Much as you'd like to sit down and reassure Archer about her anxieties, or just step outside and throw yourself into a party like the others have, you know you're not going to do any of it. There's one thing that's been consuming you since the battle this morning, one gnawing, niggling worry that just won't go away, and after speaking with Matthew you finally actually feel ready for it.
You have to speak with your sister.
"Archer, would you give me a minute alone?" Your throat hurts a bit, aftereffects of that awful, thorny pressure you felt while trying to word things properly with Matthew, but you almost relish it in a way. It's remarkable how much lighter you feel having shared it with someone again.
"...Of course, Master. I will be at your side if you call." Her violet eyes betray the concern she feels, and before you can think to smile to try to reassure her she dissolves into starry motes of light. No doubt she'll be close at hand, but you really do need to have this conversation alone.
"Alright buddy, c'mon. Go have fun." You nudge Fou off your lap and give him a gentle pat on the head, before pushing yourself to your feet and taking a deep breath, letting the scents of the festival outside fill your senses once again. A moment later, you follow Fou out the door.
You're struck by how dark it is, first of all. With all the sound and smell of a party, your mind was brought back to evenings in London, how bright everything was even long after the sun had set. Here, there's nothing but the warm glow of fires and torches, but that doesn't seem to bother anyone. You don't see Jeanne as you wander around, but she's the only person you can't find. Circe is cheerfully chatting with a handful of children who are marveling at her wings, Goemon is showing off some of his smoke tricks with Dumas and a handful of other men, Sanson and Marie are sitting at a table together with a few of the locals.
You're about to pass those last two over before you notice just how many empty bowls and mugs Marie has in front of her, but you don't even have a moment to feel concern before Sanson reaches out to gently grab her wrist as she reaches for her fourth or fifth helping. She turns to him and raises her eyebrow, he leans in and whispers something, and after a long moment she moves her hand back. Sanson releases his grip a moment later, just a heartbeat too long to be casual. The look she gives him is intense, but it's not angry really. It's more—well, it's enough that you feel like something of a voyeur, enough that even Sanson averts his eyes after a moment. Thankfully, you're moving before either notice that you noticed.
Niamh's not hard to find, even if she's not being quite as conspicuous as you thought she'd be. Oh, she still has three or four people around her, hanging on her every word like they're cool water in a desert, but she's not pulling out any of her faeries or trying to be the center of attention for once. She seems perfectly happy to soak up the clear interest from the people around her, and just as happy to wave them away when she sees you coming, breaking out into a bright smile. You can see her take in a breath to speak, and you have to move quickly to get a word in first.
"We need to talk."
"Wh...um, alright." She tilts her head slightly, scarlet hair slipping a little off her shoulder. "Oh, I'm not hurt, if that's what you were worried about."
"Right." You can't bring yourself to say anything more committal than that, not with the happy look on her face—she thinks she's figured it out, of course she does. "I meant we need to talk about what happened during the fight. When Melusine was trying to recruit you."
"Oh." Niamh's cheeks flush slightly, the pointed tips of her ears turning a pale pink. You think she's going to continue, to apologise, to reassure you that she would never have said yes—but she doesn't.
Not really a surprise. She's always hated liars.
A moment passes, the two of you staring at each other as you try to word it in your head, and you wonder if she'll speak first. If she'll construct some way to excuse herself and it'll just click in her head, reality in her mind shifting to reassure her that what had almost happened wasn't her fault. You wonder if she'll stay silent, wait for you to speak up, and gauge what her reaction should be from that. You wonder if she'll just vanish and try to escape the conversation as soon as she can.
You don't wonder if she'll apologise. You know her far, far too well for that.
"You would have said yes if I hadn't been there." You'd considered shaping your words into a knife, ramming it into her gut and twisting. She's only ever shown a hint of shame around you since you met her again after all these years, never any of the others, and the temptation to leverage that was strong. But in the end, you speak plainly, calmly, only the barest hint of sparks in your eyes as you wait for her response, anger leashed, chained down. Most of you is happy to call it discipline. One quiet part whispers that it's fear.
"...Yes." Niamh's voice is like water drawn from a stone, clipped and short like it's a struggle to say anything at all. She doesn't meet your eye, hands clasped awkwardly in front of her even as she starts to speak again. "I'm...I know that it would have been wrong, but the way she spoke, she—she's like me, Edward. She understood. I just couldn't—I didn't think, but you were there and you fixed it, so can we please just move on?"
Her brilliant scarlet eyes are wide with a silent plea as she stares up at you, angelic features all settled into a heartwrenching expression of hurt and regret. You feel a stab of apprehension deep in your gut at the sight of it, but you've played this game long enough to know that it's not because you feel sorry for her. That expression stopped working on you a long, long time ago. What came after...well, you left before you could get as used to it, thank the gods.
"How many people do you think would have died if you'd just let them do whatever they wanted?" You're surprised by how level your voice is. Back in her little fantasy world you'd practically had a panic attack, but here, now, you can hold yourself together. "I would have been one of them. She would have killed me."
"She—!" Niamh's gaze snaps back to you as her voice raises, but the moment you mention your death she flinches like you'd slapped her. She's an open book, really, her frustration battling with the idea of your death—you're almost surprised when she bites her lip and hangs her head again. "I wouldn't have...if she'd tried, I would have done something…"
"She almost did kill me. If I hadn't had my Noble Phantasm, we wouldn't be having this conversation." You can feel the familiar sparks of anger in your gut, but they don't flare up, not like they do normally. Maybe it's crueler to be quiet with her now, maybe you're just too afraid, whichever it is you just can't bring yourself to raise your voice.
"But I...I tried, Edward! You saw me, I almost managed to use a Crown Phantasm!" She takes a step forward as she looks up, and you flinch backwards immediately. If Niamh noticed, she's too caught up in her protests to say anything. "I was so close, and I almost managed it and it, it wasn't my fault that I couldn't! I wanted so badly to protect you, I wanted it more than anything! It's not—it's not my fault that it's a stupid, useless lie!"
She's got tears beading in her eyes, genuine tears, and honestly you're a little stunned. You'd expected a tantrum, fury and frustration as she screamed that it wasn't her fault, but tears? That's new, and you don't know how to deal with it. Niamh, on the other hand, takes your silence as an excuse to keep going.
"I'm—I'm sorry. I didn't, I wasn't trying to get you hurt, I promise I wasn't! When Goemon said you were in trouble I just moved before I could think, I just...I wanted to help, Edward." She looks up at you, two tracks of tears falling down her cheeks, and damn you for a fucking fool but you feel pity welling up inside you no matter how much you try stop it. "You left for a decade and I finally found you again and I just—I didn't want to lose you again. Not after finally getting you back."
You want to scream at her. It's not fair that she gets to feel these things, not after what you had to go through because of her. Not after what she put you through. You were less than human when you fled. You were a spare to your parents, but to her you were property. Her brother. Her knight. Her Eamon. You know it hasn't changed, know that she fears her property being taken away, but still, you do nothing.
She never cried for you before.
Your parents dealt with a tantrum practically every other day, and they dealt with her sneaking out of her quarters to force you to play at least twice a week. When things didn't go her way her wrath scared you into compliance, and when you did as she asked the affection she showed you helped you through your darkest days as a child—but tears? Apologies?
Not even once.
You're a fool, plain and simple. As much as you hate her, as much as you fear her, seeing her like this drains your fury and leaves you empty. When you find your voice again, it's as level as before, but it's softer now. You can't help it—it's all you can do to justify it as keeping her ready for what's to come, making sure she's an asset and not a hindrance.
"You didn't know it wouldn't work. I know you were...that you wanted to help. But I'm more used to this than you are. Next time, if I tell you to do something, please just do it. For everyone's safety, alright?" She sniffles and rubs her eyes before meeting your eyes again, a small tremor wracking her shoulders, but after a long moment she nods.
"A-Alright. Alright." She sways a little closer and you're sure that she intends for you to hug her, but you're rooted to the ground, arms firmly at your side, and after a moment she rights herself. "...I was certain it'd work, though. The Crown Phantasm, I mean. Titania."
"Titania?" That awful magus side of you can't help but stir at the tantalizing hint of your family's most secret treasure—half of it, at least. You knew that the clan's Crest contained two Crown Phantasms, but you'd never even learned their names. That they existed at all was as much as had been deemed necessary for you to know, and you blurt out your curiosity before you can stop yourself.
"Titania—a faerie queen. It should be simple for me, right?" She gives you a small smile, rubbing away an errant tear as she does. "I mean, you remember how mam and dad were right? Practically telling me every day how much of a good little faerie I was...I thought it'd be easy. But it's not."
You remember. You heard it through closed doors and thin walls, pressing yourself against the keyholes to hear your parents praise her. It was the next best thing to hearing it yourself, and when Niamh told you that you belonged to her, her favorite knight, you could pretend that it was praise for you too.
"Yeah." It's all you can bring yourself to say, but it seems to satisfy Niamh. She smiles a little wider now, and before you can stop her she pulls you closer and hugs you tightly, pressing her cheek against your chest and closing your eyes as you freeze up, fresh, quiet sniffles staining your gambeson with tears.
"I missed you. Every single day, I waited for you to come back. Mam and dad said you'd be back soon with lots of gifts and stories to share, but I'm—I'm glad I found you first. They're...they're gone now, but you're still here."
It clicks for you in a way it hadn't before, understanding racing through your mind like a bolt of lightning. Whatever aristocracy Niamh liaised with, she'd barely ever considered them. She'd never had friends outside of her life as a magus, always told you how much she hated mingling at the parties she was dragged to. The Géaga had only ever been things to her. But family? Her family?
Family was all Niamh had ever cared about, and in one fell swoop she lost two thirds of it.
Of course she was an easy mark. Of course you're the only thing tying her to her humanity anymore. The world ended, and it took your parents with it. You despise them, you hadn't even considered that they were dead—but your sister loves them just as fiercely as she loves you.
And they lied to her. Told her that you'd ran off to go on adventures and bring her back fantastic things, that they had allowed it, that you would always return. They lied to their perfect faerie princess.
You could tell her, you realise. Wash away all that delusion, tell her that you ran away from a home you hated and became a dog of the Association so you could hunt down your family if they ever stepped out of line. You could break her heart clean in two with just a few words, and for a moment you feel them on the tip of your tongue, like a sword being drawn from its sheath.
They slip away like sand through your fingers, and slowly, hesitantly, you raise one hand and pat Niamh's back once, twice. It's awkward, it's uncomfortable, and you wish that she would just let go already, but you can't bring yourself to slide in the knife. You want to hurt her—it's an ugly feeling, but it's true. She hurt you so much and you want to return the barest fraction of it, want to make her understand how deeply your hatred runs, but…
It's ridiculous. You really did break yourself, tampering with your Origin like you did. You hate your sister with a passion, hate the husk of a person you became because of her and your family.
But you didn't always feel that way, and seeing her like this reminds you of when you didn't. When seeing her made you happy.
Stupid, stupid man.
You lean back after a moment and in a rare show of understanding, Niamh pulls away, rubbing at her eyes and giving you a smile. No doubt she thinks she's forgiven for what she pulled, that it's all perfect, but she can think that if she likes. She'll be no help to anyone if she's all torn up worrying about what you think, and you like that excuse so much you don't even bother trying to think of a second one.
"I'm going to get some sleep. Maybe I was just tired earlier, eheh." Her smile grows just a little bit wider, and for a terrible moment you think she's going to try to hug you again, but all she does is turn and make her way to...well, to whatever house she's decided is hers that night. "Goodnight, Ea...Edward."
"...Goodnight."
You walk away after that, the forced calm burning away at the edges like every footstep is just feeding the fire, tuning out the revels and the cheering that surrounds you, so focused on making your way back to the building you'd decided you'd sleep in that you barely notice that someone is waiting for you there when you arrive.
Even at night, Jeanne looks resplendent, the first few rays of moonlight and the flickering flames catching on her pure-white armor and illuminating her in soft, warm yellows and oranges, catching in her hair and making it look like a sea of autumnal waves against the silvery moon. She would be—she is awe-inspiring, even now, but the concerned look on her face mars the effect, just a bit.
"Edward. I wanted to ask you something about today." She's as direct as before, voice unwavering, but she can't hide the creeping doubt in her voice. "About the other version of me, the one with Gilles."
Yeah, you could see that one coming. You nod, and before you can ask what it is she wants to know Jeanne starts speaking, barreling right over you.
"That woman wasn't me. I'm certain of it. There's no way that she could be—that I could be like that. Could be so cruel, so hateful. But I don't know what else she could be, if not me. You're the magus, Edward Dempsey. So...tell me. What do you think she is?"
The way Jeanne looks at you makes you uncomfortable. This is Jeanne d'Arc, legendary saint who heard the voice of God Himself and led her people to victory after victory. She shouldn't be looking to you for answers, but she is, and you have to give one.
[ ] Tell her the truth: you don't know. You can speculate, but there's any number of things it could have been—an illusion, a conjuration, the demon itself in disguise. You can't give a better answer than that, not the kind she wants.
[ ] Explain to her the concept of an Alter. It can't be comfortable hearing that the Jeanne you faced is a true facet of the Maid of Orléans, but you've seen Alters before and since joining Chaldea, and you can't deny that it's the most obvious explanation. She won't like hearing it, but it's probably true.
[ ] Reassure her that it has to be a fake. Jeanne d'Arc is incorruptible—all saints are, down to their core. It's a documented fact from several Grail Wars, the residue of the Grails never once caused any form of taint or alteration. You don't have evidence for Jeanne herself, but there's no way that the most famous saint in Europe wouldn't enjoy the same protections as those less well known.
