ፂose ƴourself

Perhaps now Death was just doubting human resilience again.

He noticed the man’s fight to keep upright, to keep going. In these conditions, a fall might prove fatal. So Death quietly kept an eye on him, not knowing how else he could help.

Despite the arctic weather, only a few layers of clothing were worn, certainly less than required at a time like this. As if Death was one to talk, with but a dress shirt, vest and tailcoat, but his case vastly differed from the norm.

It wasn’t much, but Death removed his formal white gloves and held them out tentatively.

One act of kindness after another appeared to be the way of this stranger, going so far as to expose himself to the elements in order to alleviate his discomfort. In the grand scheme of things it may not hold much true benefit, but even the offer was enough to be met with genuine gratitude from Kariya.

"Thank you." Simple words, but the tone in which they were spoken did enough to reveal their heavy meaning. Rarely was such kindness offered to him these days. Perhaps it was the fate of all those who called themselves magus, loath as he had been to do so. In the end, it was one that he would bear if he must - for her sake.

With practiced care, one learned through the necessity of fragility, he slipped the gloves over his bare hands. Perhaps even slightly more care than one would expect from even those reasons, as he endeavored to keep the red outline of Command Seals out of sight. The transition from thinly-lined pocket to more practical attire made an immediate and significant difference. A little mental note accompanied that realization, considering putting winter outerwear to his small list of purchases.

In the dying death of days, so blighted were those world-weary eyes that they should look upon the sky and shrivel against it, as parchment singed by flame, their ennui ascending on high with the billowing, undulating smoke. Death did watch many a good man succumb to the soothing waters of despair, so deeply tempting their susurrus, beckoning like the lull of a ship at sea, that he too might imbibe the siren-song and wish release.

Absinthe and nepenthe sipped, Lethean teardrops streaking besmirched cheeks, the souls traipsed ‘cross unending blank space, too great and too numerous their sufferings, and a lifetime of that for what? A vale of years, a vale of tears, it all pointed to one thing, the incontrovertible truth that was Death.

The man he saw then appeared one upon whom life showed no mercy. He bore a face not easily forgotten, slightly disfigured and doubtfully by natural force, half of it eaten by ruin. Death pondered a moment the sheer determination which eddied about the man’s visage, reflecting an unbreakable volition, like that of the sick reaching for life. ‘Twas beyond the shadow of doubt this man had endured immense hardship, perhaps such that he toed the brink, but yet to come was the day he crossed it.

Death grew increasingly curious as to this man’s story and eventually came up beside him whilst he limped and hobbled down the snowy sidewalk.

But, some needs overpowered others and here he was, focusing more on the act of placing one foot in front of the other than on the buffeting wind and snow. Not many people were out in this weather and even fewer passed his way, likely because of deliberate avoidance. That was perfectly fine in Kariya's opinion, being unsure of his ability to keep up much conversation while engaged in his personal battle.

However, one person did approach him. An odd occurrence, especially when bearing such a formal offer. Despite the renewed wave of pain it sent through him, he couldn't help but look up to see who such a person might be. His appearance matched his voice, almost as if he had been plucked out of an old historical novel. There was something else he noticed about the other, something much more difficult to describe. It was almost the spark of familiarity, though he had no memories of meeting a person so distinct.

He wasn't allowed to muse long on the matter, seeing as his balance was being increasingly threatened by traitorous muscles. He needed to provide an answer to that polite question. Many would simply shrug it off, a certain measure of independence necessitating that they make their way on their own. Pride might be a better word. Of course, pride was what whispered in Tokiomi's ear, the sole motivator of each action and word. If there was one person to whom Kariya never wanted to be compared, it was that man. He would not stand on pride. In fact, if he declined the offer it was more than likely that he wouldn't stand at all after a few moments.

     Blinking through his mask, Ayato became aware this was a room in the house he had been told he would be staying at, or more so, that he had just known he was going to stay in— the Grail had been so kind as to share such information. The summoner was there, and below him was the circle he had used, but Ayato cared not for his methods— it was preferable to evaluate this man rather than to concern himself with other things. After all, he wasn’t intent on serving anyone if they couldn’t live up to his standards.

     The first word to trickle into his mind was disappointment.  

     The man was heaving for breath, exhausted from the ritual, and Ayato felt his eyebrows furrow— but of course, the white haired male before him could not see through his mask. Instead, he breathed out a sigh, not bothering to conceal it and shook his head somewhat. An old man, was it? How was he to even strive to win if summoning the Servant wore him out— how was he even going to be able to use his Kagune? With it being his Noble Phantasm, he was only able to use it sometimes, not that he needed it for some of the weaklings that called themselves Servants— but regardless, it would be nice to have the choice. Having him dying on her, well, it wouldn’t be good.

Speaking of mocking, try as he might, he couldn't quite summon the energy to be annoyed by that deprecating tone. Of course, that only served to illustrate the exact things that had been pointed out. There was no point in denying the obvious. He knew better than anyone else how ill-equipped he was for the Holy Grail War even with the added power of the Crest Worms. That was exactly what his Servant was here for.

"That's fine." It was barely audible, mostly because he was focusing more strongly on the stability of his voice than it's volume. Berserker hadn't been particularly present either and so he wasn't unaccustomed to taking a different path from his Servant. In fact, ignorant of many of the nuances of Servant classes though he was, the fact that his breath didn't play the same role of a runaway train made him certain that sustaining Rabbit wouldn't be quite as strenuous on his failing body. His objections with their arrangement were few. "As long as I win the Grail, it's fine." It wasn't so much words for Archer as a reassurance to himself.