[Salone]

"Thanks love. That'll be all."

Isaac Hemlock gave a warm smile to Aïda, the proprietor of Le Clos du Rempart, the tiny and (from the outside) unremarkable Bed and Breakfast he had chosen to take lodgings in. He had rented out both rooms that the place had contained, citing that he was an enthusiast of privacy and quiet. The outside would have at first said that this would not have been the place for his type, but the small Bed and Breakfast was not all revealed at first glance. The interior was a far cry from the outside, and Isaac was basking in the central patio with a fresh cup of black tea. It had been remodeled over a decade ago, and was designed to give what a tourist might call a 'feel for Middle Eastern charm.' They had certainly tried, at least. Most of the sounds of outside were hidden far away, with the song of birds being the only real noticeable disturbance. If he had been on holiday, this would have been a wonderful retreat. The Papal Palace within walking distance, strolls by the waterside across the street, avenues lined with beautiful art that demanded a tourist to expose himself by taking large amounts of pictures, all would have been a lovely break from his work.

However, Isaac Hemlock was not on holiday, and while he appreciated the comforts around him, sightseeing was to be the least of his goings on here.

Rummaging within a pocket, he produced a fragment of...something. Chipped now and sharp once upon a time, it looked like it belonged in a bargain bin advertising souvenir arrowheads. It was weathered and beaten, and whatever weapon it might have belonged to had surely joined the earth it had helped put men in to by now. Still though, it had meant something to someone once upon a time. He turned it over in his hands, letting his tea cool while he studied it. It had been important to someone he had met by chance, nearly four decades ago...

Screaming, so much screaming. Mortar fire from the DLF had nearly destroyed much of the region. Soviet supplied rockets hadn't helped improve the situation. Isaac had been an idiot to stay behind. He was overwhelmed. He had chosen to stay after the British pullout to provide relief effort and medical aid. But this was no time for relief. This was time for survival. To flee To run.

But there were so many who could not.

He was working openly. He was the sole remainder of those who had chosen to stay. Chaos and blood rained around him. Even if he saved those around him, no one would believe them when they said what they had witnessed. He broke his identity here, secrecy be damned if it meant the cost of a life.

Isaac had opened himself up to the Aether, letting raw magic course through his veins. He was working diligently, putting refugees back together. So many broken bodies, so many organs that should not see the light of day, and so little of his precious healing abilities to go around. And all the while, the mortar shelling continued.

"Live you daft git! Live!"

Isaac shouted at the dying figure of a young man. Shrapnel had ripped through his body, tearing open the left ventricle in his heart. The man's chest looked like raw hamburger, and Isaac was quickly trying to sew his magical talents through the fading body, through the damaged heart. It was hard enough to repair a heart in such a state, but reshaping the very tissue and flesh in addition was requiring all of his attention. All of his power. He was drinking in all he could, just to feed it to the body before him. "Just a few more...", He thought.

With a pulse felt through the air between them, Isaac felt the heart beat again. It was weak, but it was there. He had done it. It wasn't a pretty job, but there would be one less corpse today. Out of the many around him, this one would live. He slumped back, physically drained from the ordeal. Mortar fire could take him now, and he doubted he would care much. The magic within him was drained for the moment.

"You have the magics. Come...come here."

Isaac heard the strong Omani accent behind the weakened voice. One of the wounded was still conscious. He was elderly, long creases forming mountain like ranges down his face, and his hair had long ago became a dirty grey. He was covered in blood. His eyes were glazed even now. Isaac knew that look. This man was not long for this world.

"I'm sorry mate, I'm all out. Bloke here dried me up. I'm so bloody sorry."

Isaac's voice held defeat. There would have been sadness, if he had the strength for it.

The elderly Omani trembled, hands shaking as he attempted to withdraw something from his pocket. He was able to grasp it, only to let go of it as it was removed. It was an arrowhead, or something similar, now chipped and beaten and covered in the man's own blood. It fell to the dirt with little fanfare.

"War is coming to our kind. The Grail approaches Avignon. You will see what I will not. Go there. Take...take this with you. It will bring you power when you need it. Survive and be granted..."

The man choked on his last few words, coughing wildly as blood began to overtake his throat. Isaac watched him die, watched him powerlessly as the man began to depart over the course of what felt like hours. Time always seemed to stretch when he didn't have the power to save someone.

Finally the man expired. Isaac felt it through the air. The last few words tugged at him though. He had to have been delirious. Out of his mind from trauma and shock. But something tickled at Isaac. Meeting this man like this, under these circumstances, read to him like a bad adventure novel. Of course, truth was usually written much worse than fiction.

With the trickle of magical strength he had left within him, he reached out his Mana in to the corpse. The brain was still active, although quickly expiring. There was time.

Isaac poured his mana through the man's mind. It was all there. The war of the Magi, the Grail. The last time it had happened, and when it was to happen again. The practiced ritual for the summoning of a Servant, a proxy of sorts for the wizard who commanded him. The gift of a wish beyond imagination for the lone victor. It was all there. Death was no bar to secrets for Isaac. Especially those that wished to be shared.

He severed the connection, and the elderly man's brain went dark as the barely life giving mana ceased to flow in to it. This was something new to Isaac. But it was too much. Too much all at once. A war so far away meant nothing to him if he couldn't survive the one he was in now.

Mortar shells exploded a mere fifty yards away, pelting him with sand and debris. This was the present. The time for relief was over. With muscles screaming he hoisted himself up, picked up the bloodied arrowhead of the dead man, and fled. It was all he could do.

Isaac sipped his tea. Nearly forty years. It hadn't really been at the forefront of his thought, but as the time had slipped away it had reminded him late at night, like a bill he had forgotten to pay earlier that day. Always there, but never really pressing until there was nothing left to occupy him. Several times he had nearly tossed the artifact in to the sea, but stopped himself. He had seen a lot of fighting. A lot of war. It had always been pointless. But if the power at the end of this war was real, then he had control over something. Perhaps this was a war he could have the power to end.

The tea brought him back to reality. It was bitter, off. It took him a moment to realize what was wrong with it: no milk. His faced soured to match the flavor of the tea. Tea without milk was so uncivilized, after all.

He stood from his table, leaving the shunned tea behind. The trinket disappeared in to his pocket once again, hidden away like it had been on its original owner. Or at least, the last owner to have it. Isaac hoped he didn't end up the same way. He called out to Aïda, backing away towards the stairs so as not to be caught fleeing from his tea.

"Aïda love, I'm not feeling right. Going to pop upstairs for a bit. Will be down after while."

He retreated upwards to the sounds of her acknowledgement. Within seconds he had climbed the few stairs to the room he had chosen for personal activities. It was small, but it would work. Removing the arrowhead from his pocket, he studied it once again. It had been worn from use, lots of use. It made him anxious to think of who had used it.

"Right. Let's see what poor bastard you might be."

He whispered to no one in particular as he began setting up the summoning ritual. He had kept the memories alive for this just in case. Going through the practiced motions of another person's experiences always felt odd, and this one was no different. With grim determination, Isaac Hemlock took his first steps in to the war for the Grail.