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The first thing you're aware of is that you should not be.

Mana gathers to form your body, a call tugging at the memory of you, and your first thought is that this is wrong. Light hits your newborn eyes. You feel the floor beneath your feet, beneath your fingers. Something burns inside your chest, a hatred so intense it has no word for it, something that makes your hands twitch with the urge to grab someone's neck and snap it. An unholy anger, the worst of all fires, the need for revenge like the deepest of all hungers-

except, and you know, you know, you know this in your bones, this isn't yours.

You get up- this body, not yours. You rise your head- this face, not yours. Hatred like teeth growing inside your throat- these emotions, not yours. The flames licking at your bones- these memories, not yours. Not yours, not yours, not yours-

A France that no longer exists, taken over by dragons.

No. This one is yours.

Far from glorious, but you'll take it. Anything is better than what that man forced upon you when he created his replacement pet goldfish out of hatred and love for this damned Saint.

You look around you. Why are you here? Who would summon you? 

Not your original. Not your creator. You, the fabrication. You. The fake.

And then you see, and of course, of fucking course it's that human. The one who killed you. They look even worse than the last time you've seen them. More scars. More grime. Something terrible in those gentle eyes.

You sneer. Why would you bother with a fake, you ask. I tried to kill you and I will again, you state.

And that human, that kid, old soul, the one who rose against dragons and fire-

smiles.

(their lip is busted, you register dimly.)

"Thank you." Two words. Two words and your heart stops. No one has ever thanked you. Not even in your fake memories. And no one, no one- not your servants, not even Gilles- has ever seemed so- happy- relieved- glad- to see you. "Thank you, for answering my call. Thank you. Thank you."