AN: Limited POV is fun to show perspective, but I'm afraid I might not be getting certain events across. That would be my failing, but I'd like to alleviate them if it gets too ridiculous. Feel free to comment if you believe this type of clarification is necessary or if I've gotten my message across regardless of perspective limitations.
Regarding dialogue, there will be some grammar mistakes when native speakers try to communicate with Artoria. I'll limit them so as not to be too irritating or overbearing, and I've made sure the type of errors they make are well in line with what most learning speakers often do.
Lastly, I'm hoping I won't have to make use of this limitation for long - or at the very least ensure it won't break your immersion. A few stilted lines, forgotten articles, or misattributed prepositions are warranted to showcase the bridge in communication they have to work with.
Bright. Oh so bright...
Light. Blinding.
Brilliant, warm, and far too close for her liking. It glared through her slumber, prodding at her face and features incessantly until the King of Knights finally stirred.
It took some effort - loathe as she was to admit it - to force her lidded eyes open. Artoria's head swam as the world blurred into focus, distorting and fading and folding in ways that made her want to retch from the experience. Invasive whites, bleached oak walls... no, not oak. It lacked the warmth, the grime, the texture. It was something else, flat and alien.
As was the rest of the room. She could vaguely discern the purpose of some of her surroundings - a drying barrel by the corner along with a table by her side, inlaid with a good number of uniform knobs. The barrel was an oddity - tiny and gleaming, like polished armor. It spoke of either wealth or wastefulness of their owner, and yet again Artoria wondered where exactly she was. An afterlife, perhaps? It would certainly explain the decadence of her hosts. Her kingdom's people spoke of a heaven of harps and clouds and splendor, while the Nords thundered hymns of great halls of feasting and mead. But it was silent, there were no clouds, and the room was devoid of any semblance of sustenance - The King of Knights would know best on such matters.
She willed herself to rise, relieved not to endure the indignity of a failing body yet again. Her limbs ached and her shoulders trembled, which was likely a good sign. It was said heaven stripped the suffering of all their burdens in life. Hell did the opposite - infusing vivid, pointed pains in every aspect of one's being. She was somewhere in between those states, so she was either alive or in purgatory - which was, at best, extremely unlikely. Artoria had paid her fiscal dues to the church religiously.
Alive it was, then. Unexpected, but welcome.
She forced her arm to stretch - right first, across the opposite shoulder. Years of practiced swordsmanship left the limb durable, even without Avalon's blessing. It obeyed her without protest. Then came the other limb, until a feint tug resisted the motion. She traced the sensation all the way to the source and balked at her findings.
A needle. A bloody - in every sense of the term - needle in her arm! What was she, a dress? Was it someone's attempt at amusement?
That might have been preferable, despite her irritation. Along the implement were odd bits of material, clinging to what appeared to be a see-through worm. Long, clear fluid trickled down the contorted insect, all the way to a clear waterskin half-filled with the unknown brew. Poison, then? It had to be.
Dragon's blood had given her resistance to most mundane toxins, but Morgan - who else could it have been? - was nothing but determined. Given time and patience, her elder could create more than a few loathsome concoctions that would spell the end of even the most stalwart dragons, and Artoria was but a fraction of their size and purity. She hastily yanked it from her being, massaging the affected fist gingerly.
It bled. More than expected from such a tiny wound - she had been right after all. If just that little of the hazardous decoction could cause such bleeding, any more would likely spell her doom on the battlefield. No, not even the battlefield - an assassin's blade would need but a nick, and Avalon's absence would ensure the fatality of such a method. Morgan's sadism truly knew no bounds. A pit deep within her settled dangerously, gnawing at her insides - Mordred's final blow. That meant it was real, and it had happened - nothing could hurt this much yet remain imaginary. The wounded king hissed in pain, stifling the sound into forced silence.
Artoria hastily wrapped the blanket over her figure around the wound, binding it tightly around the injury. The material was soft and almost inviting, and an irrational part of the bedridden king's mind loathed soiling such a thing with blood. The practical side of her ignored this, continuing with what needed to be done. A foreign room in a foreign land, where the lights shone brighter than the sun and the scent of stale, unsweetened wine burned at her nostrils. The King of Knights would be no one's hostage.
She made to stand, swinging her legs over the soft bed, onto the smooth, cold floor that sent chills up her bare feet and legs. Only then did she realize her shredded gambeson had been done away with, replaced by a nightgown the shade of clean snow, exposing a good deal of her youthful figure. The impulse to cover herself with the remnants of the silken blanket was checked and silenced by urgency - the wide sheet would inhibit her movements. Of the myriad of ways for Artoria's life to end, vanity would certainly not be among the causes. A burst of mana and a quick yank from her free hand tore off the excess of her wound's improvised bindings, and she continued towards the door.
Which wouldn't yield. She pushed, and she pulled, to no avail. She'd even tried the strange protrusion - presumably a complicated hinge of these people - to match all the nonexistent progress she'd made prior. Traces of frustration began to simmer within as she glared at the affront to her capabilities. It would submit before she would, that much was beyond certain.
It did, technically speaking. Thirty arduous seconds and a good deal of stubborn, directionless clicking later, the door had been opened. Rather, the door frame had been left as such, its original inhabitant blown of its hinges in an act of obstinance against the wrong person, now leaning gently against the wall within her prison's quarters. It would do Artoria no good to advertise she had escaped her confines. The exertion of lifting even that, despite her strength being supplemented by mana, wrenched against her insides painfully. Wounds of her gravitas turned septic at the best of times - Avalon would have trivialize that. Avalon trivialized a good deal of things she'd never even realized before. She needed to get to Merlin, wherever he might have went. The kingdom needed him - she needed him. Which she'd never admit to his perpetually-smug grin.
People across the halls. Decorated in encapsulating blue across their figures, masked in similarly-bright hues. The quality was superb - not a single strand of fabric off-color. In fact, not a single thread was even out of place to see such concerns. A shade akin to her royal cloak, only paler, but undoubtedly expensive. To do so for so many people... her captors must have been well-funded indeed. The trio had been lugging along another on a rack - the man lying in it looked unwell, from the little she saw of the scene. Ugly, welting purple bruises layered the figure's exposed chest. She shuddered to imagine what could have dealt such a fate to him, composing herself with the knowledge that it was likely something on the premises she wandered about that inflicted such. Artoria readied herself - which merely meant her posture straightened a bit tenser than it had been, but the gesture brought her a bit more reassuring confidence against whatever lied in wait.
The trio and their victim departed, and she made her way past the halls that echoed with her padded footfalls. There must be an opening somewhere - a door, or even a low balcony should the need be dire enough. Artoria would make her way out of this accursed fortress and deal with the rebellions properly. It would be a challenge without her comrades, who'd all fallen in one way or another, but she owed it to her kingdom - and their memories - to try.
Another voice, calling out. The same frantic tone, but it lacked the youth the memory's own had possessed. A woman's, grating and nasally. It grew in volume, and her own footsteps redoubled in her effort to escape. The voice in pursuit hushed from the distance, yells edging towards breathless.
Artoria spoke for her people, and her affronts were inherited as their burdens. Straining relations with any kingdom, no matter how removed from her own, would only hamper her efforts in leading them away from ruin. Despite her distaste of whatever happened to occur in the premises, her kingdom came first.
Another of her kind - dressed in pale blue - emerged into view. From a corner that didn't seem to be so - the building was bizarre. The short, stocky man stood in view, and yelled with her initial pursuer pointedly, likely coordinating their effort. Artoria could barely make out some of his features peek out from behind his mask. Long, slanted eyes, sun-kissed skin, a rather small nose - likely the residents of Cathay.
She'd welcomed them, as much as any sensible ruler could, but her subjects held conflicted opinions of their new visitors. It was difficult to entice their presence amidst the poor reputation some of her holds had irrevocably cultivated in their interactions. Her other pursuer had similar features as well... as did the trio transporting the wounded man. Perhaps she was in Cathay? It would explain the strangeness of her surroundings somewhat - a king so rarely enjoyed travel for pleasure, after all.
And likely never would, as a third had joined their odd fray from the corner of her vision. They'd come from where the first man had, but sprinted at a rather respectable pace for someone without mana infusions... then again, they weren't dealing with any potentially-mortal wounds, so perhaps the advantage evened out in the end...
Now was not the time.
She pushed the pointless thoughts away, focusing on her immediate surroundings. Two paths and three pursuers, though the King of Knights retained her distance at the cost of pained exertion. Perhaps she could have dealt with them, but they were all unarmed. Not any less dangerous, but she'd had more than a lifetime's fill of bloodshed.
She would find out soon enough - two more had stood in her way, arms crossed, walling of her escape. Garbed in a lighter blue with exposed faces. They were far more than their counterparts, with white gloves, impeccable leather boots, and a quaint little hat that shone in the odd lights. Then they uncrossed their stance, unbound their stoic expressions, falling into a state best described as... distraught, of all things. The two voices overlapped, desperately waving open hands in front of their faces. To show they were unarmed, likely - despite the short cudgels strapped to their waists. Or perhaps to show that they chose to be that way despite that.
The other three had caught up, warily edging near her in the brief moment she chose to hesitate. They had raised their own hands in kind, palms outstretched towards the ceiling. Claiming to mean no harm. They maintained their distance, but paid rapt attention to the scene before them, mumbling in their alien tongue.
It was irritating to be observed like that - she could feel their stares boring into the back of her head.
One of the pair approached her - the younger, she'd assumed. His face was far less weathered than their partner, though no less anxious at the moment. A hand raised in front of him in appeasement, with the other resting no more than an inch from the armament by his hip. Artoria shifted her stance readily.
To his credit, the man noticed his mistake. The wandering hand darted back in front of his face to join its partner, and he slowly, gingerly approached her. Words were exchanged - rather, words were spoken. Meaningless words to her - all she could garner was the tone, hushed and gradual. Just as a shepherd would use to coax their herd.
She tensed, and he hopped a half step back, now raising his gloved hands higher than his head. His gaze flickered between the floor and her eyes as he attempted to approach again. Artoria could sense no killing intent emanating from him - nor anyone else in their little crowd. No malice to speak of, and her instincts were rarely wrong. Rarely.
The sigh of relief he released was palpably loud, shared between everyone but her. And the number accounting for everyone had grown considerably - just under half a dozen had joined the spectacle, flanking previously-unguarded paths. They must have been penning her in, then.
The King of Knights felt someone enter her guard - instincts not entirely failing. Artoria's hands balled in anticipation, of the calm before the tempest inevitably agitated. A hand fell on her shoulder, mumbled words entered her ears, and she'd lashed out from the contact.
An open palm - she didn't want to kill, just escape - from the tiny king struck him square in the chest. He launched a fair distance away, sprawling flat on the floor. He clutched at his torso, heaving strained breaths from the blow.
That might have been enough... she just wanted to leave. Despite what she'd seen. More important matters were to be attended to, and they might have the wisdom to recognize the folly in standing between a king and her ailing kingdom. She wouldn't particularly keen on demonstrating another reminder.
No such good fortune, as the roughshod crowd converged into a mob. Not quite moving against her, but ensuring she had to pass them in pursuit of freedom. They were hesitating, murmuring among themselves likely on how best to proceed. She took a step forward, then another, paced at a deliberate gait - regal, poised, set, and insistent. They would part in her path or she would make them... Artoria hoped it wouldn't come to that.
Then the boy in her mind darted across her vision. A blur clothed in light, earthy brown and a head full of disheveled crimson.
Out of breath, hands on his knees for the briefest of moments. He settled himself properly, though still gasping from the effort. The boy clasped his hands together before her, shaking them pleadingly and bowing his head. She took a step forward, and he inserted himself in her path, wearing the same expression and stretching his arms wide across, barring her path. And again. No matter her thoughts on the matter, he was being an obstacle in her return. The boy was complicit. He was getting in her way...
No, he was getting between her and the others. Artoria had noticed it after a brief bout of uncharacteristic annoyance. The others looked at him worriedly - the few within eyeshot, and presumably the distant ones behind her. A masked figure - the first on to chase her - made to pull the boy away, only to get refused with a determined shake of the head, returning to his personally appointed post. He must have been protecting them. From her.
And why wouldn't he? The man she'd struck, she'd finally realized, had been surrounded by his compatriots. Four of them, heedless of her intimidating presence. Level voices and clipped commands, hinting at compassionate professionalism, nodding at his words and feeling for his wound. Treating him like a... physician. Were they all doctors? Was she amidst one of God's houses?
They weren't harming her. They hadn't tried. Even now, their cudgels had rested, undrawn and unused. She had been an idiot - they boy had found her, and she was alive, yet all that had crossed her addled mind was the misplaced certainty it had been little but a brewing scheme. They'd saved her life: the wound had been been crippling - no, mortal. Yet she could walk, and she could breath, and she had been granted time she didn't deserve.
And all she'd done with the blessing was cause pain to her saviors. And the boy was defending them from her impulsive warpath.
Shame knotted and pooled in her innards, hurting far more than the wound she'd received. It gathered and poured in rivets, seeping into her pointless pride, shattering her resolve. A ruthless tyrant... looking at the actions she'd taken, perhaps her subjects hadn't been mistaken.
The King of Knights surrendered. Thin arms drooped to the side, and her head fell in regret. An arm - her own, she numbly realized - rubbed at her shoulder, nursing warmth into the suddenly-frigid area. She'd no idea when that had happened, and why her instincts had seen fit not to retaliate. Perhaps it had been for the cold crept with the hollow, and her indignation had been chilled by more than mere cold.
The boy who'd saved her... the boy who'd stopped her... the boy who'd have kept trying, she was certain of it, took her hand. Likely to ensure she wouldn't raise them against his people again. He need not concern himself about such a thing, though even if she could speak she doubted she'd earned the right to be heard. A few words were exchanged between the boy and another of the people she'd been prepared to harmed - the rotund lady answered with such forced calm - and sent him on his way, down the halls she'd sprinted past what felt like only mere moments ago.
A doctor awaited her in the room she'd broken past, anxious but determined not to balk in her presence. She could respect that, even if the man couldn't understand it.
The boy who saved her was chatting away with them, explaining a good bit of things. He'd even let go of her grasp - and it was bothersome to admit she'd held on as much as he had - to presumably explain what had happened. The patient doctor nodded on occasion, shook his head at others, and never deviated from their warm tones. The doctor thanked the boy - she had to have, given her motions - and pointed past the door Artoria had removed. He shook his head politely. He'd asked again, and was met with a more turbulent shake of the head, followed by him pointing at her messy wound bindings.
The brave doctor looked at her, raising a hand palm-down. He pinched over his other hand, resting it barely past the knuckle, before gently pulling it straight away.
The parasite, perhaps? The one she'd found burrowed in her fist alongside a needle.
She nodded, repeating the gesture with her afflicted hand.
"I..." the doctor began - she'd understood it!
"My apologies for my behavior. I swear to atone for my actions in full, on my kingdom's honor. Please, allow me to do so. I've harmed one of your people - let me begin there!" she'd interrupted, a torrent she hadn't meant to release all at once. The two before her looked confused at her words, staring at each other briefly, then searching for any worthwhile retort - it was heartrending to realize neither of them understood what she'd said.
"I... not very good. English. I will... try." It came with a peculiar accent, clipped at some letters, laced with hesitation. "You are... safe. Let us help you. Hand, please."
The lack of understanding frustrated Artoria - her own. She'd only ever needed one tongue in her lifetime. Many would chide the physician for such a poor grasp of her language - her people were often no exception. They would have cursed at him in their shortsightedness and entitlement, trying to heal them wordlessly.
It was the simple realization that he struggled in his speech because she could not comprehend his that quelled any such thought. She stifled her flaring pride and did as instructed - the boy smiled at her for cooperating. It was pleasant, and rolled and washed away the raw sharpness from her bare shoulders.
She needed his name. A title, at the least. "Do you speak English?" Artoria asked, meeting his eyes. Golden brown, rather large and rounded compared to his kinsmen.
He nodded. "Yes. Not... too well. Yet." Better spoken, though the accent clung heavily and his eyes seemed lost in search of what to say next.
He settled on pointing at himself instead. "Emiya Shirou." The name came far more naturally to her than anything she'd heard from her stay.
"Then I am pleased to meet you, Emiya." She bowed her head, emulating the sign she'd seen repeated so many times already.
"Miss... Miss Mordred, right?" He asked, uncertainly.
Her world crumbled, then resettled as if nothing had happened. "No. That is not my name." Reining in errant emotion had been honed to perfection by nearly a decade of practice - but now, more than ever, the struggle pulsed through her body in, unwanted and carefully stifled.
"Right. Um." He - Emiya - began, uncertain how to proceed but blissfully unaware of her tested self-control. "Sorry. You... answered that name when I finded you at the alley."
Found - Sir Kay's lectures echoed in her memory. Artoria ignored the incessant impulse to correct him - Emiya could speak understandably well enough. "And you brought me to this hospice - this hospital?" She corrected, once it had been made abundantly clear they'd no idea what that word meant.
Emiya nodded in confirmation, continuing slowly. "You were bleeding so much..."
She must have been - Clarent had cut deep through her youthful, unchanging figure. The mere thought of the experience brought forth phantoms pains to plague her, and she'd grit her teeth for as long as needed until it subsided into something bearable. "Thank you for saving me."
"Thank you. For being alive." It seemed honest enough. Such a rarity in these trying times, with her world in shambles. It reminded her of Galahad a great deal - a clean heart, driven by unwavering care. "Please. Do not hurt anyone else."
"I... I will refrain - I shall not raise a hand against another here." Emiya took a moment to process it - the king briefly worried she'd overused her own vernacular - and sighed in relief. She'd fallen for such poor judgement yet again - it was suddenly far easier to grasp why her people had betrayed their king. Not that she could ever accept their reasoning, but she could see how dangerously simple it was to lapse irregardless, consequences be damned.
"I have work today. Do you mind if I left while your stay here?" He explained, paused, then reflected. "During. During your stay. You'll be safe here, and I promise to be back."
Of course - he was youthful, but far from a child. Rather far in fact, dwarfing her own figure by a great deal. Which was bothersome to admit, and the pettiest of yearnings had the King of Knights sorely begin to miss her crown and boots. It was strange to be reminded just how incipient her body still was thanks to Avalon, despite her mind and experience boasting of labors and battle that would give even the hardiest of people pause. She wasn't particularly fond of the feeling.
And of course he'd need to be earning his keep - it would have been more than expected, given his likely age. She'd taken more than a good deal of his time in her weakness, which demanded an apology from her. "Of course. There is no need to trouble yourself over me - you've done more than well. I thank you for your aid in my time of need."
"No trouble - no trouble at all." Emiya assured quietly, laughing her appreciation off. It might have been insulting had she not realized the boy was simply unaccustomed to gratitude. The King of Knights privately swore to amend that once she had the opportunity - Galahad could do well with a like-minded squire, and she could imagine Emiya would make for an excellent knight in a few years time. "I'll go now. Promise to come back again. Please just rest and get better."
And he'd left, just like that. Hefting a knapsack she'd failed to notice the entire time, footstep echos softening into silence with distance.
"You're very lucky, oj-lady." The physician she'd forgotten existed in the room reminded, then amended. "Very deep lacerations... ruptured organs... and exposure to the elements for an ind... indeter... unknown length of time. It could have been far worse, your injury."
"La-cer-a-tions?" She repeated slowly. The word came in knots, confusing and meaningless to her.
"A cut. Or a stab, in your case. It pierced deeply - you were fortunate not to bleed out, for a lady of your size."
She grunted softly in acknowledgement, ignoring the irritation at the term. At the very least, it confirmed they knew nothing of her true identity. regardless of her debt to the place and its inhabitants, the less said about herself the better. "Then I am grateful for your care. All of your care."
"I'm grateful you're grateful, then." he returned, chuckling at something unknown to her. It must have shown on her face, for he voiced his clarification.
"I'm... sorry. If we'd known you spoke that, well, we'd have made... pre-pa-ra-tions." It was odd to hear the struggle in the lilt of his tone. Perhaps some words came more naturally than others, or maybe he'd simply encountered the former ones far more often. "With your blond hair and green eyes, I guess we should have known better... did you, were you, the door? Was it?"
"Yes." She answered bluntly, to an expression of nervous bafflement. "Have no fear - I can assure you the damages I'd wrought will be well compensated for."
It might have, more than figuratively, been the actual least she could do. Artoria made note of the need to contact an envoy once the issue had settled itself, both to reward her young savior and apologize for the hasty judgement that thankfully didn't lead to damning repercussions. Yet.
"Yes, well..." he trailed off, pulling down his mask to reveal a scuffed, black beard of stubble. It reminded her vaguely of the goats she'd seen frolicking in her youth, though Artoria tactfully kept the memory to herself. "You should not... exert yourself like that?"
It came as a question, despite the warning. "I shall refrain from doing so, then." she promised, hoping to atone for her transgressions with cooperativeness.
If anything, the older man looked even more baffled at her promise of restraint. He'd seemed to push it aside for the moment, in favor of whatever they'd planned to heal her with. "You're very strong then, lady. But I need to return the IV tube - that needle you pulled out earlier. It is very important."
He moved towards her carefully, gingerly unwrapping her shoddy bindings. The sound of crusted fabric being pulled apart was one she'd been all to familiar with. The needle came back with little fanfare, unveiled from a little bag and meticulously polished into a sheen. It pricked and broke the skin - it felt peculiar simply allowing such to happen.
"Good job." He praised, unintentionally patronizing the King of Knights. A sense of obligation bound her to correct his line of thinking, but she'd more than earned the indignity. In fact, it might have simply been his way to avoid aggravating her wrath - which she'd, unfortunately, already come to demonstrate. The shame stayed her hand.
"I'll need to ask for a new bedsheet... to replace the one that, yes..."
The one she'd ruined. Just a short while before she'd violated sacred hospitality - her ignorance meant little consolation. A king - no, a knight - ought to have acted better.
"Don't worry." He assured, likely noting her well-earned dejection. "I'll just ask the staff for replacement. Please keep resting."
The pain of Artoria's wound had dulled somewhat - it thrummed rather than throbbed, constant but tolerable. She could stand, which was more than could be said for the multitudes she'd seen cut down. She had all her limbs functional , if a bit stiff. Fortune smiled on her yet again, just as it shone away from her people...
No. She was alive to remedy that. She would remedy that. No use to dwell on despair that demanded nothing but alleviation. A king was duty bound to their people. Her success was shared with them, and her subjects to be shielded from her failings. She would fight for her kingdom until she died. And nothing would kill her until she succeeded.
The king wouldn't permit their own death while their people suffered, or their own failings to be spread like a plague.
Indeed. The king's word was law, binding even themselves.
So The King of Knights rested, despite the restlessness forcing its way into her limbs. Artoria forced herself to lay down, meticulously clasping her hands around her thin stomach. Mustering all the grace she could into the gesture - as anything less would be unbecoming of her position. Her eyes fixed at the ceiling, enraptured by the lights she'd so casually disregarded. Magecraft, perhaps? Merlin had similar tools in his study, though his crystals were rounded in shape and far more dazzling. They looked nothing like the long, angular things she'd barely made out the shape to be.
"Oh, sorry." A voice interrupted. "The boy - Emiya, was it - left something for you. Before he'd ran off - the first time he did, yes..."
A weighted thud rumbled in the corner of her left ear - ceramic, it had to be. Then followed by soft scurrying footsteps as her caretaker vacated the room. Artoria inclined her head to spot what had been laid by her bedside.
Flowers. Lovely, tapered blossoms. The sweet scents mingled with unmistakable dampness - set in water, then. Not even a hint of earth clung in the air. A modest bouquet, by all means. It paled in comparison to the decadent handheld gardens she'd seen in her court. Some would have even said it was nothing, if they'd seen the laurels and blossoms and florets she'd given to her dear friend and unloved wife Guinevere - out of a mix of obligation for her duties as a husband, alongside a great deal of appreciation for her sacrifice. A modest little set, likely plucked from a personal garden or along a wild road - some of her more decadent viceroys would even claim them to be sickly. But it was by her side, a gift freely given, and the only speckle of color in this suffocating, two-toned room.
So Artoria Pendragon kept her gaze on the humble posy, enamored by little sprigs of color she'd long since believed herself to have outgrown years ago.
It was a rare day when the King of Knights had been proven wrong. Rarer still the moments she'd found herself delighted by it.
AN: Cathay - an alternative historical name given by Europeans for China.
Yes, I know she's in Japan, and it doesn't equate at all. It's not a matter of casual racism so much as showcasing their reference points for those kinds of encounters. Because let's be real, you probably can't tell a Chinese person from a Japanese person from appearance alone. And if you think you can, then that'd be the real racism, honestly.
God's house - an old English term for hospitals. Also known as a Maison Dieu or Domus Dei.