A/N: Just a little background information for those of you who are not so familiar with story of Heracles, the setting of this chapter's flashback during his sixth labor where he was sent to kill the man-eating Stymphalian birds. The part about their toxic dung is true to the legend, although the sequence in the flashback is fictional.

Hope you'll enjoy reading!

Chapter 6: Foreboding

"Thirty-nine degrees…" Sella's expression visibly darkened as she read the number off the thermometer aloud, wishing somehow for the viscous red liquid to recede from the top of the device. While the number itself held no meaning of significance for Berserker, the disappointment in her tone was contagious.

As a sharp contrast with the fiery little girl who had pursued him into the forest only a day before, Ilya was now wrapped up in blanket with a damp towel pressed against her forehead. No doubt, it was a direct consequence of her yesterday's venture into the forest. Returning exhausted, shivering, and soaked to the bones seemed to be more than her body could handle.

Unlike the heroic spirits whose bodies lacked the fundamental composition of an ordinary human and couldn't be assailed by illness, she naturally collapsed, causing a rightful panic for all three other occupants of the mansion.

Berserker remained at the usual position at her bedside, frustration raging underneath. The fault was partially his to have forced the necessity upon her to run into the forest. His glare pierced through the empty space, partly in a wish to be capable of smiting her illness to smithereens. This intangible adversary was another that he could not overcome and, quite unfortunately, they seemed to lack the sole weapon that could strike its weakness.

What the girl needed was a doctor or at least a good medicine, neither of which was readily available. A small assortment of bottles and pills piled up in a useless clutter on the nightstands to either side. None was effective in treating the symptoms of her acute illness. The castle had been close to being abandoned for years, only hastily restocked and refurbished with the arrival of the new war. It was no surprise to learn that a few articles of necessity could be missing from the supply room.

Had he not feared that her condition would worsen, Berserker reckoned that he could have laid the girl on his back and been halfway to the city by now.

The fact that they were in the middle of a war also could not be handled with blinded eye. While it was true that he would strike down all who intend Ilya harm with the ferocity of Ares himself, exposing the now vulnerable Ilya was to be giving signal of a prime opportunity for every Master out there. As much as he hated to admit, among them were those more devious than to employ direct attack.

The array of knowledge that he possessed might not extend to all the convoluted details regarding the magi arts of hexes, charms, and forcefields, but it was a fairly well-established notion that there were all too many ways that a magus could transform his home into a deadly trap. A magus can only be safest in their home. In this sense, the seeds of disaster could easily be sowed by hasty decisions and lack of vigilance.

"Leysritt, I need to visit the city for medicine. Ideally, the young mistress should be allowed to see a doctor. That is not possible considering the circumstances." Not being one to stand around idly, Sella was the first to take the matter into her own hand. Then with skeptical eyes and critical tone, she turned to address him. "Master Berserker, do try to control your temper this time."

Apparently, there were things damaged in the last night's charade that were far more difficult to repair than the table alone, her trust included. The maid looked as if she wanted to say more, but ultimately decided to against the notion. With a curt bow, she exited the room.

As her footsteps faded from the corridor, Sella's initiative seemed to have left an adverse effect on her colleague. Though the more passive one of the pair, Leysritt too had grown fed up with inaction. Shuffling mechanically from the corner, the anxiety in her eyes soon turned into determination.

"I shall be giving the storage room another search. May I ask you to remain with the mistress until I return?"

"I will go along." Likewise, Berserker was spurred into action, albeit his reasoning took a differing turn from either of the maids. Guilt was a force that he could not ignore as he gave a hesitant gaze in the direction of Ilya,.

"There is no need to trouble you. Just I alone would suffice, and the young mistress needs someone to stay by her side." Leysritt shook her head. Her usual stoic demeanor gave an unintended bluntness to the reply, although it was a quirk that he had gotten used to by now.

Remaining somewhat reluctant, Berserker had no retort to her reasoning, only to expressed his disagreement through a stoic silence. Still regarding himself as the cause of her illness, inaction would only serve to agitate him all the more.

"Please, Master Berserker, she will appreciate having someone to stay beside her. For her sake…"

But, in the end, it was the fear and desperation in her eyes that caused him to cave. Silently accepting the burden of inaction, he heaved a heavy sigh.

"…I'm Ilya's Servant. I shall stay by her side even without your request."

"Please, if there's any change to her condition, let me know…"

Her gaze trailed back toward the room and its occupant, alternating between the bed-ridden girl and the clearly distressed guardian.

"…You need not feel the blame for this, Master Berserker," Leysritt uttered softly, pausing once before the door fully close.

The words of encouragement struck Berserker as a surprising divergence from her usual reserved nature. Nevertheless, he was grateful.

"…Thank you."

However, the lingering pleasantness from the exchange soon faded with the same heavy sensation that hadn't left him since the last night's encounter. Though he was left alone with Ilya, Berserker's senses remained on high alert. Partly to watch for intruding Servants, but more importantly toward the uninvited anomaly that would soon manifest itself whenever he was left alone with the girl. His glance shifted to each corner of the room as if to search for any small telltale sign of its appearance.

The shuffling of blankets drew his attention away from the current apprehension. From the bed, Ilya's right arm fell from the cover as if beckoning him to her side.

A brief moment of hesitation followed.

Still unable to shake off the unease, he nevertheless steeled his mind to inch closer to her, one gradual step at a time.

The signs of illness were all too evident upon her face as he moved closer. Too weak and disoriented to remove the piece of towel that covered her eyes, she groped around the thin air until her hand found a firm and reassuring sensation of his presence. With a certain desperation in her voice, she whispered weakly.

"…Am I going to die?"

Heracles could spare no answer but his heavy silence seemed to speak louder than words. There was no help to be received from his hand. Even the mighty Heracles could not wrest her illness into submission. It was an enemy against which neither strength nor wit were found to be effective.

"Please…Save us…"

The birds of Stymphalus. It had been said that they were a bearer of great plague, but the rumor alone hardly did them justice. Bodies were strewn across the street, abandoned by friends and families in revulsion. The cries of hapless souls that laid weak and afflicted sang dirges for the newly dead, only to follow and join their rank mere moments later. This field of corpses was the birds' banquet table, leaving the weak and the dead to be feasted upon.

"Save…us..."

"I will. I swear it on my honor."

Heracles' lips made the first move before conscience could catch up. Unbeknownst to her, that bloody night robbed him of any shred of honor he might have had remaining. Though he was called as one, before her was no hero, merely a murderer. Yet, he was not without compassion.

"Now sleep and you will wake to find that the ordeal is over."

A cruel lie, but one that was made for her sake. It was the final act of mercy to appease the soul of this unfortunate girl.

She was too weak for words, but a smile of satisfaction was her reply. Both grips slackened; her hand fell off and drooped toward the ground. Her very last reserve of vital energy wasted to make this desperate plea, but it was one that could produce no good to this still warm carcass that was soon to be fed into a collective pyre blazing in the city square.

He accepted the sixth labor with a weary heart, but a new flame of determination had been kindled. Here was another soul that he could not save, another girl whose spark of life vanished before his very eyes. Laying the girl's limp arm atop of her now lifeless body, he cursed his own powerlessness in the face of this untouchable adversary. For the very least, he vowed that the winged abominations would pay for their deed.

The tense expression on Berserker face softened, if only for a moment, as he spoke.

"Don't trouble your mind with that notion, Ilya. You are a strong girl. This illness is far from sufficient to defeat you."

"…You think so…?"

"I have not even the slightest doubt." But his words of affirmation were merely an illusion, empty words uttered without any basis of confidence.

"…Then I'll…make sure…that you're right…" In delirium with fever, she whispered with the best attempt to produce a smile on her face. For Berserker, it was a reaction more than worthy of his unfounded words of comfort.

He laid his hand on the bedpost and leaned down to inspect her condition, but her ragged breathing and flushed face were a sign of anything but reassurance.

His thoughts dwelled on the little girl of Stymphalus, a victim of a death so silent and merciless that he had neither the chance nor the ability to intervene. The resemblance of setups was too uncanny for him to dismiss his worry entirely.

Nevertheless, Ilya was not just any girl. Berserker was certain that his daughter would be much stronger than to be defeated by any common cold…

"…But she is no daughter of yours, father."

The same bloodied girl from before looked down upon him from the bed post. Her feet dangled off the edge, swinging nonchalantly in contrast to the current tension in the air. The air of indifference and superiority she assumed grated his nerves.

"Even so, she will make it."

"She will not live through the night…"

"She will live. Those lasses will soon return with a cure and her illness will pass." Steeling his mental defenses, Berserker growled at the personification of his deepest fears, only to have it sneer at his feeble attempt in resisting.

"But you know that it is not the sickness that will kill her, father." Floating down from her lofty pedestal, she met his eyes with her dead unfocused pair, which seemed to be radiating pure anger. Her voice was livid and condemning. "It is you. You and your uncontrollable rage."

Its lanky arms slithered around his neck, transmitting the coldness of dead for which he was fully at fault.

"The cause of her death is by your hands and nothing will change it."

"I shall never commit such an act! Be gone, I am tired of your meddling!" The phantom's words had shaken his resolve. The hand that had reached for the girl stopped dead in its tracks, frozen for a few seconds. Berserker turned to glare at the phantom, hiding the fact that its words had just shaken the foundation of his confidence.

"What of me then?"

Its question stilled Berserker's rage and replaced the emotion with a sense of cold dread. The answer did not come easily to him, and neither did he have the courage to say it aloud.

"You never thought of killing me. Yet, here I am dead and broken. Will her fate turn out differently father?"

"I am no longer the beast I once were. This time…" Doubt and hesitation made his speech falter for a moment. "…It will be different."

"Then what of last night!" The phantom screeched, once again swooping down in front of him and splaying a lock of bloodied white hair as it passed. Its eyes, now in the shade of blood red instead of the earlier steel grey, bore through him in accusation. Here it stood perfectly in the guise of Ilya.

"This, Father!" The phantom hissed. "This is how it will all end!"

Its final word echoed like thunder. As if bursting from the force of the scream, a torrent of blood gushed forth from the opening in its face like a fountain. The same dainty form that he had held in his embrace was now left battered and broken. Berserker did not have the heart to survey the full extent of her injury, but simply just the white of exposed skull was enough to convey its gruesome story.

"Stay away!"

Berserker was no coward and, ordinarily, it took much more to break him than most men. However, this phantom seemed to have grabbed hold of all his weaknesses. It knew which buttons to push and no secret could be kept from it. It played him like a puppet on a string and he was powerless to resist.

"No…you stay away…Stay away from her."

Softness brushed across his arm as the girl struggled to reach for a source of minor reassurance amidst the heat of fever, but all of Berserker's attention was focused on the bedside phantom.

"Berserker…stay."

"That's right. Stay away."

The loss of Berserker's presence forced Ilya to expend the precious few energies she had remaining to vocalize her request, but she was too late. His senses were no longer in a state that could heed her desperate call.

"Stay…"

"Away, father. Away"

He alternated a few retreating steps with a look upward at the bloodied child on the bed post. As if knowing what he desired, she reassured him of the decision. The phantom's voice, though broken and rasping, was strangely bewitching, enslaving him to follow its command.

"Berserker…"

"Away, father. Stay away. Don't let her blood be on your hands…"

The ghastly whisper drowned out Ilya's plea and, with it, any hope of having him return to her side. The maids would soon return to attend to her every need and render his presence unnecessary. Indeed, Berserker forced himself to be convinced that there would be no more reason for his stay. Such was how he had to rationalize his gradual retreat from her bedroom. Otherwise, his mind would soon be wracked by guilt as he emerged out into the corridor.

He contemplated returning, thinking of how she could sleep with greater ease with him standing next to her. However, it wasn't long before Berserker was snorting derisively at his own optimism. As if she could actually be cured by his presence alone. If anything, his presence would merely intimidate her. This was no risk she should not be subjected to, a risk taken for no more than his peace of mind.

Even so, it couldn't eliminate a sinking sensation that accompanied the lack of familiar warmth in his arms. There was but a simple realization why he couldn't provide Ilya with the peace of mind she desired, although it wasn't any easier to accept.

After all, it seemed he had never been a good father for her. Without arguing for his case, Berserker conceded to this moment of silent epiphany that, once again, he had abandoned his duty as a father.

Ilya's hand stretched forth as if trying to seize the empty space where her colossal guardian had occupied merely moment ago. Grasping only thin air, sharp pangs of disappointment assailed her.

"Please…this time….I'll give him another chance…" Half in delirium, half in regret, she mumbled.

Mistaking the cause of his cold demeanor as her own fault, Ilya came to regret the fact that she had not bent to his earlier suggestion. She saw reason in his words, but pride had prevented her from acting upon it.

But, now laying bed-ridden, the fear of death had rid her of the all the excessive emotions, returning her to a mental state subsumed by simple desire and regret. It drew her to dwell on their lingering attachment and pinned new resolve to make amend for past mistakes. At least, with fever to wrack her mind, the hope of recovery just seemed to have grown even more distant with Berserker's unexpected departure.

"I will so…please…"

But her plea fell on deaf ears. Still with tears in her eyes, the heat of fever and fatigue numbed her mind for an uncomfortable sleep that soon followed.

Thanks for reading. I greatly appreciate any form of comments, reviews, or opinions, so please leave some if you don't mind so that I can use them to improve the future chapters. Thanks!