15Ramune - Yuri Writer

Title color for rating on AO3: Explicit・Mature・Teen And Up

Chainsaw Man

Control is Comfort - AO3 | Tumblr ch1 Makima x fem Reader [Includes Smut Scenes] Act 1 "Detachment": 01・02・03・04・05・06・07 Act 2 "Devotion": 08・09・10・11・12・13・14・15・16・17・18・19・20・21 Act 3 "Binding": 22・23・24・25・26・27・28・29・30・31・32・33 Epilogue: 34

Digimon

Couple's Sweet Time - AO3 | Tumblr ch1 Monica Simmons x Shiroki Asuna

After Work - AO3 | Tumblr Monica Simmons x Shiroki Asuna [Smut]

In the Server Room - AO3 | Tumblr Monica Simmons x Shiroki Asuna [Smut]

Fate

Chaldea Bachelorette - AO3 | Tumblr ch1 Fujimaru Ritsuka x Everyone (21 Servants) - with Reader Votings!

For My Beautiful Queen - AO3 | Tumblr Morgan x Britomart [Smut]

Found You - AO3 | Tumblr Kishinami Hakuno x Tohsaka Rin

Nostalgia - AO3 | Tumblr Kishinami Hakuno x Tohsaka Rin

Petrichor Series - AO3 (Series) Tonelico x Castoria

First Raindrops - AO3 | Tumblr ch1 | CW: Non-Con・Major Character Death brief Morgan x Castoria 01・02・03・04・05・06・07・08・09・10・11・12 Avalon I

Frozen Rain Melting - AO3 | Tumblr ch1 Morgan x Castoria

Fire Emblem

Would You Stay? - AO3 | Tumblr Byleth x Edelgard von Hresvelg

Sweeter Than Chocolate - AO3 | Tumblr Byleth x Edelgard von Hresvelg

Madoka Magica/Magia Record/Exedra

04 - Understanding

It takes two more days for Artoria to no longer be riddled with a gut-wrenching sense of disorientation the moment she regains her consciousness after slumber — two days until she’s used to waking up in a bed that still doesn’t feel like hers, in a spacious room that still makes Artoria feel like an uninvited guest.

It proves Artoria is as unwanted in this chamber, which she’s been relegated into, as she is in all of Fairy Britain — the Child of Prophecy is a stranger no matter where she resides.

Artoria slaps her cheeks to let the stinging pain that wouldn’t linger wash away those depressing thoughts. Truthfully as they might describe her circumstances, dwelling on that negativity isn’t like Artoria at all. It doesn’t suit her.

The moment of weakness from her first two days in Camelot is all but forgotten — Artoria forces those memories from her mind. That wasn’t her — not how she would normally act. Good thing nobody has seen her in such a state.

With renewed vigor that couldn’t fool anyone who cared, Artoria swings herself up to get out of bed. Nothing good would come from lazing around all day.

“Today I’ll—”

Artoria starts psyching herself up with an enthusiasm that oozes the poorly masked despair of someone who wants to convince herself more than anyone else, until one crucial detail makes her stop abruptly.

“… I don’t know… ahaha…”

This isn’t Tintagel; Artoria’s day isn’t filled into the night with chores and fieldwork any longer. Her schedule is as empty as she wishes her head could become once more — a bottomless pit of nothingness that wouldn’t allow for anything to settle, a void that spreads a protective numbness throughout.

Though a void in her schedule instead of her mind is nothing that helps Artoria shield herself from realizations that wouldn’t do her any good. It merely freezes her in place, keeping her from grueling labor that would ease her mental burdens by targeting her physical condition instead.

Artoria sits back on the bed and deflates with a sigh. Not that she would allow herself to fall back into negativity, no — instead, the helplessness against the perceived paralyzing uselessness changes into an irritation at the mind-killing boredom.

“Ah, geez!”

With a huff, Artoria jumps back up. Her eyes settle on the door leading into the halls of Camelot. It’s the one way leading out of this empty nothing that this room provides, out of the misery suffocating Artoria with its generous space and lack of restriction despite the confinement.

She knows the halls of Camelot are off-limits.

A lump forms in Artoria’s throat, which’s swallowing down feels as though it’s prevented by the mana collar constricting her neck at the mere consideration of insubordination. Not that the collar has actually expanded or changed shape at all.

It wouldn’t be beyond Morgan to implement such a cruelty, though. She would punish any overstepping without fail or mercy. Morgan’s mere order places a sharp knife firmly against one’s throat — ready to cut should one take a small step in the wrong direction.

But even faced with this prospect, Artoria would rather face Morgan’s wrath than her own demons. Better to be up against what threatens to end your misery before you can blink than against what exists for no other reason but to torment you with no relief.

Artoria can no longer bear this room she doesn’t come close to deserving, this wretched place where Barghest is her only occasional guest. Hell couldn’t be worse.

Just as Artoria reaches for the doorknob, it turns — making her jump back instinctively, as though it would help hide her attempt at escape instead of letting her look all the more suspicious with bated breath and cold sweat.

In comes — to Artoria’s further annoyance — Barghest. This time she doesn’t bring a meal with her, which only adds to Artoria’s displeasure. What’s the point of that bulky knight showing up, if not for food?

If Barghest has any inkling of Artoria’s almost-defiance, she doesn’t show it. Barghest won’t even call Artoria out, as though it wouldn’t matter. Is that haughty, oversized knight really looking down on Artoria that much? Is she trying to imply that even if Artoria tried to flee, she has no hope of making it out of Camelot?

‘Screw you, Bageko…!’

“Her Majesty wishes to dine with you,” Barghest says.

Artoria raises an eyebrow — she must have misheard, right? Is Barghest actually making fun of her?

“No, thanks,” Artoria says, if only to be as much of a thorn in Barghest’s side as she’s a pain in her neck for her supposed lack of height.

“It was no invitation, but an order.”

Like Artoria cares about those things. She scoffs at Barghest, who has the gall to assume everyone cares as much about Morgan’s whims as she does. Not every fairy is a loyal little dog to the queen.

Barghest humors this stubborn rejection no longer than necessary, as she simply picks up Artoria by the scruff of her neck and carries the complaining fairy into the bathroom.

“H-hey, let me down!!”

“I will ensure you are presentable, then I will escort you to the dining room,” Barghest states as though knowing what awaits her would calm Artoria’s angry tantrum, struggling with kicks and punches that hit nothing but air. “… when was the last time you took a bath?”

“… what’s it to you!?”

‘Damn you, Bageko!!’

In the bathroom, Barghest closes the door behind her before letting Artoria down onto the ground. The defiant glint in her eyes doesn’t make a secret of Artoria’s simple plan of bolting for the door once Barghest is no longer between herself and her target.

A feral animal doesn’t take too kindly to being treated as a pet so suddenly — no matter how good and genuine the intentions may be.

“Bathe yourself. I will stand watch.”

“… pervert,” Artoria mutters in disgust, low enough that Barghest’s ears wouldn’t catch the word that’s uttered for no other reason but to alleviate irritation by spouting offence.

“… excuse me?”

Artoria clicks her tongue. It doesn’t take a genius to realize her escape is impossible when the guard dog is bigger than the door being protected.

The conclusion that Artoria wouldn’t get out of this situation if she refused to follow Morgan’s whims executed by proxy of Barghest is all too obvious. One doesn’t need to think about it for more than mere seconds to come to that realization.

There’s a guilty relief in that — not having to make a choice that has already been made and is enforced by someone else.

Only to get this over with, Artoria turns towards the bathtub and reaches for the handles before stopping just short of touching one of them. She still doesn’t know how to work them.

It’s entirely possible that she’d luck out and manage on her first try, fooling Barghest into believing Artoria to be used to luxuries she’s never known. The handle looks like it could be turned, simple enough. But…

If Artoria messes up, she would make a fool of herself. Too stupid to handle a bathtub, and too useless to let someone less incapable do it for her instead of breaking something she has no business operating.

Not only a good-for-nothing — which would be bad enough on its own — but one that doesn’t know her place. That’s what Artoria would present herself as if she tried and failed, and what she doesn’t want to think about whether or not it’s accurate in describing her lack of worth.

‘Ugh… Stupid Bageko. Screw you, Morgan!’

“I don’t know how to do this,” Artoria grumbles through clenched teeth.

Of all the fairies and other living beings in existence, it has to be Barghest she has to admit that to. As if she needed any more reasons to look down on Artoria.

‘This is the worst…’

“… you cannot clean yourself?”

“I can do that just fine!!” Artoria wonders what Barghest thinks of her, finding another point to add to the list of reasons Barghest is awful. “I just never used a bathtub.”

“I see.” Barghest keeps an eye on Artoria as she approaches the bathtub to prepare the bath, crouching down to turn the first handle that allows water to start filling the tub.

Only briefly does Artoria consider using this chance to flee — after all, her will to do so has already deflated. Taking as little as a few seconds to think about it, even if she were to get away, Barghest would catch up to her anyway. Despite that heavy armor, despite the bulk.

A tattered fairy from a small village against a knight who knows these halls like her own home? No way Artoria could get away.

It’s too hopeless to consider, let alone try against all odds. Even that realization brings some disgusting comfort; one of not having to try.

“I believed villages at least have public baths to use for the fairies living there,” Barghest says as she turns the second handle to adjust the temperature for what she deems comfortable for someone not used to bathtubs.

“They do,” Artoria confirms. “I wasn’t allowed to use it, though.”

She dangles her hand into the water as its level slowly rises, surprised to find it warmer than a hot summer day out on the fields. But unlike the humid heat that erodes any motivation and energy, this water feels like the warmth of the softest blanket.

Just like a luxurious bed in the morning, maybe a bit better. This is what fairies like Barghest and Morgan are used to. It’s so unfair.

“I cleaned myself in the nearby river,” Artoria adds at the renewed realization of how much her life’s experiences differ from what’s everyday life for most fairies.

A stream’s water is where you clean tools to keep them maintained for the next use. Cold water is what you use to clean your livestock. It’s perfectly suitable for the Child of Paradise in every sense.

Barghest bites her tongue before she can express her disbelief. She’s had an inkling as to what circumstances Artoria was living in ever since she has first seen her, but the full extent still comes as a shock.

Not that Barghest knows all that much. What she does know is that such strength of will — the capability to continue standing back up, to have the guts for defiance in spite of everything — doesn’t deserve to be belittled with pity.

“I must correct my assessment of you, Child of Prophecy… Artoria.”

Artoria wants to retch at the casual use of her name coming over Barghest’s lips. She cannot at all be happy about Barghest’s words, which she doesn’t register as the compliment they are meant as anyway.

No matter what Barghest means to say, it comes off as so arrogant that Artoria would hate her for it. Once the weed of irrational animosity has grown in the cracks between tiles, anything thrown at it merely acts as a fertilizer helping its growth.

Barghest turns the handles once more when the bathtub is near-filled, then gets back up.

“Do not take too long,” Barghest says before she heads for the chamber, leaving Artoria alone in privacy.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Artoria whispers and sticks out her tongue at Barghest’s back.

Defiance is so easy when it remains unseen, and thus unpunished by a lack of consequence.

However, she loses no time to discard her clothes after making sure Barghest is really out of sight, and steps into the bathtub. Artoria hisses when the warm — almost hot — water makes bruises and abrasions sting like the lick of burning flames, but luckily the pain is temporary.

Artoria sighs as the bath water momentarily washes away all her sorrows and suffering; all the negativity dissipates for once. When she closes her eyes, Artoria can even pretend that she’s fine.

Not that such self-deception has a long lifespan. Reality always catches up; one cannot escape its clutches.

Once the perceived peace makes space for the depressing actuality again, Artoria proceeds to wash the sweat and grime off her skin. By the time Barghest returns with a change of clothes, Artoria is already done — annoyingly enough, she has followed Barghest’s command and lost no time.

Barghest places the clothes on the counter, then reaches for a towel that she holds ready for Artoria — like the most reliable head maid who lives to serve. What a disgusting display of loyalty, only a stuck-up knight like Barghest could act like this with no shame.

“Turn around,” Artoria orders with a glare.

“… understood.” Barghest puts down the towel before turning around as asked.

If nothing else, against Artoria’s earlier insult of calling her a ‘pervert’, Barghest respects Artoria’s wish to protect her modesty. Though even that lets the anger bubble up in Artoria. Does Barghest not even consider the possibility of an ambush?

Is Artoria such little of a threat that it’s no problem turning one’s back on her?

She snatches the towel and rubs her skin dry with little regard for how the fabric chafes irritated patches of skin where injuries are doing their best to heal. Artoria bites her lip to not give away any reaction to the carelessly self-inflicted pain, not in front of Barghest.

“Are you truly planning to oppose Her Majesty?” Barghest asks.

‘As if I could do that…’

“… so what if I am?”

“If you are, then you should reconsider. It might not be my place to say this, but… Chi— no, Artoria, you are not fit to replace Her Majesty.”

‘Tell me something new, Bageko.’

Artoria doesn’t answer this slight that’s nothing but an observation that most with half a sense would share. Instead, she reaches for the underwear to get dressed.

“I do not doubt your strength of will,” Barghest continues. “However, ruling a country needs more than that. Her Majesty has quelled wars and conflicts, and annihilated calamities for centuries. She provides a stability that could not exist without her. You could not do the same.”

“… I know,” Artoria admits.

She puts on the light-blue dress to finish her outfit, then takes the two hair ties she removed earlier to tie her hair into the usual twintails with little care. A few stray strands stand up wildly, giving a messy look to a hairstyle that would normally be neat and tidy.

Barghest spares Artoria more lectures, though she cannot make sense of why the Child of Prophecy would choose to oppose Morgan despite understanding she cannot match the queen. Perhaps the thought process of commoners truly is beyond her.

“I’m done.”

At this statement, Barghest turns to look Artoria over. Though there are a few corrections she would like to make for perfection’s sake, this qualifies as ‘presentable’ and Morgan would not appreciate being made to wait.

So, instead of fussing over minor details, Barghest escorts Artoria out of the room, down some hallways towards a dining room in which Morgan is already waiting with a cup of tea.

“Take a seat,” Morgan says without sparing Artoria a single glance.

Barghest, annoyingly knightly as always, pulls out the chair opposite Morgan for Artoria to sit down. In Morgan’s presence, Artoria lacks even the bark she would normally show Barghest in the form of a low growl.

Obediently, Artoria sits down quietly, in what is the most absurd scenario imaginable.

Instead of the extravagant chamber that serves as a prison cell, Artoria finds herself in a dining room that could host at least 50 fairies at the same table easily — yet, solely Morgan and herself are reserved a seat.

Despite looking uncomfortable with an intricate design that promises a hard surface, the chairs provide a comfort that not even the best stack of hay could compare to. Everything in Camelot matches a standard Artoria would’ve considered impossible to meet previously.

In fact, it still feels unreal that such luxury could be common for anyone.

“You may return to the kitchen, Gawain. Ensure that we will not be disturbed.”

“Understood, Your Majesty.”

Like the perfect right hand Barghest is, she does not question Morgan’s orders despite the confusion evident on her face. A knight’s place is not to grow doubts and ask questions, but to protect and follow the lead of their ruler. In that sense, Fairy Britain knows no better knight than Barghest.

It’s a given she wouldn’t understand why the queen takes such an interest in a mere village girl like Artoria. Or why she’d grant her private audiences and high-class meals. Nobody would be able to make sense of such erratic behavior — judgements that make no sense whatsoever.

Whatever Morgan sees in Artoria, it must be nothing but an illusion. More selfish, unreasonable expectations that Artoria never asked for, and that she knows more than anyone she cannot meet.

Artoria grits her teeth. She doesn’t need Barghest failing to understand why she deserves such attention as an additional reminder of how little worth she has.

Once Barghest has closed the door behind her, Artoria immediately feels the pressure of the situation hit her. As though an invisible force threatens to smother her from every direction, even her lungs refuse to inflate to take in air.

“You can be at ease,” Morgan says before taking an elegantly small sip of her tea. “I simply wish to have a chat with you.”

Artoria swallows. The tension doesn’t dissipate; her muscles won’t relax into the promise of safety so easily. Even a mere conversation with Morgan is like a walk on an invisible, thin line where slipping means certain death — if not worse. Artoria knows this; anyone would feel this instinctively.

“Perhaps the tea can help you calm down,” Morgan says.

Until now, Artoria hasn’t even noticed the teacup in front of her. She’s never had tea before — it feels like a much too high-class beverage to be wasted on a village girl such as herself. The deep crimson color feels like a warning hidden underneath the warmth promised.

If it were poisoned, it wouldn’t be surprising — not that Morgan would have any need for such cheap tactics if she wanted to get rid of Artoria.

“… thanks,” Artoria mutters.

She takes the teacup and brings it to her lips with a trembling hand. A tentative sip almost burns her tongue when the near-hot liquid covers her taste buds in a subtle, almost fruity taste. For some reason, Artoria expected the tea to be bitter. The actual taste comes as a surprise.

“It’s good.”

As though the hot beverage carries any magical properties, its warmth noticeably spreads through Artoria’s chest as she gulps it down. Her muscles finally relax, and the trembling of her fingers has almost stopped when she puts the teacup back down.

“Do you know what the purpose of a Fairy of Paradise is?”

Morgan’s question loses no time; her lack of inflection doesn’t carry any hint as to what answer she may be expecting. It’s as though Morgan is asking about the weather, something entirely inconsequential.

“Not really… I think,” Artoria admits. “I know the prophecy, and I thought that’s it.”

“I see.” Morgan slowly swirls her tea, watching the crimson liquid rotate. “So, are you planning to take my throne, then?”

Artoria looks at her own teacup, as though she could find the answer to that question in the depths of the red tea. Instead, even the remainder of the borrowed will to fight on drowns in the liquid comfort steaming calmly in its porcelain container.

Of course Artoria doesn’t want to rule over Fairy Britain. Who would? If it were only a hassle or a pain, that would be one thing — Artoria could bear that if she had to. If it wouldn’t be up to her.

No one in their sane mind would take on the responsibility that is Fairy Britain. Nobody would willingly watch over a hell that feeds on itself until nothing but the cavity that’s merciless, soul-grating suffering is left in the heart of everyone who isn’t fairy enough to drown it out in meaningless hedonism.

No one but Morgan herself would put themselves into the position that sits atop all the misery.

No other heart is frozen so thoroughly that not a single blade of betrayal and ingratitude imbued with a deep, genuine hatred could shatter it.

“… I don’t want the throne.”

Artoria admits her defeat in will not with regret, but the bitterness of realization — she lacks the resilience and strength Morgan possesses. She couldn’t replace Morgan as the queen. Nobody could.

The pressure of tension lessens more once the pipe dream is given up with the genuine expression of a lack of intention — Artoria can take a deep breath that threatens to fill her eyes with tears of relief.

She won’t allow them to fall. Not in front of Morgan, not in Camelot — not ever again.

“Why do you want it? The throne, I mean.” Artoria asks to distract herself from the guilt that creeps up at how easy the admission came over her lips.

And to understand Morgan, whose clinging to a responsibility nobody asks of her doesn’t make sense; not if one assumes logic and reason, which are Morgan’s forte.

“It is the necessary consequence.”

“Of what? Our— your purpose?”

“No.” Morgan takes another sip of her tea. “It’s the path I took for my personal ambition. That is all.”

Artoria furrows her eyebrows. The more Morgan reveals, the less sense it makes, and the more questions are warranted to have the slightest chance of understanding the queen’s motivations.

“And what is that ambition?”

The way Morgan looks at her hands on the table carries a deep melancholy — an empty nostalgia for a wish all but forgotten. Not only by the passing of time, but Morgan is acutely aware that she has been moving away from whatever it was that she wished to attain.

“… It has been too long. It is no more than a memory of a past I only recall vaguely.”

All that’s left is to cling to what can be held — protect the closest thing possible.

It’s something, at least. More than Artoria can say for herself.

“I… don’t have anything like that, I think. Ambitions, I mean. Or wishes.”

‘Or plans. Or… a chance…’

Dreaming makes no sense for one incapable of chasing what they see in their fantasy, and ideals are too expensive to afford for a poor village girl with nothing but misplaced expectations to her name.

“Is there nothing you wish to do, nothing to achieve? Surely there must be something you long for.”

Artoria chews on her lip. Actually, it would be better if there truly were nothing she wished for. It would mean not having to live with the shame of understanding how inconsequentially simple her wish is, while any hopes of having even that — of having anything at all — are crushed by the realization that it will not be.

Not for Artoria.

“I do, but…”

Any further explanation doesn’t only die in Artoria’s throat, it never lives to begin with. It’s an honesty that cannot be shared, for its expression helps nothing — only waters the weeds of resignation that act as fertilizer for the shame of the foolishness to still wish for anything at all.

Morgan doesn’t need Artoria to elaborate. Reasons or justifications — excuses — don’t make a difference.

“As long as what it is that you desire does not go against my land, I have no reason to oppose it. In fact, I would be willing to grant those wishes of yours if you become my subordinate.”

The all too practiced smile creeps onto Artoria’s face — the immediate reaction to the bone thrown, the pity that oozes from those words. Maybe it’s mere negotiation, nothing but a tactic.

Artoria knows more than anyone that nothing, not a single hint of kindness, comes without a price.

“What do you expect from me…? Why have me captured instead of—” Artoria swallows the weakness she wouldn’t permit herself once more, even when it burns in her throat, desperate to be released. “Why bother with all this?”

“I have my reasons,” Morgan says, explaining nothing. “But I do not carry expectations for you. Not in the sense that there is any one thing in particular I need you to carry out.”

Artoria grits her teeth. The worst of all is that as much as she wants to accuse Morgan of lying, of sweet-talking her like every other fairy does — she knows perfectly well that Morgan is not lying to her.

If there are no expectations, perhaps Artoria is too insignificant to warrant any from the queen herself. There are no explanations either — maybe those are something Artoria doesn’t deserve to hear.

Even in front of Morgan, the heat of anger finally bubbles up at the frustration accumulating from the conversation that goes nowhere despite the disgusting genuinity that comes over Artoria’s lips too easily whenever Morgan asks.

“Or do you wish to return to Tintagel?”

The mere suggestion constricts Artoria’s heart immediately. Her blood runs as cold as the sweat that breaks out. Even if the alternative is dealing with Morgan and, worst of all, Barghest in Camelot…

“No way.” Artoria shakes her head to clear out the image of what’d wait for her upon her return. “I’d rather be anywhere else.”

Including Camelot, including literal hell — which cannot be worse than Fairy Britain anyway.

Morgan pauses — taken aback by the visceral, bitter contempt in the response.

“Is there not a single person in Tintagel whom you miss? Friend, or family?”

The corners of Artoria’s lips curve into the smile that acts as the valve that will close the only path emotions of pain and its intolerability could take. It tastes bitter in Artoria’s mouth, and its sight causes concern for anyone who actually looks.

“I don’t have anyone like that.”

Although Ector pops into Artoria’s mind, and even Knocknarea — neither of them is part of Tintagel. Even if Artoria were to return to Tintagel, she wouldn’t see either of them.

“What about your mother? The fairy who raised you as her daughter,” Morgan suggests.

Artoria scoffs. There was a fairy like that, who called herself Artoria’s mother, or rather, was assigned that role by the village, but…

“My ‘mother,’ huh…” Artoria’s warm emerald eyes lose their shine as she recalls the few memories of that fairy she can recall. “I hardly saw her. She didn’t bother with a useless Child of Prophecy. Although she was called my mother, she was a stranger to me.”

Morgan falls silent at the vitriol in Artoria’s cynical voice — the inner feelings she normally doesn’t show. It clashes with the image of the smiling, trying-hard-for-others Child of Prophecy Artoria tries to play for the easy path it is.

The teacup makes a soft clinking noise when it hits the saucer, to which Morgan almost drops it for the last few millimeters in carelessness of distraction — the realization of what life Artoria has led in Tintagel is a sharp needle that pierces any defense.

“It was probably she who told your knights about me, too,” Artoria mutters as she looks down into the crimson tea that’s stopped steaming by now.

A cold remainder of what brought comfort just a moment ago.

“Nobody in Tintagel told my knights about you, or your location.”

“… but Bage— Gawain said…?”

“Fairies are not very competent at secrecy or discretion. On their travels, Tintagel fairies boasted of housing the ‘Child of Prophecy’ as much as they lamented the burden this is on them. Word travels, and eventually the information of Artoria Caster, Child of Prophecy, living in Tintagel has reached Camelot.”

After which Morgan had Barghest sent out to capture Artoria. That much needs not to be said.

Artoria can’t keep down the bitter laugh that creeps up her throat at this utter stupidity. She wasn’t even betrayed — Artoria isn’t even worth that much effort. Her situation is a consequence of how insignificant she and her fate are, even to those who rely on her.

Round 1 - BB Volleyball Tournament - Match 2

— Round 1 — BB Volleyball Tournament | Location: Loser’s Area —

Mordred sipped on a cocktail mixed from various types of juice. The straw she chewed on until liquid didn’t pass through as easily anymore was the poor target of all the accumulated frustration.

She passed Artoria the occasional glance, which didn’t help her mood at all. Especially when Artoria never looked back at her. As though looking at Mordred was beneath her — not that Artoria actually thought that way.

Artoria was simply busy studying the menu placed on each small table to decide on an order. At least a light meal was necessary to replenish all the energy exhausted in the match, after all.

Perhaps once the Loser’s Area became more crowded, the awkward tension would dissipate in favor of a more social environment… well. One could hope.

— Round 1 — BB Volleyball Tournament | Location: Sunny Private Beach —

“Master, you should make sure to stay hydrated,” Barghest said as she handed Ritsuka a bottle of cool water.

“Thanks.”

Only when she accepted the cold drink, Ritsuka realized how dry her throat had become. Luckily, cool, clear water was the best remedy; a must-have on a hot day. And it was still early, too.

Barghest could always be counted on to show initiative when it came to protecting others and just generally being a kind soul who cared about others. Even if there was someone who’d see such gestures as a personal offense — but Alcas’ grudge was childishly petty and not to be taken too seriously.

“Are you sitting out, too?” Ritsuka asked.

Most Servants didn’t use this break between matches to come over for a chat — not besides those already confirmed not to play, like Mashu and Medusa. Instead, they focused on stretching and warm-ups, getting used to movement on the sand after watching the struggles of the first match’s players.

Well, and exceptions like Tonelico, who sat in the shade with her usual big robe over her shoulders, reading a book. Probably studying up on beach volleyball rules and strategies. Ritsuka wondered what swimsuit she was given by BB… but she also was concerned about the design.

Tonelico already considered Morgan’s usual dress too revealing. A swimsuit would be guaranteed to show more skin. But that wasn’t really a concern for right now.

“No, I will be playing,” Barghest said. “But when I noticed you have no beverage with you, I couldn’t leave that be.”

Yep, this was Barghest, all right. A certain fairy’s glare threatened to burn a hole into Ritsuka’s soul, but Alcas didn’t escalate this into an open fight.

‘If BB put those two together, that’d be…’

Ritsuka didn’t even want to finish that thought.

“What would I do without you?” Ritsuka chuckled. “Good luck in your game later.”

“Ah… yes. Thank you, Master. I won’t disappoint you.”

Barghest showed a glimpse of her bashful side at the compliment — or rather, it was a sight of the black dog who was careful about how much indulgence she could allow herself without risking the safety of another.

Either way, it was endearing.

[Man, you really go and flirt with someone else on the break? Not going to the Loser’s Area to comfort the heartbroken suckers who couldn’t even win the first match? Master, you sure are callous. So cold, this might as well be a winter outing!]

Once more, this was broadcasted specifically to Ritsuka’s senses, so nobody could come to her defense. After this was over, BB was going to be banned from all the farming parties for a long time so Ritsuka could recover from the damage to her patience.

<A good referee wouldn’t leave her post. So it can’t really be helped.>

[Shush, Senpai! Who cares about facts and rationality?]

The worst part of this all was that it was only the first day of who knew how many.

With a crackling sound, BB and Hakuno seemed to switch channels for a general broadcast — signalling that the second match was about to start.

[That was plenty of a break, wasn’t it? Let’s move into the next match quickly. As a health management AI, naturally I wouldn’t schedule outdoor sports in the early afternoon when the sun is at its most merciless.]

Did BB really have such considerateness in her? Or did she simply have more bullshit planned for the afternoon? It would be better to stay blissfully ignorant.

[The next match will be a game of selfcestuous-incest teams! We’ll have ‘Siscon Saint’s Regret’ on the blue side, and ‘Money Is Power’ on the red side!]

Ritsuka spat her water at the first team name. There was no doubt as to whom it was referring to.

<That will be Jeanne d’Arc and Jeanne d’Arc Alter for ‘Siscon Saint’s Regret’, and Ishtar and Ereshkigal for ‘Money Is Power’.>

Hakuno sounded as regretful as the team name itself for the former, and a little too spiteful for the latter.

“What the fuck is that name!? I don’t have a sis…ter…” Jeanne Alter raised her voice, which died the moment she felt Jeanne’s glare on her.

When she turned around to face her self-proclaimed big sister, Jeanne Alter wasn’t sure what exactly Jeanne took issue with.

“Alter…”

That was the voice that said, “I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed.” — the absolute worst gut punch. Ritsuka felt bad for Jeanne Alter.

… and maybe almost for BB and especially Hakuno. Even if they had the class advantage, were they that willing to eat a La Grondement Du Haine? Well, they made their bed, so it was on the Moon Cancer duo to sleep in it.

“… ugh. Don’t look at me like that.”

Jeanne Alter said that, but it was her way of backing down in front of her not-sister. As aggressively violent as Jeanne Alter was, she was also a major pushover with certain people.

One of them, who’d already won her own match, smirked in the back, though Jeanne Alter didn’t see that.

[Yep, that’s a bottom for you.]

Jeanne Alter bit her tongue begrudgingly.

“Let’s do our best, Alter!” Jeanne flipped to the saint-like smile immediately.

It was a hidden threat, telling Jeanne Alter to be on good behavior.

… would they be fine?

Meanwhile, the goddess sisters — who actually were sisters — weren’t even mad at their team name. Just utterly confused.

“… ‘Money Is Power’? Not that I disagree, but what’s up with that name?” Ishtar questioned.

The smile that Hakuno showed Ishtar and Ereshkigal at the former’s question was scarier than any glare could ever be. It promised revenge for an injustice that could never be forgiven.

Being personally present at that lifeguard stand added its own kind of pressure in moments like this. Some things just can’t be communicated with tone alone.

“… I… I have a feeling like I did something really awful to her,” Ereshkigal avoided Hakuno’s gaze and stepped half behind Ishtar. Their sisterly issues all but forgotten in the face of Hakuno’s wrath. “Did this girl…?”

“No, no way. You mean she has some personal issues with this vessel? That can’t be. They’re not even from the same world. They can’t know each other,” Ishtar rationalized.

She was better at hiding the fear that came with the “I messed up” feeling they both shared instinctively at this grudge that was directed at them.

<It’s not your fault. But my wallet won’t find peace if I don’t at least do this. Please understand.>

“… I don’t even know what happened, but… I’m sorry.”

Ereshkigal’s apology was more genuine than it had any right to be, given she did nothing wrong. She was too good a girl after all.

“Why are you apologizing!?” Ishtar didn’t back down so easily.

Even though her legs were shaking like leaves.

[Man, Senpai. You’re really petty about this money thing, aren’t you? Sca~ry~]

<Come to think of it… weren’t you the instigator, BB?>

[… l-let’s get started with the match!]

Smooth, BB.

… maybe Ritsuka would ask Hakuno about this in the future. “Money Is Power,” huh? Who would come up with such bullshit?

BB clearing her throat over the comms snapped Ritsuka back into her position as referee.

“Right! Uhm, have a good game!”

Both sister-ish teams got onto their respective sides of the court and did some stretching to warm up, and had a short conversation to discuss strategies — something that was new to see. Perhaps it helped when you had a teammate you were actually willing to communicate with.

“Say, Tlamacazqui. If you had to say, which one are you rooting for?”

Tenochtitlan put a chair next to Ritsuka’s. She wore a white jacket over the white bikini Ritsuka already knew from her — the summery look suited her. White walls (clothes) made a city (person) look refined as long as they were unstained.

“Hmmm…” Ritsuka gave it some thought. “A referee should be neutral, but… Thinking about Eresh’s smile if she’d win makes me want to root for her.”

Tenochtitlan hummed. She smiled, though she wasn’t quite pleased with that answer.

“You didn’t have to choose someone from the court, you know?”

“… is that so?” This only made the choice harder for Ritsuka, with more options. “In that case, I’m not so sure. I guess as long as everyone has fun, the winner doesn’t matter too much.”

“You sure are clueless, aren’t you?” Tenochtitlan sighed.

“Huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Tenochtitlan put one leg over the other and leaned over to Ritsuka’s side a little until their shoulders touched. “Had I known about the prize, I would have signed up. I’ll have to make up for missing out.”

Ritsuka had wiped the tournament’s prize from her memory, but Tenochtitlan forced it back into her mind… whoever wins got to spend the night in her room with her. Right. That was a thing.

Was that why she asked whom Ritsuka was rooting for? Well, a sleepover with Ishtar and Ereshkigal could be fun.

[Enough of the flirting on the sidelines! Geez. Focus on the game, referee! Do you want a red card?]

For once, BB had a point.

… although, did beach volleyball even have red cards? It probably did, yeah.

Why Ritsuka was pushed into the referee position without truly knowing the game well enough was beyond anyone who’d give it some thought, but that probably didn’t even matter anyway.

--------------------------------------------------

— Round 1 | Second Game: Siscon Saint’s Regret VS Money Is Power —

This match, unlike the last one, actually had players call out to each other for plays and discussed strategies that found their footing throughout the game.

Although they had some coordination issues at the beginning, Jeanne and Jeanne Alter got better with every point that was made by either team. It surely helped that they were different types that complemented each other in a way that translated surprisingly well to the court.

Jeanne was a defensive wall whom one could always rely on in battle — and the same went in the game. She was still awkward when it came to technique, but her receives could be counted on.

Jeanne Alter, on the other hand, was an aggressively offensive force to be reckoned with. Her spikes almost set the ball on fire — Artoria Alter didn’t call her ‘pyromaniac’ for nothing — and even with no skills and boosts involved, Ritsuka would assume that spike could break a nose.

With their roles divided like this — which worked out about 70% of the time — they didn’t touch the ball as often as they could. But for that, Jeanne Alter would have to receive and pass the ball to Jeanne, who would then have to pass back to Jeanne Alter.

That would mean not making use of Jeanne’s defensive capabilities and instincts, and not letting Jeanne Alter focus on the attack. It also made for quicker plays, which left their opponents less time to react and reassemble.

… not that a few more seconds would help Ishtar and Ereshkigal all that much.

Not with how often they almost or actually ran into each other, only to blame each other and have a quarrel that they simply harrumph away from without making up.

They weren’t bad players generally. Their vessel must have been fairly athletic, but that hardly helped when it came with a tendency to mess up when it counted.

The ball hitting the net wasn’t too surprising for either team, given none of the Servants present were professional or experienced volleyball players in the first place. But one time when Ishtar jumped for a block, she somehow got her foot stuck in the net.

“Why do you always have to show off like that?” Ereshkigal complained, blaming Ishtar for this mess-up.

As though Ishtar wasn’t already flustered enough as is hanging upside down.

While Jeanne Alter laughed heartily — if not ugly — about her opponent’s misfortune, Jeanne helped Ishtar free herself, which Ereshkigal refused to assist in.

“Maybe if I could count on your receives, I wouldn’t have to try so hard to block!”

“Wha— My receives are fine! If you wouldn’t always block my sight by chasing the ball like you’re the only player, there would be no issue!”

“Oh, yeah? You’d stop tripping over your own feet and eat sand then?”

Ereshkigal’s face went tomato red immediately at the memory. She shot a quick glance at Ritsuka — against her hopes, sadly, the referee had seen the unsightly clumsiness. Although Ritsuka found it endearing… which only made it more embarrassing.

“You’re impossible!”

Ereshkigal had nothing else to say, and she wasn’t one who could insult her sister anyway. Ishtar herself felt bad for overstepping with her last remark, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to apologize.

One of those issues that could be fixed easily with communication — but, for some, communication was lava.

“Do you still want to be sisters after watching those two?” Jeanne Alter asked Jeanne, pointing at Ishtar and Ereshkigal who refused to look at each other at this point.

The match was half over already, and it didn’t look too good for the goddess sisters.

“Is that so different from us?” Jeanne asked back.

Jeanne Alter hadn’t really thought that through. She wanted to argue, but she really couldn’t.

“Besides,” Jeanne added, wiping sweat off her forehead. “I think it’s nice to be able to argue and still love each other deeply. Even if one can’t openly show it.”

Naturally, Jeanne Alter wanted to retch at the mention of ‘love’. She stuck out her tongue in disgust.

“You think that’s love?”

“Of course. There’s no sister who wouldn’t love her own sister. Even if she can be a pain sometimes, or unable to show her genuine feelings.”

For some reason, Jeanne Alter had a feeling that this was more personal than Jeanne phrased it. Her instinct was entirely correct.

“But we should focus on the match for now, Alter. No slacking off until we won.”

“Sure, sure.” Jeanne Alter sighed. “I don’t need my sis—… I don’t need you to tell me that!”

Even though she didn’t say it out loud, Ritsuka knew that Jeanne Alter mentally repeated her mantra ‘I don’t have a sister!’ to counteract Jeanne’s disarming big-sister treatment that lulled Jeanne Alter into buying into it, too.

Jeanne, though, was a little too happy about the almost slip-up.

Perhaps there was something to that team name after all.

The next serve was Ereshkigal’s. It was the match ball for ‘Siscon Saint’s Regret’, so all the pressure was on the poor girl who couldn’t really handle any of it.

“P-prepare yourselves! You will face the wrai— the wrath of the goddess of the underworld!” Ereshkigal played her persona to psyche herself up, though the mispronunciation didn’t help.

She hit the ball with all the prayer she could muster for it to find its way properly, instinctively apologizing with a quick “… sorry!” the moment her hand hit the ball, as though the object could feel any pain.

Ereshkigal was too adorable sometimes. Though that didn’t help winning at sports.

The ball flew a high curve that didn’t help Ereshkigal’s confidence in nailing the serve — and Jeanne had a pretty easy time receiving the ball. She passed it to Jeanne Alter, who jumped up to hit the ball with all her might of hatred to end the game—

Except, Ishtar dived into the sand to save the ball, just barely making it in time.

“I’m not going to let you ruin her ball!!” Ishtar spat out some sand that tasted awful on her tongue. “Eresh!! Go get the point!”

“Ah, uh— Y-yes!”

Although confused, Ereshkigal sprinted towards the ball and, without overthinking like she usually does, she simply hit the ball towards the net — for no other reason but to not waste Ishtar’s effort, when she even went out of her way to make such an undignified dive to save the ball.

The ball hit the top of the net, making Ereshkigal’s heart drop, but by mere chance it rolled over to the other side, where Jeanne was just a split second too late to catch it.

Ereshkigal and Ishtar jumped into each other’s arms to celebrate this one point that they made with active, dedicated teamwork as though they had won the match — more importantly, they had made up without having to talk it out.

It didn’t hurt them too much that with the next ball, they lost the match. The odds were against them for a while. They did their best, and they could find a way to work together, too.

Not like they suddenly got along for good, but this one rally proved that they both cared about each other, even when they sucked badly at showing it.

“Match won by ‘Sis— Siscon Saint’s Regret’! Congrats — and both teams played really well!” Ritsuka announced the winner, stumbling over the team name.

[The second match has been concluded, and the ultimate siscest pair has been determined! Congratulations, Siscon Saint’s Regret! It must have been the taboo sisterly devotion that made the difference. Sinful, isn’t it? As expected from a goody-two-shoes church girl — they’re always the most rotten.]

<… you made up about 80% of that, though.>

‘Doesn’t that mean there’s still some truth to it…?’ Ritsuka wondered, but didn’t actually want an answer.

“By the way, what does ‘siscon’ mean?” Jeanne asked.

Jeanne Alter snuck away from the scene. That really wasn’t something she wanted to explain to Jeanne, or be caught knowing in the first place.

“I-I wonder…” Ritsuka feigned ignorance. She prayed BB wouldn’t tell either.

“If my Tlamacazqui were one, I don’t think I would mind trying to play the role of a little sister. Spoiling a younger sister is the same thing as making offerings, isn’t it?”

Tenochtitlan as a little sister… no, wait. That mere offer was a risk to summon a certain someone.

“I don’t particularly mind sharing Master with another little sister, as long as I’m not left out~”

Lady Avalon appeared on cue, wrapping her arms around where Ritsuka’s shoulders had just been a moment ago — but bless trained reflexes, Ritsuka got up from the chair in time to avoid the unsolicited hug that would certainly turn into hands wandering.

“Aww. You’re too fast,” Lady Avalon complained, though the smile didn’t lend any credibility to the pout or disappointment.

“This is your fault,” Ritsuka said to Tenochtitlan, who didn’t feel guilty at all.

In the worst case, she could simply prohibit entry for Lady Avalon after all — if only it were so easy.

Ishtar and Ereshkigal — team Money Is Power, the losers of this match — had to go to the lifeguard stand to give their impression on their performance before ultimately being thrown into the Loser’s Area.

— After The Match: Ishtar, fumbled harder than ever but the net got her —

“I may have lost, but I don’t really have any regrets. I gave it my all. Hm…? I don’t know what you’re talking about — nothing of that sort happened on the court. No-thing. Right?”

<It almost feels like she’s about to threaten to shoot beams if she were pressed to remember how she got caught in the net… What a déjà-vu.>

[He~y, Senpai. Aren’t you remembering a certain someone a bit too fondly here? Do you need a timeout?]

<No need to sulk.>

[… hmph. I’m not sulking.]

—

Ritsuka emptied the plastic bottle of water that Barghest had brought her earlier. All the calling a referee had to do was rough on her vocal cords, and even though the water wasn’t as cold anymore, it was still soothing her throat.

Especially on a warm beach, a cool beverage was necessary — Medusa and Mashu, the two line referees, had realized the same as Ritsuka spotted them at the food & beverages stall next to the Loser’s Area.

To refill her own drink, she made her way over to the stall as well before she was stopped by Baobhan Sith in a waitress dress in her way.

“… huh??” It took a moment, given Baobhan Sith wasn’t an unfamiliar face generally, but she wasn’t a candidate in this mess. “Why are you here?”

“What are you looking at me like that for?”

Baobhan Sith was fairly… mild. To put it diplomatically.

“I’m just… surprised to see you,” Ritsuka said, scratching her cheek.

“Don’t get your hopes up. I wouldn’t vie for the attention of some loser like you if my life depended on it.”

Baobhan Sith smirked at the mental scar her words would inflict if Ritsuka didn’t already know Baobhan Sith had a softer heart than she let on. Not that Ritsuka had enough of a death wish to point that out.

“BB was looking for part-timers for jobs like the beach stall. And since mother is here, I can bear with these rags as long as I can see her.”

Yep, that checked out.

“It doesn’t look that bad, though.” Baobhan Sith would look surprisingly good in a maid dress, too.

She scoffed at that compliment, then handed Ritsuka two bottles of water.

“It’d be troublesome if the referee got a heatstroke before mother can win the tournament, so don’t be so careless.”

“Thanks, Baobhan Sith.”

Ritsuka’s smile would be disarming, if not for the fact that Baobhan Sith paid no attention to her — instead, she snuck a glance at Tonelico, who didn’t notice her biggest fan subtly trying to get close enough to see her, but not so close as to interact.

“You can just go talk to her, you know,” Ritsuka suggested.

Although somehow Baobhan Sith still didn’t know, Tonelico was a former version of Morgan. So there was no problem, and she wasn’t exactly a stranger… though they didn’t actually know each other.

“Are you stupid!? I can’t just— I mean…” Baobhan Sith cleared her throat to allow a calm seriousness to replace her outburst. “The Rain Witch of Orkney is special. I don’t have any right to talk to her… not yet.”

Seeing Baobhan Sith so sincere and a little meek was a nice change of pace. She would be a lot easier to get along with if she always showed that side of hers.

Still, it was silly in this case. Tonelico would probably enjoy having someone to discuss books with, and with how few Servants in Chaldea Tonelico knows personally, it would put Ritsuka at ease if she made more friends.

But that wasn’t a concern she really had time for here, did she…

— After The Match: Ereshkigal, would apologize for her existence if she had the confidence —

“I lost, but… I guess that’s to be expected, isn’t it? I mean, someone like me playing beach sports out in the sun… ahaha, no, it was a given… I’m not good with the living and liveliness, I’d be better around the dead…”

[Uwaah… Talk about depressive! If she had about half the other one’s arrogance, they’d both be almost tolerable.]

<No, I think they’re both fine this way. But, to be honest, I just wish I could maybe give her a hug. I’ll leave that to Fujimaru, though.>

—

[Ehem. Without further ado, we will be moving on to the next match in a moment! All players get back to the court if you don’t want to risk a penalty of losing a piece of clothing for every second you’re late!]

… BB didn’t really mean that, did she? After she forced everyone to wear swimsuits!?

No, actually… BB would do exactly that. If nothing else, it was hopefully motivating enough for everyone involved to follow her whims. Any payback could wait for when they returned to Chaldea. Ritsuka would turn a blind eye to whatever Servants were up to in response to this for a day.

<With the first two matches concluded, we already have the first line-up for the Semi Finals confirmed — which will be ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’ versus ‘Siscon Saint’s Regret’. I wonder which other two teams will make it to the Semi Finals.>

Ritsuka swallowed nervously. Morgan and Artoria Alter would play against Jeanne and Jeanne Alter in the semi finals…

Wasn’t that just a recipe for disaster!?

03 - Wavering

Nothing on earth feels closer to heaven than a bed in the morning when you could doze back off any moment and have no intention of getting up just yet. Covered by the blanket you’ve snuggled yourself into in a subconscious longing to remain in this state.

Warm, safe. No problems arise, no flow of time is perceivable — peace.

Artoria can’t bring herself to part with this previously unknown taste of genuine bliss. She rouses, and turns; yet, this bed in the room that keeps her prisoner remains perfectly inviting. Like an embrace of kindness that only exists in dreams, not truly permitted in Fairy Britain.

It’s easy to ignore the sound of the door opening and closing; easy to pretend it to be a trick of Artoria’s imagination.

The soft clicking of heels on the tiled floor echoes through the room, slowly approaching the bed with each step. Artoria’s hand clutches the blanket, and she shuts her eyes tightly. The steps stop near the bed, not quite next to it.

A distanced approach, heels, and a lack of words — Morgan. Who else would move with such grace?

Who else would even visit Artoria?

‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

If she remains still, Artoria believes — hopes — that Morgan would assume her to be asleep still and leave.

Artoria doesn’t want to see anyone right now, or ever again. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Done with it all, and unwilling to face another fairy after pathetically bawling her eyes out before crying herself to sleep.

What a miserable Child of Prophecy she is. No matter how low the expectations, Artoria manages to disappoint them in an impressive manner. She has no doubt about that. But now she’s done with that, too.

Suddenly, the blanket is ripped from Artoria’s clutches, flying off to the foot of the bed, where it folds itself neatly.

“I am here to continue from yesterday,” Morgan says.

Whether Morgan has known Artoria to not actually be asleep or simply doesn’t care not to disturb her prisoner’s slumber — she’s not cutting Artoria any slack.

Annoyed at her layer of defense against the cold, cruel world being taken away without warning, Artoria grits her teeth and sits up to face Morgan. Her hand grips the sheet tightly to channel her bubbling-up anger.

Not even solitude is granted to Artoria when she wants it.

“What’s there to continue?” Artoria snarls.

“We have not reached a consensus about your pilgrimage and where your allegiance lies.”

Morgan crosses her arms in front of her chest, looking down on Artoria naturally due to her height. It makes her appear even more imposing — not that this is necessary — and Artoria’s first instinct is to cower and hide in the corner of the cage like a scared wild animal.

Her second instinct is to bite back — defiance for the sake of fighting back. As though it’s the final chance at escape from the clutches of certain demise; a miniscule chance that’s better than none.

Not that Artoria has any real intention to escape; but the lack of resolve is something her body is unaware of.

“… I told you I can’t,” Artoria repeats.

She wants to. Artoria wants nothing more than to be a normal girl, study magecraft, and feel the ease of a life not weighed down by burdens she never asked for.

And yet, she cannot abandon the hopes placed on her. Like a curse — an accumulation of curses — Artoria feels bound to following the path laid out for her. Even though she will surely fail, even though she’s already failed… she cannot abandon this hope.

Artoria cannot let everyone down. Her heart refuses to.

“You can,” Morgan disagrees, as though she is merely explaining possibilities that don’t seem to register for Artoria. “I, too, am a Fairy of Paradise. We may abandon our purpose without losing our self.”

‘… huh? What?’

Morgan being a Fairy of Paradise is news; this isn’t something Artoria had expected.

… it’s not something anyone would believe just being told, something much too outrageous to be taken at face value. Nothing but a delusional joke, with how big the gap between Morgan and Artoria is in just about every way — prowess, confidence, magecraft, height.

Maybe, if one were to squint, their faces could look the slightest bit alike.

“Are you… really?”

Was Morgan as weak as Artoria once? Was she hated, too? Did she have all the expectations of everyone else placed on her back? Did she want to run away to a normal life as well?

Did Morgan ever want to give up…? Did she feel crushed by her fate as though she’s stuck underneath boulders, a new one dropping on the pile every single day, knocking the final breath out of her collapsing lungs?

That— No, it’s simply impossible to imagine. Someone like Morgan could never know such struggles.

“There is no sense in doubting my words when you can see that I am not telling a lie.”

“… right.”

Not even Morgan could lie past Fairy Eyes; nobody is exempt from this curse of seeing through falsehoods. Morgan is telling the truth, Artoria knows that. She knows, and yet…

That doesn’t make it any easier to believe.

“The fairies have no need for a savior. That will do this country no good,” Morgan says coldly, like a queen who’s long since given up on her own people. Perhaps she has. “You will suffer for their selfish whims until they turn on you… if they haven’t already.”

“… what do you know,” Artoria mumbles, looking away.

Turning on Artoria? Is this what’s awaiting her, even if she completes the pilgrimage? Is Artoria the next enemy for fairykind — the next Morgan?

That’s a joke, a bad one at that. How does that differ from Artoria’s life until now?

You cannot turn on someone you’ve always been against from the very start, and it’s impossible to backstab someone if you’ve been ramming knives into their soul from day one.

‘… what bullshit…’

It’s no surprise that the fairies’ opinion won’t change for the better even if Artoria were the perfect Child of Prophecy, fulfilling all the expectations without flaw. Not that she could.

But even in that hypothetical scenario — she won’t be forgiven, and the hatred directed at her won’t leave. It’ll be shown more openly, if anything.

“You are truly… hardheaded.” A conscious effort not to offend by voicing a more genuine impression. “I believe we are done for today.”

‘For forever,’ Artoria adds mentally.

Morgan leaves without uttering a single other word. Tension dissipates from Artoria’s body, and she releases a stuttering breath that feels as though it carries all the wracked nerves with it.

Once more, Morgan hasn’t killed Artoria. Hasn’t hurt her even.

Artoria brushes her hand over the sheets, feeling the soft fabric. It’s different from hay — more comfortable, not a single blade poking her as she lies on it. It doesn’t feel like Artoria belongs.

Although unsure of how steady her limbs are today, Artoria shuffles to the edge of the bed and gets up from it. Her legs feel sore, but stable enough to support her weight today. However many hours she’s rested, it has really allowed her to properly recuperate.

She only passes a glance at the door through which Morgan left, not even considering to open it. Behind it are the halls of Camelot, and that’s no place Artoria wishes to explore, regardless of whether she could.

Artoria is all too familiar with this treatment, being bound to one particular place. If she’d ever been able to consider escape at some point in her life, it has been Tintagel that has thoroughly wiped that option from her mind. Even now, that remains unchanged; inhibition reaching as far as her subconscious to prevent any spark that could turn into an idea of flight.

This arrangement is simply accepted, just like the barn. Day after day, Artoria will make it through somehow.

In the bathroom, Artoria finds what she’s only heard of before — a bathtub. It appears big enough for her whole body to sink into the water if filled. Artoria’s hand traces the tub’s edge, wondering how a bath would feel.

She knows bathtubs supposedly have warm water, hot even. Not that Artoria ever has been in one; that’s a luxury not permitted for a simple village girl hated by everyone.

But she doesn’t know how to work those handles, and doesn’t dare to try, lest Artoria could break something.

When she gets up from her crouching position, her eyes meet her reflection’s on the wall.

“… a mirror…” Another object she only has limited experience with.

Artoria’s expression morphs into a frown at the sight of herself, after which she immediately looks away from this cursed reflection.

Disheveled hair that’s almost never been properly combed and brushed, chapped lips. Her eyes are bloodshot. Not that that’s a surprise, when the day before she’s cried enough to make up for almost 20 years of being unable to shed a single tear.

Emotions pile up inside one’s heart, ready to burst but unable to release — once that valve opens, there’s no stopping the overflowing feelings.

Artoria clenches her fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palm as these memories make her want to cry at her own embarrassing, sheer incompetence again.

After taking three steps back, Artoria’s back meets the cold tiles of the wall behind her. She slides down to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest as she sits on the cold bathroom floor.

She looks pathetic and abandoned — seeing it for herself hit like a sucker punch aimed straight at a sore bruise; Artoria doesn’t want to see her face ever again. It’s better she doesn’t. Pain is easier to ignore when one remains blissfully ignorant of the scars that remain.

‘I hate all of this…’

Artoria knows how miserable she is — stooped so much lower than she’d ever thought possible, displaying weakness she always knew better than to show — and how this doesn’t suit her at all. Where’s that smile she flashed whenever anything went wrong?

But in truth, this is Artoria, and always has been. Pitiful, a worthless good-for-nothing who can’t even believe in herself. Who wants to hide away and do nothing, too afraid to do anything wrong. Too sure she can’t do anything right.

She flinches when she hears the other door open, but this time, the steps are heavy. No grace in them, only a lot of weight and an annoying confidence that makes Artoria stick out her tongue in disgust.

Barghest.

Doesn’t that Fairy Knight have anything better to do than disturb Artoria’s wallowing in her own misery?

“Child of Prophecy,” Barghest addresses Artoria, all formal and serious. Somehow that’s even more annoying. “I have brought a change of clothes. I assume you are in the bath, so I will place it on the bed.”

Normally, Artoria would at least mutter a ‘thanks’… but when it comes to Barghest, that would feel like admitting defeat.

“All right,” Artoria says.

“Her Majesty has ordered me to prepare a meal for you. I’m not familiar with your preferences and intolerances, so I would appreciate some pointers.”

Artoria doesn’t want to accept food if it’s from Barghest. She really, really doesn’t. But her stomach feels like a black hole about to suck itself in at the mere mention of food. How long has it been since she’s last eaten…?

Her mouth waters at the thought of a meal.

“Anything’s fine,” Artoria mutters in defeat which she won’t forgive herself for. “But I want a big portion.”

At least this bit of defiance is necessary — a small hint of rebellion by asking for something that would cause extra effort.

If Barghest wants to play maid so badly, Artoria will humor her.

“Understood. I will return once I have finished preparations.”

Barghest leaves again, after which Artoria peeks into the room that serves as her prison. A stack of neatly folded clothes is on her bed, apparently left to herself to put into the dresser.

Artoria sighs. She can’t hide in this bathroom forever, can she? Not even hiding under the blanket worked.

“Why Bageko of all things?” Artoria mutters in annoyance.

The mind is beautifully capable of keeping itself from breaking down — focusing on one minor inconvenience, any little indignation, so it can block out the thoughts that would otherwise spiral and cause harm to itself.

Nobody and nothing can resist a convenient scapegoat, if only to stay sane.

Artoria drags her feet back to the bed, inspecting the spare clothes she’s been brought. None of them seem overly fancy or special; plain dresses of varying cuts. Some are white, most come in different shades of blue.

Underwear is stacked on top of the dresses, and the sight of it heats up Artoria’s cheeks. Someone has to have picked them for her, and probably imagined her wearing them.

Barghest, at the very least, has seen them, and would know Artoria’s underwear if she puts on any of them.

“Ah, screw this…!!”

Artoria grabs the panties and flings them against the wall without thinking, anything to get them out of her sight. The fabric has felt stupidly silky and nice, too.

Everything in Camelot is fancy and luxurious, especially compared to Artoria’s previous life.

This is practically mockery. Flaunting all this extravagance, which a common village girl wouldn’t even dare to dream of, like it’s the most natural, everyday thing to have available.

With a scoff at this utter gaudiness, Artoria takes the dresses and brings them to the dresser. She pulls out two drawers and throws in the clothes, not caring to keep them as neatly folded as they are.

Nothing else can suffer the wrath of her helplessness, so these pieces of clothing must do.

Once the drawers are slammed shut, Artoria releases a deep breath.

‘This sucks.’

She doesn’t understand why, but Artoria feels worse here than she’s ever done in Tintagel. Despite being surrounded by comfort and all the free time in the world, her life has narrowed down to this small point of existence.

Working one’s bones off is one thing when there’s some kind of freedom waiting around the corner someday — but once you’ve reached a dead end, no matter how big the space, it’ll feel suffocating.

No path leaves no goal, and nothing to aim for.

When the tunnel has no end, there’s no light waiting anywhere either — only more darkness, more humid cold that seeps to your bones.

How long would Artoria be able to stay in Camelot? Not that Morgan would let her go; that doesn’t seem probable. But Artoria has no idea what Morgan wants from her either.

‘No point in thinking about that…’

Artoria doesn’t understand Morgan. If she’s being honest, Artoria has to admit that she’s never truly understood anyone. Not even Fairy Eyes are a shortcut to understanding another; if anything, they make it more difficult.

Maybe Artoria doesn’t even really understand herself either. No way she could understand anyone else then.

Before she can follow that train of thought further, it halts when Barghest returns pushing a service cart in front of her. It looks laughable to see the oversized, bulky Barghest hunch over to push this too-small cart.

It serves that haughty fairy knight just right. Maybe it’ll add a pain in the back to that pain in the neck it apparently is to talk to someone much shorter who’s actually a normal height.

If only this petty grudge were a weapon, Artoria would be capable of taking on any enemy — including Morgan.

Like the perfectly chivalrous knight she irritatingly is, Barghest picks up a lone chair from one side of the room and places it in front of the service cart for Artoria to take a seat.

Deciding to act like she’s the superior one, Artoria stalks over and sits down on the chair, after which Barghest pushes the chair closer to the service cart that would function as a table, closing the distance.

‘… somehow this feels like she’s looking down on me…’

Physically, Barghest can’t help but look down on Artoria; the height difference leaves no room for an even eye level between the two. This is bad enough on its own, but when this extends to the mental side, Barghest clearly looks down on Artoria in every way.

Someday, Artoria will take Barghest down a peg for that.

“Please, enjoy your meal,” Barghest says, oblivious to the petty feelings directed at her.

“I’ll try,” Artoria mutters.

She doesn’t want to indulge Barghest like that. Despite what her begging stomach is praying for, Artoria hopes the food is practically inedible. If only because she could chew out Barghest for that.

But it doesn’t even look bad… not at all. In fact, this meal looks seriously high class. If Artoria had any table manners, she’d feel bad about eating such a grandiose meal in the first place.

Instead, she grabs the fork and digs in — the knife stays abandoned on the other side of the plate. Back in Tintagel, Artoria has rarely used cutlery to begin with, and she’s never had the opportunity to eat with a knife and fork. She’s good with her hands, and can manage with a fork.

Barghest stops herself from clearing her throat at the lack of manners, realizing that she shouldn’t expect too much from a fairy who lacks any proper education in etiquette or otherwise.

The harsh life is evident in all the small signs — blisters on Artoria’s hands speak of days of physical labor, missing toes she consciously tries to hide speak of hardships uncommon even for a poor village girl.

And the eyes — reddened from what must have been a harsh night, yet the warm emerald has never dulled. A glimmer of hope, and a strong determination shine in those eyes.

It’s a strength that Barghest can appreciate, even if it may not amount to much.

Artoria’s mouth waters even more after the first few bites than it had earlier when she’s only thought of food. Meat that’s so tender that it practically melts on her tongue, leaving a rich, savory taste behind, that makes Artoria wish it’d be all her taste buds would remember.

The side dishes complement this rich taste beautifully — vegetables adding a fresh note, and mashed potatoes so fluffy and soft, it’s like enjoying a cloud seasoned with the finest herbs and a pinch of salt.

Not even Artoria can deny that Barghest is a splendid cook. In fact, this almost makes up for all her flaws in personality and appearance. Almost.

No, not even close.

Once Artoria is done wolfing down the food, as though she has no appreciation for finer cuisine — when she’s enjoyed the meal more than anyone else could have — she can’t help but wish for seconds.

Not that she’d let Barghest know this. That’s a victory Artoria won’t grant her.

Begrudgingly, Artoria has to accept that Barghest has won this round in a battle Barghest doesn’t even know is happening between the two.

“A healthy appetite,” Barghest comments, biting her tongue when it comes to her thoughts about Artoria’s lack of grace. “As a cook, I take this as a compliment.”

‘Tch, there she goes, being cocky as usual… Damn you, Bageko…’

“It was all right,” Artoria concedes.

It wouldn’t kill her to simply admit how good the food tasted, but Artoria isn’t willing to take that risk regardless. If nothing else, it would sour the aftertaste too much. Maybe if there were a dessert waiting…

But no, Artoria shakes that idea out of her head. She’s growing way too cozy with Barghest, and with being in Camelot. Morgan, that cunning queen…!

“I will increase the size of the portion for tomorrow,” Barghest decides, even though Artoria hasn’t asked for it.

“… don’t you have anything better to do than playing cook?”

“I do not have a current mission, if that is what you mean,” Barghest says. “Her Majesty sent me to capture the Child of Prophecy that was said to be sheltered in Tintagel.”

“You’ve already done that, though,” Artoria voices her bitter reminder to Barghest.

A subtle, implicated way to tell Barghest she’s unwanted here. Not that she takes a hint. Dense like a rock with a body like a boulder.

“Yes, and I was planning to return to Manchester until I would be needed by Her Majesty’s side again. However, I was now tasked with seeing to your culinary well-being, Child of Prophecy.”

Great. Just freaking great, of all the Fairy Knights available, Morgan assigned Barghest as the babysitter. Artoria wants to throw up her own disgust.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering,” Artoria mutters. Barghest is confused by the remark, prompting Artoria to continue. “Why capture me? Morgan had all the other fairies suspected to be the Child of Prophecy killed immediately.”

“That is true,” Barghest agrees. “I do not know her reasons. That is of no concern to me. When she received word of the Child of Prophecy named Artoria in Tintagel, she changed her order to capture you alive and bring you here.”

Artoria scoffs. Barghest hasn’t even thought to ask about such a strange, out of nowhere change of command?

“You sure trust Morgan, huh.”

“Of course I do. You may not know this, Child of Prophecy, but Her Majesty is my savior.”

Artoria wants to laugh at that line — Morgan, who herself has told Artoria that fairies need no savior, and would turn on one if they had them? That Morgan being called by the title of the savior from ages ago, Tonelico? Ridiculous.

“And not only me — Her Majesty keeps the Moss and calamities at bay. I know no other fairy capable of such a feat, and no other fairy who would take on these responsibilities.”

“… I guess that’s true,” Artoria agrees.

Nobody but Morgan would be stupid enough to do so much for those who utterly hate and despise her, to the point of pushing a village girl to become the hand that kills the evil queen terrorizing Fairy Britain with her iron rule.

A selfish fool of a queen, for an egoistical land that relies on a prophecy to free them from their turmoil.

“You could not take her place. Not on the throne, not for this land,” Barghest reminds Artoria, though she doesn’t need to. Artoria is well aware of that without being told. “There is no point in going up against Her Majesty.”

Artoria doesn’t deem that worthy of a remark — rather, she doesn’t have anything to say.

Barghest finally takes a hint and leaves, taking the service cart along with her, and placing the chair back against a wall as to not be a bother in this empty room with a single inhabitant who’s never chosen to be here.

Alone and in peace, Artoria flops down on the bed, facing the ceiling.

“No point, huh?” Artoria repeats Barghest’s words with a bitter smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Bageko…”

Round 1 - BB Volleyball Tournament - Match 1

— Round 1 — Group Activity: Preparation Stage | Location: Ritsuka’s Private Room —

Ritsuka woke up to an awfully suspicious silence. No BB whose voice echoed throughout her mind, no Hakuno who greeted her awakening consciousness.

Not even the BB Channel music was playing.

Fearing the worst — and knowing this would probably not even cut it — Ritsuka got out of the bed provided to her in her private room that was supposedly completely and entirely safe.

Supposedly.

In BB’s words, it wouldn’t help with keeping up the tension and excitement if any candidate who wanted to could sneak into Ritsuka’s bed right at the start. Viewers would have to earn their ‘steamy reward’ by sticking around.

… Ritsuka wanted to wipe that from her mind.

A sheet of paper was put on her room’s door — confirming that, unlike participants, BB and Hakuno could access this room anytime. No surprise there.

—

Master, good morning!

Don’t lose any time, everyone’s waiting for you on the beach behind your mansion.

Put on your bikini and join the fun!

The BB Volleyball Tournament is waiting!

— BB ♥

—

Ritsuka’s eyebrow twitched. Volleyball sounded normal enough — fun even — but with a BB in front of it, that promised bad news. Nobody besides Hakuno could hope to guess what went on in that AI’s mind, so it was impossible to know ahead of time what bullshit would await.

Not that Ritsuka had any choice in this, so she changed into the Mystic Code she received for the first summer singularity — ‘Brilliant Summer,’ a bikini with white and orange stripes. It felt nostalgic in a sense.

Maybe, just maybe, there was some fun to be had. After all, summer events were usually not that bad.

… so Ritsuka hoped, against all odds, as she headed for the beach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

— Round 1 — BB Volleyball Tournament | Location: Sunny Private Beach —

At the beach, Ritsuka was surprised to actually see BB and Hakuno present on what was practically a lifeguard stand. They actually showed up in person.

All the Servants were already present, mostly avoiding each other’s company in an awkward silence filled with tension. Everyone was only waiting for Ritsuka — the only one in a swimsuit. Was BB just pranking her?

In hindsight, it was stupid to follow instructions from some note BB left. How easy did Ritsuka make it for BB?

[Geez, Master. You really made everyone wait, huh? What, you think a ‘fashionably late’ entrance will make you seem more interesting or something?]

…

Ritsuka elected to ignore that attempt at picking a fight. Maybe BB would give up eventually if she never got a reaction — though Ritsuka knew this hope was futile. If BB were that easy to handle, she wouldn’t pose a problem to her sanity in the first place.

[Ehem. Now that everyone is here, it’s time to announce the first round’s Group Activity!]

<As you already know, today we’re holding the BB Volleyball Tournament, which you could sign up for yesterday from your own rooms.>

“… I couldn’t sign up, though?” Ritsuka pointed at herself in confusion.

<Well, Fujimaru, you are the bachelorette. This Group Activity is meant for others to show off their good sides to you, so you have to take the position of a referee and keep a close look.>

… that made sense. Annoyingly enough, it really did.

[All that noise aside! Let’s lose no more time and get the Bikini Beach Volleyball Tournament started!]

‘… what? That’s what the ‘BB’ stands for!?’

[You’re all given five minutes to change into swimsuits, else you’ll be disqualified! Hurry, hurry! Without fanservice, our viewers won’t be happy, you know?]

BB really forced everyone into dressing in bikinis to have a beach volleyball tournament, huh. That sounded almost normal. Suspiciously normal, in fact.

Apart from one crucial detail.

“What about the Servants who don’t have a swimsuit costume…?” Ritsuka asked.

Quite a few of them were present here, and BB wouldn’t disqualify them on the spot for that, right?

[Not to worry. With the help of supportive candidates willing to sabotage their hopeless love quest, we were able to provide swimsuits to the prudes who didn’t already have one of their own!]

That sounded so much worse than mere disqualification. Whoever donated swimsuits, unless it was someone decently trustworthy like Miss Crane — who wasn’t even here — it promised trouble.

Would this really be fine?

<While you are getting changed, I will explain the rules. First of all, on the court, the use of skills, magecraft, above-human prowess, and anything that falls into such categories is completely illegal. But don’t worry about this rule as the court was constructed to block all those things, so you’ll only have to adapt to relying on nothing but your personal, physical capabilities.>

Basically, none of the Servants could do anything that a human couldn’t. That at least made for a somewhat even playing field. If not for differences in height and strength, which could differ greatly, depending on who you’d pit against each other.

… really, was this going to be fine…?

<As for the teams, those were determined by… an algorithm of sorts.>

“By ‘algorithm’, you mean BB made up teams, don’t you?” Ritsuka asked.

Hakuno merely cleared her throat to neither confirm nor deny it.

[Of course I did! I had to ensure teams are balanced, each of them providing the right amount of potential for drama and tension! And most importantly, each team had to be eye candy with a certain minimum amount of sex appeal for the viewers. I can’t rely on participants or some random selection to do that. I still have a show to run here, you know? What if this gets cancelled before we reach the end? Want to get stuck in empty nothingness for the rest of your life? Ask Senpai how that feels! Though I wouldn’t mind dropping you there for a bit.]

BB went off on quite the tangent here… Ritsuka lacked some context and a particular level of insanity to follow the ramble fully, but she understood that BB had a field day with this tournament.

Which was bad news for everyone involved.

<The matchups were decided at random, though. We’ll be announcing the teams for the first match once everyone got changed. … please try to get along.>

That didn’t bode well; that addition at the end there already said it all.

A beach volleyball court popped up, with a few benches and chairs on each side of it. One in particular was meant for the referee, so Ritsuka took that seat which was meant for her.

With 21 candidates, not everyone was going to be able to take part. After all, beach volleyball was played with teams of two. At the very least, Ritsuka would have some company in the referee spot.

Some who were quick to change sat down on the other side of the court. None of the tension had left, but that only made sense — unlike Ritsuka, who merely had to watch and judge, the Servants had to play a sport by BB’s rules.

Ritsuka felt bad for them… even though they all signed up themselves. So they had it coming.

Once everyone was in swimsuits, BB got started right away. She didn’t want to lose any time. BB was enjoying herself way, way too much here.

[For the first match in the first round, we’ll have team ‘Worst Parenting Fail’ on the blue side, and team ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’ on the red side!]

“… team what now? What are those team names!?” Ritsuka exclaimed.

No surprise BB was so impatient to get started when she had such a humiliating trump up her sleeve.

<Artoria and Mordred, you’re in team ‘Worst Parenting Fail’. Morgan and Artoria Alter, ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’ is your team.>

Hakuno gave the teams a half-apologetic look, but she also had to hold back a chuckle. She hid it behind a fake cough.

It didn’t take half a second until Mordred was at the host duo’s lifeguard stand, kicking at the tower for the offence that was the team name. Artoria was able to take the insult in awkward silence, while Morgan and Artoria Alter paid their ridiculous team name no mind.

Ritsuka had to admit that the team names weren’t unfitting… though she valued her life enough not to say that out loud. She had a protagonist’s basic survival instinct, just like Hakuno — which really wasn’t much, but usually enough to make it through situations.

[I don’t want to be here all day, so we’re only playing a single round per match. The first team to get to 15 points wins. Winner team gets to spend the night with Master. Try your best, everyone!]

“… wait, what!?”

What did a private room that couldn’t be broken into even mean when this was the prize!?

As both teams warmed up on their respective sides, neither communicating with their partner in any way that wasn’t an icy glare — Morgan at Artoria Alter — or avoidance of eye contact — Mordred to Artoria, Ritsuka was approached by Medusa.

Ritsuka couldn’t remember seeing Medusa in a swimsuit before, but the simple black bikini with purple highlights suited her well. It had a refined, mature look in a subtle manner — fitting for Medusa.

“That swimsuit suits you.” Ritsuka voiced her unfiltered impression with a disarming smile.

“Thank you. I appreciate the compliment,” Medusa said.

[Whoa, look at Master raising a flag! Is a lily already about to bloom? Is she going to make this whole tournament and show of skills a waste of time!? Way to go, Master! Ruining everyone’s fun!]

Turned out BB was still capable of airing her commentary only directly into Ritsuka’s head, even when she was present personally. How annoying.

“Aren’t you going to play?”

“No. I’m not particularly good at such team sports… especially when the teams are assigned by someone else.”

“Ah, yeah…”

Although Medusa would certainly do better than at least half the players on the court, no doubt. There weren’t many Servants Medusa had a personal problem with after all, and none of those were present.

“This sport normally has line referees, doesn’t it? If you want, I can support you in that manner.”

Medusa put on a pair of glasses that she pulled out of nowhere, as though they would support her vision.

“In that case, I can take care of the other side’s line~”

Lady Avalon jumped into the conversation with a honey-laced offer that came right after she clung to Ritsuka’s arm. The white swimsuit was not a new sight, and Ritsuka didn’t pay the meddler any mind.

“Your little sister will do her best if she gets a little kiss as a reward~”

Ritsuka pulled her arm out of Lady Avalon’s embrace as some heat rushed to her cheeks. That woman was a succubus, all right. A ‘little kiss’ would be offering the finger that’ll get your whole arm ripped off, including the shoulder.

<That one is quite forward. Though it seems her approach failed. Maybe Fujimaru prefers girls who are more reluctant?>

[Eh, really? Well, that would explain her girlfriendlessness. Two bottoms are stuck never getting anywhere after all.]

A headache formed in Ritsuka’s temples, and she could only hope the match would start soon and get most of the attention.

Pulling Lady Avalon away from Ritsuka by the shoulder, earning a deliberately cutesy pout for it, Mashu cleared her throat.

“I’ll be your other line referee, Master,” she offered with a kind smile.

As expected from Mashu, who would always support Ritsuka to the best of her ability.

“Sure! I’d be happy to have you,” Ritsuka agreed, ignoring Lady Avalon’s whiney complaint in the back. “But aren’t you going to join? I would’ve thought…”

“I did sign up but was rejected immediately…” Mashu said with an apologetic smile as though it was her own fault.

“Huh? Why?”

“Notice from BB was, ‘Sorry, but I actually want this to be fun to watch. You provide not nearly enough drama or excitement. Go sit in the back like a good extra.’”

Ritsuka’s anger threatened to boil over. Why even let someone register for a tournament if you were going to reject applicants based on personal preference like that!?

[Don’t blame me. I could’ve put her on a team with that hedonistic dark succubus, but Senpai forbade me from doing that. It couldn’t be helped.]

<I thought you would appreciate those two keeping their distance — was I off?>

“… I guess it couldn’t be helped.” Ritsuka sighed. She should thank Hakuno for not letting BB put Lilith and Mashu in a team together. “In that case, I’ll rely on you.”

At least the line referees were reliable and to be trusted, unlike the rejected referee who put up a chair with a parasol in earshot — planning to watch the game with a cup of tea like the high-class lady she certainly was not.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

— Round 1 | First Game: Worst Parenting Fail VS Coldest Lords of Edge —

To absolutely nobody’s surprise, the first match was a highly aggressive game of beach volleyball. If not for BB nerfing players to a reasonable human level, almost every single spike would’ve been a lethal weapon.

Neither team really communicated nor agreed on a particular strategy, but after the first few points were made, both had some type of teamwork figured out that worked for them.

Mordred managed receives that lacked the precision she should be capable of, as she avoided proper eye contact with Artoria — no way to make proper passes while refusing to exchange as little as a glance with your team partner.

Although Artoria had no such aggressive ambition that propelled her forward in the same sloppy manner, she still couldn’t fully make up for Mordred’s small errors in judgement.

She had a good pass figured out eventually, and Mordred hit every spike with zero hesitation — so hard that even without the calling of its name, her soul still clearly called out Clarent Blood Arthur.

While the forward (aggressive) display of strength was certainly impressive, Ritsuka knew that Mordred wasn’t in top condition. Neither was Artoria. She knew the two Sabers well enough to tell they could do better — should do better.

Leave it to BB to put together a team that hinders itself. That probably was intentional.

“That’s another point for…” Ritsuka sighed. “For ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’.”

It almost physically hurt to use those team names unironically.

The ball clearly went way too far, hitting the sand not even close to the glowing line drawn on the sand. It didn’t take a line referee to tell.

“Mordred,” Artoria finally said.

“I know, I know!” Mordred interrupted before Artoria could say anything else. “You’re gonna tell me not to compensate precision with strength, aren’t you? I know that!”

“… good then.”

Yeah, this team was hopeless. Entirely hopeless.

Ritsuka felt bad for them.

Artoria had to ‘get along’ with her child whose feelings for Artoria were… complicated was an understatement. Not that Artoria would’ve known how to deal with Mordred even if things were more simple.

And Mordred was stuck with the ‘father’ whom she loved, admired, despised, and hated all at the same time.

To top it off — which really showed BB’s sadism — their opponents were a dark version of Artoria paired with an unrelated look-alike of the mother who set Mordred on her path, and the sister who plotted Artoria’s downfall.

It didn’t help that the edgy team worked together a lot better, even though they were certainly more hostile towards each other. But that stayed subtle, exchanged in a cold war that didn’t hurt their performance.

After all, it wasn’t as though their feelings towards each other were any complicated; they simply didn’t get along. And refused to try and communicate, too.

In consequence, they had wordlessly split their half of the court into the left and right sides, and neither infringed on the other’s territory. The ball was received by whoever’s territory it fell into, passed with reliable precision, and spiked with the cold fire of someone who hated to lose.

Artoria Alter and Morgan were not related, but they were alike enough that this was easily forgotten. Especially with them sharing the same face.

The few balls they missed and the occasional spike that hit the net or a patch of sand way out of the court were granted no more than a click of the tongue. Neither Artoria Alter nor Morgan was the type to dwell on errors to beat herself up.

“Match point,” Ritsuka announced.

It was Morgan’s serve — a stroke of luck for team ‘Worst Parenting Fail’, as Morgan’s plays weren’t quite as powerful as Artoria Alter’s; easier to receive and turn into own plays. A witch who spent millennia taking care of problems from afar with magecraft didn’t make for a great sports player.

With how many ribbons were part of her white and gold swimsuit, it was surprising that Morgan could play beach volleyball and move around without getting tangled up in them anyway. The bikinis of Artoria, Mordred, and Artoria Alter were much simpler in design.

Really, Morgan was the only one on the court with a swimsuit that looked impressively beautiful and was clearly crafted to draw attention. Perhaps this was one of the times in which her more girlish side peeked through; a trait that the other three with the same face but less developed physique on the court didn’t share.

Mordred received the ball that came directly at her and immediately got into position to jump as high as the pesky sand would allow her to. Once the ball returned to her — passed from Artoria — Mordred put all her winning intent into her right hand, which hit the ball at the highest point—

Right into the net.

“Ahhh, damn it! Dammit all!” Mordred kicked sand in frustration.

Artoria wanted to tell Mordred that she did well, or that she could become a much better player if she trained, or… anything, really. But she had a feeling that no matter what she said, it would’ve added insult to injury. So she remained silent.

In a sad sense of irony, that was the wrongest call to make.

“Match won by ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’!” Ritsuka called out. “But all of you played really well. Especially considering the circumstances…”

[Oh? Is a certain dense Master who couldn’t get a girlfriend if she paid for it trying to take a jab at the show’s host? Shouldn’t you know who is and isn’t a good target to pick a fight with? I thought humans have at least some basic survival instincts.]

Naturally, this part was broadcasted normally, for everyone to hear.

<That aside, the first match has been decided! Congratulations, ‘Coldest Lords of Edge’! It was a good and fair game. Don’t worry, there is no punishment for losing. I’m sure Fujimaru got some new impressions through this game, too. So everyone is a winner in that sense.>

“I… I guess, yeah,” Ritsuka admitted, though she wasn’t entirely sure.

[I guess our horny Master was too busy ogling her Servants in swimsuits like a freaking pervert. Geez, maybe we should put you on a leash… As soon as there’s some skin in sight, you can’t focus anymore. What, are you in heat? Then again, humans are in heat throughout the whole year.]

“That’s not it!” Ritsuka had to try and save her reputation; not that any of the Servants believed BB.

… did they? The way Morgan averted her gaze for a second spoke another story, and Mordred crossing her arms in front of her chest had suspicious timing as well.

‘Ugh, come on! I’m not like that…’

“You can ogle me anytime~” Lady Avalon piped up from her fancy singular seat, but was promptly ignored.

The worst you could do with a succubus was feed them. They were practically trolls in that regard.

[Anyway, we’ll hold a short break before the next game. This is your time to flirt with the hopelessly doomed-to-be-forever-alone bachelorette or find someone better to throw yourself at! Have fun!]

BB had something coming once this singularity was over, Ritsuka would make sure of that.

— After The Match: Artoria, taking one L after another in her life and beyond —

“I don’t think I could have performed better. It is a shame to drop out in the very first round but… In that particular matchup, it would have been difficult to win. Even from a Lostbelt, Morgan is a terrifying opponent.”

[Man, she hardly seems bothered about having lost.]

<That’s a knight for you. They can take a loss with dignity. There’s a really handsome appeal in that, no?>

[… is that the type you like, Senpai?]

<Hm, maybe?>

—

Seeing Artoria and Mordred at the lifeguard stand was worrying, but there was nothing Ritsuka could do.

“You see that barrier around the stand, right?” Lady Avalon wrapped her arms around Ritsuka from behind. “Even I would have a hard time sneaking in.”

“Is that because of Mordred’s attack on them earlier?”

“Fufu, no. They wouldn’t invite her in if that were the case. I’d say they are recording some of those scenes where the candidates comment on events for the show, and they don’t want any disturbance.”

“Makes sense.” Ritsuka nodded. “… wait, they aren’t actually airing this anywhere, right?”

“Ahaha~”

Leaving only an aura of flowers behind, Lady Avalon was gone without more of a trace than lingering lily-like flowers, faster than she had appeared out of nowhere.

“… right!?” Ritsuka raised her voice, fearing the worst.

— After The Match: Mordred, sore loser with daddy issues —

“I don’t have anything to say. No, nothing! Next time I’ll win!”

[Guess her fumble got to her real bad, huh? You’d think such a rebel would at least break a nose or two with a good spike when all the other players on the court are either her parents or look-alikes of them.]

<… BB, you really went a bit far with this match. Is this some personal vendetta of yours?>

[Me, and a personal vendetta? Well, as a final boss, naturally I have someone I want to take my dramatic revenge on! But sadly, she’s not here. So I’m only doing what’s necessary for a good quota.]

<Why do I have a feeling that you’re sulking?>

[… just your imagination, Senpai~]

—

Not much time was left before the next game — at a distance from the court sat Artoria and Mordred as far away from each other as space would allow at tables and chairs newly set up with parasols.

Waitresses with a vague look served sugary, cold drinks and food to those who sat in this relaxation area that was decorated with a gigantic sign with lights in the brightest, most obnoxious colors that read “LOSER’S AREA”.

They could watch the upcoming matches from a distance and were treated well, but not without humiliation. As expected from BB’s craft.

02 - Morgan

The first thing Artoria notices when her consciousness slowly returns is the uncharacteristic silence — the lack of the environmental sounds she’s grown used to.

No gusts of wind slipping through between crooked wooden planks of a hastily put together barn to create a low howl, no buzzing of insects, and no fairies bustling nearby.

There’s no knocking on the barn’s frail door, no objects hitting any of the walls after being thrown at Artoria’s home for no other reason but to lure her out without having to get too close. Often for no reason at all.

It’s peaceful, suspiciously so. As though this is a dream, but none of those she’s familiar with.

It’s too warm to be one of Artoria’s dreams, too tranquil and gentle. No dream would feel like this; they wouldn’t permit any rest in which she can let down her guard even momentarily.

When Artoria rouses, she feels soft fabric brush against her arm. Smoother than the tattered clothes she’s used to. There’s not a single stalk of hay stabbing her; the surface she lies on is perfectly comfortable, yielding to her weight a bit.

‘… where—!?’

Artoria sits up immediately, her heart almost leaping out of her ribcage when the last moments from before she was out cold flash before her mind again: Barghest, a short conversation — no more than that.

Caught. Captured. No idea how much time has passed, not a single clue as to where she is.

Heat and cold are fighting for dominance inside of Artoria’s body as the realization of her situation sinks in and becomes too real too soon. Too much to handle for both her mind and body, through which a searing heat that burns like ice spreads.

The disorientation doesn’t help Artoria form a clear thought, as she can barely register details of her surroundings. Her senses shut down to standby, filtering what’s not processable. Nothing besides the fact that she’s in an unfamiliar room, almost as big as her barn, makes it through to her brain.

A cold sweat makes Artoria shudder when she realizes where she must be — Camelot.

“You’re awake.”

The all too calm, disinterested voice catches Artoria’s full attention immediately. Silky soft and smooth, yet icy cold.

A tall woman with blueish white hair, a black dress with blue highlights, and dull blue eyes that have long since lost their shine, stands up from a chair in the room’s corner where she’s been sitting. Waiting for Artoria to regain consciousness.

She carries herself with the confidence only a naturally gifted fairy would know and the grace only a noble could possess. Her mere presence is a force that commands utter submission from everything and everyone in her vicinity. Maybe it reaches even beyond such limited borders.

This fundamental display of power and unquestionable superiority from a beauty that’s hard to be rivaled leaves no doubt as to who this fairy is, even if Artoria has never personally seen her before.

“Morgan…!” Artoria snarls.

Faced with her destined foe, the cruel Winter Queen of Fairy Britain, animosity wells up in Artoria immediately. Like a caged beast that has been resting, waiting for this exact moment to finally bare its teeth, Artoria’s belligerence rears its head.

Cornered as she may be — in enemy territory even — for Artoria, fight always takes priority over flight. This hardheadedness has carried her through all that Tintagel has thrown at her, and it won’t back down even faced with Morgan.

“Do not misunderstand your position, Child of Prophecy. I have no intention of engaging you,” Morgan says, closing her eyes as she steps towards the bed on which Artoria sits, fist clutching the blanket that’s still covering half her body.

Morgan remains unbothered. As though she possesses no sense for Artoria’s hostility flaring up like carelessly forgotten embers near woods, risking a forest fire engulfing everything in its uncontrollably destructive nature.

Artoria wants to talk back for the sake of argument. Ask questions to which the answers wouldn’t matter. Anything that gives form to the defiance Artoria feels in her core; the growing dissent that pushes any weakness that may stand in its way aside.

Yet, all Artoria manages is to silently glare at the audacity of Morgan, who won’t even take her seriously.

Like when cornered, near-captured prey rises up in retaliation for the sake of plain survival, the desperate effort matters not to the predator. When the outcome is already decided, and the end result cannot be changed.

Fairy Eyes don’t lie — Morgan is as impassive as she appears. Artoria — anything Artoria may do or say — is wholly irrelevant to her.

The Child of Prophecy does not concern the Winter Queen. Their positions are unquestionable.

“You are no threat whatsoever,” Morgan states, meeting Artoria’s gaze head-on. Her eyes look through Artoria rather than at her, that’s how insignificant even the Child of Prophecy is in front of Morgan.

But Artoria is not that easily intimidated, even with the hair on her nape standing up, even with her throat feeling dry enough to scratch. She stills the trembling of her hand, whether from fear or anger — or both — is something Artoria won’t linger on.

“Is that so?” Artoria grits her teeth. The Winter Queen should reconsider; she shall be proven wrong. Morgan should look at Artoria, at the very least.

… shouldn’t she?

“You have not rung a single bell,” Morgan recounts. “Without the pilgrimage, even the Child of Prophecy is weaker than a mere human.”

‘… so what!?’

Artoria wishes once more to talk back, but she cannot bring herself to do so. The words stay stuck in her own mind, where it’s easy to act defiant. The syllables that make it farther get stuck in her throat, where the constriction allows not a single sound through.

There’s no choice but to accept the futility, when even Artoria cannot defend herself. Her eyes wander down to the blanket she’s gripping tightly, as though her life depends on it. A dulled, light blue, almost gray.

It feels familiar, as though its color paints the state of Artoria’s soul. Nothing vivid about it, not remarkable in the slightest. Easy to look past, even easier to cast aside.

Artoria knows Morgan’s words to be true; she knows better than anyone just how pathetically useless she is. Not for a second has Artoria genuinely believed she could ever stand up to Morgan.

The pilgrimage has always been a pipe dream. Nothing but foolish grandeur, an expectation Artoria has run with — after having it forced upon her by the whims of others — for no other reason but it being inevitable; not because she could do it. Artoria isn’t capable.

And Morgan has realized the same thing.

The flames of rebellion, stoked by the presence of her arch-nemesis and fueled by sheer obstinacy, meet the heavy rain of calculated realism, of observation and conclusion. They’re extinguished, leaving frail ashes behind.

Like a balloon quickly filled with air, Artoria’s bout of courage has been a fleeting experience. Temporary, until the smallest sharp object pokes a hole into the membrane — immediately deflating the balloon that’s Artoria’s determination.

It’s not meant to last, and once crushed, cannot well up in the same manner again.

‘… I really am no good, huh?’

Artoria stays silent; there is nothing she could say to persuade Morgan. Not when Artoria herself doesn’t have the slightest bit of faith in her capabilities.

One cannot convince another that they’re wrong when what they’re saying is nothing but the truth.

‘… This will be my end…’

Without being able — willing — to fight back, Artoria is at Morgan’s mercy. Artoria realizes this now, more than before. Now that her mind is of calm serenity — once her fighting spirit has turned dormant, as it shall be.

There is no question as to what Morgan’s plans with the Child of Prophecy are.

The queen’s army has executed every single fairy that has been suspected of possibly being the prophesied one; no exceptions have ever been made. The genuine Child of Prophecy won’t be any different.

As the one single threat to Morgan’s rule, the one thorn in her side, it’s only natural she’d want Artoria gone.

Although Morgan has said herself that she doesn’t even perceive Artoria as a threat. At worst, Artoria’s existence may be a little stone in Morgan’s shoe — annoying, but nothing that commands immediate attention. Or any at all. A minor inconvenience, so easy to look past.

‘At least it’s finally over…’

Tintagel is behind her, and the pilgrimage is the furthest from Artoria’s mind. Everything comes to an end here; there’s no way Artoria could flee Camelot. Not by herself, not even if she had the support of many others… which she doesn’t.

Artoria would’ve failed either way.

It has been a matter of time, nothing more. Eventually, sooner or later, Artoria would have fallen into Morgan’s hands for sure, if not killed by one of her Fairy Knights without ever meeting Morgan personally.

There has never been a possibility in which things would go differently. For someone who cannot even stand up to the common fairy, a pilgrimage is impossible. It will end in ruin, try as one might.

Considering that, this premature end to her story is merciful. Artoria accepts it.

Artoria embraces her demise.

If she’d known this to be an option, she might’ve wished for it much sooner. This is the one way to absolve herself of all the burdens and expectations immediately, to just be done with it all. No consequences. No lingering regrets.

“However,” Morgan interrupts Artoria’s self-loathing, in which the genuine feelings of despair she normally doesn’t allow herself take hold, “I do not see you as my enemy either.”

Artoria blinks — she’s not perceived as Morgan’s enemy? Despite her entire being existing to oppose Morgan?

“… what?”

“You have done nothing to oppose me. I have no reason to see you as an enemy. It follows that I have no reason to treat you as an enemy either.”

“B-but—”

“Naturally,” Morgan continues, her voice carrying a warning edge that threatens to cut any fool careless enough not to practice caution, “That will change if you are to follow the prophecy and set out on the pilgrimage.”

Artoria tries to swallow, but the lump in her throat that has appeared out of nowhere to replace the dryness makes that difficult. She’s all too conscious of how strangulated she feels by the oppressive air, by Morgan’s threat.

Morgan watches as Artoria ponders over her options — over whether she even has any.

“Forsake your destiny, Child of Prophecy,” Morgan utters almost as an order, though it carries the sincerity of a plea. “Do not follow the prophecy. Do not go on the pilgrimage. Do not even ring a single bell.”

What Morgan asks for is simple. It’s the first time anyone has told Artoria this; any other time, the expectations to do all these things have been placed on her instead.

Artoria cannot place the feeling that twists her stomach into a knot. Wrong. Strange. Foreign at best, nothing that seems right. This isn’t — shouldn’t be — an option.

After all, it has never been a matter of choice.

Inevitable fate, that’s what the prophecy is. Artoria has been born for this purpose, and she would carry it out or die trying. As a fairy, nothing matters more than the purpose she’s born for. That’s how Fairy Britain works.

Even if personally, Artoria couldn’t care less about this purpose.

“I don’t have a choice,” Artoria mumbles, not facing Morgan.

There’s nothing but the failure to fulfill the prophecy waiting for Artoria. If Morgan can save Artoria from this destiny — then Artoria pleads with Morgan to extend this mercy.

Against all odds, against common sense, Artoria hopes that the Winter Queen possesses a heart after all.

‘It’s what I have to do. Just… just kill me. Kill me so I don’t have to.’

Artoria knows Morgan could easily end her life with a single swift move. Morgan has decimated groups of fairies personally before, Artoria has heard the stories.

If it’s Morgan to behead Artoria or pierce her heart, she wouldn’t feel a thing, and neither would Morgan. It’s so easy. So simple.

The one, straight-forward way out.

“You are mistaken,” Morgan chastises. “It is your own choice.”

Artoria turns to look at Morgan — the queen’s expression hasn’t changed a bit, and she’s entirely serious. The one person who leaves the decision to Artoria herself is the one who should care about Artoria’s whims the least.

It’s more heartless than the selfishness of the fairies who leave Artoria no real agency; those were egoistic and reprehensible.

Unlike them, Morgan respects Artoria’s wishes.

“I don’t care about the prophecy,” Artoria admits. She doesn’t want to do it. She doesn’t want to try and fail, Artoria doesn’t want to hurt anymore. “But, but I— I can’t let everyone down.”

This is so annoying. Even given the choice, Artoria is incapable of making it; clinging to her status as Child of Prophecy like a lifeline. The one thing guiding her through life, as painful and utterly inevitable to end in failure as it is.

Her purpose — the reason she’s born, the root for her existence. It’s nothing so easy to give up, not by herself.

‘Might as well just die here… and have it be over with.’

The only option to escape her destiny lies with Morgan. It’s up to the Winter Queen to rid herself of the Child of Prophecy, who’s long since given up on herself, on everything.

And yet, Morgan doesn’t end Artoria’s life.

It’s so frustrating. Artoria is ready for this, wishes for her own death even — and yet, Morgan refuses to do what she should do.

Rejecting duty comes so easy to Morgan, when Artoria can’t even bear the mere thought of truly rejecting her own beyond complaints. Perhaps it takes a gaze as dulled and devoid of attachment as Morgan’s to make such decisions.

“I see,” Morgan says, a stranger to Artoria’s inner turmoil. “In that case, I will treat you as a prisoner for now.”

Morgan’s hand reaches out, to which Artoria instinctively winces. Her eyes are closed shut as she expects her longed for yet feared demise, when Morgan’s fingertips just barely graze her neck. They feel soft and gentle; the touch elicits goosebumps on Artoria’s skin.

When Morgan removes her hand, Artoria finds a collar around her neck — the wicked queen’s magecraft, Artoria can feel that much. This collar is powerful, that is clear, though Artoria cannot tell what it may be capable of.

“This will be your chamber. You are not to step into the halls on your own,” Morgan explains, truly treating Artoria as a prisoner. She looks toward a small wooden door. “That door leads to a moderate bathroom.”

Morgan herself makes her way to the other, bigger door, the one leading out of this room and into the halls of Camelot. An outside space prohibited for Artoria to roam.

“Nothing good will come from being the ‘Child of Prophecy’, Artoria of Tintagel,” Morgan says melancholically before she opens the door through which she leaves.

The first time she has called Artoria by name rather than title, which sounds disgustingly wrong coming from Morgan — far too intimate.

Once alone, Artoria’s hands immediately reach up to feel the collar — it’s not fully solid, made of what feels like condensed mana. It feels connected to Artoria’s body directly, fitting like another layer of skin. Around three centimeters in width, half a thumb thick.

It’s entirely unobstructive to the point that Artoria wouldn’t feel its presence if she didn’t concentrate on it, which only makes it scarier. Too easy to forget, while unaware of its capabilities. That’s a hidden danger, a threat that can’t be fully assessed.

A collar made of mana like this can’t be removed without the use of expert magecraft, which far surpasses Artoria’s skills as a mage — Artoria cannot remove this collar on her own.

It serves as tangible proof of her new situation: a prisoner of Morgan.

No, rather than a prisoner, it makes Artoria a pet. The queen’s little pet, kept and taken care of, expected to be obedient. Being a prisoner would be less humiliating, less degrading.

Artoria isn’t even treated as a fairy, she’s seen as less.

The usual, all-too practiced smile creeps onto Artoria’s face at the realization of that, like it always shows when Artoria is faced with ruthless sides of life that she cannot do anything about.

A smile that isn’t genuine; a force of habit that’s been cultivated for two decades. It’s a mask that exists for the sole purpose of making pain easier to bear.

‘Nothing changed, huh…?’

In Tintagel, Artoria has been treated as livestock. In Camelot, she’s treated as a pet. Though the surroundings are more luxurious now than anything Artoria has ever known — or dreamed of — the fact remains that she is at the mercy of others who see her as beneath them.

Not a single wish of hers is granted. Not even an end to her misery is permitted to Artoria.

“… what a joke,” Artoria mutters to herself.

A glance at her surroundings doesn’t lift her spirits. Spacious as this room is, it’s as cold as Morgan — barren and empty, meticulously clean. A sizeable, soft bed in the center, a dresser against one wall. Two bedside tables, one on each side of this too opulent bed.

It doesn’t feel like a prison chamber, though that’s exactly what it is for Artoria.

Artoria rids herself of the blanket and puts her feet on the cold floor, surprised to find herself barefooted. On the first step, Artoria trips and falls forward; her reaction is too slow to catch the fall.

“… ouch,” Artoria yelps. “What the heck?”

She sits up, rubbing her reddened chin in hopes that it wouldn’t bruise. A wet tear clings to her lower eyelid at the sudden, unexpected pain; at least Artoria hasn’t bitten her tongue on impact. Her other hand absentmindedly rubs over her thigh — a sensation she hardly feels.

“… ah.” Artoria realizes the reason she’s fallen immediately at the numb feeling.

Her limbs haven’t stopped being sore, every single muscle is screaming for — demanding! — a break that has never been granted to them. That hasn’t changed; it couldn’t have.

In Tintagel, where rest has never been worth a consideration, Artoria has always been able to push herself well beyond her limits. It’s easy when there’s no choice.

This doesn’t apply in Camelot, however.

With nothing immediate to do, nothing to focus on and force herself to take care of, Artoria’s body refuses to comply any longer. Warm tears start rolling down her cheeks; droplets fall down into Artoria’s lap, soaked up by the fabric of an unfamiliar plain white dress she’s wearing.

Artoria sniffles, rubbing at her eyes with her hands to try and stop the tears from welling up, from streaming down her face.

It doesn’t help. If anything, Artoria is making it worse. Her nose clogs up, following suit to aid in the ugly crying that has followed the breaking of the dam.

“Why… am I…” Artoria sobs pathetically, hating herself for a display even weaker than she usually shows. “I can’t stop…”

Her voice raises a pitch, like the whine of a kicked puppy that doesn’t understand why it’s made to hurt, what it did wrong to deserve that treatment.

Artoria pulls herself back up onto the bed and hides herself under the blanket, weeping as the tears wet the pillow she nuzzles into. The blanket covering her face helps feeling safe, feeling disconnected from the cruel world outside.

Just for a moment, Artoria wants to be alone. She wants to wallow in her misery; a chance to let out all the emotional turmoil held back for nearly two decades now that she’s already started.

‘I hate this… I hate it… I hate everything…’

Pathetic. Useless. If only Morgan would’ve ended her.

It doesn’t take too long for the fatigue to catch up after all the tension dissipates into tears and sobs, and combined with the physical exhaustion accumulated in Tintagel, Artoria is pulled into a deep, dreamless slumber.

It’s the longest sleep she’s ever gotten. Undisturbed, and peaceful — no work is waiting, no prophecy is lying around the corner.

01 - Artoria Caster

Step after heavy step in the moist soil, Artoria pulls the heavy wooden plow forward. The sun is already setting, and she’s only gotten started with the last furrow of the final field.

Exhaustion has accumulated throughout the whole day, during which there hasn’t been time for a single break. Not without inevitably prolonging the working time deeper into the night.

The fountain from which Artoria drew speed and energy when she started in the early morning has long since dried up; what remains is the last bit of strength she can muster. It’s not much. Not nearly enough. But it’s all Artoria has left, and she pushes on with legs that feel as though they carry the weight of iron ingots instead of flesh and bone.

Her mind is blank. Shut off, as not a single thought exists that would do her any good. Distractions would slow Artoria down, giving mental space to the task would only amplify the numb soreness that replaces every other sensation in her body.

Artoria huffs as she puts all of her weight into the next step when she feels the plow having gotten stuck. It doesn’t budge.

“Come on…!”

Until she’s done plowing the fields, Artoria’s day won’t end. No rest is permitted for the Child of Prophecy before she finishes her work — physical labor that fairies of Tintagel could take care of with their magic instead. With ease.

Not that they would do that. Not when Artoria can be made to do it manually instead.

The Child of Prophecy needs to get stronger, so they’d claim. Artoria is a burden for Tintagel, a danger to even shelter in — near — the village. At the very least, she should earn her stay, make up for the trouble she brings.

And earn her stay she does — Artoria works harder than anyone, each bubbling up complaint swallowed like the bitter bile it is. A few furrows were already done by sunrise; Artoria had started early.

It had become easier when it wasn’t dark outside anymore. Not that the sky is bright in Fairy Britain, no matter the time of day or weather, but at least Artoria stopped shivering once it was daytime. The sun’s warmth does wonders.

By that point, her hands were already numb. Better than hurting.

Suddenly, with the next push into which Artoria puts all her stubborn remaining energy, the plow gets unstuck. As though it’s never been stuck to begin with. The lack of resistance to her forward movement catches Artoria off-guard — she slips on the moist soil and lands face-first in the mud.

Even the plow is actively working against the Child of Prophecy. Not even the soil of Fairy Britain can stand a Fairy of Paradise.

Moist earth feels disgusting. It’s sticky, it’s cold. Clumps of dark, almost gooey sand that smells earthy and soils anything it touches. Some would stick to her face and hair, even more would stain her dress.

Artoria wants to cry.

Yet no tears come when she pushes herself up on arms that wish to give in more than anything. Her heart has already grown too numb to make room for sadness; the roots of sorrow would rot before they could settle.

The petals of tears can’t fall if the flower to carry them never blooms.

That’s for the better. A crybaby Child of Prophecy is almost as bad as a good-for-nothing Child of Prophecy. Either invites retribution for the audacity.

Artoria can’t keep going; her body practically screams at her that it has long reached its limit. Her legs are sore. The soles of her feet hurt. The blisters on her hands sting. These feelings are all too familiar; they’re an everyday companion in Artoria’s life.

Tintagel fairies don’t care about that, though.

When Artoria wipes the back of her hand over her face to get rid of the sticky soil, a stone hits the back of her head. It hurts. The point of impact sears hot. Maybe it’s bleeding. A headache forms — a pressure that wraps around Artoria’s head for a moment, until it settles in her temples.

But Artoria’s mouth simply curves into a smile as a reaction. A practiced, habitual smile that sells the idea of an easy-going, carefree girl who’s trying her best for the sake of others.

“What are you lazing around for, Caster!? Hurry up already!”

Artoria finally pushes herself up from the earth onto shaky legs that want to refuse supporting her weight any longer, but Artoria pays them no mind. They wouldn’t actually give out anyway.

It’s all just such a pain.

“Sorry,” Artoria calls back to the fairy who threw the stone. “I’ll be done soon!”

“We should sell her out to Morgan after all,” another fairy grumbles. “She’s useless.”

Artoria feels nothing as she pushes on, the plow pulled behind her. She bites her bottom lip to keep her thoughts to herself. The smile on her lips won’t disappear, even as her teeth sink into the chapped skin.

‘Just do that. Sell me to Morgan. I don’t care.’

They won’t.

For as long as Artoria can remember, the fairies of Tintagel have used this threat. They don’t mean it, because they want Morgan gone. And for that, they need the Child of Prophecy — they need Artoria Caster.

If not for the Child of Prophecy, those fairies would have to get rid of Morgan themselves.

They know they stand no chance against the queen who rules this island with an iron fist. Fairies are reprehensibly selfish hedonists, but they aren’t stupid. If it were possible to kill Morgan, they would’ve done so long ago.

The Child of Prophecy is the one they place all their hopes on.

Artoria Caster is the one they place their selfish expectations on.

They don’t care about Artoria. Couldn’t care less, in fact. They don’t care about anything. All they want is to get rid of whatever is a thorn in their side.

Fairies don’t care who rids them of Morgan’s rule and gives them the freedom to pursue their desires freely. The prophecy promises Artoria to be the one to do so, so in Artoria they trust.

On the Child of Prophecy, they rely. That alone makes it acceptable to waste their time and resources on raising her.

When Artoria finally reaches the end of the field, the last furrow done, she pulls the dirtied plow away, back into the barn that’s her own home. That’s where the old, squeaky plow belongs, and that’s where Artoria belongs, too.

The last thing left for today is cleaning the plow. She’ll need water for that. Her barn doesn’t have any. With two buckets in her hands, Artoria trots over to a nearby river.

She fills the buckets with water while her head remains empty. Menial work like this runs on autopilot, Artoria doesn’t even want to think. She’d only feel more miserable if she let herself ponder the reality that’s her life.

With a splash, Artoria finds herself in the shallow water of the river. A group of short fairies stands at the shore, laughing at Artoria’s misfortune. The water is cold, Artoria is freezing. Her clothes cling to her skin.

The mud clinging to Artoria and her clothes dissolves in the stream, at least partially. The current carries dirt away. If only it would carry Artoria along.

“At least she’s clean now!”

The fairies’ laughter bellows through the area at the hilarity of that. They’re enjoying themselves at the sight of Artoria’s misfortune, as usual.

“Who does she think she is, dragging all that dirt into Tintagel? Just because she’s the Child of Prophecy?”

“She’s probably just a fake! So weak and useless.”

Artoria is already used to this. Saying anything would only invite more trouble. Fighting back would be a pain, she’s weaker than any other fairy. It’s over faster if she simply endures.

They’re right anyway. And pathetic on top of that.

The fairies can act as haughty, carefree, and even violent as they want — Fairy Eyes see through such pretense. They see the truth, the genuine essence of things. Whether one likes or not.

Artoria wishes they didn’t.

She sees clear as day that fairies hate her. They’re afraid of her. A Fairy of Paradise is an unwanted existence in this land, fairies feel that instinctually. Artoria is rejected and loathed for her being.

Not for what she did. Nothing she does would change that. That’s simply how it is.

Once the fairies leave her alone, Artoria picks up the buckets of water and carries them back to Tintagel — not quite. Only to the barn that’s her home, where the plow is kept. Just outside of Tintagel, so that Artoria doesn’t even entertain the delusion that she’s part of Tintagel.

Artoria takes a cloth — a remainder of an old dress she used to wear when she was younger — and soaks it in the cold water in one bucket. She sneezes as she wipes the dirt off the plow. With stiff fingers, grown difficult to move from the cold water, Artoria keeps rubbing the wet fabric over sullied wood.

Her clothes are still dripping wet, and the cold reaches her bones. Winter is over, but this doesn’t feel like spring. Artoria doesn’t register her teeth chattering, or her nose running. She wants to get done already.

If she’s not done by the time anyone checks on her, they’ll probably hit her. It wouldn’t be the first time fairies beat her with the buckets, then make her get fresh water to finish her job. Some bruises from the day before still sting.

Eventually, Artoria finishes.

She empties out the buckets and returns them to where they belong, then comes back to her barn. It’s probably around midnight at this point. Time to call it a day, time for her first and only break of the day.

Artoria casts the one most useful spell she knows — the most convenient magecraft Merlin taught her, back before his voice disappeared — and warms herself. Her clothes finally start drying in the comfortable heat.

Spare clothes are a luxury that Artoria wouldn’t even dream of. If nothing else, the water that has seeped into the fabric is a good conductor, helping to spread the warmth.

Artoria lies down on the hay that’s her bed. The earthy scent calms her down, it’s the one peaceful part of her life. Kind enough that Artoria can ignore the stray stalks poking her skin, scratching with any movement.

Though she winces whenever it hits a fresh bruise, drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. Not that she has the headspace to be mindful of that.

Artoria can barely even feel her limbs themselves, only a sore pain that replaces any other sensation. Her whole body feels so unbelievably heavy, like the densest boulder that even the strongest fairy couldn’t lift.

This is normal.

If Artoria is lucky, tomorrow will be a lighter day. The fields are plowed now, sowing takes little time. Maybe she can visit Ector again, too. Artoria hasn’t seen the grumpy fairy in a while.

There aren’t too many chances left to visit him either.

In a few days, Artoria will finally leave Tintagel, once she reaches the age of 20. The fairies have been impatient for that day to come — finally, the prophecy will truly fall into place. This is the day they’ve raised Artoria for.

Artoria will leave Tintagel, set out on the pilgrimage, free the land of Morgan’s rule… And most importantly, Artoria will no longer be Tintagel’s problem.

They’ll be rid of the bother that’s Artoria Caster.

“There’s no point,” Artoria mutters to herself as her eyelids grow heavy. “I won’t make it anyway.”

It’s a truth that Artoria accepts as a fact. She doesn’t want to be the Child of Prophecy, and she has no faith in her own capabilities. Not a single part of her cares about what happens to the fairies or this island anyway.

Artoria is indifferent to all of that.

Leaving Tintagel is a blessing, at least. Her life will get easier for sure. Even with the pilgrimage, it’s not as bad as staying in Tintagel. Maybe she’ll be able to escape all this for good.

Isn’t there that forest…? Maybe that’s worth a try.

A tear finally runs down Artoria’s cheek as she dozes off, perfectly aware that her fate is inescapable. Even trying to run away would be such a pain.

No break is granted to the Child of Prophecy. No true rest is ever permitted for Artoria Caster.

Even the greatest exhaustion would not prevent the storm of darkness, the malice swirling around her in her dreams, the one place where she should be able to take shelter from the cruelties of her daily life.

Artoria just wants this all to be over already.

###

The bright guiding star, the one source of strength Artoria has known, is nowhere to be found anymore. Gone without a trace. She’s surrounded by nothing but blackened currents.

A storm of wretched hatred with Artoria at its heart — but this eye of the storm knows no calm.

It’s where the heavy animosity concentrates, where gusts of malevolence cut the skin without leaving a trace. The pressure is almost suffocating, as though the animosity in the turbulent air leaves little room for oxygen.

Despite the hardship, Artoria continues walking against the storm. Step after step, even when her footing feels shaky. As much as she wants to give up, her legs carry her forward regardless.

Something inside of Artoria pushes her onwards.

The star can’t be gone; it has to be somewhere. Maybe she just can’t spot it. With her eyes squinted as though that allows for clearer sight, Artoria stubbornly marches forward, braving the hateful storm, all on her own.

What has she endured all the pain and sadness for, if even the one thing that was bright is no more? What hope has Artoria been foolishly clinging to?

She can’t accept it to be gone. Artoria won’t accept this.

Even after what feels like an eternity — when her heart and soul have long since accepted the futility of the search for something that might as well never have existed outside of hopeful delusion — Artoria refuses to quit.

She knows there’s no point. Nothing will be found. There’s nothing waiting at the end of this path; nothing in this endless hurricane of pain that looks the same no matter where you look.

Artoria laughs at her own stupidity. A bitter laugh that carries all the resentment for her own self in it.

Suddenly, the storm’s gusts stop cutting her. As though something — the air itself perhaps — shields Artoria from the dark malice surrounding her; something invisible, something that can’t truly be felt.

Something so frail and barely there that it may shatter if touched. Something not meant to exist.

Artoria doesn’t understand what this is, but it feels warm. Warm and safe, kind and protective.

Like a lover’s embrace — an inexplicably familiar gentleness.

The nightmare ends as the storm dissipates into nothingness, and no more dream follows this night. A calm after the storm is granted as respite.

Artoria won’t be able to make sense of this experience even once she leaves the slumber’s land of dreams. What stays with her is the reassurance of something out there not wanting Artoria to be hurt and harmed; something that cares.

The star may be gone, but it’s no longer needed.

---------

The next day comes in silence. No fairy of Tintagel interrupts Artoria’s peace this morning; they must have been too engrossed with whatever thing new and shiny that caught their fancy. Maybe they’ve found a human.

It would be better if they didn’t; better for the poor human.

Artoria stretches, feeling every single muscle in her body — even those she hasn’t known she has — utterly sore. She wants to stay on the hay for a bit longer. Maybe all day.

But Artoria knows better than to follow her slothful whims. If she’s found lazing off in her barn, she might get dragged into work, or training. Anything to turn this weak Fairy of Paradise into a useful Child of Prophecy.

Artoria shudders at the memories that creep up, then wipes them from her mind.

“All right! Time for another day!” She slaps her own cheeks for motivation.

It stings, but that’s a sweet pain that distracts her from the exhaustion that still lingers. Just enough to hype Artoria up for another day — enough to last another day.

She leaves her barn and makes her way to the nearby stream once more. Last night, Artoria didn’t have the mind to care, but now she really wants to wash her face at least.

The peace and quiet of the walk is enjoyable — tranquil and soothing for a hurt soul. Outside of Tintagel, once in a while, Fairy Britain isn’t all that bad. Moments like these lull Artoria into the foolish belief that her life could be less burdensome someday.

Artoria knows immediately that she’s been an idiot to even permit such a thought when she finds none other than a Fairy Knight at the river.

Not just any of them — Fairy Knight Gawain. Morgan’s right hand.

‘Ugh, Bageko…!? What’s she doing here?’

Artoria wouldn’t have thought to meet this oversized mountain of a fairy near Tintagel ever again, not since Barghest had Ector forge her armor. There was no need for that arrogant fairy to be here.

The worst luck to run into a Fairy Knight.

Despite quick reflexes, Artoria barely manages half a step back until Barghest locks eyes with her. She’s been spotted.

Artoria clicks her tongue, but before she knows it, Barghest grips the collar of the still somewhat muddied dress and holds Artoria up by it. Not even her toes can connect with the ground anymore; caught. Captured and helpless.

“Are you the Child of Prophecy?” Barghest asks.

“W-what makes you think that? Let go,” Artoria growls as she kicks her legs in defiance.

She can’t get caught, not now. Not when she’s so close to leaving Tintagel behind and embarking on the pilgrimage she’ll fail.

“You’re a fairy, yet weak as a human,” Barghest states as a matter of fact. “Your appearance and this location match what we’ve been told as well.”

‘Who did…?’

Someone actually told the queen’s army about Artoria? The betrayal cuts deep, but Artoria only intensifies her struggle against Barghest’s hold.

Barghest has no confirmation, and Artoria certainly won’t hand that out either. She’ll play dumb if she has to; Barghest must be stupid enough to believe those lies, too.

“You won’t talk,” Barghest concludes. “Very well. I will take you to Camelot, and then we will see.”

Artoria’s eyes widen — Camelot?

Hadn’t the fairies of Tintagel spoken of Morgan ordering the execution of the Child of Prophecy on the spot? Hadn’t they said that all kinds of fairies were killed immediately on suspicion?

‘Why—’

Artoria doesn’t get to finish that thought. With a swift hit to Artoria’s nape, she’s out cold, accompanied by the return of yesterday’s headache. Barghest has no patience to deal with the tantrum of a suspected Child of Prophecy — she won’t entertain Artoria’s confusion or disbelief.

While Artoria is unconscious, Barghest produces fabric to tie Artoria’s wrists together — a precaution in case the Child of Prophecy awakens early. A blindfold is carefully tied to cover Artoria’s eyes before Barghest puts the knocked out Artoria over her shoulder.

Artoria will not see anyone in Tintagel again. She will not return to the barn, the seeds would be sown by another fairy of the village in her stead. They would believe Artoria fled, ran off ungrateful after everything they’ve done for — to — the Child of Prophecy.

She couldn’t even tell Ector goodbye. Would he wait for Artoria at his shop, just a bit outside of Tintagel?