The only thing she remembers is blood, not even her own name.
Waking up in a strange house in a 'far-off' land, Arturia Pendragon cannot remember a single thing of her past life, luckily she is found just in time to be able to keep on living. With...
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It was the cold that had awoken her. She was shaking furiously and coughing quiet loudly with the sense of the cold snow melting upon her. Her finger tips were a bruised purple against the glowing pure white of the snowflakes that continued to fall despite her silent protests.
Everything was blurry—she could barely see the trees around her; they were all just blobs of deep dark green. The cold air was harsh, not letting her warm up, and the dress she wore was not helping her the slightest bit. Her previously ivory skin nearly matched the blue of the cloth that hung to her. Her limbs stung in all places, the cold simply inviting her body to lull back to slumber. Her lids were starting to flutter to a close but she would fight off that sleepy sense because she could feel it in her heart that she would possibly not awaken from the inviting slumber.
A shadow blocked out the only source of warmth that she felt as it cast itself upon her and she could barely make out the words that sounded as if they were were murmured softly and gently. Then something warm was wrapped around her—taking the place of the sun—and even warmer arms lifted her from the freezing white cushions, also awaiting for her to awaken. The person's face was blurry to her and she could only make out a soft hue of rust orange turning into a lighter shade right before she fell back to join the coldness that was taking over her being.
Red. There was deep dark red that stained the rich white snow around them—she could easily mistaken the splatters as red rose petals; but everyone knew that flowers never bloomed during the dead of winter. One lone option remained—blood—and she could not tell if it was hers or somebody else's. She could not see the other person's face, but she noted a sword in their hands and she could also feel the familiar weight of her own weapon. She had a reminiscence that she was hurt but she could not tell if it was due to the icy air around her or caused by the blade before her; what was worse was that she could not feel where the pain originated and that was what she feared the most.
This time around, it was voices that had awaken her. Her eyes lazily flickered open, each action taking time and effort. She found herself in doors, as she deducted by the wooden ceiling, on a couch of sorts; in front of a warm and sweet fireplace. She sighed.
One of the voices sounded passive and the other more demanding. She could not recognize the language for a while because her mind was completely blank, anything that she tried to remember would run away from her grasp. Slowly, but surely, she began to understand what the voices were saying, the pulsing in her head told her she knew a little more than English.
She searched for something that would remind her of her past—anything—but there wasn't a single solid thing in her mind, only notions. Feelings of certain things but nothing concrete. While scanning her brain, she still found nothing of substance, nothing she could hold on to; nothing to make her feel safe.
