In the end, Sakura drifted into an exhausted sleep, cradled within the protective embrace of Shirou and Rin. After settling the sleeping girl into bed, the two returned to the parlor.
"Is the violet-haired child faring well?" Medea inquired.
"Yes, she simply succumbed to exhaustion after her tears ran dry," Rin replied. At her words, a wave of relief washed over those in the room who understood the gravity of Sakura's circumstances.
"Firstly... I wish to express my gratitude for your aid at the academy, Illya. Had it not been for you, Berserker, and Caster, dismantling that Bounded Field would have been a grueling task indeed."
Rin paused, her gaze lowering. "And... I would likely never have known what my sister was enduring. For that, you have my thanks."
Shock rippled through the gathered company as they stared at Rin. For the ever-composed and prideful Tohsaka to utter such humble words was beyond expectation. She seemed to realize this herself, as the tips of her ears turned a sharp crimson. She let out a dry, forced cough to dispel the burgeoning embarrassment.
"...Ahem! At any rate, while I wished to offer my thanks... there is something I must ask. Illya, why did you... why did you go so far as to come to the school specifically to help us?"
Save for me, who already held the truth, every eye in the room fixed upon Illya with burning curiosity. Illya offered a bright, nonchalant smile.
"Oh, it is quite simple! Because Shirou is my little brother!"
"In what world is that simple, you little brat!" I wanted to shout.
"—What?" Rin stammered.
"—Pffft!" Medea sprayed.
"—! Cough, cough!" Artoria choked.
Rin leapt from her seat, practically shouting in sheer disbelief. Shirou, meanwhile, looked as though his very consciousness had stalled, staring blankly at the silver-haired girl. His sister? This girl?
Medea was so startled that the tea she had been sipping sprayed into the air, catching the light and creating a rather picturesque rainbow. Artoria, similarly blindsided, found the tea going down the wrong pipe and clutched at her throat in a fit of coughing. I leaned over to pat her back, letting out a weary sigh.
"Haah... To put it plainly, Illya's father was Kiritsugu Emiya—Shirou's father."
"—Kiritsugu... Emiya..." Shirou whispered the name under his breath. It was only natural. It was the name of the man who had adopted him.
"...I have heard of him," Rin noted gravely. "The infamous Magus Killer. He served as Saber's Master during the Fourth Holy Grail War."
"Correct," Illya added, her expression clouding with a complex tapestry of emotions. "Kiritsugu entered the Fourth Holy Grail War with my mother, promising he would return for us... and he never did."
Shirou remained silent as he watched her. In the depths of her eyes, he could see traces of a lingering anger, a deep-seated resentment, and an abiding sorrow. Seeing him silenced, Illya continued.
"—When I was younger, I hated him. I loathed him for abandoning me after making such a solemn vow."
Hearing this, Artoria recalled the promise she herself had made to the child—that she would bring her parents back to her. She had failed that oath. Her failure had, in a roundabout way, left an indelible scar upon the girl's heart. Guilt flickered across the King's features as she looked at Illya. However, the girl was more resilient than Artoria gave her credit for.
"...But I understand now. It wasn't that Kiritsugu chose not to come. He couldn't come. So, I think I understand him now."
"Illya..."
"Do not mistake understanding for forgiveness. I simply... I simply wonder why he chose Shirou. That is all. Thus, I must ask: Shirou, do you... do you know why?"
Shirou sat frozen under Illya's gaze before slowly shaking his head. Illya let out a soft, deflated sigh.
"...I see. So you do not know either, Shirou."
"...I'm sorry, Illya."
"...No, do not be. I won't bother with thoughts of Kiritsugu any longer. I refuse to let the past blind me to my present and my future." She beamed brightly. "Because I am no longer alone!"
My eyes widened at her resolve. The little brat... wait, perhaps I can no longer call her that.
She caught my gaze and stuck her tongue out at me playfully. A hollow, amused laugh escaped my lips. Truly, she was a Master I could be proud of. However, as I looked at her with newfound respect, Illya's expression suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated mischief... Wait.
A sudden chill of foreboding raced down my spine. I opened my mouth to intervene, but she was faster.
"—So, Saber."
"Yes? Pray, speak, Illya," Artoria replied.
"I've been sifting through Berserker's memories lately... and aren't you the least bit curious about what he really thinks of you?"
".....!"
"! Master!" I barked, a desperate edge to my voice.
It was too late. The words were out. The stray lock of hair atop Artoria's head—her ahoge—quivered with sudden intensity. I shook my head frantically at Illya, but she was beyond mercy.
(This is punishment for teasing me and calling me a brat all this time, Berserker!) her voice rang in my mind through our telepathic link.
(Masterrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!)
I could only clutch my forehead in agony. I turned back to Artoria, clinging to the faint hope that she would decline such a base curiosity, but...
"...I am indeed curious."
"Artoria?!" I cried out, aghast at her genuine interest. "Artoria, please, I will tell you myself when we are alone. With everyone else watching, this is hardly the time—"
"Be silent and remain still, Eli."
"...."
A single command, and I was utterly sunk. I scanned the room, desperately searching for an ally, but it was futile. Rin, Shirou, and even Medea looked as though they were leaning in, eager to hear the scandal. Ha, not a friend in sight.
"So, during their very first meeting, do you know what Berserker was thinking about Saber? Well—"
Seeing my utter despair, Illya laughed like a villainess and proceeded to expose my secrets one by one. Where has my privacy gone? To the Americas? Ah, I am well and truly finished. I considered fleeing, but Artoria had linked her arm through mine, her grip like iron. I was forced to remain as the witness to my own social execution.
Truly, I yearned for death's sweet embrace.
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