Witch, Usurper, Savior, Savior

You hold on for as long as you can. 

When ORT towers over the ship, an indescribable monstrosity only likened to a spider because it doesn’t resemble anything else, you endure. When you watch your servants get absorbed by it, when you feel in your soul the contracts shatter and break, you endure. When you wake up sore and pained surrounded by friendly faces after your near-death experience, you endure. You endure the entire fight. You endure the party aftermath. You endure the health check-ups. You endure. You endure. You endure.

You endure until the door of your room closes shut behind you.

Without anyone to observe you, you can’t keep your mask up. Violently, it all washes over you; the fear. The horror. The bone-deep terror. Feeling your soul being torn to pieces and your organs sent to overdrive and being about to die about to die about to die-

You don’t even make it to the bed. You crumple right here, on the floor, like a wet paper towel. Some master you are. Maybe if you weren’t such a useless little bitch then these people wouldn’t have had to die again worse than dying being erased absorbed eaten and it is all because of you of you of you-

You can’t breathe. There’s too much air in your lungs. The world is spinning, and so are your thoughts. Everything around you is blurry, underwater; the memories of the fight are fresh in your mind, however, Bedivere-Asterios-Arash-Andersen all dying all leaving and you had to call more you had to call more Passionlip-Fergus-Hyde-Salome you knew you were sending them to their death you knew what you were asking of them and you still did it and you still did it pulling on the lever over and over as if at this point it wouldn’t be better to just let the trolley fucking run you over-

And suddenly: pressure. Warmth. Something wraps around you tightly. The contact is so surprising that it tears you out of your thoughts and forces you back into your own body. All at once you become hyperaware of your heartbeat, the blood pumping in your veins, the shaking of your limbs, the dreadful cold running under your skin.

And there is something here with you.

And there is something here with you.

And there is something here with you.

You latch on the closest limb you find and bite. You’re useless like this, mid-panic attack, you’re alone and frail and weakweakweak you have to get out of here you have to get out of here. But instead of scales or fur- your teeth dig into soft, defenseless flesh. Your jaws are blocked by the bone underneath. It’s a short cylinder of meat, that could fit perfectly into your mouth. The bone you feel is a thick, long thing. You just bit into an arm. You just bit into a human arm.

You hear a voice. You don’t know what it says. It’s quiet, though. And flat. No pain or anger here. Just… sound. 

There is

a person

with you.

You let go of the arm. You try to apologize, but your throat feels closed up. You can barely breathe, yet alone make sound.

The pressure increases. You are being hugged, you realize. You can’t tell who that is- cannot process any of the information you perceive. You close your eyes and imagine it to be your mother. You don’t remember her face.

You don’t know how long you stay like this, shivering like a drenched cat, white noise deafening to your ears. Eventually, little by little, you come back to yourself; your heartbeat slows down. Your eyes start making sense of shapes again. Your tears dry up. Your body belongs to you once more, instead of keeping you trapped. 

Finally, you recognize the arms around you, clad in black and blue. “Morgan…” Your voice is hoarse. Speaking is now possible, but by no means easy.

She only responds with a non-committal hum.

“Your arm…”

“Think nothing of it.” There is no emotion apparent in her voice. Did she cry out when you bit her? You were too out of it to hear.

“I didn’t… I…” Didn’t want you to see me like this, didn’t want anyone to see me for who I truly am, didn’t want to subject you to this pathetic sight,

“That is alright. Such things happen.” Did she see what you meant? Damned fairy eyes. Damn fairies and their inability to let you lie. You don’t even know what you’re feeling most of the time, and they get to know in just a single glance. Unfair, unfair, unfair. Is it better or worse, that it was Morgan who found you? Is it better or worse, that it was someone you’re not too close to?

“You don’t…” have to do this, you can let go of me, I’ll be fine I’ll pretend again in a second it’s okay

But instead of letting you go, her hold on you only tightens. “Let me have this.” This time, her voice dips down, ever so slightly. Tired. She sounds profoundly, insanely tired. “I ask of you, just… let me have this.”

… Oh.

Who is she thinking about, you wonder? Morgan is your servant; you have dreamed of her life. You have witnessed her every loss, over and over. Who is she thinking about? Baobhan Sith, whom she could not protect? Uther, who died in front of her? Or maybe herself; maybe she is thinking of Tonelico, this girl who should have never been asked to carry a duty so heavy, who never let so much of a single person see her cry.

“... Thank you, then.” 

She is not your mother, not Mash, not any of the people you would ever consider baring yourself to; and you are not her daughter, not Mash, not any of the people she would normally reach out for. But also, right now, in the silence of this small room, she is not a queen, not a witch, not a savior; and you are not a master, not a hero, not a mage. She is Morgan, the girl who tried to save the world by herself because no one else would; and you are Ritsuka Fujimaru, the human who despite everything still refuses to give up on that world.

Right now, in the silence of this small room, this is enough.

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