Roman had tried to do some damage control after the summons failed. He gave a number of excuses, from bad machine calibration, to the lack of a specific catalyst or any link from that hero to Chaldea which was what was wrong. Neither were complete lies. But when he finally succeeded, he felt a burden to be lifted from his shoulders. Although, that was probably not the king he remembered, the shadows dissipated from El Melloi II's face.
He didn't begrudge his neglect. Roman would never demand his time when he seemed to be in a bittersweet sort of state of bliss, trying to play advisor to the Heroic Spirit he admired so much. Besides, he was a busy man. Chaldea demanded his undivided attention more than it looked, and, despite the siren's call to slack, he had no measurement when came to his dedication to his work.
There were also the dreams that visited him every night. They began innocently first: he was in a cafe with Marisbilly and Lev, the one they used to frequent that was close to the heart of the Clock Tower. He didn't remember what they were discussing, but suddenly Marisbilly stopped talking and Lev stared at him for a long time. He uttered a strange number before it faded to black. The dream repeated itself the following night and the other, and for all month, the same number. Sometimes he wrote it down slept walking, using a scrap of paper on his nightstand. He realized it now. Those were coordinates.
When Lord El Melloi seeks him out, the control room is empty except for Roman. He's glued to the chair, eyes scanning the screen, he's attempting to pinpoint where these coordinates lead him. Maybe is just meaningless, but just to satisfy his curiosity. Before he presses enter, he hears a familiar voice. Quickly, he rises and drops what he's doing, a smile tugs on his lips to welcome the Caster Pseudo Servant.
"Oh, Lord El Melloi II, good afternoon...?" Tone unsure, eyes saunter down his wristwatch. "What can I do for you?"
no subject
He didn't begrudge his neglect. Roman would never demand his time when he seemed to be in a bittersweet sort of state of bliss, trying to play advisor to the Heroic Spirit he admired so much. Besides, he was a busy man. Chaldea demanded his undivided attention more than it looked, and, despite the siren's call to slack, he had no measurement when came to his dedication to his work.
There were also the dreams that visited him every night. They began innocently first: he was in a cafe with Marisbilly and Lev, the one they used to frequent that was close to the heart of the Clock Tower. He didn't remember what they were discussing, but suddenly Marisbilly stopped talking and Lev stared at him for a long time. He uttered a strange number before it faded to black. The dream repeated itself the following night and the other, and for all month, the same number. Sometimes he wrote it down slept walking, using a scrap of paper on his nightstand. He realized it now. Those were coordinates.
When Lord El Melloi seeks him out, the control room is empty except for Roman. He's glued to the chair, eyes scanning the screen, he's attempting to pinpoint where these coordinates lead him. Maybe is just meaningless, but just to satisfy his curiosity. Before he presses enter, he hears a familiar voice. Quickly, he rises and drops what he's doing, a smile tugs on his lips to welcome the Caster Pseudo Servant.
"Oh, Lord El Melloi II, good afternoon...?" Tone unsure, eyes saunter down his wristwatch. "What can I do for you?"