when the berserker has a shield ( fate au );

[dadiolus]

( he'd decided from the very moment of the initial summoning that he did not care very much for his new master; it hadn't taken him very long at all to learn that the family his master belonged to was a vicious one, caring only for things like personal gain regardless of what it took to get it and the man he had been before, the man his legend is now based upon is not one that would stand for being chained to servitude to such a self-serving name.

we amicitia are the king's sworn shields.

he is sworn to his master, that much has been made abundantly clear by the command seals on the back of a pristine hand, though he finds himself unwilling to look at the face attached to it, the coldness in it, the malice on top of everything else and he does not count himself a weakened spirit for having to answer to such a farce but it does make him think that there is someone more worthy of his attention, of his devotion —

guard the king with our lives— that's the way it's always been.

and still, he goes through the motions and remains loyal, not only because he has no real choice in the matter but because he's taken to watching another form in the house, a small, quiet one that never asks for anything and in turn only bears the brunt of a future wrong from the sort of shadow she was never meant for and that … that alone gives him the sort of draw to her that he shouldn't have, because she is not his master. and yet still he softens whenever she's around.

i've embraced my duty, and i take pride in it.

one particularly brutal battle with another servant and master leaves him a little worse for the wear, and while he insists that he doesn't need tending to, they send her to him; still small, pale and dark all at once and beautiful, whether she's ever been told as much or not, and he's never been able to speak to her before now, though the thought alone makes some hollow presence in him feel a little less in hers.

she seeks to tend to his wounds, and while he does not shy away from her touch, he insists: ) You don't have to do this. ( pause. ) Not … 'cause I don't want you to. But because it's not your responsibility.

Comments

[eighthandled]

[ 'Maybe you'll become something worthwhile. Otherwise, stay quiet and pretty, and you might not be completely miserable.' That's what that bastard of a father had told her, before she was whisked away in a black car and dropped off at the large estate known as the Zenin. Megumi knew even at the age of 7 that she was sold off, but it wasn't something she protested too deeply. The price was high after all (as one should expect of an essential slave), and it would support Tsumiki and that bastard man if he can keep himself from gambling it away. The price, of course, was an investment on the Zenin's part for her potential - the chance of the girl inheriting one of the prized techniques and developing enough cursed energy to succeed as a mage and master. Unheard of for a woman given the general status of women within the Zenin, but possible with a strong enough technique. If not any of that, then it was at least hoped that that potential would exist in any of the children she was expected to carry.

Disappointing everyone, Megumi's now way past the usual age for a cursed technique to develop, and what she has is only a mediocre level of cursed energy. That's how her role within the family was defined. A handmaiden to the mages and clan leaders, sitting at the very bottom of the hierarchy until her time to marry. Megumi knows how the world works and her place in it. Though she hates the circumstances with every fiber of her being, resentment building beneath her delicate but cold features, there really isn't anything she can do. She wouldn't survive being thrown into the pit after all. She can only endure, play the role, and hope for something better.

Caught in the middle of a war (which the Zenin had brought upon themselves, really), the entire focus of the house has been on master and summoned servant. The head of the house was hardly a pleasant man, and no kinder a master. Anyone could see there was no real bond between the pair, with the callous man often relegating the brunt of the fights to his servant, then leaving Gladiolus to tend to his wounds with the help of some of the maids. There were no warm words between them, no sense of real attachment beyond the obligation thrust on the legendary man by the command seals, but there was no one in the house brave enough to point that out.

Megumi trots into the room quietly as their clean leader leaves, an element of poise to her kimono-clan form. She knows how to act like a good woman, even if she used to be the type to fight the mean boys on the playground. It's all survival, really. The older maids had relayed a simple order from their leader: Tend to Gladiolus' wounds, and offer him some mana as needed. It did make sense. Servants healed better through that exchange of supernatural energy. Of course, the acts involved veered toward the intimate, and she's never done any of that in the past.

Still, from the gazes they would exchange in silence, she could tell that his eyes were warm. He was kind, very much like Tsumiki. The type of person she admires. That's why she feels at ease stepping into the room and sharing the space alone with him. ]

How would you know what my responsibilities are? [ That's also why she feels able to respond in that biting tone, her personality shining through. It doesn't feel like he's going to hit her and order her to be killed. ]

You're bleeding everywhere. Worry about yourself first. Servants aren't immortal.

[ Just more durable than average, really. Megumi gives him a gentle push with her thin fingers, urging him to sit on the bed so she can tend to the large wound on his chest. ]