.o.o.0.o.o.

The lights are off and the curtains are drawn. The sough and roar of winds in the outside alpine night are constant loud and unheard. The television flickering,

Illyasiel von Einzbern, Princess and Inner Head of Einzberns, the Fifth Lesser Grail is sitting on the floor. The couch is 'too far away' and she has a cushion to sit on. Her legs pulled up to her chest, chin resting upon them and her arms wrapped tightly around them.

Mathilde, attendant to her lady the princess has draped a blanket over Lady Illya's shoulders and Lady Illya has not wriggled out of it.

The end credits continue, Mathilde, sitting on the couch, because Lady Illya told her to, is unsure if she should get up.

She isn't sure of the movie, it was strange, the heroes didn't really win so much as escape, one of them was turned to stone and the blond one with the blue glow-sword lost a hand and learned he was the son of big black knight with the red glow-sword.

Televisions themselves are strange, when turned on they always cast a light even when the screen is coloured black; from her position it appears to cast a nimbus around Lady Illya. Lady Illya does not move, and the credits continue.

Mathilde is now confident her lady has fallen asleep.

She stands up carefully cognisant of every sound she makes, even those that are more felt than heard. One step, two steps, three. She draws parallel to her lady.

Whose eyes are wide open.

Mathilde whole body convulses in a moment of panic.

'Oh!'

'I'm not dead Mathilde.'

'I thought you were asleep.' Silence hangs between them.

'Did you enjoy the film?' Mathilde's tone is tentative. As much to obfuscate her own uncertain opinion as to avoid saying anything the princess would dislike.

Lady Illya's eyes turn back to screen, with its words flick through foreign names attached to strange esoteric roles relating to its creation. Pre-emotively Mathilde begins to chew on the inside of her cheeks.

'I did. Vader won and he came back for his son.'

'That was a good part.' Mathilde agrees even if her impression is that the son escaped 'Vader' the black knight. Her lady gives her a detached look, then again turns back to the screen, not looking at it, but looking through it to something else only she can see.

.o0o.

'There is one more of those movies correct?' The question comes from the blue, while her lady is scooping out the last pieces of the boiled egg she is having for breakfast.

'Yes my lady.' Mathilde replies. Sigismund had very definitely pointed out three video tapes to her when she had come to him looking for recommendations. Lady Illya's schedule is strict, her entire life is planned around the regimen of sleep, education and surgery that both keeps her alive and grafts further circuits onto the fragile frame of a child. Even leisure time must be planned carefully.

'I will watch it tonight after dinner.'

'Yes my lady.'

.o0o.

This time Mathilde pays closer attention and attempts to remember the character's names. Lady Illya and Mathilde sit in the same places. The film is different, the heroes win and Vader dies after saving his son from an Emperor who reminds Mathilde of rumours she has heard about Lord Zouken Matou- albeit sans insects.

When the credits start she does not rise from her seat, leaving Lady Illya free to meditate upon what she has seen.

Time passes and eventually the music stops and the screen turns entirely black. Lady Illya stands up and plucks a hair from her head. Mathilde's eyes widen in horror.

The hair glows and twists into the shape of a bird. Mathilde's body, expressing more volition than her conscious mind throws herself over and behind the couch. A burst of light and the shriek shattering glass follow.

Mathilde doesn't understand, she doesn't understand, she doesn't want to die. There is a low hiss, somehow the shattered television is making noise. Mathilde does not move, hoping her lady's anger burns itself out.

.o0o.

Illya cannot breathe. She feels her heart being squeezed in a vice. The television screen has been reduced to a square mouth full of broken teeth exhaling smoke and some sparks. The ground rocks under her but she remains standing, she is invincible because that she was made to be so.

She exhales then inhales the smell of burning plastic. She gags, then doubles over in a coughing fit. Is her face bleeding?

There is no blood on her hands. They are lit by the blue glow of the bird-familiar conjured from her hair, blue like the ghosts that Jedi become when they die.

Breathing is now possible but not easy.

The television explodes again. Then a third bolt is shot into it by the bird familiar. The dark mouth crumple-melts into slag. Dead completely dead, air comes more easily.

The box-the-tape-goes-into, which sits on a shelf below the television is almost untouched by her fury. Illya stares at it, she looks down at the floor dotted with plastic, metal and glass. Illya is wearing slippers and the hem of her dressing gown brushes the floor.

Illya looks to the box then down to the floor. She chews her lower lip in contemplation. Then inspiration strikes.

Illya gathers up the blanket bundled around her feet and throws it outwards in the direction of the box creating a bridge between itself and her. One step, two step, three. She can see where the tape goes in. She pokes the rectangular flap, yes the tape is inside! How does it come out? She pokes a button to the right of the flap.

The tape comes out partially. Illya stares at it. Where's the case? The case is important, it protects the tape and has a cover to show what the film is.

Gingerly she grabs the edge of the tape and pulls gently. It comes out easily, it is warm and light, smooth textured but with some tackiness to its surface that prevents it from slipping though her fingers. A living thing without a heartbeat; it needs its shell.

The case is not by the box. Illya stares at the slag heap, not gagging at the smell that hangs in the air. Is there a melted case among the pieces? Would wrapping it in her dressing gown instead be good or bad? Does it need to cool down? It's fragile- she thinks, heat must be bad. Illya turns around to walk back across her bridge and sees it on the couch.

One, two, three, four, five skips and she's safe on couch. There are a pair of spikes inside the case that slot into the two holes in the tape itself. The case clicks together with some kind of clasp. Illya giggles, the real case is much better than anything she could devise. She can hear her heart beating. She's going to win, she's going to win and everything in the world is going to fall at her feet.

She wonders where Mathilde is. If Mathilde is dead there would be at least blood on the floor. The thought makes Illya run her hands over face again. Not a scratch.

She can hear breathing, behind the couch.

'Mathilde?'

'Yes lady Illya?'

'Are you behind the couch?'

'Yes.' Illya peers over. Mathilde has scrunched her body together like a foetus, Illya can see a sheen of sweat on her face.

'Get up.'Mathilde gets up carefully, but still manages to stumble but managing to catch herself on the couches backrest. Her eyes are wide, her mouth hangs open slightly and her chest is heaving. She does not make eye contact with Illya.

The attendant knowing her place lets go of the couch, stands straight and crosses her hands in front of her. The posture of a ready, useful, attendant.

Illya wants to blast her head open with a bolt.

'I liked the film.'

'Oh?'

'I liked it very much.'

'Was it Vader my Lady?'

'Yes. I liked him very much.'

'Then your pleasure is my happiness my lady.' Illya smiles in response, knowing her smile does not reach her eyes.

.o0o.

Mathilde closes the door of Illya's bedroom. Illya is now alone, alone as she can be, she knows she is always watched, but as they walked back to Illya's bedroom they were not stopped and questioned. Grandfather did not appear from around a corner with glare, lecture and judgemental grimace.

It is as if the whole episode passed unnoticed. The queasiness in her stomach transitions into a heavy yawn. Illya hates sleep, and she needs sixteen hours of it every day. Important things should be done while fresh and alert, but the video tape is in her hand. Rattled naïve Mathilde at no point wondered why her lady was still holding the video case as they walked back to her bedroom.

Illya then remembers she has two sets of oil paints she has almost never used.

She crawls out of bed and to her cupboard. For the first time she is happy the floor is made out of cold marble, it's going to be her canvas.

She wonders if she'll have enough paint, if she runs out of red and has to finish with blue would it ruin the circle?

She spends five minutes thinking about it before realising that if she squeezes ALL the paint into a pile and mixes it together both problems will be solved. The resulting paint pile looks like diarrhoea and her arms and nightdress are flaked with spots. She changes her clothes and scrubs her arms clean. A smudge or a spot in the circle could be fatal, but she is confident. She's been made to create so many circles she thinks she could do it while blind.

She removes the video from the case, places it on the floor and begins to paint around it. She yawns and her vision blurs and the cold seeps into her arms and knees time seems to drag out forever. She keeps glancing at the door whenever she hears a creak, or the outside wind changes pitch.

Yet she completes her task. Ward of summoning, surrounded by four purging circles surrounded by a ward of purification. It's beautiful and she has made it perfectly- but maybe the brushwork is a bit thick.

'Plastic and celluloid to the origin. Paint and the archduke of contracts to the cornerstone. The ancestor is primordial Justeaze. The alighted wind becomes a wall. The gates in the four directions close, coming from the crown, the three-forked road that leads to the kingdom circulate. Empty. Fill, empty, fill, empty, fill, empty, fill, empty, fill. Repeat every five times and shatter once filled.'

She breathes in.

'I announce. Your self is under me, my fate is in your blade. In accordance with the approach of the Holy Grail, if you abide by this feeling, this reason, then answer. Here is my oath. I am the one who becomes all the good of the world of the dead, I am the one who lays out all the evil of the world of the dead. You, seven heavens clad in three words of power, arrive from the ring of deterrence, O keeper of the balance.'

The lights flicker out, replaced by a darkness deeper than the void behind the stars.