By some miracle, she had made it out of the forest. A sorry sight for any with the misfortune of perceiving her; the so-called great King of Knights had been reduced to a limp. Dragging her husk along by sheer willpower. She’d not call on her Masters past or present to heal the wounds littered across her form: they were deserved, symbols of her insolence and ego. For the sake of simply not bleeding out, she would seek out Doctor Roman to stabilize her and work from there. The intensity of the beating from Morgan had all but shattered her phone into fragments, making it impossible to establish some communication before she could arrive half-dead at the house lying on the other side of the city. If she could make it.
The Queen hadn’t given her permission to die, and thus, there’d be no intention of simply allowing its icy clutches about her throat. but the stream of blood that marked the trail behind threatened otherwise. Each hobble was slow and weighted, like her ankles had been chained and dragged a ball. And pedestrians watched, their faces as pale as her own, as if afraid to approach. Understandably so. Their proximity to disaster would be short-lived; once she arrived at the clinic, she would be far away enough. If she... could just... make... i—...
Three lanes were it before her body collapsed. A knee took the initial impact, her head after — it spared the shredded stomach with but a hand its guard from further trauma.
Ah... how pathetic. That such a glorious legend of history be no more than a shrivelled heap on the street, trembling with each ragged breath. Her death would only incentivise torture all the more gruesome come the day Morgan returned to full strength. No matter how hard Saber fought, her consciousness waned. There was the scream of a woman somewhere, she wasn’t really sure. There wasn’t chance to check before darkness claimed her.
