Corrupted Dreams

In the Emiya Household: Part 2

As I sat on the roof of the house Emiya and I currently occupied, a cool winter breeze tousled my hair. The wind stood in stark contrast to the breath of heat from the burning city. I had just come back from an uneventful scout. Minus the occasional horde of skeletons, the streets around us were empty—no servant in sight. Taking in a deep breath of smoke tainted air, I delayed going back inside a minute longer. I could only take so many of Emiya's mood swings in a day. Eventually though, I couldn't ignore the itch at the back of my mind. I'd better go in to make sure he lays down if nothing else. And so, duty bound to Emiya's wellbeing, I went back inside.

Glancing over in the living room, I saw his frame bent over the kotatsu with the blanket pulled up over his legs. I clicked my teeth together, seeing him in the living room and not bed. Honestly, he can be as stubborn as a child sometimes. "I thought you were going back to sleep—" My voice cut off as I stepped further into the room. With his head laid down on folded arms, Emiya was asleep.

My light footsteps came to a halt next to the table. I stared down at Emiya for a moment, no concrete thought solidifying in my mind, but fragments swimming in masses through my head. A sigh left my lips, breaking the small pocket of silence. Pulling off my hood, I laid it across Emiya's back, my finger brushing the chilled skin of his arm. He's colder than when I left him. The thought provoked nothing more than a frown from me, till I finally left him to his sleep.

The next few hours were empty. In its own way, the boredom was a comfort—long hours with nothing to do but sit and think in the quiet without the worries and needs of the world pressing down on you. Here in this simple Japanese home—for a moment at least—I didn't have to be a hero. Well... who can I be then?

Leaning back against the living room wall, I glanced at the man resting at the table. Curled into place, Emiya did nothing but add to the picture as if he were a necessary ornament to the home, set in place with everything else to pull the pieces together just right. He seems so perfectly at home here. That seems as nice a thing as any to pretend to be. A man in a home. I rubbed the back of my neck, peeling my eyes off Emiya. I'm not so sure that daydream is the best at the moment.

Standing up, I idly looked around the house. Given the bounded field surrounding the place, this had to be a mage's home. Who knows, maybe I'd find something interesting? Or useful? It was a bit hopeful to think I'd stumble upon another box of concentrated mana like we'd found before. My mind flashed momentarily on the loss of that previous mana supply and my mouth stiffened on impulse. I suppose those crystals at least got us to safety, which was what mattered most. Besides, it was an insignificant thing to regret in contrast with all the mistakes I've made in the past. I forced the thought out with a sigh, as I continued glancing through the rooms.

The house was odd by how unremarkable it was. I'd seen enough of mage homes to identify their commonalities. The stiff-back and cold attitude of a mage was something that couldn't be stifled even in something as simple as the arrangement of furniture. People's lifestyles always left a mark, in the display of the house, the objects and instruments hidden there, and even the feel of the air. But here was none of that. I'd have never guessed a mage lived here if it weren't for the thrum of magic in the air. Even the bounded field was odd—unusually...warm. It all gave me an odd urge to meet the occupant of this home. I might've liked them.

My wandering came to a halt as I slid the door open to one area that did interest me. It was a dojo with wood floors that had the polished glow of a daily cleaning. Bamboo swords were lined up neatly against the wall. There was an itch tingling my palm at the thought of holding a weapon—even if it was only wooden.

I plucked one from the rack, extended it in front of me, and felt the way the sword was weighted. Closing my eyes, I attempted to envision Gae Bolg in my hand, but the wood handle broke the image—it was too much like my staff. I opened my eyes again and sighed at the simple training sword. It would have to do for now. My body fell into the rhythm of old practiced movements, awakening memories from another lifetime. This was my first time with a sword since I was alive.