[ There had been a time, not long before the end, when Mordred felt the same bone-deep exhaustion that she does now. When Gawain had swung his sword with his dying breath, and the injury had forced her off the battlefield for a day; leaving her to scream violent, fitful orders from the rear of her army. But she's a Servant, now, and with Ciel's healing tricking her body into holding itself together, she's still on her feet... if only barely.

Mordred knows that she can't fight like this; unable to even manifest her armour, dragging her sword behind her like a bloody afterthought, but she refuses to retreat. She wanders the streets, a wounded apparition in search of prey, or death, whichever she finds first. For a moment, all Mordred can see is his emotionless face beneath Gray's dark hood, and a cold panic grips her heart, squeezes it. Here he is, her father, come again to watch the light fade from her eyes and her guts paint the tip of his spear—

—then she sees the bandages, and it's enough to (temporarily) exorcise King Arthur's ghost from her mind. She approaches the other girl with an unreadable expression; her hair bloodied and matted against her head, clothes stained to a similar extent but not torn, because there's hardly anything to tear. ]

That bastard, making a mess of my father's face... [ At least she's not blaming Gray for it. She clicks her tongue, lifting her head upwards, where the creature that was Estinien no longer blots out the sky. ] The dragon... no, that thing is dead, but our enemies remain. You need to find a healer, mouse.