The pounding in Diarmuid's head was merciless. He felt like a heavy metal band's drum set right after a concert: Sweaty, battered, and definitely broken in places.

"Ya fucking eejit."

Cú was merciless in smacking Diarmuid upside the head, shocking him out of his groggy stupor. He shot up from the couch, eyes wildly looking for his spears, but they found naught but bloody bandages, pieces of gauze, and the unmistakably too-clean smell of antiseptic.

When did they get home?

"Well don't go tearing up your fecking stitches!" Cú yelled, shoving Diarmuid back down onto the couch when he tried to get up. "Ya won't believe what sort of shit I had to watch to get those right!"

Diarmuid shook his head like a dog would shake off water, flinging sand all across the living room, much to Cú's chagrin. They'd be finding sand in the carpet for the next month or so, with the mess he was making.

The sleep gone from his system, he looked around, seeing the familiar black carpet, the aloe plant on the balcony, and some chinese takeout on the kitchen counter. Weren't they just at the beach?

He rubbed his eyelids and sighed, waiting for the blurriness to clear from his vision. When it did, he finally realized his apparent state of undress, seeing what used to be a good set of clothes lying crumpled and bloodied on the wooden floor.

Oh.

He looked down at his bare torso, finding the gash at his side completely stitched up, with strange, glowing orange symbols floating just a finger's width above it. The wound on his thigh was the same, warm, neon letters floating above a cut that looked like it was scabbing. They looked...oddly familiar...

His eyes lit up when he finally recognized the magic. These weren't just letters, rather from an ancient script he had only heard stories about. Even in his time, the remnants of this magic could only be found in ruins, with the common mages rather clueless on how to use them. As far as he knew, only his druid father and the faeries knew how to use it, hence the similar symbols on his spears.

But he could deal with that later, he decided, the pain in his muscles suddenly kicking in. He went to run his hand through his hair, but the action nicked a small laceration by his brow that he didn't even know was there.

Wounds he didn't know about? Muscle pain that deserved a bloody award equivalent to an Oscar? Not a good sign.

Hissing from the pain, he tried to rearrange his thoughts. He...he was sparring with Lancelot, then he remembered the fight escalating, then there was Arturia and...Diarmuid drew blanks.

"What happened?" he asked, his baritone coming out in a raspy croak.

Cú tilted his head back to get the last of his dark brew. He knew he probably shouldn't be drinking considering they had a flight in—he peeked at the old digital clock, blearily blinking green digits—three hours, but after all that just occurred, he felt he deserved a little alcohol.

Arturia had texted him the flight details for the both of them about fifteen minutes ago. They were going to have a short domestic trip to Fukuoka Airport, from which they'd transfer to a different flight lasting just under seventeen hours. She expected them to be at Fuyuki airport by six though, to ensure they had all the right documents.

Honestly, she, kay and Merlin were miracle workers for getting them all IDs and passports beforehand. Luckily, they didn't have to secure a visa for Greece. Drake Odina and Corin Connell were going on their first flight abroad.

'Course, the former was going on a day long series of flights with gauze on his face and bandages round his torso and thigh. Oh, and the train to Thiva. Now, that didn't sound fun.

"Ha!" Cú's laughter didn't reach his eyes. " You tell me."

Part of Cú told him he was acting very immature, taking out his frustration on Diarmuid, but it was easy to do considering the man was the source of it. Maybe he should just forget it. Let the anger run its course. The clock on the coffee table flickered to a dim 04:07.

Fuck it, he had time.

"What the bloody feck were ya thinking?!"

The beer bottle slammed against the tabletop, rather miraculously not shattering into a million pieces. Diarmuid had the decency to look ashamed, thank the gods. If he didn't, hell, he might give him even more of a beating.

"You shouldn't have picked up the damn glove, D. Forget pride and honor, you shouldn't have," Cú scolded, the fluctuations in his voice making him sound like a mother giving a stern sermon to an unruly child. Diarmuid certainly felt like a child, with the way the other spearman was talking down at him while he sat on the couch.

Oh. Oh.

The events of that evening came back to Diarmuid faster than blood rushed in his veins. In his chest, his heart beat like a rabbit's, his face flushing a shade of red that could very well be described as demonic.

He remembered everything, all the insults Lancelot hurled at him, all the damned things the bastard did to trample on his honor, and he had to top it all off by throwing down the gauntlet.

How dare he? Diarmuid wasn't innocent but he certainly did not deserve such maltreatment, especially not from a traitorous bastard whose actions literally got Arturia killed!

Looking down at his wounded state now, he could only hope he caused much more damage to the other party. Wishing ill on someone went against his very nature, but he would make an exception for this prick that dared call himself a knight. Honestly, he couldn't believe Cú, his best friend, the one person that should have stuck by him was so against this when he had every right to this hate.

In fact, if there was one thing he could thank Lancelot for, it was that the insolent cur had basically handed him the license to take his head. There was no stepping back from it once the glove was thrown. It simply was not possible for Lancelot to retract this insult, he wouldn't. There was too much pride at stake.

"You are aware of the meaning of such an action, Cú—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Cú cut him off, waving his hand dismissively as Diarmuid stuttered and stammered along. "I know, damn it."

His voice trailed off as he ran his hands through his hair, shifted his position akimbo and sighed long and hard. It wasn't like Cú to be this uptight, he was supposed to be the free, unstructured one, the one without the rules. Diarmuid was the responsible one, he was always the more put-together of the two, the level-headed one.

This... whatever this was...it wasn't supposed to be his job.

Words usually came so easily to Ireland's Child of Light, so the silence that followed his shaky exhale spoke much of the turmoil in his mind. He opened his mouth and closed it repeatedly, like he lost the ability to speak just a moment before each sentence could tumble off his tongue.

"How," he said finally, and pointed to Diarmuid's phone, "did you think she'd take it, Diar? If you killed Lancelot?"

Diarmuid's eye twitched at the mention of...the bastard's name, but he followed Cú's pointing finger to his phone on the desk. As if on cue, it lit up with a new message, the third one from Arturia.

I am terribly sorry for Lancelot's conduct tonight. I will speak with him, I assure you.

I hope you are well.

Have you awoken yet?

Cú pinched the bridge of his nose after he came up to read the text out of curiosity. The woman was just too damn kind, he sort of wished she'd get angry at them every once in a while. Heaven knows there'd been times he took his teasing too far, or times he showed up way late, but she was always so ready to forgive. Too ready. For a brief second he wondered if getting her upset was a privilege only Gilgamesh had. Was that why the old gold prick was always pushing her buttons?

He plucked the phone from Diarmuid's fingers before he could type a reply. "Answer me, D," Cú ordered, the casual tone completely absent from his usually chipper voice.

Diarmuid was silent. His mind refused to come up with any sort of coherent sentence. How did he think she'd take it? Surely, he wasn't just expecting everything to be right afterward, that after Lancelot kicked the bucket they'd immediately go back to finishing the tournament and all. Right? Sure, let's just sweep his carcass into the sea and, oh, who's up next? A rematch between Arturia and Cú upon his remains, wouldn't that be just swell?

Gods, even the voice in Diarmuid's head was practically drenched in sarcasm.

He could feel the heat rising uncomfortably to his stitched wounds, felt his heartbeat in them. He would bury his face in his hands, but a quick look down told him they were just as much a bloody mess as the rest of him.

This...was the worst episode he'd had so far. He thought he was able to control it, earlier in the night. Hell, he was fine for most of the evening.

But when Lancelot continued down his warpath, dragging Diarmuid's name in the mud and trampling on his pride, something inside of him just...snapped.

Chills wracked his body as he relived the moment. It was like someone else had completely taken over, grabbing the reins and shoving his consciousness far back into his mind. But that wasn't all. Whoever, or what ever had taken control had pumped his veins with so much adrenaline it was like his muscles just forgot the meaning of exhaustion. Suddenly, even his spear was weightless in his hands, flowing more fluidly between his fingers than it ever did. How he moved after that was bloody miraculous; the delay between his thoughts and actions non-existent.

He felt...powerful. More powerful than he had ever felt before.

Before he knew it, he had the upper hand, landing blow after blow, battering and bruising the bastard knight like there was no tomorrow. There was a hunger in his veins, one he had never felt before. It was dark, and bestial, roaring like a demon starved of souls. It threatened to eat him up from the inside out if he did not satiate it, burning his insides like a persistent flame that could only be doused by blood.

Lancelot's blood.

And then there was the King of Knights, screaming at them to stop. Her voice cut into his red-stained vision like a blade through paper. He didn't even have to look to know she was in agony, yet somehow it wasn't enough. The need to end his opponent right then and there was far too great, even for her.

The thought was jarring. Arturia was such an influential person in his life. The most influential person in his life. If she couldn't stop him, then—

"I wasn't thinking—"

"Damn straight, ya weren't thinking!" Cú repeated, throwing his hands in the air and pacing the room restlessly. Man , was he bad at this. This wasn't how the conversation was supposed to go. He was supposed to be trying to resolve this little problem Diarmuid had, with the bloody palms and the little bouts of rage, and the tunnel vision he had when it came to Lancelot and all.

Not...not this.

Bad idea. It was a bad idea, that's what it was. For all he knew, he could just be aggravating the spearman even more.

The phone in his hand pinged, offering Cú a welcome distraction. It was Arturia again, apologizing profusely as if any of this was even her fault. Lancelot wasn't even technically her knight anymore, she wasn't responsible for his actions. Damn it. Damn this. Damn it all.

He tossed Diarmuid's phone back at him, and practically barked at him to reply accordingly. Even if she was the King of Knights, she was a woman, and Cú was still a gentleman of sorts. It shamed him to think they'd made her worry.

"And get in the shower, damn it," he ordered, shuffling into his room. "I've already packed a little for the both of us, "

Even if his tone was stern, the bite was gone from his voice. "After your bath, we're cleaning those cuts again, aight?"

The older of the two grumbled to himself, pulling out a workout duffel bag he was glad he bought during a sale a week back. He crammed one change of clothes and an extra in, before carefully putting a folded stack, which Diarmuid recognized as his.

The burning anger in Diarmuid's heart was blown out like a candle in the wind as he watched his friend pack. He was wrong to assume Cú wasn't on his side, of course he was. Cú had probably only given him that little sermon because he knew Diarmuid wasn't thinking about the consequences, and he was right.

A persistent ringing came from Cú's room, and in a second, he was holding a phone to his ear. "Yeah...Yeah...He's…" Cú looked over his shoulder, meeting Diarmuid's eyes for a moment, "Yeah he's fine. And the other guy? Okay."

He walked to his window, just out of earshot, tilting his head back with a hand on his hip. It bothered Diarmuid just a bit that Cú didn't want to share the conversation, but it was probably for the best. If he were to hear Arturia's voice, he wasn't sure he'd know what to say.

What do you say to someone, when you just tried to kill their friend?

The knight looked down to the smartphone in his hands and tapped on the bubble labeled Arturia.

I offer you my sincerest apologies for what conspired this night, Diarmuid. I hope you are well.

Diarmuid read the last message all over again, his fingers hovering all over the screen. I am sorr —No, he couldn't say that. It wasn't your fault —No, that would make her feel worse. He rapidly tapped the backspace key with his thumb, erasing the message.

The blinking line seemed to be taunting him, poking fun at his lack of eloquence. It ticked him off enough that he nearly chucked the stupid device across the room, but decided against it at the last second. Merlin would certainly give him an earful, and more importantly, he'd lose a line of communication with the King of Knights.

Frustrated, he leaned forward, touching his forehead to his phone.

He must have accidentally pressed a button because it brought up the familiar happy background that was his home screen. It was a selfie Cú took during a breakfast at Ahnenerbe not too long ago. He and Arturia were sitting on the same side of the booth with Cú opposite them. Diarmuid had been debating with the King of Knights about which drink was superior.

Coffee or tea?

'Twas one of those arguments that got her really riled up for some reason, insisting her glorified leaf juice was superior to his "bitter monstrosity". After much debate, they eventually switched cups, fully intending to prove the other wrong, but only ended up realizing they enjoyed each other's drink of choice as well.

At that moment, Cú called them stupid and brought up alcohol, which made their conversation devolve into fits of light laughter. He snapped a quick selfie then, immortalizing the image of Arturia's smile peeking out of the hand she used to cover her laughter and himself looking at her, his expression full of mirth. Cú was the only one looking at the camera, his free hand raised in the victory sign that was popular these days.

A long, breathy exhale left his lips as he reopened his messages. He should text back, he really should, but...there was no way that he could possibly express all that he needed using this device. Worse if he called, he doubted he could properly convey what he wanted to say.

What could he say?

The knight crossed the room and slipped into the bathroom, obediently following Cú's orders. He found his answer as he was staring down at the white tiles, warm water raining down on his head. But he would need to see her personally for that, and god knew Lancelot would be right there with her.

Which meant, he contemplated, cleaning the red flecks from his tattered hands, that he had to maintain control.


"Al...Alright, see you in an hour, Cú."

Arturia hesitated pressing the button to end the call, causing her to catch the resigned " what do we do" Cú breathed at the last second, followed by the soft thump of his head against the wall. Her thumb tapped the screen, returning her to her contacts list. She thought about clicking the name listed just under Cú's but decided against it, thinking it best that Diarmuid get the most sleep he could before they had to go.

When she looked up, it was to two conflicted eyes, that stared at her like they were trying to find the right words to say.

"It is not fair," he said, finally, hanging his head like a man, defeated.

Arturia crossed her room to her closet and picked out the most comfortable clothes she could find. She didn't need much, just a couple extra. They couldn't afford to be changing while on the battlefield after all. They had their armor for that.

"What is?"

Kay watched her stuff her clothes into a small duffel bag he recognized from RTK's latest athleisure line, mumbling curses under his breath. What wasn't fair was how soon this new mission came, and the fact that Arturia was assigned again. She'd just been dispatched, for god's sake, why did they need her again so soon?

They had Gilgamesh, right? The guy was literally the living equivalent of a videogame character with all the cheat codes applied. Plus, they had the pair of Lancers they had invited over, and after personally testing Diarmuid (and well, seeing him and bloody Lancelot were evenly matched) and witnessing the utter brilliance of Cú's bout with Arturia, he knew they were both powerhouses.

He didn't get to see Iskandar or Medusa fight, but he didn't need to. If they were anything like the others, he knew they'd be bloody formidable as well. It didn't make sense to have to send so many of them, when last mission, they'd succeeded with five. Nine former Servants (a group that included both the King of Heroes and Arty) was just, well, overkill .

Stupid magus-killer bastard guy.

"Arty," he voiced, pleadingly, coming up behind her and placing a hand on her small shoulder. "Can you just...not head out there?"

He knew there was a large pink scar beneath his fingers, even if the cloth of her top kept him from feeling it. It was the newest of the hundreds of faded ones scattered on her petite body, accumulated over the years and years she spent serving Camelot. Kiritsugu's resurrection wasn't perfect , they didn't come in new bodies, they came in theirs, in the bodily approximations of how they looked as Servants.

That large cut, the one from her chest, across her collarbone, that was a frightening reminder of Arturia's mortality. And it had been days, weeks, a month, but he wasn't over it. He wasn't and wouldn't be, because no matter how many days he spent with his sister in this new world, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was going to lose her.

His chest felt tight when she slipped out of his grasp and made for the bathroom to pack her essentials. Of course, he knew she'd reject his request. No amount of convincing would ever get her to stay.

"I will return, Kay," she assured, a small smile on her lips. It was one of those she usually served the populace when she needed to ease their worries. He hated that she was using it on him.

"It will only be a week, brother. A mere few nights at most."

It takes only a moment to lose you.

Kay bit his lip, hesitating to voice his thoughts. Memories of the days that followed her death returned to him. Bedivere crying at the shore, Percy leaving to never be seen again, and him and his father...It was heartbreak that stole Sir Ector away in the end.

He just couldn't lose her. Not again.

The sound of a zipper caught his attention, and all too suddenly, it was time for Arturia to leave. His hand gripped the manila folder in his grasp, crinkling the hardened paper right in the middle of the spine. The open window of her room looked too tempting. If he could just chuck these out, if he could just do that, she'd have to stay—

Arturia clasped her hands on the folder and took it from him, like she could read what he was thinking. She was already halfway to the door, picking up the car keys from the dining table where he left it.

"I will be fine, Kay," she urged, her voice soothing as a salve on a burn. Anyone else would have left it at that and let her go, but he wasn't just anyone. He was her brother, god damn it, it was his job to worry. He stole the keys from her hands with a technique he used to employ when they were kids, rather childishly holding the keyring above his head where she definitely couldn't reach.

" I'm driving."

If he couldn't make her stay, he could at least steal a few more minutes.


"Bollocks, Bedi, this has got to be some cruel joke," Tristan crooked, his voice hoarse from near-dehydration. It was far too late—early? Fuck if he knew. As much as he rubbed the grogginess from his red eyes and tried to blink away the drunken spinning of the room, the image in front of him was the same.

There was Bedivere—a Bedivere without any alcohol of any sort in tow—with a very dead-looking specimen slung over his shoulder that looked like the ugly face of trouble.

"Hell no."

The blonde caught the door with his foot before Tristan could slam it shut, jutting out his lip at the blatant disregard for human life Tristan was sporting. 'Course, they both knew what Lancelot did, they were both still struggling with what to do with it, but once upon a time, they would all drink at the same table and share a feast and sing songs. Once upon a time, they'd have a laugh beneath the trees, pointing out that each other had gained weight as they dried off from a swim at the lake. They'd rush into battle without hesitation, knowing they had each other's backs. They were happy once.

Friends, once.

Surely that counted for something.

"Tristan please, my hand is literally full and you are aware about this man's weight, would you let me in?"

Yes, in fact, Tristan did know Lancelot was about as light as a boulder, but he didn't budge. He didn't let Gawain in when he came to visit, he had no reason to let Lancelot in, of all people. There was more than enough self-loathing in this household. As far as he was concerned, he was also booked till next year for the toxic tendencies, so he didn't need any more of that. Time to get back to the tequila, decided, pulling on the knob with more force.

Bedivere didn't remove his foot, even if Tristan's efforts were gradually wearing down his Nike's. He didn't want to have to do this, but he asked for it.

"I swore to our king I would ensure his well-being, Tristan," Bedivere reasoned, stopping the redhead right before he pulled on the knob to slam on his foot once again. Five different emotions flashed through Tristan's eyes, stretching their crusty corners from their near-permanent pained expression. They breathed in silence, nothing but soft groans from Lancelot's sleeping figure, the man still enveloped in one of Merlin's dream spells. Bedivere was beginning to think it hadn't worked, that Tristan would shove them into the wall and slam the door, but he didn't.

Slowly, quietly, he swung the door open, refusing to meet his eyes. He didn't help Bedivere move their old friend to the couch, but the one-armed knight didn't take it against him, reasoning in his mind that Tristan wouldn't be of much help anyway, with his arms turned lanky and his figure bone-thin.

"I hate you."

"I know, Tris."

Despite his words, the first thing Tristan did was fill a basin with water and obtain a clean dishcloth, which he gave to Bedivere before receding into the furthest corner of the room with a freshly opened bottle of peach soju. His eyes were red and hooded, the once ethereal yellow glow they had shrouded by layers of heady alcohol and, what he sincerely hoped were medically prescribed drugs.

They remained on Lancelot's figure as Bedivere studied his cuts, quietly observing the traitor from a distance. Tristan made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with the other Knights, much more Lancelot. The real reason eluded Bedivere, for Tristan had left long before Lancelot's affair had truly torn them apart.

"Why did you promise her such a foolish thing, idiot?" he asked in between swigs, "You should have let the other guy finish him off."

Tristan wasn't usually this cruel, but Bedivere could understand where he was coming from. Bedivere would probably be less forgiving had he not known how Arturia regarded Lancelot these days, and of course, if he hadn't found out Lancelot's true feelings for their little king. Now that he knew that though, he was basically in limbo, not quite hating Lancelot, but not being too friendly around him either.

"If you were there, you would understand," he answered honestly, coming back from the bathroom with a medical kit in tow.

Deep down, Bedivere knew what he felt about the whole Lancelot situation mattered less than Arturia's feelings. If she wanted him alive, he'd keep Lancelot alive. Even back in Camelot, Bedivere knew Arturia was relieved when Lancelot had run away with Guinevere. She wanted them both alive, not really caring about the affair. It was the kingdom that demanded otherwise.

He was sure now that she never harbored any hate for the French man. She looked at him so softly, like how one would regard someone precious. She gave Lancelot the same look she gave him, gave Kay and Percy and Gawain, and Tristan...every one of her knights.

Bedivere carefully slipped Lancelot's tattered shirt over his head, revealing the carnage his opponent had left on his body.

"Jesus, Diarmuid…"

The spearman hadn't ruptured any organs, thankfully, but Lancelot's wounds weren't any less worrying. The red spear had left large, jagged lacerations on the knight's right pec, right where his chest met his shoulder, meaning Lancelot was going into battle with far less motility on this side. His back wound was directly behind it, and though not as deep, already Bedivere it was going to be a—for the lack of a better word—a bitch.

He quickly cleaned the two wounds, being as gentle as possible in order not to wake the man. Though it seemed a waste, since the man looked so absorbed in whatever pleasant dream Merlin granted him to open his eyes. He threaded the surgical needles expertly, having done this already a couple times, and picked up the tweezers to start working. It was a bit trickier working with just five fingers but Merlin wasn't here to provide him with another arm, was he? He could only hope that antibiotic salve he applied would be enough to prevent infection as he started on the cut on Lancelot's shoulder. He'd rather not cause Lance more discomfort than these wounds already gave him. At least the bleeding stopped on the taxi here, thank god.

"Hold on...Diarmuid? As in Diarmuid of the love Spot? That old legend they always compared me to?" Tristan sputtered, the green bottle in his hands slipping out of his grasp for a moment.

Well, Tristan was certainly chattier than usual. "Yes, Tristan, that Diarmuid. Our king is quite fond of him, if I should say so myself. He's not usually..." Bedivere gestured to the unconscious body in front of him, "This violent."

A bunch of garbled syllables stumbled out of the redhead's lips as his body struggled to catch up with his mind. What a coincidence indeed. Bedivere looked up just in time to see Tristan come to a realization as he looked over Lancelot's figure, as if he'd just put in the final part of a thousand-piece puzzle.

"...What?"

Tristan twitched, shaking himself out of his stupor, and shrugged his shoulders with fake nonchalance. "Nothing."

The blonde paused in his work to ask again. "What is it, Tris?"

The thin man hung his shoulders and blew a raspberry as he walked toward the refrigerator for another soju. Bedivere was half convinced he wasn't gonna get an answer when he heard the bottle cap pop off the drink, but Tristan turned to him with a contemplative look on his face and a mouth hanging open.

"Bastards are quite similar, don't you think?"

Bedivere scrunched up his face, his hand pausing over Lancelot's back wound. That was literally the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. Was he being serious?

Diarmuid and Lancelot were about as similar as fire and ice, one warm and inviting, the other cold and biting. He honestly couldn't believe Tristan was even comparing Diarmuid, a (usually) gentle man who could make Arturia smile, really smile, to possibly the very source of all their problems.

"You don't know Diarmuid—"

"And you do?" Tristan asked skeptically, one eyebrow raised. Arthu—Arturia arrived about two months ago. Assuming Diarmuid and Lance and the other Servants were in tow, that did not give Bedivere very long to get chummy with the Irish knight.

"Certainly better than you do. He is a good friend to our king."

Tristan shrugged. He said what he said, and he'd probably already spent more time than necessary caring about others. He met his quota, he decided, tipping his second bottle of soju to his lips. The refrigerator was running low on the alcohol department, so he ought to be nice to Bedivere if he wanted the latter to find him someone to produce more music for. Even vices needed funding.

Though, he supposed this hour of the morning was a good time as any to run to the bar a couple streets down. They would still be open this time of morning and all the noisy youth would have called it a night. He could pick up some chips at the store too. The old man at the register wouldn't judge, since he was their most frequent customer.

He could already feel the " Where are you going?" on Bedivere's tongue as he slung a battered old jacket over his crummy tank.

"He'd better be gone when I'm back Bedi. I fucking mean it, alright?"

Bedivere watched the lanky man go with a sigh and a shake of his head. Tristan's alcohol addiction was getting a little out of hand, and since the little bag of prescription medicine was beginning to gather dust on the kitchen counter, he knew that all his visits here hadn't really helped.

Regardless, the shaggy redhead had given him a lot to think about. Lancelot and Diarmuid being alike? What a laugh. They couldn't possibly...No, they weren't...right?

Right?


A featherlike touch swept the hair from her neck, leaving her with chill soothed only by the chapped lips that planted a kiss there.

"You will come back swiftly."

Medea turned to face her lover, face flushed brighter than pink roses. Whatever emotion his level voice did not convey, she found in the dark depths of his eyes. Though sharp as a blade, on her his gaze was always gentle. Loving, she reminded herself. It was loving.

To those that did not know them, Soichirou Kuzuki's words were stiff and commanding, much unlike what would be expected in an exchange between a couple. But to her, they conveyed his greatest hopes: that she would be safe, and back in his arms as soon as possible.

He was more conversational last night, well a few hours ago, when she'd mentioned she would be travelling so close to her homeland. As her Master back in their war, he knew she wished so desperately to return there before she realized she'd found a better home with him.

She reassured him that she was fine of course, and that it wouldn't affect her during the mission, and that was true. She loved Kuzuki with all of her heart. She was his and his only, for now and forever, even if the small engagement ring on her finger told her she wasn't quite a Mrs. just yet.

Though, she thought happily, she might be one sooner than anticipated. The job she got at RTK thanks to a certain little blonde ensured they'd get the funds needed for a small wedding maybe even by the end of next month or the month after that. Arturia was on the guest list for sure, she owed the woman her life, literally and figuratively.

"Of course, dear," Medea whispered, planting a kiss in between his eyebrows. He'd offered to go with her, but she eased his worries by mentioning Saber would be right there with her. It didn't quite hit the mark, but he didn't add further comment after that.

Medea was going to Greece, and then she was coming back to this man, her soon to be husband.

He breathed it so softly, for a while she wondered if she had imagined it, but he followed with a repetition of the same words this time louder and far more sure.

And Medea, who was still getting used to receiving this much affection from him, practically glowed from the inside.

"I love you, too."


Warm rays of sunlight filtered in from the mansion windows, kissing Medusa's pale skin as she zipped up a small purple pack Sakura lent her. An impromptu call to Sakura's sister resulted in a small, blue pendant on her neck that concealed the blocky-looking seal covering her Mystic eyes so that now, she merely looked like she was wearing glasses. Tohsaka's—Emiya's?— gem would only last about eight days, so she had better be back before that ran out. The magus had made that abundantly clear.

Rider tried and failed to prevent the scowl from crawling up her face as she remembered some very distinct words Iskandar had said to her not too long ago.

I want to see your eyes.

An uncomfortable, foreign twinge worked its way through her chest, one that suspiciously felt like...longing, but she squashed it down to bits til it was nothing but dust under her boot. Turning for the door, she shoved every little thought of the King of Conquerors plaguing her mind into the closet. She shouldn't be thinking these things.

They had a good arrangement as it was. He took care of her sometimes rather persistent urges, she took care of his. It was a symbiotic relationship. He was a good partner, for sparring and otherwise, proficient at everything he had to be. Iskandar was useful, nothing more, nothing less.

She pursed her lip, the ghost of the man's kiss lingering there when it shouldn't be. This was getting ridiculous.

"Something wrong, Rider?"

She snapped up at her Masters' voice and blubbered out a quick lie that was about as subtle as her nose growing an inch and sprouting leaves. She certainly felt like Pinocchio, given the raised eyebrow Sakura was currently giving her. Right, her actual Master was still nauseatingly polite at times but she'd grown some spunk. Courtesy of her sister who overflowed with the stuff, she supposed.

Thankfully, she didn't pry. Medusa was struggling enough with these thoughts in her head. If she tried to articulate them, they'd probably be chest deep in messy word vomit by the next hour. Gods, maybe she should just admit it. Admit their little arrangement had gone horribly wrong because she had caught something that she never thought she'd ever get after the incredible amount of jack shit men wreaked on her life.

Feelings.

Ugh, even saying it in her head made it sound like a disease. She was reading too much Shakespeare, that damned Iskandar and his books— No. She slammed on the figurative brakes of her mind, screeching her hundred miles per hour brain car to a stuttering stop. There would be no more thinking about him today. It was girlish, and immature, and utterly, irrevocably stupid.

Of course, as her luck would have it, her mind went back to the Red King as soon as she closed her bedroom door, spotting an XXL shirt in the corner that definitely wasn't hers.

She knew he was seeing Heracles too. She found evidence of it on his body a couple of times, something that always sent her into a ridiculous competitive frenzy that came out of nowhere. Until last night, she thought it was just because she wanted to prove herself the superior partner, but it wasn't that. It wasn't that at all.

In a way, this was her fault, for letting herself get too close emotionally. But she couldn't take all the blame. Iskandar's charisma was bloody alluring, he drew her in like metal to a magnet, his hold on her stronger with every step she took closer.

She should have never invited him to their meals, or gone with him on those silly cruises in his chariot. He took her everywhere, for the gods' sakes, to the most beautiful mountain views and beaches, taking extra care to make sure they were alone so she could remove her blindfold. He'd have his eyes closed and would stand a distance away, silent and uncomplaining as she took in the view.

Iskandar brought her that first book in Braille, which, they discovered excitingly, she already knew how to read. Medusa always liked that about him, that he was so fond of epics and legends and prose just like she was. In the event she wanted a particular book that didn't have a braille version, he'd go so far as to read it to her, cover to cover, doing impressions of voices and everything.

She was screwed from the beginning, wasn't she? She had no chance.

Worst was, she knew that all those gestures he'd been doing weren't anything special on his end. He was just...like that. Nice, for the lack of a better word.

The gorgon woman was sure, if it weren't her, he'd have taken someone else out to see the sunset. He'd have little picnics under the trees, read to that someone with that much too loud voice of his. Maybe he already did, with Heracles and whoever else.

As she got into the black taxi that would take her to the airport, she shut the door with more force than necessary, echoing the same action within the crevices of her mind. She took the figurative key in her hands and tossed it out the window, the same time as she waved at Sakura, and left it on the road to be lost in the pavement.

She would not entertain those feelings any longer. Iskandar was a means to an end and nothing more.

Nothing.