8:28 am, Monica's Apartment
...
Monica sat up in her bed with a start, but, before she could react to her strained breath, or to the tears that stained her face and sheets while she slept, she saw him: Chrysaor. He sat on her desk and watched her with eyes aglow in surprise, but not so aglow as to hide the shadows within-
"Monica... I need you to tell me...
-What did you do?"
It took her tired mind several moments to process what was happening; to sort through her experience within the gold sea and manage the transition to the current moment in another world entirely. Rather than the ocean, it was her blankets that wrapped around her body, and rather than the wetness of the sea, there was only the wetness of her eyes and her cheeks. And, more than anything else, rather than that boy she didn't recognize, that so-called 'friend of a friend', there was the familiar Chrysaor, though even he was barely recognizable.
His eyes, which once had a youthful if somber glow to them, were now sunken with deep bags as if he had been the one plagued with a restless sleep. His signature black jacket, once sleek, was now bulky and padded, the leather replaced with a more coarse, burlap material and a high collar, with his pants matching a similar transformation, and his sneakers replaced with boots. More worryingly, his magenta hair, straight and well-kept, now stood on end in certain places, with those ends turning a more sickly purple. As her gaze drifted to his collarbone, there was the same, strange red mark she had noticed the night before. Of course, the single fact which overwhelmed her more than anything else was the simple fact that he, too, was upset with her, his pointed gaze an accusation in and of itself.
It was too much for her young heart, and, in that moment, with the admonishment of the 'friend of a friend' still fresh in her mind, she lost control. Seeing Chrysaor as he was only confirmed all her worst thoughts and fears, even as she knew nothing. Her next breath was blocked in her throat, and there was only a stifled squeal before the tears began to flow in full. For the sake of what remained of her pride, she pulled up her knees and buried her face, trying and failing to hide her sobs.
'Chrysaor's okay? Or- is he okay? Is everything ruined? Did I ruin him? I made things worse. I always make things worse!'
Some time passed before she heard the heavy clop of Chrysaor boots as he dropped from his perch. Even distracted by the torrent of anxiety and insecurity within her, she could sense his presence shift from one side of the room to the other- until he was right next to her. In her shifting, swirling mind, she occasionally wondered to herself what he would do, and what it was that she wanted him to do. Did she want him to admonish her, to confirm her worst fears about herself? -Or did she want him to comfort her, and tell her it was all untrue? Was it better for him to leave? -Or was it better for her to stay? She couldn't say, but, perhaps, he would.
She felt the mattress under her give way as he sat on its edge, causing her body to lean ever-so-slightly to the left, and, before she could start to over-analyze the meaning of the gesture, there was a hand on her shoulder- gentle yet firm. Finally moved to look up from her curl, she found the same, sad eyes that she'd become so fond of, all pointedness removed and replaced with that rose ocean- and she knew that, if nothing else, Chrysaor was still himself.
That relief flooded to the farthest edge to her mind and, under the influence of that intoxicating joy, her body moved on its own, pulling him into a fierce embrace- though it'd be more accurate to say that she pulled herself into him. The tears kept coming even as she tried in vain to stifle them. As for him- he didn't know what to do. For a moment he kept his hands outstretched, hesitant to touch his Master, lest she should think it inappropriate. But, as her sobbing continued, he did as anyone would and allowed his hands to drift gently to her back, the comfort of the gesture slowing the tears and softening her breath- until she was once again herself.
Flushed with embarrassment, she pulled away slowly, giving him opportunity to remove his hands, but unable to meet his somber gaze.
Even so, she wiped away at her cheeks and whispered, half to herself, "I'm glad you're okay."
He sighed, and she could all but feel the purse of his lips even as she looked away, "What happened, Monica? Please tell me."
Slowly, unwanting but ultimately willing, she forced her chin to raise back to her Servant's face, scared to meet that strong expression again. But, more worrying than his admonishment was the shadow that had appeared behind him- a shadow with auburn hair and a weasel's face, his finger raised to his lips. Once he saw that she'd noticed him and his message, he flashed a wry grin before walking to the edge of her vision and disappearing from view.
She didn't jump; she hardly flinched. Her mind, reeling from the rush of high and low emotion and still unable to make sense of dreams and reality, was far too numb to perceive the oddity as it was, and it wasn't until several seconds later that realized the truth of what had occurred.
Chrysaor looked behind him with a furrowed brow before returning to his Master with further worry, "Monica? Are you alright?"
As she processed what she'd seen, she became overwhelmed, not with fear or with anger, but with sheer, cruel apathy. She had no care for the weasel's games, and, besides that, his little gesture hadn't changed her answer in the slightest:
"I don't know. I don't know what happened."
His right hand slowly reached out for her arm, then hesitated and fell back onto the covers under grit teeth, "Just- start at the beginning. What happened after you used that Command Seal?"
Her lips pressed and squirmed as she remembered the horror and panic of the night before, but, with the threat of his disappointment hanging over her, she managed to speak, "... You... went berserk. I used another Command Seal to make you a sword, and then- then it was okay."
His pale face became a shade paler, "And you- you used the sword... didn't you?"
She nodded like a timid child, and, indeed, that was what she felt like, "Yeah. I did."
He raised a clenched hand to his chin, his face twisting with concern and some sort of frustration. His eyes shifted from one side to the other, as if reading the writing on the wall, but, eventually, the fear of the moment dwindled, and he posed another question,
"And our guests? I suppose that was your doing- right?"
Another nod, "Yeah. They surrendered and- I didn't want to do anything until you were back, so I brought them here in the meantime. I know that was probably reckless, but-"
Chrysaor raised a gentle hand to interrupt, "No- that was a perfectly reasonable decision. Assassin is completely incapacitated, and her Master has all the muscle of a mouse, and with an attitude to match." His eyes moved to the side in something like thought, "I imagine attacking us was probably all Echo's idea; it doesn't seem like the Master even knows what's going on, but that's beside the point."
When his gaze fell back to her, they were ice once again, "-There's something that you're not telling me. What else happened? What happened when you used the sword?"
She flinched with the force of his words, unconsciously starting to lean away into a defensive position before stammering, "I-I really don't know what you mean! It- it wasn't any different than last time."
The ice in his eyes started to chill- before breaking under the weight of their own coldness, melting into sympathy as his gaze fell downwards, "Maybe you don't."
At first she felt relieved; her little half-lie had gone unnoticed. It was true, certainly true, that something did happen when she picked up the sword, and that was the lie she told. The truth of it was that she truly didn't know what he was referencing, or what the cause of his worry was. She had no explanation for his changed appearance, nor did she truly understand the implications of either visit to the golden sea. Even then, how could she explain it? It was an utterly surreal experience, and she couldn't yet deduce the exact meaning of it, or what exactly was accomplished- or, according to that 'friend of a friend', what wasn't accomplished. But, as these thoughts swam through her mind, she followed Chrysaor's gaze. At first, she assumed he was just looking off into space, but, looking closer, he was watching something with intensity- her left arm.
Her arm looked exactly as it had been in her dream: the serpent's head being the same crimson, but its body having restored its lost Command Seals and turned a shade of inky black.
She held out her arm slightly, "Is something wrong?"
He didn't look at her, he only spoke in a hushed whisper, "Where did those black markings come from? Do you know?"
"I used those Command Seals. Are you sure this isn't normal?"
"Yes. Absolutely sure."
Unwilling to describe her visions, for fear of sounding crazy and for fear of the weasel-boy, she decided to probe him further, "What do you think it means? Where did they come from?"
He was quiet for a long time, his attention fully locked on her arm, before finally saying, "I think you made a contract."
"Wait- a contract?" Her mind rushed to reference what little she understood about the so-called Grail War, "You mean- like the contract I have with you?"
"...Yes."
It wasn't what she expected, and her emotions began to rise once more, "Who- or what- would I have formed a contract with? How?!"
He whispered, only barely loud enough to hear, "Gorgon."
Pieces fell together in her mind with flashbacks to their conversation the morning before, "Wait. You don't mean-"
"I think you made a contract with the curse inside of me."
...
Things were quiet as the two sat still, too much in shock to even breathe. However, Monica, more armed to deal with the information after her poignant confrontation, broke the silence with something only slightly more honorable than a whimper,
"I- I didn't know... I didn't mean to-"
"-I know. I know you didn't. It's not your fault: it's mine."
He looked at her with absolute severity, "Listen to me. No matter what- do not use any more Command Seals. Understand?"
She steeled her heart, "I'll understand if you tell me why."
He winced, but answered her plea nonetheless, "Those Command Seals are what link you to me- and now- what links you to 'it'. If you use your last Command Seal for me, then we'll no longer be connected, and whatever it is that separates me from 'that' will end along with our contract. On the other hand, if you use a black seal, then you'll be ordering the curse- which means ordering it to take me over. It means releasing it again, and you know what happened last time."
He looked away, ashamed of himself, "I know I promised I'd get you out of this safe, but, until we solve this, we're stuck with each other- you're stuck in this war. I'm sorry."
She reached out- but pulled back her left hand to touch him gently with her right hand instead, "There are worse things than that. Besides, I think... I think we both know that I was already in too deep."
He wouldn't look up, "I bit off more than I could chew, and I roped you in without thinking." He closed his eyes in pain, "I'm supposed to protect you, but all I've done is put you in danger. I'm sorry."
'Yes-You-Did.'
She smiled despite herself, "It's nothing I didn't ask for. I'm as much to blame as anyone else."
He turned to meet her gaze- and stared for a long time, long enough that she worried her hopeful façade would break, before quickly pulling away from her and standing up,
"It was a rough night, so feel free to take your time getting ready. I'll keep an eye on our 'guests' in the meantime." He flashed a smile at her, his eyes seeming not so somber as they normally were, "We've got a lot of work to do."
She did her best to match his smile, "Yeah. We do."
Apparently satisfied, he navigated back around her bed and exited to the living room, leaving her alone.
...
Her arms started to shake, struggling to hold up even just the weight of her torso, and, eventually, she collapsed back onto her bed.
She felt sick- sick to her stomach. She'd never call herself an honest person, lying was part of her job after all, but even so, she was utterly disgusted with herself. Not just the lie of withholding what little she knew, but, more than that, the lie that she had hope. The lie that she wasn't completely terrified of what came next. The lie that she wasn't angry- she was angry. Not with Chrysaor, and only slightly with the boy- no, her anger was completely undirected. She was angry with the universe, with God, and with her own rotten luck.
In some ways, all social interactions were lies- right? When are we ever completely honest with the people around us? Maybe that was why being around people left her so exhausted- the weight of having to maintain that lie.
'Words spoken in ignorance have no power...which is why...you're on your knees.'
-But just as her misanthropic gripes began to boil, another thought rose from deep within her. Perhaps it wasn't the weight of lies that inflamed and exhausted her. Maybe the reason why she was so frustrated, and why she could hardly bear to stand or even sit was because, for the first time in a long time, maybe more than any point in her life, she was being honest with somebody.
-So honest that it felt like a lie.
....