Saber arrives on the field, unbent and unbothered but completely drenched in blood with no apparent source. Cradled in her arms is Fallweaver, tastefully disheveled though otherwise clean and unblemished. She dumps the sorceress on the ground at Angelesia's feet with a quiet smile. 

The sword at her hip which had been broken when she left is now pristine. Saber brushes past the young master now dabbing herself in war paints and crosses the distance to the other Servant she found herself relying on. No words pass between them before Saber bends down to grab a jug of water from Angelesia's supplies without bothering to ask. She upends the entire container over her head and lets the water soak into her hair and splash down her body with slightly too much curve to her back for it to be an entirely innocent act on her part. She twists her body in ways that at once seem impossible and alluring, highlighting muscles and the long, graceful curves of her body under the guise of cleansing herself in a way that highlights her beauty more than a warrior should need to bother with.

The blood does not wash away. Rather, it falls. Rather, it gathers across her tattoos and then shatters, falling at her feet in a neat pile of needles and broken shards like dark red ice. One particularly large piece tumbles from her chest in the exact shape of a dagger, and this she plucks out of the air with one hand and lets it roll between her fingers.

It is the crystallization of a grudge. The ill will she absorbed from the trap trickled uphill toward the king (that is to say, the princess) that had ordered it, small though it was. Jezara was not Actia and Saber could only manage to care so much, but even so pain was pain it demanded to be returned. Saber steps across the field again and towers over Angelesia. The idea she was fragile in that moment seemed absurd. If that was an illusion, it was a powerful one indeed.

She places the dagger in the young woman's hand. It is uncomfortable to touch, at once hot and slick and somehow sticky feeling, though it was none of those things and left no stain in the hand that held it. A gift. A tiny fan to feed to spark. 

"You look a warrior, now. And you have earned my respect. Another gift, fit for your mantle. A warrior's last resort, and nothing more."

She turns her hollow eyes on Lancer, but only nods to acknowledge her existence. If she'd heard anything said about her, she gives no sign. Shows no interest in any developments that have happened here, in the choice of battlefield, or the dynamics of their alliance. These things have no bearing on her goals. Her work was finished, for the moment. The only thing that mattered now was waiting for her chance to cleanse herself of this ridiculous obsession that burned away even jealousy toward a superior tactician with a superior student. This freedom from desire thing did not suit her at all, and she could not wait to split Actia's skull open and have done with it.

She bends to pick up Fallweaver, as gently as she'd held her on arrival, and crosses away from the proper Master and Servant pair to sit with her hostage. Her teeth peek out from behind her lips as she makes a strange face, like a smile that died halfway to her cheeks.

"Well then. Here we are, little treasure. I thank you for your silence during our trip together. How now shall I reward you for it?"