"The wishes and dreams of the few remaining contestants are quite the read…" The paper folded back down perfectly in Merlin's delicate grasp, before he disappeared it with a practised flick of his nimble fingers. The fine movement barely fluttered the oversized sleeves of his pristine white silk robes.
"Don't you think it's a bit invasive to read those things?" Achilles asked, leaning back against the wall, taking care not to press the back of his jet black warrior's jumpsuit too closely against its surface. He rubbed idly at the silver eagle emblazoned on his chest as he quizzed the mercurial wizard.
"I do not. It is with pleasure I take their dreams, listen to, and appreciate them. After all, knowing their desires does in fact help understand them better."
"And what is the benefit of understanding them, Merlin?" The door snapped shut behind Athena as she crossed her arms, her silver armor plates making a faint discordant screech as they slid together.
The magician whistled. "You are harsh, Goddess. They are putting so much effort into saving themselves. Losing robs them of the time that may have been extended to them in Hell's Lobby, and yet they take the risk to save themselves from such a terrible fate. It is respectful to at least try to sympathise."
"Such things only create sentiments, which is not our place. Remember that, ancient wizard. We are not here to identify with them, only to judge, and discover what Loki is planning."
Merlin waved his hand. "I know, I know... still. It is for my own personal benefit that I read this, and listen to their wishes."
"Where are we at with finding anything out, anyway?" Cu asked, as he emerged from his spirit form, sporting his usual tights of royal blue and shoulder armor. "We are already halfway through this thing, and have been comin' up empty."
Merlin hummed, swaying side-to-side as if there were music. "Not quite. The Norse text Athena has been studying pointed to some interesting findings. Now it is just a matter of placing the pieces together."
"When were you planning on sharing that with us? What with all of your shenanigans—you're gonna make us think you're in on it with him," Achilles stated, shaking his chartreuse locks.
Cu sucked his teeth. "Well, what are we gonna do until then?" He scratched at the neck of his form-fitting blue skinsuit as he impatiently awaited a response.
"What we have been doing," Athena replied smoothly, eyes shifting around the Heroic Spirits that had answered her offer for assistance in unraveling the true meaning of this tournament, and the wizard that seemed to be playing at each side of this.
She smoothed a tiny crease in the dark purple heavy material of her tunic as she concluded, "We shall play along until the end, as the predictions foretell we should."
—
It was probably best not to scavenge for more ways to piss off anyone in the tournament, so Haley returned the book Ozzard left back onto the shelf, and began escorting herself out. It wasn't until she saw yet another familiar face that it felt as if her intestines twisted into a pretzel.
Kayneth meandered into the library, casually wearing light blue and gold robes that rivaled the shine in his cerulean eyes. The golden-haired magus shot the leaving Observer a disdainful glance, then locked eyes with the similarly blue-eyed woman. Haley indented her lower lip with her top teeth; this was becoming an eventful afternoon.
Well, it did not have to be. The number of contestants had dropped tremendously; conversely, the possibility of colliding with others was that much more likely. Knowing this, Haley gathered her inner courage and strutted forward.
Heavy garments splayed outward as he blocked the exit. Haley halted and glared at the Englishman. "We can't fight outside the Arena," she said simply, but the man's stare never shifted.
"Why do you fight so hard for that wretched beast? Certainly… your gifts would serve you better for other tasks."
Haley turned to face the smug bastard, pointing an accusing finger to his sharp nose. "Don't talk like you know anything about me, or Diarmuid."
"Tch—I know you're spellbound by that fiend's atrocious mole. How unfortunate for you; given my experience, it'll end in disaster. You should quit, leave this place," Kayneth went on, successfully annoying the woman to new heights.
Haley gripped her hands into fists at her side. She could sense his intentions: he was trying to provoke her, while also keeping her here for something. She would not play along... however, she would give him a much needed jab. "I'll have you know: a mage of minimal skill has the ability to negate the effects of his mole, Kayneth. Now move out of the way."
The blasted point made its mark as Kayneth hissed and dropped his arm, and the exultant woman departed.
—
When his Lady returned, Diarmuid immediately understood that something was wrong. It was no longer required for the Spirit to connect to her through magic in order to register her growing angst. "What's wrong?".
Haley slugged over, plopping her rump on Diarmuid's toned thighs. He had to adjust, and slung her arm around his neck to keep her snug against the right side of his sternum. She seemed to appreciate the postural modification.
"Before I say anything, you have to swear you won't freak out, okay?".
Diarmuid nodded, not quite sure what it was she could possibly have to tell him, after only being gone a short while. Hadn't she wanted to collect some books? Her hands were empty upon entering, so he could only assume something negative had transpired during her visit to the library. Baffled, the Knight reluctantly swore that his attitude would remain neutral.
Upon hearing her recollection of events, however, Diarmuid's heart was wrung out like a cloth, the blood leaking out in droplets as he perceived that he was the reason for Trista's punishment. While he was glad that their draw had given them both the chance to move forward in their time in the Underworld— he was horrified to learn it had disastrously ended in her torture.
Thinking on it further, the Knight knew that the Observer was considered a Divine Spirit—a special being in terms of power and grace—so the punishments must have been severe. If the enhanced cuffs, and weaponry they empowered were any inclination of what that kind of pain might be... he was considerably worried.
Haley reacted to the downcast look of her Knight by telling him that Ozzard had confirmed it was Trista's choice, and that she would return okay. Though it bothered her just the same, Diarmuid had to let the matter go, too. In the end, they could fret for centuries, but it would only result in further problems.
Diarmuid accepted that, but it still did not deter the nagging feeling that he was at fault. His very actions had put them into a spotlight of negative attention once more. If the judges were constantly in conversation on their choices, it was left up to their imagination as to what would happen to them next. If Loki were the God most infuriated, the punishment for doing battle outside the Arena that the God of Mischief was preparing, would feel that much more severe.
It was difficult—the psychic knew that better than anyone else. Though both of them had to move forward, as that seemed to be the Observer's wish. If not, the opportunity would have been stolen, along with Diarmuid's Spirit.
"I think the best we can do, is fight that much harder, and show them what we are made of. For Trista, for the souls lost fighting for their desires, and for preserving your Spirit." Haley drew the man closer, and ran her fingers through his soft, raven hair. "I can't imagine doing anything else."
Diarmuid swooped the woman under his arms, chuckling at how tightly she clung to him as he dropped them both comfortably onto the bed. "I cannot disagree."
Haley snuggled closer to the thrumming sound of Diarmuid's heart beat. "That's good, then... I have to tell you one more thing."
—
Haley perceived that it had been a long time since she had seen the rage-filled Diarmuid that she had come here to rescue. She clung to his tense frame, forehead pressed against his heavily rising and falling chest. It was well known that to a Knight, disrespecting their Lord or Lady was a great transgression. Only this idea was now amplified tenfold, given the history between the two.
Haley felt terrible for this, but realized that keeping it from her Knight would only accelerate the evils of the world within him.
As for Diarmuid, he attempted to contain his warring emotions. He was no fool; after the imagery he witnessed during his past failure to break down the final bits of the curse laying dormant, he knew that any wavering of his control would unleash… whatever the hell the thing inside him was trying to morph him into. Demon, monster, it mattered not.
However, what really rattled his bones and infuriated his spirit was the forwardness of his former Master. That bastard was playing a dangerous game, approaching and talking to his Lady so nastily. As a Knight—it was something he could not allow. How was he to balance his truisms, while keeping his darkness from manifesting?
"Diar…" The low rasp in Haley's voice, and her loosened grip exacerbated the Knight's aggravated nerves. "I... don't feel so good."
"What...?" Diarmuid tapped his knuckles lightly against the exposed wrinkles of her forehead; the heat from her brow was like a flame to his skin. "My Lady… you are scorching."
"Mmm… hmm…" Haley nodded into the man who arched upward. All of a sudden, she felt drained and nauseated. She attempted to adjust her limbs, to find a better position in the arms of the man cradling her, but her muscles wouldn't budge.
All internal frustrations were directed far away, as Diarmuid wiped the sudden build-up of sweat from his Lady's rosy red cheeks and eyebrows. Worry set in, as she felt like a ton of bricks in his lap. "What can I do?"
"M-medicine...? I—" Distress swamped the Knight as his Lady went limp in his hold. Medicine? He did not know what exactly to collect for her. She was fine just seconds ago, and now she was hotter than the sun, and pendulous in his arms.
Diarmuid placidly laid the woman onto the bed and pulled the blankets from underneath her. Quickly, he retrieved a wet cloth with cool water and dabbed the dampness away. The Lady's breathing went heavy, and hurried, as if she were attempting to catch air. Her skin had turned whiter than a ghost.
After placing a gentle kiss on her dry, parted lips, Diarmuid slid on his shoes, retrieved the watch from the Lady's meek wrist, and roamed the Hotel. Surely one of these shops would have herbs or other healing remedies to assist his Lady to recover her health, yes?
Fortunately, his endless searching revealed a small shop with a medical banner across the golden halls. Having little knowledge of modern medicine, he had no idea what was needed. Lady Haley definitely had a fever, but the sudden onslaught of sickness was unnatural.
"Can I help you, sir?"
Diarmuid observed the clerk from the counter approach him cautiously, wiping down his glasses. The question for the need of lenses for a soul was quickly turned away as the Knight leaned over his arm.
"If you would; my Lady has fallen under a sudden fever, and I am unsure what is the best way to help her. Is there something you could suggest?"
The man adjusted his long sleeves, and slid his frames back on. "Sudden fever? I could provide you with a fever reducer. Does she have any other symptoms? "
"Yes—right after her temperature spiked, her breathing labored, and then she collapsed in my arms."
The clerk tilted his head, after turning to one of the aisles. After perusing the shelves, he pulled out a bottle. "Just collapsed? Wait, how sudden was this fever? Did she show any signs beforehand of getting sick?"
Diarmuid shook his head. "No, she was her usual perky self. I am quite shocked by the sudden sickness."
"That doesn't sound normal. You have the currency for medical attention, yes?" The clerk slid his hands into his trouser pockets. "If so, I can take a look, and see precisely what she needs."
"I would be forever grateful," the Knight said, as he toyed with the features on the watch and held the little trinket forward to show the sums of what coin they had. "This is the total of which we have, would it be enough?"
Steel eyes spied the count on the watch, and scoffed. "Plenty. You must be one of the top tier players."
Diarmuid raised his shoulders in a passive shrug. "I would assume so," he said flatly, sliding the watch back over his wrist. "Might we go? I am truly worried for my Lady's well being."
Running his lanky fingers through the threads of his short dark hair, the clerk waltzed back to his counter and retrieved a small sign. He hung it on the doors, and motioned over an Observer from the back of his store (who had been keeping tabs on their conversation from afar). Once the armored man joined them, the strange group of souls traveled back to Diarmuid's quarters.
While the Observer's eyes finished scanning the room for any mischief, the clerk knelt beside the woman panting in the bed. The girl's body was blistering hot, her face red as a pepper. Anyone in the room could tell that this was no ordinary fever. Honestly, the man was glad he was no longer alive, as being sick was something he no longer had to worry about.
"Oh, not good," the clerk breathed, as the thermometer read 104. That was dangerous. What he thought worse, after fully inspecting her, was that she was not actually sick. How was he supposed to convey that this was magic ?
"What is it...?" Diarmuid asked as the man stood, gripping his briefcase in his hand.
The clerk glanced over to the Observer, then at the fellow spirit. "I am going to leave you with a powerful fever reducer, but there is nothing I can do," he spared a look of pity to the contestant before he added calmly, "I might have to report this, though."
"Report what? I do not understand—my Lady is sick. Is there not something we can do...?" The Knight pressed, but kept his composure as best he could, so as not to startle the warrior in the room.
The clerk strolled to the Observer, "There… is to be no fighting outside the Arena. I am not sure what you two were doing, but the woman is sick from some sort of magic spell. I don't have clearance to help with that."
"Magic?" Diarmuid parroted in disbelief. That—was impossible. He and the Lady only spent the day either in the room, or outside with their picnic so how—"Fucking Kayneth." The Knight grit his teeth, and suppressed the anger flowing through his bloodless veins. He needed to collect himself, as the cold stares from the men across from him threatened their safety.
"We took part in no such thing. My Lady only visited the Library, and was confronted by a fellow combatant; I swear to you, all she did was exchange words and come back to our establishment."
The Observer clicked his tongue. "Is that so?"
"I swear to it—my word is true. We would not do anything that would threaten our safety." Diarmuid strained to remain calm. If the Observer did not believe him, this would be their final stretch, and all for nothing. Was this Kayneth's confounded plan? To get them eliminated? If so, it was rather a stupid one. The Observers would definitely go after whoever placed the spell, no?
Either way, all that mattered was that his Lady was sick from some fell magic, and he had no way of helping her recover. The clerk was clearly unable to mend her illness, and certainly if he had no knowledge of it—then Diarmuid surely would not.
This was exactly what the Irishman worried about. Leaving their confinements was a bad idea with enemies surrounding the place. Still, it was rather bold of Kayneth to do this… if only he could prove the Prestige Magus had schemed this ordeal, then maybe…
The Observer broke the space between them, eyeing the sickly woman gasping for breath and the Forsaken before him. It was a sticky situation. If any doubt were present, his immediate action should be to remove the Damned in question. Best not to take the risk, but this particular spirit was under quite the watchful eyes.
Kneeling down at the woman's side, the Observer hovered his hands over the woman's belly, and traveled over her form. He would be able to detect signs of a skirmish if there was any healing magic residing, or maybe wounds or any sort of dispelled energy coming from her. If he remembered correctly, the girl did possess non-magical abilities, but this would do.
"Hmm. No signs of anything," he said quietly, and then turned the woman onto her side. "Ah, here."
After exchanging glances with the clerk who tapped his foot anxiously, Diarmuid watched apprehensively, wondering exactly what the warrior was doing.
"A rune spell, interesting. This particular one, you just need to be in proximity, for it to be placed and work. I can't imagine someone fighting and being able to instill this so easily," the Observer concluded. "I can do something about this, but the effects will still linger."
Diarmuid heaved in relief. "And what of the person who placed this rune?"
Light brimming from his palms, the Observer rocked from side-to-side, uncrafting the magic at work while contemplating the answer. "Unless you have concrete proof, I can't do a thing. The thing about runes is, the magical energy creating one disperses easily. So I won't be able to trace who made it."
The Knight sank into the soft cushions of the sofa. "No," Diarmuid murmured as he cupped his face in his hands.
"Larron, may I be excused if I am no longer needed? I need to return to the shop," the clerk stated, placing the small bottle of medicine in his hand onto the top of the phone's box on the wall.
"You were free to go whenever," Larron shrugged, keeping his focus on the bedridden woman, whose breathing finally returned to a regular pace. "Best to forget about this, yeah?"
Glaring at Larron, the clerk stared at the Forsaken—whose face remained buried in his palms—and then nodded. It was none of his business; he was a simple soul, only meant to sell and help with general sickness for the living, nothing more. If the Observer felt the matter didn't need discussion, then he was to return to his shop… which he was glad to do.
—
It took the Observer a few tries to dismantle the mage-craft behind the rune, but after a few hours, he was finally finished. The entire time, Larron swore that the Forsaken would pace a hole in the floor. A few times he overheard It chastising Itself for letting her go to the Library alone; that It didn't learn from the first time, letting the one It protected out of It's sight.
What was It going on about? Something in Its life before death? Not that it mattered to him, of course.
"Alright, the spell's been removed, and she will be fine," Larron stated, as the fidgeting man crept to the bedside. "I have bad news, though."
Diarmuid deflated onto the bed like a balloon expelling air. There was not much more abhorrent news he could take. There was a target on his and the Lady's back in far more ways than he'd like. The events coming forth were beginning to feel all too familiar, and it drained all the Knight's energy.
"Go on, tell me."
The Observer adjusted his armor, and turned his back to the participant. "There is magical residue that will take some time to dissipate. With the tournament continuing a day and a half from now, that means—"
Slowly drifting onto his side, Diarmuid tiddered his fingertips down the backside of his Lady's arm, to the hand he clasped in his. "She wouldn't be well, if she were to participate."
" When she participates," Larron said, wagging his finger. "Keep in mind, Forsaken, if you do not show to the round regardless of circumstance—it will be considered a forfeit, and your time as a spirit ends." The door clicked shut behind him, the room falling quiet.
Diarmuid drew the woman's frail frame closer to his strong build. Her back was perfectly outlined to him; the long locks of hair seamlessly falling through his fingers as he unbound them from the clip. The Knight whispered an apology to the back of her shoulder, for allowing their enemies to do such a thing to her.
The former Servant was filled with an overwhelming sense of guilt. He had disgraced himself, unable to protect a single woman once again; someone he was bound to care for as her teammate, her Knight, and her… partner.
What a mess this all was. How was she to partake in battle in such a state? He could not allow it and yet… their battle would end there. He would be separated from her, lost to an eternal suffering they fought so honorably to avoid. No matter the choice: the results were grim.
"Mm… Diar…muid?" his Lady mumbled, as she pulled his arm over her waist.
"Shh, my Lady, you must rest." Diarmuid's low-pitched tone was soothing to Haley's ears. Even though her head was throbbing, and she felt as if she'd been pounded by a meat cleaver, his gentle voice was always comforting.
"Okay… but when I wake... If we have time... I want..." In the middle of her choppy speech, a dizzy spell pulsed in her temples, and the woman's consciousness wavered. "I want you to see… me draw… anything you'd like... what would that be...?"
Diarmuid's lips kicked up at the corners and soon after he gently kissed her florid cheeks. His mind had not been settled, since the revelations that took place endlessly berated his very thoughts. However, this woman always found ways in her sweet approach towards him and their world to steer his ever-conflicted emotions to a comforting place.
Even bedridden, his Lady thought only of what they could do together next… how they could spend even a few mere moments before the competition set forth once again. Despite Diarmuid's nagging pain of failure (plagued as he was by his history, and the events earlier), he was possessed only of a yearning need to gravitate towards the woman in his arms.
Yes, it was foolish to think he (especially not she ) would remain in their furnishings instead of taking place in the next boss battle. Her dedication to him was too great, and his heart too infatuated to do anything but prolong their stay together. However selfish and dangerous that might be, he knew she'd welcome that idea rather than staying in bed, and losing his spirit forever.
So in the upcoming fight, his resolve would be to ensure her safety like no other. Now… as for her question...
"Alright... I wish for you to draw…" he paused, as his thumb drew circles on her soft, warm skin. What would he like to see? Thinking on it, and all the frustrating yet beautiful occurrences of the day… "A moment in this… tournament… that has captured your heart."
"Oh… I... like that..." she said softly. Despite the unfortunate events, she couldn't help but be overwhelmed with happiness. To have someone who genuinely cared for her, despite how naive and childish she could be, was a treasure more valuable than seas of gold. Yeah, this drawing was going to be difficult… because her time with Diarmuid had too many moments that captured her heart.
Haley then snuggled into his embrace, contouring his arm under her chin. Having his body so close, she felt a bit of heat burning through her skin. Well, she did have a fever, last she remembered. Sensing her thoughts slipping away, she mumbled the first idea that came to mind. "Hey Diarmuid… is the AC on…?"
Diarmuid's brows furrowed, and while he thought to ask why she'd wonder such a thing, he squashed the question. She was sick after all—and seemingly lost to sleep once more—so he settled on it being just her strange, delusional rambling.
ooooo
I am not so sure about this chapter. It came really late for me to finish it. I've been battling so much IRL bullshit, between work, special needs son, some internal imperfections. Just so much. I am sorry if this chapter does not read well, these events were important, though. I am a ittle frustrated with how i went about it, and feel it is lackluster but alas, hopefully you all enjoy it! My beta believes I am too harsh on my writing, probably true. lol I hope yall have stuck around, and are enjoying this story! I have been so down this week, and its been hard to find a positive in anything.
Anyway, hope to see yall next monday! Until then, have a good week!