“Jeanne, we’re falling behind.”
“Just a moment,” she softly replied, kneeling before the altar of the Lord in the chapel she never had the opportunity to visit the first time around. Saying prayer and crossing herself, He lifted her up and set her gently down on soft, fluffy pillows of white. High up in the clouds, her heart, body, and soul soared. Refreshed, she rose to her feet, touching a hand to her breast, feeling the warmth of God’s light, and smiled. “O.K., I’m ready.”
“Then come on,” Cary said, half leaning in and half out, the door. Standing behind the pastor who was so kind as to allow her entry past visiting hours, he sniffed.
Zipping her jacket, by the time she joined him outside in the mid-winter’s rain, thanking the pastor as she left, Cary was already starting down the road. Hurrying to catch up, her breath came in a small huffs when she finally did. “Thank you for waiting,” she said.
“Don’t mention it.” He sniffed again, wiping his nose with a finger and taking out a handkerchief with the initials L.E in exquisite lettering. Blowing into it, he grumbled. lettering When they left the village behind, Peering at the rolling white hills far as the eye could see, now that they he took out a handkerchief with the initials L. E. and blew into it. “Damned cold out here.” His nose was red as Saint Nicolas’s on a good day of present giving.
She giggled, but, when he went to put it back in his jacket pocket advised against it. The white cloth, gold embroidered handkerchief was a green mess. “Maybe you should...”
“Oh, right.” Brushing it in the snow, he shook it around. “Better.”
She grimaced. It looked even worse than before, bits of brown that she hoped was mud now clinging to it, and what she going to suggest—taking the extra time to clean it properly by—became moot as he simply let it fall to the ground. She quickly scooped it up and held it out for him to take.
“I wouldn’t bother," he said, waving it away. "She has a ton of them, right? Just leave it. I’ll say I lost it and… what? What’s that look for?”
“This was her favorite one. You can’t.”
“Alright, fine.” He wiped it off and put it back in his pocket. “Guilt trip me, why don’t you?”
She frowned. “I didn’t.” Turning to eye him, brows scrunched, she continued, “And, even if I did, to have a potential sin abolished, to have that feeling of release, it’s w—”
“No, don’t start. Please. Let’s just get to the meeting. We’ve been held up enough as it is and one of the last things I want to hear is a lecture,” Cary said, container bumping against his shoulder as they left the road. “Gonna have more than my fair share when we get there,” he continued, coming up to the edge of the forest that was to take them to Scáthach’s realm on the other side.
“Also, when we arrive, if all you can say is ‘I lost it’ you’ll look like even more of an incompetent ass than they already take you for,” she added pointedly.
As they entered it, she frowned again, but didn’t protest, now thinking of their flight here. “What about it?” she asked. Other than that overly obnoxious br—child—kicking her seat for the whole duration, once she’d gotten used to it, it had been a very pleasant ride. Traveling so close to God’s domain was a privilege.
Though, make no mistake, it was privilege, not a right—and no amount of divine intervention was ever going to change that. She secretly imagined giving that child—and his parents—the what for and apologized for the thought thereafter. Asking forgiveness as they traveled quickly through the forest, she listened to Cary ramble on about it the whole way to the barrier that separated the World from the Realm.
“It took too long!” he said. “All because of this da—stupid—thing! Deadly weapon, my butt!”
“Even unactivated, you could still seriously bludgeon someone with it. The guards were right to hold us up for further inspection. They were only doing their job, just as any other—”
“Save it,” he groaned.
She grinned. “Then, let’s change the subject.”
He slumped, giving her a cautious look, “To what?”
“Far more important than the flight, you left Flòraidh in Taiga’s care,”—it widened—“and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, Aoko’s gonna have my head. I realize that, but, what else was I supposed to do? Leave her with my dad?!” He flailed his arms around, a very dangerous gesture in such fatiguing conditions, as he worked to dispel the barrier for the briefest of moments so as to allow them passage through. “He’s just as bad! No, worse than Taiga!”
“And I’m not disagreeing with you, but it would’ve been best to bring him with us. If anyone’s going to be angered by your son’s absence, more-so than Aoko, it would be his godmother.”
“Please don’t remind me,” he said, keeping a-hold of the strap to his container as they now stepped into darkness, the rest of the way a treacherous walk, but to them, now experienced in how to maneuver through it with ease, it was more of a tedious hassle. Eventually, they came out of it and into a rocky area where the only way to Scáthach’s castle was a steep cliff climb. Careful not to slip as he found his footholds and slowly made his way up and once they were finally at the top, Cary went to say something, but, before he could manage to get a word the tied strings of his coat came loose, slapping him in the face as his fur hood was blown back.
A sudden, harsh wind had nearly toppled them over, and, placing a hand underneath one another’s arm to stay balanced, she asked if he was alright, but he just shook his head.
“Let’s… Let’s just focus on getting there, alright?” he heaved, hot air escaping winded lungs, pushing her away. “No more talking. Oh, and,”—a heavy breath—“let me prepare myself before we go inside, this time. I don’t want broken ribs again.”
She nodded as he started to retie and refasten his strings and pull down his fur hood. “You needn’t worry,” she said once they resumed their trek, attention on the rest of the way to the castle, remembering that last time with a cringe.
Broken ribs were somewhat of an understatement.
With a strength no human could ever hope to match without some form of unnatural aid, the memory of that warrior woman flinging him across the room like a ragdoll to tumble and fall into the moat below came crashing through her mind. There was no telling what would happen if he didn’t have his son this second time around. Even if she were to hold back again.
It was days like this that she wished her Council was still with her, so that through her mouth they might offer their comforting words to ease his troubled mind, but knew that they never would be. It wasn’t that they had abandoned her, no—Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine nor Saint Michael would ever—but that her role as Jeanne the Maid, Messenger of God was long since complete. With her purpose fulfilled, they had simply returned to His Kingdom above, and, though she could no longer hear their sweet voices, see their sacred crowns, or feel their gentle touch, the three continued to watch over her, waiting for her destined transcendence into Paradise.
Whenever that may be.
For now, here, born anew in the modern world thanks to her summoning by Cary, there were two tasks yet left that she still had want to do. The chance to right the blood spilt in her kingdom’s past and, perhaps, have her wish, silly as it seemed, be granted. If even that chance were a sliver, it was enough for her. Then, she’d leave, but only then, and, looking at him now, she was also ever grateful for his kindness and understanding the past few years and could clearly see why his wife loved him so. The way he carried himself—despite how he shivered and complained about the cold, whining his woes under his breath—was a saviour to her once shattered soul. Were it not for that bravery keep close to the surface of his clumsy and carefree nature, she would have long since broken down into despair. Once more reminded of her companions, she maintained the belief that he would fit in merrily with the lot of them, especially Metz, Lord forever rest his soul—all of theirs—and smiled.
“What?” he asked, as they came before the rickety wooden bridge that was their only means across the sea below and into the castle.
The tides smashed into the cliffs far below, one misstep a bloody death on the rocks below, Jeanne wondered how the others were doing a world removed, turning her smile away. “Nothing important,” she said, suppressing another giggle.
'Yeah, well, let’s just get this over with.”
As they crossed, memories of the past three years came flooding back.
The one behind the Sixth War was still imprisoned within the academy at Atlas, and with his magic circuits shut permanently that rendered him little more than a husk—a horrible thing to befall any magi, she’d been told—they were practically stumbling in the dark for answers, forced to track down all potential leads, no matter the insignificance, as to how he managed to gather and organize a Holy Grail War beneath the noses of everyone—and the reason behind why it still seemed to be going on. Not that she or her Master were doing anything to further that cause, in all honesty.
Standing before the castle portcullis, Cary huffed, rolled his shoulders, and slapped his cheeks. “Alright. I think I’m ready,” he said as it raised, a fuming mist seeping out at their arrival, curling around them like so many wisping hands, pulling them forward and along, through barren halls and empty rooms until they reached the throne room, its doors wide open.
In the center of its vast space, pacing forwards and backwards before the throne, was the ruler of Realm herself. “So,” she began, eying Cary with ire. “Where is he?”
“W… With his mother…” Cary replied sheepishly.
Scáthach raised a brow. “That so?”
“Y.. Yes.” Cary nodded, but Jeanne noticed he was farther away and half hidden behind her.
“Is this true, girl?”
Jeanne looked from her to Cary, who was pale as a ghost, then also nodded her head. “It is.”
Hand on chin, the warrior seemed to mull it over, spear butt planted firm on the floor. Jeanne knew and had seen, or actually hadn’t seen, firsthand, how fast she could have it pressed against your throat and with it your life ended in one quick, clean, movement that to her was simply a flick of the wrist, and, while it would never happen to either of them, that didn’t mean she couldn’t inflict some other injury.
One that wouldn’t be especially pleasant.
From the spear’s point, a dark green liquid trickled down its barbed tip, and rolled further down the riveted shaft, over her calloused fingers, eating away at the skin of her hand, whereupon it then dripped to the floor, creating sizzling wisps of poisonous steam.
Or maybe that was another understatement.
Regardless, the warrior paid it no mind, even as her bone became visible—and, not that she had any reason to, as well—and stood there for a few moments more. Jeanne watched as the harm done to her fingers simply vanished with the dark vapors that shed from her body, repairing it anew.
“I guess it’s for the best,” she said, though a bit of disappoint could be heard as she sighed then went to her throne, beckoning them to follow. “The others are all waiting for you,” she continued on, absentmindedly twirling her spear and—perhaps subconsciously as well as intentionally—coming dangerously close to hitting Cary with the drops of venom as she lead them around it. “They’ve been arguing over it for some time already and haven’t seemed to be getting anything agreed upon. That one girl, especially, with the boisterous way she makes suggestions and bosses the others around, is quite amusing to watch.”
Jeanne knew exactly who she spoke of. She looked over at Cary, wondering if he would offer any comment, but he was too busy dodging acid to pay any attention to much else, and, as Scáthach took them down the long stretch from the throne to stop at the twin doors of the meeting hall just beyond, she hoped that they were in time for things to have not become too heated.
0000
“Look who I found hiding in the evergreens.”
“Sorry we’re late everyone!”
“Yeah…”
Barging through the doors were three annoyances, and, as all the others gave them some form of acknowledge, Médée ignored their presence save for her eyes resting briefly on the one of the only surviving Noble Phantasms in the world. Not ravaged by time, taken to the grave by its wielder, nor most recently having disappeared with no trace, Fragarach, the God Slaying Blade of Lugh… to think a man such as that was its wielder. She felt her intelligence dropping the longer she stared.
Luvia held a hand out, beckoning. “My handkerchief, I’d like it back, please.”
“Ah, yes, here you are.” Ruler's Master had it in enclosed in his palm, smiling sheepishly.
“Ah!” Luvia screeched, dropping it and shaking her hand. “It’s all slimy!” She fixed him with resentful glare, baring her teeth. “You…”
“Ahem.” Lord Velvet cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. There are more pressing matters. Save the pleasantries for later.” He waved his hand over the map encompassing a rather large area of the Western Asia that they had been discussing prior to the most unwelcome interruption. He glanced in Mordred's direction, then jabbed a finger at one spot in particular. He was still upset about the dog comment.
"This is where the presence is felt the strongest." Beside her, Tohsaka cocked her brow. To Lord Velvet’s left, Gray nudged him. His finger traveled further down the map. "Here."
Mordred had her arms crossed, disdain spread across her features, "Feh. Wasting time with a map. Better to be marching straight there."
"Romulus." The Feral Twin stood in front of the Knight of Treachery, blocking her view and ridding them of a potential eyesore and clear distraction. "Thank you."
Drowning out Mordred's subsequent complaints, he was free to go back to the task at hand. The presence was somewhere where his finger rested, but there was no exact location. The only reason they knew something was there was because it was so massive. Which meant they had to scour the whole area until something was found. And, with no other leads to go on, they had no choice but. Tohsaka must have been thinking the same thing, for she circled the spot, then outlined the nearest city: Iraq.
"We’ll make this our base of operations. From there,"—her marker made a line from Belfast to each major town—"we divide into groups. Each group will search around their assigned area. What do you think, Velvet?" She addressed him, but Médée noticed the woman’s gaze was on her.
Why?
"That sounds fine. Who will be in what group?" Lord Velvet looked at each of them in turn, hand on chin. "I can manage on my own with Gray, so that leaves you eight. Decide now and we'll head out immediately."
Tohsaka brushed her sleeve, finally turning her attention to one she was actually addressing, as it should be. "I'll stick with Médée and her Servants."
"Four groups of two is what I would say, if not for them." Médée gave a nod at her two Servants. “Thus, two groups of four is our only other option.” Médée looked over at Luvia and Archer behind her. "Is that ok with you?”
“Wonderful.” While Luvia didn’t look happy, holding her snot-covered handkerchief at an arm’s length, she didn’t protest.
Archer shrugged.
At the decided arrangement, Lord Velvet nodded, but, before he could say anything further, Romulus moved. "Something you wish to say?"
"Yes. The leader must traverse the dangerous paths and his legions should follow. Only together, united, will we have strength. Dividing our forces will only prove to weaken us if we do encounter the enemy."
"What do you think?" Gray asked, looking from Romulus to her mentor and giving a thumbs up behind her back. Did she encourage him to speak his mind?
Scáthach spoke then, "Separating could be disastrous for you all. Though, by that same token, it could also be what keeps you alive.” She smiled. “Mordred, do you have any say on what our next course of action should be?"
"Move, you stupid oaf!" The petite knight shoved Romulus aside like a sack of potatoes, angered at being ignored this whole time. Moving Lord Velvet aside as well, still ignoring him—much to his chagrin—she strode up to the map and slammed her hands down on the table. "Master, we should strike at the enemy's heart!"
Lord Velvet was straight-faced. "Please, enlighten us."
Hand to her breast and head held high, this was the answer given: "Everyone knows that a King should establish his court to be in the innermost territory. I am certain that around this stronghold is where we shall find those wretches." She crossed her arms and elaborated her reasoning, boastful, “If we simply search the city, then surely we’ll find the answers we seek and not have to resort to a wild goose hunt that will gets us nowhere.”
Tohsaka's brow twitched. Unlike with Lord Velvet, Médée couldn’t place if she were annoyed at the obvious strike against her or was just amused that the daughter of the Once and Future King she once knew could be so… childish. “And why’s that?”
Mordred smirked, opening an eye to look upon her. "What is it, witch? Are you in disagreement with my ruling?" When Tohsaka’s face went sideways, Mordred turned with a fox-toothed scowl, "Master, tell this witch to stop making such a face at me, or I shall do away with it myself."
“Try anything, and you’re dust," Tohsaka retorted, suddenly holding hostage one of the bags the knight smuggled from the flight, her other hand a few centimeters from it. In her hand's palm was the beginnings of a black orb, its core white. Gandr. But, just the generation of the white core seemed all she was capable of, as Mordred interrupted her with a chuckle.
“Ha! That’ll be the day, witch!”
“I’ll leave you worse off than Arturia when she set you adrift to drown out at sea!”
At that, all the amusement left Mordred’s face. “What did you just say…?” She took a heavy step forward, voice low. “Go on, I dare you...”
“Oh? Didn’t hear me?” Tohsaka leaned in. “Want to me repeat myself?”
"This is your last chance...”
“I said: I’ll beat you worse than Arturia did at Calmann!”
“You fucking—!” The stone beneath Mordred's shoes breaking, cracks splitting the ground around them, she summoned forth her sword, Clarent, and armor, a mass of silver and red steel that completely encased her figure. The only thing missing was her helm, which was kept folded down inside the collar of her armor unless she required its use. Thrusting the mighty sword out before her, she assumed a striking position. “Make peace with whomever your God may be and I shall—"
"If you want to fight, take it outside,” Scáthach said. And, as if it wasn’t already abundantly clear why she’d asked of Mordred’s opinion in the first place, she laughed when the usurper of her father's throne at Camelot and once proud Knight of the Round Table gave Tohsaka a death threat, giving her two fingers, eyes to eyes.
“Keep your wits, or I shall run you through.”
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She then turned attention to Romulus, “And you, you stupid oaf, keep away from me.” Mordred drew an imaginary line between them.
Tohsaka coughed. "Self entitled brat.” She still had to get in the last word. Of course.
"What was that?!"
"Tohsaka." Médée stared at her for a second. The more she angered Mordred the harder it was getting to control her.
She laughed, but got the message. "You don't have to tell me." She parted her hair and looked over with a knowing smile.
"Just don't give her more reasons to kill you."
Originally Posted by Historia
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