Reincarnate in Honkai as Arthur Pendragon

The night was slowly slipping away, dragging the weight of what was sensed as an imminent farewell. Inside the cabin, the fire kept the air warm and alive, as if it too refused to let death enter without resistance.

Kiana slept near the door, her face serene despite the fatigue. Emilia had fallen asleep next to the bed, clutching the blanket that Arthur had carefully placed over her. She slept with her mouth slightly open, exhausted from crying and the tension.

Arthur was not sleeping. He remained by the bedside, in silence, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands intertwined, watching like an unsworn guardian. He had seen many farewells... but this one was different.

A faint murmur called him from the bed.

"You're still awake..." whispered the grandmother, with her eyes half-closed.

Arthur approached without making a sound. She looked at him, tired but lucid, as if with each passing minute she had gained clarity.

"I can't sleep," he replied softly.

The old woman smiled weakly.

"Me neither... although in my case, it might be the last time I have that problem"

Arthur didn't respond immediately. He sat down beside her, without saying a word. The old woman turned her face slightly towards him.

"You are not from here... ¿Are you?" murmured the grandmother, narrowing her eyes as she watched him.

Arthur turned slightly towards her and shook his head gently.

"No, ma'am"

She nodded slowly, as if that explained many things.

"I figured as much. You have that way of looking, as if you're always thinking about something else, that look shouldn't be in a child's eyes."

Arthur smiled slightly, without saying anything.

"But it shows that you are a good boy, added the old woman, with a small smile. You have been helping, tending to the fire, looking after everyone. It's rare to see that in someone so young."

"I'm just doing what I can" replied Arthur, shrugging his shoulders.

A brief silence ensued. The fire crackled, and the old woman spoke again.

"That girl... Emilia... has lived through more sorrows than a girl should. She lost her mother when she was so young that she is already starting to forget her voice. Her father... well, he never wanted the role life gave him." She paused, pained. "I did what I could, but there's not much left for me to do."

Arthur watched her attentively.

"You did well."

"Not enough," she replied with a sigh. "Sometimes I think I protected her so much that I didn't teach her how to resist. She has a kindness that scares me... because the world doesn't usually forgive it."

Arthur nodded, slowly. He understood that fear well.

"That's why I'm asking you..." said the grandmother, after a long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire. "Even though I know I shouldn't"

Arthur looked at her, without interrupting.

"You are also just a child. I see it on your face, even though you're a bit more mature. You shouldn't be involved in all this... in farewells, nor in promises that weigh so heavily."

"But here you are," she continued, with a faint smile. "Keeping the fire, making sure everyone is well, without uttering a word of tiredness"

The grandmother turned her gaze towards Emilia, who was sleeping deeply, her cheeks still wet from tears.

"She still doesn't know everything that is to come. And it breaks my heart not being able to stay here to teach her. I could only give him a little love, some stories... and shelter on cold nights. But I don't know if that's enough."

He remained silent for a few seconds, taking deep breaths as if trying to gather strength.

"I can't force you. It's not fair. But if you decide to stay... if you decide to walk with her, even though you also have your wounds... then maybe, just maybe, she won't break completely when I leave."

"Don't leave her alone. Not always, at least."

Arthur looked up. His expression was serious, but his eyes spoke of something more: a decision already made.

"I won't leave her alone," he replied calmly.

The grandmother closed her eyes, smiling with relief.

"So I already did the last thing I had to do."

XXX

The early morning was slowly yielding to dawn. Inside the cabin, the air was warm thanks to the fire that Arthur and Kiana kept burning throughout the night.

Grandma opened her eyes with difficulty. Her breathing was short and hoarse, but conscious.

Emilia, who hadn't slept much, leaned over her with trembling sighs as soon as she noticed she was waking up.

"Grandma..." she whispered with a trembling voice.

The old woman's eyes focused with effort on the girl's face. It took her a few seconds to speak, as if each word needed to cross a mountain.

"Emilia... my little one..." she smiled faintly, with tenderness. "How big you've grown..."

The girl squeezed his hand, not knowing whether to cry or stay still to not lose that moment. She didn't want it to end. I didn't want it to feel like an ending.

The grandmother looked at her with effort, but with a warmth that overcame the fatigue.

"You were always a light in this house... even on the saddest days. When everything seemed to be falling apart... there you were, with your questions, your laughter, your silences"

Emilia lowered her gaze, biting her lip.

"I don't want you to go..."

The old woman barely raised a trembling hand and rested it on the girl's head.

"I know, dear... I don't want to either. But sometimes life calls us, even when we're not ready. And I... already hear that voice"

He paused, breathing with difficulty.

"I want you to live, Emilia. Not just that you keep existing. I want you to laugh, to make mistakes, to trust... even if it sometimes hurts. Don't silence your heart out of fear. What you are... is a gift, even when the world doesn't understand it"

Emilia cried silently, pressing her lips together.

The grandmother slowly ran her fingers through Emilia's hair, as if she wanted to memorize its touch one last time.

"You're going to be okay..." she murmured in a weak voice. "Not now, perhaps... but in time, you will be. Because you have something inside... something strong, even if you don't see it yet."

Her breathing was becoming slower, more labored, but her words continued to flow with sweetness.

"Sometimes... sometimes I wondered if I did enough for you. If I was fair, if I took care of you as you deserved... but you gave me more than I gave you, Emilia"

The girl looked up, her eyes red from tears.

"You were the best grandmother in the world..."

The elderly woman smiled gently, and for a moment, the sadness on her face faded away.

"Thank you, my love... for everything"

Then, she slowly turned her head, searching for Arthur. He found him standing, firm, but with a composed face, attentive to every word.

He didn't say his name this time. It wasn't necessary.

Her eyes searched for him, and when they found him, they fixed on him. There were no more words left, but in that gaze, there was something stronger than breath: a plea, a surrender... and a silent trust.

Arthur held her gaze without blinking.

She didn't ask him for anything with her voice. She didn't need it. In her eyes, there was a clear, serene, almost maternal message: "I trust you. I'll leave her to you. Don't leave her alone"

Arthur nodded, just once, firmly. With his lips pressed tightly.

The grandmother smiled faintly, relieved. And then, without another word, she closed her eyes.

His hand loosened in Emilia's, and his breath faded like a candle that has fulfilled its purpose and no longer needs to burn.

The girl broke into silent tears, huddled by the bedside. Arthur stood still, with the promise marked on his chest.

XXX

I don't clearly remember my mom's face. Sometimes I think I do, but then I think that what I see in my head is just a beautiful dream I made up. What I do remember is his voice... soft, as if he sang even when he spoke. He would read to me at night, stroke my hair, and say that everything would be alright.

I was three years old when Dad left. He didn't say goodbye. Mom said that sometimes adults are also afraid, and that's why they run away. I didn't understand much at that moment... I just knew he was no longer there, and that mom cried when she thought I was asleep.

My mom smelled like lavender and freshly baked bread. She always had her hands full: embroidering, cooking, fixing something... but if I called her, she would drop everything. She would lift me up as if I weighed nothing and would say to me: "You are always the first, Emi."

He was gentle, but strong. He could carry a basket full of clothes with one hand and me with the other. And he sang. Not like the singers at the fairs, but softly, as if the world only needed his voice to be at peace. When I was scared from a nightmare or if the wind hit the windows hard, she would hug me and hum a melody whose name I never knew, but which still lives in my head.

The days with her were warm, even in winter. We made cookies that always turned out a bit crooked, but I loved them. I would comb my hair carefully, although I always ended up disheveled again. And when she didn't have words to explain something to me, she would draw it in the flour on the kitchen table.

Later, mom also got sick. I was five years old.

At first, it was just a cough. Then he got more tired, spoke less, slept more. I started bringing her water, telling her what I saw out the window, and singing softly, even though I didn't know the lyrics to anything. I wanted to take care of her like she took care of me.

It was then that they called Grandma. She didn't live with us, but she came as soon as she found out what was happening. I remember seeing her arrive with a heavy suitcase and an expression that mixed fear and determination.

She wasn't like mom. She had a firmer voice, stronger steps, but her hands knew how to console. She stayed with us, and as the days grew longer and quieter, Grandma filled the gaps as best she could. Sometimes I saw her crying when she thought I was asleep.

One day, mom simply didn't wake up.

It was the first time I understood what it meant to be alone.

But Grandma held me up. With her silences, her stories, and that way of hers of never giving up, she kept me standing. He never said everything would be alright. He only taught me to keep going.

After mom left, the house changed. It no longer smelled like lavender or bread. Everything felt bigger... emptier. But Grandma stayed.

She moved into our house with her old suitcase, the one made of cracked leather that smelled like camphor. He said he didn't plan to leave me alone, and he didn't. He learned to prepare my breakfasts, even though sometimes he burned the bread. She taught me how to mend my clothes, to boil herbs for colds.

At six, I started reading better, and she lent me her books, even the ones that were a bit difficult. I liked watching her knit in her armchair, with the cane resting beside her, while I read aloud to her. Sometimes she would fall asleep, but she always said that my voice was better than any remedy.

We didn't talk much about mom. Not because we didn't miss her, but because it hurt. But sometimes, when it rained or when I asked something silly like "Did she also hate onions?", Grandma would smile at me and tell a little story. I kept them all.

At seven, I got seriously ill and thought I was going to reunite with my mom. Grandma didn't sleep for two days, sitting by my side, giving me broths and murmuring prayers with her hands clasped. I healed. And that's when I knew she was no longer just my mom's mom. She was mine too.

At eight, I started to realize that sometimes it was hard for him to get up. That her hands were no longer so steady. I started doing more things on my own. I went to the well, swept, tended the fire. She used to tell me that I was strong, but I just wanted her not to get so tired.

Now I am nine. And a few days ago, Grandma started sleeping more, talking less. Her cough returned. I already knew what it meant.

The strange thing was that this year... we celebrated my birthday.

We never did. Not out of sadness or forgetfulness, but because mom said that ordinary days were also important. And because, after she left, there were no longer any reasons to celebrate.

But this time it was different.

That night, after the cake, which was actually a kind of sweet bread with honey and dried fruits, I stayed awake longer than I should have. I sat on the floor, next to the armchair where Grandma rested wrapped in blankets, and watched her sleep.

She breathed slowly. Every now and then he would cough softly, and I would tense up as if I could stop it just by thinking about it. I stayed like that, hugging my knees, while the wax of the centerpiece candle melted little by little.

I didn't want to sleep. I felt that if I did, I would miss something important. As if the night could take everything away while I wasn't looking.

I remembered when mom got sick. The way I stopped running around the house to avoid making noise. How I learned to make tea without anyone teaching me. And how, without realizing it, I became someone who listened more than they spoke.

With Grandma, it was different, but similar.

That night, there were no more words. Only the distant crackling of the fire and the buzzing of the wind through the cracks. I curled up next to the armchair, with a blanket over my shoulders, and closed my eyes without wanting to fall asleep completely. I listened to his breathing, soft but irregular, like small waves crashing and retreating.

At some point, I think I dreamed about mom. We were all three in the kitchen, even though I knew that had never happened. She laughed while Grandma prepared bread with her clumsy yet steady hands. And I was there, with my legs dangling from a chair, watching everything as if it were a movie I knew would end soon.

I woke up before dawn. The shadows remained in their place, but the air felt denser. I slowly sat up and approached Grandma. She kept breathing... but more softly, as if each breath cost more.

Then I understood what Mom once told me, long before she got sick: "there are moments that don't stop, even if you stare at them."

I got up carefully, went to get some water, and returned without making a sound. She didn't open her eyes, but when I touched her hand, she barely squeezed it. As if to say "I'm still here."

I sat down next to her again and stayed there, awake, waiting for the sun.

I didn't know if that would be the last birthday I would have with her. I only knew that that ninth had been different, that we had celebrated it not because everything was fine, but because we knew that time doesn't always give second chances.

And inside, without saying it out loud, I made a small vow: that I wouldn't let her effort be in vain. That, if she had taught me to endure, I would not disappoint her. Even if it hurt me. Even if I were afraid.

Even if I were alone again.

The morning arrived without warning. The first rays came through the window, and the world continued as if nothing had happened. I got up silently, leaving the blanket carefully folded on the armchair. Grandma was still asleep, breathing slowly. Her forehead was somewhat warm, and her cough hadn't improved.

I took the wicker basket we used for vegetables and stepped out quickly. Not far away, the silver grass grew, the one Grandma used for tea when she felt a heaviness in her chest. She said it didn't cure completely, but it helped her breathe better. And sometimes, only sometimes, it also helped to soothe the soul.

I didn't want to take long. There was something in the air... as if time were running faster that day.

When I opened the door, already with my hand on the basket, I stopped.

He was there.

His hair was light blonde, like the toasted bread Grandma sometimes made when there was butter. A bit tousled, as if the wind had been ruffling it all the way. His eyes were green, but not like the plants in the garden, rather like the trees in the forest on cloudy days. They weren't scary. They just always seemed to be looking calmly, as if they thought a lot before saying anything.

He was wearing a long coat. The clothes looked worn, as if they had traveled quite a bit, but clean. The boots were covered in snow, but well put on. Everything about him said he wasn't from here... but he didn't seem dangerous either.

Next to him was a girl. She had white hair, shining like the light that seeps through the windows very early. She was taller than him, and also than me. Her eyes were very blue. Almost too much. As if the sky had stayed with them.

They were both standing right in front of my door.

I didn't say anything. I just took a step back and closed the door.

I stayed behind the door, without moving. I was thinking about running back to the living room, but then I heard it.

"Hello... we don't want to hurt you," he said clearly. "We're just passing through. Is your grandmother home?"

Her voice was what made me hesitate. It was not like the voices I had heard in the market nor like the men who spoke very loudly in the square. It was calm. Like when someone is not in a hurry. Like when grandma used to read to me before falling asleep halfway through the story.

I don't know why, but that voice... it had something. Not magical, but... strange. It made me think of the waves that move slowly, but still carry things along. That. That's how it felt. As if, even though I wanted to say no, I was already listening to him.

Maybe she didn't fully trust him. Grandma always said that a girl alone had to be smart.

So I just cracked the door open. Just enough to peek and see them clearly.

And yes, they were still there. He, with that gaze that rushed nothing. And the girl with white hair, who was now watching me with curiosity, but without moving.

"Who are you?" I asked, this time a bit louder, without taking my eyes off them.

I didn't open the door any further, but I didn't close it either. Something inside me said they weren't dangerous... but I still needed to know.

The boy stepped forward.

"My name is Arthur, she is Kiana. We're just passing through, traveling. We saw the smoke from the chimney and thought there might be someone here," he said, calmly, as if he weren't in a hurry.

I pressed the door a little more, leaving just a crack.

"What do you want?" I asked, with a tight throat.

"We don't want to hurt you. We just want a place to spend the cold for a while. We promise to leave if you don't want us here."

Then the girl spoke. She had hair as white as snow, but her eyes were not frightening.

"Are you alone? You said something about your grandmother."

I didn't know what to say. My chest hurt, but I stayed very still for a moment, and when I spoke, my voice trembled.

"He hasn't moved since yesterday...it's very hot. I don't know... what to do..."

I felt silly for saying it. But it was true. And I was scared.

I saw how they looked at each other in silence, as if they understood something I couldn't explain.

"Can we see her?" he asked quietly.

I didn't say anything at first. I just rested my forehead against the door, my hand searched for the latch. I felt my heart pounding against my ribs, but I turned it. Slowly.

The door opened a little. Just enough for them to see me.

"I don't know them... but I don't know what to do..."

Arthur nodded. His voice was firm but calm.

"Then let us help you."

I looked at them for a few more seconds. And then, without saying anything, I gestured with my head.

Because at that moment... I needed someone to know what to do.

They did everything they could.

They brought clean water, placed damp cloths on her forehead, helped her drink something warm, prepared a bitter tea that filled the house with a strange aroma, like wet earth and dry leaves. Arthur held her hand carefully, speaking to her in a low voice, as if with his words he could keep her connected to the world a little longer.

The grandmother's breathing no longer sounded like before. It was neither labored nor heavy. It was gentle... calm. Like the small waves that come and go without hurry. I stayed listening to her for a long time, looking for any change, any gesture. Her eyelids didn't move, but she no longer seemed to be suffering.

Kiana said that the body sometimes needs to sleep a lot to heal. That rest is also a way of fighting. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that was what was happening. That he was just fighting in his own way.

I held his hand for a good while, until the warmth of his fingers began to blend with mine.

The fatigue hit me suddenly, like a heavy blanket. I had been awake for a long time, longer than I should have. My head hurt a little, and my eyes burned from blinking slowly so much.

I curled up to one side, still holding his hand, and rested my head on a folded blanket. I didn't want to fall asleep. I didn't want to miss anything. But my thoughts got tangled, as if they were floating underwater, and little by little they faded away.

The last thing I heard was his breathing... calm, steady.

I closed my eyes.

I was just going to rest for a moment.

Just a moment.

Something like the rustle of leaves as they move. Something warm. Something that didn't come from the fire, but from his hand, which gently squeezed mine.

I opened my eyes.

She was awake.

"Emilia... my little one..." she smiled faintly, with tenderness. "How big you've gotten..."

My chest tightened suddenly. I didn't know whether to cry or stay still, as if a wrong move could break everything. I could only hold his hand tightly, as if I could keep holding it like that for a longer time.

Grandma looked at me with a warmth that overcame the fatigue. With something that hurt and soothed at the same time.

"You were always a light in this house... even on the saddest days. When everything seemed to be falling apart... there you were, with your questions, your laughter, your silences"

I wanted to tell him not to leave. Not yet. But the words didn't come out.

She barely raised her free hand, trembling, and rested it on my head.

"I don't want you to go," I said, biting my lip.

"I know, love... I don't want to either. But sometimes life calls us, even when we're not ready. And I... already hear that voice"

She took a deep breath, or at least tried to. Kiana stayed close, in silence. Arthur watched, as if he understood all too well what was happening, without daring to interrupt.

"I want you to live, Emilia. Not just that you keep existing. I want you to laugh, to make mistakes, to trust... even if it sometimes hurts. Don't shut down your heart out of fear. What you are... is a gift, even when the world doesn't understand it"

"You're going to be okay..." he murmured in that low voice, like a whisper between dreams. "Not now, perhaps... but in time, you will be. Because you have something inside you... something strong, even if you don't see it yet..."

I could only look at her. I didn't want to blink. Every time he did it, he felt like he was losing precious seconds, seconds that would never come back.

Her breathing was getting slower and slower. It was difficult for him. But, even so, her voice continued, soft as if it were caressing my soul.

"Sometimes... sometimes I wondered if I did enough for you. If I was fair, if I took care of you as you deserved... but you..." she paused for a moment to catch her breath "you gave me more than I gave you, Emilia..."

I cried without being able to help it. I squeezed his hand tightly, as if that would be enough to make him stay a little longer. I could barely speak, but I said it, with all I had.

"You were the best grandmother in the world..."

She smiled. One of those smiles that don't need an explanation. She no longer seemed sad. Just tired. But calm.

"Thank you, my love... for everything..."

And then she turned her face, very slowly. I saw her looking for something. Or someone.

Arthur.

He was there. Standing there, like a statue, but with something in his face that I had never seen before. Not sadness, not entirely. It was something else. As if she understood more than I did.

The grandmother didn't tell him her name. She didn't ask him for anything. But when she looked at him... when she looked at him, I knew he was telling her something very important. Something that I didn't fully understand... but I felt.

It was as if I were confiding something to him. As if she were putting me in her hands without saying it. As if she knew I was going to need someone when she could no longer be there.

Arthur said nothing, but nodded. Just once. With strength. Like a promise.

And that was enough.

She closed her eyes... and never opened them again.

I felt her hand loosen in mine. As if the warmth were slowly fading away, leaving only stillness. His chest no longer rose or fell. He no longer breathed. It no longer hurt.

I leaned over her, resting my forehead on her shoulder, and cried silently. Not like when you get hurt or are scared. It was different. It was as if something inside me was breaking very slowly, without making a sound.

Arthur didn't move. He said nothing. He was just there, steadfast, as if that silence belonged to him too. As if his promise weighed as much as my pain.

And, in that moment, I understood that something had changed forever.

I no longer had a grandmother.

But I wasn't alone.