[3rd POV]
Jeanne was sitting on a log, her hands resting on her knees.
It was her turn to keep watch, along with Nobunaga, who was lying on a tree branch above.
Okita was already sitting in front of her, a gentle weight resting on her thighs. A man with long, messy black hair lay asleep in her lap, breathing softly.
The swordswoman didn't seem to mind in the slightest that her Master was using her thighs as a pillow. On the contrary, she felt a warm sensation inside, knowing that her Master trusted his body to her. For someone who had spent her entire life taking the lives of others, that feeling was strange — but a very welcome one.
Jeanne simply watched the Servant as she raised her hand, gently running it through her Master's hair while his words echoed in her mind.
"Don't you dare call yourself a witch. What your other version does is not your fault."
She brushed her forehead, where her Master had given her a gentle flick.
"Of course, I will fight by your side."
Jeanne couldn't help but smile as those words played back in her mind.
However, amidst the crackling fire, Altair's voice suddenly echoed.
"You look happy." Altair opened one eye, gazing at her curiously.
"M-Master!?" she exclaimed, startled, while Okita continued calmly stroking his hair.
"Hmm… a smile really does suit you," Altair said seriously. Up until now, this saint had only shown sad expressions, but considering what she had gone through, it was perfectly understandable.
Jeanne blinked in surprise, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red. She wasn't used to receiving compliments like that.
"Thank you... Master," she replied, raising her hand to scratch her cheek, not quite sure how to react. It was probably the first time in her life someone had ever told her that her smile was beautiful.
Although her parents loved her, and she loved them, Jeanne couldn't remember them ever saying something like that to her, much less after joining the French army at seventeen. She had lived her life on battlefields and didn't even consider herself a woman. All she wanted was to liberate France.
But now, receiving such a sincere compliment, she had no defenses against it.
After thanking him, she went silent, not knowing what to say or how to react. She was almost praying for her Master to say something, anything, because the silence felt suffocating, especially with her cheeks still burning.
"Jeanne…"
"Yes!" she responded instantly, accidentally cutting him off, which only made her even more embarrassed.
Fortunately, Altair didn't seem to mind.
"Are you okay? I don't know if this is the best time, but if you want… you can tell me what's bothering you." Altair instinctively felt that his Servant wasn't in the best mental state.
Jeanne shivered slightly upon hearing that. She didn't want her Master to notice her abnormal condition, likely caused by the recent traumatic events.
With a strained smile, she lowered her hand and picked up a dry stick.
"I feel useless." Holding the stick, she threw it into the fire burning between them. "My stats are reduced, my Ruler skills don't work, and on top of that… probably because I was burned at the stake a few days ago, I feel a terrible emptiness in my body. It frightens me… Not the fact that I died, but the idea that I might become useless to you… Master.
For some reason, her emotions spilled out openly. Even with someone else present... Altair had this ability. He could make people feel safe around him.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
Jeanne anxiously shuffled her feet, waiting for her Master's response.
"You don't need to worry about being useful or not. The only thing you need to do is whatever you're able to, within your capabilities. Jeanne… you're not alone. If there's something you can't handle by yourself, as your Master, I'll help you. As for that emptiness, you feel... it will surely pass. And if it doesn't, I'll help you overcome it."
Jeanne was stunned by his words, which strangely warmed her from the inside. She couldn't take her eyes off her Master.
"You're… very kind, Master." Jeanne chuckled softly, scratching her still-reddened cheek.
"Not really. A kind person is kind to everyone. I'm only kind to those I care about... But for now, you can rest. Your shift ended a few minutes ago. It's Okita and Mash's turn now," Altair said, closing his eyes.
"Understood, Master," she replied, her gaze still fixed on him.
She kept staring at him for a few more seconds before getting up to look for a place to rest.
Servants don't need sleep, but they can do it to reduce magical energy consumption. Considering they would soon face continuous battles, it seemed like a good idea to ease the pressure a bit.
Finding a suitable spot, Jeanne lay down and drifted into sleep.
•••
Servants don't dream, but interestingly, they can witness their Master's memories as if it were some kind of dream. Likewise, Masters can also glimpse into the lives of their Servants through dreams. This phenomenon is called the "dream cycle," and it was exactly what was happening at that moment.
Jeanne watched a young boy with short black hair and blue eyes, wearing glasses. She immediately knew, instinctively, that this scrawny young man, face buried in a book inside a classroom, was her Master.
Jeanne couldn't believe that this was the same person who had, not long ago, mercilessly slaughtered several wyverns.
In the classroom, with over 20 students, he sat isolated in a corner, studying while the others chatted amongst themselves. Altair didn't seem to care, but since the class hadn't started yet, the teacher wasn't present. All the students came from wealthy families — except Altair, whose supplies were visibly worn and tattered.
Looking more closely, Jeanne realized it wasn't her Master isolating himself... but the other students excluding him.
Why are they doing this…
Before she could finish the thought, the classroom door swung open, and a group of boys with piercings barged in.
They were chatting amongst themselves but smirked maliciously the moment they spotted Altair.
"Hahaha! So that's the little nerd from your class," one of the pierced boys laughed, turning to a blond-haired kid who was likely the leader.
"Yeah, he's from an orphanage," the leader scratched his head. "Honestly, this school should cancel these social programs. He doesn't belong here, does he, Altair?" he mocked, leaning his arms on top of Altair's head.
Altair simply ignored them, continuing to jot down notes in his worn notebook. It was as if these guys weren't even worth a second of his life.
That only pissed the bullies off even more. The leader grabbed the notebook from the desk.
"Hahaha! Look at this piece of trash, acting like he's better than us." He held the notebook on both sides and ripped it apart. "Know your place, you filthy poor bastard." He threw the shredded notebook onto Altair while the girls laughed.
Jeanne clenched her fists tightly at the sight.
But there was no time to feel sorry for her Master, who simply stood up from his chair.
"Oh? The little shit is finally gonna fight back," the pierced guy sneered, stepping beside the leader.
"Hehehe, looks like he's had enough of—"
Before he could finish the sentence, a chair came flying straight into his face.
A dull THUD echoed through the room, followed by the sound of a nose breaking and blood spurting.
His body crumpled to the side, hands clutching his face as he writhed in pain on the floor.
A heavy silence fell over the room, leaving only the agonized cries of the leader. No one expected this—not even Jeanne.
"This little bastard…"
Altair swung the chair again with a sharp motion. The metal creaked under the force of the blow, and the guy who got hit staggered back, struggling to keep his balance. The first strike had been brutal, breaking his nose, but it hadn't knocked him down. Without hesitation, the second hit came even faster—the chair spinning in the air before smashing into the guy's temple with a solid thud. He dropped to his knees, disoriented, blood streaming down his face. But for the black-haired boy, that wasn't enough. Once more, the chair came crashing down, this time full force, smashing the guy's skull with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered, forming a pool that slowly spread across the floor. Droplets splashed onto Altair's face, staining his cheeks and dripping from his chin as he held the chair high.
His breathing was heavy, but his eyes remained cold, locked onto the terrified, spoiled brats.
The girls screamed and scrambled away while the bullies fell to the ground, wetting their pants.
Altair wiped the blood off his face with his hand, glaring coldly at the others.
"Who's next?"
••• ••• •••
A/N: Finally, some crumbs from Altair's past. But it's already clear that even before the Monkey King, he wasn't exactly… mentally stable.
Don't forget to throw power stones and leave a review to motivate me.