For Chiemon, meals were a form of torture. The gnawing hunger that came of starvation had made Chiemon what he was. The very act of eating was repugnant to him. Still, he had to eat all the same. If one did not eat, one would cease to be human. Perhaps an accomplished mage could find a means to live without meals. With Chiemon's lack of talent, however, such feats were out of the question. He was a spellcaster with only one obsessive specialization. So he ate, his face revealing nothing of his disgust. Perhaps the man himself wasn't aware of his own revulsion. But at least, the Lancer that had been summoned, Jeanne d'Arc...she understood. She knew torture when she saw it. Food was ashes in his mouth. Every rice ball he ate dredged up unwanted memories of starvation. Even when he managed to push those thoughts aside, visions of that painful need still haunted him. Why? Why do you get to eat? Why are you still alive? Plagued by dreadful sights and spiteful whispers that would easily shatter the mind of an ordinary man, or even one of extraordinary mettle, he did not waver. It was less eating than it was stuffing food into his maw. He shoveled it in with single-minded intent. But what he was gulping down was pain and despair, rage and hatred. "What're you gawking at?" "A meal..." mumbled Lancer, but her words were interrupted by her Master's irritated voice. "What?" "A meal," she began again, this time without being interrupted, "should be a somewhat more peaceful affair, if I may say so." "Hah. You think so, do you? Well, I'm afraid I've never had a 'meal' in my entire life." The words hung in the air. Chiemon spoke the truth. He had starved from the moment he was born. So malnourished that it was a miracle he grew at all, he huddled with his family as they pleaded to be saved...as they starved...as they died. In the depths of that despair, a bitter rancor was carved into his mind. Those hunched and desperate family gatherings were not meals. Something so cruel and excruciating could never be considered such. And so, to this day, he remained confident that he would never have a "meal" for as long as he lived. He had no need for heartfelt home cooking, no concern for nutrition. They were little more than obstacles to his goals. "Don't you pray for me, Lancer. Pray for yourself all you want, but not for me." "...I know." And with that, Chiemon turned away from his Servant. He needed to recover his strength now that they were out of combat and in hiding. In other words, he had no business with her at the moment. It was up to her whether she would keep an eye out for him in her Spirit Form. "Get lost." "As you wish." Lancer vanished, quietly obeying the order. In the ruins of the Great Buddha Hall, Chiemon slumped onto his side. His hunger wasn't sated, though—the gnawing in his belly would never be satisfied. But the notion that this should feel unpleasant did not even occur to him. For him, this inherent need found in all living things was fundamentally absent.
Lying on his side, Chiemon consumed a rice ball with no inkling of its flavor. Watching over him in her Spirit Form, Lancer understood where this battle would lead. The outcome would not change. Whether Chiemon would go on to win or lose, all that awaited him was ruin. And it was his Servant's place to walk beside him on that road to destruction. Even if their efforts were seen as wrong or depraved... ...Chiemon and Lancer could conceive of no other way to live.
Chiemon had never had a meal. Not before, not now, and not ever.
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of chiemon & lancer.
The gnawing hunger that came of starvation had made Chiemon what he was. The very act of eating was repugnant to him.
Still, he had to eat all the same. If one did not eat, one would cease to be human. Perhaps an accomplished mage could find a means to live without meals. With Chiemon's lack of talent, however, such feats were out of the question. He was a spellcaster with only one obsessive specialization.
So he ate, his face revealing nothing of his disgust. Perhaps the man himself wasn't aware of his own revulsion.
But at least, the Lancer that had been summoned, Jeanne d'Arc...she understood.
She knew torture when she saw it.
Food was ashes in his mouth. Every rice ball he ate dredged up unwanted memories of starvation. Even when he managed to push those thoughts aside, visions of that painful need still haunted him.
Why? Why do you get to eat?
Why are you still alive?
Plagued by dreadful sights and spiteful whispers that would easily shatter the mind of an ordinary man, or even one of extraordinary mettle, he did not waver.
It was less eating than it was stuffing food into his maw. He shoveled it in with single-minded intent. But what he was gulping down was pain and despair, rage and hatred.
"What're you gawking at?"
"A meal..." mumbled Lancer, but her words were interrupted by her Master's irritated voice.
"What?"
"A meal," she began again, this time without being interrupted, "should be a somewhat more peaceful affair, if I may say so."
"Hah. You think so, do you? Well, I'm afraid I've never had a 'meal' in my entire life."
The words hung in the air.
Chiemon spoke the truth. He had starved from the moment he was born. So malnourished that it was a miracle he grew at all, he huddled with his family as they pleaded to be saved...as they starved...as they died. In the depths of that despair, a bitter rancor was carved into his mind.
Those hunched and desperate family gatherings were not meals. Something so cruel and excruciating could never be considered such.
And so, to this day, he remained confident that he would never have a "meal" for as long as he lived. He had no need for heartfelt home cooking, no concern for nutrition. They were little more than obstacles to his goals.
"Don't you pray for me, Lancer. Pray for yourself all you want, but not for me."
"...I know."
And with that, Chiemon turned away from his Servant. He needed to recover his strength now that they were out of combat and in hiding. In other words, he had no business with her at the moment. It was up to her whether she would keep an eye out for him in her Spirit Form.
"Get lost."
"As you wish."
Lancer vanished, quietly obeying the order. In the ruins of the Great Buddha Hall, Chiemon slumped onto his side. His hunger wasn't sated, though—the gnawing in his belly would never be satisfied.
But the notion that this should feel unpleasant did not even occur to him. For him, this inherent need found in all living things was fundamentally absent.
Lying on his side, Chiemon consumed a rice ball with no inkling of its flavor. Watching over him in her Spirit Form, Lancer understood where this battle would lead.
The outcome would not change. Whether Chiemon would go on to win or lose, all that awaited him was ruin.
And it was his Servant's place to walk beside him on that road to destruction. Even if their efforts were seen as wrong or depraved...
...Chiemon and Lancer could conceive of no other way to live.
Chiemon had never had a meal. Not before, not now, and not ever.