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The Master had brought home another stray. And a rather violent one at that.
The first of her kind to grace the halls of Chaldea. Grace…Emiya wanted to laugh. She was of little grace, truly. She haunted the hall like that of something demonic and without knowing the feeling of a god’s love, the thinly scent of scorched earth perfumed her, sinking into the walls that kept her bound and free from snowfall. The sharp tap of her heels came next, right after her distinctive scent. They too were of great, undying fires. Searing the floors beneath her of their purity and white. Wherever she went, he knew. Wherever she came from, he could trace back step by step. For a Saint so eminent, that her burning prayers marked forgiveness upon humanity rather than revenge, she was ever so callous, ever so destructive as a heroic spirit.
However, maybe Emiya was the one in the wrong. To compare her to the extent of expecting her to behave in another way – one which he was far more accustomed to. To judge her against this other, more familiar version of herself was but the cruellest thing a person could do.
But, you see, she simply put him on edge.
She smelt like, acted as, and wanted the world to burn.
It provoked something childlike and desperate in Emiya. Had him holding his breath every time she swayed passed him.
Emiya had seen hell on earth once…He had no desire to see it again. Especially not in the blushing eyes of Jeanne d'Arc, the fabled Holy Maiden. No…Now that wasn’t right. Because, truly, she wasn’t the original Jeanne d'Arc. But an alternate rendering of the soul sick with vengeance.
Jalter, as the Master had called her, was the first Avenger class servant to prowl the dark corners of Chaldea. And she was driving Emiya insane.
He could not continue to mop after her besmearing footprints, nor could he handle the regular staff of Chaldea to mass in fear of her torment of them. The technical department refused to venture out of their labels, the medical staff huddled in their clinics – only opening their doors to the greatly injured and ill. And most unforgiving of all, the cleaning staff had all but abandoned their stations. Tired and petrified they were, of the Dragon Witch kicking over their buckets of water and setting aflame their chemicals and cleaning supply.
It meant Emiya was left to carry out their work and take to keeping the chores of Chaldea at bay.
Really though, Emiya shouldn’t complain. The archer found peace in housekeeping responsibilities. It settled a calm and gratitude unlike any other deep within his bones, detoxing the stress from out his marrow and leaving him feeling cozy in the cleanness he had composed.
But to carry out the upkeep of the whole of Chaldea, during which maintaining his duties in Chaldea’s kitchens? While also aiding his Master on the battlefield which often left him depleted of mana and unable to move. It was an impossible task. Something had to change – the cleaning staff had to return. The Witch of Vengeance had to be scolded.
Emiya took some time to conjure ideas and possible situations where and when he could corner the avenger. Unlike Emiya and the other servants who had pledged themselves tools of Chaldea’s Last Master, Jalter was yet to accompany the Master in battle. Whether that was due to the Master hesitating to trust their life, as well as the fate of the world to Jalter, or rather, a byproduct of the witch’s inability to play nice with others as of yet – it all simply meant one thing. Jalter was always tucked in the depths of Chaldea. Always just arms reach of Emiya when it was not his turn to serve their Master in battle. And all he had to do was follow the burnt breadcrumbs to find her.
Ironically enough, his hunt was one short and unfortunate. Once Emiya waved off the Master, Mash, and the flock of heroes who were rostered for that war (The archer was glad to see Tamamo Cat and Boudica dissipate in rings of static blue, for it meant the Emiya did not have to share the kitchen for the time being. Cú Chulainn was also part of the battalion and did the archer love it so when that bothersome battle fiend was out of his hair) he went to trailing corroded shoeprints.
They were quick to find, and even quicker to lose. Dying off and graciously leaving the grounds beyond them a saintly white. Emiya’s tracking had led him to the mouth of the cafeteria. And for a moment he wondered if he had foolishly chased after day’s old tracks. Emiya had sternly mopped after breakfast just before the Master took their leave. Did he simply mop up the rest of the singed footprints and not see that they trailed further than the doors of the cafeteria? But…That was not him. Never had he been so oblivious to a mess. Nor would Emiya overlook one.
These tracts, as strange and illogical as it was, were new.
Emiya spied just beyond them, to the cafeteria. The door was ajar – the lights dimmed for all but one. Emiya remembered being the last out, and there was a rule that no soul was permitted within the cafeteria halls outside of eating hours. If such a rule was not in place, their rations would plummet, and the Master would be left to fight for the fate of the future by themselves. For what could lazy, plump servants, deep in a state of comatose due to the overconsumption of food do other than be utterly useless?
Emiya, as quiet as the steps of a cat, slipped closer. He peered through the slight of the door, all but forgetting the peculiarity of disappearing footprints. Someone dared to be in his kitchen. Emiya would not stand for it.
What he found, however, was both a pleasure and a pain.
Jalter occupied a whole table to herself in the far left of the room. Under the soft glow of mage-made light, encompassed by thinning shadows, the Saint took to slowly, munching her way through a newly baked carrot cake.
Emiya had successfully tracked his target. Only, he had discovered her in the midst of grand theft. The victim? The carrot cake Emiya had made for the Master to take on their journey. Not only had his forgetful Master neglected to remember the cake they had specifically asked for, but now it became the prey of the young Dragon Witch.
The archer stalked forward, a displeased scowl to his lips.
“I see, so you happen to be the rat Tamamo sniffed out the other day. I must say, I’m surprised that your messy prints weren’t all over the kitchen floors while you raided through our supplies.”
Jalter was yet to react to him. She sat motionless for all but carrying her fork from her plate and past her lips. The Witch held herself like quite the maiden. Posture delicate and fine, pose cold yet elegant. Even the way she fed herself was poised and of the saintly nature. For a moment, Emiya’s attention was diverted. He had never once given Jalter more than a passing glance. Always catching her back of her as the Saint bypassed him in the halls. If in the same room, she was farthest away, and while Emiya was of the archer class and did possess a set of mystic eyes that could see miles beyond the range of the other classes. He never took to using them upon her. Jalter never held his interest until now. Really, it was quite the opposite. In the beginning, the Witch’s scent was enough to have to pay her no mind. If only to settle his beating heart and composed the memories of his blazing rebirth.
Now, as Emiya stood over Jalter, casting his attention fully upon her, the man seized his breath. O, how there was an iciness to her beauty. From porcelain skin to plum black armour, she was ever graced with the allure of heaven. Yet, the hounds of hell stalked behind her gaze, and with their hunger did her eyes glow with bestial gilt. So rich and warm, so starved and howling.
Emiya blinked from the bewitchment once, then twice. Troublesome were the witches with the prettiest of faces. They were always so used to getting what they wanted.
“I suggest you stop eating from the Master’s plate. That cake was a request of theirs. You have no business taking that from them.”
Jalter regarded him with that cold look of hers, “and where is your master now, Archer? Long gone I see. Don’t you find it rather insulting that they were to abandon an offering of good fortune such as this? Well, spoils to the victor as they say.”
“Our Master,” Emiya toned at her. “You will do well to remember that, Avenger. It’s a rarity to come across a Master as good as ours. Show some gratitude. They should have abandoned your spirit origin and left you to float in between cruel and endless grail wars and hell. But instead, they took pity on the poor little dragon they came across in Orleans and summoned you here. I am yet to understand why.”
The fork was rested firmly on the table, and the plate clattered something ugly.
“You speak of this master as if they are God in human form. I never thought you the crazed religious type, Red Archer.” Jalter bit. She tilted her head high, and somehow, even though she was far shorter than Emiya, and even sat before him causing her to further lose what little height she had. The Dragon Witch, nonetheless, achieved looking down her nose at him.
Emiya smiled, huffing an almost laugh. “Funny. I’ve been accused of a great many things. But a devout madman is new. But no, I have never turned to deities in times of need. Resting my worries and responsibilities in the hands of others has never been my strong suit.”
“You’re a man of no faith?” The Witch reproached, raising an eyebrow.
The archer shrugged, a warm wave of DeJa’Vu cresting through him. “A man of no faith. A man of no pride. I’m not what one would call a conventional heroic spirit if you must know.”
Jalter’s mouth smalled into a pout for some time, and her eyes narrowed as if she were deciding upon something. Emiya, however, could not find it in him to care what conclusion the little dragon witch had come upon. Jalter had let her guard fall like the snow that forever cast a deathly white blanket over Chaldea. And Emiya, whilst not a man of faith or pride, was down to his bone, an opportunist.
Like a bullet, Emiya shot forward and snatched up the cake from under Jalter’s possessive clutches. His movement startled the Holy Maiden enough for her shoulders to jolt up, and a slight, almost mouse-like noise to dart from her lips. Emiya was rather pleased with himself. Not only did he win back the cake, but that devilish coolness that played wise on the avenger’s face all but cracked – faint and quick as it was. Yet it still could not escape the keenness of his class eyes.
“Give it back.” Jalter had found her legs and schooled her features. Slamming her knotted fists on the now bare table. She roared at the man before her. “At once. Or suffer by my hands, Archer.”
Oh, my. Truly, what a witch she was.
Emiya, with both hands, slid the cake behind his back and held it there. To keep his hands full and his body so open to an attack was reckless. Stupid even. However, the sudden fascination on Jalter’s behalf with the cake had amused the bowman greatly. Emiya took great delight in impressing those with his culinary aptitudes. However, he wasn’t teasing before about the kitchen staff thinking a rat had been the one to dine on their delicious hard work after hours. Only now, Emiya suspected that their nightly thief was that of a creature that breathed fire and guarded a bed of richly possessions.
He just wanted Jalter to admit it.
“I’m sorry, was this cake yours?” Emiya teased, and he dared to tower over her. “I swear I remember making this exact cake earlier today and gifting it to our master.”
The Dragon Witch would not be intimidated however, even with her short stature, she reared up to the archer, her armoured chest proud and puffed. Her face, stone-like – stiff with rage. Jalter’s nose flared and for a fraction of a second, Emiya could have sworn he saw thin whiskers of smoke fume out of them.
“Come to think of it, I also happened to have made a large batch of orange saffron syrup cakes the other day. Yet, when I left them to set over the dinner rush, they mysteriously vanished. But that couldn’t have been you, Jalter. I didn’t happen to see your pesky, messy footprints around my kitchen.”
“Careful now, Archer in red,” Jalter spoke, her voice was quiet. But so was the knife that liked to slice at the throat. “My temper is hot. Much like my flames. Spark either and you will be but ashes and ember. And I would hate to see your newly clean floors become amess so soon.”
With each word, she stole closer and stretched halfway across the table to meet the archer’s gaze with the ferocious gape of her own. Fiendishly, Emiya met her challenge and lowered himself until their breaths cocktailed between them.
“My apologies, Jalter if I’ve caused any offence.” The counter guardian said. And one could rather hear his smile than see it. “But understand, I wasn’t laying those allegations on you, great, Holy Maidan. But rather on the little, meek creature that stumbles around in my kitchen at night. Whatever rat we have must be noticeably chubby by now after all those sweets.”
They were so close. Emiya could practically taste his cake on her breath, could spy the shine of the moon white hairs that framed her face, and could feel the intense heat of her body as it burnt up with madness and mana. However, most importantly, Emiya could smell her. But instead of childish panic and whispers of unwanted memories, the archer smelt roasted chestnuts, molten iron, and cooled wine so deep and red it dried his mouth out. No longer was the world burning, what stood before was nothing more than a proud Dragon Witch.
How interesting.
“You will die, Archer. By flames – I swear it. By fire – I curse it!”
Emiya eased back, slowly and still. Just as he did, the bowman gradually snuck the troublesome cake back under the belly of the dragon.
“And have my ashes and ember ruin my clean floors?” Archer smirked. “I don’t think so, little dragon.”
“Fuck your floors, you devil.”
“You will leave my floors be, saint.”
Jalter locked her jaw over a mouthful of blasphemes, like fire, she readied herself to spit them at the men who dared to mock her. Only, that enigmatic smirk stood lazy on his lips, and with heavy grey eyes, the archer gestured to the in-between beneath them.
Shockingly, the cake laid back in her possession. However not fully, no – Emiya wouldn’t grant her that.
A large, tanned hand tucked itself under the plate of the cake, and a thumb hooked itself tight over the rim. He could take the damn thing back whenever he felt like it.
“Is it mine or must you die because it is not?” Jalter growled, eyes finding Emiya’s once again.
“It may be yours…” He started. “But there will be conditions attached.”
Again, Emiya’s interest was piqued. Instead of the Witch throwing a tantrum and setting him ablaze where he stood, Jalter’s face split apart in a toothy, entertained grin.
“Your misplaced bravado assumes me, devil. For the time being at least.” Jalter pulled back, if just slightly. She ran her drake eyes down the length of him. “What conditions do you think will hold me?”
Emiya curled the plate tighter in his grip, “O, trust me little dragon, they will.”
Jalter’s smile grew less with his words, Emiya could peek the very tip of her fang as she reared her lip up to snarl at him.
“Now, now. Easy Witch. Allow me to speak first.” Emiya taunted. “I only ask that you stop searing the ground with your fire when you walk. It is a pain to clean. And you are to stop your harassment of Chaldea’s staff. They are needed – greatly and are to be treated with the respect they deserve for running this place.”
Jalter snapped her jaws. “You ask too much already, devil! And I can tell there is more.”
“Lastly,” Emiya chose to ignore her outcries. Indeed, she was right. There was more. “You are to stop sneaking into the kitchen at night and eating what you like and when you like. It is rude, and a great imbalance to your diet.”
The avenger narrowed her eyes at the archer as if confused why her diet was an issue for him.
“You ask too much for simply cake. Burn and be done with this deal.”
“I’m not finished yet.” The hero snapped. He was taken aback by her bratty ways. It was not common for one saw a famed saint, no matter the version, whine at being properly scolded. “Now, if you promise to hold yourself to these requests, you may have the cake. But I mean it about sneaking to my kitchen, Witch. If you are hungry, you come to me. If you want a sweet, you come to me. If you want anything from this kitchen, you come to me. But you do not snake your way in.”
The snarl of her lip calmed, and suddenly, Emiya was facing a very serious dragon.
“If I am hungry, I come to you, aye?”
The archer narrowed his sight this time. He suddenly felt uncertain about his demands. “That is what I said.”
Jalter grew closer until the ends of their noses nearly kissed. A slight grin to her lips as she glanced at Emiya’s own.
“And of right now if I agree – the cake is mine. Correct?”
Emiya, too focused on not stumbling over his words, unknowingly bore a hushed tone. Quiet unlike any of his other tones as of late. A spark caught in the Saint’s eye. “Of course.”
“I see,” Jalter started, slipping her hands from the table and onto the round ends of the plate. “Then I accept your deal, Archer in red.”
She tugged on the plate just as Emiya let go and the damn thing slid right back into her thieving paws. Jalter, without regarding the archer, fell back into her seat and tucked away into the cake. Her grace did not abandon her, not even as the Witch ate with great speed and delight. For a second, Emiya felt foolish and the slight red on his cheeks flaunted it. Damn, pretty little dragon witch.
A part of the archer sternly suggested that he should leave Jalter to her own business. The cake was now hers, justice was given to those she had harassed since her summoning, and Emiya was going to bake a fresh cake for their Master, anyway. There was no reason for him to take a seat across from the Holy Maiden, and simply enjoy the sight of her chirping away at herself while she dined. It was like he wasn’t even in the room; the little dragon was so enamoured with her victory; she couldn’t care less for Emiya’s presence. Jalter had her cake, and now she was eating it.
Emiya mused about what else she might like.