the door. For a moment he felt water surging over his eyelids but one blink cleared everything.
This was the only path for him.
Abruptly the door to the shed was slammed shut. No jingle to the handle was given after like usual. Whether the locking mechanism worked or not didn’t matter. Everything that had been stored in the shed no longer mattered to him. He would never see this shed, these grounds, or that house again soon enough.
Now the true test was put in play. Out of every room, every corner, every ounce of this home, there was one place he dared not step into. No, he could not step into. An invisible barrier lay placed on the sliding doors to the room closely beside his own. It was one set up only for himself, a mental block. Even touching the frame work only caused a pain to surge through him. His eyes quickly looking to the top of his left hand now, a bad habit he never lost, looking for something no longer there. A mark, symbols, a strange forming of the wrinkles of his skin.
For a moment he didn’t think he’d be able to go through with this plan. It was his fingertips that touched the woodwork first. His teeth clenching as if that contact alone had sent a shock through his body. Slowly now his skin continue to touch, to kiss the craftsmanship that blocked his way until suddenly all was left bare and the doors thrown open to reveal—-
In the eyes of the unwise this was just another uninhabited room in the house. Sure there was less dust to be found but that only meant it was used to travel between to other locations, nothing more. Indeed it was an idle spot under this roof. Far enough from the entrance but still dead center to the common areas, and oh so very close to himself. There was only one small to give away that at one point in time something, someone, a person you cared for most, had stayed here.
The guardian of this zone stared him down with unblinking onyz eyes. One simple plush lion doll, still packaged away in the gift wrap it had been placed in when bought.
✴ — and yet there are no regrets.
Silent murmurs of breath were stark against the stagnant air, becoming slow, daringly diminutive as verdigris eyes watched, almost unmoving. The familiar venue that stretched before her was remarkably memorable, a venue that whereupon many occurrences riddled her cognizance fraught with bittersweet memoirs of a war past. And yet, despite all of the places she could’ve possibly traveled to— why this one? Was this a fragment of a memory of her own— or another?
Muscles stiffened, locked themselves from any motion as a single query was posed— why?
The Emiya estate appeared untouched, and yet sadly neglected to be considered her own (from whence the ‘scientists’ had taken her). The recognisable shed remained as it was, the very presence of it alone leaving an astringent aftertaste of things she wished not to recollect (a dying princess destined to see no more of the world that was…). And there was the yard that led to a hallway— a hallway which she remembered led to the very same room she rested upon after a meeting with a certain snow-haired child and a behemoth spirit…
Do you too, remember?
It seemed almost laughable, the irony of the very thought of being summoned by the child of her previous master— to have to recall the very same memories of a failed war brought upon by the child’s very father himself. Quietus reigned supreme, the silence almost suffocating as footfalls began, willing her limbs to unlock themselves as she walked, wishing to test this memory she knew all too-well could not possibly be real (for surely, it was unlike the scientists to return them to their homes— and the one before her was much too strange).
But perhaps it was not the memories or the silence alone that created the stifling sensations upon her very person. It was the unassuming atmosphere that permeated from the estate alone that spoke to her, lulled her into a sense of admittance of preservation.
She needn’t forget her reason for being— why she was an Eirei of war.
And now she traversed through the very hallways she remembered were once diligently cleaned by the inhabitants of the edifice. The wood creaked under her bare feet (she’d taken the liberty of removing her boots for the sake of honouring the owner of the home’s customs), dredging dust as she walked, slowly, carefully. Digits refused to touch the walls of the home, for simply walking through the corridor was enough to make her purse her lips in dubiety. It is with this dubiousness that she realised that the state of this venue alone invoked from her almost… nothing.
But ah, woe was the King of Knights whose attention was accosted by a familiar silhouette who stood against the threshold between where she once rested in a war yet to be finished— the cerise tufts seeming almost nostalgic, too nostalgic.
A soft utterance riddled with the ghost of a past— a not so distant past extrapolated by the nuance of a life far removed from its original.
But it was not him— was it? It could not possibly be him. This memory was filled with remembrance and bittersweet nostalgia— such afflicting sentiments that could only be possibly shared if one had suffered through much loss for a prolonged period of time. The Emiya, Shirou she knew of was but a boy who knew not of war, who was oblivious to the true nature between Eirei and magus alike, who perhaps had yet to learn of true loss…
So who was it that stood before her, visage plagued with the ghost of a past that he himself would not have possibly seen—?
“…Who are you?”
The event had taken Haruto to various places, many of them places he knew. But it was not until later on when he began to experience the events of others’ lives. As he felt his conscious being pulled into the separate reality, he felt something about himself shift. As though the reality of the world he was entering was beginning to overwrite him, who he was. Or, at the very least, what he looked like, lest he ruin the illusion of the memory…
“Aye— thy services are most welcome,” her voice rang above the cries of war that surrounded them both, beckoning them with the idylls of promised victory, engaging in the very act of valour and vigour— a knight’s calling. Armoured digits wrapped around the hand that reciprocated hers, pulling him without much difficulty onto the back of her steed (one would wager that despite her petite stature, she held much unforeseeable strength). She’d noticed his lack of ride, and she could only assume he required one— a man of her own kin (or so it was thought).
But ah, this memory— it was very much real as the garments on their backs.
For in that instance the smile that framed her petite visage vanished as quickly as it came. The severity of the situation called for her rapt attention, and almost immediately as the male situated himself safely, she willed her horse to move, moving the reigns, as off they went— careening fastly into the vim of the battlefield. The once happy visage had turned austere— cold, calculating as she was known for. Arthur Pendragon was known as the King of War, and with victories of war comes the death of many…
Is that really how you felt, then—?
She’d immersed herself with the thought of a jovial occurrence that could not possibly be. Turmoiled was she internally, not fully understanding why and how she could possibly feel in a moment of life where emotions were not so accessible— a page in the history of her past that was since then etched within the sands of time of her inability to feel. As a King she had no humanity, she knew not of what the pleasures of happiness, sadness, anger, were.
So why was it she felt this way—? Felt so happy?
It did not belong— it did not feel correct. This lack of understanding enraged her— terribly tangled tendrils of confusion infiltrating her thoughts. For what reason did she know that these feelings did not belong?
But now was not the time for befuddled thoughts—
“Hold thyself!” was her shout to the knight who sat behind her, a single hand outstretched, wielding a blade that glistened ‘neath the harshness of the sunlight that sought to blind them on this very day. Enemies who approached them were immediately blinded, not by the rays of the sun— but by the brightness of the brandished blade which struck them as they were, bright, beaming, a burst of light that decimated their opponents. No, this had not been the famed strike named after the blade she wielded, but a lesser attack, a burst of energy.
In a moment of quietus, fellow knights roared bellows of triumph, for their King had given them an advantage in numbers.
And yet, all of this— at the very corner of her eye she spotted peculiar items held by the knight whom she’d offered a ride to. It was strange, an item she’d never seen before. They appeared as rings, but what struck her was the blade he carried, a blade too foreign to be crafted by the blacksmiths of her lands.
How could she had been so foolish—?
Slowly the horse had came to a trot. And though Arthur did not fully face the other. Calm and calculative, she spoke justly as any Knight would.
“Thou art not a knight of mine— and yet thou hast willingly accepted mine hand. Speak truthfully once, for if thine words are false thou shalt be tested on the mercy of my blade.” Her face remained neutral as she spoke, no evidence of hostility ringing forth. “Pray tell, Sir Knight— art thou an enemy?”
5. Has your character grown/changed in any way since being brought to the Hive?
Oh y e s. Most definitely. I originally took Saber from mid-Fate route for this MFRP, a bit ways before she began developing a sense of what it meant to be a ‘girl’ via le Emiya, Shirou. This is during the time where she is fully aware of how her master thinks of her— but still adamantly believes that as an Eirei of war, she is nothing but a tool used to aid the one who has summoned her, her master, towards victory. Because Saber has spent an entire year (nearing two, now) in Hive City, her current thoughts of the Grail War have somewhat diminished. Not to the point where she completely forgot about it of course— she understand that under the circumstances (without her full prowess) she cannot hope to fight for a war that currently has no standing in a venue where it simply cannot exist at its fullest potential.
So in a way she has become a tad bit more lax, in a sense that she does not fully accept the trivialities that a normal individual has to go through on a daily basis but indulges in a bit of them to pass the time. Saber’s priorities are still the same: Win the Holy Grail, obtain the salvation for her country, become a King no longer. She still worries for the safety of her Master who happens to be in the city as well, of course. But for some reason she has begun to realise that there is something quite different about him.
arthurus started following you
"Ah, Miss Saber… I suppose the polite thing is to say it’s a pleasure?"
“…How strange. Such an aura— it is undeniable to who it belongs to, and yet you take the form of a child?”
She’ll kill me.
Well and truly, without a doubt, she would kill him. That was his first thought when the little lion cub first made himself scarce. Well — his second. His first was being stricken with fear, as parents are, that his silly miniature human had gotten itself in a position to be permanently or otherwise damaged. Except the “child” was not a miniature human at all. His third was that surely there was no way a tiny creature like that could stray very far. Right?
After combing possibly the entire park, he was beginning to reassess this thought. Just a little.
The one time, the one instant, that he took his eyes off the rambunctious beast, he just had to make a break for it. Just like his uncle, he almost (only almost) thought before remembering that this creature was not human, or demon, or related to him at all. Even so, some part of him blamed Dante, a little. It was his influence, clearly. That wild adventurous spirit. Laughing in the face of danger and so on.
She really would kill him, wouldn’t she? Vergil made a small amount of effort to assess how he felt about this being his final day. Should he leave the city? Change his name?
…That was stupid. Even for an already ridiculous thought process.
Even so, he dreaded facing the music, as it were. Though only maternal in spirit, Saber was perfectly liable to be as fiercely protective of this cub as she was of her dinner. Perhaps unbecoming of a king, or perhaps positive qualities. It didn’t matter. Either way, she could quite easily behead Vergil.
”Foolish little cub,” he uttered aloud, reverting back to worry slowly. Where could he have go—
Whether by sheer luck or coincidence, a particularly loud but still so very pitiful, and remarkably familiar, mewl hit him just before a heavy lump sprawled spreadeagled on his head and slipped unceremoniously, face-first, into his arms.
"Mufa—?" Vergil spat out feline fur and blinked at the squirming, complaining creature in his arms, one that twisted to face him and blink owlishly back. Bright, familiar eyes greeted him. "Where — how —?” The lion mewed again, shivering in his arms, and Vergil hesitated before realizing how much of an idiot he was being and hugging the little beast close to his chest, looking up to squint at the branch overhead as if it was at fault. It was guilty only of bearing the cub’s weight, if the little claw marks were anything by which to judge.
"…" Just like his uncle, he repeated to himself, not bothering to correct it this time. Vergil held the tiny creature at arms’ length as one would a baby under its arms and tried to look stern. Mufasa only stared at him. And mewed.
"Don’t give me that," Vergil replied, sternly.
A tail flick.
"…How many times have I told you not to climb trees? You’re far too young to —”
Vergil remembered for little apparent reason that he was talking to a lion cub. He sighed heavily and pulled the creature back close to his chest, where Mufasa promptly proceeded to attempt to climb onto his shoulders. Vergil simply brushed his mane back. (If he squinted, it looked a little like his own hair. Or what it used to be, before it started raining cats.) “Little fool,” he accused, more biting than he meant it.
It may have been his imagination when the lion pulled back and looked hurt. This knowledge did not stop him from flinching and looking away. “You ought to listen to your elders, you know. I have only your best interest in mind, and your — S— she will kill me if you are not at bare minimum in the same condition in which she left you, if not better.” Mufasa swiveled an ear. Vergil frowned. “Stop it.”
He did, choosing instead to ignore this weirdo human talking to him and curling against the broad warm chest he was being held against instead…before promptly returning to attempting to use Vergil as a launching pad for his test flight.
The treat had been undeniably delectable, incredibly sumptuous beyond belief that bite after bite, she truly believed she’d ascended into the heavens. It was a treat that could rival even that of Shirou’s exquisite culinary skills, and despite her usual restraint, this dessert was just more than she could ask for…
She stopped shortly thereafter, almost too abruptly as her gaze fell upon Sera, who appeared to have a rather disheartened look upon her visage. The expression troubled the King of Knights who, while perplexed did not fully understand the severity of her actions. Her spoon still lifted upwards, and with only a tiny portion of the dessert remaining on the dish it once sat upon, Saber slowly lowered her spoon.
“Was— Was I not supposed to eat it all?”