In the days after the Schicksal Valkyrie left, the seaside cottage in Long Island seemed to have time stripped away, frozen in a cold, stagnant, and boundless gray.
The rain fell intermittently for several days before finally stopping. The sky was leaden and hung low; the sunlight that occasionally struggled through the gaps in the clouds appeared weak and powerless, unable to penetrate this house that seemed shrouded in an invisible shadow. The waves continued to crash against the shore, but that rhythm which once brought peace now sounded like nothing more than monotonous, repetitive, and irritating background noise to Artoria's ears—like some never-ending countdown, or a heartless mockery of the void within her.
Artoria's life became a series of fragmented, numb actions maintained by instinct.
She would wake up. Not naturally, but jolted awake by palpitations, cold sweats, or the recurring dream of the dull thud of a blade piercing a body and the sight of blue light flickering out. Opening her eyes, she would see the familiar yet strange ceiling. Beside her was no cool, solid body she could subconsciously nestle against, only an empty, cold bed. She would lie there stiffly for a long time, listening to her rapid heartbeat gradually steady and the almost imperceptible low-frequency hum of the life-support pod that persisted like a maggot in the bone. Then, as if using every ounce of her strength, she would prop up her body, which felt as heavy as lead.
She would walk off the bed barefoot, the coldness of the floorboards shooting from the soles of her feet to the top of her head. The living room, kitchen, study... everything was exactly as it had been when she and Minerva left for New York, yet it was also entirely different. The air was thick with a stale, unkempt scent. On the coffee table sat the half-cup of tea Minerva had brewed for her before they left—tea she hadn't finished, now long cold and spoiled. By the kitchen counter stood two sets of washed and dried bowls and chopsticks that would never again see their Master. In the study, the chair Minerva usually sat in was empty, with the notes she had jotted down while studying runes still resting on it, the handwriting neat and clear.
Every corner, every item, bore Minerva's mark; each was like a silent blade, repeatedly cutting into her already numb nerves. She would stand there, looking at those traces with a blank mind, her chest throbbing with waves of dull pain, yet unable to shed a single tear. It seemed her tears had completely dried up that night.
She tried to eat. She would take food she had bought previously that hadn't expired yet from the refrigerator and put it in her mouth, but it tasted like wax, even causing a physical sense of nausea. After forcing down a few bites, her stomach would experience violent spasms and discomfort, as if her body was also rejecting a meal "not prepared or accompanied by Minerva." Most of the time, she just drank a little cold water, letting the hunger and weakness spread through her body, finding that the pain actually made her feel a bit more "real."
She tried to read, wanting to fill her empty mind with the profound knowledge from Asgard or Kamar-Taj, but as her gaze swept over those runes and theories, images of Minerva quietly accompanying her, pulling up relevant data and performing simulations, would surface before her eyes. She tried entering the Serenitea Pot, that little World she and Minerva had built with their own hands, carrying countless plans and aspirations. But standing in that space that was still empty and seemed to have lost all color and vitality, looking at the unfinished cottage and the garden where Minerva had planned to plant magic plants, a massive sense of loneliness and despair swallowed her instantly. She fled from there and never entered again.
Most of the time, she just sat quietly on the floor next to the life-support pod. Leaning her back against the cold hull, her eyes would stare forward without focus, or she would look up through the layer of frost at the sleeping face inside the pod. She would reach out and, across the cover, carefully trace the contours of that face as if touching a fragile object—from the forehead to the tip of the nose, the lips, and the chin. Her fingertips felt only a bone-chilling cold.
Sometimes, she would speak to the pod, her voice hoarse and incoherent.
"Minerva... it... rained today."
"I... that Rune array you mentioned before... I thought about it again... it seems... there's a bit of a problem..."
"The milk in the fridge... seems to have expired... I didn't notice..."
"In the Serenitea Pot... our cottage... the roof... hasn't been tiled yet..."
"I... I miss you so much..."
There was no response. Only the regular, cold hum of the life-support pod and the never-ending crashing of the waves outside the window.
The nights were the hardest to endure. She didn't dare turn off the lights. The darkness made her feel that the massive metal box containing Minerva's broken remains was like a cold coffin, exuding the scent of death. She would curl up in the sofa closest to the life-support pod, wrapping herself tightly in a blanket, her eyes fixed on the faint light inside the pod as if it were the only light source in the boundless darkness; if she looked away, she would be completely swallowed.
She would dream. In her dreams, sometimes Minerva would stand before her perfectly intact, saying "Artoria, I'm here" in that calm, emotionless electronic voice. Sometimes it was that horrific scene on the battlefield—Corvus Glaive's cruel smirk, the pitch-black long blade, the blue light in Minerva's eyes that dimmed instantly as she blocked the blow, and that dull, teeth-gritting sound as it pierced her body. More often, it was a boundless, suffocating sense of falling; she would keep falling in the darkness, reaching out but catching nothing, only bone-chilling cold and despair.
She would wake up screaming from her dreams, drenched in cold sweat, heart racing, gasping for air. Then, in the moment she realized it was just a dream and that reality was even crueler than the nightmare, a massive emptiness and fear would submerge her once again. She would subconsciously turn her head, looking beside her for the figure that could always sense her unease and provide silent comfort. But there was only cold air and the blanket beside her.
She began to have auditory hallucinations. In the silence of the deep night, she seemed to hear Minerva's steady footsteps, the slight sound of buttons being pressed as she operated instruments, the sound of water being poured into a cup, and even... occasionally hearing that steady electronic voice call her name, "Artoria."
Every hallucination would make her heart stop; she would bolt upright, eyes wide, staring around. Then, after confirming that only she and the cold life-support pod were in the room, a massive sense of loss and self-mockery would make her curl up, burying her face in her knees and letting out suppressed whimpers like a wounded animal.
She became extremely sensitive and uneasy. A tiny sound—the wind rattling the window, a distant car horn, even a slight "click" from the furniture due to temperature changes—would make her whole body shudder. She would look toward the source of the sound in terror, her hand instinctively reaching for her leg. She was afraid to open the door, afraid of visitors, afraid of any external interference that would break this deathly silent balance. She was even afraid to look at the sea outside the window, feeling that the churning black seawater was like a massive monster that would swallow her and everything she cherished at any moment.
She called out to the system in the depths of her consciousness more and more frequently. That mysterious, unfathomable system that had given her power, the Serenitea Pot, and had even summoned the Schicksal reinforcements. She pleaded almost humbly, incoherent and tearful.
"System... please... answer me... tell me... what should I do..."
"System... is there any way... to save Minerva... any price is fine... my power... my life... anything..."
"System... I'm so scared... I'm so lonely... please... say something..."
However, the only response she got was a void even deeper and more deathly silent than the interior of the life-support pod. The system seemed to have completely vanished, or perhaps, after completing that large-scale Schicksal projection, it had exhausted all its energy and fallen into the deepest "slumber." She couldn't even feel a trace of the system's existence; that mysterious presence that once occupied the depths of her consciousness like the sturdiest support now left only a cold, empty echo.
There was no one to turn to. The system was silent. Schicksal had left. The Serenitea Pot was cold. External communication was cut off. She had personally isolated herself on this island called "Pain," where only she and Minerva remained.
Her body was protesting. Long-term irregular eating, severe lack of sleep, and being in a constant state of high tension and grief caused her to waste away rapidly. Her cheeks were sunken, with heavy, dark circles under her eyes. Her lips were dry and peeling. Her originally clear and bright emerald eyes were now covered with a thick layer of gray haze, losing all their luster, leaving only boundless exhaustion, emptiness, and a faintly burning, almost crazed obsession and despair deep within.
Sometimes she would think, if she hadn't impulsively rushed to the top of Stark Tower that day, if she had been more cautious, if she had discovered Corvus Glaive's ambush in advance... would Minerva not have fallen to save her...
But every time this "if" thought appeared, it brought a more violent self-reproach and regret, like being sliced by a thousand cuts. She would shake her head forcefully, her nails digging deep into her palms, using physical pain to combat the mental agony that was nearly tearing her apart.
No, it wasn't "if." It was her fault. She wasn't strong enough, wasn't vigilant enough, wasn't... worthy of Minerva's unreserved protection.
She began to fear sleeping, because sleep meant losing control, meant nightmares, and meant facing the cruel reality again upon waking. But she also feared being awake, because every minute and second of consciousness meant clearly feeling the pain of loss and facing this cold, deathly silent World without Minerva.
She wasted away day by day in this contradictory state of self-torment. Like a candle burning to its end but refusing to go out, flickering in the wind, struggling with its last bit of light to illuminate the cold shell before her while also scorching her already battered soul.
The sea breeze at Long Island still carried a salty, damp scent. But the air in the cottage was frozen with unshakeable sadness, fear, and a heart-palpitating deathly silence that teetered on the edge of collapse.
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