Chapter 5: Guilt

In defiance of the roaring storm, the lone figure of Berserker marched though the darkened forest, impervious to the power that was smiting the ground with the fury of the wind and lightning. A fierce gale and raindrops battered his menacing frame, but to no avail as he pushed on deeper into the wilderness. He had no destination in mind, simply to wander away until his flames of anger died down.

It was in this setting that his form seemed to gain more of a resemblance to a beast than that of a man, an observation that perhaps bore some grains of truth. The trail of destruction, left in his wake, revealed it so. Trees were fell and uprooted as he carelessly pushed them aside. Bushes and shrubs were trampled underneath his bare feet. Small animals desperately scuttled and scurried away as he carved the path further away from the manor.

The notion of turning back was pondered for only a brief moment, if only for security reasons, but soon was eliminated from the options of immediate necessity. The entire mountain was the Einzberns' backyard. Should an enemy trespass, she would know and, in a similar respect, he would know. It seemed undeniable that Berserker in his current state posed more of a danger to Ilya than the invasion of any imaginary Servant.

He tread forward in the midst of darkness, pushing on into the unexplored depths, but the end of his unplanned exploration came much sooner than he had thought.

Berserker's feet slowed to a halt when it seemed that he had reached the sudden end to the expanse of foliage. With the downpour to obscure his vision and the oozing mud to unsteady the ground, it took him far too long to realize that the ground before him had taken a sharp downward turn, a steep drop nearly thrice his height. With a boulder that stood silently on the top of this earthen mound and a hand to place a firm grip around it, his balance was restored just before he teetered off the edge.

Without the motivation or reason to scale up the muddy surface should he tumbled down Heracles decided to go no further. Regardless, this seemed to finally be a good location to brood, far from any source of interruption. With a grunt, his back was propped against the jagged surface of the boulder for comfort. Though not entirely pleasant, the bitter cold of the surroundings seeped in and dampened the fire that erupted inside him; but ultimately it was time that proved to be the much needed remedy for his anger.

Once he flew into a rage, it would seem that the emotion grow a sentience of its own. Like a wild beast, all active efforts to wrest it under control had only met failure and mockery. The best that could be done was to gradually chip away its foundation, allowing the passage of time to dissipate the beast into nothingness.

In the present circumstance, guilt became a powerful ally to douse the raging emotional wildfire. It was a peculiar sensation. Now without the anger that filling his inside, Berserker felt himself deflate like a hot-air balloon, leaving room instead for regret and shame.

With a hand to knead his aching temple, Berserker reluctantly recalled the sequence of the argument that had taken place not so long ago. No matter what angle he pondered it from, he found that it was impossible to shift the fault away. He himself was to blame.

When pushed to the edge, a cornered animal would just spring up in self-defense, a basic piece of insight for those who were experienced in hunting, yet one that he had overlooked when cornering the girl with his words. Clumsily approached and poorly worded, there was little wonder why she would not heed the advice he opinionated before snapping backward in aggression.

Still, what else could he do? Could he have reached a more persuasive argument had he spared a longer while to mull over his words?

He was no conversationalist. A warrior like him could scarcely adopt the same eloquence or prudence of a philosopher. Unlike the edge of his blade, his words were dull and his mind could not be sharpened with the same ease. His young self was an avid seeker of glory that spared no interest to the finer practices in life. This was where he had to pay the price for that neglect.

Though Berserker clung to the preconceived notion that his poorly designed speech could somehow sway her, the forthcoming deviation from his optimistic outcome shouldn't have been a source of so much surprise or anger. Ilya's fiery retort might have been inappropriate for the circumstances, but it was his final reaction that proved to be unforgivable.

No matter what she had said, no matter the provocation, he bore no right to act like a savage and strike out with force of arm. The event that had transpired reminded him of a cruel reality, one that always lingered at the edge of his mind.

He had resolved to protect Ilya and, yet, his very own hand had nearly been a cause for that oath to be broken. He could only wonder, if the girl had been within his arm's range, would it be her instead of the table that he had struck? Would it her body parts instead of the splinters that he had sent flying?

"…r"

This was a question he was reluctant to answer. His inability to say, "it could never be so" with absolute confidence scared him, for he knew full well of the evil that he could and had brought to many innocent souls. His daughter was merely one among the many victims of his brutish strength and temper.

"…er"

A sharp crack of wooden stick bore down on the young Heracles' shoulder, along with the mandatory rebuke from his mentor. It was the usual routine. Either he struck the wrong string or played the wrong tempo. His fingers, stiff and callous, were not suited to deftly slither around the instrument.

When wielded by a man whose purpose of life was lost to the triviality of music, the birch twig failed to inflict even the remotest form of pain. Still, it was an infuriating notion to be struck by the old buffoon, who would not survive should he decide to retaliate. As such, each stroke and incessant nagging only grated his nerves and there was only so much disgrace he could have borne.

Venting out his anger, Heracles' grip on the lyre tightened, as if to break the dainty instrument. He saw no purpose in pursuing this vocation, a frivolous skill and a frivolous lesson that could barely begin to satisfy his heart, which above all else sought glory. Indeed, the heart of young Heracles belonged to the training ground and wilderness, where he peerlessly excelled.

One final crack of the twig beckoned the torrents of emotion to subsume him. A split second of overwhelming urge and blinding rage induced Heracles to regain his superiority. If he could not excel in this establishment of sophistication and fine art, then he would transform this chamber of music into a sparring ground with him as the aggressor.

His right arm swung forth before rationality could seize control. Though equipped with nothing but a small lyre, his Herculean strength was more than sufficient to grant a lethal quality to this poor substitute of a weapon.

Unlike the usual crack of a twig, his stroke produced a harsh thump, a sound far less intimidating but, to those who know better, far more deadly. Preceding any sublime melody, this sound of battle was what put his young heart at ease.

But it was not a battle-hardened veteran, but an old musician who stood to receive the sheer brunt of his blow, a fact made painfully evident as the frail recipient crumpled to the ground and laid unmoving, ten nimble fingers never again to produce another melody or lovingly strum another string.

But, for Heracles, there was not the usual rush of excitement nor the thrill invoked during combat, merely a disappointment and a sinking sensation of an irreversible deed being done. There was no clashing weapon or blade striking forth as counterattack. This was merely a cold and swift murder.

Still too numb to realize of the gravity of the event that had transpired, it took a few more minutes before Heracles could come to learn the ease in which his hand could take away a human life. For his young mind, it was unforeseen that so drastic a consequence could be resulted from merely a rush of emotion and the swing of a right arm.

The past rose up to haunt him like a bloody specter. Along with the tales of glory adorning its pages, the legend of Heracles was tarnished by spontaneous acts of violence. Though subverted as the years progressed, this inseparable duality of a hero and a beast was one vice that he could never quite overcome…

"Murderer…"

Here it was again, a voice nearly drowned out by the howling of wind. The demon of his conscience condemning the murderer inside. He was well-acquainted with it, always lurking only a short distance away.

It lingered at enough distance to be temporarily forgotten and only resurfaced as his wounds began to mend. It never tired or ceased, incessantly vigilant in searching or facilitating any moment of weakness to consume him, dragging him back to that time of mourning and grief.

The demon, once formless, now seemed to manifest in physical form before him.

"Murderer…" it growled, appearing before him in the small faceless figure of a child, broken and bloodied enough for it belong in a grave.

"I was redeemed…"

Surely, this demon had no place in the real worlds for it was born merely a fragment of his mind, an unreal entity. Yet, as it faced the direct brunt of his stern gaze and snorted derisively at his reply, Berserker couldn't help but to retreat from its presence.

"…You killed me…"

"The labors redeemed me….Now, begone!"

Facing his rejection, the figure retreated a few steps. Its expression remained indiscernible, but there was an air of superiority that it assumed over him.

"….Never forget….Never…Never…Never forget that…!"

As if obeying his words, it teetered off the ledge and slid down the chasm below, but this was no time for Berserker let down his guard.

"…You will kill her too…"

For a moment, icy water ran through his vein with the words that affirmed the fear that inside his heart

"…Never…NEVER!"

Instinct compelled Berserker to step forth and seize broken figure, although the lack of foothold had him plummeted down the height by its side. The fall was of no concern to him, but not so for the girl. His arms moved before his conscious mind could, tucking the girl into safety with his own body as a living shield. Still, his preparation seemed to have been for naught as a soft slosh as the softened mud received his bulky form.

The fall proved to be the final jolt he needed. As if awakened from a nightmare, his vision focused upon the small body cradled protectively within his arms. Bloodstains disappeared from her like a ghastly mist, leaving a girl who was soaked and shivering from the cold but was very much alive.

"Thank you…Berserker"

Though the shock of the fall had yet to subside, her face was fraught with concern for his sake. With her form so frail, it seemed entirely possible that the storm might just carry her away. Her feet had encrusted ankle-deep with mud as she escaped the maids' watchful glance to pursue him through the storm.

Here was Ilya staring at him with her deep expectant eyes.

"…Are you…alright?"

But there was no answer from Berserker.

The bizarre turn of events forced his tattered mind to piece together the sequence of events that had just transpired. The moment of awakening left him with a shame overwhelming that prevented words from being uttered.

…For how long had he mistook that bloody specter for her? How could his eyes have been so blind and his mind so clouded to see that hallucination in her place? Would its grim prophecy come true had he chosen not to heed not the call of instinct and reach out to break her fall? Would it-

"…Berserker!" Ilya repeated with a small pout, now that her question was ignored.

"…I am fine…" Her presence was an anchor that latched him onto reality, repelling the last figments of that nightmare. It would take beyond a heart of stone to not be softened by the sight and, apparently, Berserker hadn't lost his soft core quite yet. "…All is well if you are unharmed."

"…Good." For a moment, Ilya was taken aback by the ease in which the sharp edge of anger was lost from his voice. Relief allowed the breath she was holding to leak out in a small sigh of relief.

'What…are you doing here?"

"To get you home, of course…How long do you think you have gone off into the forest?"

Could it be that she was so distraught by his disappearance that she had to slip through the maid's watchful eyes from the safety of the manor into the stormy forest. True, he was far from being discrete, but it required no small amount of courage to be following the trail of rampage and in the midst of a storm.

…All this, done for the sake of mending their companionship.

There was no more for him to do but to response in kind.

"Forgive me. It was inexcusable that I lashed out."

"Well, I suppose that's fine…" Slightly shaking her head, she quickly added in a mumble, never expecting that she would gain his apology so easily. "… That old dining table was becoming creaky…so I was thinking to replace it anyway…"

Her modest attempt in alleviating his guilt was found to be a surprise, but at the same time an amusing one that revealed a rare sympathetic insight hidden in the shell and gait of a young girl.

Nevertheless, Ilya's temporarily meek self struck him as a stark contrast with the fieriness she'd displayed earlier. Even when bogged down by all his concerns and frustration, Berserker couldn't help but succumbed to a fit of laughter.

"Mmmmm, just what are you laughing at?!" With deep red hue to spread to her ears from the mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, the hysteric roars that echoed through the forest seemed to have turned Ilya back to her peevish self. "What's so funny?!"

"If you can talk as sincerely as you did earlier, perhaps it would much simpler to have this matter resolved."

"D-Don't misunderstand. I just apologized for what I said about you. I still don't…agree with you about Shirou or anything."

And he didn't expect her to do so easily. For now, he should be contented with her response. Time might be against him, but he had learned a valuable lesson from the earlier encounter to not push the girl beyond her threshold.

"No matter, it is best that for us to return. We've already lingered in the wilderness for too long."

"Really and whose bright idea was it to run straight into the forest anyway?"

Berserker chuckled. He had no retort for this other than to lower himself and offer her a hand in response. The girl had done well in pursuing him across the forest. The least he could do was to save her from the hassle of the return trek. Still, he did spare a few seconds to look back over his shoulder, searching every dark corner. It was only when he could see no shifting shadow to pursue them across that forest that he could let out a breath in relief.

"Come, let us be home."

Ilya nodded and allowed him to lift her up in silence. She had her Berserker back and, for now, it was all that matter.

"I'm…sorry."

"So am I…"

Without their judgments being clouded, words of apology were uttered with surprising ease, a notion unfathomable when their mind were chained down by pride and anger. After the brief exchange, their trek back was silent. There was no more to be said or done, but to savor the realization that their difference had been more or less mended.

Unlike what her appearance suggested, Ilya had the sense to keep her head alert out in the wilderness, but the storm was more than an equal match for her. Leaning against the wide expanse of his back, Ilya struggled vainly against exhaustion. Before long, the pitter-patter of raindrops lulled her to sleep.

His mind wandered to the time when he would tuck her back into bed and he slightly chuckled at the thought. Assuming he could find them in the manor, the maids were sure to be in frenzy over their disappeared mistress by now…

The storm eventually died down to a light drizzle. Clouds parted to reveal the face of the moon over a small gap within its formation. Illuminated by its gentle glow, malevolent dark corners in the forest were all but purged away, truly a calm after a storm. In such a setting, the atmosphere soon gained a mystical quality to replace its earlier somberness.

Like the storm, their quarrel had passed. Like a pre-designed puzzle, everything fell into place with an ease that surprised even both of them. Their conflict mended, his doubt absolved, and her stubbornness wavered. As far as he was concerned, all seemed to back to the way they were supposed to be.

Alas, it did foreshadow the final obstacle he had yet to overcome.

Deep within the forest or within the recess of his mind, the voice remained as loud and clear as before, tearing away any naïve notion that it could be repelled with such ease.

"You will kill her…"

He forced ignorance upon himself, turning deaf ears to the voice of doubt that cried out from the recess of his mind. However, its last word could not be overlooked with the same ease

"Father…"

The same bloodied girl greeted Berserker's eyes as he turned back to search for the source of the voice, sitting on a distant branch with eyes trained upon him like a hawk. A sharp thorn of guilt was lodged in his heart as he ignored her presence and quickened his pace away from the forest.