AN: Just to keep this brief, here's the new chapter. Hope you enjoy it and please leave a review if its not too much of a burden.
Chapter 4 – Mediation
With its life prolonged into the new day by a fresh supply of firewood, the soft glowing of the fireplace prevented the gloom of day from penetrating the inner sanctuary of the manor. Pleasant crackling of splinters and the mellow aroma of home-cooked meal deepened the contrast. However, for its occupant, the spark of tension in the air might have made the stormy forest outside much more welcoming than the cozy dining room.
The meal was a daily ritual that they observed at Ilya's behest. As a Heroic Spirit, it might just seem excessive for Berserker to indulge in the physical consumption of food, but he was more than willing to waste a couple of perfectly good steaks to abide by her wish. The refinement in the cuisine of the present day and age was discovered as a pleasant surprise, a little source of guilty pleasure amidst the theater of war, albeit not for today. With all the tension in the air, even the luscious taste of wood-grilled sirloin on his tongue seemed to resemble strips of rubber. The reason for this was obvious.
In any ordinary day, their meals were filled with Ilya's joyous chirping, but now all that could be heard was the soft clinging of utensils and the torrents of raindrops that struck the castle's stony exterior. Apparently, a night of peaceful slumber wasn't quite enough to smother the girl's anger, as made evident by her simmering pout and occasional side-way glares to convey her displeasure.
Ilya had taken offense to his insubordination, much more so than what he had assumed. It was scarcely the first time that he had offended her whether intentionally or through carelessness, but usually it took no more than a couple of hours to get rid of her sulkiness.
Exchanging nervous glances from their position beside Ilya, the maids were evidently troubled. Without knowledge of the event that had transpired, their consolation contributed to no effect and neither Berserker nor Ilya was willing to divulge any details of the last night.
Berserker considered it to be an embarrassing oversight on his part. It shouldn't have taken so long for it to dawn upon him that she would not be sharing the same sentiment in sparing the boy. Still, he did have a small solace in the fact that the concession on her part was obtained without excessive resistance rather than pressing for the boy's death to the bitter end.
…Hesitation, perhaps, at least he hoped so. Otherwise, the possibility of reconciliation would just seem ever more distant.
…No, he had to know that it was so.
Berserker berated himself for the moment of flickering doubt. To pull this gambit through, the trust that he'd placed in her innocence must be unwavering, regardless of the girl's attempt to convince herself otherwise. He would not allow this pair of eyes that had seen through the world of senseless violence to be fooled any longer. Unlike those who reveled in the despair and demise of others, Ilya was not one to share that same apathy toward human life.
It had been said that Masters and Servants are drawn together on account of their similarities, the virtuous to the virtuous, the ruthless to the ruthless, and the tormented to the tormented. A little absurd to think that this delicate little girl could bear any semblance to him, but, in that respect, the Grail would barely lump them together simply to share sob stories.
Beyond a Servant's ordinary call of duty, it was his mission to prevent her from treading down that same path he had fallen into during a brief moment of rage.
…And that brought him back to defusing the present situation.
First was the issue of dealing with Ilya's temper. It might be far from his first experience in handling sulking and displeased children, but her conflict was quite unlike the small squabbles that he was so used to intervening in.
After long years of assuming the role of a family mediator, it was not so difficult to find his children in the midst of their quarrel. Often, it was the boys wrestling on the ground and, occasionally, it was them quarreling with their little sister. While conflicts might've gotten out of hand in some rare occasions, no permanent damage was ever done and, under his guidance, reconciliation was quick to follow.
Such was not the case with the hatred that Ilya bore against her brother. The emotion was kept alive for ten long years, fed with loneliness and envy. Ten years was a long time to harbor a grudge against someone, much less a family member.
Gentle sunlight and mellow breezes along the Mediterranean coastline seemed to be giving a poor indication to the squabble that was raging on beneath. Two small bodies intertwined in a tangled brawl, shouting, cursing, spitting, and pummeling every part of the opponent they could reach.
Although both were too engrossed to notice, the quarrel was not to last long. Following heavy footsteps that approached were two strong hands that seized the back of their collars. With little effort but much exasperation, Heracles proceeded to separate the troublemakers.
The strongman of the community, he was the one that they sought to intervene when a brawl broke out. Once a task such as this was repeated enough times, it grew to become a habit. Children or adults, there were none who had the heart to continue their quarrel in his presence…save for his children at least.
One unruly child held in each hand, suspended a short distance above ground and away from the range of their small swinging fists, they took turn glaring at him and one another while awaiting the verdict of their father.
"What was the cause…?"
"…He insulted me…Father."
The reason was indeed trivial, but, at their age, he could claim no better. Sharp temper and physical prowess seemed to be all that they'd inherited from him, but his watchful eyes had done their best to prevent their fists from being bloodied. Although the past could not be undone, the least he could do was to prevent them from repeating his mistake.
Judging that the position they were in was a poor one with which to engage in a talk, he lowered both to the lush ground beneath and sat beside them.
"My boys, the time will come when fortune forces your hands to protect that which you hold dear…But, before then, do not be so eager to raise your hands for a causeless quarrel. Know when words will suffice, for a hand once dirtied cannot be made clean. Like a sword, keep them sheathed, keep them ready, and keep your mind wary to know when to draw."
The boys blinked in surprise.
It was a rare response from their usually stoic father, who often spared no more than a few words and body gesture to show his affection.
"I will, father. I won't fight anymore, just watch me."
"M-Me too, I won't lose…"
Emboldened by their father's trust, the boys' frowns were transformed into toothy grins. All traces of anger had mellowed away from their faces, leaving only determination to be seen.
Still, he was certain that the promise would not last. Neither of them could resist the allure of a brawl for so long. Nevertheless, for all intents and purposes, he was satisfied with their initiative.
…When the time came to remind them, he was certain a crack of his wife's hand across their behinds would suffice.
There was little room for doubt that there were no more than a handful of Servants who could match his caliber, but, as was the nature of all war, demise often befell those who expect it least. The whole matter was delicate, undeniably so, but he had little time to be treading around with hesitation. All Servants were effectively was living on a borrowed time and he was no different.
With the peevish frown on her face, it could be expected that she would reject the opportunity to talk altogether. Nevertheless, it was shameful to allow an obstacle of this size to deter him.
The time to act was now.
"Ilya…" Tossing the girl's name aloud as if to test her mood, he soon received a less than reassuring response.
"I'm not going to talk to you…" Both cheeks puffed up like an angry chipmunk; she turned to the side to avoid establishing eye contact with the giant.
With one massive hand lifted up to knead his temple, Berserker withheld a heavy sigh. While it should already be predictable, her curt reply was a greater cause of vexation than he had thought.
"Just listen then."
"…"
"About the boy…Shirou, is it?"
Her brow furrowed in displeasure at the mention of his name, but otherwise her silence allowed Berserker to push on.
"…Have you considered reconciling with him?"
The question was voiced in his usual way, blunt and bordering on tactless but, nevertheless, sincere. After all, that was what he had intended…to open her eyes to an alternate possibility that didn't require blood to be shed.
Ilya, however, seemed to perceive his gesture differently. Despite Berserker's attempt to mellow down his approach away from being confrontational, her visage had gone through an indignant twist, leaving no trace of the childish pout remaining. The knowledge of his intention about turned what was simply annoyance and sulking into sharp anger.
"What do you…? What do you understand?!"
"No more than what you have told me about the matter," Berserker replied, maintaining a calm disposition to quell the girl's rage. "However, I do understand the value of a family, all the more so if he is the only one that remains."
"Family? Him?! He's the reason why father didn't return home!" In the heat of the moment, it seemed impossible for Ilya to remain in the confinement of her chair. Still, springing up from her seat didn't accomplish much in the term of intimidation against Berserker, who still seemed to tower over her even while seating.
It was a grossly mismatched confrontation; this frail girl, who might just crumble from the giant's slightest touch, boldly initiating a verbal banter with him. However, what underlay her act of defiance was not courage, but the complete trust that his strength would not be directed toward her in hostility. It was unfortunate that both were too preoccupied with surmounting the other to take notice as the inquiry soon escalated into a confrontation.
The relief that washed over Sella's and Leysritt's face for a moment soon waned into another spell of unease. It might not be in any of their best interests for the argument to drag on, but both remained unsure of the manner in which they could intervene. After all, a homunculus' role was in taking order, not initiative.
"Ilya, listen…"
"I don't care! If he wasn't there…! If he just wasn't there…!"
"You were in pain. I understand that much, but is he the one that your anger is supposed to be directed toward? Is it not a better alternative to cherish those who remain rather than pining those you've lost?"
"That-" Ilya's words of response seemed to be stuck within her throat. Berserker's earlier response struck a chord inside her.
"I wish for your smile, Ilya, not simply from victory in this war, but thereafter. It might be well to cherish those in your memory, but never forget about those who remain."
Berserker's words contained a fact that Ilya's rational side could not deny, but her emotional side could not come to terms with. It was by marking Shirou as a target that she could live through the hardship that the Einzberns put her through. To deny that would be to deny the purpose of her existence ever since she had learned of Kiritsugu's death.
Yet, a part of her was swayed, if only for a moment. The possibility was one that she herself had entertained before, albeit briefly, before it was soon discarded. The foundation of her belief was being shaken and it scared her. As such, she lashed out in defense of the notion that she had nurtured for nearly 10 years.
"…What now? You're telling me what to do?"
"…If that is what it takes for your happiness."
"Don't act so cocky! You're just a Servant!"
"A Servant perhaps, but I've lived long enough to learn and teach others about life."
"You were just summoned here to fight!" In a wave of feigned immaturity, words she hadn't truly meant flowed out in vicious torrent.
"Don't start acting like you're my father!"
This time the room fell momentarily into heavy silence with the lack of Berserker's response. Even Ilya herself seemed to realize that she had made a major blunder.
Her accusation seemed to have left even the emotionally-inscrutable Berserker caught in a brief moment of vulnerability. With a slight hint of disappointment to tinge his face, he backed down for the moment. "…Very well, perhaps I did overstep my bounds."
"Of course…of course, you did!" If regret did wash over Ilya, it only did so momentarily before being subsumed by a sense of victory in this verbal banter.
"We will save the argument for later, but spare a thought to what I've said. Once you've killed, the consequence can never be undone, no matter how you wish for the contrary. Think the matter through, Ilya, then tell me your answer."
Ilya clenched her teeth as annoyance flared. Once again, Berserker's words aggravated her and, once again, they made her say something she hadn't fully intended.
"It not's like you have the right to preach to me about this, someone who killed his whole family like you-"
A glance at Berserker cut Ilya off in the middle of her sentence. It was no longer the usual condescending look on his face but a rage-filled glare.
"I said enough of this argument, girl!" A thunderous boom resounded throughout the room as his right fist was slammed down on the table. The gesture might have been meant as an emphasis to his annoyance, but anger had slackened his control over his Herculean strength.
A desperate creak and running crack emerged where his hand had landed as the aged furniture gave in and collapsed to the ground. Amidst the ensuing chaos, the maids swiftly moved to the protection of their mistress, shielding her from flying wood dust and splinters.
As the commotion eventually died down, it took another painfully long moment and vicious glares from the maids for Berserker to comprehend the consequence of his action. Laying down the gold-laced utensils on the small portion of the furniture that still remained intact, Berserker pushed his seat backward for a swift exit. He no longer dared to stay, fearing any minor cause that could trigger his simmering anger to overflow into an outward display of violence.
"Leave me be…" Although dampened by guilt, the cold monotonous words that rolled off the giant's tongue were sufficient to make it clear that his anger had yet to be dissipated.
The blatant display of rage had Ilya rooted to the spot, a perfect reminder that it would require no more effort to twist her neck out of its socket than performing an ordinary chore. The dire consequences of pursuing him or the matter seemed apparent at the moment.
Ilya wasn't quite as blind to the feelings of others as her self-centeredness seemed to indicate, and the impact of her words did eventually sink in, but the shreds of remaining anger prevented any simple phrases of apology to be uttered.
Any argument between family members held room for neither victor nor loser. All that stood to be gained from it was much pain and regret on both sides, but, with how the current situation played out, neither side was willing to acknowledge the futility of their argument. To do so would be to acknowledge their error, implicitly signifying concession on their part. Though flawed, the beliefs that they each stood for were an integral of part of their being that could not be conceded.
Torrents of pride, anger, and fear convinced both to choose departure as favorable to mending their differences. Without waitinf for another word to be uttered from the girl's lips, Berserker swung the lavishly decorated oak door shut, momentarily drowning out the sound of protest and raindrops with a force that seemed shake the very foundation of the manor itself.