Earlier...
Monica leaned forward on the picnic table she'd found, resting her head in the crook of her arm. Her damp skin sat chilled in the night air, and, while she had her jacket to defend herself with, she still flinched as her own cold, wet hair fell against her hand. She had dried just enough to put her clothes on, but not much beyond that, and, only a little ways away, Massiah rested her own, weary, wet, body on the beach sand, her head lying peacefully in Echo's lap. She had yet to clothe herself and, at this point, it was probably for the best. She cringed at the thought of all that sand getting trapped where it didn't belong...
But Massiah deserved the rest, that much was true. She had swam God-only-knows how far, and while carrying two passengers no less, although, at the same time, she was fairly convinced that Assassin's Master hadn't done much physical work at all.
It was a magical and terrifying experience. It was almost as if the water had pushed and pulled them forward and towards their destination, not unlike her own experience in the dreamy golden sea. While there was a peace to that, the feelings of helplessness and the sheer unknown of the abyssal depths were things that ate away at her even now, and she could feel the frown etch into her frozen face as she considered the 'ride' home.
'Wait, can we even make it home with three passengers?'
...
She decided to leave that question alone, and said a small prayer that Massiah's rest was a good one.
Instead, her thoughts ran to Chrysaor- and only a little to the pig- who had left her and the other girls here not long ago. It made sense: Echo and Massiah couldn't fight at all, and as for her...
Well, she couldn't fight either, not if Chrysaor didn't transform into a sword.
'-But what if we get attacked while you're gone?'
'-But what if you need a Command Seal?'
'-But what if we need to use you as a sword?'
All of the complaints she'd lobbed before rang through her head. Some of them were half-baked, some were far-fetched, and others were just lies. It was shameful to admit, but, at that point, she wasn't thinking about strategy or practicality, she was only considering her own pride for being treated like dead weight, and her own fear of being left alone.
'A fear of being alone?'
No, that didn't make sense. She ran into the woods to be alone. She ran away from home to be alone. She had built all her life around maximizing the time she spent alone. To be alone was to be safe. To be alone was to be independent. To be alone was to not cause problems for anyone else. To be alone was to remove yourself from all the useless, petty problems that other people inevitably created just by being around.
-But there was a big difference between removing yourself from others and others removing themselves from you. One boosted your pride, and the other destroyed it. One was a power move, and the other was a display of pitiful helplessness, and the other was what she had now.
For him to remove himself so quickly and and almost without warning gave her uncomfortable flashbacks to the only other people she had called 'friends'.
"...It's nice to get away from the city, isn't it?"
'Speaking of useless and petty...'
She gave him the dignity of raising her head, but she already knew who it was. The only surprise was his clothes: rather than his usual black cloak, he wore a navy sweater with a white undershirt, and, poking over the edge of the table, she made out a bit of his gray slacks as he crossed his legs.
"Out here, you can see the stars so clearly..."
She cast a glance towards the girls on the beach- they weren't paying attention.
"Go away."
"Soon enough- soon enough, but not yet. Just a little while longer now..."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He kept looking out towards the sea, his gold-green copper eyes reflecting back the stars that, indeed, shone far more vibrantly away from the city,
"I believe I've already said that the right time is a myth invented by procrastinators. The WRONG time, on the other hand, is very real."
She sighed, but decided to let the conversation caress her tired mind and keep her awake, "But wouldn't a right time have to exist for there to be a wrong time?"
He rested his chin on his palm with a smirk, "Ah, an interesting observation, dear Monica. So... is your theory that the 'right time' is any point that isn't the 'wrong time'?"
"Ugh..." She saw where this was headed, "Go away."
"Tsk. So close, but once again you back away from the wisdom you yourself discover. You're a clever girl, Monica, but it's about time you start acting like a clever woman."
She buried her face again.
"Go. Away."
"I really am trying to help you, you know. Do you think I'm here just to torture you?"
He seemed to be hinting at something more important than their own petty vendettas, and so had found her attention.
"Why not? You seem to enjoy it."
"I do, I do. I'll admit to that. But he doesn't appreciate it so much, and, at the end of the day, you're his business, not mine. But, you see, he is my business, and so I need to do my part as well."
"He-" She stood up and slammed both hands on the table, "Is Chrysaor in trouble? Now!?"
His eyes were frigid, "He's been in trouble, and you know that."
"Stop that! What are you saying!?"
"I'm saying that the 'wrong time' is almost here, and once it arrives, the 'right time' isn't coming back."
"You dick!" She slapped him, her hand somehow managing to leave a red print even on his non-existent skin, "Why didn't you say that before!?"
He slammed the table himself, "Why didn't you help him before!? Huh!?"
The words sat between them for a while, so disturbing in their truth that she had no retort.
He leaned back, composing himself, "I wanted to give you the chance to show me, and him, that you actually cared enough to make an effort on your own; that you would do the right thing even without me being a fly on the wall. But I was right all along, wasn't I? You're a fickle, capricious, useless coward of a girl- and not even half the woman you ought to be. Not half the woman he deserves.
"But there you are. This is your last chance, so make up your mind. Will you try to make a difference, or run away like you always do?"
She imitated a response, but the words died in her throat- there was no excuse to be made.
She had always put off what had to be done. She just couldn't believe such drastic action was necessary. Better, she thought, to wait it out; to watch from a safe distance with the only solution to see if she would actually be needed, or if she could remain where she was. She had allowed this, and had done so knowingly. She had abused Perseus' position as a man with something to lose, as someone who actually did care enough to try and help his friends, so that she could get away with doing less- doing nothing if she could help it.
Monica was everything he said and worse. She was a useless girl, not even half the woman she ought to have been, not half the woman she had the potential to be, and all who made the mistake of loving her deserved pity for their work without reward. This is what she thought then, and, indeed, what she had thought all her life.
She had never made him any promises. She had never sworn anything, or signed any contract. There was nothing keeping her from remaining where she was, nor any reason for him to expect her aid. But it soon occurred to her that her word hardly meant a thing- not compared to who she was. Was she the kind of person who would abandon her friend? Was she the sort who would run from responsibility? Would she be the one who punished those few people who had dared to love her?
Is that what she wanted to be?
Did she want to be that again?
...
She fled from the table, sprinting as fast as her legs could carry her, in such a hurry that she left her bag behind, as well as the two girls who watched the exchange in confusion.
The shadow watched her go and, as she disappeared towards a false sun that rose in the sky, he found himself chuckling- not at her, but at himself. He had handled that poorly, hadn't he? If he had told her about Chrysaor from the start, would she have run like that? Did she need his egging on?
He hoped not.
He could admit that he didn't like her. He could even admit that there was a part of him that wanted her to fail. She was a brat. She was incorrigible, and though their connection was real, the shield was a marker of that, he couldn't imagine a girl like her making anyone happy, and especially not the kind soul he called his brother. There was a spark in her, one that, if she indulged, could blossom into something remarkable, but he didn't see that happening. It seemed like it could even be better for Chrysaor to be corrupted now, and then be saved later on by someone far kinder, far wiser, and far more womanly than her.
Or even- and this was a passing thought- to let Monica fail here, and to allow that failure to push her into resolving her mistake, to allow that pain of loss to fuel her in her future endeavors, and even to eventually save Chrysaor in another time and place.
Yes, that was a pleasant dream. A story worth telling, and one that made sense to him.
But it was unfair not to let her try, and equally unfair to let his brother suffer for so long.
Either way, he wouldn't know what happened next. Either way, his memory would be purged.
In that sense, he supposed it didn't matter. What was the opinion of a memory? What value was the opinion of someone who didn't exist? Why should someone so detached from the world have the right to judge it?
'My 'right' stems from the fact that I'm right...'
So that's why he was so conflicted: he didn't know what the right answer was. He couldn't know what to do, only what could be done- only the possibilities for what could happen next. Sure, some futures were preferable to others, but none, not one, was guaranteed, and the best outcomes so often came with the worst odds...
"Right or wrong, the future comes for us all in the end..."
-And those were the last words he said.
...
"No!"
"No!"
Monica looked down from above in horror- Chrysaor, her only living friend, was stabbed to the hilt by two glowing swords.
He looked back, seeing her, his otherwise beautiful rose eyes wide with fear, "...No...why...?"
She helplessly reached into the hole, into the warmed chamber underneath the chapel kitchen, and felt the floor lean inwards- threatening to drop her in. What could she do? How could she help? What exactly had Perseus intended her to do?
Was she already too late?
No.
No. No. No.
Not while she lived and breathed.
Not while he lived and breathed.
She refused to lose another friend.
She wouldn't.
She couldn't...
Surely not...
Two white arms with blades as spectral as themselves raised up, aiming for the traps of his shoulders, but he didn't see them- his eyes were locked on his Master.
"...Run."
"No!"
She cast her hand out, the black snake on her arm began to slither- and she gladly let it. She remembered two things: the warning he gave about her Command Seals, red and black, and the one he gave when he left her on the beach...
'If you're attacked, use your Command Seals and...'
"Gorgon!"
"-No!"
"To me!"
He disappeared in a cloud of black ether, the white swords cutting through nothing but air. The same black embers gathered around her, the charred wood bending and breaking underneath the sudden weight. She felt this presence wrap around her, sliding over and encircling her, landing with her in his arms- and his eyes wrenched shut.
"You need to go M-Master. You shouldn't be here..."
He was breathing heavy, as if the oxygen were removed from the air around him.
She touched his shoulder, not far from the wound which was already closing under an ashen veil, "It's okay. It's okay, I promise."
She didn't believe a word of what she said, but allowed the sweet nothings to come out regardless: the only phantom of comfort she had to offer.
"No, it's not-"
His hands began to clench tighter around her side, his nails digging in- she could swear they were getting sharper as well.
The image of their fight with Assassin flashed through her mind: the sweat, the tears, the vomit...
She helped herself up and out of his arms, he being as still as a statue, walking around him while keeping her hand on his body so that he always knew where she was. She rested her palm on the nape of his neck, and looked at the armored man who nearly killed him not a moment ago.
"If you opened your eyes, could you control yourself long enough to get him?"
"I-I don't know. You should run- please."
"Where, Chrysaor? He's blocking the door."
The decision had been made. It was too late for her now. She couldn't run away even if she wanted to, and she was oddly grateful for that.
The armored man watched with careful eyes, his four arms outstretched to keep his prey cornered to the best he was able. He kept his mouth shut for now- it was better that they learn about his armor's immunity to Mystic Eyes the hard way.
"...Dammit...No."
"It's okay, Chrysaor."
She was scared, but not nearly as much as she could have, and daresay should have, been. Not while she was alive. Not while he was alive. So long as they both lived, there was hope. So long as they lived, it was the right time, and so there was no point in waiting a second longer.
"Do you trust me?"
"I do- but that's not that point. You- you're not the one I can't trust."
"I know."
She knew all too well.
Which is why she knew that she couldn't afford to wait. She believed in him, but not herself. He believed in her, but not himself. She could only hope that their mutual trust for one another would be enough.
She pressed deeper, "Gorgon."
"Don't..."
The middle of the black snake writhed off her skin in its death throes, "Turn into a sword."
He didn't resist. If anything, he slipped into his sword form with an uncharacteristic peace, his muscles leaning into his transformation. It was only after he assumed his form as a golden longsword- the engravings a deathly black, pinkish-red near the top, and with a winged guard that seemed to wilt- that he began to shake, tremble and spasm in her hand.
"Come on..."
The man across the room leaned forward, seemingly preparing a strike. The other girl in the room, the Master of Lancer, looked around- unsure of what was happening.
And she- Monica- she wrangled the sword to the best she was able, but it was rejecting both her mind and body, rising to her attempts to join with its consciousness and trying to slip from her grasp.
"Come on!"
Magenta lightning crackled from the blade and across her body, and she felt the walls of the sword's inner world cave in- but rather than let her in, she felt it surge into her. It ran through her veins, numbing her mind and her body at once. In this numbness, it took her too long to notice that her hands were turning to stone, and that this petrification was rushing over her.
"Shit- shit!"
Was this the plan? Was she wrong? Had it already been too late?
-
Did it matter?
Even if she died here, she died with her friend, and there was a certain pride to take in that- the pride that she had tried, and even if she failed, that she had paid for her failure with her life. And for such a failure as this, what a small price that was. That a useless girl would die needlessly fighting against her own uselessness. It was justice, in a way.
She didn't resist. She closed her eyes and eased into whatever hostile force was attacking her- letting the torrent of venomous waves take her into their depths, whether to drown her or to lead her to glory, she couldn't know.
In her last moments of consciousness, she decided it didn't matter. If she died, she did so justly. If she lived, then there was still a chance to do some good with her life, to be useful to someone worth being useful to. But, in her final wink of life, she said one final prayer despite herself...
'Please...Don't let it be too late.'
And so the Masters of Archer and Lancer were left alone with the statue of a girl. A statue with tears forever etched into her face.
....