[FF] Legacies of Fate (Type-Moon - Trinity Prelude)

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 13






“ . . . And that’s how things stand at the moment,” Rin finished.

Shiki’s expression was grim. “If I’d known what he was planning . . .”

“You wouldn’t have been any better off,” Rin answered him. “Believe me, I’ve fought a Grail vessel before - even your wife or daughter would have a hard time matching that power, and you wouldn’t stand a chance.” She sipped at her tea. “Which brings me to one of my questions - how did you manage to become Manager of the War with your own child participating, Aozaki-san? It strikes me as being blatant favouritism.”

Ciel grimaced. “I was volunteered to the position by the Church - and to be honest, I’d hoped to persuade whoever won to cure Shiki. But Takara wasn’t a part of it, originally. I’m not sure how she came to join the ranks - but once she did, I couldn’t say or do much without revealing more than I wanted her to know.” She sighed. “I’d hoped she could keep out of this and keep her normal life intact.”

Rin’s smile was bitter. “‘Normal’ has nothing to do with a Grail War, Aozaki-san. It’s always an epic conflict - miracles deserve no less.” She paused. “As to how your daughter came to be involved . . . For the non-hereditary positions, the Grail system seeks out those it deems deserving - those who have a cause, or at least those with power. Your little girl has a great deal of both. She’d have to, with that Servant of hers. Where did you put him, anyway?”

Takara Aozaki had been placed in her room to rest, after determining that she would return to consciousness soon, and had no life-threatening injuries. The two Servants, despite being fully energised, had all but collapsed. Despite the superhuman limits of their bodies, their hearts and minds were still very much human - and both had required recovery time after the repeated stresses of the day. Rin planned on a nap soon, herself.

“My studio,” Shiki answered. “With you and Miss Saber in the guest room, there weren’t many other options - and it didn’t seem right to just throw him on the couch.”

“Saber, right,” Rin mused. “I suppose I have to decide what to do about her.”

“Sakura’s dead, Rin,” the Servant had said quietly in her ear. Rin didn’t hear her at first, sitting in the front passenger seat of the car, too far for soft noises to easily carry. Shifting slightly against the two semi-conscious bodies beside her, Saber leaned forward and repeated, "Sakura’s dead, Rin. I felt her die.”

Rin was silent so long, Saber was about to repeat herself a third time when the sorceress asked, “You’re sure?”

“Sakura and I were connected on a telepathic level,” the Servant had answered. “When she died, my mind felt it like it was my own death. That’s what caused me to black out.”

Rin had no answer to that, or anything else.

“As a masterless Servant, Saber won’t be active for too much longer,” Rin explained. “Her mana reserves will burn themselves out trying to hold her to this world, unless she rebinds herself to another Master.”

“Can we help?” Shiki asked.

Rin gave him an appraising look. Her information on this branch of the Aozaki clan had been incomplete - the head family’s members had gone to great lengths to conceal the potential and existence of this family from the Association. Much of what she knew, she’d either been told by the Old Man (who was not omniscient, but knew enough to fake it), or observed firsthand.

Shiki Aozaki was no mage. Neither, however, was he a mundane person - he took all of this too easily in stride. However, she could see the weakness that clung to him like a shroud, for all that it didn’t show in his current condition. If there was magical potential there, it was overshadowed by a deep malaise.

The sorceress shook her head, “Your inherent magic isn’t strong enough. It would have to be your wife, your daughter, or me - and I don’t know that I want to fight another War.”

She rose from her seat and stretched. “I suppose I should see to her, anyway. Thank you for the tea, Aozaki-san - you’re quite skilled.”

“You’re welcome,” Ciel answered, then turned to Shiki as Rin left. “I’m going to check on Takara, dear - will you be all right?”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “I think I’ll check on our other guest - I have a portrait drying, anyway.”

Ciel stilled. “Are you sure? Remember what Tohsaka-san said.”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated firmly. “Now, go. I’ll be along shortly.”

Still not quite convinced, Ciel left.






Saber’s sleep was not to reverse physical exhaustion, or to conserve the precious magical energies on which her body survived. It was born of mental fatigue, a process to slowly drain of the poisons that had burdened her soul, and restore her inner balance. She had been through much in the last twenty-four hours, after all. She’d been thrust headfirst into her darkest nightmare, forced to act against her own volition once more. She’d experienced death, of a sort, and then been thrown into an all-out battle with nary a moment to clear her own mind. Such repeated shocks could dull even the strongest spirit, and Saber had found herself at the end of her mental rope by the time the Manager had appeared - in violation of the rules, no less - to assist them in surviving.

Her world had been gradually but unmistakeably shaken to its foundations, and anyone needed time to adjust to such a thing. Thus, she could be forgiven for not waking when Rin opened the door.

For her part, Rin was near the end of her limits, as well. She’d had an argument with her all-but-estranged sister, their first real conversation in almost a year and a half - and unless Saber was lying for some inexplicable reason, it would be their last. She’d failed Sakura in every conceivable way since Shirou’s death - not being there to help in her last moments was just the icing on the cake. Add that to a life-or-death struggle, the knowledge that her mission was far from over, and her discovery of Shirou’s continued existence, along with his subsequent abduction, and she could be forgiven for pausing a moment on the threshold.

She stood there for some time, considering some of what she’d seen, what she’d been told.

“I want nothing more than to be a human again, Rin, to be together with her,” Shirou had said. Sakura had always been the key to him, to anything he did. He could sacrifice his life, and worse, his ideals, for her sake. As horrifying as it had been to hear his plans for the Aozaki girl, it was sadly only the next logical step for him. Becoming what he was hadn’t actually changed that part of him, only given it a new intensity. An excuse to set aside his humanity and focus solely on what he wanted. After all, when he was alive, he’d been more interested in saving Sakura’s life than ensuring the safety of the world - what was the life of one girl compared to what he’d been willing to sacrifice then?

Not that she was one to talk. She’d failed the world, too. Even if it had ultimately worked out, when the deciding moment was upon her, she’d loved her sister more than she’d felt obligated to protect the planet. She hadn’t the heart to kill Sakura.

Sakura had died, anyway. In all the ways that mattered, her sister had perished long ago, becoming a ghost of herself, consumed by obsession. If her body had died now, it was only the last step in a process that had dragged on for almost fifteen years.

Rin was the last survivor of the War, now. She’d entered it only out of obligation to her family, and lost her lover, her sister, and a good friend. She’d wanted nothing to do with it since. Now obligation to her Association would force her back in. She wondered just how much of her life - of herself - she would lose this time.

“You seem troubled,” said a quiet voice. Saber peered at her, emerald eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Just considering the cost of the War,” Rin said wearily. “Is even a miracle worth this kind of sacrifice?”

Saber didn’t respond at first. Then, hesitantly, “I am - tired, Rin. When I began, I fought warriors and trained magicians. People prepared to sacrifice themselves to gain what they believed was important. But these last conflicts . . . I’ve faced monsters, who sacrifice anything and everything, not for a goal, but simply for pleasure. And I’ve faced children, which is worse. You’re all so very young - and your lives are thrown away before they’ve barely started.”

“I’m not so young anymore.”

“You were, only days ago. Rin, I don’t rest between Wars. The Grail takes me from battlefield to battlefield, with barely a heartbeat’s pause. Not so long ago, I met a dark-haired sorceress with a sharp tongue and a ready smile . . . and now I see you grown into the lady you were becoming. You survived the War to realise what you could be, but Shirou . . . And Sakura . . .”

The Servant sighed. “Such tragic wastes . . . I’m not certain I have the heart for this any longer, Rin.”

“Don’t say that. I need you, Saber. Those threats I’m here to fight do exist, and from what I’ve seen, I don’t think I’m strong enough on my own. I need someone I can trust to help me. Sakura’s dead, and Archer’s gone. You’re all I have left.”

“Surely, the Manager and her family . . .”

“I don’t know them. I know you. I’m asking you, Saber - for friendship’s sake. Please help me.”

Saber was silent for several minutes. She was beginning to reach the point where even she was considering surrendering. The long battles, the blood of dozens spilled - to fail over and over to attain her goal. How many lives had she taken, to ultimately no purpose, trying to gain her second chance? Could she, even in another lifetime, begin to atone for that? And Rin was asking her to set aside her doubts and throw herself in the thick of it again.

No, her friend was asking her for help.

“To what purpose?” the Servant asked at last.

“I just want to stop whatever threats are out there to humanity,” Rin answered. “Although . . . There’s a young woman who very much wants her father healed. To save his life, perhaps?”

“Not to restore Sakura’s?” Saber asked, more than a little surprised.

The sorceress considered that. Really, truly, honestly considered it. She remembered what her sister had been, as well as what she’d become, and questioned whether restoring her to that kind of life was a good idea.

“Sakura didn’t want to live her life without Shirou,” Rin said after a while. “I don’t know that giving it back to her again would be the best thing. Maybe if I could find a way to restore Shirou to her . . .” She trailed off with a shrug. In the end, for all her power, she was only human, and fallible. It was one of her better traits that she knew it.

Saber nodded. “All right, I’ll help you Rin . . . Sorry, Master.”

After their contract was completed, there came a knock on the door. “Tohsaka-san?” queried the voice of Shiki Aozaki. Can you come out? Something’s wrong with Lancer-san.”






Ciel placed the cold pack on Takara’s forehead gently. It was a mild concussion, which she’d carefully healed by means of a minor spell in her repertoire. She was not, and would likely never be, a magician of Tohsaka-san’s skill - to say nothing of her sisters-in-law - but her association with Roa and subsequent training at the hands of the Church had left her far from useless where magic was concerned. It was just bad luck that most things she encountered required more mystical finesse - or destructive capacity - than she had.

Of course, that was what the Seventh Holy Scripture was for.

She stifled a yawn. She was physically still in her prime, but in her mind she was edging ever closer to forty-five, and no longer the tireless, relentless Executioner of old. Creating a wide-scale barrier, even a makeshift one, had contributed to the stresses of a long day and night - not to mention empowering Takara’s Servant not once, but twice in less than twenty-four hours. Her sleep beside Shiki had been restful, but she was once again feeling dull and weary. Ciel had to face it - her youthful appearance to the contrary, she just wasn’t as young as she used to be.

And she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Takara moaned in her sleep, and Ciel instantly snapped to attention. Eyes a shade or two lighter than her own snapped open with a cry of panic, and the older Aozaki braced herself for any kind of reaction that her daughter’s nightmare might produce.

It appeared, however, that violence wasn’t in the cards tonight, as Takara sank down into the bed, seeming to shrink in on herself.

“Takara?” Ciel tried hesitantly. “It’s all right, honey. You’re home. You’re safe.”

“I . . .” Takara tried. Her last memory involved being tossed around like a rag doll, by an armoured man at least a foot taller than she was. “My . . . My date - didn’t go well.” She blinked back tears.

“I know,” Ciel said quietly. “I know everything, Takara. I always have. And I’m sorry.”

Takara stared in disbelief. “Are you . . .?”

“A fighter in the War? No, I had enough fighting when I was younger - but I’m a mediator, of sorts, appointed by the Church. My job is to keep the War from becoming public knowledge. That’s the reason I’ve been out of the house so often lately.” She paused before adding, “I was hoping I could convince whoever won the Grail to heal your father.”

Takara blinked, assimilating it. It made sense. “I hope you have better luck than I did. Lancer . . . He died. And it was my fault.”

“No,” Ciel said firmly.

“Yes!” she insisted. “He was fighting Saber, because I took him out to get weapons so I could fight, too! He died trying to keep her away from me! Lancer knew I couldn’t beat her, knew I wasn’t good enough!” Tears began to glisten in her eyes. “I’m not good enough - for anybody.”

“No!” Ciel snapped. “Takara, you’re a wonderful girl - “

”Then why don’t I have more friends? Why did the only date I’ve ever had try to kill me? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?!”

Ciel was quiet for several minutes, unsure of how to respond. How do you convince someone that the problem lies in the world, not themself, when the world has billions of voices to your one? But at the same time, she had to try. And she could think of only one way to lift the self-loathing from her daughter - by redirecting its target.

“It’s my fault, Takara,” she said softly. “All my fault. If I weren’t your mother, you’d be a perfectly well-adjusted, full-blooded Japanese girl. You’d have lived with your father’s family, instead of just us and your two aunts. You wouldn’t be considered an outsider . . . And without inheriting my magic, you’d never have gotten involved in this War. It’s because of me, Takara. I failed you . . . And I’m so sorry.”

Takara stared at her mother, now crying as well. She blamed herself? But all she’d done was fall in love with her father! That wasn’t wrong - hadn’t her father had often said he didn’t want to imagine what his life would been like without her? Her nationality wasn’t her fault - it wasn’t like she’d asked to be born in France. And as for magic - Takara suspected that her mother hadn’t been given a choice in that, either.

It was ridiculous to blame the situation totally on her . . . And, Takara realised, blaming herself was equally stupid. Nobody could control anyone else’s reactions, only their own. Lancer had ordered her, not the other way around. He’d done what he’d chosen to do, as he’d said he would. If the kids at school were racially intolerant, that wasn’t her doing. If boys were intimidated by her, or didn’t want to talk to her, that was their choice and their loss. And Emiya-sempai had deceived her, flat out, and deserved what he’d gotten.

“Mother,” she said quietly. “It’s all right. I’m*all right. None of this is your fault at all.” She paused as a sudden memory sprang to mind. “Well, not unless you know how to take people apart like a jigsaw puzzle.”

Ciel’s head snapped up, blinking away her tears. “What?”

Any answer Takara might have made was interrupted by the not-so-distant sound of shattering glass.






His initial contact with the world was pain. It was an old, familiar companion, and dealt with almost by reflex. He buried himself deep, far away from it, beneath layers and layers of thick, solid steel. It washed over him in waves, and it didn’t matter, because it couldn’t touch him.

The second sensation was darkness, or near darkness. His eyes adjusted ever so slightly to starlight filtered by a sliding glass screen door, casting the room in a wan, ghostly light. Paintings adorned the walls, that he could see at a glance, and an easel stood in one corner of the room. A ventilation duct stood near the door. An art studio, then.

Takara’s father painted, he remembered.

His memories were fuzzy, uncertain. He’d fallen into darkness, and somewhere in the darkness, had touched the dark green pool again. It had jolted his consciousness back from the abyss, and this time he’d been able to see its source - an oddly familiar woman in the black vestments of a cleric. She’d gently handed Takara to him, and told him to follow. He had, too dazed to argue. He’d had two near-death experiences in the space of twenty-four hours, and even his stamina had limits.

They’d arrived at the house, along with Saber and a woman he didn’t know, and then . . . Nothing. He must have passed out cold. Was Takara all right? She was - his Mistress. He remembered now. He’d failed to protect her, the one person he’d sworn to do everything in his power for. Had she paid the price for his recklessness? She hadn’t seemed to be injured, but she hadn’t been awake, either . . .

The door opened, and he whirled to meet it, hands balling into fists.

The older man took in his posture and raised his hands defensively. “Easy. You’re among friends - I won’t hurt you.”

A little too tense, he chided himself. “ . . . Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” came the easy response. “I’ve woken up in some strange circumstances too, from time to time. I know it can be . . . disorienting. We haven’t been introduced - I’m Shiki Aozaki. Pleased to meet you.”

“ . . . I go by Lancer. Do you know who I am?”

Shiki shrugged. “More or less. You’re kind of a familiar that Takara called up to help her win some contest, right?”

“ . . . Good enough.”

“She’ll be happy to see that you’re all right,” Shiki remarked. “Ciel says she was pretty broken up about what happened at the school.”

“Ciel?” The woman in the robe immediately came to mind - and didn’t that mean “sky” in some other language?

“My wife,” Shiki supplied.

Lancer nodded. “Takara’s - not hurt?”

“Not seriously. She’s resting right now.” Shiki chose another topic. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in seeing my gallery while we wait for her to wake up? I hardly ever have visitors.”

Lancer shrugged. “Why not?”

Shiki grinned at the acquiescence, and moved to raise the lights. Lancer took a better look around. Vividly painted seascapes surrounded him on all sides - beaches, coves, and undersea panoramas filled with marine life and light.

“I believe I detect a theme,” he murmured under his breath, and Shiki laughed. Then he laughed harder when Lancer realised he’d been overheard.

“I love this stuff,” the painter admitted. “Almost all my work deals in the sea - I do a few portraits here and there, and my original painting is definitely unlike these, but they’re fairly popular, for which I’m grateful. I hate relying on the stipend my sisters send.”

“Portraits?”

“Just a few,” Shiki answered. “Mainly as gifts for family and friends, along with the odd commission just as a favour. I’m retouching one right now.” He nodded towards the easel.

“May I see it?”

Shiki considered. “As long as you don’t talk about it - it’s not Ciel’s favourite picture.”

Curious, the druid strode over, half-listening as Shiki explained, “It’s of Takara’s godmother - or at least, that’s what I told her when she asked about it. Ciel didn’t speak to me for more than a week, afterwards. The two of them didn’t get along.”

Lancer didn’t answer, for he’d seen the image. A woman in a regal white gown, with alabaster skin and spun sunlight for hair. Her face was as beautiful as Helen’s must have been, to launch those thousand ships. Though surrounded on all sides by stars, as central to them as the moon in the true night sky, she seemed utterly alone. It was there in her crimson eyes - a light that seemed reflected in the stars, rather than from them, that was both longing, and somehow hungry. The beauty of the woman was made only more poignant by that expression, one of such deep longing that it made his throat tighten to see it, and his heartbeat quicken, not simply with lust, but recognition.

I know her, he realised. That’s -

No! cried the voice in the depths of his mind. You don’t know!

But -

You can’t know!

I . . .

NOOOO!

Lancer clutched his head, feeling the rage inside rise again, turning around and around in a frenzied cycle of denials and repudiations. He barely heard Shiki’s voice over the rising thunder of his blood, pounding in his ears. Out, he had to get out!

Neither the glass panes nor the screen door offered any real resistance as he plunged through them, running - almost staggering - to the forest and the lakeshore, driven by a desperate need to find a calm centre, to make sense of it all, and knowing that the only place he’d feel at peace was in the wild.

Surrounded by the deep green and black of trees by night, caressed by the cool wind blowing off the water, he collapsed to his knees, breathing deeply, as though starved for air. When his body had stopped trembling, he rolled over onto his back and stared at the sky. The stars glittered uncaring above him, and the moon, not yet full, gazed impassively back. Cloaked in a haze of silver and blue, its true colour was undeniably white.

White moon . . . White . . . Princess . . .

NO!!

He convulsed as if struck, and screamed the only response he could think of.

“Why?!”

“Don’t you know?” asked a voice. Lancer leaped up in a single motion, and glared at the new arrival, sensing he was being mocked.

Rin gazed back at him, unimpressed.

“Because no dream can last forever,” she answered.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 14





In a place that was not so very far away, yet more distant than the sun, he brooded. This was not unusual - brooding seemed his main occupation in life these days. Brooding, and the War.

He was many things. In point of fact, he could be anything, or anyone, if he so chose. He could create, with a similar lack of restrictions, save that his creations lacked any real permanence. Such was his power. And power he had, in spades. He had always had. The compact had given him only time to pursue more power, more knowledge - the things he needed.

His original identity was all but forgotten by the world, and he chose not to remind the world of it. The world was the problem, and he could not solve it objectively as a part of it, but only by remaining apart from it. When he was forced to interact with it at all, his chosen identity was one he had inspired, but so long ago that the world gave it no real significance, thus minimising the impact of their interaction.

He was Faust.

Faust had long sought eternity. As potent as his compact was, eventually it would run down, and reduce him to nonexistence. More than that, the world itself was finite. In time, all of creation would lapse into that state. This was unacceptable. He and his brethren had laboured many years, attempting to solve the problem, but as yet had been unsuccessful. He had pondered whether the human condition blinded them to the solution - whether it was the inherent weakness in the human form and span that prevented them from finding the answer. Away from his colleagues, he sought another path, another state, and in time, one had been offered to him.

The terms had seemed almost too generous, when the compact was made. Time in abundance, the equivalent of a hundred or more mortal lifetimes, in order to achieve his true goal. What price was his humanity in return? A trifle, barely worth mentioning. And so he had accepted, eagerly, the devil’s bargain. To the girl in black, he had given up his existence as a human sorcerer, to become both more and less than human.

At the beginning, the search proved just as fruitless. And yet, in time, he’d heard rumours. Rumours of a ritual in a far-off land, that if completed properly, could realise the Third Magic - a powerful thing in its own right, but perhaps the foundation to eternity itself. And there were whispers - part of his province, so he knew of them - of a second result. A being of unfathomable darkness and power, that the ritual might call forth instead.

So, completion of the ritual might gain either the Third Magic - the power of true immortality - or the incarnation of an ultimate evil - one perhaps more powerful than the devil with whom he held a compact. One which might offer him a greater compact, and more time with which to seek the knowledge of eternity.

Faust loved win-win situations.

And so, he’d entered the ritual as a participant, minimising his contact lest the result be altered by his presence, and it had borne fruit. His proxy had delivered unto him the relic, the goal of the ritual. Incomplete, to be sure, and useless until the appointed time of the ritual was at hand - but a beginning. With the proto-Grail in hand, he could discover its secrets, and add to his knowledge. Either the ritual would proceed correctly as a result of what he learned, or his own researches would be enhanced by the secrets uncovered, leading to a new breakthrough. Once again, a win-win situation.

That his methods of “research” might mean the destruction of the subject was in this case of little consequence. Once he understood the “how” of it, recreating a Grail seed would be a trifling effort, at best.

Thus far, he’d learned only that high reservoirs of mana seemed integral to the creation - though whether as a step in the process, or a byproduct, he had not yet determined. If it was necessary to create a new subject, then, high mana levels were absolutely essential. His own creations, by themselves, could possess such a capacity - but they would expend almost all of it in sustaining their physical existence. Sacrificing a byproduct of the Grail system, such as his Servant, was not a viable solution for similar reasons. By the same token, he himself was not expendable. Ergo, it would be necessary to find a potential candidate from the world itself - with as much mana as possible.

“Berserker,” Faust commanded. “Attend me. I have another task for you.”






The bungalow was fairly large as such structures went, and larger still when land prices in Japan were considered, but still projected a “cozy” image. Perched on the edge of a lake, surrounded by a verdant wood, it seemed almost like a fairytale cottage - a sanctuary away from the world, but welcoming and warm despite its remoteness.

It was hate at first sight. Hatred that such a place would offer shelter to the traitor, would bring him such comfort. For what had been done, the betrayer should have suffered as they had suffered. Yet, he admitted, its relative isolation would remove such trifling nuisances as the authorities. Not that they would pose any great problem, but to not consider them at all would have been the act of a fool, and that he was not. Still, this meant that his vengeance could proceed more or less at his own pace - having tracked his nemesis to such a place, he had all the time in the world, now.

It was tempting to consider simply using a few well-placed explosives to bring the structure down around the betrayer’s head, but as viscerally satisfying as the image was, it lacked the elegance expected of one of his station and deportment. Besides, he wanted to see the man’s expression when he realised why he was to die - when he understood precisely what fate the legacy of his actions proscribed for him, and all those who followed him. This kind of thing required personal attention - preferably conducted with the civility of swords, though the more gauche use of bare hands was still acceptable.

The party of three moved as one down the hill towards the homestead - and barely twenty yards from it, halted.

“Dono?” Kohaku queried softly.

He did not respond at first, staring instead at the sigil upon his right hand. It glowed in warning, one which translated directly to his mind, so that it was properly understood.

“He’s sought sanctuary with the Manager of the War,” he explained aloud. “He must be participating as well. As it is a sanctuary, we may not enter to do violence - we must lure them out here instead.”

It was annoying - but crushing the Servant of such a man would be amusing too, especially when using his own. Watching the hope of survival drain out of his face when he realised precisely whom he faced . . . it made his blood tingle in anticipation.

“Kohaku, I leave it to you,” he ordered. “Bring as many of the traitors as you find out here. I will not be balked by this, not when I’m so close.”

Kohaku agreed with the sentiment. Her plans had come too far to be stopped now. She had invested too much time and effort, too much of her self, into bringing this drama to life. She couldn’t have her main player give up just as the final act was about to begin. It had to end, conclusively, and she would see it happen, no matter what action she had to take.

However, she said only, “As you command, Dono.”

He nodded, and turned his attention to the masked man. The Servant had been as silent as the dead since their departure from the hotel, and he said nothing as his Master examined him. This was good - it meant he understood his place. For his part, the Master merely issued an order.

“Within that house is a man,” he said clearly. “Slay any who protect him, or who threaten me.”

The second part of his sigil vanished as the command took effect, and the Servant tightened his stance, as though suddenly goosed by something cold. It was, however, his only reaction.

Assassin’s Master nodded in approval. The culmination of ten years’ work would be at hand in as many minutes. Then, perhaps, her spirit could know peace - and his, as well.






“What are you babbling about?” the Servant demanded of the sorceress.

“Have you forgotten?” Rin asked curiously. “Or are you lying to yourself that badly?”

Lancer’s eyes were gleaming gold, and his next statement did not sound as if it came from a human throat. “Start making sense, woman - I’ve no patience for games tonight.”

Rin paused for a moment, remembering Zelretch’s warnings about precisely how dangerous this being could be. Nonetheless, she forged on and responded with another question. “Who are you?”

“I’m called Lancer, but my name is Kieran Holt.”

“And what is this?” She produced a scimitar carved of dark wood, whose hilt was sculpted in the form of thorny vines, and whose blade was decorated with the images of wolves under moonlight.

“A gift,” he answered, his voice softer. His eyes were greener as well. “It was carved for me by my best friend - a monk named Cedric Quezada.”

Rin shook her head. “So its recipient was told, and she passed the story on - but it’s a gag gift from my master in magic to one of his students. It’s a replica of a treasure owned by a druid in another world - a character in a series of fantasy novels.”

She did not believe for a moment that it was a coincidence, either - but she wasn’t entirely sure that Zelretch had brought it to pass. He dealt, as he often said, in possibilities, not probabilities. But it seemed to stretch the limits of reason beyond their bounds to believe that this was all just a random series of events. Not for the first time, she wondered about the situation she found herself in. Was it the result of the Old Man’s meddling, and if so, why? Or was it born of the events of her youth, of the last War?

Where did it all begin? Rin asked herself. When did it all become inevitable? Which event locked these chains into place?

She thought of Sakura, and what had become of the bright and cheerful girl of her youth. First a grieving shell, then an obsessive madwoman - and now, finally, dead, past all redemption. For the life of her, she could not find the turning point where she might have stopped her sister’s descent. Had it been unavoidable?

We made the decisions we thought were best, even the ones we didn’t want to. Was there another way? A better way?

“A ‘replica?’” Lancer repeated, jarring the sorceress’ introspection. “I don’t understand.”

Rin looked at him. “Don’t you? It’s simple enough: Kieran Holt doesn’t exist on this world, in any form.”

“I was summoned from my own world - I know that.”

“Yes, and no. A replica isn’t a relic - it can’t have summoned Kieran Holt, even if he did exist here, because it’s not the real thing. He has no tie to it, nothing for the magic to grasp. But your Mistress . . .” She trailed off. “Do you have any idea how powerful this family is? Really? I read what little the Association has on her: Ciel Aozaki is one of the strongest natural mana users alive, one of the greatest potentials ever born. If the Association had gotten to her before Roa, she would have been one of the strongest sorceresses alive - maybe even a Magic User. If she’d train with us, she might still be. She could become powerful enough to save her husband’s life all by herself - but not in time. Her daughter . . .”

Rin paused and took a breath. “Takara Aozaki seems to have inherited her mother’s potential in full - or close enough that the difference is minuscule. Do you have any idea how much power the pair of them have expended to keep you going, and how little of their full strength that actually is? I’d need at least three of me, or my sword, to sustain a Servant that uses as much mana as you do without dying. They do it with only a minimal effort.

“So when she called for a Servant, however unconsciously, with all that power inside her, the wish wouldn’t be denied. The Grail was pressed to look farther than it normally would - because she wanted Kieran Holt, and although he was a hero, he existed in another world altogether. And eventually, on another world, it found you.”

“Is there supposed to be something revelatory in that?” Lancer said dryly.

Rin gritted her teeth. “Have you been acting like Kieran Holt? Completely? I bet not. Your freaking out over that picture confirms it. I saw who it was - and I recognise her. How did you?”

“I - don’t know.”

“I do. I doubt you’re stupid - even if you don’t want to admit it, you have to be able to put the pieces together. You have potential strengths and weaknesses that you’re not even aware of, and they’ll continue to hinder you, so long as you continue to deny the truth.”

“What truth?” he asked in a baffled tone.

Rin beseeched the heavens, “Is there some rule that every man I know has to be this dense?” The glare she turned on the Servant could have liquified metal. “I’ll try one last time to appeal to your better nature. Think about your Mistress - she almost got killed already! She’ll be even more vulnerable if you don’t fully understand yourself. Don’t you have any loyalty to her? Are you that desperate to be anyone other than who you are, that you’ll risk sacrificing her life?”

Lancer stared at her, frustration plain on his face. “What do you want me to say?”

The sorceress snarled. “All right, that’s it. I’ve tried to be nice about this, but I’m here partly to evaluate your threat potential, and if you’re going to continue to avoid this, I’ll have to force the issue.”

Power gathered between her palms. Lancer snarled, tensing to leap away to evade, or forward to strike her - she wasn’t sure, and she didn’t care.

“I’m going to show you what my Master showed me,” she barked. “Lancer or Kieran, whichever you prefer, this was your death!”

She slammed her arms forward, and the light exploded between them.






As memories go, it’s far from the worst he could have. The happy little car, full of friends chattering aimlessly, listening to music that’s sung in a foreign language, but pleasant to hear, nonetheless. Three people, each wearily clinging to the last shreds of an exciting time that will fade by the coming morning, idly pawing through bags stuffed with merchandise that, if they hadn’t actually needed it, was nonetheless fun to acquire. It’s been a good convention, for another year, but now it’s time to go. Time to return to their ordinary lives. They’re nearly home.

He’s slumped in the back, surrounded by bags full of new and interesting treasures, reading a magazine at the same time he contributes, infrequently, to the conversation in the front seats. He nearly leans against the window, but it’s too cold – there’s a heavy rain coming down, chilling the glass. Still, while it makes the driving difficult, it’s a pleasant mix of sounds – the engine going, the hiss of the rain, soft instrumental music, and good company. Even through the weariness, the contentment soothes much of his usual aches and pains. His black outlook has lightened with this, a weekend well spent. It’s a good time and place to be.

Then the car cuts in front of them. Was he drunk? Had the vehicle skidded on the wet pavement? Or was the driver just an arrogant idiot? He’ll never know, because the car nudges theirs on its way past, sending them screeching towards the guardrail, and then through it.

In his conscious mind, time slows. He has time for several realisations. The first, and foremost, is that they are most likely going to die. His talent for achieving long shots is almost certainly inadequate to the task of letting him survive falling in a speeding car. After all the times he’s cheated death over his lifetime, the bill has finally come due.

The next realisation is that he’ll never accomplish anything he truly wanted to. No books would be published in his name. He’d never marry, unlikely as the prospect had been, would hold no children of his own in his arms, ever. It would all end with him. And as far as the world would be concerned, he’d die as uselessly as he’d lived. He’d have accomplished nothing, ever, and may as well have never existed.

As the blood rushes through his ears, he imagines he can hear a scream - a cry for help, and of anger, as well. He wants to answer it, to ease the pain of the screamer. He wants to help. But as the road below rushes up to greet him, its imminent kiss bringing the promise of obliterating fire, he can do nothing at all.

Nothing at all, except die.

Anger rises in him - the old, familiar companion. He wants to rage against this useless fate, to do something, anything, of importance. He wants to matter.

And somewhere he could only dream of, his wish is heard . . .

The rest is only dimly recalled. He can answer a need, someone’s need for a hero he knew well - for Kieran Holt was his creation, after all. Playing the role was nearly second nature to him. But more than that, the call had been made in anger, a heart’s cry at an uncaring world - and he understood that very well, indeed. And, in his answer, he would have the chance to accomplish his dream. The price would be in the sacrifice of his own identity and the concealment of his nature - for what he will become is forbidden, a mockery of the system’s nature. Yet it can be done, and must be done, if it is his wish.

It is easily decided, if not easily accomplished. The deception requires a measure of his will not often called upon to keep it working believably. Yet it succeeds. But now, confronted with the memory - the reality - of his nature, the force of his will crumbles. The masquerade can be maintained no longer. He is no mighty druid, forged through countless battles and trials at the side of brave companions. He is not a legendary warrior, chosen for his skill in battle by a higher power to battle beyond death for the right to a miracle. He is only himself, and it is to that self he returns.

He finds no small irony in the fact that he was undone by his longing for that which the druid would truly hate. For the admiration of a vampire princess, he betrayed himself - and as is always the case in his life, if she knew, she would not care . . .






The pair drew stares as they walked through the train station. Not long ones - the Japanese were by social conditioning a polite people, and strange outfits and hair colours were not uncommon. Most people dismissed them as cosplayers for some new promotion or distant convention, and ignored them thereafter. Only small children or people with certain ingrained fetishes gave them more attention than that. Still, it must be admitted that they were more than worth a long look.

The two were both female, one of them garbed in a long, dark cloak whose tips nearly brushed the ground. This one attracted the most attention, since the length and breadth of the cloak, along with its positioning, all but totally concealed the form within. The only reason to assume that the wearer was female was the steady click-clack of high-heeled boots that echoed with each movement.

The second of the pair, on the other hand, was definitely female. Garbed in something that resembled a hybrid of a school uniform and a policewoman’s, with a burgundy skirt and matching round cap, her hair - which had to be dyed, otherwise it couldn’t be pale purple - was tied back in a long braid. And while her figure was pleasing to the eye, her expression was cold. Her dark eyes were like black pits, absorbing all the light. It was she who led the way, and even on the crowded platform, people made an effort to get clear of her path.

“It’s not that I doubt you,” issued a voice from the depths of the hood, confirming the femininity of its wearer, “but are you certain what you seek is here?”

“There is a 98.24% probability of it,” replied her companion. “This is the battleground. He will be in or near the area, either in an assumed form, or within a pocket dimension. If the former, there is a 83% chance that his activities will be reported in the recent news syndicates. If the latter, there is a similar probability of its anchor being within the city somewhere.” Her lips tightened. “Yes, I am certain. Even if he is not, the odds are 134 938 to 1 against his not taking an opportunity to use the conflict, necessitating his interacting with the current situation soon. He will be here, even if only by proxy.”

“As you say, Mistress Sion.”






As Rin watched, the Servant paled to a grayscale tone, becoming nearly transparent. His whole form wavered like a soap bubble, rippling and changing. Hair lightened from black to a light chestnut, thicker and scruffier than the druid’s, with an overgrown mustache and beard. His face had smoothed, losing much of its weathering, including the natural tan complexion. His nose was larger, and hawklike, his lips fuller. His eyes had gone from golden-green to a pale blue, framed by thick glasses. His knees bent forward, as did his neck, his whole frame drooping - though he seemed as though he would be the same height if he stood up straight. Most shocking was when nearly half his weight, almost all of it muscle, vanished, revealing a painfully gaunt frame. Rin believed she could actually see his heart beating in his chest, despite the fact that it was covered by a short-sleeved shirt the colour of Ciel Aozaki’s hair. Black jeans and velcro-belted running shoes completed the alterations, and the semblance of Lancer vanished like morning mist.

Rin nodded to herself. This was the youth Zelretch had shown her - she’d watched him die. He didn’t look like much of a warrior, much less an Epic Spirit, but as his eyes locked on hers, she saw an alien expression in them - and she knew that he had no reservations about violence. She was no more important to him than a snowflake - and could be eliminated just as casually.

“Tell me who you are,” she demanded.

His voice was lighter, much quieter, and it lacked the intrinsic growl of the werewolf, but it was still cold enough to make her shiver as he gave his answer. The truth of him could be summed in one word, and it was.

“Avenger.”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 15






The knock on the door was light, but the house was not so large as to hide it from her ears. Hisui had long become attuned to such things, and answered its summons with all due speed. Even if it was not her duty, or long-ingrained habit, she would have done it, since it seemed that Shiki-sama’s household was presently busy attending to its guests, or their own hurts.

As a result, no one was nearby to hear Hisui’s gasp as she opened the door, and her sister confronted her.

“Nee-san! What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, Hisui-chan,” Kohaku replied brightly. “What else? And it seems we’ve found Shiki-san, as expected. All these years, and you still come to his call, eh?”

Hisui flushed, hearing a subtle tone in her sister’s voice that mocked her. “Nee-san - please don’t hurt Shiki-sama. It was so long ago - and Akiha-sama is gone. It doesn’t matter any more . . .”

“It matters to our master, Hisui-chan,” Kohaku said gently. “And I still obey him. You know, if you help me get them out of the house, he might not kill you on sight.”

Hisui’s blue-gray eyes widened. “I can’t! SHI -!”

Kohaku clapped a hand over the mouth of her younger (by all of eighteen seconds) sister, effectively muffling her. “Shh, Hisui-chan,” she murmured gently, the way she might speak to a young child. Her eyes were gleaming amber, and the lighting in the foyer had nothing to do with it. “It will all be over soon, and then it will be just us two again . . .”

Hisui’s jaws worked in an attempt to bite Kohaku’s palm, but the hand curved away out of reach at the movement, and then Kohaku’s other hand came up, dashing a white powder in her face.

Her world went gray for an instant, before falling to black, and she had just enough time to realise that her sister was not simply ruthlessly obedient - the light in her eyes was born of pure malice - or madness.

Then the dark swallowed her whole.






Kohaku watched her sister slump, and caught her before she could fall completely. Light as she was, Hisui’s impact would undoubtedly rouse the household, and she couldn’t afford that yet.

She noted with a minor relief that Hisui’s breathing was slow but steady. The narcotic she’d used was a customised derivative of wolfsbane, paralysing at best, but usually flat-out lethal. She’d had to work long and hard to make it quick-acting and skin-permeable, but she felt it had been worth it. Still, Kohaku had needed to estimate Hisui’s dosage - despite their similarities, she’d built up a certain level of immunity to her own concoctions after handling them so long. She had been afraid of giving her sister both too much, and not enough. But it seemed as if Hisui would recover too late to get in the way, but just fine, otherwise.

If Kohaku had her way, Hisui would be the only one.

Half-carrying, half-dragging her sister to a secluded corner, she began to strip down, pausing to loosen Hisui’s garments as she did so.

The dance was nearly over, and then the doll would lie motionless, all its purpose spent. If she could have, she might have shed a tear over that fact . . . But all her tears had been used long ago.

Dolls may feel no fear, nor regret, nor sadness.






His first memory is of his mother’s face. It was a beautiful face, in the classic style, but there was something more to it. There are beauties that lift the spirit, that fill a heart with joy and wonder simply to glance at them, and there are those which wring tears from the observer, that break the heart with each beat. His mother was of the latter kind, with tragedy etched so deeply into her being that it became part of her appeal. Her voice was always quiet, her eyes usually far away, and her rare smiles were faint things when they appeared, like the wisping touch of a butterfly’s wings. And never did they appear for anyone but him.

His father was of little consequence in his life, a barely-remembered figure usually long gone on business trips, or elsewhere. His parents were always distant to one another, and he’d been given to understand, once he was old enough, that theirs had been a marriage of convenience, not love - and time had not brought love to them.

From his childhood, his world had consisted of a home that often entertained guests, but was more frequently empty of all but three people. One of them was formal, proper, and distant. Another was equally formal, but warmer, always smiling. And the third was frequently stern, often demanding, and always busy with work. And he had never known anything else.

But it wasn’t until he was almost a teenager that he had understood why. Until he’d understood the true power of his family. And later, when he’d seen the price of the power, he learned the rest of the story. The story of two clans, and the children of them - his mother, and the betrayer.

Hisui’s departure was -unexpected. While he’d long preferred the comforting presence of her sister, he could not have believed she would ever desert the family - especially not for the sake of that - monster. But she had, and he would exact vengeance for that, as well. He would have his vengeance for everything.

Fate was obviously on his side, after all. Why else would it deliver such a fitting instrument to extract such vengeance into his hands? Truly, no death would suit the traitors more justly than at the hands of his Assassin.

“Come,” he ordered the creature, unable to contain his excitement. “Let us get into a better position.”

Justice would be served at last.






“What do you want?” he asked of Rin, an audible edge in that quiet voice.

The voice belied his real condition. A ringing tone blared in his ears, echoing all the louder in the relative silence, and his eyes narrowed in an effort to focus on the woman before him. His bones held a dull, constant ache, in contrast to the varying shifts of pain that coursed along his muscles with each slight movement. Weariness cloaked him like a funeral shroud, and it was an effort to stand upright. If it came to a fight, he’d be at an extreme disadvantage, to put it mildly.

In short, all systems go,*observed the voice in the depths of his mind. Long habit pushed everything into the background - pain was an indulgence he couldn’t afford, the perpetual ringing a distraction that meant nothing. As for the weariness, it wouldn’t mean much once his adrenalin was going.

Rin studied him dispassionately. “You don’t look like a dire threat to existence.”

“Gee, thanks,” he replied dryly. With the mask of “Lancer” stripped away, he knew exactly what kind of powers he could bring to bear, and how they functioned. The sorceress had been right - he’d been blind to potential advantages and weaknesses there. Unfortunately, his Noble Phantasm wouldn’t be too effective against her, assuming it worked at all. Knowing his luck, it wouldn’t.

And a white belt in karate earned almost two decades ago isn’t going to cut it, he mused. Standard strategy, then. Try to strike first, hit hard - and hope.

“Why did you contract with the Grail?” she pressed. “Why are you here?”

“To help Takara Aozaki, and maybe save a man’s life.”

Rin shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. What do you want from the Grail?”

He shrugged. “This is it.”

She stared at him. “Your wish was to be a Servant?”

Avenger smirked. “Well as I recall, the position of ‘Consort to the Princess of the True Ancestors’ is taken, so . . .”

He sighed, remembering exactly why his act had failed. Stupid otaku obsession. “Look, I was pretty much a parasite on society when I was alive. Didn’t do much of anything with my life, and accomplished more or less nothing. I wanted to do something that mattered to someone. If I can win the Grail, Takara gets her father back, and that’s good enough for me.” His eyes narrowed. “And if that’s a big enough sin to be worth eliminating me for, then ‘it’s better to reign in Hell,’ blah, blah, blah.” His eyes opened, and they were empty as they looked at her, but did not see. His voice was almost a whisper. “Bring it.”

“Hold on!” Rin protested. “If that’s all you really want . . . Then you don’t fall under my current authority. There’s no need to fight unless you’re out to destroy the world, or something similar.”

He slumped again, deflating visibly as he exhaled. “So basically, I’m not worth your time?”

“Essentially.”

“Story of my life where beautiful women are concerned,” he said resignedly. “Actually, any women, but beautiful ones in particular.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she chided him. “Besides, I’m not into one-night stands.”

“I’m amenable to more long-term arrangements,” he said lightly.

Rin sobered. “You don’t belong here. Only Takara’s power and the Grail’s are keeping your soul in this continuum. Even if you don’t die, and manage to win the War . . . When the Grail gathers all its power to grant Takara’s wish, the Servants are disconnected from this plane. You’ll either return to whatever awaits in your own reality, or the strain of being held so long away from it will have exhausted your spirit completely.”

“Like somebody on life support once it’s cut. I’ll just fade out completely,” Avenger finished. He absorbed that in silence for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m already dead - I’ve gotten more than I ever expected already. Just promise me one thing - don’t tell Takara.”

The sorceress blinked. “May I know why?”

“Her father deserves to live,” the Servant answered. “I don’t want her to know that I’ll have to die to make it happen. That . . . That would bother her, I think. I don’t want her hesitating. Let her believe the Grail takes me, just like any of the others.”

Rin raised an eyebrow. “You’re awfully compassionate.”

“I’m a bleeding heart with sociopath tendencies,” he explained casually. “Or is that the other way around?”

Rin might have replied, but a sudden explosion from the other end of the house caught their attention.

“Bloody hell,” Avenger cursed.





Shirou jolted awake, like someone had flipped a switch deep inside him. His heart and lungs abruptly started working, his mind began racing. His vision went from opaque darkness to a bright, muddled blur of colour, gradually focussing into a real picture.

He lay chained to a floor of granite blocks, within the centre of a carefully inscribed seal. It was not unlike the sigil used when a proper sorcerer was summoning Servants, but the flow of power it emanated felt different - like drinking hydrochloric acid when water was expected. They were both colourless liquids, but their properties were significantly disparate. Not to mention holding fatal consequences to anyone foolish enough to mistake them for one another.

Shirou expected it to be set to contain him - nonetheless, he tried to break the chains. His innate power had several uses, and granting him a strength greater than his form implied was among the simplest of them. In response to his effort, the sigil flared with golden light, draining the energy away from his body. He collapsed to the floor again, his world darkening, as simply staying upright became an effort greater than he had the strength to make.

“As you can see,” advised a voice, lightly accented in its Japanese, “escape is quite impossible.”

The light faded, and Shirou found, slowly, that he could move again. When his eyes cleared, he gazed upon the source of the voice.

He was a tall man, wiry-looking, and tan in a Mediterranean fashion. Blonde hair cascaded down his back, and his eyes were deep and black. He was garbed in a well-cut suit out of the Renaissance era, including a high-collared black cape embroidered with silver stars, as though it had been cut from the night sky. As he watched, Shirou could swear the pattern was moving.

“You are indeed powerful,” the man admitted in a gracious tone, “and I can only guess at your full potential. But I have studied the sorcerous arts since long before the War which created you began, and my command of it is no slight thing.” His voice hardened. “You will not escape my bindings, boy.”

“Who are you?” Shirou demanded. “Another Einzbern?” Even as he said it, he doubted it, but no one else would have a reason for assaulting him so.

“Hardly. I am called Faust, my boy. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?” At Shirou’s silence, he made a clucking sound with his tongue. “And I had thought dear Kit’s tale was known world-wide, by now.” He smiled, in the manner of a shark. “Suffice it to say that I possess more skill in our mutual art than you do, and no small amount of power.”

“But is it enough?” Shirou snapped, calling up as much power as he could, to hurl a bolt of killing force at the man who’d imprisoned him. Once again, the seal flared its own power, draining away his magic, his life - but Shirou held on stubbornly. He was the Vessel which would become the Grail, and one of the most powerful mana engines in existence. He was also Emiya Shirou, and not to be dismissed, either.

The air within the confines of the seal began to warp and crackle as his power surged outward, raw force contesting with consummate finesse. Faust watched the struggle, his expression unafraid - in fact, with amusement lighting his eyes, then spoke a single word.

“Basta.”

Light flared - on the walls and ceiling, this time, and nine identical seals blazed to life. He was caught in the centre of a massive vortex of magic whose sole purpose was to neutralise his own. The drain against which Shirou had struggled increased by an order of magnitude, and he was cast into the void by its strength . . .

An eternity later, he heard Faust’s voice. “I sought to do this in a civilised fashion, but I can be a brute as well, if I must, boy.”

“. . . Don’t . . . Don't call me ‘boy’ . . .” Shirou rasped.

“You shorten your own lifespan, wielding such power. And it has availed you nothing, save a lessening of your own time. Now, will you listen?”

The feeling still wasn’t back in his extremities. Shirou considered the odds of successfully breaking the cage of seals, now that he knew about them. “ . . . Talk.”

“I am interested in you, and what you represent,” Faust stated. “Your construction alone is remarkable - but it is your ultimate purpose that intrigues me. What about you will create the Grail? How is it done?”

Shirou smirked, sensing a bargaining chip. “And if I don’t tell you?”

“I proceed to vivisection.”

The sorcerer blanched. “No!”

“You wish to live?” Faust’s eyebrows rose. “Despite your limited span?”

“I want to be human again!”

“But the Grail process, will it not consume you? Is that not the purpose of your existence in this form?”

“Yes!”

“And yet you wish to live?”

“Yes!”

The magus smiled. “Then, perhaps a bargain. Teach me what you know of your workings, and the Grail itself. Perhaps I can fashion another to take your place.”

“It’s not that simple,” Shirou protested. “The amount of mana necessary to do it properly is almost impossible to generate, and it has to be rooted in an organic source . . .”

Faust’s smile widened. “Do not be concerned. The necessary materials are already being sought. Do we have a bargain, messire?”

Shirou didn’t hesitate. “We do.”






Takara jumped at the sound of breaking glass, but her mother’s reaction was more impressive. She leaped from her sitting position, standing between her daughter and the door. A flick of her wrist, and soft blue light sprang from her hand, to coalesce into blued steel blades, like short swords, held in an unyielding grip.

“Mother . . .?” she questioned.

“Stay here,” Ciel commanded - there was no other word for that tone. It was a voice of authority that not only dictated, but took for granted that the order would be obeyed. “It could be nothing, but I’m going to check it out. If you have a weapon, now’s the time to get it.”

Takara didn’t respond before the elder Aozaki left - she was too surprised. She knew her mother in both “loving parent” and “stern disciplinarian” guises, but the woman she’d just seen did not sound, stand, or move like her mother. She moved like a trained warrior - and one with more experience than even Takara’s kendo instructor.

I had enough fighting when I was younger, her mother had said. What had she fought? And for how long? After all, she’d been born when her parents were still in high school - hadn’t she? How young had Ciel been, to have acquired as much skill as she seemed to have?

More than mine, she admitted to herself. She’d always been so proud of her skills - and they seemed like so little, now. She sighed.

Being the perfect lady had come naturally to her - it was why she didn’t do it unless in her parents’ presence. She’d mastered everything her mother had required of her, and found it so easy it was boring. She wanted a challenge, and she’d found physical activity more demanding, and thus more rewarding, than social ones. Kendo had the kind of edge she wanted - pushing her own limits against someone else’s, in a kind of competition that, in another age, would have serious consequences. Every trophy, every victory she’d won had been more than just more glory for her - it had been proof of her ability, her skill, and a benchmark to beat for the next match. She’d been good at it, one of the best . . .

And then she’d met Lancer, and Saber, and now, apparently, her mother. All of whom were stronger than her, far stronger than she’d ever dreamed possible. More than she could handle in skill or power, at least as she was.

Takara asked herself how she should handle that revelation. That there was more than another level to reach - that there was another world beyond what she knew, to test her limits in. She could falter, certainly. She was young enough, and delicate enough, to fold under that knowledge, give into despair and accept that everything she knew and had done meant nothing. Indeed, she was already partway down that path already.

But the flip side of that argument meant that there was so much more she could achieve, so many more challenges to be met, and fought with, to find her own worth against. It was a world beyond her, but not beyond her reach, if she chose to try for it.

She hesitated, torn between both reactions. She was human enough to feel both fearful and eager about the possibilities that had presented themselves, and unsure of which path she should follow.

"The only thing you could ever do to disappoint me is despair."

Her father’s words, spoken a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. His boundless confidence that she could do anything she wanted, even as he himself was dying. He had believed in her. So did her mother.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Takara Aozaki, that’s all.”

He had chuckled. “Not hardly ‘all,’ child.”

So had Lancer, in his way. He had believed from the very beginning in her potential ability - and his own existence had borne that belief out. She was capable of much more than she had ever realised.

And if so many believed in her, who was she to doubt herself?

Takara heard the sound of an explosion from out front, and her expression hardened. She snatched up one of her training swords - an inadequate weapon, probably, but she could compensate. She would compensate.

It was time to stop holding back, and show everyone, herself included, just what Takara Aozaki was capable of.






Shiki stared out of the wreckage of his sliding glass door. Miss Rin had followed him into the studio, glanced at Arcueid’s portrait, and said she would take care of Lancer. She’d been gone a couple of minutes by now, though, out of sight into the deep woods.

“I should go after them,” Ciel muttered. “She’s been gone too long.”

“It’s only been three minutes, and there’s no sign of anything going wrong,” Shiki pointed out.

“Battles don’t have to be noisy, Shiki,” Ciel chided him. “Not everyone is as flashy as Nero when they attack.”

“Shiki-sa . . .” interrupted a new voice, which paused in mid-syllable. The Aozakis turned to see Hisui standing in the doorway. “Shiki-[sama,” she said quietly. “There appears to be someone lurking at the front of the house. Are you expecting company, or shall I contact the police?”

They traded glances. Had their allies circled the house, or was this something new?

“I’ll check it out,” Ciel answered, materialising her blades again.

The maid started, her eyes widening.

“Very good, madam,” Hisui replied with a short bow. She stepped to the side, and Ciel moved past her in a loping stride that ate up ground without wasting energy.

Shiki frowned. Something seemed “off” about all this. So many incidents this close together was far too suspicious. Ciel would certainly think so, too, and be on her guard, but he worried, nonetheless.

“Shall we follow her, Shiki-sama?” Hisui asked, seeming to read his mind.

Shiki checked his pocket, to make sure his knife was handy. He couldn’t be sure how long his strength would hold out - but he hadn’t strained himself lately, so he’d probably be all right just to watch.

“Stay back, Hisui,” he instructed her. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”

The maid bowed again, stepping back into the hall to let him leave more easily, the light illuminating her face, and the demure look in her eyes . . .

Her amber-brown eyes . . .

Checking his motion, Shiki jumped back instinctively, managing to blindly clear the broken door. He yelled a warning with all his strength to his wife, a house-length and more away.

“CIEL! IT’S A TRAP!”

The only answer was the thunder of an explosion.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 16






Ciel moved cautiously, expanding her senses outward as she went. Her assignment to the Grail War had forced her to brush up on many old skills, if not re-learn them entirely, but some habits she’d never forgotten. The intruder might be Takara’s Servant or Rin Tohsaka - or some lost traveller - but was just as likely, if not more so, to be a new and deadly threat. So she was quiet, and careful, and armed. Against Servants - as with demons - surprise was a critical advantage. Especially when you were older than you used to be, and could actually be killed.

She’d exited the house from a bedroom window rather than walk directly out the front door - not easy, given that they hadn’t been designed for that kind of access, but possible. Then it was a matter of proceeding around, sticking as close to the lines of the house as possible to minimise her silhouette, the better to strike from an advantageous point and not be a target herself. She might have tried the roof, since most people never really looked up, but if their visitor was still at a distance, her movement would just leave her totally exposed. Better to creep like this.

If this turns out to be to be another person who wants to give us an estimate on renovating the house. . . She didn’t finish the thought, but the feeling of having Black Keys in her hand suddenly gave her a warm glow inside. They weren’t nearly as common in Japan as in North America - or even Europe - but Ciel had developed a veritable loathing of door-to-door salesmen. And in an age where telemarketers could be screened, and e-mail ads deleted unseen, they’d been seeing a population revival lately.

I always assumed the isolation of the house would keep them away, she sighed inwardly. Not that she really believed for a moment that this was the case now - an actual threat to life and limb was far more likely - but it was always a possibility. She tried to believe in the best scenario, so that she didn’t end up ridiculously paranoid.

She suddenly realised her mind was wandering, another sign of age and rusty combat conditioning. If she’d been in a fight, she would probably have died by now.

Back to the task at hand.

The front yard appeared deserted, and Ciel frowned - Hisui had never struck her as a liar. She concentrated her perceptions, picking out likely hiding places, and finding no one - but she did see signs, such as freshly broken branches on saplings, and crushed areas of grass. Someone had been here recently, in some of those hiding spots. But where were they now?

A quick glance upward was the only thing that saved her, impelling her to roll forward out of the range of the mass that plummeted down from her roof. Ciel bounced to her feet and whirled, brandishing one trio of blades to block a second attack, and cutting a wide arc with the second set to push her attacker back.

It worked only partially, as the man - and a man it was, dressed in a black, ninja-like bodysuit and wearing a full leather face mask - leaped to the side, seemed to climb the wall of the house, and leaped back at her in a roundhouse kick.

Ciel jumped back herself, mentally gauging her chances in mid-air. This attacker was fast, pushing her own reflexes to their limits. Agile, too - he’d ducked her swipe almost casually, and his sole weapon - a metal rod of some design - was useless at a distance. This creature - another Servant, she could practically smell the magic coming from him - was a close-quarters specialist. Her best survival option, then, was to neutralise his area of effectiveness.

Ciel jumped immediately upon touching down, this time straight up, opening a mental circuit she hadn’t used in years as she did.

Well, it’s about time you called me! snapped a long-unheard voice. Do you have any idea how boring it is just sitting around?

The air rippled around her, forced away by the materialising shape of a cannon with a muzzle the size of her head, and almost twice her height in length.

Ciel’s only response to the question was to squeeze the trigger as she began to fall, and let the Seventh Holy Scripture’s cacophonous blast answer for her.






Rin was faster, leaving him behind almost instantly. Avenger let her go, partly because he wasn’t fast enough to prevent it, and partly because her proximity made things harder for him. When she was more than a few metres ahead, he turned his attention inward.

As he was, Avenger was cannon fodder. No Servant would find him difficult to dispatch, and the same went for most people. Fortunately, his Noble Phantasm was powerful enough to even out the scales, or tip them in his favour. It limited his combat capabilities only by energy reserves and imagination - and he’d always had too much of the latter.

Reconstructing Lancer’s persona, however, wasn’t feasible yet. It came down to a matter of willpower - he could do what he believed he could, and make others believe it, as well. However, it was partly reliant on their suspension of disbelief - and could be overridden by a stronger will. Rin knew the truth, hadn’t believed in Lancer, and had broken down his Phantasm as a result. Rebuilding it would take a few minutes he didn’t have, because someone needed help now. Fortunately, he wasn’t limited to drawing on Kieran Holt as a template. And, out of sight, he could get away with using almost any of them.

Avenger looked up at the night, and remembered . . .

Deadtown is a place for lost souls: the homeless, the helpless, the forgotten. The people here struggle against demons of all forms every single day, and they have almost nothing to call their own . . . Except me. Like them, I have been scarred, body and soul. My face, my memories – my entire identity has been taken from me. I hide in the shadows, preying on those who lurk in the deeper darkness. I am Deadtown’s protector, to some a saviour, to others a monster, but to all who encounter me - a Mystery.

Avenger gained almost half of his mass again, his shirt vanishing beneath a suddenly flowing trenchcoat. His face vanished beneath the shield of a leather bondage mask, topped by a fedora. Leather gloves covered his hands, and his stance became one of confidence and certainty.

The Servant smirked. The vigilante called the Mystery was everything he needed right now. Superbly athletic, with a well-trained mind, suited for detective work. Despite all that, his skills and abilities were only human, he carried no equipment beyond his clothes and his “super powers” mainly consisted of knacks that could easily be written off as good luck and superb timing - much less energy-intensive to maintain than most of his other “masks.” The hideous deformities his mask and gloves hid were of secondary importance considering the usefulness of his other traits right now.

The Mystery took off at a full-speed run, circling the woods to come at the house from the side, rather than directly for the back or front. Well-trained ears caught the telltale sounds of battle on both sides, justifying his decision - he might need to act on two fronts. Despite the delay of his twisted course, he reached the edge of the woods in less than thirty, and a ten foot leap from a running start was almost literally child’s play, as was softening his landing. From the higher vantage point of the roof, he took in the two ongoing battles.

Shiki was engaged in what looked like a blade fight against someone he could barely make out - high-speed swordplay at its most spectacular. Even his experience with super-speedsters didn’t make it easy to watch - the human eye and mind could only follow so much. Rin was almost there, however, so he had backup on the way. Ciel, on the other hand . . .

Ciel was engaged in a howitzer-to-heaven-knew-what battle with someone whose speed rivalled the two in the backyard. The woman was no slouch - she was blocking most of the intended attacks with the sheer mass of her weapon, and firing blasts to try and keep her foe at bay - but even with the blast radius working for her, he was getting in too close, too often, and Ciel’s stamina wasn’t likely to hold out forever. Worse, her opponent was definitely a professional - there was no wasted energy in his movements, and no hesitation. This one was all about precision.

Inside the Mystery, Avenger frowned. As much as she and Takara both would see Shiki protected, he owed Ciel his life - twice - and he made it a point of honour to repay his debts. He’d just have to finish things quickly.

The Mystery made the leap, as high and graceful as any acrobat. But the rippling form that landed was Lancer’s - the familiar face and increased battle prowess would be more effective.

Snarling aloud, the druid lunged forward, Vanir sliding free as he moved.






“It sounds as though your beloved bride will be quite busy,” said a voice behind him, as the fury of the fight continued to echo across the night air. Shiki, surprised, turned to meet it. In the shadow of the woods, a figure stood, holding what looked to be a walking stick in both hands.

“I must admit, I didn’t believe Assassin would find her so difficult to deal with,” the stranger continued. “But then again, I hadn’t expected her to be wielding guns. Aren’t you aware that firearms are illegal in Japan, Shiki?”

“Who the hell are you?” Shiki demanded, intending it more as a distraction than an actual question. The figure was small, from the silhouette, and the voice light, giving him no way to tell for certain whether he faced a man or a woman. What the stranger wasn’t was human. As much as he despised his Nanaya side, the demon-hunting senses that were part of his heritage, even as subdued and untrained as his were, couldn’t fail to detect the nature of the person before him. It was more than a sight, or sound, or smell - just a certainty that whatever the human face it wore, its heart was something undeniably other.

“Ah, that’s correct. I have neglected to introduce myself - unforgivably poor manners on my part.” With that speech, the intruder stepped into the light. “I am the current head of the Tohno clan, Shiki.”

He was a slender, athletic youth, still in middle school, perhaps, impeccably dressed in a black kendo hakama whose cost would rival that of a good used car. His hair was raven black, tied back in a small topknot such as the long-vanished samurai had worn. His skin was smooth, and gleamed pale gold under the moonlight. In his hands was the long, cased sheath of a katana.

Shiki noted all this in a glance, as he’d recognised Kohaku - the years had given him an artist’s eye for details. But what held him were the boy’s eyes, like polished turquoises - his sister’s eyes.

“Akiha . . .” Shiki breathed, before he could stop himself.

“I am Shin Tohno, Shiki,” the boy corrected, still in that polite, empty voice. “It was the closest my mother could bring herself to your name.” In a blur of motion, the katana was unsheathed, a metal that in the moonlight took on the hue of polished bone.

“And in her name, I will see you destroyed.”






Takara stepped from her room, sword in hand. She was turned to head for the front of the house when a movement caught her peripheral vision’s attention. She turned the opposite direction, to see Hisui, emerging from her father’s studio at the end of the hall.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked. “Do you have any idea what’s going on?”

The maid’s only response was to nod, though in response to which question, Takara couldn’t tell. She shifted to put her hands on her hips, an irritated look crossing her face.

“Well, Miss Hisui?” she asked again.

Hisui simply advanced, and Takara’s annoyance turned to wariness. Something about her behaviour seemed wrong . . .

At the last second, she withdrew a step, and the knife concealed in the maid’s hand tore her kimono’s sleeve instead of her skin. Without hesitation, Takara swung her blade up and forward, trying to drive her attacker back. She was only half-successful - Hisui pressed forward, but she managed to halt the movement long enough to sidestep it.

Takara frowned, taking in Hisui’s form and the background noises of battle. From her positioning, the maid was attempting to block her progress toward the back of the house, not the front - where the explosion had come from. What could she possibly gain from . . .

“Father,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry,” the maid said brightly. “He’ll join you soon. Now be a good girl, and this won’t hurt at all!”

Takara’s eyes narrowed, focussing on Hisui to the point where vermillion lines that highlighted where her cuts would sever vital points appeared in her mind. All she had to do was strike there. . .

She lunged forward, sweeping across the maid’s breastbone - but she was no longer there. The young kendoka halted in surprise, momentarily losing her balance.

Saber caught her with her free hand, the other lowering the pommel of her sword. “She really needs to learn to mind her surroundings,” the blonde commented. Emerald eyes flicked up to Takara’s. “You could use some work there, as well.”

An angry retort sprang to mind, but she realised the same thing Saber had, explaining her sneak attack - they didn’t have time for this. There was a two-front war being fought, and they’d best be attending to it.

“Head out front and help my mother,” was all the girl said. Her father, weak as he was, hadn’t been in danger as long - which meant there was a good chance he was still reasonably all right. But Ciel had been gone several minutes - and if things were that bad, it might be beyond even Saber’s power to help her.

Saber, for her part, didn’t question the order. Her host had just asked for her help. That was enough.

Takara said nothing else, sprinting past the blonde with as much speed as she could muster.

Father . . .!






After a moment of battling with the Scripture, Ciel knew the choice had been a mistake. Yes, the blast radius and range were advantages - but given the massive weight and recoil of the weapon, she was essentially stationary while using it, giving her enemy the advantage of mobility. And it was an advantage he knew how to use.

Ciel swung the massive cannon around and into an upright position. While it prevented her from bringing it into play easily again, She essentially hid behind it, blocking the killer’s incoming strikes. And hopping around the barrel playing hide-and-seek, while a risky proposition, was better than dying.

Ouch! the spirit of the cannon protested in her mind. Mistress, he’s hurting me!

Ciel responded in the same manner, quickly. Would you rather he kill me?

. . .It still hurts.

Ciel didn’t reply to that, too busy trying to keep herself from being hurt. It wasn’t easy - he seemed uncannily adept at reading her movements, anticipating where she’d be. She was managing to stay ahead of him by little more than a whisker, literally. It was taking every ounce of energy she could muster to keep herself moving fast enough to do it. And she couldn’t maintain the pace forever.

Not, in fact, another moment. She slowed, just by a heartbeat, as she whipped around the Scripture’s bulk, and a well-placed thrust snapped her forearm. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it rendered the arm useless - and as pain on a level she’d forgotten surged through her nerves, she stopped moving.

Ciel had just enough time to see a blur move towards her.

Stupid . . . she berated herself. Now I’m dead. Takara . . . Shiki . . . I’m sorry . . .

. . . Why aren’t I dead yet?

The answer came in the form a second blur impacting the first, propelling both of them across the lawn. When it halted, half of it split off, still flying, and Takara’s Servant lowered a silver-blue sword that gleamed red with blood.

“Just die,” he growled.






Sion walked for several seconds before realising the steady click of her Servant’s heels on the street behind her had stopped. Berating herself for becoming so deeply lost in thought, she halted herself, and turned back.

“What is it?”

“There is a large concentration of energy, several miles from here,” came the answer from within the hood. “It’s very large, Mistress. It is entirely possible that the one we seek is its direct source, or at least nearby - I’m afraid I can’t accurately read the energy signature from this distance.”

The alchemist spent several seconds musing that over from multiple angles. She readily admitted that despite her own intensive training and natural talent, she lacked her Servant’s sheer competence in all things magical.

“Can you take us there?”

“By flight only, Mistress. There are too many variables - I simply can’t teleport directly.”

“Understood. Do it, Caster.”

“Yes, Mistress Sion.”

The Servant slipped her arm around her Mistress’ waist, and the two vaulted into the air, propelled by unseen forces.

Sion asked, “Estimated time of arrival?”

“Perhaps five minutes, Mistress Sion.”

Sion nodded. “Understood.” She had less than five minutes to determine the optimal battle strategy for taking down her prey. And while failure was always a possibility, it was not an acceptable option.

She began to make her plans, sparing only a second for an errant, but relevant thought.

I will defeat you, Zelas Atlasium Oberon.






“What did you plan to use as a substitute Grail core?” Shirou asked, after several hours of explanation and demonstration. “You can’t just transmute a rat, you know.”

“I am aware of many of the basic requirements,” Faust assured him. “I have my Servant seeking a suitable human replacement even now. Surely, in a city such as this, there are many of them.”

Several appeared in Shirou’s mind’s eye. “Yes, but they won’t be easily gotten to. A number of them have powerful protections in place.” He considered Rin, and the wards surrounding her home. Or several of the Servants he’d fought in the last War - another Master would be as close to ideal as they could probably get. He doubted any one Servant could handle another Berserker, or even Saber.

“Or,” he added as an afterthought, “they have more than a little knowledge of their own innate ability, and formidable skill in wielding it.” He considered Takara Aozaki, and the pristine flesh that had held his left arm. It still hadn’t regenerated, despite his ability to do so. It was as though the entire concept of that limb had been removed from his genetic blueprint. No sorcery he’d ever heard of was so powerful.

Faust laughed. “You doubt my Servant’s ability? He captured you, after all.”

Shirou gritted his teeth and continued. “Failing that, many of them have associations that could prove - troublesome. We might lose on the basis of sheer numbers.” He was well aware of Takara’s family affiliations - he might be nigh-infinite in power, but the Magic Gunner was no one he wanted to face.

“Pah!” Faust proclaimed, scowling. “It is not as though this breaching this tower is a simple matter, after all. It is not the Hidden Castle of Eternity, granted, but neither is it easily found. Nor are its defences surmountable without considerable effort and skill. Do you truly believe, in this so-called modern age, magicians of such power are easily found?”

“If they are anywhere, they’ll be here,” Shirou countered, with absolute certainty.

“. . .Perhaps you are right,” the older wizard conceded. “In any case, it would prudent to consider such a thing - however unlikely.” Sarcasm dripped from the last two words. “However, you are correct about our numbers. Should we be discovered, those who remain in this War might defeat us simply by attrition. I will begin to create some assistance for us.”

Shirou smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Allow me to help with that.”

He wasn’t entirely certain that what he had in mind was possible, but the skill of the elder sorcerer, along with his knowledge of magic in general, might make it possible to tip the odds even further, to be not merely balanced, but utterly in their favour. It was worth a try, since success would mean their gaining more capable help than could be gotten from mere constructs or summoned creatures.

The War had not been without its casualties. There were a few open slots for Servants, and he carried within him the seed of the Grail, after all . . .

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 17






Shiki heard the boy’s words, but didn’t react to them. The concept was almost too staggering to comprehend. The blood feud between his family and the Tohno clan was being started again - by Akiha’s son? His higher brain functions went offline, stunned by the revelation, and not quite ready to admit to himself that if he wanted to protect his family, he’d have to remove the one thing that remained in this world of the woman he’d always regarded as a beloved sister.

His world was one of numbness. He listened to the boy say something else, but did not hear it. He watched the sword rise to an attacking position, but did not see it. The air caressed his skin as the youth charged forward, but he did not feel it. He was wrapped in a cocoon of ice and silence that held the sensations of the world at bay.

He made no conscious decision, but his legs moved sideways, propelling him into a roll that dodged the attack and simultaneously put more ground between himself and his attacker.

Idiot,*Nanaya chastised his other self. Do you want to get killed?

Not bothering to “hear” a response, he focussed on the target before him, evaluating him like any other predator. Young, well-conditioned - though still too young for much of that to have taken, yet. Demonically, very strong - and the sword he held reeked of the same. All in all, a fun challenge - though not on the blonde’s level, of course. Not even on par with his little hausfrau, really. The challenge in this would come mainly from himself - he was just so damned run down.

The boy was barely a blur, attacking with a reckless aggression that, against a trained swordsman, would probably have had him killed as soon as he got within blade’s reach. Assuming, of course, that said swordsman had the strength and speed to match the attack, and no human did.

Nanaya, on the other hand, didn’t have the training, but he was fast. He ducked under the strike and slid along the ground past his target, flicking his knife out in mid-pass. The result was a score along the right side of the rib cage - nothing fatal, unless the Tohno actually fought long enough to bleed to death. Breaking one of the many lines on the boy would’ve held him in one place too long, and there hadn’t been enough time to make sure of piercing a lung.

Nanaya, on the other hand, was already breathing hard just from the one move. Shiki’s new toy worked wonders on his stamina, but there were limits. The energy she gave was being drained off quickly by the strain of moving so fast.

“First blood,” he taunted, nonetheless. The boy roared with rage, charging again. Nanaya went up and somersaulted over this time, slicing the topknot from his opponent’s head as he passed, and incidentally carving a deep gouge in the scalp. His landing, however, was disrupted as the youth whirled, recovering unexpectedly quickly to slam the hilt of the blade against his right shoulder.

The arm went numb, and Nanaya ducked down to snatch his falling knife with his other hand, even as he threw himself into a roll away, panting furiously. The head strike hadn’t had nearly the power he’d wanted behind it - the flowing blood might blind his opponent by running into his eyes, but he’d been aiming to penetrate the skull entirely.

His lungs were on fire. Sweat was pouring down his body. He’d been battling for no more than a couple of minutes, and the effort was already exhausting him.*Nanaya was a killer by nature. The perfect killer, in fact - fast, strong, fearless. But he was an assassin, not a warrior. He wasn’t built for a front-line fight, or an extended one. And this one was trained as a warrior.

I’m too weak to play around, the killer realised. Guess I’ll have to use the lines, after all. He grimaced. It would be faster, but less fun. He’d wanted to toy with the kid a little more before using his trump card - he figured that it was the least he owed the little punk, after all his family had put Shiki through. Without their interference, there would be only Shiki Nanaya.

It was a measure of how tired Nanaya was, that he let himself ramble on, and not notice the calm return to his enemy’s face.

“You want my blood, Shiki?” Shin asked in a nearly calm voice. “Then, by all means - take it!”

At a distance, there was no way to stop the boy from raking one of his own injuries to fling a few droplets of blood his way - blood that streaked forward at a speed far in defiance of mere physics. Nanaya had already been in motion as soon as the speech began, but it managed to pierce one of his legs, and proceeded to drag him back.

Nanaya stared incredulously. Stretched out to an impossibly thin consistency - looking remarkably like a line of death itself - the Tohno’s blood seemed to be barely more than a wire, which, it seemed, could be used as a very effective grappling tool. More than that, it was strong - it had drilled a hole right through his left leg, and was spreading, razor-sharp, over the surface of his body even as it pulled him towards its source. Any attempt to struggle would cause lacerations, at best. At worst, he’d end up dicing himself into fish bait.

Enhanced strength, speed, endurance, and now monofilament blood - which can be used at quite a range, Nanaya noted. If he’d been healthy, he admitted to himself the fight might have been entertaining. It reminded him a little of Nero.

Shin laughed. “Surprised, Shiki? I would have thought you’d expect something like this - or were your Nanaya instincts the first thing to go when you got old?” He took in the figure of his captive and laughed again. “You really have let yourself go - what did my mother ever see in you?”

Nanaya seethed inwardly - not out of any slight to his heritage, or his other half’s relationships. It was being outmanoeuvred by a little punk with some fancy tricks that was infuriating him. But he still had one trick left.

“She loved you, you know - far more than she ever did me,” the youth continued as the steadily entwining threads of blood continued to draw his prey closer. “She did love me, I suppose - but in the end I was only an afterthought, a necessity for the continuation of the bloodline she was supposed to uphold. She taught me everything I needed to know for that - it was her duty. But her thoughts were always on another child - yours.”

Keep talking, Nanaya willed even as he gazed at the pattern of lines that crisscrossed the boy. I’ll even listen to prattle like this, if it means you won’t notice that I’ve palmed my knife.

Sparks of crimson danced in Shin’s eyes. “She gave you everything - her home, her name, her love - her life itself! And you threw it all away for some foreign whore!”

If it were possible, Nanaya’s blue eyes would’ve hardened further. The insult to Ciel broke through any reticence that might have caused his “Shiki” persona to hold him back. He found it easier to focus on his target. The core of the boy’s existence was . . .

There.

The heat in the Tohno heir’s voice threatened to ignite the very air. “Her love for you caused my mother to make a terrible mistake. But now it is time for all mistakes to be corrected.”

I couldn’t agree more . . .






Lancer’s blows were fast and furious, each capable of cutting down a small tree in a little more than a heartbeat. To the mundane eye, he was barely more than a blur, a whirlwind of moonlight and forest shadow, bent on a single, lethal purpose. An army would have fallen beneath the strikes he unleashed upon his foe.

And, annoyingly, not a single one had so much as grazed the man yet.

I don’t believe this! he snarled inwardly, as the ninja wannabe twisted - yet again - just out of blade’s reach. I’ve got reflexes sharp enough to catch houseflies bare-handed and blindfolded, and a mystic blade with an accuracy rating that’s flat-out insane against beings from other planes of existence. Why can’t I hit this guy?

They had been fighting for the better part of thirty seconds, now, long enough for both to get a good measure of the other’s capabilities. Lancer rated his enemy as being top-notch for a human - but no more than that. Strength, speed, and reflexes all fell within strictly human capabilities. This was not as weak as it sounded, given that humans are capable of lifting and throwing cars - assuming they didn’t mind running the risk of cracking every vertebrae in their spine. This one either had an insane capacity for punishment, or some kind of healing capability Lancer was unaware of, as he showed no signs of self-injury, despite pushing himself to insane limits.

The initial wound I gave him doesn’t even seem to be slowing him down!

For his part, Assassin was impressed. His target was inhumanly strong and tough - all strikes directed against him seemed to be shrugged off as though he’d thrown popcorn at him. And despite an apparent lack of training, it was taking every defensive trick he had to avoid being struck with what would no doubt be a fatal blow - if that first one hadn’t bounced off his ribs, he’d already be dead.

Though, to be fair, what was forcing him to be fully defensive wasn’t just the raw power of his target - it was the fact that the man’s thoughts appeared to be two disparate flows. One was forest-green and vibrant, but the other that intertwined it was the dark hue of tarnished metal, and the two shades flowed and ebbed in dominance. He had almost no warning, at any given time, which of the two potential courses the thought pattern would follow - and thus his reaction time was limited immensely. The only good news was, as long as he didn’t stray too far from his opponent, the woman held her ground. She didn’t dare strike, for fear of hitting her companion.

Lancer frowned, even as he fought. He moves in short spurts, brief but blindingly fast. His focus is speed and technique, not endurance. I can outlast him, if I have to. But I’m still not sure why I need to.

He lashed out again, watching as the man backpedalled, hesitating at the stopping point.

He keeps pausing, like he expects to hit something behind him. . . Is he not used to fighting on the open ground? Lancer flinched as the return strike glanced off one of his bracers. The weapons his enemy used looked almost like metal drumsticks. The sight of them rang a distant bell in his mind, like someone he’d heard about . . .

Assassin dodged under another blow, before using Lancer’s arm as a springboard to leap up and over his head, delivering a good kick to it in the process. He was tiring quickly, and with the loss of blood from the sword wound, would soon collapse. It appeared that he had no choice but to use his final weapon.

The blow jarred Lancer, even if it didn’t do much more than make him blink.

I should be able to win this! the Servant raged. Kieran Holt was a master warrior!

. . . But I’m not, he realised. And I know that now. I don’t have Kieran’s skills because while I can act the role, I don’t believe in it anymore . . . DAMN that woman! Still, I should be able to outlast this son-of-a . . .

In mid-air, Assassin’s body flared with a crimson light. Six answering lights formed around his glowing form, with himself in the centre. Upon reaching the ground, the light faded to reveal seven Assassins, each sporting a far more minor version of the cut Lancer had inflicted.

. . . Aw, bloody hell.






Ignoring the pain as the blood wires tore at his arm, Nanaya hurled his knife directly at the heart of his enemy’s existence. Once pierced, any connection he had to this world would be irrevocably sundered, and it would be the Tohno bloodline consigned to extinction.

Impossibly, however, that polished blade moved, and didn’t simply deflect his knife - it shattered it. Masterfully tempered steel tore like cheap aluminum as the sweeping blow cut across the air, swiping a few strands of hair from the head of it’s wielder’s prisoner.

His strength spent, Shiki collapsed limply. Long-suppressed agonies screamed along every nerve ending he possessed, each one eager to be the first and loudest complainant. His vision blurred with pain and weariness, and he accepted that, at last, he was out of options. Shiki had cheated death for too long, and now the reckoning had come.

Ciel, Takara, take care of each other. I will always love you both . . .

Shin trembled with anticipation. This was it. The goal he’d worked towards for almost half his life was finally at hand. Triumphantly, he raised his sword . . .

The thrust was delivered with lightning speed, and enough force to split the Japanese oak in two. In addition to cracking at least one rib, it hurled Shin forward, rolling him over in mid-air - but his own inhuman reflexes allowed him to twist a hundred and eighty degrees, landing on his feet to face the dead fool who’d dared to strike him in the back.

It was a girl older than he, and a little shorter, but not by much on either count. She was garbed in a navy-blue kimono with white roses on it, but the black hakama pants she wore clashed with the pattern. She held the twin pieces of her broken training sword as though they were a true short sword and dagger, and her stance held the calm and poise of an experienced warrior, ready to attack in a heartbeat. Shin noticed all this in an instant, but it didn’t concern him - what held him frozen was not how she dressed, or how she held herself, but her appearance.

Her face was pale in the moonlight, with a mix of European and Asian features that might have looked pretty had they worn a softer expression. Her hair was dark, a deep black that shone with a midnight-blue hue, as though cut from the night sky itself. Her eyes were twin moons - a shining, merciless silver. When she spoke, her voice was like falling snow, feather soft and as cold as the grave.

“How dare you hurt my father,” she said.






Ciel watched the rapid conflict, holding three Black Keys in her one working hand. The weight of the weapons was comforting, but she didn’t dare use them - her chosen target was too fast, and she didn’t want to accidentally impale her ally.

When the single warrior became seven, however, she risked a toss, hoping that the sheer numbers would shield the Servant from being struck - and to be fair, she managed to impale three of them on her blades. Unfortunately, they didn’t seem to do much more than scratch them.

The three separated from the group, two of them coming for her, and a third moving off to the side - why, Ciel wasn’t certain. The four remaining entities (were they clones? Illusions?) surrounded the Servant, and proceeded to attack with merciless ferocity.

For her part, Ciel generated and hurled another set of blades even as she rolled to the side and concentrated on healing herself. The bone knit together quickly, if not quite correctly - using the arm would be painful, but she couldn’t spare the time to do it properly. The previous one-to-one odds had been bad enough, and now there were three.

The charging attackers dodged the incoming projectiles with almost painful ease, two of them taking to the air. Ciel moved forward to meet the one still on the ground, knowing that at least one of them would still be at her back, but it was better than standing there and taking a diving attack. New Black Keys formed in both hands as she dashed to meet her opponent.

The battle was in the same style as before, pushing her mystical and physical abilities to their limits. Her blows were avoided with amazing precision, though not always easily - she wielded two sets of weapons, and simultaneous attacks seemed to have a better chance of getting through his guard. Unfortunately, she never seemed to do more than scratch a layer or two of skin - it was like trying to make him bleed to death through paper cuts.

Though she braced herself, the other two warriors never came for her. If she’d had time, Ciel would have stopped to question why that was. At the moment, however, survival was all she could care about. Even the man who’d saved her life was, regrettably, on his own.






Rin cursed, even as she hobbled back to the house. She should have known to be more careful, running through a forest in the middle of the night, but she’d been too intent on getting to the source of the explosion to see the root on the ground until she tripped.

Was it Shirou again? Had he tracked her, somehow? Or had someone new found them - that armoured Servant? The Avenger had been with her, so he was out as a possibility at least, unless he had a way to be in two places at once.

Limping through the woods, she focussed her eyes on the darkness ahead of her. She was no Archer, but her night vision was fairly good. She could see two - or maybe three - figures in the clearing that stood for the Aozakis’ backyard. Her hearing picked up a boy’s voice, on the night wind.

“So, you are the cause of it all. It will - YEAAAAAGH!”

Rin blinked, suddenly seeing a wooden spike protrude from the boy’s left shoulder. Then a human-shaped figure appeared in the air above him, and they both blurred into near-invisibility.

As she watched, the two swordsmen clashed. While the boy had far greater size, upper body strength and reach, his opponent was a whirlwind of technique, moving with far superior speed and finesse. The fighter with the shorter blade got in close and harried him with a series of short, sharp strikes that negated the advantages of the boy’s longer blade - kept on the defensive, its length was a hindrance at parrying multiple attacks. The fighting style of the other, Rin noted, was unusual. The sword tip wasn’t aiming at traditional vital points, but using quick stabs and slicing cuts in other areas, but she couldn’t tell why.

Frustrated, the youth roared and lashed out in a wide arc, causing his opponent to do a corkscrewing leap away even as one of the cuts landed home. The boy’s right hand fell apart, but his left hand’s grip on the sword remained firm as he continued the strike. The air split with a thunderclap, and to Rin’s amazement, the back of the house folded inwards, as though struck by a giant’s fist.

The boy didn’t stop there, but brandished the stump of his right arm outward, and trails of blood sprayed forth to ensnare his opponent in a mesh of vermillion, and fling the fighter to the ground.

Once forcibly stopped, she recognised Takara Aozaki, but with darker hair and lighter eyes than she remembered. Rin also recognised the demonic nature of the girl’s opponent, and knew that in a matter of seconds, she was going to die.

Rin scowled. I don’t think so, kid. She lifted her sword, and charged it with enough power to turn a normal human being to ashes. That should at least stun whatever he was - and from the “feel” she was getting, she’d put money on some kind of demon hybrid. What he was doing here, Rin had no idea, but he was about to regret ever showing up.

She heard a whistling, just before an unknown object erupted out of the darkness and impacted her skull. As she collapsed to the ground, her upwardly-rolling eyes unconsciously traced its trajectory, spotting its origin in a warrior kneeling on the roof.

The world went black before she could even curse.






“An intriguing idea,” Faust had called it. “Also useful, in that it affords more chances to realise our goals.”

Shirou just called it practical, assuming it could be done.

The younger sorcerer concentrated. Faust had drawn the summoning circles, to command and contain the summoned entities. He would also provide some of the necessary power. However, the bulk of the energy would be drawn from Shirou. It had to be, since the entire process relied on the Grail system to work - and his internal mana reserves were intended to be the primer that started the pump, as it were. They were already intricately connected to the workings of the system.

Technically speaking, the War’s battle hierarchy allowed for the use of seven Servants in the conflict - one to represent each of the seven classes. Once all seven were summoned, the “draw period” expired, and the War began in earnest. In practise, however, that was not a hard and fast rule. Avengers could be summoned in place of any of the seven, though the practise was forbidden - and in the last War, Shirou had seen two of the Assassin type, one with the designation “True Assassin.” This didn’t even count the “Black” versions Sakura’s Shadow persona had controlled.

Given enough power and skill, therefore, Shirou saw no reason why more Servants couldn’t be summoned to do the things that needed doing. It had been done before, why not again?

And so he concentrated on his desires. Ideally, he should be able to call up any and all Servant classes, as often as he wished. However, while Faust would enact the bindings, the actual summoning was left to him, and while improved, his skill in sorcery was insufficient for such a task. What he believed he could do, however, was trick the system into thinking that the Servants who had been destroyed were merely unsummoned, and allow him access.

He felt for the gaps in the hierarchy, the empty places where Servants should stand. Once he knew the absences, Shirou intoned the words that would fill those spots.

“Across the spans of time and space, unto this age, unto this place,
Thou art called to life anew, by ancient power and binding true.
Rider . . .Archer . . . Lancer . . .
Come forth to serve in battle’s fire,
And be rewarded with heart’s desire.”

An aura of pure white light sprang into existence around Shirou, streaking out to the arcane symbols on the floor. The scarlet seals flared to life, their individual lights coalescing around the white cores into humanoid shapes that flared white, once, before resolving into crude matter.

Shirou collapsed to his knees, momentarily drained. He still had more mana than any mortal mage could hold, but the strain of summoning so much at once was more than he’d expected. A human would have died.

“Master,” said one of them, though he couldn’t say for certain which one.

“Do not be concerned.” He recognised Faust’s accented tones. “He is merely over-weary. I will relieve him of some of the burden, and contract with one of you myself.”

“I see the mark on your hand, Master. It is not possible to have two Servants,” one said authoritatively.

“Oh no?” Faust sounded amused again. “Tell me, would you have said summoning three Servants at once was equally not possible?”

The elder wizard laughed. “We have nothing to fear now, my young friend. I know of no force that could possibly be brought to bear in this War equal to the power of four Servants - especially of such power as these. The Grail is as good as won.”






On the night winds, Berserker drifted. His task was simple in its naming, but perhaps not in its execution.

Find a human with sufficient mana to serve as an alternate vessel, he had been told. His Master had pointed to Shirou. That is the level you must strive to reach.

Easily said, but not done. While the surrounding city had a great deal of ambient mana, much of which had unconsciously been woven into its inhabitants, such massive amounts of it were rare. More, his abilities were unsuited to tracking levels of mystic power - he could detect it only through the blood of his prey.

Thus far, he had not found any who reached the goal his Master sought - although he had collected quite an army of enthralled mortals, which might be useful as cannon fodder. Still, it was nearly dawn, and he had not achieved his objectives - it was very galling.

However, his keen hearing caught the sound of two more drifters in the air, some distance away. Obviously magically trained, or born, to do that. Possibly closer to the ideal he sought. Heading in - that direction.

Berserker turned to match their course. Even if they proved unsuitable, perhaps they could lead him to someone that was. The night was not yet over, and success was still within his grasp.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 18






The swordsman she faced had strength - she used agility. He had reach - she countered with speed. He was aflame with rage - hers was a fury so cold she was numb inside. He had training, but hers was greater, as was her experience. He countered that with sheer power, more than any human could ever bring to bear. And this, too, she found she could match.

She moved faster than she ever had before, faster than she’d ever dreamed of moving. She was a wisp of the wind itself, dancing around her opponent’s attacks with consummate ease and grace. Her focus was narrowed to a tiny world of just they two, concentrated on the lines that crisscrossed his body, crimson lines with a vermillion core. There were his weakest points, the true vital areas. If she broke them, she would break him.

If she had stopped to think, she would have been astonished and appalled. Firstly, that she would consider killing anyone was a radical departure for her. But more than that, the speed at which she moved should have exhausted her in seconds. Every block, every blow she struck was done with such force that her arms should have broken in their sockets, every leap should have torn the ligaments from her legs. It was not a speed, or strength, that she should have been capable of.

She was beyond thought. She was beyond emotion. She was beyond the identity that was defined as Takara Aozaki, She was instinct given free reign, potential unleashed, all dedicated to a single purpose . . . Death.

And it was that dedication that broke the stalemate. A single swipe at an opening she did not consciously register, and the boy’s right hand dropped free of his arm, revealing a necrotic stump. More in fury than pain, a roar that was more bestial than human erupted from his throat, along with a sweeping cut that was pitiful to see. She was flying on the night wind by the time it was anywhere near her. He might as well have been waving a club for all the technique behind it - though the explosion of sound caused her to wince in pain, unexpected as it was.

Then they had her, vermillion threads not unlike those she saw on his body - but threads under his command. And they cut her . . .

. . . Cut her so deeply . . .






Ciel was arguably the greatest warrior of the modern age. Trained to combat creatures beyond human capability, and win, her fighting style was second to none in doing battle with creatures possessed of inhuman strength, speed, endurance, and powers of recovery. In recent years, she’d worked heavily on her defensive skills, since the protective mantle of immortality no longer enshrouded her. Combined with her overall conditioning, which was that of a woman in her mid-twenties, she was undoubtedly a formidable force to be reckoned with.

At the same time, she was facing two opponents of equal conditioning and capability as herself, if not greater. Despite her body, she was mentally in her early forties, not her mid-twenties. She was pushing herself to her limit, which no one could do indefinitely, and it was well past midnight. Her fall was not a possibility, but an inevitability. And in time, it happened.

It was more a series of sensory impressions than a coherent event. Ciel felt the burning of tired muscles moving in a block that came just a fraction of a second too late. She saw the gleam of a metal rod scraping against the metal edge of a blade, sending a shower of sparks dancing into the air. She heard the cracking of her rib cage as the blow landed, and smelled her own skin as she folded around the impact - hot, sour sweat. If exhaustion had a scent, she reeked of it now. And she knew, as the world began to lose colour and cohesion, that she’d failed. Failed her husband, her child - and herself, because once again, harm would come to those she loved, and she could not prevent it.

Takara . . . Shiki . . . I’m sorry . . .






Caged between four highly skilled opponents, Lancer snarled in rage, but not pain. For all their strength and skill, they were humans, wielding simple, mundane, metal rods - and so long as it was unenchanted, nothing short of an anti-tank missile or sustained automatic weapons fire could pierce his hide. Even enchanted bullets, so long as they weren’t silver, would only scratch him. It was how he’d lasted as long against Saber as he had - and while these four were good, they weren’t in her league by a long shot.

But if they couldn’t harm him, they could certainly hold him - he was effectively pinned between the quartet, unable to escape and help Ciel, who was having obvious difficulty fighting two of them, or his Mistress - and he suspected she needed all the help she could get. And he couldn’t seem to hurt them - despite the power of his muscles and his sword, all his blows seemed minimal, scratching where they should sunder.

All right, he thought to himself. If physical attacks don’t work, let’s try a little juice! This is gonna hurt like hell . . .

The incantation came as easily as breathing. The pinpricks of impact his attackers gave were not enough to sway his concentration. Clouds swirled in the night sky to the rhythm of his call.

“Spirits of fire and hallowed light,
Lend unto me thy untold might.
To purge this evil from my sight,
I entreat ye, flame, strike!”

A column of blazing light pierced the darkness, plunging deep into the earth below. Fire empowered with divine energy scourged the earth, its roar devouring the screams of its victims, and when its brilliance evaporated, Lancer stood aghast.

At least I knocked them off of me, but I damned near fry myself, and they get minor burns?!

The Servant was a mass of charred flesh. His eyes, while shut against the light he’d known was coming, were barely focussing. His ears were ringing from the sound, and his lungs felt like someone had coated their insides with sandpaper. He figured he’d hurt more, but he’d managed to melt most of his nerve endings. His opponents, on the other hand, were badly burned - as though someone had poured boiling water onto their bodies. But he was far the worse for wear, though healing.

He locked eyes with them, with their paper-thin cuts and angry, red skin, wondering, though he was the werewolf, which of them would be counted among monsters. They were barely even bleeding . . .

. . . They were all bleeding . . .

Why are they all bleeding - identically?






Saber saw the flash as she emerged from the house, and shielded her eyes. When she opened them again, she saw the lycanthrope Servant surrounded by four, and the Manager of the War down and surrounded by two. The choice was obvious, as were her tactics.

She hurled her dagger at the pair by the Manager, her peripheral vision seeing it slicing into one of them even as her sword cleared its sheath and she brought it to bear on the second. Her attack, while surprising, didn’t catch them fully off-guard, and the second managed to evade her blade before countering with a thrust of his own weapon - a metal club of some form. She blocked deftly, though not easily, and ducked before a second swipe - by the second assailant - could break the back of her neck.

Barely even scratched him, Saber noted automatically. Did I miss? Or is his skin armoured, somehow?

There was no time to consider an answer, as she found herself pressed on two fronts suddenly. Individually, they were as skilled as any warrior she’d ever commanded - as a pair, they fought as one. Swift, intuitive, and relentless, they were more than the match of any single fighter.

Saber, however, was more than simply a fighter. The veteran of hundreds of campaigns, against armies of thousands, she fought with a prowess that was more than skill, more than talent. It was legend, and such a title was not bestowed lightly on anything. The force at her command held both of her enemies at bay, striking at weak points where possible, keeping up a constant offense when not, seeking to wear them down. For their style was obviously an assassin’s - and while patience was one of their virtues, endurance was not. They were not trained to fight in armour for hours - sometimes days - on end, beneath blazing sun or driving rain or raging snow. Saber had every confidence that she could, and would, wear them down, given time enough.

The question was whether Mrs. Aozaki, who was breathing still but unmoving, had the time to spare.






Assassin watched as the battles played out. His duplicates were fighting well enough, hindering those who would interfere with his Master’s plans. The very thought of it turned his stomach, but the power that bound him to this world could not be disobeyed. He had no choice. Though he wondered, now, if his wish was worth the price of service.

The boy had unusual taste in enemies, admitted the killer on the rooftop. All of them were so obviously beyond human, yet there wasn’t a single hint of demonic energy in the lot. The woman was obviously a Church hunter - and the barrier protecting the house was designed to prevent violence by Servants within its walls, as well. The Servants themselves, judging by himself and the other outside, were something other than demons. Something purer, but no less dangerous. The man with the double-hued thoughts was putting up a fight that would have killed one of him quickly enough. He hissed as his flesh began to burn. Yes, that one was very dangerous.

A movement caught the corner of his eye, a shimmer of emerald thought, in the deep woods, and he threw one of his staves instinctively. Movement ceased thereafter, but it had been unexpected, and he turned to the back, to concentrate more fully on his Master (may he rot in Hell for all eternity, preferably dispatched there by his own hand). The Servant saw a girl, her thoughts almost blindingly silver, dart towards the boy . . .
If he’d still had a true heartbeat, Assassin’s would have stopped. If he’d needed to breathe, he’d have choked. He stared in something akin to wonder.

The girl was fast, possibly as swift as he himself. Her actions were sure, nearly instinctive, and her skill undeniably great. As a fellow warrior, he could admire her prowess. But it wasn’t that which chilled his soul.

Though she used a different technique, the style of her movements was familiar to him. He’d seen it before, in a compound at the heart of a mountain, among small children who had not yet been trained in the power they’d inherited.

The girl . . . The girl was Nanaya.






Sion clung tightly to her Servant, though she knew that Caster’s method of flight involved creating a “pocket” of vacuum propelled by the wind. So long as she was within that void’s range, she would be suspended in mid-air. However, while she was intellectually aware of it, the alchemist was not someone who enjoyed heights, so emotionally, she clung for support she did not physically need.

In order to at least partially distract herself, she compared the terrain below with topographical maps she had studied of the area. Atlas was not as adept as the Clock Tower in matters of intelligence, but neither were they without resources. She matched the area as approaching a plot of land owned by the Aozaki family - though it was supposed to be unused. Still, perhaps her target had been drawn to some residual mana or relics left behind?

Now that they drew closer, she could sense the energies being given off as well. Powerful waves assaulted her admittedly clumsy senses - a swirl of chaos. Was there more than one pattern? Her question was answered almost immediately, as they approached the area, and saw the battle royale taking place. Six fighters fought two - and there was another downed. A seventh figure crouched upon a rooftop, watching something else - another battle, she saw, as they moved over the “horizon” created by the roof.

“Mistress, what should we do?” asked Caster quietly.

Sion considered. None of these seemed to be her target, at least at a distance. The energies given off by most of these fighters identified them as Servants of the War, however. It was possible to eliminate many potential obstacles in her path, right now.

“Nothing,” the alchemist decided at last. “We will observe, and remain hidden.”

“Yes, Mistress.” The Servant murmured a few phrases in ancient Greek, and they vanished from human sight.






Berserker observed the sight the two females had led him to. Neither of them could possess much power, if they chose to stay concealed rather than fight. Below them, however . . . the breeze brought him the scent of blood, mingled with power. Power such as he could only have dreamed a human might possess. Though not as powerful as his master’s new lackey, that one might make adequate prey for his experiments. As might the other . . . But too much attention was focussed there, right now, whereas the first target lay ripe for the plucking.

While Berserker might relish the battle to acquire the second one, time was of the essence. Dawn was too near to risk it. Reluctantly, but swiftly, he dove to the ground. Business first - but the next time, nothing would interfere with his pleasure.






The War without was echoed by a War within.

"Slay any who protect him, or who threaten me."

An absolute command. Despite issuing as it did from the lips of a hated foe, it was nonetheless backed by the very power that sustained him, and could not be disobeyed. Its force was elemental, unyielding, as unstoppable as the sunrise. And yet . . .

And yet, he tried. Because to obey the command was to destroy his wish, that which had kept him from resting quietly in his grave. It was not a desire for vengeance, though he had cause. Not a fear of death, or damnation. The wish to see his family again - to see his son, his only child, grow up.

Assassin doubled over, collapsing onto his side in a fetal position from the pain, physical and emotional. To disobey his Master’s command was impossible, yet if he did not, his son would die - and soon, the girl who must be his grandchild, as well. The power of his existence battled the purpose of it, and neither would back down from the fight.

Kiri Nanaya screamed behind his mask. It was not a cry of pain, or anger, or even for mercy’s sake. It was a call of defiance, that he would not*allow himself to be the instrument of his own line’s destruction. He could not . . .

. . . But neither, it seemed, could he stop it.






Saber was a force of nature, striking again and again at her attackers, with pitiable results. Each blow was a masterstroke, yet seemed no more than a flesh wound. It was like hacking away at an ancient tree, or a stone. They simply would not fall.

Nonetheless, she persisted. She had a cause, and it was righteous. With that behind her, her body’s weariness would not stop her. Relentless odds would not stop her. Triumph was the only acceptable outcome, and she would continue until she either achieved it or dropped dead.

When her two opponents convulsed, she hesitated, her rhythm thrown. As they collapsed to the ground, she halted altogether. What in Heaven’s name?

A thud that reverberated through the ground cut off any further thought, and she whirled to see a familiar form crouched beside Mrs. Aozaki.

“You’re alive!” Saber gasped.

Berserker turned to face her, the Aozaki matriarch slung over one shoulder - yet he seemed elegant even with such a burden. “Nor am I the only one, it seems. Regrettably, I have no time to dally, even with so enticing a lady. Another night.”

“No, you don’t!” Saber exclaimed.

She lunged forward, her sword a blur of silver. The Servant moved, but not quite quickly enough to escape her wrath: though he seemed uninjured, his helmet was split in twain.

Dark, shoulder-length hair framed aquiline features. He wore a handlebar moustache and goatee, and his eyes were pits of blackness. Saber tried to gauge him through them, and believed she could see crimson flecks in their obsidian depths. They seemed to draw her in relentlessly . . .

She blinked, and he was gone.






Lancer didn’t know what to make of it when all four of his foes collapsed, but he made the connection - damage was shared among all of them. He’d have to hit six or seven times to do the injury one of his blows usually delivered.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure in black armour crouched by Ciel, and Saber confronting him. Their lives might be in even greater danger - he couldn’t afford to waste time.

The druid grabbed one of the Servant duplicates, and concentrated, unleashing all his anger in a single, hissing word. The forces of entropy and decay - often regarded as evil, but no less an aspect of nature - converged on his target, seeking to utterly destroy that which stood before them. The warrior’s form was suffused by black light, tinted ever so faintly by a sheen of the darkest green.

Lancer didn’t even bother staying to see the result. It was one of his most powerful spells, capable of reducing even the mightiest creature to the slightest fraction of his strength, if it failed to slay outright - the diametric opposite of the spell he’d first used on Shiki Aozaki. Instead, he charged towards the two women . . .

And halted, as the world suddenly faded out on him.

The spell used too much energy . . . he realised. I don’t have enough left to keep going like this.

Acting at full strength would be mean his end in minutes. Consciously, he disengaged all of Kieran Holt’s inherent power. He still resembled the Servant named Lancer, but it was in appearance only. If pressed, he was now no stronger than his true self. It would slow the drain, for a while, give him perhaps an hour. He would have to restore his energies before then.

When he could focus again, he saw the face of the man who held Ciel Aozaki. It was familiar to him, having seen woodcuts and paintings before, but not a visage he had ever expected to see in person. One of the most brutal warlords of the fifteenth century, so violent his people named “son of the devil.”

And he had Takara’s mother . . . And he was getting away.

“No,” Lancer rasped. “Ciel! NO!”

He screamed at the warrior, to make him halt, but if the Servant heard, he did not heed.

“TEPES!”






Sion felt the wind as the Servant passed them by, his burden not encumbering his speed in the slightest. Massive, batlike wings had erupted from his back, and he seemed more gargoyle than man, now.

“He bears your enemy’s power, Mistress!” Caster cried.

“Then pursue him,” Sion ordered.

Her Servant paused. “But - shouldn’t we do something about those people down there? They were protecting the lady he took, and a number of them look badly hurt . . .”

She would not allow her first real lead to escape, not when she was certain she was so close.

“Pursue the Servant, Caster. Don’t let him get away.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the woman replied quietly.

The pair shot after the creature without another word.






Takara screamed as the threads, so sharp, bit deep into her flesh. Her vision was surrounded by a red-black haze, and air was suddenly failing to reach her lungs. Cold spots, where she was bleeding out, throbbed on her skin. Struggling only made her wounds worse.

It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair that her life could be so easily extinguished, and her killer’s was within her sight! She could see the life inside him, see where it would go out if she made it so! Instead she writhed in pain, as the crimson bands of fire tightened their burning grip.

Takara concentrated all her anger on those vermillion roots, that throbbed with vitality, willing them to die. She wanted to crush the life out of him, as he was doing to her. She wanted, more than anything, to reverse their positions, so that he would lie dying instead of her. He was taking her life - she wanted his.

Was her vision going? No! Slowly, so slowly, the vermillion structure supported her killer began to fade. The crimson mesh that bound her turned dark and dry. A tingling warmth replaced the cold numbness in her body. Warmth that grew hotter, and hotter, until she burned with new vitality.

Her entire body felt alive, like a newborn star, and as she ascended to her feet, her opponent crumpled, like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Takara smiled, but despite the fire that raged inside her, no warmth touched her expression. It was the smile of the crescent moon, cold, unforgiving, and razor-sharp.

“N - no,” croaked the boy. “Muh . . . My . . . revenge . . . H . . .How . . .?”

Takara didn’t know, and wouldn’t answer if she did. She would live, and he would die, and that was all she cared about.

The bloodlines retracted, sluggishly, like molasses flowing. The power that animated them was greatly diminished, if not gone altogether, and the effort to recall them was almost palpable to her. For her part, she vibrated where she stood, not finding it easy to keep still. She was aflame with heat, and life, and power, and that power did not like being forced to stay at rest. The effort was almost painful.

She turned, to retrieve her sword’s fragments, or dance, or do anything that didn’t involve just remaining in one place - and didn’t see the last effort of a dying youth, as a single, razored spray of blood, no thicker than sewing thread, shot forward to pierce her skull.

It embedded itself, instead, in a metal rod.






Never turn your back on an enemy, girl, Assassin advised her silently. He didn’t have the strength to speak. The spellcaster’s last attack had finished his duplicates, and he wouldn’t long survive them. The order he’d been given would have him slay any who attacked his Master - and as a dying man, that command was already being enforced.

Still, he admitted to himself that with no training or experience, the girl hadn’t done too badly, especially since she couldn’t be a pure-blooded Nanaya. Given that, her potential was enormous - pity he wouldn’t be able to see to her training.

The Tohno bloodline was extinct, and his own, however forgotten, endured. He found he could be satisfied with that.

Live well, Shiki, Assassin thought.

And then, for the second time Kiri Nanaya died.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 19






Berserker cut through the night sky like a shark through the ocean depths, a supreme predator utterly in his element. Dawn was approaching, and it was a concern, but he had fed well, and the prize which he had sought this night was cradled within his iron grasp. It was, to his mind, a night well spent.

Even more joyously, it appeared that the blonde knight had survived her ordeal, and yet lived to challenge him. He would enjoy facing her again - for had she not dealt handily with his own lesser minions, and those dispatched to slay her this night, as well? For any mortal warrior, the speed and lethal precision of those fighters would have meant immediate doom, yet she had battled not one, but two, with little more than a hard effort. While the power of the Grail which bound them had no doubt strengthened her somewhat - as it had himself - her performance spoke well of her skills and temperament. Her fundamental ability had to have been remarkable for the Grail to choose her at all.

Berserker envisioned meeting her in battle, the clash of two worthy warriors at last. It would be a conflict that would resound through the ages. And then, once her body lay broken beneath him, and that fiery light began to fade from her jewelled eyes, he would show graciousness in his victory, renewing them once more with the kiss of eternity . . .

The shifting of the wind interrupted his thoughts, as it brought with its passage the scent of mortal blood. It appeared that the pair whom he had followed to his captive had now chosen to follow him. While he did not believe that they could pose a serious threat to him, they were an annoyance. At this moment, haste was essential. He knew that the heartbeat of the one he carried was faint, and fading. If ‘twas that they intended to rescue her, they would be best off allowing him to reach the wizard, whose arts might allow for healing. If they could slay the wizard in the rescuing, all the better - he had grown arrogant in his presumption of calling him “Servant.” But if he engaged in battle here and now, harm might yet come to the woman - and while Berserker had no respect for his Master’s position, the old fool’s power was not to be disregarded. Any punishment would be unpleasant, to be sure.

So, he chose to resort to another tactic - to counter an annoyance with another annoyance.






They flew with the speed of the wind, literally. Had they been moving through a cityscape, skyscrapers would have had windows exploding outward with their passage. Instead, there was only a constant roar of air in Sion’s ears as the two women straked across the night sky.

The alchemist’s mind was furiously at work, running along several parallel processes, as it had been trained to do. What was the most favourable route to reach the outcome she desired? Simply tracking the Servant, who to Caster’s senses reeked of her ancestor’s power, would likely lead her to him. Similarly, she could attempt to stop his flight now, and acquire the information directly from his mind - but the battle would be treacherous, and the Servant seemed accustomed to the element, as his winged form attested. Still, it might be worthwhile to try, if she could defeat the Servant here, since it would be one less advantage held by her enemy. And there was the question of the woman - she was probably important, since the Servant had dropped into the middle of a battle zone to acquire her, but in what way?

The current scenario lacked critical information. Perhaps it would be better to simply follow until . . .

Sound suddenly filled the air, a thrumming noise that vibrated in the marrow of her bones, followed by a wave of screeching sharp enough to make her wince. The cacophony was blinding, in its way, bringing even her mind to a sudden and absolute halt. Sion opened her mouth to ask Caster for an explanation, when there was abruptly no need, for the answer was upon them.

Insects, thousands of insects, every species that flew and bit or stung, a cloud so deep and thick it turned her view of the world stygian black, with the disturbing impression of scuttling movement in the darkness. With the darkness came pain, as bites and stings were randomly, frantically, unleashed upon exposed flesh. For a moment, bile filled her throat as several different venoms were injected through her system in heavy concentrations, even as portions of her skin were chewed away almost to the bone.

Then came the bats, dozens or hundreds, screeching and flapping against her body, some biting as the insects had done, or latching on to lap at freely-flowing blood. Others merely blinded, or deafened with their passage, and still others struck with massive wings against her already battered body. In one case, she believed she heard bone crack - but whether it was the wing of a luckless bat, or one of her ribs, she could not say. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t think - and by the time reality tore through the veil of flesh, so that she could sense the world around her again, Sion was falling.

Falling, with the ground so very far below . . .






Shiki lay on the ground, unable to move. His breathing was irregular, his skin tone nearly gray, and his body shuddered, ever so slightly, with cold. To fight Shin Tohno, he’d used every ounce of energy Hisui had given him - and then some. The inherent power and skill of his bloodline had never come to him without cost, and now, with the battle done, that debt was coming due. Even without the still-bleeding injuries he’d sustained in the battle, the cost would have been high. But those injuries, combined with the slow leeching of his strength, would mean his life.

It appeared that, even in death, young Shin had accomplished his goal.

Akiha . . . Did you hate me so much - that you made your son a killer . . . ?

A voice came to him, from very far away, “Father . . .”

Takara, he realised, but his limbs were made of stone, and encased in ice. He didn’t have the strength to move even the slightest muscle.

“FATHER!”

All he could do was drift into whatever lay on the other side of dreams. Slowly, slowly, he sank into the darkness . . .

And found light. Bright, verdant light, so pale it was nearly white, like a lightning bolt. The light shattered the darkness, burned away the ice, melted the stone. He could breathe again, his heart could beat again, and as the light faded, he could see the gentle illumination of night once more, as well as a far harsher light.

Takara glowed like the midday sun, becoming brighter and more blinding with each heartbeat. Blistering heat rose from her skin in a howling wind, tossing her garments across the yard, or tearing them to pieces. Energy crackled up and down the length of her exposed skin, leaving red patches where they passed that were gradually darkening to purple.

“So . . . hot . . . “ Takara rasped. “Father . . .” She doubled over in agony, the bolts of green-white power lashing out at the air around her even as they increased in both speed and intensity. “Help me . . . “

Shiki tried, to his credit. He dove into the lightning web without hesitation, trying to reach his only child at the centre. The heat of the air around her struck him like a sledgehammer, scalding his skin and draining his lungs. The shock of it froze him in place just an instant too long. A jagged lance of lightning hurled hin contemptuously out of the space, to collide with the remains of the sliding glass door.

“No . . .” Takara tried to scream, but it came out as a rattling wheeze. “Help . . . HELP!”

Shiki, struggling to rise even as his limbs twitched spasmodically, could see a tiny flare of crimson in the web of green.






Lancer felt it an instant before it took him - it was not unlike the Call that had originally summoned him. Then he was before his Mistress, literally ablaze with power, and the necessary knowledge flooded his mind.

She had somehow absorbed a great deal of energy from her enemy, and called up more of her innate power in a desperate attempt to heal her father in the only way she understood - the way she’d feed a Servant. It was more power than she consciously understood how to handle. Her body was like an overcharged battery, primed to explode - and given the sheer volume of potential she actually possessed, Takara might dwarf the Nagasaki blast when she did.

Lancer opened the connection between them, knowing even as he did that it was too much. He, Saber, and probably another Servant could fully replenish themselves on what was currently active inside her. Still, Lancer fed, long and deep, restoring his internal strength once more. It was a nothing, a trifling amount compared to what lay before him. He could expend it all and still find more than enough to top himself up again. Takara was still in danger of dying. He’d only destroy himself, trying to take in all the power that was raging inside her body.

But the Command Seal had been activated, with a single directive, and it gave him another option. On the ultimate level, energy was energy, no matter how it was generated. So if he could not absorb its force in a mystical incarnation, nor survive its physical manifestation, perhaps his mind could do it. For the power raged, indeed, and he understood rage. There was a risk involved, however - absorbing so much energy, in the form of anger, might shatter his mind as easily as the physical force could’ve done to his body. At best, it would reduce him to an unthinking animal, killing for the sheer sake of destruction. At worst, he would be totally annihilated, a vegetable living on even after his soul had long since perished.

It was a frightening possibility. There was a way, he suspected, that he might optimise his chances of survival . . . But the possible cost would be almost as devastating. He might still lose his Mistress. Yet if he succeeded, at least she would be alive.

Choice? Lancer asked himself, echoing his thoughts of a long ago battle. What choice?

With that, he faded away completely, because for all the hardships of Kieran Holt’s life, Lancer did not understand rage as well as Avenger. His entire life had been marked with it - at a world where violence, corruption, and depravity seemed more prevalent all the time. At a body that had never been strong enough, fast enough, good enough, and seemed to fail a little more with each passing year. At a man who did nothing but complain, knowing his responsibilities, his potential, and yet did nothing out of sheer sloth. An arrogant, hypocritical coward, who lived a life of weakness and constant physical pain - and could not help but believe he deserved it. Because he knew as well, that there was a darkness inside him, one that didn’t care about anything at all, and it frightened him, because it was part of him.

Avenger took the force from Takara, and sent it to that dark place, pouring it into the emptiness, the place where his own rage dwelt - what was more, added to the vast sea he’d always carried? It opened the channel inside him, sending the anger into his body, and he was used to that, used to being so angry that it made his stomach acid burn. He let it happen, knowing that the flashpoint hadn’t been reached yet - no one was in danger of his violence yet - but it was close.

The light surrounding Takara faded, slowly, and her eyes blinked against the brightness and its absence, adjusting to the night, before widening at the sight of her saviour. She tried to say something - he couldn’t make out what - but collapsed against him before a word left her mouth. Avenger, unprepared for the sudden dead weight, fell with Takara on top of him.

Still, they had both survived, though his limbs trembled in fury. He’d been to this point only a few times before, when he had to run, to get away from whatever was making him so angry, or blood would be drawn. But while Takara wasn’t exactly heavy, neither did he have the strength - or at least the leverage, in his current position - to move her.

He lay there for a time, trying to calm down, trying to make his next words, his next actions something gentler than an explosion. Takara’s breathing, soft, warm, and faintly tickling his skin, helped. It gave him something quiet to focus on, to orient to.

Finally, he croaked, “Um, a little help, please?”






Caster was smothered in the wave of bats, assaulted on every side by a brush of leathery wings. The sensation was so all-pervading that she didn’t, at first, register the absence of her Mistress’ weight and warmth. And when she did . . .

“Hecate,” she murmured, both as a curse and as a prayer. Her next word was louder, a strident command that scattered the bats like leaves in the wake of a hurricane. They were a distraction, nothing more, and while she did not seek to do them harm, she would no longer tolerate their presence. The wind which held her aloft increased in intensity, whipping her cloak - and then her long, azure hair - in a frenzied dance, as the Servant grew more alarmed.

There she was!

Diving from the heavens as her patron goddess might have descended into the underworld, a female form confident in her ability and terrifying in her power, Caster shot to intercept the falling alchemist. She had to hurry - at the increasing rate Sion was falling, it would not be long before her descent could no longer be slowed without risking an injury, and where any sudden halt might kill her.

Sion, for her part, was beginning to feel the siren call of oblivion. While she was no weakling, the strain of her fall was too much for her to bear, and if she did not find a way to stop it soon . . . Well, at least she’d die of heart failure before her body hit the ground.

Long, slender fingers grabbed at her ankle suddenly, fastening on with a grip of surprising strength for the delicacy of their texture. Sion strained to crane her neck, and saw her Servant, a look of iron determination etched onto her elfin features. She was saying something the alchemist couldn’t hear over the whipping wind . . . No, not speaking, invoking.

The air that rushed past her turned warm, suddenly. Her body felt equally warm, and strangely light. The ground still approached, but not as quickly, and the roar of wind had thinned to sudden, almost painful silence.

“Are you all right, Mistress?” asked Caster in her musical voice, a sound Sion had never fully appreciated before. At that moment, she’d never heard anything more welcome.

“I am - somewhat injured,” she replied after a few seconds’ consideration. A number of insect venoms were still circulating in her system, to say nothing of the bruises and bites she’d gained - and at least one broken bone, as well.

“I will heal you when we reach the ground, and then I might require some mana,” the Servant informed her. “I’m sorry, Mistress - I cannot sense him any longer.”

That hurt more badly than any of Sion’s injuries. She’d been so close . . .

“Mistress?” Caster inquired, almost shyly. “Perhaps we should investigate the house that woman was taken from - its residents may know more than we do.”

Under normal circumstances, Sion would have refused. The introduction of random elements ran the risk of allowing her quarry to escape, and she did not want that outcome. However, she was proceeding on too little information to prevent the possibility. She was also, in a part of herself, deeply scared by her near-death experience, and grateful to Caster for ensuring that it was only a near experience. Therefore, she gave the Servant’s suggestion more weight than it otherwise would have had.

“Very well,” the alchemist agreed. “Head back to the house, Caster. We shall see what there is to learn.”

“Yes, Mistress.”





Rin’s head ached, a throbbing, burning ache that spread down her skull to make her shoulders clench in pain, and generally obliterate any capacity for thought. It was, she believed, the worst pain she could possibly experience. Then she opened her eyes, and the stabbing light proved her wrong.

The sorceress asked herself, Was I stupid enough to mix vodka and sambuca again?!

No reply came forth from her screaming brain, at first. When she actually did get an answer as to why she hurt so badly, Rin shot upwards from her prone position - and nearly blacked out again.

“I was about to warn you not to move,” said a quiet voice - Saber’s. “It seems nothing is permanently damaged, but there is a lump on your head the size of a goose’s egg.”

“What happened?”

“To you, I don’t know. As for the rest of us - we survived the assault mostly intact. But that armoured Servant from the festival took Mrs. Aozaki. Her husband is understandably quite wroth about it - and his daughter’s Servant . . . He’s . . .” She faltered.

“I know exactly what he is,” Rin assured her. “He’s no real threat.”

“Save perhaps to himself,” the knight murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“Upon describing the abduction to Mr. Aozaki, he immediately handed the man a knife and offered his life in penance. I fear he places too little value on it.”

The sorceress blinked, and tried to rise. “You’re kidding.”

“I don’t joke about life and death, Rin,” Saber chided her. “Here - the boy made you a cold compress to bring the swelling down, and a cup of tea.” She helped her partner to a sitting position, where she could partake of both.

The sorceress began to shake her head, then thought better of it. “I thought he was a little crazy - his type usually are - but I didn’t realise he was suicidal.”

“And what is his ‘type,’ Rin? What’s going on?”

Rin sighed. “It’s a long story . . .”






Avenger paced the perimeter of the house like an angry wolf. He had to. Even though he’d managed to survive taking in all that overcharge, it wasn’t static energy. It demanded the freedom to move, to act - he literally could not keep himself still.

His thoughts were no less active. Ciel was gone, and it was his fault. He’d been right there, he should have been able to stop it. He had the responsibility to keep her safe. She was Takara’s mother - more than that, she was Ciel. She deserved his best efforts, and nothing less. All of them did. And he’d failed miserably . . . Just like he always had. Never strong enough, never fast enough, never smart enough - never good enough, ever. And he never would be.

A smaller, more rational portion of his mind pointed out that Saber had been even closer, and been similarly helpless. And Saber was undeniably one of the more powerful Servants. Arguably, she was the most powerful. And if Saber hadn’t been able to stop Ciel from being taken, what right had he to expect to do better? Especially against a creature like that . . . How did that happen? The Impaler was a monster, in the human sense of the word, but never a vampire, despite the mythology. Was that why he’d manifested as he did - because the legend of Count Dracula was so much more well-known than the history of Prince Vlad?

Hell, the Japanese don’t have vampire legends, as such, yet they made “Demon Castle Dracula” - a series that’s still ongoing after twenty years. And it uses almost every cliche of the Romanian breed, with a few uniquely Japanese twists. Dracula, the Lugosi one in particular, is one of the most recognisable names - and faces - of the modern world.

The explanation made sense. Since the Count was only the figment of a long-dead Irishman’s imagination, it was the real thing that had been called forth. But while Vlad was a national hero to the Romanians, Count Dracula was so much more well-known that the latter legend had consumed the former. More than that, really, since Dracula was the pre-eminent vampire - a logical candidate for Servant status, had he really existed.

No more ridiculous than summoning up a gamer to roleplay another fictitious hero - and we’re drifting into existential waters I’d rather not tread, here. Still, it means whoever’s behind him has power, and then some. And now he, she, or it has Ciel.

The anger was back again, and a driving need to find her - and the one who’d taken her. The drive tugged him in the direction they’d gone, unceasingly. Unerringly, he was certain of it. He didn’t know how, but he had no doubt that he could find Tepes, if he had to chase him to the ends of the earth - or of time itself. There was nowhere the vampire could hide from him, now or ever.

Is this part of my class abilities, assuming I have them? Or just my Phantasm, supplying what I need, as it can?

He didn’t know. He didn’t care. It was something he could do for the Aozakis, all of them, and he would.

But first . . .

First, he waited. Shiki might have not taken his life - he either didn’t believe Avenger was serious, couldn’t be bothered, or was more merciful than Avenger had initially believed - but he owed a similar choice to one more member of the household. He waited for Takara to awaken, that she might have her deserved chance to kill him.

In the interim, he guarded the house from any more intruders, and did what he could to dispose of the carnage of the night. The Seventh Holy Scripture - what else could the cannon be? - was gently set inside the house, with apologies for the familiarity of handling her and any inconvenience she might have felt along the way. He heard no response from the weapon, but was satisfied that he’d been as gentlemanly as possible - he had friends who’d have killed him for doing anything less.

The sword was easily dealt with - Takara needed a decent weapon, and if this was what he thought it was, “decent” was a description of it that employed understatement to a criminal degree. That left the problem of the body, and the torn landscape. Even if he could somehow become Lancer fully again, Kieran Holt had no spells that would simply “fix” this kind of damage. He knew enough about nature to do it by hand, but that was hours of landscaping work - to say nothing of the time spent grave digging. And even then, the damage would be still faintly visible - the scars of a battle which was none of its doing.

Avenger didn’t like that idea. Neither, however, was he sure he could do something about it - healing and nurturing weren’t exactly his specialty. More in the line of ruthlessness and relentlessness. It wasn’t as though he could simply wave his hand and fix everything . . . then again, maybe he could. If he understood the nature of Servants correctly, he existed as part of a contract with nature - it was his ultimate energy source. If he could use that to affect the natural world directly, using his Noble Phantasm - it relied on the strength of disbelief. If he could “convince” the land that it was as it had been, and never otherwise . . . It might work. It was worth a try.

The energy in him seemed to dance a little faster, sensing a purpose close at hand. If nothing else, trying would bleed off some of the excess. The difficulty would be in the doing. Simply trying to force his will on the earth would be the same as any other Reality Marble - and the earth tried its best to crush them, as he recalled. No, this required persuasion - gentleness, and Avenger suspected that gentleness was all but beyond him, at this point. He needed to be calm, and that wasn’t easy at the best of times. It would help if he had music, but it was unlikely that anybody had the kind of stuff he wanted available.

So he had to sing it from memory - which meant it had to be a tune within his vocal range. And it had to be a gentle and preferably uplifting one, too - Evanescence and The Cure were off the list. The Servant winced. Whatever came out of his mouth wouldn’t be pretty.

Nonetheless, he gamely opened his mouth, and drew in a breath.






The tower stones rang with the impact of Berserker’s landing from fifty feet in the air, in full armour. They showed no sign of cracks, however, being formed from more than mere geological processes. The entire tower was Faust’s creation, woven and enhanced by sorceries the Servant could only guess at. At this point, it did not matter. All that did matter was getting his prize to the sorcerer before it expired. Therefore, Berserker didn’t even hesitate upon landing, but glided swiftly into the depths of the structure.

The doors to what Faust had made his throne room slammed open at his approach, with nothing more than a glare to command them. He strode in, supremely confident in his victory . . . and paused at the sight of three strange individuals standing before the throne in which the wizard sat.

For their part, the three had already whirled and drawn weapons at the opening of the door. They were an odd-looking trio - a swarthy, dark-bearded man in gypsy-like clothing and a black tricorn hat, armed with a cutlass, and a red-haired man armed with a knife, in leather armour. The truly concerning one, however, was the man closest to Faust, garbed in full-plate armour, as brilliant as the sun Berserker so despised. He was the one the Servant deemed most dangerous, for he had drawn no weapon at all.

“Hold,” the wizard commanded, an amused smile upon his lips as the trio froze. “You have had some success, have you?”

The Servant nodded. “She is powerful, indeed - but fading.”

The smile left Faust’s face, as he rose, intently regarding the woman Berserker held. “Indeed,” he agreed gravely, taking her into his own arms. “We must work quickly, my young colleague, if she is to survive - and the power I sense renders this one as a worthy subject.”

“Agreed,” Shirou agreed, stepping from behind the armoured knight’s form. Berserker was unsurprised, having known his location all along - the boy had the closest thing to real, living blood in the room. “I know her - her innate power makes her an excellent subject. However, her relations are dangerous individuals - they’ll come looking for her.”

Faust snorted dismissively. “Let them. Even if they could find us, we have four of the most powerful warriors in existence to ward us. By the time they could get close enough to stop us, if they could at all, the task will already be done. The endgame is all but upon us, my young friend - and we cannot lose.”

As he left, the younger sorcerer in tow, Berserker could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “Behave civilly, gentlemen. If our young ally is correct, your energy will soon be needed for battles greater than you could find among yourselves.” The wizard’s tone, however, implied that he did not doubt for a moment that they would try to destroy one another as soon as the two Masters had left the room.

Gazing into the cold eyes of the armoured warrior, which seemed to shine with a smug confidence, Berserker shared his Master’s lack of doubt completely.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 20






She stood within the great hall, amidst the jungle of chains that held the woman in white. There was no sound, no movement. Only stillness. In the hallway beyond, from where she had come, there was only the faintest glow from the lamps. Even that did not seem to illuminate anything here, terminating abruptly at the door. In point of fact, she could see no light source anywhere, though she could see.

No light. No sound. No sensation. Only stillness. A world contained within itself, with nothing to intrude upon its existence, or to even hint at an outside presence. A single moment, frozen in time, never to be disturbed.

A tomb, she thought. A prison from which there was no escape, ever. But why?

The woman in white was unchanged. Her complexion was no ruddier, her chest still unmoving. The wounds caused by the spiked chains piercing her skin were long healed over, without even the rusty markings of long-dried blood. She was undeniably dead.

But why?

Once again, she approached the woman, driven by a mixture of curiosity and pity. Why was she imprisoned here, in this empty place? How could she be so dangerous that she required chains of such massive size and numbers to be driven through her own body to restrain her? Who was this person, to be so abandoned?

She drew closer and tried to peer beneath the thick, shining tresses, so pale in the light they looked nearly as white as the rest of her, but the woman’s face still eluded her. Even so close, she could only see the faint outline of a smooth, classical jaw, all but concealed in web of glittering golden hair and crystalline - tears?

The soft voice of a young girl whispered behind her, “Soon.”






Shiki was tired. Not physically - whatever Takara had done to him, it had acted on his body like mainlining a quart of espresso. Sleep, however badly he desired it, was not likely to come for some time. No, he was tired to the soul of battle and betrayals. He had been through more than enough of both in his youth, and hoped to leave such things behind with it. The events of the last forty-eight hours, however, seemed to prove that his hopes were in vain.

His illness stemmed back to Akiha’s death, which had perhaps been hastened by his leaving the Tohno family, and it had caused Takara to enter an ancient war of sorcerers. From there, things had spiralled wildly, drawing in people he had not met, but who were connected to the war by long-ago events, as well as people had never dreamed of seeing again. Some of them, he never would see again - and that number might now include his wife.

Maybe there’s something to the idea of fate, after all? Shiki asked himself. Can everything that happened be blamed on the choices of free will, or the whims of random chance? Are human desire and blind luck truly powerful enough to bring about such a situation?

Or perhaps, if God had a plan, as Ciel’s former employers suggested, He was less creative than most people would have liked to believe, and preferred using the same tools again and again, for lack of greater inspiration.

Shiki gazed wordlessly at the woman unconscious in the chair. He would much rather be looking in on his daughter, who still slept, exhausted by the inhuman efforts she’d made that night. Or, for that matter, Tohsaka-san, whom Saber-san had found unconscious in the woods. Failing that, he could have gone outside to keep watch on the Servant - who, looking very different now claimed to be called Avenger - who had volunteered to “bat cleanup.” Maybe that would have been a better idea, given the number of secrets the entity seemed to hold - and the unnerving knowledge that showed in his eyes.

Frankly, he’d ultimately prefer to be in his own bed, with Ciel, as he should be at this hour. Instead, he was here, watching life return to a feminine face, and lids flutter open to reveal a pair of golden-brown eyes.

“Hello, Kohaku-san,” he said softly.

A confused expression filled the eyes for an instant, a sheer inability to understand the situation leaving them blank, expressionless. Then light sparked, bringing recognition, and warmth, as her usual smile fitted itself into place. However, watching more closely than ever before, Shiki saw it and knew it for what it was: blandly pleasant, but undeniably a mask.

“Shiki-san,” the maid said brightly. “It’s been a very long time, hasn’t it?”

“Why, Kohaku-san?” Shiki demanded. “I left the family, but I never offered harm to her, however badly I threatened to. Why would Akiha try to kill me?”

Coyly, she replied, “Why Shiki-san, didn’t Hisui-chan tell you? Akiha-sama has been dead for some time.”

“I know - but why raise her son as my assassin? Did she hate me that much?”

Her amber eyes crinkled with what Shiki recognised as amusement, sparkling with some private joke. “Hate you? Oh no, Shiki-san - Akiha-sama could never hate you, even when she tried to. You were the only man she ever truly loved, after all.”

Shiki was bewildered by her response - and more than a little hurt. Even after everything, Akiha had still loved him? “Then . . . Then who sent him to kill me, and why now? Why after all this time, when I was dying anyway?”

Improbably, Kohaku giggled. “I can’t tell you that, Shiki-san. That’s a secret. We both know how important secrets are to the Tohno clan, don’t we? All sorts of secrets . . .”

He stared at her, and realised suddenly that Kohaku was insane. Honestly, truly insane. Whether it was a recent development, or something that had been there all along, madness had consumed her mind - and she saw no reason to even try to hold it back any longer.

“There’s no point to this, is there?” he asked rhetorically. “Even if I threaten you, I won’t get the answers I want - not in any way that makes sense. It’s not a matter of you not telling me what I want to know - you just can’t. There’s not enough of you left to talk to.”

She pouted. “Shiki-san has grown into a bitter old man. Hisui-chan must be so disappointed, after all the trouble she went to in order to come to Shiki-san in secret.”

“Not that it mattered,” Shiki countered. “Once she told you where she was going, you told the boy, didn’t you?”

“Not right away,” Kohaku protested gently. “I had to give her time to find you, first. It wouldn’t have been any good if you’d died before we arrived.”

Shiki shivered It was eerie hearing such a cold-blooded statement in Kohaku’s usual pleasant tone. It also made him more than a little angry, hearing such a matter-of-fact dismissal of his existence except where it concerned the Tohnos’ desires.

“Yeah, that would have been terrible,” he snapped. “It would’ve robbed you of your revenge . . .” A sudden burst of insight flashed into his mind. “And it is your revenge we’re talking about, isn’t it, Kohaku[i]-san?[/]i You’re the one who put the idea in his head. You didn’t bring the boy here to kill me - you brought him to be killed!”

Kohaku smiled even more widely. “Shiki-san has lost some of his denseness,” she commented.

Bile rose in Shiki’s throat. “Why, Kohaku? For the love of God, why?”

For the first time in the conversation, Kohaku’s face turned sombre. Her smile vanished, and her eyes hollowed, until they seemed dull and glassy, like a doll’s. Her voice, however, was as bright as ever, though more serious.

“Do you really want to know, Shiki-san?” she asked. It was asked in almost a stage whisper, a conspiratorial tone.

“I think I have to,” Shiki answered. “I can’t understand it, otherwise.”

“Then because it’s Shiki-san, I will tell,” the maid answered. “But it’s a very big secret - you have promise to do something for me in return.”

“What?” Shiki asked warily.

Her voice was very small as she answered, as though the words did not emerge of her own volition - or perhaps from an individual will that was weak from disuse.

“Kill me.”

“When the last eagle flies, over the last crumbling mountain,
When the last lion roars, at the last dusty fountain,
In the shadow of the forest, though she may be old and worn,
They will stare, unbelieving, at the last unicorn.”

The ballad was an old one to him, and faintly sad. But it was one he knew, and could sing without hesitation, and so he did. Softly, for it was that kind of song.

“When the first breath of winter, through the flowers is icing,
And you look to the North, and a pale moon is rising,
And it seems like all is dying, and would leave the world to mourn,
In the distance, hear her laughter - it’s the last unicorn.
‘I’m alive . . . I’m alive . . .’”

He remembered what it was like, to hear the song for the first time. To believe that wonder and miracles endured, no matter how long ago or far away they seemed. To believe in magic - in hope.

“When the last moon is cast, over the last star of morning,
And the future is past, without even a last, desperate warning,
Look into the skies where through the clouds a path is formed,
Look and see her, how she shimmers - it’s the last unicorn.
‘I’m alive . . . I’m alive . . . I’m alive."

As he passed across the grounds, glass fragments lifted off the ground and spun around, sparkling as they re-assembled themselves into windows and door panes. Torn earth melted together, grass sprouting anew. Splintered wood danced in the air, condensing and growing into its proper form and place. Though dawn was not far away, it was still the night’s time, the rightful domain of moonlight, mysteries, and magic. The place of dreams.

And so Avenger dreamed of a world made whole, and remembered that dark, cynical, and murderous he might often be, he was also capable of feeling wonder. The memories of it were never gone, only forgotten.

A twig snapped behind him.

The Servant froze, sighing almost silently. Congratulations, nimrod - you’re dead.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” apologised a female voice, “but we’d like to claim sanctuary, if we may, please.”

It took Avenger a moment to adjust to the idea that no knife in the back was forthcoming. Slowly, he turned.

The first woman he saw finally made the description “elfin features” make sense to him, for if anybody had them, it was she - right down to the slight points on her ears. Along with a pair of periwinkle eyes that shone in the moonlight, as did the blue of her long hair. A cloak concealed the rest, but the lady triggered three of his fetishes just by being - and that wasn’t counting the fact that she was gorgeous! Kieran Holt would’ve been more in control of himself, but as a desperately single guy, Avenger had his hands full just trying not to drool.

If the first one had an iron grip on his hormones, however, his mind was totally taken by her companion, because only one person he knew of in this universe wore long, lavender hair in a braid along with that outfit.

“Sion,” he whispered.

I suspect things just got a lot more complicated, he remarked to himself.

“We do not wish to do battle,” Sion informed him, “but it is imperative that I speak to the people in that house. The fate of the world may depend upon it.”

Avenger sighed mentally. Why am I never wrong when I want to be?






Takara bolted awake, absolutely certain that the voice was coming from right behind her. When she registered that she was no longer surrounded by stone walls and heavy chains, but the familiar accoutrements of her own room, she halted, confused by the sound of her own panicked breathing and the feel of her pounding heart in such a soothing, comfortable place.

What . . .? she asked herself.

The answer came in a rush of memories: battles fought in a strange mode of thought, like glacial ice. Killing had seemed of no consequence at all, and she had tried to do so without hesitation - had done so. Then there was a burning power inside her that had sought to eat her alive, and then . . . Lancer? It had seemed like him, at first, as though his spirit had come to her call. But the face had rippled, changed, and melted away, revealing . . . Something other. Who he was, or what, she couldn’t say, but he hadn’t been Lancer. But he’d looked at her, so sadly, and then . . . And then the world went dark, and she was here.

Why had she reacted as she had, so . . . naturally? What had been going on? Had more Masters attacked the house? Why had Hisui attacked her? What had she wanted with her - her father!

Takara didn’t remember going from a half-sitting, half-lying position on her bed to standing upright, but suddenly she hit the ground running. Flinging the door open, she charged into the hallway - and collided solidly with a warm, feminine body.

As her backside met the floor, Takara could hear her mother’s voice remarking that this was getting to be a habit that she had to break, before she broke something more vital - like her neck.

Automatically, she murmured, “I’m sorry - Hisui!” Instinctively, she rolled back and away before springing to her feet, crouching in a low stance. Her hand-to-hand abilities weren’t nearly as good as her armed combat training - but she’d be damned before she let the psychotic maid take her out without a fight.

For her part, the maid bowed deeply, and a little stiffly, wincing as certain muscles protested being used so soon after such a painful impact.

“It is of no lasting consequence, Takara-san,” she said. “Are you well?”

Takara resisted the urge to snap out of her defensive posture just long enough to hit the older woman. “You try to carve me up with a knife, and [i]now[/i[*you ask if I’m ‘well?’ Are you completely out of your mind?”

The maid’s face and voice were very tight as she answered, “No . . . Although I am very much afraid that my elder sister is.”

Despite herself, Takara repeated, “Sister?”

“My identical twin, Kohaku,” Hisui supplied. “She assaulted me, as well, and took my uniform - to infiltrate the house, it seems.” Her voice became very subdued. “I will not blame you if you do not believe me.”

Takara considered. On the face of it, it was a ridiculous story - an overused plot device straight out of a poorly-written soap opera. It was a lie only an irredeemable fool would be unable to see past. On the other hand, given everything she’d gone through lately, it was just crazy enough to be true.

Hisui seemed to take her silence as disbelief. “Shall I fetch someone who can confirm my words? Your father, or perhaps your Servant?”

Takara came out of her thoughts abruptly. “My Servant?”

“The young man who carried you to bed,” Hisui clarified. “He is patrolling the grounds now. Do you wish him?”

Takara’s mind whirled. Lancer, alive? She recalled the destroyed school, his final scream - and what had been left of his body. It seemed impossible, but could it be? Then she remembered her last thoughts - seeing Lancer dissolve into someone else. Could it be an impostor, then? Someone trying - as Hisui claimed her supposed sister had - to infiltrate her home, and perhaps kill them?

She couldn’t be sure - and she couldn’t afford not to know.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Bring him here.”

Hisui bowed slightly. “Very good, Takara-san.” She left without making another sound.

As she stood numbly in her bedroom, it was several minutes before Takara realised that the maid had never mentioned her mother.






Shiki listened as Kohaku told her tale. Of being brought, along with her sister, to the Tohno house solely for her nature as a Synchroniser, for her ability to grant strength - strength which the Tohno family could use in combatting the darker impulses of their demonic heritage. Of the first time she had been used in that manner, and by whom, and how she had accepted it, so that her sister would not have to. Decades of use and abuse, by those who claimed to be her masters, who claimed her services, her body - everything she was, all so that they could maintain their facade of respectability, rather than reveal the monsters that they were to the public eye.

Shiki listened in silence, but not without sympathy - and sickness. Perhaps, in their way, the Tohnos had good intentions - he remembered battling Roa, and knew that not all the power had come from the vampire’s spirit. Perhaps it was better to torment a single individual, than risk slaughtering innocents without cause or care. But still . . .

Akiha had known of this, had done it to Kohaku herself. She may have been gentler about it, more guilty over it, but Kohaku was no less a tool to be used by Akiha’s hunger. He found it hard to reconcile his image of the smiling child she’d been - or even the hardened maiden she’d later become - with such acts. But there was no deceit in Kohaku’s eyes now, not even inflection in her voice. She spoke mechanically, as though simply relating a story that had happened to another person, dead eyes showing no reaction at all. This was what Kohaku was, what she had always been. A corpse whose heart still beat, whose lungs still breathed, whose mind still thought - but no less dead for all that. This was what the Tohnos - intentionally or not, willingly or not - had made of her.

Try as he might, Shiki could not condone her actions - but neither could he wholly condemn them. She had taken lives, but they had taken her soul.

And is that any different from what you do with Hisui, now? he asked himself. Oh, Ciel might beg for you to do it, and Hisui herself might have come to you, rather than the other way around, but is it any less a sin to take advantage of that?

Aren’t you as much a vampire as Roa or any of them, feeding on Hisui as you do, solely to keep yourself alive?

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” Kohaku asked, once again the bright and cheerful maid. The contrast was not simply startling, it was downright disturbing. The mask was more human than the woman beneath it - but was it completely a mask? Could someone so dead inside feign emotions so believably?

For her part, the maid seemed to read the answer in his face, for she nodded decisively. “Yes, it does - and not just for my sake.” She smiled lightly. “Hisui-chan cried when you left. She tried to do it only where she was alone, when she thought no one would hear, but she did. I hated Shiki-san very much, for that.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied. It was a totally inadequate response, but what wouldn’t be?

She nodded again. “Properly so. And Akiha-sama despaired of ever teaching you proper manners.” She giggled again, before becoming serious once more.

“Hisui-chan chose to do what she is doing willingly, Shiki-san. Nothing forces her to sustain you, except herself. That makes all the difference in the world. It might cause you all some pains of conscience, but she is better here than she was in the mansion, because she decided long ago that where you were was where she wished to be.” Kohaku looked directly into his eyes. “Promise me you’ll take care of Hisui-chan, Shiki-san. She’ll be safe, and happiest with you. Promise me, and then fulfill both your promises.”

“Kohaku-san, you . . .” Shiki hesitated.

Kohaku’s eyes darkened. “Oh, yes I do. Do you truly mean to say you can let me escape unpunished, after all I have done to those you care for? Can you say that my crimes are for a court to decide? Do you believe I’d ever survive to see a trial? The Tohno clan may be without a head now, but its reach is still long. And even assuming I somehow escaped them, could you, or Hisui-chan, ever truly trust me, knowing what I’ve done?”

Shiki was silent.

“For almost my entire life, I have wanted only three things,” Kohaku said quietly. “To see the Tohno family destroyed for what it did to me, to have Hisui-chan safe and free - and to die.” She gazed at him steadily. “Kill me now, and all three will be done.”

Silently, slowly, Shiki picked up a letter opener from the low table - not hardly of Nanatsuya’s quality, but enough to kill, if used correctly. He held it firmly, raised it slightly, then hesitated.

“Tell me why, Kohaku-san,” he asked. “Why, even after all that, is it better to die than live? Why throw your life away, when you might still lead a good one?”

Kohaku was silent a long time, before answering, “I have been used by three generations of Tohnos.” Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I refuse to be the source of another.”

Weariness made Shiki’s mind slow to understand what she’d said, and equally slow to react to what she did. She must have worked free of her bonds while he was distracted, because she seized the letter opener from his frozen hand, and used it to tear into her own throat. Shiki lunged forward, too late, and a vermillion spray clouded his glasses, blinding him. He removed them in time to see her slump, blood running like a waterfall down the front of her kimono. She had to have severed at least one major artery, to do so much damage so quickly.

As he watched, the lines on her body shifted minimally, losing a slight amount of vibrancy. It was several seconds later that he realised the meaning of the change.

Not knowing what else to do, he clapped slowly, and bowed his head in prayer.

“Good night, Kohaku-san. May you find more peace than you had.”






Hisui paused in the hall, a terrible dread seizing her body, a certainty she dared not voice, but could not possibly deny.

Kohaku had always been bright and cheerful, attentive and caring - the courageous elder sister Hisui had admired. She’d always tried to let Hisui see no more of her than that. But as soon as she was old enough to understand the nature of her employers, and their shared abilities, Hisui had guessed at what Kohaku did, far from the prying eyes of the world - her little sister included. She had not said anything to any of them - it had not been her place to do so. However, she had not guessed at what that duty did to her sister’s mind, until tonight. How long had she carried that madness? How hard had she worked, to hide it from her? What had it cost her, to keep Hisui as sheltered as she’d been?

Tonight, whatever her suffering, whatever her sins, the final price had been paid.

Hisui started to bow her head as the tears came, then raised it. She would be strong, even as Kohaku had been. Her twin deserved nothing less than to be proud of Hisui - but she was still Hisui, and would cry for her sister’s loss, weak though such an act might be.

“Goodbye, Onee-chan,” she whispered. “I love you.”

There was no answer, but as she continued across the floor, the air seemed a little warmer.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 21






Ciel floated between awareness and oblivion, in a shallow area of the edge of consciousness. As she drifted, never quite gone, but never waking either, she imagined she could hear voices. The voices were faint things, as if coming from a league or more away, more an impression of sound than anything else.

“Amazing . . .” echoed one. “To hold so much power, even in such a condition . . .”

“Yes, she was well-chosen,” answered another, “but it will be useless if we do not stabilise her life force! Hurry!”

Were they speaking of her? She didn’t know, and couldn’t muster the strength to care. She simply drifted on.

“She’s not responding. We need to use more power!”

A faint tingling swept through her - strange, since she had no sensation of anything else, even of her “self.” Did she have a body? Had that body nerves to tingle? Nonetheless, the sensation persisted, growing faintly stronger.

Ciel tried her best to ignore it, to go on drifting. She simply wanted to fade away . . .

A voice whispered a single word, closer to her than the others, but still far away. “Live.”

Ciel sank deeper into the darkness. Warm, comforting darkness . . .

“Live,” the voice repeated, more insistently. “Awaken! Live!”

Why? Ciel wondered. It was so pleasant, here . . .

“You took him from me - you owe me! You took everything from me . . . Everything except his happiness,” The voice sounded more than a little bitter with the last sentence. “If you die now, you will have taken that, too - and I will never forgive you.”

Ciel knew she’d heard the voice before. It was long ago and far away, but here, in the twilight space between life and death, dream and memory, she knew that voice.

“You need only find the strength to wait - the strength to live,” the voice assured her. “He will come for you. He would not do otherwise. Not then, or now. Not ever.”

The tingling returned to the forefront of her mind, growing steadily more intense. Despite it, Ciel found enough presence of mind to inquire, “. . .Why?”

There were any number of ways that question could have been interpreted, but the voice answered the one she meant to ask.

“Because I owe you, as well,” the voice said softly. “Had I known then what it meant to be a mother, I would not have done as I did. My apologies, Ciel-san. Farewell - and watch over him.”

The feather-soft caress of trailing hair on her cheek . . . The smell of autumn leaves. Ciel opened her mouth to call to the other, but choked on the name as the tingle became a jolt, like lightning coursing through her system. Her world went white . . .






Cold stone caressed her bare skin, and Ciel shivered involuntarily. The world swam into focus around her, and she saw coloured lines against her right side. No, it was on the floor, and she was lying down. Slowly, aching muscles responded to her brain’s commands, moving her arms to brace herself, and raising her tortured body upwards. When she was in a reasonably upright position, she saw that she was lying in the centre of an arcane pattern - a seal, she realised abruptly.

“She’s awake!” said a voice she knew from dreams, and the former Executioner identified it as Emiya Shirou’s.

From the shadows of the room, a more mature voice spoke, his Japanese laced with an accent Ciel recognised as Italian. “There is no need to be concerned about it. She can no more escape that binding than you could.”

Shirou eyed Ciel distrustfully. “I don’t know - she’s the Church’s Manager, so I don’t doubt she has a few tricks up her sleeve to deal with sorcery.”

The elder laughed. “After trying my works yourself, you still doubt their ability to hold a mortal woman? Powerful, yes, but nonetheless mortal. No, my young friend, we do not need to fear. It is time to turn our attention to more important matters. Where will the Gate open?”

Shirou knew the answer like he knew the number of fingers on his hand. “The Tohsaka residence.”

“Then we should prepare to move everything.”

“We’re not performing the transfer?” Ciel didn’t like the sound of that, or the look Shirou shot at her with the question.

“Her life is stable, but her strength will need time to replenish itself,” the other man answered. “In perhaps twelve hours, she will be more likely to survive the procedure.”

“I understand,” Shirou muttered, in a nearly sulking tone.

“All our efforts will be wasted if she dies,” the sorcerer reminded him.

“I said I understand!” the youth snapped. “What do we need to move?”

“I will attend to it,” assured his companion smoothly. “You, I think, would be better suited to ending the conflict which has begun upstairs.”

“What . . . oh, hell,” the youth muttered, vanishing.

Ciel had a sense of the shadow-cloaked figure turning slightly, to regard her. “I suggest, churchwoman, you use this remaining time to make peace with your God.” Then his presence, too, was gone.

Ciel wasn’t sure which she disliked more - that they planned to do something to her that would almost certainly kill her, or that they were barely deigning to acknowledge her existence.

Either way, she didn’t intend to give up. She believed that Shiki would come for her, or try - but she didn’t plan to just sit around and wait for him to rescue her, either. Concentrating, she attempted to summon a Black Key - but the seal beneath her drained away the energy that formed it. Frowning, Ciel moved one hand to the crucifix hanging at her throat.

Let’s see if I can remember what they taught me about picking locks . . .






Saber gently shut the door behind her as she left Rin’s room - the mage seemed to be suffering no permanent ill effects, but rest was still a wise idea after a head wound like that. Besides, she needed to think. Any pondering she thought of doing, however, was halted by the sudden noise in the main hallway. Instinctively, the knight headed in that direction - whoever made up the congregation, and for what reason, it might be important.

The sight that greeted her was, to say the least, unexpected. The Aozaki girl’s Servant - Avenger, Rin had named him - was standing beside Caster and another woman whom she did not know, but the mark on her hand declared her a Master. Despite the fact that he stood next to a pair of people who should be his adversaries, there was no real tension in his stance. He seemed, if not battle-ready, then careful, but not concerned. He had no intention of fighting them, for whatever reason.

The knight frowned. These were competitors in the War, yet he spoke easily with them, and they with him. Why? Why had he not fought? And as he had not, should she?

The elfin Servant’s eyes locked on her own, a pleasant smile on her face - but some apprehension in her stance. Saber found herself hesitating - was the Master a friend of her host? If so, it would be poor etiquette to attack, but . . .

“Oh,” said a voice from an adjoining room, that of the family maidservant. “More guests?”

“They’ve asked for sanctuary,” Avenger confirmed. “And for our help.”

Saber noted the difference in his voice. It was still deep, but lacked the harshness, the raw anger of the lycanthrope warrior she’d fought. Indeed, his natural tone was so low, and so soft, that it was nearly inaudible. Having forsaken the beard she’d first seen him wear, he looked no older than Shirou had when he’d first summoned her. Another child on the battlefield. Had she not known differently, the blonde would never have believed him an Epic Spirit.

“Shall I convey their request to Shiki-sama, then?” Hisui asked.

“I can do that myself, if you’ll tell me where he is.” The Servant didn’t sound enthusiastic at the prospect. Saber supposed he still felt guilty, and would no doubt be uncomfortable in the Aozaki patriarch’s presence.

“Actually, Takara-san was asking for you,” Hisui replied. “It would be proper for you to attend to her, first. She is your mistress.”

If anything, Avenger looked less enthusiastic at the notion, but with a sigh, he said, “You’re almost certainly right.” He turned, and nodded. “If you ladies would be so kind as to excuse me . . . And if you’d take them instead, Ms. Hisui?”

“Of course - and it’s simply ‘Hisui.’”

He smiled, and there was something sad in it, something wistful. “I knew as much, but I thought I’d try. Excuse me.”

He walked past the trio of females without another word, down the hall, pausing only as he reached a conversational distance from Saber.

“Who are they?” she demanded.

“At the moment, potential allies,” the Servant answered. “If they’re here for the reason I think they are, we need them. Please, let them be for now. And please, would you replace me in patrolling the estate? I don’t expect trouble . . .”

“But you anticipate it, nonetheless,” Saber finished. “That is uncommonly wise of you.” She meant it, too.

He smiled, again with that wistful edge. “Sheer cynicism, nothing more - but it’s nice of you to say otherwise. Pardon me.”

Saber spared one more glance in his direction, before shaking her head. While obviously not Japanese, he appeared to be one of those people who simply could not take a compliment.






Avenger walked the distance to Takara’s room, debating as he went. If Takara remembered his Phantasm’s breakdown, she’d know everything. If not, however, she’d expect to see Lancer. Which Servant should appear at her call?

It’s safer to appear as Lancer, he decided finally. And so he concentrated, summoning as much as he could of Kieran Holt’s personality. Grimness, world-weariness - these were easy. Kieran was no more than a slightly darker shade of his usual self, and not nearly as black as his outlook could get. The difficulty lay in summoning up the “teacher” aspect Lancer had fostered with the girl - Kieran was a reluctant mentor, at best. Once he had the mindset, the looks were easy. Sun-darkened, weathered skin, rough black hair, green eyes with a hint of lupine amber, and a dancer’s muscular physique. Tattoos on the backs of his hands, medieval clothes, and a walk that was more like a stalking animal’s, but utterly silent.

He built in the enhancements of his equipment, but left his own “self” at only high human levels. She wasn’t likely to note that he seemed too less graceful, or slow, and it spared energy from being used unnecessarily.

Gripping the katana he’d taken from the battlefield in his hands, he prepared to present it - and himself - to his mistress. And with a deep breath, he accepted the likely possibility that he wouldn’t leave her presence alive.

Here goes everything, he thought, before tapping on the door.






Berserker gazed at the golden knight. The others, he dismissed as being of no consequence - easily broken, physically or mentally. The knight, however, radiated an authority, an innate sense of superiority, that the vampire could not help but see. The knight, for his part, wore an expression that said plainly, You are nothing compared to me, and it shall ever be so.

As Berserker typically reserved such an expression for his own, exclusive use, he found its presence on another’s face rather irritating. However, because he knew it would likely be more irritating to the fool, he summoned up his most charming smile, instead.

“How pleasant it is, to see all of you,” the vampire greeted. “I have no doubt that the wizards have done well in selecting the best of all possible assistance.” For me, the Servant didn’t add, but the implication was clear both in the tone and the phrasing he had used. From the expressions on all three faces, they heard it clearly.

In the frosty tone that Britons manage so well, the colourfully-dressed swordsman replied, “You are mistaken in your authority, sir. We serve at the will of the wizards, not your own.”

The golden knight snorted. “I serve only my own will. It is beneath the King of Heroes to do a lesser being’s bidding.”

Berserker’s smile widened. “Indeed? You are a great boaster, my friend, to name yourself a king . . . Especially when you are merely a vassal in the realm I alone have truly conquered.”

The skin around the knight’s eyes tightened, and those eyes were aflame with anger. The red-haired warrior tilted his head, only, and inquired in an Irish-lilted voice, “And which realm would that be?”

The vampire’s voice was caramel smooth, his tone as sinuous as any serpent, as he answered, “Death. Each of you has fallen to its power, but it shies away at my approach. I do not seek the Grail for immortality, for I already possess it - nor do I rely on its strength to sustain me.” His obsidian eyes held a vermillion sheen as he gazed at the trio. “Death holds no power over me, but I hold great power over it. I warn you but once: give me no cause to exercise that power.”

The motion was almost too fast for even their eyes to follow. Suddenly no fewer than three blades were imbedded in Berserker’s body, each close to a foot long, and all at vital points - heart, throat, skull.

The golden knight smirked. “No matter your power, it will be of little use if you talk instead of minding your surroundings.” He paused, waiting for the body’s inevitable fall.

The next movements, they could follow, but only with effort. Without even blinking, Berserker removed the knives from his body, and hurled them back at the knight, who dodged the first - understanding that the throw had been a feint only when the other two exploded through his right leg and left shoulder. The Servant barely had time to register the hits before the black-garbed warrior clutched his throat, the latter’s eyes blazing with full fury, mouth extended to reveal ivory fangs . . .

A wave of raw mana struck him from behind, hurling both warriors to opposite ends of the room. Berserker rose immediately, unfazed, but stilled at the sight of Shirou, hands aflame with power.

“Enough,” he said, and the command froze each Servant, as though he had been the Master of them all.

“There is a time coming,” Shirou said into the silence, “very soon, when this castle will be under siege. The attacking forces could be minor, such that even one of you could deal with the problem - or they might involve powers that could shake the world apart, if they felt like it. You have been summoned for a simple purpose: to aid us in the second possibility. If the beings coming are as strong as we are afraid they’ll be, we’ll need every advantage possible. But if any of you causes anything to go wrong with our plans, in even the slightest possible way, I will take my chances.”

He gave the paralysed Servants each a glare, and the flames that caressed his hands blazed anew in his eyes.

“No more,” he finished quietly. “Or I’ll destroy you all myself.”

And then he was gone.






Takara watched him enter, from a sitting position on her bed. Lancer looked as though she’d first summoned him, without so much as a hair out of place. He bore no resemblance to the charred, steaming mass she’d left at the school ruins, save in general size and shape.

The golden green eyes gave her a once-over, then lowered with the rest of his head. “You asked for me?”

Takara considered that. The eyes looked duller, and the tone was less angry, more weary. Perhaps he had no physical signs of his recent battle, but there was something there that had been worn down. If this was an impostor, he was doing a superb job.

“You survived,” she began.

“Your mother found me,” he answered. “She replenished the energy reserves my healing factor used repairing the damage . . . I didn’t quite die from Saber’s attack, but I came as close as I ever have.” His voice softened. “I don’t blame you for believing otherwise.”

“Where is my mother?” Takara asked. Questions about Hisui’s identity, and the truth of her story, were superceded by daughterly concern. The more she thought about it, the less she liked the fact that the maid hadn’t spoken of her.

He sagged visibly at the question. “She was taken by a Servant in black armour, not fifty feet from me. Taken, because I could not reach her in time.” His voice regained some of its vitriol, and as he raised his head, the gold in his eyes shone brighter. “I owed her my life, and I failed to protect her. She may already be dead, and it will be my fault.”

He dove suddenly, dropping to one knee even as he lifted his hands to proffer a long, slender object - a sword.

“This is yours,” he said, head once again gazing at the floor. “The spoils of war - and you needed a good weapon, at any rate. Also yours is what I offered your father - my life. Take the first, because you need it . . . And the second, if you want it.”

Takara stared at him. Being Japanese-raised, she could understand the sentiment - samurai had offered their lives routinely in penance - but that time was centuries gone. From what he’d said, it wasn’t his fault - that he could not reach her. Did he honestly think she was going to kill him?

Absently, she reached out to grab the sword - he was right about that much at least, it would be better than her practice blades - and staggered as she gripped it.

Lancer felt more than saw the shudder run through her, and raised his head in alarm. As he watched, his Mistress rose gracefully to her feet, sword in one hand, the other pushing midnight-blue hair out of her silver eyes. He was confused for a moment, before he understood. Idiot. You just handed a demonic blade to a born demon hunter. Hello, inversion impulse.

He looked at her, and wondered if Takara Nanaya would render a judgement that Takara Aozaki would not.





She looked down on him, and understood his life. Bright green lines, limned in vermillion, crisscrossed his body, and by their light she saw his true self illuminated. Thin and weak, not quite sickly, but almost as fragile as the lines themselves. This was who he was, the life that the pattern of those lines created.

And it would be so easy to take that life. She could cut there, across his chest. Or there, along the side of his neck. Or . . .

Gently, Takara reached out to caress the line that went from the centre of his forehead, to trail under his right eye, down his cheek to the line of his jaw. It was so fragile, she wouldn’t even need the sword, really. Just a little more pressure with her fingertips, and it would break like a spider web . . .

She frowned, gazing at that eye and its twin, now a faded blue instead of golden-green. They looked at her steadily, empty of anything at all. His expression was nearly as blank, with only resolve readable in it. Even his heartbeat, which she could hear, this close, was only a little faster.

He wasn’t afraid. He understood that he faced his death, and he didn’t feel anything at all about it. He was just still, waiting. She didn’t like that. It would be like killing someone already dead.

She pulled back her hand, and saw the crimson light that outlined his threads pull back with it. Those slender threads were connected to her hand, sourced in the mark emblazoned on it. She was connected to his life. Would she hurt herself if she killed him? Was that why he wasn’t afraid?

“It’s your right,” he told the killer, his voice as soft as the rest of him, only vaguely resembling that of his shadow-self. “I’ve died once already - it doesn’t matter to me. Cut the bonds that hold me here . . . Angel of the night.”

As Takara understood that he understood exactly what he faced, she realised the truth. He simply didn’t care about living, because he wasn’t really alive. On the battlefield, she might evoke a response out of him, a surge of fighting spirit that would make his death mean something. But here and now, against her, he had no heart to break. She could drain away his strength, she might make him bleed if she cut him, but there was nothing in him for her to kill.

“No,” Takara answered, in that soft, cold voice.

The sword dropped from her hand, falling to the floor with a clatter.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 22





Shiki considered Kohaku’s body for a long while. Leaving her like this, bloody and half-slumped across a chair, did not sit well with him. She should, at the very least, be laid out somewhere pleasant until proper funerary arrangements could be made. If leaving her did not sit well with him, however, neither did calling in Hisui to help him move her. Hisui should not have to see her sister like this. Unfortunately, he lacked the strength - whether from his illness or just stress exhaustion - to do the job alone.

For the moment, he draped her in a canvas covering while he prepared to go in search of one of his guests to ask for their help - that blonde woman looked stronger than her petite frame would suggest - but a light knock on the studio door forestalled his plans.

“Yes?” he called.

Hisui answered, “Shiki-sama, there are guests requesting an audience. Will you see them?”

Guests? Shiki frowned. It wasn’t likely to be the police - the house was deliberately isolated so that neighbours wouldn’t be disturbed or injured if trouble ever came calling - besides, Hisui would have said as much, if they were. But who else would try to disturb them at this hour of the - he glanced at a clock - morning?

For one wild moment, he hoped his sisters had somehow come. Too late to stop Ciel from being taken, after all, but he’d be infinitely reassured of his wife’s eventual safety should a familiarly grinning redhead and her quieter, colder sibling appear at the doorstep. Aoko and Touko would get their sister-in-law back or die trying, reducing anyone who got in their way to their component atoms in the process. If they had arrived, he could feel at ease in letting them take charge of things, and tend to Takara - the girl had been given a number of deep shocks today. He knew from experience that she’d need someone to look after her, if she was going to emerge with her sanity more or less intact.

While she might be “all right,” however, he wasn’t going to fool himself into thinking Takara would ever be the same after this. She’d experienced things hidden from the day-to-day existence illuminated by the sun, glimpsed truths hidden away in the night most people could never see, and were never meant to. No one who entered that moonlit world would be unchanged by it.

“Show them in,” Shiki said at last, trying not to sound too desperate as he did so.

Hisui entered with two women, but not the ones he’d wished for. He tried his best to hide his disappointment.

The women were both striking, in their late twenties or early thirties, he believed. That the blue-haired one had pointed ears was worth noting, but he’d seen stranger things, and didn’t linger on the view. Her companion, on the other hand, wore a mantle of authority he’d seen often before, and while he didn’t recognise her garb, Shiki would have bet money she was an Executioner, mage, or similarly powerful supernatural being. Given her choice in partners, the last two options seemed more likely.

“Please forgive our intrusion, especially at this hour,” she said, “but it was imperative that we speak with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiki replied. “What is it?”

“It is important that I know everything you know about the creature that took that woman,” she replied.

“My wife,” Shiki corrected, a little put off by her deadpan way of speaking. Her tone projected an expectation that he should automatically accede to her every demand. “Who are you? Why should I tell you anything?”

She locked eyes with him, and Shiki realised that they weren’t black, as he’d initially thought, but a very dark violet.

“I am sorry,” she replied, and he believed she meant it. “I seem to have gone about this the wrong way. My name is Sion Eltnam Atlasia. . . and I need your help.”






Takara began to tremble. It was slight, at first, but it built until her entire body was almost convulsing in horror and sickness. For the second time, that icy shell had covered her mind, and she’d considered nothing but the act of killing. Yes, she had failed to act this time, but not out of any humanitarian impulse - but because killing the man who’d all but bared his throat to her wouldn’t have been any fun.

Bile flooded her throat. What was happening to her? What was wrong with her?

Staring at the floor, at the sword she’d been so eager to use, Takara sensed the man who’d been disguised as Lancer shudder, as though he’d begun to move and checked himself in mid-impulse. To attack? To flee? She didn’t know, and didn’t want to take chances.

“Stay back,” she ordered. “Don’t come near me!”

Hearing nothing, she looked upwards, to see the same blank expression on his face. Emotion was present, but abstract - she knew it was there, had hints of it, but could not actually see what was behind those eyes. It was like looking at her Servant through a carnival mirror - while he had a distinct lack of Lancer’s weathering and wildly different hues in his makeup, he shared many of the same features. Starved and bleached, the druid might have looked like this.

“You’re not Lancer,” she stated, anchoring herself to familiar ground. Her world was very fragile right now, very uncertain, but even in all this confusion, she could hold onto that as a fact. “You’re not.”

“No,” the thin boy agreed quietly, “but Lancer was me.”

Takara shook her head almost wildly. “I don’t know you. Who are you? What are you?” She was unaware that she spoke her next words aloud. “What am I?”

“Your parents’ child,” the youth answered certainly. “Nothing more than that, and nothing less.” There was a note of something in his voice - was it awe? He revered that - that killer’s mind? She - no, not her, it had to be someone else - had been ready to peel him like an orange, and he held that in awe?

Something sad touched his eyes as she stared at him. “They didn’t tell you anything about what they were, or what you could be. I’m not surprised you’re shocked, or afraid. You want to kill, and you don’t know why . . . “

”NO!” Takara cried. “I’m not like that! It’s not me!”

“No, not really,” he agreed. “It’s an instinct, something buried in your subconscious, not meant to be used except under very specific circumstances. It’s part of your heritage, but it’s not the be all and end all of who you are.”

“What are you talking about? How do you know?” She repeated her earlier question. “Who are you?”

“Avenger,” he answered immediately. “That’s the truth of me. And you asked what I am? I’m yours - then, now, and always.”

The tone in which the answer was delivered was so deadpan that Takara almost struck him for teasing her at a time like this - but then she saw his face, and heard the resonance he’d spoke with. It was the truth - at least, as he believed it. The boy - Avenger - was hers, whatever that meant.

Which meant that the other part was true, too. Whatever madness this was that came over her was because she was her parents’ child.

“My parents aren’t killers,” she protested.

“Oh, they’re killers, all right,” Avenger contradicted. “They’re just not murderers.”

“There’s a difference?” she asked bitterly.

“A world of it,” he assured her, smiling faintly. “It’s a long story.”

“Tell me,” she ordered.

He tilted his head to one side, looking mildly uncertain. “You should really ask your father,” Avenger remarked. “It’s his story.”

“I’m asking you,” Takara countered. “If you’re really mine, tell me what you know.”

A put-upon sigh escaped him, but his grin belied the sentiment.

“Yes, milady.”






Despite being shod in heavy metal, Saber made no noise as she stalked the grounds. She was not an Assassin, and would never have their inherent gift for stealth - but no soldier of her time survived long without learning how to move quietly, and how to detect those who were. The silence of her passage matched those of her surroundings. It seemed that no one more would come to disturb the Aozaki family this night. Just the same, she remained vigilant. It was part of her nature, and to do otherwise would make her someone other than who she was.

Not that her abilities had been much help. Had she been faster, Ciel Aozaki would not have been taken. Had she been better informed, she could have been prepared to fight such foes, and they would not have infiltrated the grounds at all. The blonde knight sighed. It seemed as though it was her lot in this particular War to fail when she was most needed. Sakura had died because she was not there, either, though the part of her which Shirou had no doubt loved had died years before that.

And what of herself? She fought battles against children, now. They were perhaps as old as she appeared, and powerful, yes, but they were children in their nature and in their life experience. So much potential, and they threw themselves unheeding into Death’s jaws for goals not even they understood. Shirou had wanted nothing from the Grail, really. Rin competed because of her family obligations, but she’d desired nothing, either. They treated it as a burden they had to bear, and nothing more.

Saber wondered if she had finally reached that stage, as well. Centuries of struggling, in battle after battle, watching the people she was supposed to protect die, for no gain at all. And unlike the others, she had no rest - she simply passed through the gates of time from War to War, learning only what she needed to know for the purposes of her fight, never a chance to halt and recover. It was little wonder that she felt so weary, that she had reacted so slowly that Ciel Aozaki, her host, had fallen while under her guardianship.

The boy - Avenger - blamed himself, but the fault was rightfully hers. She had been closer, she was more skilled, more experienced, and far more powerful in probably every sense. She should have been able to stop the abduction - and she had failed to act in time. And now it seemed likely that the elder Aozaki woman would suffer horribly, if not die, as a result of that inaction.

Saber had made a lifetime habit of concealing her emotions, of showing no more of herself than was absolutely necessary. However, simply because they were hidden did not mean the emotions were not there, and right now they raged as fiercely within her as any battle she had ever fought. However, even in the midst of self-berating, she was not so distracted as to miss the approach of another behind her, and she whirled, sword in hand, to face the oncoming intruder.

“Deep thoughts, Saber?” Caster asked, in a tone that sounded mocking, but was at odds with the honest expression on her face.

“I was watching the perimeter,” Saber answered, not quite lowering her guard. Caster might not be an enemy now, but she had been in the past, and the knight was unwilling to relax in the presence of a potential foe. “What are you doing here?”

“My Mistress is currently abed, at the invitation of the master of the house,” the sorceress answered. “I thought you might appreciate some assistance in your guardianship.”

After a moment’s consideration, Saber nodded. Caster’s power was far from insignificant, despite her weaknesses. Working in concert, the two of them were probably capable of repelling any threat. It did not, however, mean that she would fully trust the sorceress. They were guests of the same household, but not yet allies . . . And she had been betrayed before, by those she trusted.

“Your attention was not fully on the perimeter,” Caster noted after a moment’s silence.

“Do you speak as a trained warrior?” Saber replied, managing to sound cold, but not quite dismissive or angry at the implication.

“As a princess accustomed to reading the faces and hearts of those in her court, while concealing her own,” Caster countered. “Something troubles you.”

Saber’s eyes narrowed as she applied the skills she’d gained as the king of her own court. To the best of her ability, she determined that Caster’s purpose was . . . To talk. The knight frowned mentally. There was no hostile intention here? No desire to extract potentially valuable intelligence as to her weaknesses? Why else converse with another Servant?

Had Saber known that Caster had grown up with a number of sisters, or been more familiar with the social customs of the twenty-first century, she might have understood the concepts of “girl talk” and “female bonding.” As it was, she merely found Caster’s desire confusing, enough that it showed on her face.

The sorceress sighed. “So long as it troubles you, your problem threatens your combat readiness, and as we are working together, it is in my best interest to help you deal with it. Have you honestly never had a friendly ear to which to tell your troubles?”

Saber immediately pictured her long-dead pet, but said nothing. However, she allowed her guard to lower a little, visibly relaxing.

Caster smiled. “That’s better. Now, what’s on your mind?”

Saber frowned. “I was considering recent events, and my inability to affect them. Many people have suffered, and I should have been able to prevent it. Instead, I seem only able to react to things, after it is far too late. As a Heroic Spirit, I should be more capable than I seem to have been in altering what has happened.”

“You blame yourself for Aozaki-san’s capture,” Caster summarised.

“And other things,” Saber agreed. With Rin, she might have elaborated, but she still did not trust Caster deeply enough to mention Sakura.

Caster frowned. “You’ve done all you can at any given point, haven’t you? Why blame yourself for being unable to accomplish more than you have?”

“Because much of it should not have happened in the first place!”

Ciel should have been safe, with Saber standing beside her. After all that had been done to give her back control of her life, Sakura should not have become a withdrawn, narrowminded witch focussed only on reviving Shirou - and to hell with the cost. And Shirou should not have had to die to give it to her.

“So you blame yourself for the circumstances surrounding your actions as much as the actions themselves,” Caster replied. “Humans often do that - why should we be any different? But Saber, think about it. Is it even right to blame ourselves? Should we lay that burden on the ones who came before us, instead? Does the responsibility for the present lie with those who exist in it, or those who created it?”

“A semantic rationalisation,” Saber scoffed.

“Is it?” Caster pressed. “Did you create the Servant who took Aozaki-san?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you create the Master who summoned him?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Saber admitted.

“Did you order Aozaki-san to fight?”

“. . .” By now the trail of Caster’s logic was fairly obvious, so a response seemed unnecessary. Caster herself nodded in satisfaction.

“You are responsible only for what you can do and what you choose to do - not for the actions and choices of others. Even my royal father could only set and attempt to enforce laws - he could not stop people from actually breaking them.”

Saber bowed, as one would to an equal - and indeed, a princess was close in rank to a king. “It appears I owe you a debt.”

“My motives are purely selfish,” Caster admitted. “I want you functioning at your full potential, Saber. I will take every advantage I can get against the enemy my Mistress hunts - and fears.”

“And who or what might that be?” Saber asked.

“Trouble,” answered Avenger, his black duster showing a gray sheen in the moonlight, like tarnished metal, as he moved.

Saber frowned, noting the new jacket.

Avenger noticed. “Needed something to hide my weapons in - and this kind of gear’s traditional.”

Remembering what Rin had told her, Saber understood suddenly. His Noble Phantasm would allow him to call forth any weapon that could conceivably be hidden inside such a large piece of clothing - and because it could, no one would question its veracity. What he lacked in true power, he seemed to make up for in guile.

“Your Master is all right?” she asked aloud.

“For the most part,” he answered absently. “She’s upset about her mother, and I doubt she’ll trust me too much in the near-future . . .” He shrugged. “But I think she’ll be all right, if we can figure out how to take down the current threat.”

“Tell me what you know,” Saber pressed.

“I’d rather hear what Caster’s been told, first, and match it against what I’ve heard,” Avenger answered. “Not all of my knowledge has been accurate, lately.”

“It’s a long story.” Caster warned.

“Who needs sleep?” Avenger said with a shrug.

Saber responded, “If we are to be victorious, it requires planning, which requires information. I have fought my enemies thus far with little to no understanding of their nature or motivations, and owe my survival more to luck than anything else. It is not a practice I wish to continue. Tell me what it is I must face.”

Avenger listened as Caster began explaining the nature of their enemy. He considered idly, that between Saber’s skills as a strategist and tactician, Caster’s skills as a sorceress and her knowledge of the enemy, and his own esoteric lore and ability to improvise, the three of them could probably plan a winning strategy. They might pull this off, after all.

He only hoped that Ciel would survive long enough for them to get to her.






The lock in the manacles was old, and ill-used, if it had ever been. The crucifix, while serviceable, had not been intended as a pick, and was not designed to function as one. Moreover, Ciel was drawing on half-remembered skills she hadn’t had cause to use in well over twenty years. By any reasonable measure, her efforts to free herself were doomed to fail, but she had an ally in her quest: time. She had nothing else to do, nothing but time to make the attempt, and persistence eventually paid off in her favour, as the metal band popped open.

The first step was accomplished: she was free of the chains. Now to the next objective - getting free of the room. This was more difficult, as he door was locked from the outside, and the seal on the floor prevented her from using sorcery. Of course, it didn’t mean she was going to give up. There had to be something she could use . . .

The room was sealed by way of a heavy oaken door, with a series of iron bars blocking a hole cut in its high centre. Your stereotypical prison door, normally easily broken by magically-enhanced brute force, but not in a sealed room like this. However, the iron hinges which bracketed the door were built into the wall on her side of the door. If she could pry the hinges loose, she might be able to force the door open just widely enough to let her pass. Unfortunately, her little crucifix wasn’t large enough - it wouldn’t give her the necessary torque to loosen the screws.

She needed a better tool, and thought wistfully of Shiki’s knife. Then of Shiki himself. A magic-draining seal wouldn’t stop his abilities - death was an eternal constant. They’d never have held him like this - and they weren’t going to hold her. If she had to pry out the damned screws with her fingernails, she was getting out of here, and when she next saw Emiya Shirou, or the other one - whoever or whatever he was - she’d say a prayer for the damned after sending them to Hell.

The sound of the lock clicking open startled her out of her rant. She dropped into a fighting crouch and backed away as the door opened to reveal Shirou himself - who froze upon realising that his captive was no longer so.

It was a standoff, of sorts. Inside the magic-dampening room, Ciel was safe. None of his mystic attacks would touch her - and in a strict hand-to-hand sense, Ciel had the advantage of skill and years of experience, whereas Shirou had youth, reach, and weight. Outside the room, however, he had access to his full magical potential - but so would Ciel. If he entered the room or she left it, there was no guarantee that either one of them would survive.

All Shirou had to do in order to thwart her was close the door . . .

Ciel lunged into the swiftly closing gap, feeling energy blaze anew inside her as she charged out of the seal’s influence and into the corridor. Kicking out, she propelled herself up, out of range of a quickly-aimed energy blast, and around, to slam a kick into the teen’s unguarded jaw. Flipping backwards to land, she conjured Black Keys into her hands, even as she darted forward, aiming to go past him, or through him.

Shirou, for his part, had been knocked flat on his back by the weight and force of Ciel’s attack, but was up almost instantly to counter her assault. However, he did so in an unexpected manner.

“Archer! Lancer! Subdue her!”

Twin flares of light heralded the appearance of two men, a knight clad in golden armour, and a red-headed man in leather. The latter almost casually deflected her blade strikes with a short spear, while the armoured one grabbed her left arm and flung her into the stone wall - hard.

The last words she heard were Shirou’s. “I need her alive . . .!”






“And so she is,” Archer answered. “Do you think I don’t know how to properly apply force, boy?”

Shirou’s eyes narrowed. “That’s Master Boy to you, Gilgamesh. Don’t forget again.”

The two traded glares. One was the King of Heroes, the first known Epic Spirit. A man who challenged the gods in his lifetime, and won more often than not, though it ultimately destroyed him. The other was a mystic vessel that bore the spirit of a former, arguably failed Master - but one who had possessed the potential in life to become an Epic Spirit. More importantly, one determined enough to retain his consciousness after death and resurrection as an artificial being, all in pursuit of a single goal.

Archer did not quite lower his gaze, but Shirou didn’t miss the tremor that went through his body as their staring competition continued. The Servant might not fear his Master, but something in said Master made him afraid. It was the lunacy in his eyes. Gilgamesh had contracted himself to an obsessed madman - and he knew it.

Shirou didn’t press further, sensing victory. “Pick up the woman and follow me - it’s time to begin.”

Soon, Sakura, I’ll be one step closer . . .

Soon . . .

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 23






Saber looked at the group gathered at the breakfast table the next morning. Hisui was parcelling out servings as quickly as possible to them all, while Rin and the alchemist - Sion, the Servant reminded herself - ate with a calm, if not enthusiastic air. They understood that what lay ahead was dangerous, and that all the strength they could muster would be necessary. The two Aozakis, on the other hand, were barely eating - Shiki seemed to be having trouble focussing on the dish in front of him, and Takara gazed listlessly into empty space.

The Servant frowned, and was about to say something, but was beaten to it.

“Is there something wrong with my cooking, Shiki-sama?” she asked. Something like tears threatened in her eyes.

“No,” the man answered wearily. “I’m just tired.”

“If you’d rather go back to bed, I can bring you a tray later,” she offered.

“I wouldn’t sleep,” he answered, and glumly took a bite. Eating seemed to focus his concentration - or perhaps it was guilt. Either way, he began attacking his breakfast, if half-heartedly. In the girl’s case, Avenger looked up from his cup of coffee - an unnecessary luxury, as his mana reserves were still relatively high, but habit was strong - and leaned over to whisper something in her ear.

Takara flushed crimson and snapped at him, “You wouldn’t dare!”

Avenger’s only response was to smile, an expression that mixed smugness and sweetness in equal parts, along with a merry twinkle in his eyes that suggested he would greatly enjoy having her call his bluff.

Silence passed between Master and Servant, and resentfully, she began to eat, glaring at Avenger all the while.

Caster, to Saber’s left, chuckled as she stared at the other end of the table. Saber asked quietly what she’d heard.

“‘You’ll need your strength. Now eat, or I’ll hold you down on the floor and spoon it into you,’” the sorceress repeated. “A little harsh, but it got a reaction out of her, at least.”

Saber frowned again. She supposed that the result was what mattered, but friction between them could cause problems later. Still, at the moment, it could be put aside. What mattered was preparing for the upcoming conflict - and that began with the sharing of information.

“Our enemy is a former sorcerer named Zelas Atlasium Oberon, who has been using the alias ‘Faust,’” Saber began. “Apparently, he was the inspiration for the literary character - and so is a black magician of formidable power. Sion’s family has attempted to eliminate him for years.” She looked at the alchemist for confirmation, and Sion nodded.

The Servant continued, “Thus far, they have failed - because Faust does not truly exist.”

“Meaning?” Rin prompted.

“Zelas Atlasium Oberon entered into a pact with one of the more powerful Dead Apostles - is that term correct?” Saber asked Avenger. At his nod, she continued, “As a result, he is closer to we Epic Spirits than any physical being in composition - a concept given form. And worse, he has the power to call forth - or even become - your greatest fear. It would require tremendous magic - or strength of will - to resist his powers, and even then, he could not be destroyed, because he doesn’t truly live. He is a sentient thought, nothing more - there is no substance to him to kill. And now, with the aid of his Servant, he seeks the Grail.”

“What does Ciel have to do with it?” Shiki asked. “How would that help him?”

Saber’s eyes darkened. “Faust’s other ally in this is a former Master named Emiya Shirou - the host for the core of the Grail. He seeks to relieve himself of it, for so long as he possesses it - or perhaps it is better to say, ‘so long as it possesses him’ - summoning the Grail will mean his death.”

It took a moment for the non-sorcerers to understand. The virulence of Shiki’s curse should have ignited the air itself, and Takara proved to be her father’s daughter in this area, as well.

“How do we stop them?” Shiki asked. “How do we find them?”

“I can track the Servant,” Avenger said coldly. “He’s mine.”

“Presumably, he will not be far from his Master,” Saber added. “If so, he can be made to tell what he knows. But I think it more likely that they will be waiting for us - in order to summon the Grail, the other Servants of the War must be defeated, and those that remain are almost entirely in this room.”

“So it’s a trap - set by a powerful magician?” Takara asked.

“Perhaps powerful enough to be considered an Epic Spirit in his own right, if he truly existed,” Sion answered.

“Can we stop him?”

Saber shook her head. “Forestall him, perhaps. But so long as he remains in his present state, Faust himself is ultimately invulnerable. An extreme effort will be necessary in order to truly stop him, requiring power that no one present possesses.”

“Then we just leave Mother to die?!” Takara exclaimed.

“No,” Saber answered. “We ask for help.”

“From who?” Shiki asked.

Saber glanced at Avenger, whose eyes narrowed, and responded, “At the moment, it does not matter. What does matter is moving quickly - before they strike at us. So take an hour to prepare - no more. Do what you must to set your worldly affairs in order, because this battle will be dangerous . . . And there is a possibility that not one of us will be coming back.”






“You appear to have put a great deal of thought into all this, Saber,” Rin commented.

“It is part of what I am,” the Servant replied.

“Then tell me - why the secrecy? Who, exactly, do you plan to ask for assistance? Who can we?”

“That part of our strategy is the weakest,” the knight admitted, frowning. “According to Avenger, he can think of only four beings in this world exist who even have the potential to eliminate Faust. Two of them, whom he describes as ‘the least likely,’ are difficult to contact, and therefore less reliable. One of them is the source of Faust’s current invincibility, and he advised us not to attempt to deal with that one except in desperation. The fourth, he is certain, has sufficient power, and has a connection with Aozaki-san, but it would have to be broached delicately.”

“And you believe him?” Rin pressed. “He’s not native to this world, Saber - how can we be certain his information is accurate? How can he know what he claims to?”

To be fair, her own master had warned her that this was the case, and that knowledge was part and parcel of what made Avenger so potentially dangerous, but Rin still didn’t trust it. The inexplicable nature of it made her suspicious, and frustrated her. How would someone like him learn so much about them?

“I asked him the same questions,” Saber answered. “His response was to address me by name, Rin, It was simply a whisper in my ear, but there is no way he could have taken the information from either of us, and no one else knows. Based on that, I am willing to trust what he tells me.”

Rin frowned. “So what do we do? We know our overall strategy, but what’s the plan?”

“Out of respect for his privacy, Avenger is waiting to speak with Aozaki-san alone, to gather the information we need. Based upon what he learns, the rest of our strategy can be planned accordingly. For now, Rin, we wait, and prepare for war.”






“Father . . .” Takara began. She bit her lip, hesitating. It wasn’t that she didn’t think it was the truth, but it still sounded so ridiculous. And it was so personal.

As tired as he looked, and as terrible as the situation was, he nonetheless greeted her with a smile. “What is it, Takara-chan?”

“I wanted to ask . . .That is, what can you tell me . . .” She sighed in frustration.

“I didn’t realise your relationship with that boy was so serious, but I’d assumed your mother had told you about the birds and the bees, Takara-chan,” he replied lightly.

She could feel her face flare red-hot. “FATHER!”

“That’s better,” he said, a little more seriously. “You’re not nervous any more. Now, what is it?”

“The Nanaya clan, Father,” she said, just as serious. “What can you tell me about them?”

She watched him go very still, saw him realise that there was only one reason she’d ask the question.

“From what I was told, as much as from what I remember, they were a clan of demon hunters,” he answered heavily. “Assassins, all of them, trained to kill instinctively at a level of skill no normal human could hope to equal.”

“Like me,” Takara said quietly.

“Like me,” he corrected. “But I’d barely begun my training - and you have none, not really. If you’re as good as you seem to be, from last night, it’s not because you’re a Nanaya - it’s because you’re Takara Aozaki. And that means you have a choice. You don’t have to be a killer, Takara.”

“And you?” she returned. “And Mother?”

Her father’s expression turned brooding. “We’ve both done things we’re not proud of, Takara. Things we had to do, because it was the only choice left, or more often, because we weren’t given one. Neither of us enjoyed it - and we never wanted you to have to do what we’ve done.” He laughed suddenly, but it was a bitter sound. “I guess we wanted too much. Ciel was right. We could never have a normal child.”

“I am perfectly normal, thank you very much,” Takara replied acidly, and his head snapped up at the rebuke. She stuck her tongue out at him before adding, “It’s the rest of the world that’s weird.”

That evoked another laugh from her father, one that mixed equal parts surprise and amusement. “You’re taking this awfully well,” he commented.

She shrugged. “Being who - and what - I am saved both our lives last night. And what you’ve said confirms what my Servant told me, which means the rest of what he said is true, too. No matter what I can do, I’ll never hurt a human being unless I want to.”

He blinked. “I wish I’d been as confident of that at your age.”

Takara smiled. “I’m lucky. I inherited my confidence from my parents.” She sobered. “Do you think we’ll get her back?”

Her father looked equally serious. “I’m not sure. I’ll be honest, Takara. This looks bad for her. For all of us. In fact, given everything that’s happened in the last couple of days, I have to wonder if there isn’t some kind of destiny laid on our family, that we have to spend our lives suffering. Maybe we were just too happy, and this is to balance things out. Maybe there’s nothing we can do.”

She stared at him. “You don’t really believe that? After everything you told me for my entire life, you can’t be the despairing one now!”

“I don’t know. Even now, with everything I’ve seen and done, I can’t say whether or not we are all responsible for our own actions, or merely prisoners of fate.” His eyes hardened. “But I’ve lived my life believing that determination can succeed where even hope fails - and I still do.” He smiled. “We’ll get her back, Takara-chan.”

Takara smiled. “I love you, Father.”

“I love you too, treasure.” He yawned. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really think I need a nap. We have lots to do later.”

“Of course, Father. Sleep well.”






Hisui went through the motions of her usual duties, cleaning the breakfast dishes, and then the kitchen and dining room. Her efficiency was far less than usual, owing only in part to the unfamiliarity of the house she was in. The greater part of her ineffectiveness lay in that her mind was not fully concentrated on the task at hand, but on the man who was her former master, her current lover, and had always been the love of her life.

A quarter-century and more ago, he’d left her life for the first time. The loss had been hard, but bearable, because she was a child and not yet capable of understanding or appreciating the depth of the feelings he’d stirred in her. When he had returned to her life, as a young woman, her mistress had not been the only one to rejoice. However, by then she had a full and proper understanding of the role she was allowed in his life, and sought to demonstrate her love through dedication and devotion to his comfort and well-being. To some extent, it had seemed to work. She might have been a servant, but he did not treat her as another piece of furniture in the household. He’d seemed to care about her as a person. And if he did not confess deeper feelings, it was less than she wanted but more than she’d hoped for. For a brief time, she’d been content.

And then he had left again, to choose someone she had never met over his home, his family . . . And her. On one level, the act was admirable - the future of a child was at stake, and he had chosen to bear the responsibility for his actions, as she’d always known he would. Nonetheless, the blow had been a sharp one to the entire household, and she had dealt with the pain by withdrawing entirely into her duties - to step beyond the confines of her role, even in intention, had obviously been a mistake. And she had moved on, to become the perfect maidservant, if little else. And she endured.

Then her mistress died, and the world which had defined her shrank. One of the keystones of her identity was now missing. When the call had come, from the strange woman with whom she’d never spoken - with Shiki-sama’s wife - she had leaped at the opportunity to fill that gaping void in her self-image . . . And because, though she had locked her heart away years ago, it loved him still. Enough to take his body, because it was offered, even if his heart had been given to someone else long ago.

Now her sister, her protector, her confidant and reflection was dead, and her world was that much smaller. A council of war had been held, and the woman who’d taken Hisui’s heart from her years ago would do so again. Shiki-sama would go, and leave her alone.

And how long would she have to wait this time, until he returned?

He was the last link to Hisui’s identity, the last one alive who knew her and defined her. When he was gone, what would be left of her? She would be just a machine that performed the tasks it was given without thought, or life, or any spirit at all. She would be Kohaku’s sister in all things, then.

“Perhaps it is better to be mad, like you, sister,” she whispered. “Perhaps then it won’t hurt so much.”

“It won’t hurt you,” answered a voice. “But it will hurt those who care for you.”

Hisui turned, to see the blue-haired woman - Caster-san - standing behind her.

“And if there is no one left who cares for me?” the maid asked timidly, afraid of the answer.

“Then it will hurt those who have not hurt you, and who might have cared for you,” Caster said darkly. “And for that sin, there can be no forgiveness.” She locked eyes with the maid, and the certainty with which she spoke every word told Hisui that the woman spoke from personal experience. “No evil is more terrible than that which is done in the name of love.”

“But . . . What am I to do? What can I do?”

“Go to him,” Caster advised. “Speak to him, while there is still time. Be relieved of that burden at least - that you tried. I will see to it that you are not disturbed.”

Hisui hesitated, then bowed deeply. “ . . . Thank you.”

Caster said nothing in response, speaking only to herself, after the other woman had left. “What is my purpose, if not to warn others against making my own mistake?”






Avenger frowned, seeing Hisui enter Shiki’s room. If she was going for the reason he thought she was, he’d have to give her at least . . . Half an hour? Hard to say, and time was more precious than gold right now. Still, he owed them both time and privacy.

So, those two were busy, Saber was conferring with Rin, Sion and Caster were Nasu-only-knew-where, and Takara . . . Takara was likely not eager to see him. After revealing himself for the world’s biggest and most convincing liar, he couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eyes, so distance was preferable. It kept him from thinking about how pathetic he was, compared to what she’d really wanted and needed.

With a sigh, he wandered as quietly as possible through the house, drawn without really thinking about it to the library. It was a talent - he could always find books. Pity he couldn’t read them - whatever effect the Grail used to let him understand Japanese didn’t seem to extend to literacy. Or maybe it was just because he was such a sorry excuse for a Servant . . .

Sion rose from her chair, and he jumped. He’d been so deeply involved in brooding, he hadn’t noticed her.

Well, be fair - self-flagellation is your favourite hobby, that know-it-all portion of his mind pointed out. It’s understandable that you’d be distracted.

“Did you require something of me?” she asked in that eerily even tone of hers. He had Rei Ayanami flashbacks every time the alchemist spoke - not necessarily a bad thing, but disconcerting.

The Servant chose to answer, “You know, you really shouldn’t hand me a straight line like that.”

Sion frowned. “I do not detect any inherent humour in my inquiry.”

“There’s a switch - usually, it’s my responses people don’t find funny.” He shook his head. “Pay no attention to me. I’m too bedazzled by your radiance to make even the minimal amount of sense I normally do.”

The alchemist’s eyes became unfocussed, as she considered the best response to his statement. Finally, she nodded, deciding to take him at his word - it was best to pay no attention.

“Are you fully prepared for the mission?” Sion asked.

“I still have to quiz Aozaki-san, to finalise our strategy, but I’m pretty much good to go,” Avenger answered.

“Perhaps you should do that now. Time is essential.”

“I know, but . . . He’s currently too busy preparing himself to be bothered. I’ll give it a little longer before I concern him.”

“Are you certain that’s wise?”

“I am well aware that every minute brings Ciel the possibility of more suffering.” His voice sounded sharp even to himself, and he took a moment to restrain himself. Sion wasn’t trying to make him angry - and it did no good to take it out on her. His real target was Tepes, after all.

“What about you?” he asked finally. “All your weapons are loaded and ready?”

“Caster is fully charged, and my Etherlite requires no loading,” the alchemist responded.

“What about your - what was it? - Black Barrel replica?”

“While I am skilled with firearms, I have no such weapon.”

Avenger blinked. While he had no attachment to the character, it just seemed wrong for Sion not to have a gun. Unfortunately, unless she was willing to stay within about twenty feet at all times, he couldn’t supply one . . . Unless . . .

Avenger smirked. The idea was ridiculous, nearly impossible to pull off, and something only a fanboy would think of. So of course, he’d try it. It was better than pacing around being bored.

“Wait here,” he said. “I think I know a way to add to your arsenal.”

As he left, he murmured to himself, “Just hold on, Ciel - we’re on our way, honest.”






Ciel was no stranger to pain, be it physical or emotional. She had been forced to watch as her own body had murdered everyone and everything she held dear. She had felt that body be torn apart by the will of the True Ancestor Princess. She had been reborn in a living body when she wanted only to die, and suffered unending revivals when the Church found and experimented on the limits of her undesired immortality. She had been wounded and killed by monsters in their service, and despaired on finding that her long-sought mortality had come at the price of a life - one she could not bring herself to end along with her own. She had given birth, an effort which still ranked highly on her personal list of her most painful experiences. In short, Ciel had suffered every torment known to man or woman over the course of her life.

This one was new, and threatened to eclipse labour’s position on her list . . . Assuming, of course, it didn’t kill her outright.

The Executioner was spread-eagled in mid-air, suspended within the glow of another of those damned seals. After chanting several verses, the shadowy mage who was Shirou’s partner began carving several symbols in her flesh with a heated athame, which cauterised the bleeding even as it provoked it. Soon, her skin was a mass of red-black sigils, and she was struggling to stay conscious. It wasn’t just that her skin was sliced and burned - as bad as that was, she’d felt it before, and could mostly deal with it, though she was unused to feeling it for such a long stretch of time. No, it was that the cuts seemed to go deeper than her physical body, as though the knife were etching the same obscene wounds into her very soul. Every time the blade touched her, Ciel’s mind felt lightning strike it, threatening to shatter her sense of self altogether.

The black magician was unaffected by her torment, indeed, it was as though he was wholly unaware of it, as the chant spilled from his lips.

“Source of conflict and life unending,
Creator and destroyer of fate,
Union of death and the eternal world,
Harken now to my will.”

Shirou doubled over, a green glow beginning to emanate from his chest, as Ciel was bent further backward, to prostrate herself more fully, as if in anticipation.

“Cast off the bonds of mortal flesh,
Return once more to divine grace,
To begin anew, the promise unbroken,
Of miracles and hope unending.”

The glow contracted, brightening to pure white as it centred over the youth’s chest. Shirou dropped to his knees. The magician raised his knife, still wet with Ciel’s blood.

“The source of life is the foundation of the future,” he murmured. “Let the sacrifices of old grant new strength, and bind the memory of what was to the fate of what is to come.” Swiftly, and without hesitation, he carved the heart from Shirou’s body. It blazed like a tiny star, and Ciel could not bear to look at it directly.

“Realm of light, heart of all creation,
Grant the promise, the seed eternal,
That hope be made flesh, and the suffering of the flesh grant hope.
Be nourished in mortal clay, and by the wellspring of the heart,
That the gate may yet be opened to us, and paradise be found.”

With his still-bloody dagger, the sorcerer tore Ciel open, and thrust the fiery light into her body, though in a different position. It would not be her heart. Instead, for reasons unknown, or sheer sadism, he chose to place it in her womb. Her instincts would drive her body to do its utmost to nurture and protect the “child” inside, both of them were certain.

“Descend now, chalice of destiny!” he finished, and Ciel felt it burn deeper within, flaring beyond white-hot, until blessed darkness took her.

Faust gazed with satisfaction as the magic circuits the woman held flared nova-bright, the Grail seed aligning itself to them and infusing itself within their network. Even as it would draw on her natural potential to ignite its own, it would also magnify that potential by untold amounts. When the process was complete, she might be more powerful than Shirou could ever have been. They had chosen well.

The one-armed Master stirred, slowly. His body bore only traces of the injury inflicted only moments earlier, but his movements were sluggish, unfocussed. The loss of the Grail matrix was not a fatal one to his metaphysical well-being, but it was crippling. His animating energies were now barely a shadow of their former strength, and it was evident.

“How . . .” the younger magician asked, struggling to form the words. “How . . . How long?” Unspoken was the fact that the severe drain had shortened his lifespan that much further.

“The seed must adapt to its new host,” Faust answered. “Then, it is merely a matter of finishing what we have begun - collecting the energies of the other Servants for its purpose. In a matter of hours, no more, the War will be over, and the Grail will be ours.”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 24






After leaving her father, Takara spent the next half hour stretching out all her muscles, warming them to perfection. From everything she’d heard, the enemy they were going to be up against was the worst imaginable - literally. She’d need to be at the sharpest edge of her conditioning, have firm control over everything she could bring to bear, if she hoped to win. And, she reluctantly concluded, that included her Nanaya blood, which meant that the approach of the last half hour saw her meditating, trying to calm her mind and heart, and understand them.

Meditation was not her specialty. She excelled more at the physical aspects of the combat arts than the spiritual, though she was more than just a skilled thug. Still, it had to be said that she wasn’t really the contemplative type - she preferred having an obstacle she could defeat with her hands, or even her head, more than her heart. But somewhere inside her there lurked one of the deadliest killers imaginable, and she had to reach an accord with that killer, or the stresses between the two of them would, one day, tear them both apart. And that day might be today, if she wasn’t careful.

And so she concentrated, turning her senses inward, trying to find the part of her that responded to the name Nanaya . . .

The great hall appeared in her mind’s eye, as it had in her dreams, but it seemed different. The lights were dimmer, a burning violet flame that did not illuminate as well. The stone was darker, colder. The carpeting seemed to hold a vermillion glow, like a pool of fresh blood. And the woman in the centre had changed. No longer was the blonde noblewoman there, held by iron links. Instead, bound by chains of yellowed ivory (or was it bone?) and blood-stained leather (was it human skin?), was a girl who bore her face. The imprisoned girl was perhaps slightly paler than she, with hair the deep blue of a midnight sky, and silver eyes that held the cold brightness of the moon.

Angel of the night, Avenger had named her. Takara saw that he had a gift for accuracy as well as poetry. She did indeed look like a spirit of the night, but the emptiness in her gaze held a promise that it was the last night you would ever see, if she had the chance. That promise was plainly visible as the two girls locked eyes.

“So you’re here,” her other said, her voice as soft and quiet as falling snow. “Why?”

“I . . . I think we need to talk,” Takara said slowly. She glanced around. “Where is this place?”

The delicate-looking chain links clicked as the other girl shrugged. “I don’t know. But you’ve seen it as a prison for so long, where else would you choose to put something you don’t want to deal with?”

“Well, you’re a killer,” Takara responded, a little uncomfortable.

“You are a killer. I may not have full control, but I’m still in your blood, your mind. We’re talking like this now because you can’t accept that.”

“I’m trying.”

The smile her other bestowed upon her was nothing she had ever worn. It was icy, merciless, and disturbingly hungry. “Really?”

“ . . . Fair enough. I wasn’t happy finding out I could slice people up like sashimi without any kind of warning. But Avenger said - “

”He’s lied before,” the Nanaya girl stated. “His entire existence is based on a lie. Can you truly believe anything he says?”

“Father - ”

“Is a man who had hoped to see the bloodline die with him, and who loves his only child. He’s not incapable of deceit.”

Takara was silent a long time. “If I don’t trust them, I’m lost, anyway. Father is Father, and I can’t not trust him. And Avenger . . .”

Nanaya’s expression went, if possible, deader.

“You don’t like him,” Takara ventured.

“His existence offends me. He smells like the rest of them - Emiya, Tohno, Saber, and Caster. I want to carve his heart out and crush it into pulp . . . But he doesn’t have one. There’s no passion in him.”

Takara found it mildly amusing, hearing that from someone whose personality took “ice queen” to an extreme.

Nanaya’s silver eyes narrowed slightly. “He is waiting to die. Killing him would be like watering a flower in the middle of a rainstorm - a wasted effort. And that is . . .” Something flashed across her slitted eyes, too quick to read. “Irritating.”

“I like him better, all of a sudden.” Then Takara remembered that she was supposed to be pacifying her Nanaya side, not antagonising it, and winced.

The bound girl gazed at her. “If either of us should be considered an ‘it,’ it’s you. You are simply camouflage, a way for me to lure in our prey and disappear among the flock, afterwards. I am who you were always supposed to be. If our mutual parents hadn’t gone so soft, it would be you in these chains.”

Takara forced down her emotions this time, ignoring the taunt. “Will you help me save my mother?”

“She can take care of herself.”

“Don’t you care?”

“She’s human - sort of. So I can’t kill her. It doesn’t mean I have to protect her.”

“But!” Takara protested. “But she’s . . .”

“She’s what?” Nanaya prodded. “What is she to me?”

“Your mother!” the Aozaki girl snapped.

“Which means?”

“Don’t you love her?!”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

Nanaya sighed. “Then I have no choice.”

“ . . . Just like that?”

Nanaya’s expression didn’t change, but Takara could swear she heard the girl’s teeth grinding. “We share a divided mind, but in the end, I am still you. Your shadow, your reflection, your dreaming self. If you are hurt, I will bleed. If you choose to protect something, I will fight for it. And what you love . . .”

An emotion that Takara could not quite read briefly flickered in Nanaya’s eyes. It seemed to be a mixture of annoyance, contempt, and something else she didn’t understand. “What you love, I must cherish . . . Even if you are a fool.”

Before she could answer that remark, Nanaya continued, “There is no point in further discussion. Do as you must - I certainly will.”






Sion might not be as powerful as a normal sorcerer, but her alchemy was hardly useless. She’d transformed the outer shell of the Seventh Holy Scripture with barely an effort, once he’d explained what he knew of the weapon’s critical inner workings - supplemented by the spirit’s own comments. Now sleeker, lighter, and more compact, the alchemist could easily wield the conceptual weapon in battle. Temporarily, anyway.

Only until Ciel-sama is safe, the Scripture had warned them. And you’d better change me back, afterward!

He got the impression that pairing an excitable girl like Nanako with the staid Sion was not one of his better ideas, but the Scripture’s power might keep her alive - and he couldn’t stand watching the alchemist die.

Arming Sion, however, had reminded him of a couple of other things that needed doing. First, a hunt through the backyard for some forgotten debris, and finally, through the house, for Caster. Oddly enough, he found her sitting cross-legged in the hallway, across from Shiki’s room.

“Why are you here?” Avenger asked.

“The young lady wished some private time with her master,” she explained. “I am here to ensure they are undisturbed.”

Avenger nodded, then held out two pieces of a broken knife. “Can you fix this?”

Caster studied the weapon. “It’s not yours, is it? The weapon is well-made, but I sense no trace of enchantment.”

He shook his head. “It’s Shi - Aozaki-san’s. He’ll need a weapon, sooner or later, and I think he’d like to have this one back. Can you fix it?”

“Easily,” Caster replied, taking the pieces from him. Muttering a prayer to Hephaestus, god of smiths, she began mystically melding the shattered knife together again.

“Useful,” Avenger commented, folding and pocketing the repaired weapon. “Thanks.”

“Are you all right?” Caster asked. “You seem -tense.”

“I was one of my classics teacher’s prize pupils,” he answered. “I know Medea’s exploits a little too well - sorry.”

“You speak as though Medea was not myself,” she commented - sounding more curious than offended.

“The Medea I know about didn’t have blue hair and pointed ears,” he returned. “Therefore, I’ll trust Caster where I wouldn’t trust Medea - but you’ll forgive me if I put limits on that, for the time being.” His eyes darkened. “I’ve heard of the things Caster is capable of, as well.”

“Sensible,” she admitted. She didn’t trust him completely, either. In the end, they were both Servants, and both of them knew it might come down to the two of them contesting for the Holy Grail.

He shrugged. “If I don’t swing by later, let me know when Hisui leaves, please. I need to talk to Aozaki-san, soon.”

“Of course,” Caster said.

“Thanks again for fixing the knife,” he added, before leaving.

Caster nodded, but said nothing, wondering instead what kind of warrior worried more over arming his allies than himself. And what surprises he might have in store for her, should they come to battle.






Hisui closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. For a moment, her senses were enraptured by the smell of sweat, the warmth of flesh, the softness of cloth, and the sound of quiet breathing. It was a safe world, a comforting world, a moment in time she savoured for as long as possible. When she opened her eyes, that world would be gone, and she didn’t know if it would ever come back. Nothing would please her more than to stay here, like this, forever. An eternal, timeless moment . . .

She knew it would break that moment if she spoke, but chose to anyway, because if she didn’t, she never would. She said just two words, in the softest voice she could manage that would still be audible. They were the only words her mind and heart could agree on, could think of that would convey to him what the moment meant to her, even as she let it die away.

“Don’t go.”

Shiki was still and silent in her arms. He made a movement, as if to pull away, and she tightened her embrace, pressing harder against him.

“Hisui . . .” he croaked awkwardly.

“Don’t go,” she repeated. “You’re sick. You can’t help them without endangering yourself. You’ll be killed, and maybe kill the rest of them along with you. Don’t go.”

“Ciel’s my wife,*Hisui.” There was a note of anger in his voice, and she cringed, because it had never been directed at her before, but the maid did not relent.

“I am not asking you to not worry about her,” she said, her voice delicately balanced between the hardness of steel and the fragility of glass. One push, in either direction, would topple it. “Nor am I asking you to not love her. I am asking you to not go after her - to let the others rescue her.”

“I can’t. I have to try, Hisui.”

“And if you fail? What then?” Hisui demanded. Anger made her voice higher, more frantic. “Will you leave your daughter without either of her parents?”

“. . . It’s possible that I will watch her die, instead,” Shiki answered at last. “That I will see my entire family destroyed before I fall.” It was his worst fear - at this point in time, his only fear.

“I already have,” Hisui whispered. “And I cannot lose you, too. Please. It doesn’t have to be you, Shiki-sama. Not again. Entrust Ciel-sama to the others - have faith that they won’t fail. You are not strong enough to go to her.” Her last words were almost inaudible, but he was too close not to hear them.

“And I am not strong enough to let you.”

Shiki was silent again, for a very long time. “Hisui . . . I realise that I’ve taken considerable advantage of you lately, but I love Ciel, and - “

”I understand,” the maid answered. Her tone became flat, unemotional. “She is your wife. I do not dispute that fact - and I am not asking for your heart, Shiki-sama. It is more than I should expect. However, I am asking you to reconsider undertaking a task that everyone agrees may be impossible.”

She buried her head in his shoulder, reducing her next words to a whisper. “It does not have to be you. It should not have to be. It is not fair that you should go . . . Why must you always go?”

Shiki considered several answers to her question. Some of them were flippant, an attempt to lighten the mood. Others were serious, blunt enough to be unkind, or outright frightening. None of them were completely incorrect, but neither was each the whole truth, he thought. He’d never really questioned the “why” of his sense of responsibility, only accepted that it was so. And in the end, that was the real answer, wasn’t it?

“It’s who I am,” he said at last. As an explanation, it was inadequate, almost nonexistent. But it was what those explanations would have amounted to.

Hisui was silent for a very long time. Knowing him as she did - better than he himself suspected - she knew that Shiki had hit upon the one argument she could not counter. His need to help, for good or ill, was an integral part of who he was. He could not deny it and remain himself. And, she admitted, if it were otherwise, she would regard him as lesser for it. She couldn’t cage him, even to save him from himself, and she likely never would be able to. Not if she truly loved him.

“If you do not come back . . .” she whispered at last, “I will follow you - even in death. I am willing to wait for your return, but I will not let you leave me behind again, Shiki-sama. So please . . . Come back.”

There seemed to be nothing more either of them could say to that, and so they let the moments pass in silence, as Hisui did everything she could to ensure that Shiki had absorbed all he could of the strength she gave. Then, quietly, with only a glance back, she left the room.

The look was the closest she could bring herself to saying goodbye.






Rin’s preparations were relatively simple. As an Association member and sometime troubleshooter, her legal affairs were nearly always in perfect order. Neither vocation, particularly the latter, did much to help one live a long life. No, she spent most of her time after recharging Saber travelling. First, she went to her ancestral estate, to gather what equipment she’d left there. Her second act was to activate and alter a number of the wards and defences there - if enough Servants were eliminated that it came down to a battle for the Grail itself, she wanted to be prepared. The gate would open on her home ground, this time - and stopping Faust from obtaining the Grail was the very definition of the mission she’d been given.

Once that was complete, she journeyed again to the Matou estate, to see to her sister . . . Or what was left of her. The house had been pretty thoroughly burned - while no chemicals had been used to enhance the fire, per se, Sakura had probably kept some fairly volatile things in her workspace - and once they’d been set off, the entire property was essentially lost.

Claiming the body had already been done, it seemed, by the Matou family. Once again, Rin tried too little, too late. It was a pattern she was beginning to hate.

She had to stop Faust, though. She couldn’t rely on the others being of any help - the Aozaki family and the alchemist might be useful, but there was no telling when they might fail at a critical moment. Whatever hidden strengths he might possess, Shiki Aozaki was sickly, even dying, and whatever power his daughter might hold, she was untrained. Sion held the least possible magical ability, though she was obviously skilled at using it, and the things she’d said indicated that alchemists had tried and failed to stop Faust before. Even Saber might be taken from her, or corrupted, as before. In a way, the most reliable one was Avenger. He knew the limits of what he could, and could not, accomplish. He’d help where possible, and stay out of the way when it wasn’t.

In the end, though, that wasn’t the crux of it. It was her responsibility as a mage, and hers alone, to see his threat finished. She’d failed so often to do the important things - or relied on others, like Shirou, to do them for her. This, she had to see through for herself. After everything it had cost her, nothing less would do.

Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t hedge her bets a little, right?

A knock on the door earned a muffled, “Yes?”

“May I intrude?” Rin asked.

“. . . Come in,” was her reply.

Takara Aozaki’s room was a surprise. Decorated primarily and tastefully in blue, it lacked both the feminine touches common to stereotypical girls’ rooms, and those more suited to “tomboys.” A series of bookcases lined one wall - its contents included at least one chocolate cookbook, a few books on Japanese history and the history of kendo, in particular, and an assorted collection of manga, ranging from bishoujo romances to “blood and thunder” action series. There were a few posters on her walls - the largest looked like a replica of a seascape painting, most of the rest were from movies. Aside from that, few things adorned the room - no knickknacks, no clothes strewn about, no personal computer or quirky lamps. It was a very practical room, almost dull. Wherever it was Takara chose to relax and feel “at home,” this did not seem to be it.

As if to bear out that theory, the room’s occupant did not seem at all relaxed. In point of fact, there was a light in her eyes that suggested she’d very much welcome a chance to beat the stuffing out of something. Knowing that, and not yet sure of her level of control over her abilities, Rin resolved to tread lightly.

“I’ve come to give you something,” the sorceress said quietly. “I suspect you’ll need it. Hold out your right hand, please.”

Frowning, Takara did so. Rin took it, murmuring something under her breath. Before the girl could ask what was going on, Rin’s sigil flared, enveloping her own in a brilliant flare that caused them both to look away. When Takara’s eyes had cleared, she could see that part of her Master’s mark had returned - and a portion of Rin’s had vanished.

“How did you . . .?” Takara started to ask. “Why?”

“We’re going into battle, and each of us will need every advantage we can get,” the sorceress answered. “I’m more experienced than you are, so I think I can get by without using my Command Mantras, but you only had the one, if you needed to.”

Rin did not add that, had she been forced to use it, there was every chance the girl’s Servant would vanish without even achieving the enforced order. The link that bound him to her was all that kept him here - if it was severed, the mana in his body might just simply negate itself, rather than slowly draining off. It was better for her to have it, if she needed it. And if Rin found herself in a situation where she actually had to use her own Master abilities, a third one was not likely to save her.

“You should probably recharge your Servant, too,” she continued aloud. “He’s much lower maintenance in his Avenger form, but he has been running for over a day without any real rest - and he probably used a fairly large chunk of power cleaning up outside. Besides, he needs every advantage he can get, too.”

Takara made no response, but somewhere in the back of her mind, she felt that her Nanaya self would have nodded in agreement. Still, she frowned inwardly. While she’d more or less forgiven him for it, she wasn’t happy with the way Avenger had kept secrets from her - like everyone else in her life, lately.

“Anyway, I’ll give you your privacy for that,” Rin said, giving the teen a knowing grin. “Just try not to take too long, hm?”

Honest puzzlement showed on the girl’s face. “Why make those kinds of comments? It’s not like we’ll be “ - she forced herself to finish the sentence - “having sex.”

Rin stared at her with something akin to disbelief. “All right, I admit I can understand your reluctance - he’s not much to look at - but you mean to tell me he hasn’t tried to force you into it? It’s the most effective method for mana transference!”

Takara’s eyes widened. “It is?”

Now it was Rin’s turn to go wide-eyed. “You mean to tell me that he has a girl as pretty as you are - and he can’t be gay, he was looking at my chest too hard - but he still manages to control himself, and not try to take advantage . . . “ She shook her head. “Maybe he’s got what it takes to be a hero, after all. Either that, or he’s a devoted masochist.” She shrugged. “Anyway, it doesn’t change the fact that before we go into battle, you really should top him up . . . “ She grinned again. “Or take the bottom position, if you prefer.”

The sorceress left before Takara could think of a suitably scathing response, which was probably just as well. The only thing that stuck in the girl’s mind was how frighteningly similar Tohsaka-san seemed to be to Aoko - she teased like the big sister Takara had never had, or wanted.

While Takara didn’t fit the usual stereotype of sword-wielding tomboys - she lacked the “boys are icky” mindset that seemed to plague many of her anime counterparts - the concept of actually having sex went a little beyond her ability to imagine, or cope with. And with Avenger, of all people?

Nanaya whispered in her ear, in a tone that, from anyone else, would have been described as mocking.

“On the other hand, do you really want to run the risk of dying a virgin?”

Takara turned crimson, as she contemplated what she should do - balanced against what she could do, or might want to do - next.






Avenger stood beyond the closed door, in the position Caster had just vacated, and pondered what he should do. Shiki was alone now, presumably, and energised after his activities. He could probably answer questions coherently. But if he wasn’t? If he was asleep, or otherwise engaged, somehow? Caster had a cruel streak, he knew - maybe she’d leave, and wait for him to come upon Shiki and Hisui both, in bed, just for a laugh?

It was possible, but was it likely? Giving her the benefit of the doubt - she’d so far seemed a lot less dark than he’d been led to believe - the Servant was inclined to say “no.” Still, Avenger was going to be bursting in on a man in a place where privacy was expected, a man with very little reason to welcome his company - and no reason at all to tolerate the kinds of questions he was about to ask. Still, time was short, and the answers were needed - but he was going to need fortification before undertaking the task.

Avenger closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and called up the fire. Sweet fury filled his veins - and it was sweet, warming him from deep inside, even as it burned away all his doubts, all his fears - and all his pain. Anger had kept him going, kept him moving, at times when the weariness and agony were so bad he just wanted to lie down and die. Still, he knew it was dangerous to let it flow too freely, or too frequently. It already came so easily, too easily, to his call. It might still destroy him . . . And his worst fear was that it already had. That it had burned away too much of his soul for him to really be called human anymore. Why else could he contemplate killing anyone, even his family and friends, for no reason at all beyond simple boredom, and feel nothing? True, he had not - but how much of that was due to the reality that his weakened body was unsuitable for the task - or for surviving the reprisals of trying - rather than whatever was left of his conscience?

It was one reason he’d never pass judgement on any of the Tsukihime characters. As violent and murderous as any of them could be, in most cases it was a matter of circumstance, or a part of their own nature that they hadn’t asked for, and battled against constantly. They could be killers - but he was a monster, because unlike them, he’d chosen to become what he was. He’d used anger to motivate himself, because it could, and now he was paying the price for it. And he wondered if he actually cared . . .

Gentle, he reminded himself. For Takara’s sake, be gentle while you can. Be the friend she needs, if you can’t be the hero she wanted. The time will come, soon enough, when gentleness will be discarded, and there will be only blood, and pain, and darkness.

A part of him shivered in anticipation at the thought, and he buried it deep. He needed only to be a little angry, just enough to brace himself. Bloodthirstiness was not called for, not against this man, not here or now. He didn’t deserve it.

Steeling himself, Avenger opened the door.

Shiki was awake, and from his expression, understandably a little startled by the intrusion. Nonetheless, he conducted himself politely and calmly in the face of the Servant’s rudeness.

“What is it?” the Aozaki asked.

Avenger shut the door. “I assume Ciel . . . san,” he added hastily, “is the more strategically inclined one of the family, but I know you’re not stupid. That said, you might have noticed that our strategy meeting left out one or two important details.”

“Like your backup,” Shiki answered. Whether he’d anticipated where the Servant was heading, or wondered all along, Avenger couldn’t say - he’d never been good at reading people.

“Exactly. There are maybe four people on the planet who might*be able to kill Faust, or manipulate events so that we can. One of them created him, and I’d rather not deal with her. One of them is Rin’s old teacher - but even if we could contact him, I don’t know that he can. The other one who might is your*old teacher . . . Is there any chance you can contact Aoko Aozaki?”

Shiki shook his head. “If I knew how, for certain, I’d have done it by now.”

Avenger nodded grimly, his voice holding an edge as he concluded, “Then that leaves the one entity I know can stop Faust, because I’ve seen it done before. But before I can even try to get into contact, I need an answer to a question, and you, Shiki, are the only person in the world right now who can give it to me.”

Shiki blinked, his expression so expectant that even he recognised the look. “What is it? What do you need to know?”

Avenger’s voice was so sharp it should have drawn blood. “I need you to tell me, if you can - what happened to Arcueid Brunestud?”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 25






Ciel lay on her side, curled on the floor, hands clutching her belly. Bound as before, in a room literally covered in magic-draining sigils, raw mana nonetheless burned through her. She could feel the core pulsing inside her, sending jolts of pain through her as it intertwined itself with the circuits of power that crisscrossed her body. Occasionally, an especially bad attack would correspond to a series of her magic circuits actually illuminating, despite the room’s properties - a green light that rapidly paled to pure, undiluted white.

It was like the worst illness she’d ever had - Ciel could literally feel what they’d put in her eating its way into her system. Her body burned with fever, as well - human beings, even human beings with exceptional amounts of mana, had not been intended to suffer this kind of condition - and had never been intended to survive it. But Ciel’s ultimate talent was survival, even when she might wish otherwise, and slowly, slowly, her body was adjusting to the strain. It actually helped that she was in a room that absorbed mana - if she’d been hit with the full force of the core, had all the inherent mana flare inside her body at once, she’d likely have died - and taken everyone with her.

If her body was in unimaginable pain, however, her mind was no less tormented. She knew things now, things that it should have been impossible to understand, to feel, and the volume of knowledge threatened to bury her.

Takara . . . Her daughter was all that sustained her sanity. She could sense her child, at least to the extent of being certain that she was healthy, and presumably safe. The compact into which she’d entered - which Ciel remembered, despite never having been present - was as yet unbroken. Her Servant was still active.

Takara had survived the attack on the house. She could only hope and pray that Shiki had done so, as well. Her family was still alive.

And so was she. No matter what plans Shirou and his ally - Faust, his name was Faust - had, Ciel fully intended to stay alive, to return to her family.

And no one, not even God, would stand in her way.






Avenger left Shiki’s room, closing the door behind him, and sagged against the nearest wall. It was beginning to get to him, the weariness. He’d had maybe four hours’ sleep the previous day, and that after being awake for well over a day. Now he was pushing it again - he’d been awake for more than twelve hours, now, and his body and mind were screaming for rest.

My body can’t hurt, the Servant told himself. I don’t have one. It’s solid mana, nothing else. There aren’t real nerves to carry the pain impulses, or real muscles to get tired. I’m just reacting out of habit.

He felt better, though his mind still felt a little worn. Nonetheless, he kept it working, closing his eyes in thought.

Play the GM. Play the player. Look at the situation from every angle - what have you missed? What do you need that you haven’t got? What can you do that you haven’t done? What might you face that you aren’t prepared for, and how should you?

Shirou . . . I can’t stop him. He knows who I am, what I am, and I don’t understand enough about how his powers work to counter them properly, even if I could overpower his will. Damn, I wish I’d paid more attention to the Fate/Stay Night section of the Moonlit World! If I’d known being a Tsukihime specialist was going to cost me, later on . . . I’ll have to leave him to the others.

Faust . . . The original tale is Marlowe’s, I think - or is it Goethe? No, I think that’s the opera version - is it an opera? The story itself came from Marlowe’s Faustus. He made a deal with Mephistopheles to have . . .Wishes granted? Gain immortality, power? It varies from version to version, doesn’t it? Regardless, this is the Type-Moon version, which means he’s got those bloody Tatari powers, whatever the full measure of those can do. I wish it was Night of Wallachia I was up against - I know how to handle vampires . . . Oh, I need that!

With a new mission goal in mind, he proceeded to move forward, and work to attain the necessary equipment - momentarily forgetting what his next action should*have been - locating and reporting to Saber. This led to her, after a seemingly unreasonable amount of time having passed, going to seek him out.

Despite the fact that the house was almost entirely on one level, and not exceedingly large, Saber still had trouble tracking down Avenger. It was annoying, in that her quarry was a Servant, and thus, should be tangible to her senses. Caster’s presence glowed like a beacon in her consciousness, her proximity setting off all kind of instinctive warnings, but the other, Avenger, remained stubbornly absent from her perceptions.

His other persona had been noticeable enough . . . But she’d noted before that his true form seemed more human than Epic Spirit. However, it wasn’t until she tried to locate him that she realised the accuracy of the sentiment. As Avenger, with his Noble Phantasm inactive, he seemed to be functionally invisible as far as spiritual detection was concerned. Perhaps it was the Grail’s attempt to better equip him for combat? It was harder to destroy what you could not find, after all.

Nonetheless, however mystically concealed he was, his stealth skills were less than adequate. Saber eventually caught him coming down from the attic.

“Oh, hi,” he said nonchalantly. “What can I do for you?”

The knight frowned, as though the answer should be obvious. “Did you discover what we needed to know?”

It really should have been obvious. Avenger refrained from smacking himself upside the head, if for no other reason than that he couldn’t reach it properly. He’d gotten distracted again - by a necessity, this time, at least, but still distracted.

“Yeah, I talked to him. And yes, his story pretty much pans out the way I figured it did, give or take a detail. Which means that we can go ahead with the plan, as soon as everyone’s ready.” Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by a sudden yawn. “Pardon me,” he added sheepishly.

Saber looked him over carefully. “Are you well?”

Avenger shrugged. “My energy levels might be a little less than optimum - or it could just be habit, because I used to be tired all the time.“ He smiled halfheartedly. “I keep forgetting I’m not human, that I don’t need to sleep. You needn’t trouble yourself, though - I wouldn’t want to see frown lines mar such a lovely face.”

Saber’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. “You flattered Rin, earlier - and I’ve seen how you look at Caster. Do you flirt with every female you encounter?”

Avenger bit his lower lip. “Maybe a little, with ones as beautiful as I find myself surrounded with now. One enjoys a certain level of freedom on realising that no woman, anywhere, will ever be interested in you. I honestly don’t mean anything by it.”

Saber paused, surprised by his matter-of-fact tone. Lechers, she knew how to deal with - forcefully, immediately, and if necessary, violently. And she’d known a knight or two with little confidence in himself where matters of romance were concerned - but had no knowledge of how to help them cope with it, beyond instructing them to focus on the task at hand.

Avenger shrugged. “As to my energy level, I’ll probably ask Rin to charge me up with her sword, if Takara doesn’t think to do it herself. Like I said, don’t worry.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” Saber called. She wasn’t certain how to handle this, but she knew that leaving him in his present mental state would not be a wise idea.

He turned back, tilting his head inquiringly.

“Why do you have such a low opinion of yourself?”

“Habit, to some degree,” Avenger replied. “And it seems to be a requirement for what I do - I find that the best writers are always their own worst critics, as well. I also suspect I’m a touch manic-depressive - but it’s hard to prove that now. But even if we set all that aside, I figure once we’ve put whatever I know to use, I’m basically cannon fodder. I mean, we’re up against legends here, and my best tricks are just that - tricks. As Kieran Holt I might have stood a chance, but I have neither the conditioning nor training for this kind of thing. My Noble Phantasm might even the odds, but if Shirou’s told his partners about me, it’ll be useless.” He took in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “I kind of wish that I could’ve really been the Lancer Takara thought I was. I might have been more help, then.”

“Lancer would have failed, ultimately,” Saber reminded him. “He had not your knowledge of this world, and Faust would have been beyond him, at the end.”

“Maybe - but Kieran’s been known to pull off miracles before, with his friends’ help. The impossible seems to be what he does best.”

Saber looked at him, and decided to try a different tactic, not incidentally answering a few questions of her own.

“Would Kieran have saved me from Sakura’s attack?” she asked quietly.

“Probably not,” Avenger answered. “If he’d been thinking, he’d have tried to take you with him when he leaped clear, but unless he had a fire immunity spell running, or there was a very good reason, he wouldn’t have just stood there to take the attack.”

“Then why did you? You should know I am largely immune to magic.”

“So I’ve heard - but I’m not sure how immune ‘largely’ is, and to be honest, I’d kind of forgotten about that at the time. All I knew then was that you didn’t deserve to die - so I had to make sure you were safe.”

Saber smiled, and his eyes went a little wider at the expression. Whoa . . .

“If that is so, then I will trust you to fight at my side, and guard my back, as I would not trust him,” she told him. “Because I can be certain that, whatever your skill or powers, or lack thereof, you will never falter in doing your utmost, whatever the cost.”

He blinked, saying uncertainly, “That’s - very kind of you.” She had to be kidding.

As though she’d read his mind, Saber’s smile vanished. “I am quite serious, Avenger. Thus far, you seem an honourable man, and I would much prefer to fight alongside an honourable man than a skilled warrior, because while I may doubt his abilities, I need never doubt his heart. That is a rare quality, in any era.”

“I wouldn’t make too much of my honour,” Avenger answered quietly. “I’ve failed my own code more than once, and often for trivial things.”

“But when it is important?” she asked.

“Not that I know of. Not yet, anyway.”

“Fair enough. Now, go. Speak to your Mistress. I will make the rest of the necessary arrangements.”

He smirked, sketching an elaborate bow, “As you wish, your Majesty.”

Saber let him believe that he’d managed to leave before she could think of a suitable retort. It was enough to have his spirits improved, for now.

The final battle was not yet begun, and the slightest boost in morale, in the fighting spirit of herself, and those who fought with her, might yet make all the difference.






Takara heard a knock, and called, “Come in.”

The door slid open delicately. “Pardon the intrusion,” Avenger said quietly.

She stilled. Of all the people that could have been asking entry, he was arguably the one she least wanted to see. Or was the least comfortable with, anyway, given her recent conversations with Tohsaka-san and her other self. Did she want sex? More specifically, did she want sex with this man? Her parents - her mother in particular - had raised her to treat the act with special care, as an intimacy to be shared only with those she loved, as well as desired. Did Avenger qualify? She couldn’t honestly answer that question - he was obviously trying to help her, and seemed decent enough in his way, but was it love? And if it wasn’t, did she really want to sleep with him just for the sake of doing so?

“We’re nearly ready to depart,” Avenger said. “Have you got everything you need?”

“I . . . I think so,” Takara said slowly. She decided to ask a question that she was not entirely sure she wanted the answer to. “Do you really think we can rescue my mother?”

“We aren’t,” he answered.

“What do you mean?” Takara asked, confusion welling up inside her, as well as the beginnings of anger.

“I mean that I am leading the team to help Ciel. You aren’t part of it.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” she demanded. “Don’t try to keep me out of this! I can handle myself - don’t you trust me? “

”I’m entrusting you with your father’s life,” he responded, an edge entering his voice. “Not to mention all of ours.”

Takara stopped in mid-tirade. “What?”

“You heard it yourself - even if we can get to Ciel, none of us can stop Faust. We need help for that. And your father is going to try to get it.”

“Father? How?”

Avenger was silent for a moment, and Takara could see him organising his thoughts, trying to figure out what to tell her, and how.

“I told you some of this already. When Shiki was about your age, he got involved in some dark doings, involving the Tohno clan.”

The girl nodded. “I remember.”

“It’s part of how he met your mother. It’s also where he met your godmother.”

“My . . . Godmother?” The reference was old, but unique enough in her memory to stand out, once she started looking for it. “The woman in Father’s painting?” The woman in the castle?

“Her name is Arcueid Brunestud,” Avenger confirmed. “She’s the last surviving True Ancestor, a highly evolved breed of vampire - and the closest thing this world will ever see to a goddess. Saber, Caster, and myself put together couldn’t match her strength.”

“She’s a vampire, you said?” Takara asked. She knew the old stories - mostly Western in origin - regarding the creatures. “Then why would she help us?”

“Partly because she exists as a destroyer of threats to the balance of the world at large - it’s why she was born. Faust should certainly qualify. And partly because, as part of the incident, Shiki accidentally bound himself to her. Willingly or not, whether he acknowledges it or not, Shiki belongs to her, and if he goes after Faust, she will protect him. She might even be able to restore his life force completely - I think it’s her power that’s kept him alive this long, and that by feeding him unconsciously. If she can do it more directly when she’s awake, she should be able to bring him back to full health, and continue sustaining him.”

“Then why are you worried?” Takara asked. Everything he’d stated so far sounded fairly positive - why should she have to go?

“Because while I respect, admire, and in stand in awe of Arcueid, where your father is concerned, I’m not sure I can trust her,” Avenger said. Not the version in Ciel’s story, anyway. “Arcueid doesn’t just see Shiki as her servant - he is her first friend. No, more than that - Shiki is her first and only love. And for all her power, she’s very childlike and naive - I’m not sure she actually understands her own feelings. Regardless of that, she and your mother were rivals for his heart - and Arcueid was very angry when she found out Ciel was pregnant.”

Avenger paused, looking directly into her eyes. His own were empty, and frightening for their intensity. “Very angry. For the sake of an innocent life - and for your sake only - she refrained from killing both your parents on the spot, and eventually went back to her eternal slumber. If your father awakens her now, to try to enlist her help in rescuing Ciel . . . When all she has to do is sustain her Shiki and bide her time - it’s very likely Arcueid will flat out refuse. And while your father is capable of killing her, I’m not certain that Arcueid will let him have the chance. She’ll just hold him back until it’s too late - and nothing will stand between him and her, for eternity.”

Avenger was silent a moment, letting her absorb that. Suddenly, contacting this vampire goddess seemed like a very bad idea.

“That’s why you’re going with him,” he continued. “Because of you, she helped once before - perhaps she’ll do it again. And the place Arcueid has sequestered herself is supposed to be the final fortress for her kind, impervious to outsiders. One of we Servants might*be able to breach it, since we are bound to serve the earth, as she is - we’re not really enemies, so to speak - but your father belongs to her, whether he acknowledges it or not. The castle should allow the servant of its mistress to enter - and possibly you as well, for you carry your father’s blood, as he carries Arcueid’s. But only you two.”

“Couldn’t you come with me?” Takara asked. “You’ve said you’re mine, after all.”

“I’m the only one who can reliably track the Servant which took Ciel,” he answered. “We’ll never reach her in time, otherwise. But even if we do, that won’t matter if you two don’t manage to succeed. We can hold them back, but only Arcueid can stop them.”

Takara nodded, swallowing thickly at realising that, rather than trying to keep her out of the battle, he was relying on her to save him, as well as Tohsaka-san and the others. The weight of that responsibility was a heavy one.

Avenger‘s voice softened, turning gentle and almost intimate. “Just trust us to do our part, Milady - we’re trusting you to do yours. But be careful in dealing with her - first loves are sometimes wonderful, and sometimes terrible, but they’re always powerful.”

Takara paused, hearing a lot of sincerity in that statement. “You sound like you speak from experience. Who was yours?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Who was your first love?” Takara repeated. “It’s not a hard question, is it?”

“It is when I don’t understand why you’re asking now,” he pointed out. “Why the sudden interest?”

“Well, I don’t know a lot about you. Probably less than I knew about Lancer. So I’m curious. I’d like to know more about somebody I’m putting a lot of trust in.” Her eyes narrowed. “Despite the fact that he’s essentially lied to me for as long as I’ve known him.”

Avenger winced. “Cheap shot - but true.” He sighed. “All right, fine. In all honesty, I don’t know that I’ve ever experienced love. Fondness, yes. Lust, definitely yes. Obsession - I’m a fanboy, I’m genetically hardwired for it. But love . . .?”

“And you’re how much older than me?” Takara said disbelievingly.

“If I had to choose,” he continued, ignoring her, “I would argue that the closest I’ve come to love, whether it’s true or not, would’ve been about twenty years ago.” His eyes went distant, seeing past Takara to somewhere - or rather, someone else. “My first love has always been my first human friend - a little redheaded girl with one arm, and no legs. And though she’d never know me now, I’ve missed her for a very long time.”

He glanced at Takara. “Is there anything else?”

She hesitated. “. . . How’s your energy level?”

“I’m probably running low,” the Servant admitted. “But I should keep, if you’re tired.”

“No . . .” Takara said uncertainly. “I can recharge you, if you want . . . “ In a very small voice, she offered, “Any way you want.”

He stared blankly at her.

“Um, Tohsaka-san said that it was more efficient for Servants to recharge through sex,” she explained.

Avenger continued to stare. Not blinking. He appeared to have forgotten how to breathe, too.

“ . . . Are you OK?” Takara asked, suddenly becoming concerned.

“I should’ve bought a lottery ticket,” he muttered.

“What?”

Avenger shook himself. “ . . . Never mind.” He tilted his head to one side, fixing his eyes on hers. “Do you love me?”

“What?” Takara repeated.

“Do you love me?” He smirked. “It’s not a hard question, is it?”

She flushed, realising he’d thrown her own words back in her face. “I . . . I . . .”

“Then don’t,” he said, genuine anger sharpening his voice. “I have damned few scruples, a lot of the time - but that’s a line I won’t cross. Leave me some illusions of morality.” His voice went soft again. “If I thought you genuinely wanted to - wanted me - it’d be different. But I respect your father, and you, too much to take advantage of you like that.” He smirked again. “Besides, according to horror movies, virgins have a much higher survival rate.”

“You don’t respect my mother?” she asked, seizing on what seemed an odd omission, rather than contemplating the tasteless joke.

“Oh I do, and I like her . . . But Shiki inspired me, when I first learned of him. There aren’t many men I admire, and fewer still I’d want to be - but he seemed like someone I could be.”

“Isn’t it all right to be useless?”

Avenger shook his head. “Now, if you are ready, we really should be going.”






The plan was a simple one, though its execution was complex. Avenger had theorised that the Millennium Castle, being a world unto itself, yet created by someone with close ties to the planet, could be essentially everywhere and nowhere at once. He’d further theorised that, as a creation of Arcueid Brunestud’s mind and will, it would respond as she would, if addressed properly.

Avenger had claimed to know an incantation that would open the castle to its mistress’ servants - because she would want Shiki there. Caster, being the superior mage, would ostensibly use it to send the two Aozakis into its depths. If the connections between Shiki, Arcueid, the castle and the planet functioned as he thought they did, the spell should work. If it didn’t, his Noble Phantasm should allow it to, regardless - because only he, Rin, and possibly Saber knew its true nature . . . And those two would stand well outside its influence.

The preparations were complete. The travellers were ready. And as Shiki concentrated on Arcueid, Caster intoned:

“O eternal bastion of noble power,
Heed our call, in our darkest hour.
By ancient compact, and blood right,
Avail us of the sanctuary of night.
Let us across its gateway ford,
To restore the servants to their lord.”

The daylight seemed to wane, where Shiki and Takara stood. There was a cool breeze, as though born of the evening, and the pair vanished as though they had never been.

Avenger nodded in satisfaction. “And now it’s our turn, ladies. Step close, and grab my jacket tightly - this trick is really meant for me alone. I’m stretching my powers to include you all.”

“Trick?” Sion inquired, clutching tightly nonetheless.

“The class name is Avenger. That means that when someone’s hurt me, I can and will find them, no matter what they do to avoid me. If I have to cross infinity or eternity, I will be repaid - measure for measure.”

He blurred, and they were gone, as well.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 26






The light suddenly vanished, replaced by a dim flickering - torches, Takara realised, or perhaps candles. The air was staler, now, as though no one had breathed it for a very long time. It was very like being sealed inside a tomb, and she found that she really didn’t like it. Nor was she the only one.

If we stay here very long, I’m going to be sick, her Nanaya side warned. Be glad that you can’t sense the demonic aura - the sheer power of this place. It’s . . .

Takara felt her shadow-self shudder inside her head, and shivered herself at the sensation. How bad was this place, that her hunter persona was so desperately eager to escape it?

I’m not desperate - yet - but get us out of here, as soon as possible.

Takara shook her head and turned her attention to her other companion. “Father, are you all right?”

He shook his head, while at the same time assuring her, “I will be. Part of me wants to slice this place into as many pieces as I can make - and another part of me feels - at home, here. It’s a little confusing.”

Takara thought about that, and realised that she, too, found the place not merely familiar, but comforting on some level. It was like the buildings surrounding her school - nowhere she’d really been, or spent time in before, but a familiar enough sight that it made all seem right with the world when she encountered it.

He was right - the vampire has her fangs in us, too, Nanaya hissed. Find her - find her so we can kill her!

“We need her,” Takara said aloud.

Her father looked at her, and understood. “Yes, we do. I don’t like it - I’d prefer to leave Arcueid to her slumber for the rest of my natural life, if I could - but if we’re going to stop Faust, and rescue my wife, your mother, then Arcueid needs not only to survive, but be awoken, and convinced to help us.”

For a moment, Takara’s eyes flashed an icy silver, before returning to the brilliant sky blue her father had always loved. The girl let out a deep breath.

“She’s quiet - but she’s not happy,” Takara reported.

Her father’s smile was grim. “They never are, unless they’re killing something - and the more powerful and challenging, the better. The Nanaya instincts were bred to protect humanity, Takara, but they wouldn’t make us as exceptional a caliber of killer as we are if those same instincts weren’t also bred to love what they do. To pass up a challenge like Arcueid - especially when her power is in use - is like asking us not to breathe.”

“How can you stand it?” she asked, and the edge in her voice said that she truly meant the question.

Shiki sighed. “I’ve been lucky - for most of my life, I’ve managed to avoid the kind of things that would trigger them in the first place. Demons and other such creatures are actually fairly rare, in today’s world - or well enough hidden that most people will never find them. Other times . . .other than that, I’ve had your mother to pull me back to myself.”

And now that was gone, maybe forever, Takara heard him conclude silently. The biggest support in his life was missing, and if he never got it - got her - back . . .

She was shaken out of her pensiveness by her father’s hand against her hair, pressing it against her cheek, and looked up.

“I’m sorry, treasure,” he said quietly. “Of all the things I could’ve given you, this blood was the one thing I never wanted you to have. I wish it was otherwise.”

“I know,” she answered. “And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need time to adjust to it - but Avenger says that it makes me my parents’ child, nothing more or less. And from what I’ve learned in the last few days, Father . . . “

Her mother’s willingness to do anything she had to in order to save the man she loved, her father’s bravery - to face death, and worse than death unafraid, because he felt the call of duty and responsibility, concerned not for what it might cost him, but those he failed, or left behind.

They were heroes, in a sense of the word rarely meant in modern times. Her quiet, average parents had faced and fought things the modern world was content to only imagine, never believing that they truly existed - and they’d paid horrible prices for their innocence, and their courage. And despite it all, they kept going, because they had each other - and her.

Takara took a deep breath. “It isn’t always easy to be your daughter . . . But there’s nothing in the world I could be prouder of.”

Shiki closed his eyes, and bowed his head. “ . . . Thank you, Takara.”

“We should find Arcueid-san,” Takara said at last. “The longer we delay, the worse things will be.”

Shiki nodded, and moved with instinctive certainty. “She’s this way.”





Her name is Arcueid Brunestud. Her titles are many and varied, including “White Princess of the True Ancestors,” “Executioner of the True Ancestors,” and “Heir to the Crimson Moon.” Immortal and literally inhuman, she is indisputably the most powerful being on the face of the earth. And, for the moment, she sleeps . . . And dreams.

Her dreams are different from those of human beings. They are not random images, attempts by a subconscious mind to bring order to all that she encounters in her waking moments. Instead, they are the attempts of a mind mystically opened to the earth itself to soothe her restless spirit, and prolong her slumber. Like all True Ancestors, Arcueid Brunestud is powerful, and when awake, a mortal danger to all living things - whether she desires to be or not. And so she dreams of things which keep her content, even happy. Of things as they might have been - as she wished them to be - rather than as they are.

In her dreams she is with Shiki. Always with Shiki, with nothing to stand in her way. The thirst is dealt with, the rivals are gone, the Dead Apostles need no longer concern her - there is only Arcueid and Shiki, until the end of time. The boy who killed an immortal, and even more impressively, won her heart.

She sleeps, and dreams of him - of the life she might have had with this singular mortal. The places they would go, the things they might see and do together. They might even have a child, in time. A golden-haired little girl, perhaps, named . . . Shiki Jr?

In her dreams, anything is possible. And the dreams continue without end, until the day when the earth itself chooses to wake her again, and do its bidding. And yet . . .

She stirs in her sleep, suddenly disturbed. There is something in the air that bothers her, even in her dreams. Something . . .

Shiki’s scent filters through her dreams, reinforcing them, and she relaxes. Whatever it is, it is not important enough to wake. This is her sanctuary, her refuge. Even in the event one could find it, none could breach it. She is safe here, and the world with her. Safe to sleep . . .

. . . And dream . . .






Shirou sat in a meditative pose, carefully marshalling his remaining strength. Faint energies were gathered, coalesced, and redirected efficiently along the circuits of his physical body. The least possible amount was used to run his being - the core of those energies was banked for future use, for the battle Shirou was certain would come. And soon.

Faust looked at him curiously. “While I applaud your caution, my boy, I must say that I believe you are being remarkably paranoid.”

“Not paranoid - prepared,” Shirou countered quietly. “They’ll be with us soon.”

“And who is the mysterious ‘they’ to which you are referring? You have never been clear on that point.”

“I’m not sure what allies she’ll have gathered,” Shirou admitted, “but whatever the group, they’ll be led by Rin Tohsaka.”

“A young scion of a minor line, in the scheme of things,” Faust scoffed. “A child, and easily dealt with.”

“Her mentor is Zelretch,” Shirou added.

“. . . A more formidable and worthy opponent,” the mage admitted. “Nonetheless, even if he was along, it would take considerable effort for even him to breach this tower - I have centuries of experience in sorcery, as well. And the odds of the Second Magic User interfering are actually quite low, in my experience.” He shook his head, smirking. “No, my young friend, I think you are far too fearful. Even discounting our Servants, we are excellently shielded behind these walls. Even if the tower could be found, it is all but impossible to assault - and in the time it would take to do so, we will be well beyond it, to the place of the gate’s opening, with all we desire.”

Shirou looked at him oddly, before his features smoothed in sudden understanding. “You don’t hear it,” he said.

“Hear what?” Faust demanded.

Now it was the younger mage’s turn to smirk. “A storm is coming. Listen.”

Indeed, beyond the tower walls, an angry rumble sounded, and the wind howled in such a way that it sounded like a coldly whispering voice. And the wind bore a message.

“We are coming.
Though the way is long and hard, we are coming.
Though we are weak, and ill-prepared, we are coming.
Though the risk is great, and the reward uncertain, we are coming.
And nothing will stand in our way.”

The air around them was as chill as the grave, spread across an ash-gray sky that revealed no hint of what lay under its auspices. The world around them was blurred, immaterial, with only the howls of the rushing wind, like the screaming of damned souls, to give the impression that they did, indeed move forward. The sole light on their path came from the path itself - a vermillion road that gleamed with the sheen of freshly-spilled blood, tracing out beyond their sight to a destination they could not yet see.

They moved through the world like a tempest, inevitable and inexorable. Around them, the world shivered in their unseen wake as they passed, but they paid it no mind. They were in the eye of the storm, unaffected by what they’d left behind. The outside world was long gone, a part of what was that did not matter now, and could not touch them here. The cold sought to drain them of all warmth, all hope. The wind roared in their ears, driving them onward with cries of agony, pleas for mercy, and promises of pain. The storm would devour them, if it could, and might yet do so, if their resolve faltered. All that kept it at bay was the heat that rose from their bodies, the white-hot fury that fuelled them on this endless road.

This was the Avenger’s path, paved in blood and suffering, walked in pain and rage. Time held no meaning here, nor distance. Once on it, you moved along it until the storm eitherconsumed the one who’d hurt you - or yourself. The only end was the final end, and it mattered not to the storm that raged here whose it was.

Vengeance was not justice - it held no place for mercy.

Saber was no stranger to the darkest emotions of humankind. She was a warrior born, and knew both their value and their danger. More, she was old, and in her lifetime, had known more of war than peace. Yet even she could not suppress a mental shiver as she considered the kind of being that could regularly, willingly, walk this road. And what drove him? The loss of pride that Ciel’s kidnapping had inflicted? Simply hatred for those who stood against him? Or was there something more?

Rin held similar thoughts, but clutched more tightly to the jacket of their guide, nonetheless. Disturbing as it was, this path was meant only for one man, and only his proximity, his contact, kept them unscathed in here.

No one spoke. No one could have been heard over the screaming winds - or should that be winding screams? Eventually, however, they saw the end of the trail - a monstrous tower, not unlike the leaning one of Pisa in design, but carved of obsidian. Several open-air balconies dotted its upper length. The storm carried them along the path to it - and unexpectedly, stopped.

“A barrier!” Rin shouted. “It’s a folded space that seals the tower off from the regular world - we can’t get in!”

“Can your sword cut it?” Avenger asked. He knew the Zelretch blade made pinpoint cuts through the universe to draw energy from all dimensions - Rin’s own sword ought to do the same, right?

“Maybe - but it’s folded so intricately I wouldn’t know where to start!”

“I do! Ready your blade - I’ll be your eyes!”

Rin did as she was asked, and nearly lost her concentration when the youth laid his hand over hers. But as she watched, the vermillion path stretched outward, intersecting a series of folds.

“Cut there, there, and there!” Avenger shouted. “It’ll crack like an eggshell!”

“No kidding,” the sorceress muttered under her breath, and added mentally, to Saber, It’ll also alert anybody inside we’re coming. Get ready.

Saber let an undignified smirk cross her lips. She was always ready.

Drawing her arm back, with Avenger’s hand still on hers, Rin’s blade began to glow, and crackle with arcane energies.

Her cry was audible even over the winds.






Faust snorted at the message. “Bah - a minor parlour trick to frighten fools. I - “

The tower trembled, as though it had suddenly been struck by an angry giant.

The elder mage’s eyes widened. “One-third of my defensive barriers have been shattered - in an instant! Who could have - ?“

The tower shook again, harder.

“The one thing I have learned to treat as an absolute is never to underestimate Rin Tohsaka,” Shirou replied, sending out the message Combat positions! We’ll have company shortly!

A third blow struck, knocking the two sorcerers off their feet. The sound of stone crumbling could be heard from above.

Faust rose from the floor, dark and terrible in his rage. Sparks leapt from his trembling form.

“They . . . dare . . .” he hissed. “I will make their suffering legendary . . .”

“Even with four Servants, I doubt they’ll be pushovers,” Shirou warned. “Rin isn’t suicidal - she’ll have gathered every available force she could find. That’s why we laid the spell trap to split them up, remember?”

“Indeed,” Faust agreed, regaining some measure of calm. “Secure the woman - I will observe the battles in the grand hall. If by some chance any of them survive, I will see to their destruction myself.”

Shirou nodded. It was time to end this, and get on with their lives. Sakura’s and his own.






Takara . . .Takara!

Ciel screamed her daughter’s name, and it echoed endlessly, but only within the corridors of her own mind, because she could not draw enough air into her lungs to produce a sound. If she could have, she’d have detonated her voice box trying to call to her child.

She was in danger - such terrible danger. In ordinary circumstances, Ciel would have had no idea of it, but Takara bore a Master’s mark, and that mark was, in an almost literal sense, a part of Ciel. Where it went, she could follow, and observe.

And so the Seventh Executioner entered the final stronghold of the True Ancestors, and felt numb with terror for her husband, and her child. She and Shiki had barely survived their encounter with Arcueid Brunestud, and now . . . Now Shiki was too weak. Even at his best, he’d bested the vampire as much through luck as anything. And Takara, no matter what powers she might wield, was untrained. She wasn’t ready to face Arcueid.

Ciel would have sold her soul at that moment to be able to reach out and pull her family away from there. But she was not yet the Grail, was currently incapable of granting heart’s desires. She could only watch as they drew closer to the white-and-gold spider at the heart of the web.

And pray, as never before, that the God she had never fully believed in would protect them.






The storm receded, melting away into the depths of Avenger’s shadow. Only a slight movement of his duster indicated that it had ever been.

They stood in a black marble hallway, veined with blood-red. Torches in strategically-placed sconces lit the area, receding both forward and behind into eventual darkness.

Rin took charge, as the battle was against sorcerers. “Follow the plan. We find Mrs. Aozaki as quickly as we can - if we can make her safe, we’ve already won. Stay with your partner - Faust and Shirou are out there, somewhere.”

Somewhere deep in his sanctum, the dark magician in question gestured . . .

Rin turned to Avenger. “Hold Berserker back as long as you can.”

He smirked, purposely phrasing his response. “Would you mind if I killed him?”

The sorceress stilled. Something about that sounded almost familiar . . .

“Do what you can,” Saber echoed. “And trust us to do the same.”

Avenger nodded, and intoned, “I will be repaid - measure for measure.”

With that, his form grayed, blurring into mist for an instant - then vanished entirely with a gust of wind and a crack of thunder. Once more, he walked his bloody path to its final end.

The remaining four took a single step, each - and fell into silent darkness.






“Arcueid . . .”

The assassins lay in twisted, bloody piles across the alley, encircling both himself and the vampire, who gazed at him with cool, golden eyes.

“Your sister seems even less forgiving than I am, Shiki,” she remarked. “You need to be more careful. In fact, it might not be a bad idea to leave town, as they say.”

“Why . . .?” he asked, not understanding. “I thought - “

”That I wanted you dead?” she finished. “No, Shiki. I wish you had chosen me willingly, but in the end, you are mine, and nothing Ciel does will ever change that.”

Irritation crossed his features. “How can you just assume that?”

Arcueid smiled, and while it was soft, it was also unnerving. “Because she makes your heart beat faster “ - she placed a hand on his chest - “but I’m the one who makes it beat, at all. You’ll always be mine, Shiki. And some day, when Ciel is dead and gone, you’ll be mine forever. But for now, for your child, I’m willing to let you go and play at being mortal.” A haunted shadow crossed her face. “No one should be alone, Shiki, especially not a child. You’ll be safe from me, so long as it needs you. Ciel will be safe - I’ll give you that much, and no more.”

“Arcueid . . .”

Tension tightened the blonde’s features, and her voice was strained, dangerous. “Go, now . . . Before I change my mind.”

Knowing she meant it, Shiki turned, and fled, but he caught her last words before he was out of sight.

“So this is what it is - to love?”






“Father?”

Shiki jerked out of his reverie.

“Father?” Takara repeated in concern, leaning in to peer at him closely.

He shook his head. “I’m fine, Takara-chan,” he assured her. “Just - remembering.”

Was this the wisest thing to do? Ciel would die without Arcueid’s help, if Avenger was right. To get what she’d always wanted, all the Princess had to do was nothing. And once they woke her, she would know that.

But if they did nothing, Ciel would die, anyway . . . And a madman would gain control of one of the greatest magical powers in the world.

“She’s this way,” Shiki said. Please, let this be the right thing to do . . .

Well, if she refuses, we could always kill her again, Nanaya remarked eagerly.

“I know she is,” Takara answered, and was surprised at the speed her father’s head snapped around to stare at her.

“How?” he asked sharply.

“I . . . I came this way . . . In my dreams,” she answered.

Anguish flickered in his eyes. What had he done to his only child?

Wordlessly, tiredly, Shiki pushed open the great doors, to reveal the Princess suspended in her iron web. The pair gazed at her in silence for a long moment.

“Can you cut her loose?” Shiki asked, leaning against the doorframe.

“How? Those chains have to be at least a foot thick!”

“Cut the lines on the chains,” he said patiently.

With an “oh,” Takara focussed on the nearest chain, her eyes fading to silver - followed immediately by her left hand shielding her eyes from Arcueid.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s like staring into the sun . . .” she complained, and paused. “Father . . . The chain doesn’t have any lines.”

“What?”

Cautiously, Shiki lowered his glasses, focussing. Bright, vermillion lines crisscrossed his vision.

“I can see them.”

“Well, I can’t. Just that gold-white light that’s coming off her.” Her eyes returned to normal. “It hurts, it’s so bright.”

“You have Roa’s vision . . .” he murmured. The ability to see life, not death. Was it a side-effect of inheriting a portion of Arcueid’s blood - some twist that vampiric energy consistently inflicted on the power? Or was it Ciel’s doing? Her magic had raised her from the dead - perhaps that was why Takara was so attuned to life. Either way, it meant that he would have to cut the chains himself.

“Who’s Roa?” Takara asked, and was a little annoyed not to get an answer. Instead, she watched her father withdraw his knife and sweep it lightly along the nearest chain. It dissolved at the first cut, and she couldn’t quite believe it. Tearing something apart with her bare hands, or a sword, was sort of reasonable. But to use a knife with a blade barely as long as her hand against a chain thicker than her arm . . . Incredible. So this was her father’s power.

The effect was almost immediate. As each chain disintegrated, Arcueid shifted in her slumber. When the last one vanished, she floated easily to the ground, her long hair barely ruffled. Ruby eyes opened, the glaze on them clearing instantly as they took in who stood before her.

Takara couldn’t quite suppress a shiver at the smile that crossed the woman’s face, nor the intimate, almost caressing tone in which she spoke.

“Shiki . . .”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 27






The trap had been prearranged some time ago, and Ciel, with her newfound senses, watched each of them fall into it. Five arrived, seeking her rescue, and the five were scattered like leaves in the wind, separated to face the Servants that awaited their arrival. Only one walked unperturbed by the trap’s springing, because he already sought one of those Servants - and the trap lacked the awareness to fail in obliging him. The others, however . . .

They tumbled through darkness, driven by howling winds not dissimilar from those which had carried them here. Pulling apart the group, it directed each to a specific direction, and an opponent meant to be their doom.

To the west, Caster managed to bind the winds to herself, landing lightly on the stone balcony before a redheaded man in leather armour that seemed at least partly Roman in design - though the presence of furs spoke of a tribal influence, as well.

To the south, Saber landed hard on her feet, her armoured boots clanging off the stone surface, to behold an unfortunately familiar figure in golden armour. To her relief, however, no answering recognition glimmered in his crimson eyes.

To the east, Sion landed less than gracefully. Surprisingly, a man in a white shirt, brightly coloured pants, leather boots and tricorn hat, offered his hand to help her to her feet. She cautiously accepted, wondering who he was, and what his presence portended.

To the north, and high above, Berserker waited. Soon, his opponent would arrive, and he hoped, as much as he cared about anything, that it would be the armoured woman. He would take great pleasure in conquering her - in all senses - before binding her to himself for eternity.

And deep within the tower itself, Emiya Shirou moved to secure Ciel Aozaki for transport to the Tohsaka home . . . and lacking another opponent, the spelltrap moved Rin Tohsaka to meet him.

Ciel watched it all, as did the dark magician Faust, and waited for the players to enact their next moves . . .






Arcueid gazed at her visitor, as understanding and a dozen different thoughts ran through her. Shiki - her Shiki - was here. He had come to her, as she’d always believed he would, in time.

Shiki held her gaze for a moment, then slumped, pitching forward. Using his Mystic Eyes was draining, especially on things as conceptually solid as those chains, and in his current condition, he was near total exhaustion.

Instinctively, Arcueid reached out to catch him, pull him close. His body pressed against hers, and she breathed in his scent. Yes, he was here, solid and real in her arms - but so much cooler to her touch. It was as if someone had ripped the living warmth right out of him.

“Shiki . . . What have they done to you?” the Princess murmured. Whoever “they” were, in this case. Had it been the Tohnos again? Sister or no sister, she’d reduce that mansion to a crater so deep that magma covered the estate and every living thing in it . . .

In her heart of hearts, Arcueid could admit to herself that she couldn’t imagine Ciel hurting him this badly, however she might wish it otherwise. The Church, yes - and perhaps they had - but not Ciel. However much Arcueid hated her, it was for a single reason: that the other woman loved Shiki so much.

“Arcueid . . .” Shiki whispered, drawing her attention back to the here and now. She loosened her grip slightly, worried that she was hurting him.

“Yes, Shiki?” she responded, trying not to sound too eager. Even if it was just the two of them, she was still the White Princess, especially here, and he was her servant. Until he accepted that, it would set a bad precedent to be too familiar with him.

“I - need . . . Your help . . .” he wheezed.

Arcueid tried not to frown. That wasn’t what he’d told her he needed in her dreams. Still, help was a start. She’d come to the conclusion that maybe she’d come on a little too strong - that a mistress who was seen as more open, more pleasant, might entice him better than the full majesty of the White Princess of the True Ancestors.

“What is it, Shiki?”

“Ciel . . .”

Annoyance flickered across Arcueid’s features. Here he was, practically in her bedroom, and he was still thinking about that woman! Pleasant, she reminded herself. Pleasant, friendly, and helpful. She had to at least try.

“What about her?” the Princess asked with a sigh.

“She’s . . .” Shiki trailed off.

“Going to be killed,” answered a new voice. A girl’s voice. “And he is dying. Can you help us?”

Arcueid turned her gaze to that voice, and paused at what she saw. It was a girl, barely into the full bloom of womanhood. Nearly as tall as she was, with dark hair that looked all but black in the firelit room. Delicate features, a graceful ease in her posture. The shape of her eyes proclaimed her she’d been born in that far eastern land where Arcueid had died, but the hue of them was wrong. Her eyes were pure, pale blue - like the sun on the waters of the ocean, or the open skies.

The girl’s almond eyes and dark hair matched those of the man in her arms, and there was something of his skin tone in her, too, but Arcueid recognised the rest of her, as well. Those eyes, and the shape of her face . . . She’d seen them before. She’d killed the woman who wore them, once.

“You . . .” Arcueid began, not certain how to treat this intruder. “How did you get here? This castle is forbidden to all but the True Ancestors.”

“And their servants,” the girl responded, something bright flashing in her eyes. “I have my father’s blood, and he bears the mark of yours.”

Arcueid breathed deeply, and confirmed her words. The girl bore a trace of her own scent, mystically speaking, but so faint a trace, she doubted it would ever be of any real use to her. Of greater concern was the sheer amount of energy the girl contained, and the definite links to Alaya. This was a born demon hunter, if ever such a title could be applied to anyone. And despite her slumber, Arcueid was still not fully regenerated. Depending on the powers the girl commanded, this could be- taxing.

“I don’t care for your tone,” the Princess said coolly. “My blood kept him alive, once.”

“And it still is,” she shot back. “Unfortunately, that’s about all it’s doing.”

“What are you . . . Shiki!” This last was said in something closer to a gasp, as the Princess’ eyes really looked at her servant for the first time, and saw the terrible damage he’d sustained.

“It’s like the heart’s been torn out of you . . .” she murmured. “Who did this to you?”

“Time . . .” he wheezed. “Time and death. Akiha’s dead, Arcueid.” He tried to say more, but failed.

“Your sister?” Arcueid asked, puzzled. She then realised that her burden had become dead weight. “Hey, Shiki! Wake up! What does Akiha have to do with what’s happened to you?”

“She was the one who was originally sustaining his life,” the girl answered.

Arcueid frowned in confusion. She’d known Shiki’s home life wasn’t “normal” in the sense humans considered it, but this was completely out of nowhere for her.

“I’ll admit, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Tell me all of it, girl - and quickly.”

The younger woman’s jaw clenched. She made a visible effort to get her temper under control. “I’m not just a ‘girl,’ Arcueid-san. I am the daughter of Shiki and Ciel Aozaki, and my name is Takara.”

Arcueid’s lips thinned in disapproval. “You’re certainly your mother’s daughter, I’ll give you that. She always wanted to argue, even over the most trivial things.” Her eyes flashed gold. “But your father’s life isn’t trivial - so tell me what I need to know now, before I regret that I ever let you be born.”

Takara felt Nanaya strain beneath her skin, struggling harder at the flicker, wanting to tear free of her prison and meet the vampire’s challenge with changed eyes and keen blade, but Takara held her ground. Arcueid was not the Tohno heir - her life couldn’t be cut away in a single stroke, she had too much of it. Enough to blind her at a glance. And that was just her life force - who knew what fearsome powers lurked under that pale, graceful exterior? Everyone who knew anything of Arcueid seemed to be quietly terrified of her.

She was afraid - but not of Arcueid. Of what Arcueid could do to her family, yes, but not of the woman herself. And listening to that fear meant giving the vampire what she wanted, now. But she wouldn’t let it control her - she wouldn’t meekly surrender her pride to Arcueid, either. Trying, she was sure, would drive Nanaya mad - and Takara had enough dangers to face tonight.

“All right,” she said, in what she hoped was a deadpan voice, totally unaffected by events. “In the last few days, this is what’s happened . . .”






In Shiki’s eyes, death is a constant presence. It overlays the whole of existence - omnipresent, inevitable, and tangible. His eyes, he was once told, see “fate,” and by that reckoning, the ultimate fate of all is oblivion.

In his dreams, when his mind is open and vulnerable, that fate is made plain to him. He has known it for some time, but unable to acknowledge it as truth, he hid from the facts. Now, he cannot escape it. He is too weak, the truth too obvious: Events are in motion that will destroy all he knows, including himself. If something is not changed, soon, the planet will die.

Yet despite this knowledge, he does not despair. For he knows that other events are also in motion. Far beyond his sight, a battle is being fought by mortal and immortal pawns for the ultimate prize, a power that will save or damn the world. And by his own hands, he seeks to unleash a new piece upon his own side of the board - a White Queen, which may yet bring victory.

Hope is not lost, only forgotten in these dark moments. The endgame is now, but it is only just beginning . . .






“You are surprisingly courteous,” Sion noted, gazing appraisingly at her opponent.

“Despite everything, I was raised with the knowledge of social graces, Miss,” the man replied dryly, his British accent obvious. “For reasons I expect you know, I’m afraid I cannot give you my name, but I shall tell you that I am formerly of the British Royal Navy, lately assigned the title of ‘Rider.’ And who might you be?”

“Sion Eltnam Atlasia,” she replied, seeing no real tactical disadvantage in refusing.

The man tilted his head. “Hm, an unusual name. You’re Grecian, perhaps? Though I must admit you don’t look it.”

Her mind began calculating the reasons for the distraction, and the alchemist tensed, readying herself for an attack.

The man sighed. “My orders to the contrary, I am loathe to do battle with you, Miss. I sunk far in my life, but I wish to believe I am not so far gone as to deliberately strike a woman. Is there no possibility that I can persuade you to leave? Or if you will not, to simply stay and converse with me until my master has finished his task?”

“You are presently holding a woman captive that I have agreed to attempt to free,” Sion replied. “And I have a long-standing feud to settle with your Master.”

Another sigh. “A pity. It has been long since I’ve dallied with a lady of such beauty. But, if you insist on following your chosen course, I am honour-bound to stop you.” He stepped back, drawing a military saber. “Have at you.”

Sion leaped back, simultaneously hurling her etherlite as she did. Fast as she was, Rider was faster, hacking the threads with a preternatural swiftness. The only benefit to her attempt was that he paused long enough for her to actually gain distance from him. Had he simply lunged after her, she would have been skewered. As it was, he was still uncomfortably close, but Sion merely adapted to the new data and proceeded to plan strategies accordingly.

Rider, for his part, paused in disgust. Though it had obviously been some form of magic, was he truly reduced to this? Fighting a woman whose sole weapon was little more than thread?

“I truly wish you would desist,” he informed her.

“I cannot,” Sion replied.

“I know - and for that, I am sorry.” With those words, Rider lunged forward again. Sion ducked under the slash, but her braid did not quite make it. The lower half dropped a moment behind her as light flared briefly on the ground. Rider, unheeding, twisted his blade and his footing, intending to end the battle with a single downward stroke - and fell to the ground, face first.

Sion jumped back from where the Servant lay on the patch of ice she’d created, unlimbering the Seventh Holy Scripture from over her shoulder as she flew through the air. In its present configuration, the weapon was shotgun-sized, and she balanced it neatly in a two-handed grip, landing hard but keeping a bead on the warrior, just the same.

Rider, for his part, rolled away in anticipation of a followup attack, and rose to his feet in a single, smooth motion. He gauged the distance between them, and the odds of his opponent firing the odd arquebus she held before he could reach her. They were not to his liking.

“Hmph,” he murmured. “You appear to have gained the advantage of me.*Well played, my lady.” He lowered his sword with a sigh. “I suppose there’s nothing left for me to do but prepare for a trip to Davy Jones’ locker.”

The Servant dropped to one knee, tapping the stonework ground with one hand. Instantly, it rose up, followed by four other sections. Like a cardboard box, it folded up and over, sealing Sion inside.

Rider bowed in admiration, though his captive could not, of course, see it. “I never believed I would have to use a Noble Phantasm to defeat a human, much less a woman. You are an exceptional lady, indeed.”

This, to the ex-pirate hunter’s mind, was the ideal solution. Within the “locker,” the intruder would be sealed away from the effects of the normal world, including time. She would be unable to act to free herself, and while it was draining, he surely didn’t need to maintain it any longer than he actually could. The Master’s plans were close to fruition, after all. This method allowed him to obey his orders and avoid adding any more blood and infamy to his name.

His duty would be fully discharged, and honourably. It remained only a matter of time.






Shiki’s vision lightened gradually, going from black to a dull gray, to a lighter, flickering gray. When he finally noticed that he was conscious enough to realise the shifts were happening, and therefore awake, he slowly opened his eyes.

Everything was still gray, but now he identified it as the stone walls of the Millennium Castle’s throne room, as lit by the wall sconces. He was lying on what looked and felt like a well-padded Roman couch - and frowned, because that hadn’t been there before.

Arcueid’s smirk attracted his eyes to her face, and he realised she was leaning over him.

“This is my castle, Shiki,” she informed him. “Anything and everything I want is here.” She paused, and her smile widened a trifle. “Well, it is now. Are you comfortable?”

“ . . . I think so.” As comfortable as he’d probably ever be in her presence. His attitude towards her had always been considerable mellower than Ciel’s, but poisoned, always, with the knowledge of her true nature. In some ways, she could be brighter, more human than even Ciel - but Arcueid wasn’t, and never would be.

The part of him that was Nanaya hated her for that. Dreamed of hunting her. If it wasn’t for the blood-bond she’d placed on him years ago, his other self would have burst out of their mutual skin and done his level best to slice her into bloody chunks again. But it was there, he knew. Akiha’s prior claim had reduced the ability of that bond to command him to a ghost of what it should be, balancing out the two forces that wanted control of his mind to the point where he could function more or less normally.

On some level, it was a great irony: arguably the most controlling person he knew had granted him the most freedom.

What it meant, however, was that he was more or less in full possession of all his faculties when dealing with the True Ancestors’ White Princess. And while he could enjoy Arc’s company, he remembered, always, that it was the White Princess he was dealing with.

“How long was I out?” he asked.

“Long enough for your little treasure to explain what’s going on,” Arcueid answered. “And for me to make sure you weren’t under a curse to live in interesting times.” She smiled again. “I still can’t find one, but I can’t imagine how else you manage to get yourself into these things.”

Her eyes flicked to Takara, standing on Shiki’s other side, just out of his peripheral vision so long as he was looking up.

“I’m not sure I like her,” Arcueid commented. “But she’s smart enough to understand what she’s talking about, and explain it well.” Her voice turned teasing, but so subtly only someone who’d been around her as long as Shiki had would notice. “And she’s certainly cute. I think she gets it from me.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Takara snapped, clenching her fists so hard that her fingers were white. Shiki imagined he saw a silver sheen in her narrowed eyes - but then again, maybe it was actually there.

“Takara . . .” he started, but his quiet voice was drowned out by the Princess’ next statement.

“What? You think your mother alone could give a girl who looks as Japanese as you do a chest like that?” She smirked. “Ciel’s good, but I’d say you owe at least an inch to me.”

“Arcueid . . .”

Takara’s hair flared blue suddenly, and her voice was deathly quiet. “I’ll kill*you.”

Shiki, in desperation, put all the parental authority he could muster into his voice. “ENOUGH!”

Amazingly, it halted Takara dead, and even Arcueid immediately turned to look at him.

“There isn’t time for this,” he said weakly. “Ciel’s dying . . . And I can’t hang on much longer. If you know what’s at stake, Arcueid, then tell me - will you help us?”

She frowned. “What if I tell you, ‘no?’”

“Then we’ll rescue Ciel on our own.”

“You’ll die,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If what I’ve heard about this magician is true, he’ll kill you all, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him.”

Shiki looked at Arcueid, nothing more. But that look communicated as much as Takara had, about what had happened to him in the years of her sleep - and how little he’d really changed.

After a moment, the Princess sighed. “You’ll go anyway, won’t you, Shiki? Even if it wasn’t Ciel, you’d try. And because it is Ciel, there’s absolutely nothing that you’ll let stop you - not death, not me, even if I brought all my power against you.” Her ruby eyes were hurt, and the sight of that pain shocked Takara out of her Nanaya state. “I wish I’d found you first, Shiki, when you killed me. I wish I knew if you could ever have loved me as much as you love her.” She reached out to touch his face, and whispered, “As much as I love you.”

For a moment, it all disappeared. The castle, the urgency, the years between them. There was just Shiki and Arcueid, and the possibilities that might have been on a long-ago autumn day . . .

Delicately, a throat was cleared, and Takara said, regretfully, “I’m sorry, but we’re running out of time.” Her cheeks coloured. “Very sorry.”

Shiki lowered his eyes, and Arcueid’s hand left his cheek, falling reluctantly to her side.

“All right, Shiki,” she said quietly. “I’ll come with you. I’ll help - but not for Ciel, or your daughter, or even the safety of the planet - for you.” Her eyes narrowed. “And this time, I want something in return.”

“ . . . What?” Shiki asked, proving that he’d learned, over the years - he was ready to agree to a great deal, but he wouldn’t promise anything until he knew what the stakes were.

Arcueid pulled him to his feet, balancing himself against her, and whispered into his ear, “I want you to kiss me.”

“What?” Shiki repeated, at a somewhat higher volume, in a more disbelieving tone.

Arcueid pulled back enough to lock eyes with him, and said, “I want you to kiss me, with your whole heart. I want to know what your true feelings about me really are, not just what I think they are - and if my dreams could ever have been as real.” She leaned in again, her breath tickling warmly along his skin. “One kiss, with everything you feel for me, and I will do all in my power to give Ciel back to you. Is it really so awful, Shiki?”

Shiki took a deep breath, steadied himself physically and mentally, and was honest.

“No . . . It isn’t.”

Her lips were yielding and warm, and they gave that warmth willingly, moulding themselves to his own in a seal that should have melded them together, even as they opened to allow her to breathe life back into his body even as she inhaled the depth of his emotions. Strength he had not possessed in months, possibly years, returned to him, trickling to the depths of himself.

In return, he yielded himself to her, in a way he never had save with his wife, and gave her what not even Ciel had ever received: everything he had ever felt for, or about, Arcueid Brunestud. Every flicker of fear or distrust showed in his initial hesitancy, mixing with the lust she aroused as his tongue darted into her mouth. Her taste was sweet and subtle, and he did his utmost to will every sensation, every emotion she raised in him into her consciousness. To give her, if only once, the truth.

Salt dropped into his mouth, and the bitter taste caused Shiki to pull away, startled. That sensation increased when he saw the cause.

Arcueid was crying. Her eyes didn’t weep blood, as popular culture assumed vampires would, but drops as crystal clear and bitter as any human’s tears. Her voice, when she spoke, was ragged.

“I knew I should have killed her.”

Shiki said nothing. They both knew what would have happened if she had, and what had happened because she didn’t. Perhaps in another time, another place . . . But this was here and now, and they were who they were.

She raised her face to his, and Shiki realised that she’d changed during the kiss. He wasn’t holding the White Princess, but Arcueid - short hair and all.

“All right, Shiki,” she said heavily, pulling away and turning towards the door. “Let’s go.”

Shiki followed in her wake.

Takara closed her mouth with a snap, and dashed behind them.

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 28






Caster’s first action was to conjure a barrier. For her Servant type, who essentially were best used as long-range artillery pieces, defensive measures were absolute essential. She had neither the necessary skills nor conditioning to defeat the vast majority of her foes in close combat. So, as any intelligent spellcaster would, she saw to her own protection before the destruction of her enemy.

And there was an enemy - unwanted, but not unexpected. To assume the two sorcerers of this tower would be defenceless would have been not only foolish, but suicidal, and the minds planning this operation had been neither. To have the defence emplacements take the form of Servants had not been anticipated, but it was a familiar danger to Caster. She was summoned precisely to deal with this type of threat.

The Servant merely stood, waiting. He was garbed in a type of armour not dissimilar to the leathers worn by those in her native time and place, but the furs and blue tribal markings were not born of the same place. The wolves of Greece had not been so large as to produce that sort of pelt, nor had they possessed a dye that was so deep a blue.

Yet the facial markings were obviously of some importance, for he frowned as she studied them.

“Suren it’s a pity,” the Servant remarked, his words thick with an accent Caster could not identify. “All this carrying on over intruders, and I fight, of all things, a woman warrior!”

He bit his thumb in frustration, and Caster used the moment to subtly summon a number of her skeleton warriors. They weren’t exactly the best quality of fighter to use against an unknown Servant, but in the absence of her Mistress’ aid and instructions, she would have to fight as she saw fit, with the tools at her disposal.

The dragon’s tooth warriors took shape, rising from the ground behind her foe - who suddenly darted forward, hurling a spear from the sling on his back in a smooth motion, then whirling. He was lost from sight for an instant, as the spear filled her vision, even as it bounced off her shield, but when it was clear, she saw . . . Nothing. Her soldiers were disintegrating into dust, and her erstwhile foe had vanished.

Warily, Caster glanced around, scanning for some trace of invisibility or teleportation . . . Above!

The spear streaked towards the ground with a wind-piercing scream. Caster had time enough to leap aside so as not to be impaled, but was neither quick enough nor skilled enough to prevent the second one from pinning her leg solidly to the stone floor. The witch cried out in pain, despite herself, and the Servant laughed as he landed, almost lightly, before her. He bore a crude sword, similar in design to a Roman blade, in his hand.

“Did yew really think yew could surprise me?” he asked. “Skeleton warriors or not, I’d never be worthy of naming meself ‘Fianna’ if I could be taken so easily.” He smirked. “I wonder why they feared so weak a witch?”

Caster turned to attempt to pull the spear from her leg, her cloak concealing her body.

“A poor tactic,” her opponent advised as he advanced on her. “‘Specially as I know that yuir shield only protects yuir front side. Understandable, though for a frail woman, unused to battle. I hav’ ta wonder where yuir Master found yew.”

Her cloak shifted, and Rulebreaker stabbed out. Its blade barely scratched the arrogant warrior, but bloodshed was not the weapon’s true purpose or power. Even so paltry a wound was sufficient to sever the Servant’s connection with his Master, and this the weapon did.

“Colchis,” Caster hissed, and then said not another word - for with lightning reflexes, even as he vanished, the leather-clad Servant swung his sword, and cleaved Caster’s head from her body.

The two spirits dissolved almost at once.






Deep with her prison cell, Ciel screamed. Writhing on the floor of her cell, twin gems flared alight on the garment she wore - one a deep amethyst, the other a dark emerald. Two Servants had been defeated, two sacrifices made, and the essence of all they were flowed through her mind as the essence of what they could be, what they meant, was added to the vast reservoir of power within her body. Visions roared like a hurricane in her mind, sights and sounds, scents and sensations from long ago times, and the capacity for both good and evil each had possessed charged her mortal form.

It was not enough to summon the Grail - not nearly - but added with the potency of the garnet that already blazed on her unwanted gown, the relic was much closer than it had been. The time was almost right . . .






On the tower balcony of the Millennium Castle, Arcueid paused. Shiki stopped automatically, sliding into a position beside her, and Takara halted uncertainly.

“What is it?” the girl asked.

“Oh, nothing,” the True Ancestor assured her. “We’re just close enough to go to where Ciel is now.”

Takara gazed out at the moonlit field of flowers the tower looked upon. “Close enough to what?”

Arcueid cleared her throat. “I meant ‘close’ as a relative term. When I looked for Ciel within the boundaries of the earth, her presence isn’t there - which means she’s either being held in a parallel dimension, or - “

”Dead,” Takara finished in a small voice. Were they already too late? After everything her father had gone through to get to Arcueid, everything Avenger and the others might have done to get to her mother, was it all in vain?

Arcueid shook her head. “I don’t think so - the earth has no memory of her dying . . . Noy recently, anyway. So I suspect she’s still alive, just - elsewhere. The problem is that I can go anywhere, but I’m usually confined to the planet unless I know exactly where I need to be, and there are a lot of places near, but not quite, Earth.”

“So how do we get to wherever Ciel is?” Shiki asked.

Arcueid smiled. “Well, that’s where your little angel comes in handy.” She shifted her gaze to Takara. “She’s bound to something else that’s currently bound to the earth.” She lifted Takara’s hand to study the remains of her master’s mark, and continued, “And judging by the scent coming off this emblem, it’s a pretty unique entity. I shouldn’t have any trouble following its trail.”

“His,” Takara said emphatically. Whatever else he was, her Servant was more than an “it.”

“Hm?” Arcueid blinked in surprise, then shrugged. “If you say so. Anyway, I’ve got the trail, so let’s go!”

The True Ancestor’s eyes flashed, literally. Blazing gold, like tiny suns, her power enveloped her and those bound to her, even as it reached outward. In a heartbeat, the trio was gone, whisked away to Faust’s dark tower . . .

. . . And directly into the wizard’s spelltrap.






Saber gazed warily at her opponent. Of all the possible threats to face, why did it always seem to come down to him? Truly, Fate seemed to have made a Nemesis of him to her. Perhaps, this time, at last, she could end what seemed to be an endless cycle of confrontations with him.

For his part, Gilgamesh gazed appraisingly at her armoured body, his lips curling back into a pleased, and irritatingly familiar, smirk.

“Well, well,” he boomed appreciatively. “I see that it is possible for a warrior to be fair, as well as competent. If your skill matches your beauty, I might perhaps - “

Saber cut him off by lunging forward, blade in hand. She knew from past experience that her best chance to defeat Gilgamesh was to take him by surprise. She was stronger and more powerful with Rin as a Master than she had been under Shirou’s, or even Kiritsugu’s command, but the difference was too minor to be a decisive advantage. The other Servant simply had too many options at his disposal to be defeated easily, by anyone. She had to catch him off-guard and keep him off-balance, too busy to think or plan, else his raw power could easily overwhelm her.

With that in mind, her only hope to gain victory was attack head-on unexpectedly, and relentlessly, so that her opponent was unable to gain time to defend himself adequately. And so, while Gilgamesh devoted himself to oratory, she attacked with all the ferocity she could muster.

Sometimes, even for a knight, chivalry had to take a back seat to expediency. Saber was unwilling to gamble the safety of the world for the sake of a “fair” fight.

The former king of Uruk dodged to one side, but the invisibility of her blade caused him to misjudge its length, and she was fast enough to twist it in mid-swing to take advantage of a chink in the armour of his sleeve. Golden plates were pried loose, spilling to the ground, along with a slight thread of vermillion.

Gilgamesh touched the score on his right arm even he pulled back, acknowledging her hit with a nod. “First blood to you,” he rumbled. “Few indeed are skilled enough to harm me, even so incidentally. I - “

Saber leaped up with a cry, flying forward for an aerial attack, and Gilgamesh retreated again, anger marring his coldly handsome features. With a gesture, his spiral-bladed sword appeared.

“I will teach you not to interrupt your betters, woman!” he snapped.

With his own cry of fury, the golden-armoured King of Heroes lunged forward to meet the silver-clad Queen of Knights blade-to-blade.






Rin was cursing herself fairly creatively by the time she landed. Silently, but creatively nonetheless. She should have known better than to walk directly into the trap. She’d expected defences, and she wasn’t ignorant - though whether or not she was stupid was presently being debated - so she should have proceeded cautiously, and spotted the spelltrap before it was triggered. That she hadn’t was simply one more example of how little she’d changed from her youth. It seemed to be in her very nature; no matter how careful she was, every now and then, she made one mistake - and it always cost her, eventually.

The last time, it had cost Rin her sister.

She materialised in a dungeon complex out of the Napoleonic era - metal doors with sliding slots at the bottom through which to send bowls of food in and out. Checking, she found her trusty blade at her side - which was a relief. She had brought a backup, if she’d needed it, but she put far more trust in her own jewelled sword than in that ill-tempered wand.

Drawing the sword as a precaution, Rin probed out with her magic, trying to find Ciel Aozaki - or anything living - but found only holes in her perception, dead spots that indicated powerful shielding of some form . . . And the monster she’d known as Emiya Shirou.

The albino teenager stared at her, more than a little surprise on his features, and her heart twinged a little as the expression called forth memories of older, happier times. Then his face was spoiled, as a smirk she could only describe as malicious blossomed on his face.

“You must have found a lot of help,” he remarked, “but it’ll do you no good.” A familiar, and ominously dark blade materialised in his hand - Excalibur, as wielded by the tainted version of Saber, so long ago.

“I won’t lose, Rin - not even to you.”

Without another word, Shirou darted forward, murder in his eyes.






Upon the vermillion road, Avenger paused. This was not an easy thing - the whole point of this particular ability was to move forward, relentlessly, until one’s prey was reached - but it had to be done. The odds were good that Shirou had undone any power his Noble Phantasm might have, but it would be worse not to use it. And so, he concentrated, and he called.

Kieran Holt, “Dark One of the Forest.” My creation, my brother, my dark reflection. He who embodies both the best and worst of everything I am . . . I need you. I am not strong enough alone. Walk with me, old wolf, one last time . . . Please.

His duster swirled, darkening to a forest green even as its sleeves pulled back and its collar reached upwards to cover his head as a hooded cloak, and his Velcro shoes became leather boots. Muscles bulged forth from his spindly body, even as it contracted in on itself to lessen in height. His skin darkened and roughened, matching the changes in his hair and eyes. The lichblade Vanir, carefully sheathed, reappeared at his side, and the being Takara had first called Lancer emerged from the blood and shadows of the Avenger’s road.

As Lancer settled lightly on the stone blocks of the circular tower on which he now stood, Berserker stood at the other end, perhaps fifty feet away. Once again, the vampire was garbed in full armour, waiting as if he had all eternity to do so.

Somewhere deep inside Lancer’s consciousness came a stray thought about how a final battle atop a moonlit tower was very “Castlevania.” It went unacknowledged.

Berserker sighed melodramatically. “So - instead of a worthy opponent, I am forced to deal with you. How unpleasant.”

“For you, it will be,” Lancer’s usual growl was laced with enough venom to make a cobra envious. The druid really*hated undead.

“Bah!” the vampire sneered. “I do not wish to sully my hands on such as you when such a warrior as the woman knight is available! I will leave you to my pets - TAKE HIM!”

Snarling wolves sprang from the shadows, of an unusual size for their breed. Lancer snarled in turn, with all the anger at his command, and the pack immediately became docile, recognising the claim of a larger, stronger wolf. Berserker stormed forward five yards, banishing the wolves with a gesture.

“Stop wasting my time and DIE!” Bats plunged out the clear sky in a screeching cloud that would have obscured the sun, much less the moon. They descended on him like a plague of locusts - and were immediately descended upon by a silent horde of owls, seeking the treat of flying mice that their summoner had promised them.

Berserker advanced again, trembling with fury. “How dare you mock me? Storm, rise!”

A tempest sprang from nowhere, equal to a hurricane in force, yet its howling winds seemed to have no effect at all upon the cloaked warrior. Lightning flashed, and impossibly, missed. With a gesture, Lancer caused the storm to vanish, revealing the clear, bright moon once more.

“My turn!” the druid snarled, drawing his blade in mid-lunge, moving at inhuman speed as he brought the wicked edge of Vanir to bear on the weak point in the black knight’s neck armour . . . And as though his enemy was moving in slow motion, Berserker drew his sword, slamming the hilt forward towards the other’s face.

Lancer exploded as though made of glass, fragments of his body dissolving into wisps of smoke. The back of Avenger’s skull impacted the tower floor some fifteen feet away, and he spent the next thirty seconds desperately struggling to hold onto consciousness while banshees screamed in his ears and stars went nova in the darkness behind his eyes. Even as warm blood seeped through his hair onto the smooth black stone, and down his face towards his shirt, a cool tingling told him that his auto-heal ability was working frantically to close the wounds. Unfortunately, even that slight advantage would be enough to keep him alive for very much longer.

He knows . . . The bastard knows!

For his part, Berserker sneeringly ignored the blood dripping from the pommel of his sword. Even this much of the fool was unfit to be worthy of his attention.

“Arrogant worm - you attempt to make me break my vow? I will not sully my hands with your destruction - you are not worth it! You are a pretender, a snivelling stripling who deludes himself as the equal of legends, when even the merest of us could slay you in the blink of an eye . . . and Dracula is far from ‘mere.’ To face you is an insult to my power, and I will not debase myself by personally meeting you in combat.” He spat, blood-tainted spittle impacting the stone beneath.

“Fortunately, I have many means at my disposal. If beasts cannot slay you, nor the elements, there remains the dead. Come forth, my armies!”

Black stone cracked, erupting into the air, as pale, ragged arms clawed at the sky. From beneath they emerged, the walking, rotting dead, eyes gleaming with crimson hunger. First in pairs, then quartets. Then tens. Then scores. In minutes, thousands of ghouls - possibly all those Vlad the Impaler had slain in his lifetime - seemed to be standing around him. And they were undeniably dead, they nonetheless walked. And they were hungry.

“Kill him,” their lord commanded.

To his credit, Avenger tried. Despite being outnumbered by more than he could reasonably count at a glance, and having the kind of physique that strained him to bench-press eighty pounds - once - on a good day, he nonetheless made a game effort to deal with his attackers. He ducked, dodged, went for vital points, tried to turn them on each other. In short, he used any and all tactics he could think of to try to buy himself even a few more seconds of life.

What he got was one second. More specifically, a fraction of one. Quantity has a quality all its own, and it was more than enough to outdo anything and everything the Servant could manage. If he’d been able to use his Noble Phantasm, he could’ve won handily - the ghouls had no minds or wills to speak of, really. It would’ve been like shooting commuters in a Tokyo subway train at rush hour. But so long as Berserker was within range - and the undead son-of-a-bitch was actually levitating to stay in view while giving his minions enough room - anything he could dream up to save himself would remain just that. The Servant knew the truth of what he was, and Avenger simply would not be able to convince him otherwise.

The tide of undead swarmed him, and he could do nothing. Blackness smothered him, and panic followed it - he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe! Being crowded triggered a claustrophobic reaction, and something primal in the back of his mind screamed and bony hands clamped on his limbs. But his hearing still worked, and though it was muffled, he could still hear Berserker’s ravings.

“Insolent fool! You still attempt to master my will with your feeble mind? You can never be my equal! I am Vlad, called Tepes, Prince of Wallachia!”

No, you’re not! Avenger wanted to call back, feeling an odd calm descend over him, his panic threshold was overloaded by the concept of being imminently devoured alive. Tepes was a brutal tyrant, and a honourable man, in his way, but he was never a vampire! You’re just some drunken writer’s concept imprinted on a historical truth, and brought to life by a freak of the unnatural!

“I am the Lord of the Undead! The King of the Night! A spirit so powerful that I was given immortality by the earth itself!”

You’re not. You’re a nightmare given reality, even less of a true Servant than I am . . .

So why are you letting him kick your ass?! Avenger’s inner voice screamed.

Sharp jaws bit down on his throat suddenly, spraying arterial blood, and the world went red . . .

Then black . . .






White.

Berserker blinked, finding himself abruptly on gray concrete, at the heart of a maze of alleys. Faint stars shimmered in the sky, but weren’t bright enough to diminish the blackness. A blue-white crescent moon illuminated the piles of scattered autumn leaves on the ground, and the shimmer of frost that coated everything, casting odd shadows in the cold, clear, but undeniably dark night.

“Thank you,” the boy’s voice echoed through the alleys, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Even his supernatural hearing couldn’t pin down its source. Berserker found it infuriating.

His prey continued speaking, apparently oblivious to the irritation he was causing. “I had forgotten how weak you truly were.”

Berserker convulsed with anger. “WEAK? WEAK?! How dare you - come forth, my armies, and make him crawl before he dies!”

The power surged out, summoning the dead from their graves . . . And they did not come.

A weak chuckle, threaded with malevolence, answered. “These are my mean streets - and your Romero rejects don’t belong on them.” A shadow shifted, some twenty feet away, and Avenger detached himself from it to face his prey. He was whole once more, and his eyes gleamed with a malicious confidence.

“Of course, even if you had them, I would still kill you,” Avenger informed him.

Berserker drew his sword. “I will not tolerate such insults from a lowly - “

Berserker did not - could not - see him move. The boy was suddenly there, and his casual backhand drove him through a Dumpster to impact the wall behind it.

The vampire hurled the offending garbage container into the air, to land on a low roof above them. His body contorted, darkening with rage and power, even as his words increased in timbre and volume, until they filled the alley with a force not unlike the Voice of God. His body doubled, then trebled in mass, becoming batlike and undeniably demonic, and as he changed, before rage consumed his human mind completely, the Servant bellowed, “I AM DRACULA! WHAT ARE YOU, MORTAL, THAT YOU DARE TO STAND AGAINST ME?!”


The transformation complete, the man-bat creature that had been the black knight, and still was Berserker, managed to find enough mental strength to repeat its demand.

“WHAT ARE YOU?!”

Avenger answered in a voice that was human only, and so soft that few humans would be able to hear it clearly. Nonetheless, it rang throughout the alleys with a hardness, a conviction, that rivalled diamond, and the answer drove Berserker to new heights of fury.

“Real.”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 29






Shiki trailed along in the wake of Arcueid’s power, more aware of it now than he had been as a boy of seventeen. Something of her was infused into him, now, and he felt better than he had in years, possibly better than he’d been since the “accident” which had given him his Mystic Eyes.

The bloodsucker doesn’t do things by half measures, Nanaya muttered bitterly. I’m not sure whether to I want to puke, open our veins to bleed the poison out, or just enjoy the boost. Maybe we should just kill her, instead.

Shiki clamped down on that. For the moment, Arcueid was willing to help rescue Ciel, and feeling the power coming from her now, only an absolute idiot or madman would act to remove an ally of that much value when the battle had yet to be joined.

Always her. She’s just a woman.

No. Ciel was many things, a woman among them, but never just that. She was the one who’d believed in his innocence, in himself, when she’d had every reason to doubt it. When he himself had no belief in it at all. She had called him back from despair during the darkest time of his life, had managed to come back from her own dark place, and raised a wonderful child. “Just” a woman could not have done all that.

Nanaya snorted. You’re a sentimental fool.

The best kind, Shiki shot back - before the world dropped out from under him.

The power struck like a thunderbolt, sending the three of them spiralling in opposite directions. However invigorated he felt, Shiki’s Mystic Eyes couldn’t destroy raw energy, and thus, he was helpless to prevent their separation. Instead, he braced himself for wherever he might land, praying that both Arcueid and Takara would be safe. As safe as they could be, at least. As far as he himself was concerned, both Shiki and his Nanaya self were quite prepared, even eager, to ensure their mutual safety.

Shiki shook himself as he landed on the balcony. Arcueid’s power was buzzing through his veins, and it was playing to instincts and impulses he usually tried his best to keep under lock and key.

It might be vile, but I like the way it thinks, Nanaya agreed. And this guy seems just about as vile.

He looked like a cross between an old-time British sailor and a gypsy, both as defined by period movies. He stood at ease, but warily, next to a man-sized box of stone that appeared to have been quarried directly out of the ground. Beyond him lay a door that led into the tower proper.

Not the black-armoured bastard that took Ciel, Nanaya admitted. Definitely not the pale-skinned punk who tried to murder our daughter . . . But he’ll do for a warmup.

Shiki wondered if his Nanaya self realised he’d started thinking about Takara as his daughter instead of “the brat.”

Whoever he is, he’s between us and Ciel. Let me out, Shiki. I want his heart - or the Servant equivalent.

And this once, Shiki was inclined to let him take it.






Rider blinked as the spelltrap funnelled another victim to him. Curious - he hadn’t expected any more intruders. Still, the Master should only require another ten minutes or so. Surely this wouldn’t be -

The intruder was moving as soon as he fully materialised, a blur of motion that no human being - not even a magically-inclined, combat-trained one, like his last opponent - could have matched. Rider’s reflexes were excellent, as before, and he stepped back and drew his sword to slash a figure-eight pattern, intended to keep his enemy at bay.

He had not considered that his enemy, equally quickly, might draw a weapon of his own and intercept the sword. Nor would he have believed that a Servant wielding a saber could be parried by a mere human, wielding -

“A knife?” Rider asked incredulously.

“Family heirloom,” the intruder snapped, drawing the Servant’s attention to his eyes. They were a brilliant azure - but the irises were ringed, ever so faintly, with gold.

Before Rider could come to a proper conclusion about what those eyes indicated of their owner’s true nature, however, the intruder had suddenly withdrawn the knife, causing him to complete his swing and overbalance himself. He caught himself almost immediately, but he did lean forward far enough for the intruder to rake his blade across Rider’s forehead. A flash of pain struck his skull, and a vermillion veil coated the Servant’s vision.

Auto-heal closed the source of the problem quickly, and Rider’s staggering about blindly, retreating until he could wipe his eyes, kept his body intact. Or so he thought, until he could see clearly again.

The intruder had stepped back, as well, giving himself clearance space, while he removed his odd spectacles. With them carefully tucked in a pocket, he assumed an odd standing position, and his twin-coloured eyes seemed to glow intently.

“What are you?” the Servant asked.

“In a hurry.” Then, as if to prove the point, he blurred.

Rider snapped his saber up in a guard, felt the knife impact the weapon - and was off-balance again, as the blade of his weapon fell off. No, fell from where it had been sheared off. By a knife which showed no magical characteristics in and of itself.

Following the path of the blade to the ground was his fatal mistake. A flicker of light, polished steel gleaming as it blurred with motion, lashed out at a point on his chest. The last thing in Rider’s view was a human hand, clutching the hilt of an ordinary knife.

Then, oblivion.






Shiki stared at the dissolving light which had been a Servant, astonished. He’d pierced the dot, and he was hardly even winded. That had been - easy.

There’s a few reasons for that, Nanaya replied. First, we caught him by surprise. His focus was somewhere else at the beginning - don’t count on it happening again. And second, we aren’t an anaemic teenager anymore. We’re in the prime of our life, and in the best shape we’ve ever been - why wouldn’t things be easier for us?

Shiki wasn’t certain he liked that - that it was easier now for Nanaya to kill. It had implications that were, to say the least, unsettling. But that was for the future. And if any of them were to have a future, he had to get to Ciel -

CRACK!

Fissures erupted along the length of the stone box, spreading to cover its entire surface. With a final, convulsive sound, like a continent shifting, the blocks that were its component pieces scattered back into the surface of the tower, revealing -

“Atlasia-san!” Shiki caught her falling form before he’d even realised he’d moved.

Sion convulsed slightly, as her body and mind made the jump from the moment in time when she’d been imprisoned until now, and her eyes focussed on him. “ . . . Aozaki-san?” She blinked.

“Has Rider been destroyed?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And were you successful in your mission?”

“Yes - but we were separated on arriving here. I’ve lost track of Takara and Arcueid.”

“A spelltrap,” Sion stated. “We were all caught unawares. It is likely the trap’s design is meant to funnel intruders to waiting opponents, such as Rider. I will attempt to analyse the spell so it can be bypassed - or used to our purposes by transporting us to allies in need.”

Shiki hesitated. “Um, Atlasia-san?”

“Yes?”

“Can you stand on your own?”

Sion blinked, realising only now that Shiki had been holding her for the length of their conversation. Her cheeks coloured. “ . . . Yes. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Shiki mumbled, releasing the young woman.

Sion turned away, fighting to get control over her expression. That felt . . . Good.

Forget it, came the unexpected response of the weapon in her hands. He belongs to Ciel-sama - hands off!

“. . .” Sion turned to face Shiki, blank-faced. “I will begin analysis of the spelltrap now.”

“All right,” Shiki responded, pleased to see her acting professionally. He’d recognised something of the look in her eyes, earlier.

First Hisui, then Arcueid, and now possibly Atlasia-san. He sighed mentally. Don’t they understand what “married” means?






Saber was in trouble.

She and Gilgamesh were evenly matched in skill, power, and determination - too evenly matched. She was unable to gain a decisive advantage over him. Every cut she gave, he returned - and both of them were too skilled to allow a single attack to turn into a fatal one.

She knelt, collapsed on one knee because her left leg had been broken by the flat of his blade. Bloody streaks crisscrossed her chest where her breastplate had been cut away, though the fall of the tatters of her gown concealed both her modesty and her wounds. Her jaw was broken and it was hard to breathe, both because of the efforts she’d made, and because her lungs had been nicked at least once.

Gilgamesh was in no better shape. Blood encrusted nearly every joint area on his armour - a testament to both Saber’s skill and the inadvisability of using a soft metal like gold as armour. His left arm hung limply at his side, a single cut along a major artery having rendered it as good as dead. One eye was closed, and blood trailed along the edge of the open one where she had almost finished it. He trembled with the effort it took to stand, because she’d nearly hamstrung him - and because she’d attempted to steal his crown jewels with a well-placed and heavily-armoured knee thrust. Whether or not she’d succeeded, the effort had cost both of them, and now each warrior was running on their last reserves.

“I - told you . . . You would bow . . . “ Gilgamesh rasped, his voice a hoarse echo of its former thunder. Apparently, Saber had come closer to unmanning him than she’d thought.

“Bow . . . Perhaps,” Saber admitted, her voice little more than a whisper. Her chest burned from where his blade had attempted to bury itself in her heart, and every word sent lances of pain from her jaw directly to her brain. “Submit . . . never.”

Gilgamesh, even now, could find the strength to sneer. “You would make - a worthy Queen . . . It’s a pity - you must die. Enuma . . .!”

Saber concentrated as the crimson fire spiralled along the length of Gilgamesh’s blade, stripping the winds away from her own to reveal the blazing power of Excalibur . . .

“Well, now,” said a female voice in consternation. “This isn’t right.”

Startled, the two Servants turned, as best they were able, to behold a beautiful woman in plain-looking clothes. Her skin was as the moon, white and glowing. Her hair, while short, looked like spun gold, burning like fire in the fading aftereffects of the dispersing power the two warriors had gathered. Her eyes were rubies, gleaming with both wisdom and good humour, the rarest of combinations - for the wise generally know too much to be happy. She moved with a grace neither had ever seen matched, seeming to glide across the destroyed balcony as though she danced upon the air, giving both sides an excellent view of the figure concealed beneath the snow-white top and purple skirt.

Saber struggled with her first encounter with feelings of feminine inadequacy, and Gilgamesh was suddenly standing before the woman, as tall and proud as before - or at least as close as he could come while bearing the injuries he did. He grinned at her, seemingly unmindful of the fact that he was missing four teeth.

“Surely, such a treasure belongs only at my side!” he exclaimed. He reached out to cup her chin. “I pray thee, O Future Queen, tell me thy name.”

Saber saw irritation flash in the woman’s suddenly golden eyes. “Arcueid Brunestud,” was her curt answer. Her eyes flashed again, literally.

Deep in the darkest, most secret, vindictive part of her heart, the Queen of Knights would forever treasure the five seconds which followed, as Gilgamesh’s body attempted to tie itself into a Gordian knot. The effort was valiant, but the result was fatal, and the blonde stranger watched both with an icy glare of contempt.

“Nobody but Shiki touches me like that,” she sniffed, and then glanced in Saber’s direction. “Um, I don’t suppose you know where to find Ciel? Or Shiki? I’d prefer Shiki, actually . . .”

Unable to help herself, Saber slumped. This was the one Avenger said could save them all?






Ciel screamed as the power gathered again, as the sapphire and golden topaz upon her garments blazed to life. Ancient and relatively recent history battered anew at her mind, threatening her sense of self, as the core based within her body pulsed with newfound strength. It evoked a feeling of being full, bloated with power, and yet not quite complete. The sensation recalled a memory of the final days of her pregnancy. When it was nearly time, but Takara hadn’t been quite ready . . .

. . . Takara . . . Where was she? Was she all right? Where was her child. . .?

Ciel reached out, turning the power that threatened to sweep away all she was to her own purpose. She rode its currents, through the paths it was connected to. The active Servants were there and there, and it was that one which was bound to Takara. Tracing back the threads that were wound between them, she found her daughter - there.

Bound within Faust’s spell, but safe, and coming ever closer. Ciel only had to hold on a little longer, and she would see her daughter with her own, physical eyes.

She prayed that she could accomplish that much, at least.






As a scream erupted from the room behind him, Shirou struck with a speed Rin might have considered inhuman, had she not been able to reinforce herself to a similar level. The arc of her crystal sword had the advantage in reach, surprisingly (if for no other reason than that she was taller than Shirou, now), but its blade was comparatively slender, lacking the sheer weight and force her opponent could bring to bear. Still, she managed to land a quick cut across his arm, throwing off the angle of his cut enough that she could sidestep it.

Or so she thought, before Shirou stepped into her guard and swung the blade back towards her neck. Rin threw herself to one side in desperation, but received a deep gash across the ribs, nonetheless, the force of which sent her sprawling to the floor.

Rin Tohsaka was a woman of extraordinary talents. Born of a prestigious sorcerous bloodline, and schooled by the legendary Wizard Marshall Zelretch, wielder of the Second True Magic, those hallmarks alone would have made her a power to be reckoned with. At the core of her, however, was the fact that she truly was one of the most powerful - and adept - magi born in generations. Her skills and raw power combined rendered her among the most formidable mortals currently in existence. Few beings, human or otherwise, could mean to do her harm and emerge alive - much less unscathed - from the attempt.

But for all her prodigious talents and skills, Rin was not, and never would be, a skilled sword fighter. Trying to take on Shirou - who could copy not only weapons, but the requisite level of skill to use them - blade-to-blade had been ridiculous.

She forced herself to rise to a kneeling position, one hand clutching her side in an attempt to halt the bleeding.

Time to fight like a magus, she determined, raising her hand, and using one of her favourite techniques.

Her magic circuits flared to life, points of light leaping off the lines of power to follow the direction of her hand. It was the same spell she’d used to duel with Shirou, modified through her knowledge of Zelretch’s Kaleidoscope to fire from every possible angle in whatever direction she was facing. It was the ultimate in saturation fire techniques, meant to pin a target helplessly in a single position by using an inescapable wall of power - hence the technique’s name, “Tsunami.”

Shirou didn’t dodge. He smiled, and spoke a single word.

“Avalon.”

Rin couldn’t react, as her attack reached its target and exploded. It had never really been designed for a close range battle like this, but more for wiping out hordes of approaching targets indiscriminately. It was why she’d chosen to use the Zelretch sword’s inherent technique against Berserker’s minions - it was more easily controlled, and caused less collateral damage. As it was, the backlash of her own attack left her blind and helpless for several seconds.

When she could see again, she felt no less helpless.

Shirou stood untouched, bathed in Avalon’s protective glow. The smirk on his face would have done Zouken Matou or Kotomine proud.

“What now, Rin?” he asked, almost companionably. “You can’t break this shield, can you? And I’m standing between you and the door . . .”

“We’ll see about my not breaking it,” Rin snarled.

She gathered power in her blade, unleashing the blast technique of the Zelretch sword, a focussed wave that drew mana across an uncounted number of dimensions. She’d learned to refine it into a smaller burst, no larger than her head, but despite its diminished size, the blast was quite capable of fragmenting a mountain.

However, when the light faded, Shirou stood unfazed, and looked vaguely contemptuous.

“I may not have the Grail core, but I remember what it taught me,” he commented idly. “Did you know that Archer had the capacity to create EX-level Noble Phantasms? Or that the Grail system has information on exactly what constitutes one?” He smirked. “When you know what you need to make, and how it’s done, customising one is really easy.”

“But how long can you keep it up?” she spat, then blinked as the world went fuzzy for a moment.

“Long enough for you to bleed out, I think,” he remarked. “Expending as much mana as you have makes your wounds worse, remember? One way or another, I will have what I want, Rin. I’ll see Sakura again, as a living human being.”

Rin’s smile held no warmth, nor pleasure, nor even vindictiveness. It was, if anything, filled with pity and sorrow.

“No, you won’t,” she said quietly, suddenly too tired for grand posturing. “She’s already dead.”

Shirou jumped as if he’d been struck. “. . . You’re lying!”

“Do you think I would lie - about my sister - to you?” Rin wheezed. It was suddenly getting hard to breathe. The cut had been deeper than she’d thought, and she’d let it go untreated too long. The sorceress tried to concentrate, to draw enough power through her sword to heal, but her mind was so fuzzy . . .

“NO!” Shirou exploded. “YOU’RE LYING! YOU HAVE TO BE!!”

“You - were the Grail . . .” Rin murmured. “Didn’t you - feel her . . .?”

Shirou stood, frozen in shock. Rin was dying - she didn’t have the energy to save herself now, much less defeat him. She had nothing to gain by lying, no reason . . . But that meant . . . It meant . . .

“NOOOOOO!!”

Avalon shattered around him, forgotten as the greatest shock of his second life struck. All his work - for nothing. Sakura was already dead. There was no point in using the Grail to restore his human life . . . The Grail! It could fix this! He just had to modify his wish -

Pain struck his chest, and his body immediately began to wither, decades of necrosis occurring in seconds. He collapsed onto his back, and stared up at a blade wet with his blood, and a pair of silver eyes . . .

“Goodbye, Emiya-sempai,” Takara Aozaki whispered to him.

Shirou heard her voice, even as things went dark, and then, gradually, another.

Sempai . . . Sempai! You’ve finally arrived. It’s been a while.

Waiting in the darkness was Sakura, just as he remembered her, blushing as she greeted him.

I waited a long time, Sempai. But now we can go see the cherry blossoms, right? You promised . . .

Shirou smiled, deep inside himself, and reached out to take her hand.






Nanaya had landed silently enough to escape both Shirou’s and Rin’s notice. She’d watched the battle, and waited. As soon as her prey was vulnerable, she’d made her attack, tearing the life violently from his body - and taking more than a little pleasure in it. Now, only her mother remained.

The assassin paused, and glanced at Rin. The woman’s lines were faded to near-invisibility. Clinically speaking, she was dead, but not beyond resuscitation - though it would soon be a moot point. It would be a matter of seconds . . .

Sighing almost silently, she touched the sorceress’ shoulder. There was nothing gentle in her technique - simply a violent, sudden infusion of life force and mana, to renew the woman’s energies, and stimulate her own healing to complete the process. It was like using a lightning bolt to restart someone’s heart, and Rin nearly hit the ceiling when she reflexively convulsed, but she was almost instantly awake and aware.

“What . . . The HELL?!” Rin exploded as she came back to consciousness, then went silent as memory kicked in.

Nanaya gazed at her, unblinking, and shrugged fractionally as she answered, “I might need you to remove any traps on my mother.”

Rin’s went to Shirou’s body, then back. “How did you -?”

“Killing is what I do,” the girl answered flatly.






“Enough,” Faust declared, and gestured. Berserker was still keeping one of them occupied, but it appeared that he would have to deal with the rest of the random elements personally.






“That wasn’t what I - “ Rin began, but never finished, as the room suddenly went dark around them. When the lights came back up, they stood in far different chamber. Around stood Saber, Sion, Shiki and Arcueid. Ciel hung, crucified, high above them in the centre of the room. And beyond her, seated on an obsidian throne, was a blond, dark-skinned man.

“Greetings, unwanted and uninvited guests,” he proclaimed darkly, in Italian-accented Japanese. “I am Faust, the master of this tower - and I am tired of your interference.

“It is time, and past time, that you died.”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 30






The “Berserker” was one renowned as the most physically powerful of all Servant classes. In exchange for the near-complete, if not total, loss of its sanity, spirits of the type were granted a strength and durability that are incomparable. While they were nearly impossible to control, those few Masters who can find the resolve to do so gained themselves a tireless, implacable soldier. Nothing known could match the rage and raw power of an unleashed Berserker.

Save, perhaps, the ruthlessness and relentless determination of an Avenger.

In its demonic form, the Berserker that claimed to be Vlad Tepes was stronger and faster than any humanoid could be. It healed nearly instantly, totally, from any wound it received, and struck back with an atavistic savagery that would have horrified anyone who proclaimed themselves “civilised.” Any ordinary opponent would have been torn to scraps of bloody meat and shattered bone immediately.

Avenger, however, was not an “ordinary” opponent. He was empowered with the ability to make what he imagined become pseudo-reality, its effect based on the strength of his own convictions, as pitted against those of his victims. And in this case, against this foe, his belief that he could win was absolute. Under his blows, flesh was reduced to pulp, bone to splinters, and any injuries he received in return were burned away by pervading fire of his own anger - the rage he’d held against his own weakening body, against a personality that could do so much more than it chose to do, despite that body, and whined uselessly when it could choose to act, instead.

Hate drove him as much as it did the Berserker - the difference lay in that his was directed more against himself than any other, whereas Berserker hated indiscriminately. They were two sides of the same coin. Indeed, logically, he existed in this world only because the Berserker had been called. When an unreal Servant existed that could tip the balance of the War, what better countermeasure than a Servant to whom “reality” was a wholly subjective concept?

What better torment could be devised for a damned soul, than to give him the memory of Paradise? While the Type-Moon world had darkness and dangers he would prefer not to deal with, it was still one he loved, and whose beauty, however shadowed, enchanted him. Through Takara’s needs and power, he had been given a chance to experience it, to meet characters whom he thought of as old friends, and others of whom he’d only heard. He had done things he had always wished to, and had a chance to do something that truly mattered, even if only to a handful of people.

But it was a world he would touch only briefly. He was not an Epic Spirit, and the Grail system would not reclaim him when this War was done. Instead, he would go back - or simply go out. This world was his to visit, only once - and not to stay. A glimpse of Heaven, and nothing more - the purest Hell. And it was this creature, he was sure, and the monster’s Master, which had made his presence possible.

Avenger intended to see that he paid for it.

Berserker’s body slammed into the asphalt street, pinned momentarily by his weight. Avenger held the creature’s head in his hands, pressing with all his might, trying to pop the bat-thing’s skull like a balloon.

“Scream, damn you!” Avenger roared. “SCREAM!!”

Berserker slapped its wings up, boxing Avenger’s ears hard enough to fracture the other Servant’s skull, then pushing off the ground to heave the injured spirit off before taking to the sky.

Healing was a matter of seconds - disbelieving the reality of his wounds was easy. They had been battling like this for what seemed an eternity, physical wounds inflicted and dismissed, as fleeting as fireworks. They might keep it up for eternity, neither gaining the upper hand, save for one thing - energy. Though the drain using his Noble Phantasm was minimised through his strength of conviction, there was still a limit to Avenger’s strength - and his opponent, it seemed, was inexhaustible.

If this continues for much longer, he’ll win by default, Avenger thought - and then thought was driven from his mind by pain, as Berserker did what he’d demanded.

The creature screamed, and the force of the sound drove Avenger to his knees. As his concentration shattered, so did the alleyways, revealing the roof of the obsidian tower - and the storm Berserker summoned to rage above it. Avenger couldn’t call the alleys back - his chest was vibrating with the force of the howl, audible even over the thunder, his ears bleeding from the pain . . . And still it came. Berserker screamed across the raging tempest, untiring, eternal. Sooner or later, the force of his cry would burst Avenger’s heart, or shake him to pieces.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think under the force of that noise. He hated sonic weapons, and this one looked nigh unbeatable. Hovering as it did in the darkness, there was no way he could reach the beast. All he could do was writhe helplessly, burning in his fury, unable to pierce the barrier of sound . . .

Sound . . . Barrier . . . ?

Though he was not a standard Servant, he was, as all Servants were, armed. He was meant to be a warrior in conflict, after all. His chosen weapons were not as powerful as his Noble Phantasm - as was proper, given that the latter was meant to be a trump card - but they were sufficient to this task, as no other weapon might be.

They snapped into his hands, one stainless steel, with a smiling face imprinted on it, the other matte-black, with a frowning one - Thalia and Melpomene, the Muses of Comedy and Tragedy whose masks made up the universal symbol for drama. A pair of Sig-Sauer P220 automatics, capable of firing .45-calibre bullets - and unique, in that like Saber’s Excalibur these weapons transformed their wielder’s raw mana into their chosen ammunition.

Avenger chose Glaser Safety Rounds, which could open holes the size of watermelons in their targets, or amputate limbs. Glaser Silver Safety Rounds, to be precise - and in this case, true, pure silver.

You’ve got the sound . . . Here’s the fury!

Avenger fired indiscriminately. When your target was at least nine feet tall and six feet wide, and thirty feet away, marksmanship wasn’t really a requirement. Especially when you didn’t need to worry about recoil, or running out of ammo. The guns roared their fury, their ammunition travelling at supersonic speeds, and ripping through their target like wet tissue paper. In seconds, the Berserker-bat had exploded into a bloody mist, raining down with the now-dissipating storm.

Avenger slowly began to rise, gathering the strength left to him, dropping the gun in his left hand to push himself slowly, shakily, upwards. Slowly, casually, he walked to the bloody stain that was collecting on the ground, misting as he watched, and then past it, recalling a piece of folklore as he moved beyond.

Though usually thought of in regards to werewolves, a silver bullet can kill a vampire . . .

The storm clouds faded from view, revealing the clear night.

. . . Until moonlight touches the remains.

The mist coagulated into the armoured form of Berserker once more, silently gliding forward to rip the head from this annoying gnat . . .

There are three steps, Avenger mused. First, a stake - preferably hawthorn, which is believed to be the wood of Christ’s cross, or white ash - must be driven through the heart. This must be done in one blow.

Berserker stared in disbelief at the object that protruded from his chest, the elaborate, thorny vines which decorated the hilt of the wooden blade.

The second step is decapitation - the preferred weapon is a gravedigger’s spade. This also must be done in one blow.

Avenger whirled, and slammed Thalia’s muzzle against Berserker’s throat before pulling the trigger. Dropping the gun to steady the falling body, his empty hand snapped up to catch the flying head.

Finally, the head and body must be burned separately, and the ashes scattered.

He called up all the rage he held, more than he’d ever before dared to, consciously. He let it build to a point he’d only felt once or twice before in his life - what he called “toxic,” where he trembled with the effort of holding it back and felt sick inside as it surged around inside him. The fire that had always lived within him answered his call, as it never had before - and as it never had before, it was allowed to be released.

“BUUUUURRRRNNN!!”

Blazing emotions were transformed into physical flame, and the vampire’s remains ignited instantly, consumed to ash in a heartbeat even as Avenger’s own skin began to blacken. The sheer heat swirled upwards, lifting the ashes above and beyond, across the night.

“[i]That’s - how you kill . . . A Romanian vampire!” he rasped. “Never -.mess with a - monster otaku . . .”

Avenger’s eyes were watering. His limbs were trembling. His hands had been burned almost to the bone - but he’d done it. He’d defeated a near-invincible enemy - he’d won.

And now he paid the price of victory. It was a balance - his rage gave him strength, for a time, but left weakness in its place, afterward. In this battle, the fire had burned, brighter and hotter than ever before, now that it was spent, all that was left was - cold. Emptiness . . .

. . . Darkness.

It made sense. With Berserker removed from play, what need was there for its countermeasure to remain? But he’d done all he could, as he’d promised to do.

This . . . This is a good death . . .






Despite his pronouncement, Faust made no attempt at offense. Indeed, he merely smirked, and waited. Clearly, however annoying he considered them, they were relegated to being less than threatening in his mind.

Arcueid frowned at the implication. “So this is the one,” she murmured. She turned slightly. “Right, Shiki?”

“That’s him,” the elder Aozaki confirmed. “According to the terms of his compact, he’s essentially indestructible until the next Crimson Moon rises, in a little less than a thousand years. But our friend said there was something you could do.”

“No problem,” Arcueid assured him with a smile. Her eyes shifted to golden again, and she looked upwards, gathering power.

“. . . Um,” Arcueid announced suddenly. “Maybe a slight problem.”

“What’s wrong?” Shiki asked.

“Well, you want me to save Ciel, right?”

“Yes,” was the simple response.

“So, should I concentrate my power on killing him, or on keeping her from exploding?” Arcueid asked.

“WHAT?!” came from both Aozakis, whipping their heads to stare at their lost member.

Garbed in some strange gown studded with gems, Ciel was sweating heavily, her veins ablaze with pale green light of an almost blinding radiance. Lightning of the same colour arced along her skin frequently, causing her limbs to spasm violently in its wake. The gems on her dress were alight, too, each with their individual colours, those hues pulsing in a rhythm that Shiki realised was in sync with Ciel’s heartbeat.

“Ciel’s so overloaded with power that she’s going to explode,” Arcueid repeated. “Should I try to stop it, or - ?”

“YES!” Takara cried, wondering why the vampire even needed to ask.

“Are you sure? I can’t make him vulnerable if I’m busy trying to contain her.” Arcueid’s expression was grave. “And Shiki did use the word ‘indestructible,’ in describing him just now.”

Takara winced. What a choice . . .

“What happens . . . “ she asked softly, “ . . . What happens if we - let Mother die?” Not because she wanted to know, but because she had to.

“I estimate a 98.43 percent probability that the resulting blast will destroy everyone here,” Sion answered, proving that she had better hearing than anyone had thought. “With a 71 percent probability that our enemy will survive.” Her eyes narrowed. “He has proven remarkably - resilient in the past.”

“Well, I could protect myself . . .” Arcueid murmured, though she sounded not quite certain. “I’d probably lose Shiki, though.”

“Can you help us fight him, and then turn to Ciel?” Shiki asked Arcueid.

“Maybe . . .” Arcueid said. “But it’s risky. Her energy level and containment abilities are fluctuating wildly - she might blow up before we can finish him off - and depending on how much power this takes, I might not have enough left to do her any good even if she can hang on that long.”

The choices hung before them: focus on Faust, and risk the death of Ciel, and themselves, even if they won - or allow Arcueid to aid Ciel, and risk being totally annihilated by something they couldn’t hope to stop.

“I do so love ‘win-win’ situations,” Faust remarked idly. “So, what will you decide to do? Time is not your ally in this - whereas I, ultimately, have all but eternity.”

Takara felt a sudden flare of warmth on her right hand, and realised that her Servant had entered combat. Against a foe that was all too likely to tear through his illusions and rip his frail, true form to pieces - yet he was still willing to try.

“Help my mother,” Takara instructed, hand going to the hilt of her sword.

Arcueid arched an eyebrow. “You’re sure?”

The touch of the hilt, and the demonic energy contained within it, triggered her Nanaya state, and the silver-eyed huntress gazed dispassionately back at the White Princess.

“Keep her alive,” she responded, “I will kill him.”

Faust laughed, drawing all eyes back to him. “You will, will you? Arrogant wench - I have made a contract with the very devil! Your power is as nothing compared to that which I have been granted! You cannot touch me, and destroying you all will be as nothing to me!”

Saber sprang forward to prove him wrong, sword swinging - and cutting through him as though Faust was made of air.

“If that is the best you can do,” the dark wizard advised, “I would suggest standing still so that I may eliminate you all at once. It’s more efficient that way.”

His attack was little more than a pressure wave, a condensed sonic boom - but it sent Saber flying back. Undeterred, the knight twisted in mid-air to land easily on her feet. Undaunted, she dashed forward again, this time darted from side to side, culminating in a forward roll that carried over into an upward slash, with all Saber’s power, momentum, and weight behind it. Rin provided cover fire as best she could (difficult, given the speed and timing she had to use in order to not hit Saber), but once again, the assaults had no effect. Even the ones that seemed to catch Faust by surprise - such as Saber’s final blow - were no more than momentarily disabling. Faust’s bisected form flowed back together as though made of water.

If he seemed immune to their attacks, however, the opposite was sadly not true. He retaliated with a barrage of lightning bolts that forced the assembled forces to scatter with all the speed and agility they possessed.

This, they all realised, was going to be difficult, if not impossible.

Just the same, each of them gamely moved forward, to do their best.






Altrouge Brunestud sat before the old mage, sipping delicately at the liquid in her teacup. “Can they win?” she asked him, her eyes not leaving the camera obscura through which they watched the battle.

Zelretch’s crimson eyes seemed momentarily faceted, the light inside them sparkling as though caught in red diamonds, as they focussed on something few others might see.

“It’s possible, though Arcueid’s absence makes it much more difficult.”

“Then should you not act to ensure it? Faust, left unchecked, would be quite dangerous.”

The old wizard scowled. “You always assume I can fix everything - all of you. For the last time, my magic deals only in what might be, not in what will. I don’t control the light which shines through the gem - I can only turn the gem to see what the light looks like through a particular facet. It won’t alter the effects of the light when it shines through the facet I was looking at before.” He sighed. “What will happen here, will happen. I can’t change that, without interfering directly - and giving others license to do the same.”

Zelretch glared at the girl. “Why not act yourself, if you’re so concerned?”

Altrouge smiled slightly. “I am bound, as well, by the terms of my contract. I may not intervene against Faust directly unless he threatens my existence. I did what I was able to by stirring my sister’s blood within her two mortal servants, that they would call to Arcueid when they needed her - and allowing that ridiculous ‘spell’ to penetrate the Millennium Castle, to bring them to her.”

Zelretch shrugged. “Then we seem to have no choice. The rest is the province of Fate.”






Sion moved with purpose and no small amount of anger. Here, after centuries, was the shame of her bloodline - and she had a chance to redeem, in some small way, the destruction he’d caused. She didn’t know if she could succeed against him, but she was determined not to fail. She hurled her Etherlite, as many strands as she could generate, from as many angles as possible. She sought to entrap him in a web that would bare his heart to her, reveal any weaknesses he might have.

Her throws were good - however powerful he might be magically, Faust lacked the physical conditioning she had, and the Etherlite virtually cocooned him for a moment. Sion probed with her consciousness, divining as only she could, and encountered -

Nothing. There weren’t even any mental defences, as she’d expected. It was as though he simply did not exist. For a brief moment, Sion froze in surprise.

Shadowy tendrils, seeming a perverted reflection of her Etherlite, shredded her constructs and lashed out at Sion. She barely had time to blink -

A heavy form slammed into her, growling furiously as she felt one of the shadow-lances pierce her leg. The smell of blood reached her nostrils, and a dampness spread across her chest. Both she and the missile that had struck her hit the ground with a thud, and Sion’s eyes regained their focus to see Shiki Aozaki, bleeding from his chest, gold-ringed eyes burning blue with rage.

“It has - no lines . . . How do I - kill . . .?” he croaked.

Blood bubbled up from the wounds on his chest, even as it spread outward. Sion had several concoctions in her possession for healing, but nothing to deal with so many serious wounds.

“Tohsaka-san! Aozaki-san needs you!”

Saber suddenly poured on the attack, her holy sword a gleaming blur as she tried valiantly to tangibly hurt the wizard. Rin used the respite to fall back and concentrate on the wounded Aozaki.

“He’s stubborn, and a good healer,” the Tohsaka sorceress murmured. “This shouldn’t take long. Cover me, and help Saber!”

Sion did not reply, but kicked out and up with her good leg until she was standing, unlimbering the Seventh Holy Scripture as she rose. She knew something of the Church’s conceptual weapons, and suspected that if anything could do a phenomenon like Faust harm, this would be it.

With a thunder like horses’ hooves, the mighty weapon launched its payload. The silvery lance shot through the air like a torpedo, and Saber, with her natural reflexes, managed to conceal the speed and angle of its approach with her body, dodging at the very last instant. Caught unprepared, Faust took the hit squarely in the chest, its length impaling him fully through the spine, though the shot was too centralised to have hit the heart. He flew backward.

For a moment, combat stilled, as everyone hoped for its end . . . But Faust rose, clutching the balcony for support, and wrenched the horn from his body with savage hatred.

“Clever,” he admitted. “That was quite painful - and I suspect that were I any weaker, my guise as ‘Faust’ would not be long for this world. However, even such a weapon is not enough to destroy me. You have lost, children. In moments, I will have the Grail - and then, power beyond imagining.”






Nanaya’s lips were pressed together so tightly they were practically bloodless, as she watched the wizard’s next assault throw Saber the length of the room. The Servant landed, embedded in the wall behind them, before falling ten feet to the ground. Her father down, her mother in pain - all others either useless or helpless. None of them could kill this thing.

And neither could she, it seemed - it had no lines to cut, no substance to tear. It was like battling a dream . . . The part of her that identified itself as Takara Aozaki thought fleetingly of Avenger, and his power, which he’d called “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

Nanaya snorted in mental agreement. This thing was almost exactly like him, with the heart of him long gone from the entity that answered to his name. Nothing left of him for her to kill . . .

She paused, struck by the revelation of what her subconscious was trying to tell her. Faust was what he was because he’d been transformed by a contract. Originally, he’d been something - someone - else entirely. And according to Avenger, he would be that person again, in another millennium. The two entities were still connected on some level - distantly, obscurely, and perhaps even undetectably - but like Avenger and his Lancer persona, one was created from and by the other. Did they share the same vulnerability? Could she end the dream by slaying the dreamer?

There was one way to find out.

Nanaya readied her blade, fusing the clarity of her natural state with the focus Takara Aozaki had honed through years of martial arts training, willing the sight that had been her father’s gift to find what she needed to kill: a man named Zelas Atlasiam Oberon. Her eyes blazed with silver light as she probed, using the skills she might have to gauge an opponent and the unique nature of her eyes. She saw life, even in things that had no true life, and the full nature of what existence they held, be it human, demon-tainted, or magic-spawned. With that ability, she sought the existence of an alchemist she’d never met, who had lived long before her birth, and would live again long after her death.

It was harder than anything she’d ever done in her life. Her head pounded, blood roared in her ears, and her eyes throbbed with the effort. A warm trickle ran down her upper lip, but still she didn’t stop. Takara Aozaki would not give up after coming so far, not with so much depending on this.

Still, it was the Nanaya blood in her that gave her the strength to lift her arms when the ghostly image of an elderly man flickered into view. Was he a hallucination, or what she’d sought? She didn’t know, but only had the strength to do this once. Illusion or truth, she had no choice but to take the chance. Fighting spirit, backed by inborn demon hunting prowess, swung the blade in a lethal arc.

Unknown to either Takara or her Nanaya self, the demonic blade she wielded had been forged by the Touzaki family. Long subservient to the Tohno clan, this bloodline was renowned for their ability to create hazan-ken, or “swords that cut through mountains.” The sword she held was one, and it reacted to the intrusion of her naturally anti-demonic energy by unleashing its full force, shattering the weapon as it completed the attack.

Air pressure roared forth, splitting both floor and ceiling violently in twain, creating a chasm six feet in diameter. Ciel was caught in the blast, and by all rights should have been destroyed where she hung, but the power of five Servants was contained within her, and cocooned by Arcueid’s power, her body instinctively drew on that vast reserve to hold herself together, as it had once revived her before. She fell to the rubble of the floor, however, with the crucifix that held her suspended obliterated. The balcony exploded, and the wave of force continued on, all but destroying the outer wall of the tower.

And when the dust cleared, Faust still stood, his hair stirring slightly in the dissipating wind, but unharmed.

Until he went pale. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!”

Takara slumped to the ground, bone-weary. “I killed the source of your power - Zelas Atlasium Oberon.”

Faust stared, before assuming an angry sneer. “Stupid child - so what? I am still a phenomenon, untouchable by your weapons, and the Grail will soon grant me all the power I could ever require! You have gained a minor victory, perhaps, but it is pitiful, indeed! It is next to nothing - !”

Nanaya Shiki was suddenly there,*behind Faust, his knife a silver flare as it plunged deep into the core of the wizard, who immediately began to dissolve.

“No. It was just enough,” the assassin corrected.






Ciel convulsed again, not feeling the cold floor beneath her, or the presence of the others, but feeling the Servant Who Was Not dissolve, and the weakening of the one who would make her - it - complete. She drifted in a sea of sound, fragments of conversation, her ears hearing but mind uncomprehending of it all.

“ - Running out - ”

“ - Don’t know - ”

“ - can we -“

”Ciel . . .” That was Shiki. Shiki was -

Pain shot through her, blinding her to the outside world again. There was only the fire inside her, eager to consume, to explode, in all its glory.

Then, distantly, she heard a voice, a voice that reached through her with crimson hands to reach the failing one. To support him, strengthen him, and pull him away from her, to the source of the voice.

Takara’s voice, crying in desperate need.

“AVENGER! COME TO ME!”

[Kieran]

DISCLAIMER: Lunar Legend Tsukihime, Fate/Stay Night, and all related characters and concepts are the creation and property of Kinoko Nasu and Type-Moon. No monies are generated, or intended to be, from this unauthorised use of said properties.




Chapter 31






Zelretch gazed away from events, remarking, “And so it is done. Faust is destroyed.” He glanced curiously at his companion. “I confess, I don’t understand the reasoning behind your actions in this. Why send the dreams?”

“Because had Faust gained the Third Magic, he would have been able to circumvent our contract,” Altrouge replied. “More, he would have eventually become a threat. So I acted against him indirectly - using my sister and her knights.”

“And my apprentice,” Zelretch pointed out, “among others. Nonetheless, your actions have bolstered Arcueid’s position considerably, restoring a powerful servant to her, and adding another to her hand. Why would you seek to do that?”

“The relationship between Arcueid and myself is ultimately between us, Grandfather,” the Dead Apostle replied, skilfully avoiding the question. She tilted her head. “So . . . How do things progress from this point?”

Zelretch didn’t comment on the change of subject, merely gesturing to his crystal once more.






Avenger had just one question.

“How the hell did this happen?”

After fighting Berserker, he’d been awaiting oblivion. He’d earned it, after all - his energies had been extinguished, or nearly so, and he’d defeated the force he believed he’d been brought forth solely to counter. The Grail system should have had no more need of him. So why, pray tell, was he still around to battle, of all remaining Servants, Saber?

Rin answered, “Because your Mistress wasn’t thinking. If she’d just let you fade, we could’ve simply summoned the Grail and finished this. Now Ciel-san will keep suffering.”

Takara turned crimson, but said nothing, her eyes straying to where her mother lay writhing on the ground, dangerously incandescent, as the elder Aozaki woman tried desperately to contain the raging energies of the Grail. She hadn’t meant to prolong it, but she’d thought Avenger might have an idea of what to do to help, and used her Master abilities to summon and restore him.

“From what you’ve said, summoning the Grail will kill her,” Shiki returned. “If Avenger-san has a better suggestion, I want to hear it.”

Arcueid’s golden eyes flashed in response to a sudden surge from Ciel. “Whatever you decide to do, do it quickly - I can’t hold her in check for more than fifteen minutes longer, and then we all die.”

Avenger glanced at the True Ancestor in surprise, amazed that he’d somehow missed her, then nodded. He swept the room with his gaze, absorbing details.

Most of them looked exhausted. Sion was on the floor clutching a bloody leg, propped up against the extreme length of the restored Scripture. Shiki was favouring his left side, Caster was nowhere in sight, and Rin herself was leaning against the wall. Only Takara seemed unhurt - but he could sense her mana reserves, and they were, for the first time in his memory, running low. However they’d defeated Faust, it had taken a lot out of all of them. Only Saber seemed relatively unscathed - and he couldn’t say how much of that was pretense.

The room they all stood was essentially a large box, opening at one end onto a much vaster area which was circular in shape - an upper ring overlooking what seemed to be some kind of arena - or perhaps a staging area. Someplace to view rituals, or exert control over dangerous events (and creatures) from a safe distance. The floor at the bottom looked to be several dozen, or perhaps several hundred feet down - but he’d never been good at judging heights.

The tower room was empty. No sights or sounds stirred in its depths. No mystical relics or tomes sat nearby to offer guidance or an easy way out. This was a king’s throne room, and private box, not a wizard’s laboratory. There wasn’t anything he could even try to use his Phantasm on, to fake a solution. Takara’s faith and Shiki’s hopes aside, he was all out of miracles by now. If Arcueid couldn’t stop what was coming, he sure as hell had no chance to. But maybe the other blonde?

“What about Avalon?” he asked Saber. The Phantasm was supposed to safely seal away whatever was inside it, wasn’t it?

“Perhaps, but I do not have the scabbard,” she answered, seemingly unsurprised that he even knew its name. Or maybe she was - like he found most people, Saber was almost impossible to read.

Avenger sighed. He’d half-expected that. There was never an easy way out. That left only one way he could think of to keep Ciel from self-destructing.

“Then we have to complete the ritual,” he said heavily.

“WHAT?!” came several cries at once.

“The energy in Ciel has to go somewhere. Either we keep it bottled up until it finally explodes - or we open the path it’s supposed to take, and give it to the Grail.”

“That will kill Ciel!” Shiki snapped.

“And not doing it, I keep hearing, will kill all*of us, her included,” Avenger snapped right back. “I have faith in the strength of Ciel’s magic - she came back from the dead when all she wanted was to die. I have less faith in our ability to survive an eruption that Arcueid Brunestud says she can’t contain.” His eyes were narrowed, but his tone of voice was weary, not angry. “Do you think Ciel would want to wake up surrounded by her dead - again? Do you think she could survive seeing the bodies of her husband and child - assuming the explosion leaves anything at all behind for her to mourn?”

Shiki was silent.

“Give her power to the Grail, and pray there’s enough left for her,” Avenger said. “Or use the Grail to revive her. It’s the only choice left.”

“Twelve minutes,” Arcueid warned.

“There is no time to explore alternatives,” Saber agreed. Motes of light swirled around her, flaring to leave her blue-gowned form garbed in its customary battle armour. There was an almost gentle tone in her next words. “I am ready to complete our duel, Avenger.”

His answering smile was almost good-natured. “We never did finish it, did we? Just you and I?”

Saber nodded, “I agree. Anything else would be wastefully redundant.”

Takara stirred from her stillness, one hand dropping to the hilt of her blade. Weary as she was, she’d seen no way to stop or counter the argument between her Servant and her father, and she could think of no better plan. As before, the Grail seemed their only hope, and she prepared herself to fight for it.

“Not this time, Milady,” her Servant said quietly, and she jumped.

“What?” she demanded. “What do you mean, ‘not this time?’”

“I mean that you’re exhausted from fighting Faust, maybe more than you realise, and that if you enter the fight, Rin can, too. I can’t protect you from both her and Saber.”

“I don’t need your protection!”

“Can you kill her?” he asked gravely. “Either of them, with what you’ve been through together? Can you kill them, for no other reason than that they’re in your way, or to save your own life?”

Takara bit her lip. Put that way . . .

“. . . I don’t think I could kill Rin,” she said. “But Saber won’t die, will she? She’ll just return to the Grail - like you.”

“All the more reason for Saber and I to battle it out alone,” Avenger said. “Neither of us has anything to risk, and it’s the reason we were summoned in the first place. We battle because our lives hold the resonance to empower the Grail, but also so that our Masters don’t risk their own lives.”

“But you can’t beat her!” Takara protested. “She knows about you! Going against her alone is suicide! It’s my fight, too, and you promised to let me carry my own weight!”

“I did, and you did. You fought and killed an enemy I could never have defeated. You’ve done your share, and more, I think. Now let me do my own.”

“But why won’t you let me help you?” she insisted. “Why just throw your life away like this?” Avenger suddenly stepped closer, placing his finger on her lips, and it startled her into silence, both because he was being so bold, and because she couldn’t remember him ever touching her of his own free will. He was so warm . . .

“Do you remember the contract we made?” he asked softly. “I said I would fight for the Grail, in your name. ‘I will serve thy cause, on my honour, until the end.’ The end is here, at last, and it’s time for me to live up to my end of the oath, Takara. It may be impossible, it may be suicidal, but I’ll try anyway, because giving up without a fight is just not in my nature, nor is it in Saber’s. She understands that, and so do I. As to why I choose to fight alone, and not endanger you . . .?”

His voice dropped so low she could hear him only by straining, and only she would hear him. His finger dropped as well, to gently trace her the line of her jaw.

“I’ll keep my promise to you, because I said I would - and because I love you.”

Time seemed to stop, as she struggled to process words she had never heard from a man who was not a member of her family - and had never expected to hear from him. She paused, trying to understand the meaning of the sensations they aroused in her, as did the surprisingly gentle touch on her face. Had she been more a warrior, she might have been able to ignore them, to act to stop him - but in the end, she was a young woman, after all.

Avenger reached the tip of her chin. “Goodbye.”

He whirled away from her, crossing to the observation balcony. As he passed through the shadows, he seemed to draw them along with him, as they enshrouded his form like a second skin, and stretched to form the familiar confines of his duster, as much armour in its way as Saber’s. With no discernable pause, he leaped from the edge, the tail end of the jacket flared behind him like hell-spawned wings. Despite the depth of the fall, he landed without effort or sound, and in similar silence, twin guns slid from the confines of his sleeves, one silvery, stainless steel, the other a dead, matte black. With audible clicks that echoed throughout the arena, their safety catches disengaged, but he made no effort to raise his weapons to a ready position, settling instead into a waiting pose.

His expression seemed remarkably pleasant and good-humoured, but the call that left his lips seemed to steal it all the emotion for its own use, leaving him still, and blank, and empty of anything but the readiness for battle, and whatever it might bring.

“Lady Arturia, I await your pleasure.”






Saber landed just as soundlessly as her opponent had, holding her unseen blade in a guard position, alert to the slightest movement - or hint of it - in her opponent. Takara Aozaki had spoken the truth, for she did know this youth well. She knew that his strength lay in his wits rather than his arms, and that he wielded deception more keenly than any sword or spell. She knew the weapons he wielded - she’d seen one of their kind used to lethal effect two Wars ago. They killed from a distance, as an arrow, but more brutally, and so swiftly that no man would see the missile that struck him down. The weapons were an almost elegant way to address his shortcomings, and well chosen. No less than she’d expected from him. After all, she had walked the Avenger’s road with him to reach this tower, this point in time.

Takara Aozaki had the right of it - Saber knew exactly who and what she faced. And because of that, she gave him a moment to centre himself, to make his peace . . . Before she killed him.






I try to call the fire - to use my rage, as I always have, to destroy the obstacles in my path. For the first time, it does not come. Only a small warmth fills me, enough that the twin weights of Thalia and Melpomene do not seem so heavy - though they’re not as light as they were. These are weapons of vengeance, and there is none to be had here.

There is nothing to be had here, save my death. Oh, I will try, but Takara is right - Saber knows me, and without my anger, I could not hope to match her will, much less master it. And while I might forget this when she strikes me, Saber does not deserve it. We discussed this - she swore to help the Aozakis, should she win the Grail, for she has nothing but time. If she does not win the Grail now, she can do so later. Shiki - and Ciel - have only one lifetime to them. She will not abandon them.

No matter what happens now, I’ve won. I defeated Berserker. I have done all I can to fulfill my promise to Takara. I’ve told her I love her - and I do, insomuch as I can feel an emotion I don’t think I’ve ever experienced, and can’t truly understand. Nonetheless, if I am capable of feeling love, it’s hers to take. Expecting that she could feel the same for me is more than I can rightfully expect, and I won’t place that burden on her.

I have accomplished everything I wanted to do, and gained more besides - the memories of soft lips and a sharp tongue, eyes like a summer sky which gleam with keen intelligence, and callused but gentle hands, that I will carry back to my grave. I wonder, is this what it is to feel at peace?

The fire is gone, but what it tempered is still here. I will do all I can, because I still can - and until I do, my word is still unfulfilled.

Sing to me, O Muses, and let’s bring the curtain down on this drama, once and for all!






Restrained by her father and Tohsaka-san, Takara watched the battle unfold. Both of her did. Through Nanaya’s eyes, she saw Saber dart forward at a speed only Nanaya might have matched, and watched as Avenger’s wrists snapped up to fire a barrage that forced the knight to check herself in mid-charge and roll to one side, even as Avenger seemed to slide in the opposite direction, keeping the same amount of distance between the two of them. She observed Avenger leap high into the air, to dive down, still firing, as Saber attempted to leap up and past the shooter and impale him on her sword, only to have the man twist in mid-air and evade the blade that Takara could not quite see.

Takara knew that what Avenger was doing was mimicking the Gunslinger and Trickster styles in a classic video game called Devil May Cry 3: Dante’s Awakening. Nanaya could see for herself that Avenger was managing to equal Saber’s physical attributes to keep the battle on an even level. What neither side of the girl could do was answer a simple question.

How is he doing this? Nanaya demanded, though her whispered voice seemed quieter than before. Avenger had been right - she was exhausted.

Takara didn’t respond. She fixated on her Servant, instead, hoping to discern the answer for herself.

Avenger was doing well at maintaining a barrage to keep Saber at bay, firing both weapons with remarkable speed. The knight was forced to expend her energy to dodge or block the shots - and she could - but it served the purpose of not allowing her to close with him. His hands wove in a wild, almost crazed series of movements, varying the targets of his shots so as to pin her range of movement. He was countering Saber’s superior skill with unpredictability, not intending to allow her a chance to try and escape.

Still, Saber did not seem worried. Deep in concentration, yes, but not worried. Perhaps it was simply because none of Avenger’s shots had so much as grazed her yet.

Is she that good? Takara asked her other self, who combined Takara’s own skill with a series of instincts she did not possess. He’s fired dozens of shots! She’s fast, but to dodge that many bullets?

Nanaya was silent.

Shiki’s Nanaya side, however, had a comment for him.

If I were going to lay a trap, I’d do it . . .

Saber dropped to her knees.

Now!

Fast as he seemed to be, Avenger didn’t register Saber’s true intent until it was too late. He saw her move, instinctively leaped right to avoid it - and slammed shoulder first into the wall he’d forgotten to account for. The shock of the impact made him drop the stainless steel gun, even as her wind blade sliced into his legs. His second gun dropped, and Saber leaped, her revealed sword swinging back to deliver the final stroke . . .

As his right hand pushed Melpomene up, to fire one last, wild desperate shot.

It was a one in a thousand shot, the kind only true, pure luck - or maybe destiny - could account for. Saber’s left shoulder guard exploded under the impact of the Glaser safety slug, and the knight buckled in mid-air. But if the shot had been one in a thousand, Saber was one in a million, and without more than a heartbeat’s pause, she’d shifted her two-handed grip to throw her sword with her right hand, like a spear - and impaling the other Servant where he lay.

Takara gasped.

He was always going to die, Nanaya reminded her. He was always dead. But this time, it wasn’t because he wanted to die . . . Je was just prepared to die. She sounded almost . . . wistful?

Takara drove that puzzle from her mind, as she strained to hear the murmurs coming from below.






Lightning flares through his chest, leaving a deepening chill in his wake. The wound is fatal, but he is not quite dead. He has time enough to try to raise his gun, to shoot before he disintegrates fully.

He lets it fall from his nerveless hand instead. Staring at Saber’s injured shoulder, knowing that he’d prevented her from achieving a flawless victory, he was content to fall . . . If he could only learn . . .

“How . . .?” He forces the question out, extinguishing nearly all the air left in his damaged lungs. “You - know . . .”

Her eyes are darkly serious, and he forces himself to concentrate on them, to hold on until he can hear her answer,

“I know that you are not an Epic Spirit,” Saber agrees. “However, I believe that for what you have tried to accomplish, what you have chosen to do, and why - you are a hero.”

And as he knew it would, her will overrode his own, but to banish his doubts instead of confirming them, allowing his Noble Phantasm to give him a fighting chance. It’s the finest compliment he’s ever received, and even if he was capable of answering it, he could not. But it does not matter, for life is nearly gone, and the world is darkening. The last thing he hears is Saber’s voice.

“Rest now, warrior. I will finish the task you have begun.”

The rest is silence.






Saber watched Avenger’s life flicker out, literally, dissolving into motes of light that flew upward to where Ciel waited to receive them, and fulfill the purpose of the War. Left behind was a transparent version of the Servant, his true soul - but with the shell that contained it removed, that thinned away like morning mist, vanishing back to whatever fate awaited it in the place it had been called from.

Saber stood, retrieving her sword. The War was over, the Grail won. All that remained was to make her wish - and decide the path of the legacy that wish would leave behind.





Worst Ending - “The Circle Closes”


Two years later:






The cemetery was silent, this late at night. The night watchmen who were supposed to be on duty would go to their own graves never knowing what had passed them by, close enough to touch. And so long as things went according to plan, they would not begin that journey tonight.

She didn’t believe that everything would. She planned, she hoped, she covered every contingency she could think of, but in the end, she had all the reminders she ever needed that no one was perfect, that people could be wrong.

Gently, Takara washed the tombstone, and burned the incense. Her final act, before looking up, was to leave an offering - something non-traditional, but something she hoped would be appreciated, nonetheless.

As the petals of the blue rose touched the ground, she read the inscription again.

CIEL AOZAKI
1976 - 2018
“Beloved wife and mother”

Avenger might have been knowledgeable, and even clever, but he was not omniscient. The Grail had taken all her mother’s magical power, as true sacrifices did, and was unwilling to restore it, even as a wish. They had saved the world, perhaps, but not her family.

Tohsaka-san and Atlasia-san had gone back to their respective agencies, with varying degrees of sympathy. Saber and Avenger had vanished into the ether, as spirits did. Her father was as sick as ever - though this time, it was his heart that was dying. Arcueid had healed his body, and continued to sustain it, even now . . .

She raised herself to her feet. He was close.

When Arcueid had taken her father, Takara had determined not to let it stand. Hisui clung to her as the last remaining link to anything she’d known, but the Aozaki girl had denied herself the luxury of madness, focussing instead on not losing both her parents. Her aunts’ money and connections had brought her into contact with the organisation, and they were willing enough to help, for the right price. And with the completion of a few tests.

This was the last one. If she could deal with this creature, they said, they’d judge her as worthy, and spend as much of their resources as was necessary to help her hunt for the White Princess, and her new Black Knight. Upon reading his history, Takara had silently admitted to herself that she might have killed him for nothing. He, if anyone, was fully deserving of her wrath.

A wind sprang up, following the shift of her hair from brown to blue as it ran along the length of her tresses. The cemetery seemed bathed in a crimson light to her silver eyes, a testament to the full power of the monster’s aura. She smiled as blue-white light crackled in her hands, forming a pair of black-hilted, silver-bladed short swords. Testing herself against someone this strong would be fun.

“Kouma Kishima,” she called to him, “now you die.”

And the Executioner-in-training leapt.


End Theme: “In the End” (Linkin Park)








Bad Ending - “If We Spirits Have Offended . . .”


A week later:






Takara became aware, gradually, of gray light seeping into her darkened vision. There was rather a lot of it. Eventually it came to her that the only reason that the light was gray was because her eyes were shut, and she opened them.

The light became a pale blue - sunlight against her curtains. She was curled up in her bed, as she ought to be at . . . A quarter to six? Why on earth was she up at this hour?!

Her dream had woken her, she realised. She’d been dreaming about . . . What? When Father got sick. Yes. He’d been ill for a while, with some kind of cancer, the doctors thought, and then it had gone into remission. The night with the Tohnos had been part of the dream - finding out she was some kind of naturally born demon hunter hadn’t sat well with her, so nightmares about that weren’t uncommon.

But it hadn’t been that sort of dream, had it? There had been all sorts of people she’d never met - a striking brunette in red, a blonde in Western armour, and another blonde like the painting her father had made. The dream had been about some other fight, against some dark person, and she’d had help . . . Hadn’t she? There had been someone . . .

She strained her thoughts, but couldn’t conjure up the appropriate image. In fact, the whole thing got hazier the harder she tried. Finally, she gave up, shrugging. It couldn’t have been that important. It was only a dream, after all.

It was awfully silly to feel sad . . . Wasn’t it?






Rin stood outside the house, shaking her head in wonder. “I knew you didn’t want her to feel bad about your loss, but going so far as to erase the War?” She sighed, wasting only a little breath on cursing arrogant young fools with overinflated opinions of their own importance, who underrated the emotional strength of Japanese maidens.

Next time, she’d grant her own wish.



End Theme: “Imaginary” (Evanescence)








Normal Ending - “The Never-Ending Battle”



Fifty years later:





Saber gazed at the warlord before her. Pointed directly at her was an arrow, aimed precisely for her heart.

“If you do not surrender, or attempt to attack me,” the Servant informed her, “I shall slay the girl behind you. Do not think she can survive. No human can withstand one of my Black Arrows.”

Saber considered the problem inwardly. It all came down to speed. Could the Archer fire off an arrow faster than she could intercept it, or than her Master could dodge? It was possible. The latter was more possible than the former, and if her Master died, Saber was as good as lost. Still, she might be able to dodge - and slay - the Servant . . . But the arrow might still hit her Master, even if she dodged. She needed another way . . .

The night wind gently caressed her hair, stronger in this confined alley than it would have been elsewhere. And suddenly, Saber felt much calmer, found the decision much easier to make.

“So?” Archer demanded. “What will you do? Do you choose to be the cause of your Master’s death - or die with honour, protecting her?”

Saber said quietly but clearly, “Protect her.” The knight dropped to one knee - and then lunged forward with lightning speed.

With less than an instant’s hesitation, the Archer fired his arrow, then mounted another one to target Saber - but a sudden eruption of thunder distracted him long enough for Saber to impale him on her blade.

As the Servant dissolved in front of Saber, she considered that deflecting a speeding arrow in mid-flight with a bullet was probably close to impossible . . . But then, he’d always been very good at that.

“It’s been a while, Saber. . . You knew it was me?”

“Yes,” Saber replied, not specifying to which statement she was responding. “The wind carried the sound of your weapons being cocked - and since no human could’ve entered the alley without my hearing it, and I sensed no Servants nearby other than the Archer, who else might it have been?”

“An Assassin type,” he pointed out. “Or even another mage - they’re human, but . . . You gambled big-time, Saber.”

“Yes.” She turned to face Avenger, pleased to find him unchanged. “But I prefer to think of it as having faith in those I’ve fought beside.”

“And a Master who’d rather not see his twin sister harmed,” he smirked, which gradually became a smile. “In any case, I owed you - they all survived, I checked.”

“And now?”

“And now, it looks like it makes sense to be allies again. Neither my Master nor myself has any particular desire for the Grail, so this time it’s all yours, Saber.” Avenger grinned. “It’s my turn to make your wish come true.”



End Theme: “Princes of the Universe” (Queen)








Good Ending - “As One Door Closes . . .”


Six months later:






Six months. Not a long time, really, but enough time for a great many things to happen. Enough to enter a new school year, to train harder than ever before in kendo, and to learn more than she’d ever dreamed about the magic of the world. Enough to bring on a New Year - and a long holiday in which she could finally do as she’d wanted.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Ciel asked. Worry shaded her mother’s eyes, and a little sadness, as well.

“Maybe not,” Takara admitted. “But I think it’s something I have to do. He told me he loved me, Mother.”

“And do you love him?” her father asked. “Is that the reason you’re willing to leave everything behind?”

“I don’t know that I can say that I love him,” Takara admitted. “But as a girl, I owe his feelings an answer. And as his Master, I owe it to him to see that he’s all right.”

And the time she spent away would give her aunts a chance to lay false trails, to give those who would hunt her other things to chase, away from those she cared for. After all, she couldn’t be detected anywhere on Earth if she wasn’t on this one.

Rin handed her the device, a golden compass embedded with gemstones. “It’s attuned to his soul, and will try to take you as close to him as it can - but depending on how many worlds are between you, it may take several trips.” She pointed. “The calendar here is set to our world - time can run differently between dimensions.” She looked very closely at the girl who’d been her student in sorcery for the last half year. “Good luck.”

“I’ll be careful.” She looked at the assembled crowd. “Godmother didn’t come?” she asked quietly.

A flash of irritation crossed Ciel’s face as their latest live-in boarder was mentioned. Shiki merely answered. “She sends her best - but she’s busying helping your aunts hide your trail.” He paused. “You will come back? Soon?”

Takara smiled. “Of course, Father. If nothing else, I want to meet my new family.” Ciel smiled back, and her hand went involuntarily to her stomach. To the joy of both her parents, the Grail had healed all the damage Ciel had taken when it revived her.

Takara cast a glance at the much larger Hisui, hanging back as usual, and added firmly, “All*of them.” Why the maid insisted on pretending that she was simply a servant was beyond the teen’s understanding. While she didn’t approve of Hisui’s methods of gaining entrance to the family, the maid was there, nonetheless. She had learned to accept it - eventually - so why couldn’t Hisui?

Takara took a deep breath. “I think I’m ready.”

Her parents embraced her, one last time, before stepping away.

“Be careful,” Shiki admonished.

“We love you,” Ciel finished.

“I love you, too - and if I can’t find him soon, I’ll come back,” Takara assured them. She then closed her eyes and concentrated, opening her magic circuits as her Master Rin had taught her, sending energy to the device that Rin’s Master had made.

In a prismatic shower of light, Takara Aozaki, also known as The Undying Magi Miss White, User of the Third Magic, vanished.



End Theme: “Somewhere Out There” (Barbra Streisand), or “Reason” (Nami Tamaki)








Best Ending - “Tomorrow’s Legacy”



One year later:





Takara walked into the dojo, and saw no one. She sighed. It was nice of the kendo team - at this school, all male - to let her use the place, but she was getting tired of reminding them that cleaning the area was not her sole responsibility. Now she’d be late getting home again!

Sighing again, she considered just going home and practising outdoors. It wasn’t as though she wasn’t needed at home. With a baby brother and two new half-sisters, her mother and Hisui had all they could handle - and given her mother’s “reluctance” to let Arcueid help, it often fell to Takara, instead. Not that her father was shirking responsibility, but Kohaku, in particular, seemed to respond better to being held by someone female. In contrast, little Aki seemed more than happy to let Daddy change her diaper, and so forth. If Takara didn’t know better, she’d swear the baby knew who’d named her.

On the other hand, if she ditched, the kendo team might use it as an excuse to yank her right to use the space at all.

With a third and final sigh, she went to work.

Cleaning the floors was the most time-consuming chore, especially since it was done in the traditional fashion, so she started that first. After a good twenty minutes of pushing the brush along the floor on what amounted to her hands and knees, Takara paused to catch her breath, and felt a shadow fall over her.

Hoping it was at least the kendo team captain, who seemed the most friendly (and not likely to let the others get away with stuff like this, when he was told about it), she said simply, “You’re late.”

The shadow on the floor shrugged, and said apologetically, “Sorry, I couldn’t qualify for the program last year.”

Takara blinked. While definitely a male voice, it hadn’t been the one she expected. And it sounded sort of familiar . . . She turned, rising to confront the intruder.

He was taller than her by at least a head, definitely her own age, and was neither painfully gaunt nor incredibly muscular. His hair, too, matched hers, a dark chestnut that was the result of blending light chestnut with midnight black. Gold flecks sparkled with amusement in his blue-green eyes, as she took in all this, and the fact that while he was undeniably Caucasian, he was wearing her own school’s uniform.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

“Attending school, and looking up an old friend,” he replied, in Japanese that was accented but understandable. “So to speak.” He grinned.

She glared at him. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”

“How about, the Grail had enough power for more than one wish?” he offered, before turning serious. “Your parents are all right, aren’t they?”

“Aside from dealing with a live-in vampire, a live-in maid, and three new babies? Yes, they’re fine,” Takara assured him.

“I see your father is definitely feeling better,” he murmured, and then paused, blushing. “Unless. . .”

She hit him. He didn’t quite fall, but it was close. “No, none of them are mine! How could you even think of that?!”

“With a naturally cynical bent and a healthy understanding of the modern world,” he answered. “But I do apologise, it was highly unworthy of you, and I’m sorry. And I think it’s time I introduced myself: my name is Geoffrey, and I’ll be attending this school for the rest of the year. You can call me Geoff, if that’s easier.”

Takara lowered her head, shielding her eyes with her bangs. “I’m not the only one you need to apologise to, Geoffrey-san. After all . . .” Her voice dropped to a whisper, and when she looked up, it was to gaze at him with silver eyes. “You died just when you were becoming interesting.”

He stilled, obviously afraid, but also willing to face her, nonetheless.

“ . . . I don’t suppose I can persuade you to not cut my lines?” he asked nervously.

Her silver eyes gleamed with pleasure. “I won’t,” she assured him, picking up a bokken from a nearby rack. She smiled. “I plan to enjoy this.”

He shifted into a karate stance - not that it would really help him. “Then I await your pleasure, milady.”



End Theme: “Nothing’s Going to Stop Us Now” (Starship)

Fin

True Ending - "Truth And Consequences"






Light enveloped Ciel’s mortal form - first bathing it, then consuming it in literal blaze of glory that no one present could look at directly, for fear of being blinded. When it dimmed, an object of indescribable beauty stood before them, floating above the ground as though it feared to sully itself with the touch of the earth. It glowed as though bathed in moonlight, and the air itself seemed to lighten, tinged with a freshness unlike that of the dark tower.

The silver-clad knight’s breath caught in her throat. The pure Grail, the true Grail . . . After all this time, all this effort . . .

For a moment, she was tempted. This was the culmination of all her efforts since the fall of her kingdom. Every word and deed, for good or ill, she had done in pursuit of this goal, this moment - and the temptation to use it for herself, and finally be at peace, was strong. But no, that was the path Sakura and Shirou had trod. She had seen the destination it led to, and it was nowhere she wished to venture. Neither did she wish the blood of these people to be sacrificed on the altar of her goal.

Besides, there was another consideration. Before she was even a king, she was a knight - and she had given her word of honour to fulfill a dead man’s last request.

Taking a deep breath, Arturia stepped forward, and reached out to clasp the Holy Grail . . .






Takara rubbed her hand absently, her eyes focussed on the blonde Servant and her goal. Thus, she gave an audible start when Rin asked, “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing . . .? Oh.” She lowered her gaze. “The back of my hand is itching, sorry.”

“Itching?” Rin said, her eyes going to the area in question, where she could see white lines, like scar tissue, near the girl’s wrist. They seemed to form an odd pattern, like part of a written character -

Or, she realised suddenly, a Command Seal. But it should’ve disappeared . . .

The partial symbol flashed with blue light.

“Saber!” she called. “Something’s wrong! Don’t - !”

Too late. The Grail flared alight at Saber’s touch, with a sweeping radiance that was blinding - and brilliantly blue.

And as the light swept over the tower, it washed the world away . . .



End Theme: "Sanctuary" (Darling Violetta)

[Kieran]

Writer's Notes: And so we come to the end, again. Devoted readers will note some changes in the endings - I figured I'd update them to reflect its place in the new "Trinity" series. Not remotely what I had planned, but it's working out better than "Scions of Destiny" did, so who's complaining?

Hopefully, I'll have "Truth and Consequences" up by tomorrow in its entirety - and then I can focus on reposting "Trinity" proper, and relieve any number of anxious fans who'd really like to get back to "The Tournament."