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One quiet night – a scarce occurrence ever since the beginning of the newest Singularity. Although not nearly as hectic as the final days in Orleans, Septem has had its own definition of chaos with the several warring factions ravaging Rome. While the Chaldean party had been unable to appease the Ruler Romulus, it has been nothing short of pure ingenuity that Oda Nobunaga had pacified the likes of Cleopatra; and thus granting this rare period of peace.
At least for most.
Among the original three Servants, Chacha would usually be the first to tucker out. As a Berserker, it’s no surprise that she would need copious amounts of rest from foddering damage in battles. Tonight, Chacha finds herself noting the cracks on the ceiling, hoping that it would be a good replacement to counting sheep.
Try as she might, closing her eyes brought nothing but painful memories – most of which were ones involving the stench of burning bodies, and the iron tang of blood.
Chacha knew she could pretend that these memories do not exist, and her Madness Enhancement actually keeps these from resurfacing. Yet waves and waves of them now keep permeating her adrenaline-addled mind. “Chacha should be cured already,” the Berserker mumbles to herself, giving a far-off look out the window. Rain of Isis should have indiscriminately healed her of any mental debuffs; but why can’t these apparitions of the past leave her be. If anything, these memories feel even more vivid, more concrete.
“Maybe Master used too much of it…” Chacha mulls over the thought at how her Master may have casted the skill as a way to remove other impediments – such as her conscious suppression of this boiling regret that continues to fester in her Spirit Origin. Perhaps that was the answer to her current sleep-depriving predicament. Then again, what good would it be to fuss over such reasons? Chacha needed to rest; tomorrow was going to be another long day in the front lines.
The former consort reclines her petite body once more, relaxing her tense muscles against the brick-like pillows. Chacha takes a moment to glance at her helmet, discarded next to a familiar puffy red hat at a corner. Drawing the blanket to her chin, she tries to secure the sheet evenly with her two petite arms. Chacha’s eyes try to drop to a close.
It had not been ten minutes before they shot back open, dilated. Chacha finds herself clutching the fabric on her chest, her other hand ghosting the front an invisible wound across her stomach.
“Hideyori…” Chacha carefully whispers with bated breath, almost as if afraid that saying it too loudly would wake her son’s tormented soul.
But this feeling of fear is short-lived. Chacha bites her lip, trying to quell the fire that was flowing in her veins. Bitter resentment, coupled with an undying hatred for the Tokugawa, had cursed her with these unquenchable flames that threaten to spill forth at any moment. Chacha finds herself clenching her fists, knuckles white and searing with a heat that she knows she has to control.
‘Why now of all times? It wasn’t my fault… it wasn’t—‘
“Chacha?”
A light touch douses any more scathing thoughts that had wormed into the Berserker’s mind. The mention of her name brings Chacha back to reality; which involves her facing a rather sleepy Marie Antoinette. Through half-lidded eyes, the Rider offers a small smile, her hand cupping Chacha’s own.
“Are you feeling alright?” the French princess asks, a yawn ambling away from groggy lips. “Goodness, you are looking pale tonight.”
“Chacha is… fine.” there was some hesitation, as if searching thoroughly for the proper word to describe her plight. Chacha bites her lip, unsure if her blanched face betrays the words she had just said. The Berserker presses the side of her face against the pillow, eyes darting away from inquisitive blue ones.
A finger now dances down Chacha’s exposed cheek, earning a flinch from the said girl. Marie giggles in reply, as if pointing out the Berserker’s hypocrisy. “Does it still hurt?” the Rider ventures.
“I—“
‘It hurts so badly. My shame, my regrets: these all continue to consume me, day in and day out.’
Chacha chews the inside of her mouth, as if to hold back her thoughts from materializing. This act does not go unnoticed, as Marie’s grip remains firm, yet gentle, on the shorter girl’s hand. “Your cheeks are still quite red. Perhaps I had pinched them too hard from earlier?”
“Ah, that,” a little sigh escapes the Berserker’s mouth. There is some relief that washes over Chacha’s features, or at least she finds enough reason to urge a small quirk of her lips. “Chacha is completely fine, Chacha’s cheeks don’t hurt anymore.” Despite the reassurance, Marie does not stop stroking her finger down the Berserker’s cheek. Chacha raises her eyebrows, as if awaiting for the Rider’s response.
“Marie—?”
Her reply comes in the form of a pair of lips warming flushed skin. Chacha takes time to register the sweet breath of Marie now tickling her face. While this isn’t unusual for the Rider to take initiative on such; what Chacha notices is how Marie’s mouth lingers a little longer, her hands wrinkling Chacha’s sleeves from how tight her grip is. There’s that familiar heat rising again, but Chacha knows it’s nothing deadly. If anything, she is grateful that Marie’s eyes are shut and unable to see the red dusting across her once pale cheeks.
“All better?” Are words mumbled against her now over-sensitive cheek.
A waft of air now creeps from the lost contact. Chacha once more searches through Marie’s face. Even with how often her smiles are, or how calm her expression is, its color never fades; something Chacha has come to appreciate time and time again.
“Y-Yeah. Thanks, Marie.”
A small giggle rumbles its way from Marie, who has now settled back to her side of the bunk. Another light pat on her cheeks, before a final yawn completes Marie’s drift back to sleep. Chacha is once more left alone, quite fully, as her perception is flooded with nothing but the Rider’s sleeping figure.
“But are you really alright, to stay next to someone like me?” are hushed words that Chacha hopes that Marie would not hear.
She could almost picture it: Marie Antoinette amidst the flames wreathe by Chacha’s inability to control her rage. To dare any closer with someone as cursed as her was to beget a downfall similar to the fate she had faced in Osaka Castle. She knew she had to warn her Master, most especially Marie, of this; of what it entails to be this near to someone like Yodo-dono.
Chacha tries to get up, only to be wrenched back by a hand she had almost forgotten was upon hers.
Warmth pools once more at her chest, seeing how Marie’s fingers remain laced around hers ever since. The trembling in her fists have long stopped, which again Chacha could suspect to be Marie’s doing. With her free hand, Chacha reaches up to dash away white strands that have strayed onto Rider’s features. No sooner had she done this did she retract her hand, as if the burning sensation didn’t come from herself; but from Marie’s serene face.
“None of this is Chacha’s fault…” Chacha slurs as she rubs her face deeper into the pillow. Her auburn eyes now hide themselves as the blanket of sleep finally takes her in.
“Chacha is only at ease… because it’s all Marie’s fault.”