C h i v a l r y [Diarmuid Ua Duibhne/Reader Drabbles]

Amháin: Liberation Aspirations

[Author's Note/Disclaimer: Cervello here! Firstly, I profoundly hope that this Diarmuid drabble anthology will be most enjoyable for you to read, as I am, while balancing (a.k.a., staving off) class work, trying my absolute hardest to write this to the best of my abilities. That said, I implore you to not hold back when criticizing my work—if you are to find any errors that slipped past my editing, please let me know as soon as possible. Secondly, in regard to this collection, I will most likely not focus on the actual Holy Grail War itself, but rather a point in time where the War is indeed going on, however, it will most likely not be mentioned (at the most, it may be implied).

Also, the amount of romance in each chapter may fluctuate a bit, as with the size of the chapters, and the amount of time taken to write each one. (I must also let you know that, unless otherwise stated, whether the chapters are connected with one another will not be explicitly stated within the drabbles themselves, as I planned for them to be at least somewhat separate, solitary works—nevertheless, I will be making chapters which require several parts. I also may take in requests for different scenarios!) Lastly, I own absolutely nothing pertaining to any of the "Fate" series—same goes for the artwork used here; all of the credit goes to their rightful owners. (I also deeply apologize for this exceedingly long author's note, I promise that they will never be this long again.) Without further ado, enjoy!

Her eyes were teeming with worry. "Diarmuid," she whispered, although with the pouring rain, there was no reason at all to do so, "are you alright?" She knew when something would be gnawing at his thoughts so aggressively, yet She almost never knew how to quell it. His eyes, which were now reduced to a glossy amber, barely moved from the rock wall directly opposite of them, while his hand gently clamped down on her folded one. His other hand was absentmindedly stroking Her chocolate tresses.

Her hand found its way out of Diarmuid's soft, albeit vice-like grip, and in turn She entwined their fingers, subsequently giving a small tug, in hope of it bringing him back to reality--Her tactic was met with unsatisfactory results. She sighed; once again She did not know what to do.

~~~

Her index finger relentlessly prodded the thin pad, as if enough pressure dealt to it would procure a literature masterpiece. She grunted in frustration while now switching out her index finger for a pencil. Though the yellowish light being produced by the bedside lamp was nowhere near enough to keep her sleep-craving eyes focused--let alone open--she surged on for a possible bout of inspiration.

Eventually, her [eye-color] orbs glided across the paper, toward the ligneous sea surrounding it, and soon the windowsill. She watched mutely as drops of water pattered against the glass, her frustration gradually mounting with each pop of liquid.

After thinking that enough time had passed--in which nothing beneficial transpired--she languidly stood up from her desk, intent on doing something at least remotely fulfilling--possibly even that necessary action called sleeping.

Without so much as a warning, her stomach hurriedly suggested sustenance, and, also without much of a warning, her servant's calm tone was heard just a mere second behind it. "Are you in need of food, Master?"

"It's fine--I can go make myself something," she dully assured the Irish Warrior, but to no avail.

"Nonsense, I'd rather not have you bother yourself with such a tedious chore." And with that, she was once again alone. A tad bit relieved to know (for the most part) that Lancer was no longer present, a loud, petulant sigh escaped her. She had been watched over by her familiar for roughly five months now, and already he had shown to be quite perceptible--when he wasn't craving acceptance, that is. Although it wouldn't take much to realize her harmful habits, he had already come to the conclusion through previous endeavors that she was not to be trusted with such things as remembrance to eat; her work easily immersed her on a daily basis, leaving out most other pertinent habits and needs.

She knew quite well that Lancer would mask his worry for her wellbeing with calling food-making mere chores, however, she knew that he was only trying to be polite, and so she ceased to bring it up. Another sigh escaped her while proceeding to sit back down.

As if responding to another onslaught of stomach rumblings, Diarmuid rushed into the room, a silver platter balanced on his two tanned palms. His ebony hair bounced with each step. "Here is your food, Master." [Name] thanked him as she was met with a modest array of food; a nice little mix of meat and vegetables were shown before her with a curt bow from the knight.

"Thank you, Lancer," she chuckled a bit while placing the plate down on her desk. After concluding (through a concerned series of questions) that the meal was indeed to his master's liking, he hesitantly left her be, careful to make sure that her papers were not to be picked up unless they were merely being moved aside. Attempting to stifle her stomach's cries for attention, she placed a morsel of meat on her tongue, extremely surprised by its exemplary flavor.

However, her eyes soon softened--once again, she had underestimated her own servant.

~~~

Every noise that stood above that of rain pouring down caused the woman's head to whip backward and survey the cave. Every time, it turned out that no errant knights were the source.

Breathing a sigh of relief for the umpteenth time that night, She turned back to Her lover, cupping his left cheek in Her hand. She tried to gain his attention, but with his much-needed sleep, it proved to be quite ineffective. She was so utterly petrified of being found; Diarmuid was usually on high alert when it came to nightfall, giving Her time to rest.

However, with Diarmuid evidently reaching his quota of time spent delaying and denying sleep, She knew that the responsibility was now being forced into Her hands.

His head remained leaning against the harsh wall behind him, a soft snore emitting from him. She honestly found it cute, however, now was not an appropriate time to even think about such a thing--She needed to stay on alert, She needed to . . . for them . . .

~~~

"Master, are you--" Diarmuid stopped himself once he entered the threshold. His master was slumped over the desk, an empty plate guarding her side like a protective canine. He couldn't help but smile at the sight.

A quick speed-walk across the room proved that his careful footfalls were not enough to wake her up from her slumber (much to her servant's solace).

Once he was beside her, he silently picked up the china plate, careful not to accidentally jostle [Name]. Once it was away from the desk that she resided at, he rushed over to her bed, soon returning to drape a warm, comforting blanket around her. She lightly stirred at the feeling of fabric encasing her, however, no more movement was made on her behalf. Taking one last glance down at his master, Diarmuid whispered the words, "Goodnight, Master . . ." Within seconds, he was out of the room, left to his own devices.

~~~

Diarmuid groggily opened his eyes, and was a bit taken aback by what lay before him. His companion was fast asleep, Her head leaning on his extended leg. He couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with personal disdain at his actions--how dare he be so careless with their safety and concealment! He rubbed at his amber eyes, trying to see past the sea of rain just outside the cave's entrance.

After feeling as though he had stared at it long enough, he transfixed his gaze down toward his lover once more. Though the cave was quite dark, he felt as though he could clearly see the bags under her eyes, however, he knew that he must not be any better.

After trying his best to wrestle the weathered blanket he had--just one of the small handful of personal effects he had enough time to get before escaping--out from under him, he sluggishly draped it over Her, a tiny hint of a smile subsequently appearing on his worn-out features. Looking down at her warming figure, he placed a hand on her side, now accepting the fact that he was not going to get back to sleep anytime soon. After all, they would have to leave their make-shift home once dawn struck. "Goodnight, Gráinne . . ."