Chapter Six

Strong Lamb

Ilya wasn't sleeping well of late. If she wasn't revisiting that horrible nightmare from her childhood about Lord Justeaz and the seven gigantic lumps coming into her body and tearing her apart, it would be a dream about her father.

She kept screaming and screaming for him, but he didn't seem to see her, looking in every direction, even turning away from her, without realizing she was right there in front of him. Yet, he was turning his head, answering her cries, calling out her name, as if he was looking for her but couldn't find her, which only made her scream his name louder, and try to run towards him even as her legs were too heavy to carry her forward.

And then her mother would appear before them both, and Kiritsugu would pause, as would Ilya. Then Irisviel would hold out her hand to Kiritsugu, and Kiritsugu would take it and follow her into the white light beyond, even as she smiled lovingly at Ilya over Kiritsugu's shoulder.

"Everything will be all right, my love…."

"No…Mama…he betrayed us…Mama…Mama…DADDY!"

After that, they were both gone, leaving Ilya alone and crying…crying the way she hadn't in years while awake. Certainly, when she would blink open her eyes, there would be tears there, but she would wipe them away with the back of her hand, rather than give in to openly weeping.

Though these dreams repeated, in waking, much of their details always faded away, like sand washed away with the flowing tide. She would recall the feeling quite sharply though, even as she denied her tears. Beyond anything though, she would always be frustrated that her father's face would fade into the most obscurity: had he looked scared for her in the dream, had he really been calling for her until his voice was raw?

It was like that day Nele had taken her out, and she had thought she had heard him calling for her in the snow. Elke had convinced her it had all been a trick, but there was still a part of her, deep, deep inside, that tried to tell her that really, she could never be sure what had really happened that day. After all, perhaps the reason she had felt such a killing hatred for Elke (an impulse upon which she'd eventually acted) had been because she could have easily been the one lying. On the other hand, this could all just be that weak part of her that wanted a reason to still love him, to believe that there had been a damn good reason he hadn't come back for her.

That was the part of her that made her have those awful dreams of her calling to him, and him not being able to see her.

The fact remained however that Kiritsugu had left her mother to die and had abandoned her, his only daughter, for a young boy named Shirou…betrayals she could not forgive. All Ilya had left was to count the days until she could go to the Holy Grail War in Fuyuki, find this Shirou, and force him to tell her everything before letting Berserker crush him with the flat of his club-like blade.

Actually, she would have dreams about him too. She didn't know what he looked like, so she imagined him a little differently every time. More or less she settled on what she conjectured as a boyish, younger version of her father, for lack of anything else to go on, and in these dreams she slept very well indeed, relishing in the look of terror in the boy's eyes, the stain of his blood on the ground, his pleading cries, the surging, roaring hope inside her that Kiritsugu would be able to see all of this and would be suffering for it.

For all the discomfort this trouble with her sleep caused her, Ilya did have the consolation that every day she awoke, whether she slept well or not, Berserker would greet her while remaining in Spirit Form, and then Leysritt and Sella would be there with a hot cup of tea for her. Made just the way she liked it. The way Irisviel had liked it.

Ilya, sat up in bed, set her cup on the saucer after taking a sip with a high, subtle click unique to bone china hitting bone china. "So. What do we have as our first order of business today?"

"Your grandfather has a gift for you," Sella informed her, and Leysritt, who this morning had arrived with an additional rolling cart covered with a white cloth along with the tea, pushed this cart closer to her.

Sella drew off the cloth, revealing a crystal ball underneath.

Ilya's hands went a little slack and she hastily set aside her tea and crawled across her bed to have a closer look, in awe of the beautiful clarity of the crystal ball.

"It is a remote-viewing crystal ball, a tool for surveillance of your enemies," Sella explained. "Grandfather Acht has one of his own for his personal use, such that we might gather the information we have from developments in Fuyuki City. But this one...belonged to your mother. Or rather, she used it in the course of the Fourth War. At least, that's what we're given to understand." She cast an uncertain glance Leysritt's way, but Leysritt only shrugged.

"How does it work?" Ilya asked, tracing the glassy curve of the crystal ball with her finger.

"From what I understand, it uses mana stored within to project images inside it that the Mage wielding it wishes to remotely view, hence the name," answered Sella.

Ilya sensed a grumble come from Berserker from his position in Spirit Form (his material presence made Leysritt and Sella uncomfortable, and Ilya had decided for some reason to be considerate of that, perhaps because she kept thinking achingly of her mother now whenever she considered Leysritt and Sella's faces—the fact that such soft spots still resided in her made her bite her thumb when she thought it over in the dark).

Then Ilya had a thought, and she said: "Let me try it out." She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, scooting closer to the crystal ball that sat deceptively quiet and beautiful—much like the moon—and as she raised her hands over it, an image—well, more a desire, since she didn't know what the image she wanted actually looked like—came to mind.

I want to see...Shirou Emiya.

The swirling colors within the crystal ball sprang into movement and wavered, before resolving into an image encircled by cloudy pinks, blues, and violets. The image was blurred at first, but then it focused, like a lens, and Ilya found herself face-to-face with a young boy who was technically younger than her in years but physically looked a few years older, one in his mid-teens, or nearly so. He had bright red hair and surveyed a pile of metal junk before him with golden-brown eyes. He had on a light brown uniform of some kind, and he appeared to be in some room whose specs were unfamiliar to Ilya, though she suspected it was something like those "classrooms" she'd read about being in "schools". He was sitting cross-legged on the floor while he tinkered with the junk, appearing to feel along the metal surfaces with his hands as he closed his eyes in order to focus.

Was he tapping into his Magic Circuits? And for what, a bunch of modern day, non-mage junk? Kiritsugu had taken this boy in, and produced nothing but a mediocre novice out of him? Good gracious, killing this boy would be almost too easy, especially with Berserker. What would even be the likelihood that he'd be chosen as a Master in the next War?

Well, Ilya couldn't dwell on that. Anyway, even if he wasn't, she still intended to kill him, to make him suffer. Whether he would be chosen as a Master was irrelevant, though if he were, it would make things more interesting.

Ilya traced the curve of the crystal ball with her finger again, letting the tip pass over the likeness of this Shirou Emiya's face. Her mouth twitched into a truly wicked smile, in that she was indulging herself in thoughts of what she would do to this boy. Now that she had a face to go with the name, her imagination became all the more vivid as far as coming up with creative ways to cause him pain without having him immediately die on her…make him squirm and cry out under her metaphorical boot as she drilled question after question into him like she were twisting knives into his back….

Your father, Kiritsugu, what was he like when he died?

Was he in pain?

Did he tell you about me?

What all did he teach you that you turned out so pathetic?

Why did he choose you…over me…?

Ilya raised the thumb of her free hand to her lips and bit the tip, thoughtfully, impatiently, as she watched Shirou Emiya open his eyes again and then proceed to pry open the junky appliance—or whatever those things were called—and start messing with its insides, its guts. Another brief thought occurred to her as she watched him, wondering if she might be able to do the exact same thing to him…open him up and fiddle with his insides, screw in sharp things that didn't belong in a human body.

Her smile widened, even as she knew her red eyes were clouding over pensively. Faintly she heard something like her mother's voice niggling at the back of her mind, pleadingly, and she ignored it. Why shouldn't she have such vicious thoughts, and contemplate doing such horrible things to this boy for whom Kiritsugu had abandoned her, betrayed her and her dear mother? It wasn't really that much worse than what she'd been forced to undergo…crying out in the dark for her father to rescue her, even when she knew no help from him would come, in the end.

She would make Shirou Emiya cry for Kiritsugu the same way, cry for him even though he was dead and gone.

Ilya could have spent all day pondering such things while she studied Shirou Emiya's movements, with him none the wiser, but Sella cleared her throat, and Leysritt helpfully added in her voice that still halted somewhat ineptly, despite recent improvements: "Ilya…can use this…to watch…the…other Masters…in the War…if we…discover their…identity."

Ilya flicked her eyes in Leysritt's direction, raising her eyebrows coolly. "Yes, I suppose so," she said with a shrug of one shoulder. And then she sighed and gently pushed the crystal ball away so she could slide off of her bed. Flinging her arms out like a bird about to take flight, she added, "It's time I got dressed."

As she was dressed, a faint and vague memory bubbled to the surface of her mind, that when she'd been little, she'd been fixated on the idea of pretending that she could fly, and she would giggle brightly whenever Kiritsugu would lift her up so that could imagine it even better.

Then she caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror, and, noted that she had in fact grown just a little more. As such, being pleased to notice such a thing, there was something about her red eyes that no longer reminded her of her mother as they once did. Actually, her eyes had never been quite exactly like her mother's. They shared the same crimson color of course, as Einzbern homunculi, but…the way they were set in her small face (which had grown out of its childish roundness) hinted at the Japanese half of her heritage that she shared with Kiritsugu Emiya.

Did Acht always see that man then, when he met Ilya's eyes?

And now they possessed a bleak and focused coldness, where no joy ever reached anymore, not even when she smiled.

A killer's eyes.

"Oh, Ilya, what lovely eyes you have," said Irisviel as she brushed out her daughter's hair, the two of them sitting together at her vanity.

"They're just like yours, mama!" said Ilya, beaming.

"Yes, but they're a little like your Daddy's too," Irisviel pointed out. "Maybe you can't see it right now, but when you're older you might."

Ilya tilted her head to one side. "Eh?"

Irisviel moved the brush with her daughter's head and smoothed out several silvery strands gently, tenderly. "I saw it the moment you were born," she mused, her voice throbbing with affection. "And your daddy, he was so proud. I said to him, 'Look, Kiritsugu, she has your eyes….' We were both so proud of you. And we always will be."

Ilya didn't quite understand everything her mother said, but she knew it expressed deep love for her, and that was enough. She giggled and twisted in the vanity chair, throwing her small arms around her mother, hugging her tight, breathing in that lovely scent that Kiritsugu always said was like the iris flower. And Irisviel stroked back her hair, sharing in her laughter.

"My sweet little Ilya…."

Berserker gave another low grumble, a grumble only Ilya could hear as his Master. It awoke Ilya from her reverie, as he gave voice to her anger. For he, Berserker, embodied all the violence and rage that she couldn't manage to express on her own with a body that was, for all it had grown, still rather tiny compared to most.

It's okay, Berserker. I'm fine.

Blinking rapidly, Ilya quickly shook off the memory before her weakness consumed her, before the ghosts possessed her, and, looking away from the mirror, she turned her mind to other things.


Now that Ilya had rather proven herself in being able to form a binding pact with Berserker, she had earned the right to at last learn such alchemy that would allow her to defend herself and fight for herself in the battles of the War to come. Actually, she was quite genuinely pleased to learn such alchemy, made fully aware that her mother had learned the same thing (if far sooner in her lifespan).

Perhaps part of it had to do with being in Berserker's company in the leisure time she would spend prattling away while poring over books in the library while he'd listen in Spirit Form, and the like. But such things like learning how to fight just as her mother had gave her the kind of true joy she had forgotten she could still feel. At the very least, a whisper of it. She didn't dare allow herself to feel it too much. If she did, then other feelings she'd cast aside might interfere, and might debilitate the defense she had built against weaknesses of the heart. Against sentiment.

Even so, the smile she wore now as Sella did her best to translate to her the teachings of using her own hair to create familiars, just as Irisviel had done, was the closest in a long time that it had come to actually reaching her bright red eyes.

"You see, you must pronounce the cant with conviction, as you are drawing the strand of hair from your head," Sella told her as they worked in the library. "Do you recall what I told you that cant was?"

"'Shape ist Leben'," Ilya recited flawlessly.

"Very good." Sella clapped, in spite of herself. "Now, let's give it a practical try."

Ilya took a deep breath and let it out. Then reached up, keeping her movements fluid and quick, as she cried, "Shape ist Leben!"

She pulled a silver hair from her head, and though it sprang into the air rather like a bird, something that still quavered in Ilya's voice caused the shape she had pictured in her mind for it to make to falter, and instead of becoming the starling she had imagined from a photo in one of her old books, it crumpled in midair and dropped, floating to the ground and landing in a silvery, faintly glowing heap on the carpet. It twitched once, and then went still, the light fading.

Ilya frowned at it, and had she been younger and the spritely, joyful girl she'd once been, she probably would've pouted too. Here however, she was quite serious in her disappointment. Then a thought nettled her, one of those "if onlys"…that if only it was her mother who was teaching her these things…and then…if it were…she'd be so disappointed in her lack of success thus far.

Even more than that though, but she even briefly conjured an image of her father looking down on her with a shadowed expression of dissatisfaction, disapproval even, much in the way Grandfather Acht would regard her at times, or any one of his other homunculi children. This was something she had never encountered with Kiritsugu in the time he had been in her life.

Why? Why would she care what he might have thought of her capabilities as a Master, as a fighter?

Regardless, she felt the vision hang over her like a specter, like a phantasm. His dark eyes, for a moment, seething with censure, frightened her perhaps even more than any of those times when he would discipline her as a smaller, more willful child. It was surprising though, because even back then, it had never occurred to her, really, until this moment now, when she was just imaging him regarding her almost as an annoyance, that her father had been, at times, a very frightening person.

Back then, her mother had been there, just as firm with her whenever her behavior had gotten out of hand, and after a tantrum of tears and kicking out with her small legs, she would eventually calm down and somewhat see the sense her parents had been trying to help her see. And in acquiescing, they had always praised her with their loving pride in her, the warmth of sunlight shot through a dark, cold winter storm.

Now, however…just what kind of person had Kiritsugu Emiya really been? To Ilya, he had always been her father, first and foremost, and even after everything she had suffered in his abandonment and betrayal of her since then, she began to wonder all the more…what kind of cruelty had he kept hidden from her and her mother?

Grandfather had said that Kiritsugu had once been called "the Mage Killer" after all.

Irisviel had told her that she and Kiritsugu had both been so proud when she'd been born. Had that really carried on throughout her tiny life so far?

No. That didn't matter. What mattered was that she would prove herself worthy, and as far as she was concerned, she would curse Kiritsugu Emiya's spirit in death, praying it'd been damned to Hell. She just couldn't punish him enough.

Ilya's frown deepened. "Again," she commanded.

"Very well." Sella primly swept away the hair that had fallen limp and useless to the floor with a small broom and dustpan.

Ilya cleared her throat and prepared to pluck another hair, focusing on performing each and every action with calculated conviction. "SHAPE IST LEBEN!" she cried, keeping the bright vision of a starling clear and sharp in her mind. She cast the plucked hair into the air, the cant illuminating it to life, where it began to take the shape of the starling in her head and, thus born, flapped its wings as the autonomous familiar that it was, whereupon it zoomed in three circles around the library before it ran out of steam and faded, crumpling to the floor.

Sella clapped, giving another cry of delighted praise, but Ilya merely growled and tried again, working at it for the rest of the morning. Nearby, she could hear Berserker grumbling, and rather argumentatively at that: the only way he could express concern that she might overexert herself. Indeed, around noon, Ilya felt as though she'd been running around non-stop for an extended length of time.

Once she caught her breath though, she gave Berserker the reassurance that she would be fine. Then she said, "I think it's time we broke for the day."

After Ilya had had a few cups of tea and a little something to eat, she felt a bit better. Not to mention accomplished, as by the end of the work, she had managed to forge a starling familiar from her hair that did not deplete on its own, but only when she recalled it to her and returned the hair to its original shape. Having reached this level, it gave her confidence that she would be able to move on and master the subsequent levels, like directing the familiars in battle, and changing the hair into several different forms during the course of a single fight, with each form having unique combat abilities of their own.

She mused on this as she took her respite, and after Leysritt cleared away the dishes from her tea and small repast, she turned her thoughts to what she would spend her afternoon doing. Afternoons were always given to her as personal time, though often of late she would use the afternoon to devote herself to something useful that would contribute in a minor way to her capabilities as a Master.

Today, she felt like exercising her strategic skills, and her eyes fell on an old chess set, the pieces carved from black and white marbles for each opposing side. Fuzzily she remembered that her parents used to play the game with each other using that very same set. She supposed Elder Acht might have one of his own, but this one…Kiritsugu and Irisviel had unofficially claimed it as their own. Before the two of them had left to answer the call of the Fourth Holy Grail War, Ilya had expressed an interest in learning the game, so Kiritsugu had taken her through a game to teach her the rules.

And like those many times they'd played their walnut game, and unlike those times he would purposely allow her to win anything, in that game of chess, he rather ruthlessly crushed her. He had played his usual set of black marble pieces, and she the white marble pieces Irisviel usually played, and her father had shown her no mercy. At the time, Ilya had puffed out her cheeks in frustration, but now she appreciated the loss, somehow. Thinking about the memory itself brightened it in her mind, the two of them sitting together at this very library table, playing with that set.

"And that's check and mate," Kiritsugu proclaimed, and knocked aside Ilya's king with his queen very directly.

"But…but…but…." Ilya desperately tried to find a way that her father might have missed that she might have a chance to save her king and escape to fight another day, as it were. When she saw none, she pouted, just shy of knocking all the pieces to the floor—she had learned better, by then.

As Ilya huffed and sat back in her chair with her arms folded, Kiritsugu chuckled softly as he began to collect the pieces and return them to their starting positions on the board.

"Now, now. That wasn't a bad first effort, Ilya. I'm proud of you. And next time, perhaps you just might beat me." Her father winked.

This tugged a smile out of Ilya, only for her to turn crestfallen when she realized that she would have to wait until he returned from Japan in order for there to be a next time. But he said it like it was so naturally guaranteed, that she hadn't worried on it for too long.

"And if Ilya does? Does that mean she's smarter than Kiritsugu?"

"No, it would take more than that."

As Ilya deflated again, Kiritsugu gently added: "But I don't see why that couldn't be true someday. After all, you're already very smart."

Now Ilya chewed on her thumbnail before she turned to Sella with a rather wicked grin on her face. "Sella? Would you care to let me teach you how play chess? I've only really played it the once myself, but I think we can manage."

Sella blinked, and Ilya relished even more the ability to make her squirm, even like this.

"Ah, well, yes, of course. I would be more than happy to, Mistress." Sella cleared her throat while Leysritt, carrying the dishes out, gaped in in her usual vacant puzzlement.

Sella turned out to be a frustrating opponent to say the least. Not that she didn't grasp the rules well enough, but once she did, there were a number of wins Ilya had that she felt she didn't earn, getting the sense that Sella was letting her win instead out of some misplaced sense of her subservience.

Definitely Kiritsugu was the far superior opponent, challenging her. Perhaps even preparing her….

No. No, he hadn't cared whether she were to end up in this stupid Grail War or not. He wouldn't have betrayed her if he had.

Still, she had to appreciate that much from him.

Fed up, Ilya knocked her king over with a flick of her finger. She had played the black pieces instead, to change things up, and the black king now lay beside the vanquished white king.

"There, now we're even," she grouched.

"Mistress, I don't see…" Sella began.

Ilya waved her words away. "Forget it. I've had enough. You can go."

The rest of the afternoon, Ilya spent reading, and now that she and Berserker were the only ones in the room, she permitted him to materialize from Spirit Form, and, despite his being in the Class that he was, it had been clear from the start that he had clarity of mind, more or less…so Ilya invited him to read whatever books he wished. Though she couldn't be sure if he really read, or if he was just humoring her to keep her company.

Either way, it was nice, the two of them stretched out on the floor, poring quietly over books while the fire in the fireplace crackled. Ilya, for her part (in between throwing little torn bits of paper at Berserker and giggling at how it didn't even phase him), tried to brush up on more strategizing techniques, even going so far as to read a book on the philosophies of game hunting. At some point she fell asleep over the book, and had a vague dream different from all of her other ones, where she was chasing Shirou Emiya through the formless streets of Fuyuki City, perched as she was on Berserker's shoulder, pursuing her quarry as a bloodhound pursues a rabbit.

When she woke up, she discovered that Berserker had managed to carry her from the library up to her room, and she smiled, finding him there, waiting for her to wake up…

Just like Mama…and Daddy….

Ilya threw a punch at her pillow and sat up, stretching and yawning, before hopping out and tugging the bell pull rope for Leysritt to run her a bath before dinner.

After her post-dinner, daily presentation and report to Acht, she returned to her rooms and asked to view the crystal ball again. In the gloom, her lamp and the lit fireplace her only sources of light, she watched Shirou Emiya again…watched him, knowing how hungry her red eyes were, how they bored into the polished, glassy, spherical surface of the crystal ball, hoping Shirou might feel some kind of twin sting on the back of his neck from how intently Ilya was watching him.

At the moment, he was speaking with a young woman with brown hair cut short, a woman Ilya of course didn't know. The woman was saying, "Come on, Shirou…it's been four years now. Look, we can go together. It'll be okay."

"Thanks, Fuji-nee, but…I'm really busy, what with archery and everything…." Shirou massaged the back of his neck.

The woman Shirou had called "Fuji-nee" lost a bit of her smile, turning sad. "I know he'd really appreciate it."

Shirou looked away, mumbling, "How can he appreciate anything if he's dead?"

"His spirit, Shirou," Fuji-nee pressed. "Kiritsugu Emiya would really appreciate it if his son were to visit, burn incense, put flowers on his grave. I think he gets so lonely…."

"He's not there, Fuji-nee," said Shirou, quietly, though he looked ashamed for putting it that way. "I'm sorry."

Then before Fuji-nee could say anything else, he turned away, shutting the sliding paper door to an adjoining room. Then she shook her head, smiling again, even if she still seemed sad. "What am I gonna do with him, Kiritsugu-san?" she muttered under her breath before leaving the room through another sliding paper door.

Kiritsugu's…grave…where they buried him…when he died….

When he died….

Cold drips of water ran down Ilya's cheeks, catching her off-guard. As she wiped hastily at the tears, she glared at the crystal ball again, and fought the impulse to shove it off the table onto the floor.

Berserker lifted his head from where he sat next to her on her bed (somehow not breaking it), making a small grumble of surprise at her shift in behavior.

Ilya crawled over to him and said, "Berserker…I'm so…. You understand, what it's like, to be so angry you want to destroy everything around you…don't you?"

Berserker grunted, nodding.

"And you're so strong. Stronger than anyone or anything. I'll always say it."

Another grunt, another nod.

"Good."

Then Ilya pounded her little fists on Berserker's rock-like arm. And before she knew it, she was shrieking and wailing and throwing the kind of fit that she would've thrown as a toddler.

"Punish him, Berserker. You have to punish him…kill Shirou Emiya and punish Kiritsugu for what he's done…for running away and dying and making Ilya cry…!"

She'd reverted, just for the moment, to the tiny girl she'd once been, and cried and cried and cried—cried for her mother, used and abandoned to her pointless death after all the joy she had brought her precious daughter, cried for the father she had lost in Kiritsugu, who, despite everything, had truly made Ilya very happy with everything he had done with her when he'd been in her life, and even crying…for herself…abandoned to the same grim fate as her mother, with nothing but revenge to give her any kind of hope. Then she ceased her fist-pounding and buried her face in Berserker's rock-hard chest. It was so warm and comforting, she simply couldn't help it.

Even so, Berserker placed his hand gently on her back—which, considering its size it basically covered her entire little body—and kept it there, a shield for her from all the cruelty beyond them.

Feeling such warmth, Ilya calmed down and managed a watery smile, sniffling and running the sleeve of her nightdress across her eyes. "Thanks, Berserker," she told him sincerely. "You're the best."

Something flickered in the quiet, ever-burning flame of Berserker's eyes, and his mouth twitched as he grunted again…as though he were actually smiling. Very carefully, he moved his hand to tuck a finger under her chin (which was a lot like tucking a large boulder underneath it), as if to say, "You're strong too, Ilya."

And once again, Ilya carefully gave Berserker her trust.

The following day, Ilya and Sella worked on combat training outside once she'd eaten her breakfast, and then, after lunch, she went back outside and played with Berserker amongst the snowy trees. Since Berserker wasn't much for hunting for walnuts or anything like that, Ilya was just as content to frolic about in her purple boots, coat, scarf, and hat, her arms flung out like she were flying, just as she'd liked to do when she'd been littler.

"Bet you can't catch meeeeeeeeeee!" she teased Berserker.

Although Berserker had not, as yet, indulged with her with scooping her up into his arms as she always secretly hoped he would, he did eventually play along, step forward, reach out, pluck her off the ground, and perch her on his left shoulder.

Ilya supposed this would have to do for now.

"Giddy up, horsey!" she called, throwing out an arm, directing Berserker forward.

And Berserker followed her lead, carrying her on his shoulder through the winter forest, just like she and Kiritsugu used to do, when he would carry her on his shoulders…what felt like so many years ago.