9:21am
Monica opened her eyes first with surprise, then with disappointment. The island was gone, and she knew in her heart that she would never be there again. The time for that place had passed, with all the joys and sorrows that it held. But before that sadness could truly penetrate her, another, simpler and greater joy blushed her face.
It was Chrysaor. Sleeping soundly next to her.
It would be impossible to describe the strength of the temptation then. The temptation to brush aside his rose-hewed hair. The temptation to caress his soft, masculine yet almost feminine cheeks, and even to place her own lips there, and then to pull him close and embrace him. To have the softness of his skin and the firmness of his muscles become indistinguishable from the covers and mattress underneath them and to together become a place of endless comfort.
-But she would resist that temptation, not because of any strength of will, but because she simply couldn't bring herself to disrupt that handsome tranquility. The movement of his chest, the peace of his closed eyes and lips: this place between life and death where only peace existed. No sorrow. No grief. No stress. No worries. Just the rhythmic rise and fall of two breasts almost kissing one another, and the silent melody of breathing in time.
This was not the first time she had woken up next to a man, but it was the first time she had been happy to. She remembered the fear of what would happen when that man would wake up. The fear of not being good enough, the fear that, if he should awake, the first thing he would do would be to leave her.
Now, as the morning light fed through the blinds with all the pearly gold of white wine, she felt no fear. There was no question of his character. There was no question that, even if he did leave, he would do so only with her in mind. Today, she let him sleep, not because she was afraid of what he would do when he awoke, but because he deserved the rest. Because, for all that he had done for her, this was the least she could do for him.
She carefully shuffled backwards toward the edge of the bed, never once looking away from him. Firstly because she was afraid of waking him, but also because she just couldn't bring herself to. He was hypnotic. He was beautiful, and, in a certain way, what made him beautiful was the fact that he was hers and hers alone.
She wondered to herself, now standing up on her weary, shaking legs, if this wasn't how a woman usually felt after her wedding night. Of course, she and Chrysaor weren't married, and neither had they done that, to her memory at least- no, she corrected herself, she would surely remember that if it had happened- but she also wondered whether there was any significance to that. Who was it that declared a couple wed? The government? The priest? Or was it they themselves, promising to one another, loving one another, committing to one another with words from the bottoms of their hearts, and then consummating that love by becoming one flesh, who made the marriage?
She became suddenly giddy, like a child whose tripwire was now perfectly set, imagining what she and he might do that night, or the night after that, so on and so forth into forever. It was a childish thought, it was a lustful thought; carnal and yet wholly innocent. The kind of thought that made one both joyful and guilty, both thoughtless and conniving, immature but in a way that only an adult could be. A thought, a dream, which left her biting her lip and embracing herself, looking away for the first time only to hide her radish-red blush from the sleeping man who was none-the-wiser to her teenage dreams.
When was the last time she had been so tantalized, so scandalized? Had she ever been? When was the last time she knew sex in desire, much less in love? Throughout her whole life, for as long as she had known it, it had only been a source of pain, of regret, of sadness and sorrow, and yet, despite all that, here she was, bathed in a morning glow; wondering if even lust could be a gift from God.
She tiptoed out of sight, cringing at the sound of the shutting door, and leaving her dreams in the bedroom so that she could start a brand new day.
In the back of her mind, the realities of the war lingered like a leopard waiting to pounce, but she was far from ready to let the whimsy of the morning go, and so she held on to whatever self-deception she could manage: fooling herself into thinking that the grim reality was still far away.
As she made her resolution, she had absentmindedly, out of boredom and desire for distraction, opened the fridge, and was looking at the plate of mini-pancakes Chrysaor had so childishly put together how-many-days prior. She picked up the plate, and grabbed one between her fingers. It was about as stale as a packing peanut and, at this point, probably tasted similar, too.
She smiled sadly. As much as she cared for Chrysaor, the most loving thing she could do for him would be to dump these while he was still asleep and hope he'd forget about them.
-But that gave her another idea.
...
10:18
Her heart jumped as the bedroom door squeaked open, and out walked Chrysaor, rubbing his eyes, rolling his shoulders and moving with the groggy half-steps of any regular person. Seeing that he was clothed, missing nothing but his shoes and jacket, she let out a sigh of both relief and disappointment and turned back to her work.
He gave a lion's yawn.
"'Morning."
She couldn't help but laugh at the nonchalant greeting. Who would've thought she would hear the ever-stoic Chrysaor say something like that?
"Morning, sleepyhead."
"What's that smell?"
She flipped over the last pancake, the batter hissing in the oil as the golden brown side turned to face her.
"Breakfast."
He tousled his hair and mused, half to himself, "I thought you didn't eat breakfast."
"Well- I woke up before you did. I couldn't exactly just sit around and do nothing."
"You could've woken me up."
"I could've- or I could've made pancakes."
She slid the spatula under and flipped it again. Seeing that it was done, she moved it to a plate with the others and turned off the stove. The milk and syrup was already out.
"And now- we have breakfast. Go on and dig in."
"Monica-" He gave a half-laugh, "I don't need to eat. You know that."
She took her seat and gave her best raised eyebrow, "You don't need to sleep, either."
He blushed and looked away, "That was a special occasion."
"So's this."
He was smart enough to know that there was no arguing with her, and so he took his seat and began to set his own plate.
"So... How do you feel?"
She almost said 'Alright', but stopped herself. There was no call for such a tepid response.
"Good. I'm Good."
"That's..." He watched the milk pour into the glass, "Good."
"Hey-" She ignored the blush in her cheeks, "What do you remember about last night?"
"Last night? You mean before we got back?"
"Yeah. After the basement but before then."
"... Not much. I remember fighting Archer, but even that's fuzzy like always."
He paused for a long while.
"... We went past the shield, didn't we?"
"That's right."
"Huh."
'That's all you have to say!?' was what immediately came to her mind, but she held her tongue and considered how to probe him without making it obvious.
"You really don't remember... anything?"
"Not really."
'Damn.'
"Damn?"
"What? Did I say that out loud?"
He tapped his head, "You thought it out loud."
"Damn."
"That was out loud."
"Jerk."
They ate their meal in peace, and enjoyed a long and tranquil moment.
Chrysaor wiped his lips with a napkin, "There is something we should talk about."
"What's that?"
"The Grail. The Master of Rider and I talked after you passed out. Apparently this Grail doesn't give a wish; it gives godhood. Immortality. Divine Power. Does that change your mind about anything?"
She stopped to consider the new information, but quickly realized that she had no conception of what any of those words really meant, and so turned the question back.
"What about you? Can you get what you want?"
"It depends."
"Explain."
"If we win, you'll become a goddess."
"Okay. And you?"
"Well... If you keep me around-"
"I will."
They exchanged looks for a long time before he continued.
"If you can't handle all of it, some of it may pour over into me."
If she wasn't planning on it before, she certainly was now: there was no way in Hell she was doing something like that without a failsafe.
"So then we'd both be immortal."
"Yes."
"Then what?"
"We would probably have to leave."
"Leave where? You aren't exactly being clear."
"The world. We would have to leave and go to the Land of Gods. If we stayed, our power would fade over time and defeat the whole point of it."
"And, if we went to this 'land of gods', would you be able to see Perseus again? Or your mom? Would you get your wish?"
"Probably... Well, Maybe. But what about you?"
"What about me?"
"What do you want? What do you get out of it?"
She shrugged, "I get to meet your mom."
If he had any food in his mouth he would've spit it out; doubling over onto the table.
"What!? What does that mean?"
"What do you mean, 'what does that mean'? It means what I said."
"But- why? Where is that coming from?"
"Ugh!" She nearly slammed her head on the table, "Sometimes I swear, Chrysaor-"
"What?"
"It's because-"
A knock at the door.
The air went taught as Chrysaor stood out of his seat, hand half-clenched and ready to manifest a sword at a moment's notice. He spoke in a half-whisper, never looking away.
"Any idea who that could be?"
She held her breath as she spoke, the laid-back demeanor of the morning now long gone, "Not really. I mean- if it isn't Assassin or Lancer or whoever, it could be someone from work. I haven't been there in a long time; someone might be checking in on me."
Another rapping.
"If that's the case, should I hide?"
"No, this could be a good alibi. We could probably get off scot-free if you pretended to be my lover or something."
His brow furrowed, "Lover?"
"-Brother. I said brother."
Another knock.
"Oh- enough of this."
He marched to the door and looked through the peephole, speaking through telepathy so as not to be heard, 'It's a woman. Blonde hair. I don't know her.'
'There are a few blondes at work. It might be Tiffany, or Jessica-'
From afar, his hand twitched again, 'Monica. She has your bag.'
'My bag?'
'From last night. We must've forgotten it after the battle.'
Another knock.
She stood up and went behind Chrysaor, "Open the door."
He did so. There was a young woman, older than her clearly, perhaps in her mid-twenties, with a ponytail of blonde hair and wearing a black blazer. In one hand, indeed, was Monica's bag; some sandy grit still stuck to the bottom.
She locked eyes with Chrysaor first, "Saber? Is that right?"
He wasted no time, "What's your business here?"
"Look- I just want to-"
It was then the girls saw one another, and the stranger's eyes began to well with tears, her breath catching at the sight of her.
"Athena."
'Oh shit.'
....