Ly Myreur des Histors

It’s a berserker.

You can always tell the class of the servant that’s about to show up. It’s a weird feeling in tingling at the back of your hand while you perform a summoning, right where your command seals are embedded in your skin. Avengers are the heaviest of all. Caster feel spicy. Archers are very round. And berserkers…

Berserkers feel like standing on the verge of a cliff, a foot between two worlds.

At last, the light subsides, and you can see the person kneeling in the circle. So far, they seem humanoid. Blond hair. Very disheveled. Ratty clothes. Someone who lived in the wild?

And then the servant raises their head to look at you, and you flinch.

A saberface.

People in Chaldea, Artoria first and foremost, love to joke about how so many of them share the same face. Some claim to have the original face, that the others merely copied them. Some swap clothes and pretend to be each other to see if you’d notice. Why can’t Jeanne take my place in training today, X likes to whine when you wake her for the early missions, it’s not like anyone would notice.

(You would notice, of course. You always notice. You love your servants too much not to tell them apart.)

Saberfaces are all fun and games, Chaldea’s very own private joke, until you run into situations like these.

The new berserker looks in your general direction, face dirty, eyes full of that madness all berserker share, and this is Jeanne’s face, Jeanne’s and X’s and Artoria’s and- all of them, you can see all of them in this new berserker, all of them dirty and desperate and suffering-

“I’m out,” that first statement comes out almost in a whisper, voice weighted down by hope and disbelief and despair and you know that voice, and you can feel your heart break. “I’m out!” The berserker whose name you’re sure you know smiles, wide and genuine and so fucking happy. “I’M OUT!” They scream at ceiling. Their chest starts heaving, their breathing stutters, and suddenly they start laughing, laughing, LAUGHING, “I’M OUT! I’M OUT! I’M OUT!”

Slowly, so that you can back down at the first sign of rejection, you sit down. Extend a hand. Reach out.

The laughter calms down when you touch the back of the servant’s hand, but they show no aggressiveness. Yet.

“Yes.” You say calmly, rubbing your finger against their knuckles (their skin is so cold, so cold, where were they held, for them to be so cold?) “You’re out.”

(They’re missing a couple nails. The remaining three are chipped and dirty. What did you claw at so violently, lost one?)

The berserker leans forwards, and- rests their forehead against your shoulder.

“I’m out.” They repeat once more. As if to make it real.

“You’re out.” You circle an arm around them. Still no sign of attack. Gently, you pull them closer to you, into a proper hug. Good god, they’re so fucking thin. Something wet drops onto your shoulder. “You’re out. It’s over. You’ll never have to go back again. It’s over. You’re out.”

For a few seconds, there is nothing but silence, silence and half sobs, silence and the shuffling of cloth as you rub their back.

“… You.” The sudden injonction surprises you. You thought this berserker wasn’t aware of you at all. Some of them are like that sometimes. “Are you… are you, my Master?”

You nod. “Yeah.” A pause, then you decide to push your luck. “Most call me Guda. What is your name?” Do you remember it at all?

The berserker pries themself away from your embrace, with the roughness of those who have long forgotten how to control their own strength. They shift to keep one knee on the ground and raise the other, a knight with no armor but their skin and no sword but their teeth.

“Servant, servant berserker.” Head bowed, boney fist on the ground. Knight no more, noble no more, oh, friend, who hurt you like this? 

“Mordred. I… I am, Mordred.”