...
She looked to the eastern woman, not knowing what she was trying to find. Was it forgiveness? Reassurance? Finding only fear in those eyes, she returned to the shaking blade and- taking one final gasp of fresh air through the smell of her own puke- she grasped the hilt with both hands.
...
Cold water rushed over her body, chilling her to her core. It took a moment, but while the stars were dim and dull, and the once-brilliant gold diluted to an almost sickly yellow- she recognized it as the same sea she'd drifted through that morning... in her dream. But whereas, before, the waters were calm and tranquil, she could now feel the push and pull of the sea, rising and falling, threatening to entrap her in its cold depths.
-And that was the next thing Monica noticed. Last time, despite the sea, she had felt no need to breathe, but, here, now, the frigid sea pushed on her stomach and pulled at her throat as her body- was it her body?- clamored and cried for air. Pushing through the ice in her blood, she forced herself up and up to what she assumed to be the surface- streaming light shifting with the waves that stirred the water far above.
Just as she thought her lungs would burst, she broke through the surface of the turbulent, yellow-gold ocean and gasped for what oxygen she could find. But the air, rather than the fresh, salty, seaside air that she'd grown accustomed to in her time in Athens, was nothing but smog that burned her throat, leaving her coughing and retching rather than refreshed- all the while freezing rain fell like cold needles onto her head and neck. There was no sun or moon in sight, only black, black clouds.
It was a struggle to get air at all- the shock of the burning air left her reeling, and the next gasp she took left a mouthful of salt water in her lungs as a wave rose from under her and covered her mouth. She sputtered and gasped, her lungs and her legs crying from the effort of breathing the sulfurous air and treading the thick, churning waters.
She couldn't remain like this for much longer. Though she couldn't have explained why, she knew, simply knew, that there was more here than starry sea and smoggy air- a destination for her travel. And there- barely visible through the black sky, falling rain and rising sea, her patience was rewarded. A small island, almost nothing more than rocks on the ocean, was there; far but not too far. In the dark, one would've mistaken it for another wave if not for the columns that decorated it. She knew nothing; she only hoped that she'd find what she was looking for on those rocks, and so she pushed and paddled against the cold grasp of the sea and towards what she could only assume was salvation.
Finding a foothold, she began to weakly push up and out of the ocean, finally collapsing on her hands and knees in the gravel-like tidepool that made the island's coast. It was here, on her elbows, that she finally realized that she was naked- the cold-needle rain pricking and nipping at the sensitive skin that usually remained covered while the frigid wind sent shivers to her core. The air was worse here, far worse, and it was becoming harder and harder to breathe- but she dared not cough, and suppressed all urge otherwise: coughing only made the pain more difficult to bear.
She strained against her aching bones, ignoring her nakedness, ignoring the tremors that racked her body, ignoring the pain; she moved her shaking legs across the rocks, past the columns, barely able to maintain enough strength to keep her bare feet from slipping on the wet boulders.
-But the air just kept getting worse, more sulfurous, more acrid, as if eating away at her from the inside. And with the lowering quality, a greater gust, as if the source of the entire storm were approaching-or, more accurately, as if she were steadily approaching it. The island crested from its shoreline into a steep hill, and she found herself crawling up the rocks, the hard surface cutting into her knees and fingers, the slick surface threatening to let go of her weight at anytime, to let the increasing wind that whipped her wet hair push her back down, to scatter her and her hopes among the tide.
And yet, among the chaos of her mind, thoughts alien yet familiar rose and fell like the waters around her:
'I'm in danger'
'I don't care.'
'I could die.'
'I don't care.'
'I could walk away.'
'I could walk ahead.'
Cresting the hill, she found what she didn't know she was looking for. Ahead of her, the rocks formed a wall, and, within that wall, was a large, stone double-door, wide open. From its imperceivable depths, a pressure like none she knew was blasting out into the air- creating a gust with an acrid taste, one she was already too familiar with.
What was she to do? An open door was an open invitation... but one that she refused to take.
Her nails digging into the soft gravel that formed the earth here, she pushed herself over the edge of the hill with all the will she could muster from her weak body and brought all her flesh against the door on the left. She pushed and heaved against it; it scraped against the carved rock floor and struggled against the force from within. As the door near-closed, she moved to the door on the right and did the same, the stone of the door cutting into her exposed breast and side as she used all of what little weight she had- the left door beginning to scrape slowly back outwards. But the doors started to come together, and so she moved again, and pushed in with an open palm on each door. It worked, for a time, but as the doors were nearly shut for good, the wind, forced through what small crack remained, was stronger, threatening to burst against her aching arms.
She took all the strength that was left in her, and gave a final push- the doors shut, but threatened to break open again, and so she threw herself wholly into the door- surely bruising her hip and elbow- and braced herself against it. The pressurized air, and what sand it carried with it, pressed into her skin, the stream becoming thinner, thinner, and thinner and sharper with the closing door, until finally-
...
Her eyes opened, and she found herself staring at that same sword. The rose-red remained, but what black that had begun to gather on the hilt was starting to recede. Something had occurred, though she could only guess at what.
-A panic, however brief, touched her chest as she worried for her own nakedness- but she was clothed. Nonetheless, her self-examination did yield results. Kneeled over as she was, the hair that fell over her shoulder was a strange violet hue at its end, transitioning to the familiar pink that she associated with her servant. Her clothes, too, were different, her white jacket now black, but, rather than resembling his, it was more bulky, with large pockets that she associated with neither him nor herself. Her pants, too, carried a similar difference, but, this, as odd as it undeniably was, was somewhat predictable given her last foray into using the golden blade. More odd, under those circumstances, was that the slick sweat and snot, as well as the salty tears and vomit that had stained her face were gone. Indeed, she felt clean, pristine even, and she couldn't help but feel at her own, smooth face.
'What are you thinking?'
She knew neither whose thought that was, nor for whom it was directed. Even so, now was not the time for such petty concerns.
With strength she shouldn't have possessed, she rose steadily to her feet and turned to meet the eyes of Assassin and her Master, one-at-a-time. The situation was the same as it had been before she'd gripped the blade- no more than a few seconds could have passed in real-time, even though the time she'd spent in that strange sea was far, far longer. But for her surroundings, the only change was that both of the other women were staring at her in wide-eyed wonder alongside a touch of fear- whatever change had occurred in that moment, it must have been dramatic.
In her anger, a deep-seated frustration without any clear cause, she took that fear as an opportunity.
Gripping her blade, she brought it swiftly to Echo's neck- stopping less than a centimeter from her smooth skin. Both of the two women gasped, becoming ever-more still. She took the blade and gestured towards the woman, then back at Echo, and repeated once more, finally declaring, "We won. You've lost."
Quiet, almost a whisper, Assassin's soft lips moved, "We...lost."
Casting a final glare at the both of them, she was satisfied, and moved to sheathe her sword, the guard clacking into place.
"Listen here. You two are going to come with me." She cast another glance at Assassin's Master. She appeared frightened and confused, but less so than before, and seemed to understand that the situation was deescalating. "We're going to talk, and you're going to tell us what you know, and, more than any of that, you are going to cooperate."
She was sure to meet Echo's eyes as she continued, "You've lost. The Grail is not yours to take, not anymore. You can help us, or you can die. Are we clear?"
What remained of Echo's living flesh quivered with both anxiety and relief, "The Grail is... yours to take.-We...can help...you."
The source-less anger in her heart began to finally recede. Assassin's Master stood and approached, moving next to her Servant, though she wouldn't look either of the other two in the eye, simply watching her own hands as she kneaded them together in anticipation of whatever was to come next.
'What was supposed to happen next?'
...
She marched up the stairs to her lonely apartment, Assassin's half-petrified body thrown over her shoulder while the presumed Master followed timidly behind. Given that Echo's body was 'sound', it made sense that it would be light, but, even so, a third or more had turned to stone, and that should've offset it. No- there was no explanation except that foreign strength had gathered inside her body. It would've been frightening if she'd allowed herself to dwell on it, but she didn't, only pressing forward.
In the light of the creaking stairwell leading to her home on the third floor, she allowed herself to look back and examine the new woman. She was eastern, that much was obvious, but her appearance managed to be both elegant and unkempt. Her black hair was oily, unwashed, reaching to her waist behind her and she wore a beautiful sundress adorned with sunflower designs, but her body was gaunt and skeletal, and the areas of the dress that ought to have accentuated her breasts, waist, and shoulders instead wafted off her thin body as if hung to dry. She should have been beautiful, that much was obvious, but, whether it was starvation or carelessness, that beauty was hidden under a layer of tight, sickly skin that clung to her cheekbones like wax. That was also when she took proper notice of the dried blood that colored her bony arms, scrapes from when he'd so callously thrown her aside.
Even in her current state, pity turned in her stomach. She found herself glad that she'd stopped Chrysaor when she had.
She'd done the right thing in stopping him. But had she done something wrong by unleashing him in the first place? These questions rose despite the stagnancy of her mind, the muted and incongruous sensations that came from the mixing of river and sea inside of her- the consciences of herself and of Chrysaor mixing, dueling, and even coming together in the shadows of her mind without any clear distinction between them.
Nonetheless, the night was almost over, and, doing her best not to be distracted by the way Echo's jewel-like skin seemed to glitter in the low light, she finally entered her dark apartment; too tired to even bother turning the lights on, but still waiting for the woman to enter so she could lock the door behind them. She then briefly struggled wondering with where to place the half-statue Assassin, but ultimately decided that it didn't matter. She laid the indigo girl on her carpet in the living room, parallel to the balcony door, and, ignoring the confused Master, moved to the closet stuffed between her bathroom and bedroom, gathering various spare sheets and blankets and throwing them onto the couch without care; her tiredness starting to become overwhelming with her bed so near in sight.
Turning coldly back to Assassin's Master, she gestured at the couch with her thumb, "You'll sleep there for the night."
Without waiting for a response, she moved quickly to her room, trying to hide her desperation to leave, and solidly shut the door behind her.
Her bed called to her, but, even among the fog in her mind, she knew that was inappropriate in her current state. Instead, she ignored her pillow's temptation and went to her desk in the opposite corner. She swept the various bits and bobbles aside before unclipping the sheath and sword from her hip and placing it gently in the cleared space.
...
The moment Monica let go it felt as if glue were stripped from her mind in a single motion, like a busy bridge collapsed; something once there suddenly and inexplicably gone. The shock sent her stumbling back, the wave of exhaustion, previously held at bay by Chrysaor's stamina, washing over her all at once while her thoughts became clear- her mind rushing to keep up with the opposite sensations crashing against each other.
Steadying herself against the foot of her bed, her tired eyes lingered on that sword. Without the rest of the ensemble, the sheathe melted in black smoke, leaving only that naked blade. She'd hoped and prayed that the familiar blue hue would've returned, but it hadn't, the sword was stained red and pink.
The fear and confusion rose inside her, and she felt tears start to touch her face-
Not now. She pushed her fear down, down inside, and chose instead to deceive herself, to believe with no reason that, when she woke up, this nightmare will have ended, and her Chrysaor will have returned intact. The only note of hope, the only fact for comfort, was that the blade was still and at peace, no longer shaking as it had been.
Clutching this simple fact and holding it fast to her heart, she shed her jacket and allowed herself to fall onto the forbidden softness of her mattress, her tired body climbing over the comforter towards her pillow, crawling, shifting, slithering lethargically towards that one comfort and pulling it close to her chest- finding whatever peace she would in the dreams to come.
....