Catayst

“Sir Kyrielight? A word, if you will.”

It’s not the first time that Morgan has sought the knight out. For some reason she herself can’t really understand, Sir Kyrielight has become something of a soothing presence to her. Spending time with her has turned out to be something quite enjoyable.

Today, however, she is not here for such amusements.

“Of course!” Sir Kyrielight steps aside, to let Morgan come in. “Is anything the matter?”

Morgan steps in- though she does not find herself a seat, as she usually would. This is important. She cannot let herself relax. “I believe you have something that belongs to me.”

Sir Kyrielight looks at her with confusion, closing the door. “Did you forget something in my room? We can look for it together-”

“I meant my catalyst.”

Sir Kyrielight goes still.

“… What are you talking about?” She does an admirable job keeping her voice even. It’s not enough, though. There’s still a slight tremble in there. She won’t look at Morgan. She looks like she barely even dares to breathe. Sir Kyrielight (has always been) is a terrible liar (she knows) it seems.

“I have been studying the Chaldean summoning system.” It’s fascinating, really. The world is desperate to be saved, which facilitates the process greatly- but even then, summoning Lostbelt servants or extra classes with a regular summon system should not be possible. And before that, the fact that they managed to brute force any summon at all prior to the incineration of humanity is truly praiseworthy. It has been quite interesting to take apart. “And I have noticed that there was an anomaly with my summoning. My spirit origin responded much more strongly than any other servant.”

“Couldn’t it just be that you were really eager to help panhuman history?”

Oh, an attempt at humor. Morgan will give it to her. This is quite amusing. “I am flattered you hold me in such high regards, Sir Kyrielight. But I am not so charitable to wish mercy upon my enemies.”

“And you hold yourself in too low regards, Winter Queen. You are not nearly as much of a witch as you like to pretend to be.”

For some reason, this statement fills Morgan with profound discomfort. Perhaps because she thought Sir Kyrielight smart enough to not believe Morgan any better than she actually is. She opts to ignore it. “Regardless. A catalyst was used to summon me. When I asked my spouse, they said they did not have any such thing on them. As you are the only other person present during summons, I can only conclude that you were the holder of my catalyst.”

“We had just come back from Fairy Britain. And Senpai is a walking catalyst anyway. Surely the dirt we carried back would have been enough to call you forth.”

“Then this would have applied to every servant from Fairy Britain. I am the only one subject to such anomaly.”

“Then maybe-”

“Sir Kyrielight. Please.”

She falls silent. They never talked about this, but Morgan is fairly certain that Sir Kyrielight is aware of her fairy eyes. Perhaps that is why she will not argue any further.

“I am not angry. However, whatever you had that called me forth, it belongs to me. I would like to have it back.”

“You won’t be able to do anything with them. They’re useless.”

They? Is her catalyst in pieces, perhaps? “It matters not. They are rightfully mine. It is up to me to decide whether they are of use to me or not.”

“They are important to me.”

“They are not yours to keep.”

A second tick by. Another.

Slowly, Sir Kyrielight reaches for her collar.

She pulls out a purse, attached around her neck by a loose string. Morgan had never noticed it before. It is most likely intentional. She wonders if her summoning was done on purpose. Probably not; chances are the knight was wearing this at the time completely unaware that Morgan would respond to it.

Sir Kyrielight hands the purse to Morgan. It’s light. Through the fabric, she can feel multiple small items. Based on the previous conversation, Morgan had thought that, perhaps, it could be the shattered remains of her crown. The items are blunt though, not a single sharp edge in sight. She opens the purse, and peers inside it.

The sight is such that Morgan forgets to hide her surprise.

Sir Kyrielight is looking straight at the floor, arms wrapped around herself. “It’s… it’s all that was left.”

Inside the purse, blindingly white under the artificial light, shines several bones.

“… I see.” She finally says. Whatever emotions this sight evoked in her- she shoves it right back into the abyss of her soul, where it belongs. They are irrelevant to the matter at hand. She closes the purse, and hands it back to the knight. “You are correct. I have no use for these. I will allow you to keep them. You have well earned this trophy.”

Sir Kyrielight does not move, however. She stares at Morgan with wide eyes. “… trophy?”

“Proof of your valor. Evidence of my defeat. Call it however you wish. You did kill me once, ineffective as it was. You have earned the right to desecrate my remains as you wish-”

“It’s not a fucking trophy!”

More than the tone, it’s the swear that startles Morgan. Never before has she heard the knight be so vulgar.

“Hate me. Shun me. Think me morbid and insane for hanging onto these. I have hidden things from you, I will not deny it, and any anger you might feel towards me is warranted. But I did not pick these up to- to gloat. I didn’t pick these up to humiliate you, Morgan! Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I liked this? I’ve never wanted to dead! I wanted you to live! I wanted us both to live! But we couldn’t. The world was against us. Our ideals were against us. This wish was doomed from the very beginning. I wanted something to remember you by. I wanted something I could carry with me. I wanted something more than a memory, something more than my grief, for once in my life I wanted something I could actually hold! I know it’s sick, its deranged, I know normal people do not behave like this, and I will accept your blame and your wrath. But do not for a second think I took these because I wanted to hurt you, Tonelico.”

Her face is flushed with anger, hands clenched into fists, and none of these things matter because Morgan’s thoughts got obliterated by a single word.

“How…” for the first time in centuries, Morgan finds herself speechless. “How do you know that name?”

In the span of a few seconds, Sir Kyrielight’s face goes from bright red to sickly white. She takes a step back, pressing her back against the wall.

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. Morgan is a smart woman, and the puzzle is stupidly easy: the only people who know who Tonelico is are those who traveled with her back in the Fairy Calendar. Sir Kyrielight knows that name. There is one specific knight Morgan used to travel with.

Which means-

Which means-

The conclusion is so, so obvious. Morgan is this close to an epiphany- but it’s like running into a brick wall. She should be able to figure this out easily, yet she physically cannot take this leap. This means- this means-

Suddenly, it clicks.

It’s a curse.

It’s a subtle, but powerful thing, weaved with care to ensure that she might never notice it. If not for an evidence so damning, she could have gone her entire life without realizing it. Morgan is cursed. She’s cursed with a permanent blind spot, one very specific fact forever locked away from her.

She turns her attention inward. If it’s a curse, then she can find it. And she does; she finds the spell pulsing right behind her right eye, concealed under five layers of glamour. It’s too intricate for her to take apart so quickly, however. It was very clearly weaved by someone who had mastered magecraft-

Yes. Someone who had mastered magecraft.

This curse was cast by none other than Morgan herself.

Why? Why would she lock away such valuable memories? Why would she bar herself very basic knowledge?

Think. Think. The Fairy calendar was a mistake, a made-up tale crafted by the world to justify a present history. Morgan was the one to force the curtains to raise on the Queen’s Calendar,  to brute force this world into something real. As such, anyone aside of herself who would be acknowledged as both a part of the Fairy and the Queen’s calendar would be erased from history.

Morgan cast that curse on herself. She cast it to ensure that she would not kill the girl in front of her.

“You are-” She has to say it. She has to say it. This was important enough for her wipe away her own memory. She has to say it. She has to say it. “You are-”

Her entire being seizes, heart and body and soul. It can’t let her say it. It won’t let her say it. But she has to. It’s important. It’s important. It’s important. “You are-”

Tonelico’s fingers are tight around her throat, the last wish of a girl she no longer is. But if this girl is a ghost, then Morgan is just as much, dead dead and deader, and now that she is no longer beholden to her land and her duty she has to say it. “You are Fa■r■ ■n■ght G■lah■■.”

The name cuts at her throat on their way out. She cannot hear her own words, the title reduced to sound and sound and sound and pain. A violent cough overtakes her, hunching her over. She slaps a hand over her mouth. Her shoulder tremble under the strain. She peers down at her palm, only to find it covered in blood.

“Stop!” Mash- Sir- Mash- (Mash, Mash, Mash, Mash, it echoes, it vibrates, ripples upon the water mirror, cracks inside the winter palace) rushes to her side, grabbing her by the arms. “Don’t- don’t remember. Please. Please don’t remember me. When Totrot- please. Please don’t hurt yourself for me. I just got you back. Please, I don’t, I can’t lose you again, please,”

A realization, then:

Mash had loved Tonelico.

Of course. Of course. Why else would she carry these polished bones? What could drive someone as virtuous, as upright as Sir Galahad to such extremes? What grief could torment the knight so? Nothing but love with nowhere left to go.

And then, a corollary: Morgan is cursed. Morgan cursed herself. Morgan cursed herself into amnesia to protect this knight.

Inane as it is to consider- Morgan had loved her back.