Chapter 21
I suppose I can't fault my father for his tactical retreat, though I could have done without the blow to the skull.
Several hours must have passed.
I woke up in a hotel room. Or a series of rooms. It had all of my father's usual traveling amenities: marble counters, gold leaf hastily added to strategic points in anticipation of his arrival, a desk made of Brazilian rosewood, and forty shelves of books - these last transported, no doubt, by suggestible porters.
The television had been removed. Part of the blank space on the wall had been filled by two Portolan maps, replete with crisscrossing black lines, compass roses, and faded inks.
Walls and walls of leather and parchment greeted my eyes. My father had once opined, with my (unsolicited and indifferently received) agreement, that an author's craftsmanship should demand proportionate sacrifices from the bookmaker.
Printers are the greengrocers of literature. It is telling that the advent of the printing press did not primarily bring an explosion of scientific work, but pornography. (Not to mention the once-useful spells that had been reduced to mere curiosities by diffusion.) I am informed that it is now possible to submit one's work to the Internet for publication - a process that does not, as far as I can tell, involve peer review. I can only weep for what remains of our civilization when this practice becomes widespread.
Original Arabic-to-Latin translations of De Anima, the Prior Analytics, and Averroes took pride of place on the bookshelf, alongside Xenophon in his original Greek. They rubbed shoulders with medieval herbals. Sacrobosco's Tractatus de Sphaera waited by the bed lamp. Stuffed into one of the drawers was the lost folio of prophecies from Hildegard of Bingen, the abbess mystic whose spiraling visions historians still dismiss - with a myopia typical of their kind - as migraine symptoms. I'd enjoyed them as a boy.
Housed in an agate box secured by silver and mother-of-pearl clasps was another book. My father had acquired it after Heaven's Feel. Sometime before final sentencing, some enterprising magus had rescued one of Gilles de Rais's spell books from the flames. Sadly, it was the Wormius translation rather than the original.
A cadaver caught my attention.
What had once been a Sekirei lay on a steel table. Half of its organs had been removed and carefully placed in Father's faience canopic jars - an ironic gift from Estray, but useful for storing prana nonetheless. Tools glinted: scalpels, saws, hooks, and several more specialized implements made of alchemically synthesized substances.
Odd...the body had once belonged to the black-haired katana expert, but I couldn't stop thinking of Benitsubasa when I looked at her. The skin was gone. The detached, magus part of me noted with interest that Sekirei musculature was nearly human except in one or two minor details. Vestigial wing muscles on the back, for instance.
Yet even the magus part of me seemed curiously hesitant to stare for very long. While my father watched me in silence, I tried to look at everything but the body.
Lord El-Melloi sat in a winged leather chair, his feet crossed. He looked up from Horapollo's (fraudulent) treatise on hieroglyphs, folding a pair of spectacles and handing them to the Volumen Hydragyrum. A mahogany case bubbled up from the mercury. The case clicked when it closed.
"Somehow, the revelation of your Japanese ancestry does not surprise me," he said. "Your mother's side, no doubt."
I wasn't quite sure what to say to that, so I dipped my head as obsequiously as possible and hoped for the best.
"Well?" he said.
I swallowed. Unfortunately, I seemed to have slept just enough to adequately foresee several unpleasant endings to this conversation.
"I...um..."
He snapped the book shut.
"Explain, Meriwether."
I silently begged my muscles to relax as I cleared my throat and started talking.
"Er...hem...Lord El-Melloi...as I mentioned in my letter, Miya's geis contract will probably kill me if the Clock Tower finds out about this."
He nodded.
"Very likely."
"Ahem...yes," I said. "And given the prohibitive costs of a cover-up, I believe that the most sensible course of action would be to turn me over to Lady Barthomeloi for execution."
"Turn you over to the Clock Tower?" he said. "That's your solution?"
His fingers squeezed the book's spine until it cracked. Sensing a more than ordinary amount of displeasure, I spoke quickly.
"You will naturally want to sever all ties with me," I said. "And I'll do likewise with our family. This would preserve both you and Mother from disgrace while eliminating an embarrassing blot on the El-Melloi -"
A white-hot pain slashed across my cheek. The Hydragyrum. I barely avoided crying out, although my nerve endings did their best to correct this oversight.
Oh, I'd received far worse over the last few days. It still hurt.
My father remained seated, his fingers threaded over his broken book.
"You're my son, you little imbecile."
"But I...Wait, what?"
"I've called Skeares and Ardendolff. We're covering this up."
When I started muttering a healing spell, though, (and felt the itch of my skin growing back), the Hydragyrum clubbed my other cheek. I didn't quite see stars, but it would certainly bruise. One of my teeth was loose. I'd heal it later, of course, but the point stood...
My father had apparently not finished speaking.
"And I'm afraid, my less-than-satisfactory son and heir, that your actions have caused your parents no small amount of worry over the last few days," he said. "It is fitting that you should share our discomfort. Though it is regrettable that I should have to resort to this."
On cue, my cheek began throbbing. So painfully, in fact, that I suspected some sort of nerve manipulation.
"We had great hopes for you," he said. "Despite your disgraceful lack of dedication, you clearly possessed - indeed, possess - the talent of a great magus. Certainly moreso than the cannon-fodder who would ordinarily clean up a mess like this."
The pain from the Hydragyrum's mark came in waves. Each crest felt a bit like I'd used a hot stove for a pillow. Had I been a bit more lucid, I might have reflected (but not mentioned) that my father's comment seemed rather insensitive to the other occupant of the room:
Kiritsugu Emiya.
The Magus Killer wore his traditional ensemble: black trenchcoat, black suit, and a cloud of cigarette smoke.
Unlike so many of his kind, he hadn't killed for the fun, or the money. At his core, the Magus Killer was an eccentric sort of Benthamite. He would kill one to save ten, and ten to save a hundred.
He'd been among the last Masters standing in the Fourth Heaven's Feel. (My father does not count, since his own Servant had died rather earlier). While the Archibalds and Tohsakas had sent brilliant magi to win Heaven's Feel (and the Matous had sent a photographer, for some reason), the Einzbern family had taken a more sensible approach. Heaven's Feel had been a thaumaturgical murder tournament. Ergo, they'd hired a hit man.
They'd even given him one of their homunculi as a wife: a beautiful albino named Irisviel. I comment on her appearance not because I met her, but because I met her daughter.
But this particular hit man had been a bit...unusual.
The winner of Heaven's Feel would have received a prize: a single wish from an artifact of incredible power. Most magi would have wished for a path to the Root. Though I'd never asked, I'd always assumed that my father would have followed the same pattern. The Matou fellow presumably would have wished for a more expensive Polaroid.
Kiritsugu, though, had wanted to save everyone from dying.
Alas, Fate is fond of unnecessary pain. Kiritsugu's wife had been a vessel for the wish-granting device. To cut a long story short, the device had been corrupted. No one had noticed in the beginning. By the time it had become obvious, though, only a few Servants had remained.
Irisviel had already begun coughing up black mud at that point. She hadn't survived.
More than twenty-five years had passed since the Fourth Heaven's Feel. The Magus Killer was a bit older, a bit grayer, and his face bore a few more wrinkles. But as I'd suspected, he couldn't resist the lure of that last job. Save millions. Redemption, in a way, for Heaven's Feel.
My father tapped a finger on his armrest. Pain bored through my skull.
"I'm particularly curious about precisely why my son did not reveal this tournament to me," he said. "Especially when it started spinning out of control. Which, incidentally, has jeopardized our entire civilization."
"I...agh...Please, Lord El-Melloi, j-just let me-"
"I am most disappointed that you have forced me to discipline you in this manner. Bear in mind that I dislike this as much as you do."
Another stab of pain. Imagine the worst migraine possible, and then begin increasing it by orders of magnitude until your head starts oozing brain matter.
"Surely any sane magus would have reported the loss of his library at MBI's hands," he said. "And this business with the Jinki...if Sekirei genes have spread far enough, the Counter Guardians may well obliterate Shin Tokyo. I can't imagine why the son and heir I knew would have...huh..."
He stopped, and raised an eyebrow. The pain ended. My wounds healed. I basked for precious moments in the cool sensation of recovery.
"...Tell me about this 'Benitsubasa' creature," he said.
"She's...not important."
A gloved hand rose to his chin.
"You've always had a weakness for non-humans, haven't you, Meriwether? Oh, not the specimens on my operating table, of course. But you still get along rather well with Ilya."
His tone, as you have probably gathered, was not complimentary.
I should note at this point that mentioning Ilya in this fashion was hardly atypical. My parents had met Kiritsugu socially six or seven times in the preceding decade. (Unavoidable with Kiritsugu's connections to the politically important Einzbern family, and even moreso given their forced collaboration during Heaven's Feel). Most of these meetings had consisted of my parents politely implying that Kiritsugu should kiss their feet, and the Magus Killer politely ignoring them.
But even in the midst of an approaching apocalypse, my father knew better than to repeat the "homunculus halfbreed" comments I'd heard in private. Not with Kiritsugu in the room.
The edge of my father's mouth twitched.
"Meriwether, my boy...I've hit upon the perfect penalty for you," he said. "I believe you could use a little paternal tutelage."
What?
...Oh, no.
Please, no…
"As soon as we put Karasuba down, you and I shall dissect our first magus-bonded Sekirei. 'Benitsubasa' will doubtless provide insight into non-human prana manipulation…"
He wore a grim sort of expression that was not quite a smile or a frown. The sort of satisfied expression one might get from vindication.
"…A foolish name, by the way. You should have given her a more traditional Western pet's name. 'Lady', or some such. I'm told that 'Annie' is popular with dogs these days."
Strangely, I did not experience a surge of panic, or a feeling of loss. Instead, a rather atypical thought crossed my mind, right down to its colloquial phrasing:
Over my dead body.
But it was the Magus Killer who spoke.
"We'll have to kill Karasuba first. And I'm not sure why she hasn't triggered the 'Jinki' already."
Kiritsugu leaned against an empty television stand. It was piled with papers, including several sheets of spidery script and gallows letters that appeared to be some sort of translation key for the Voynich Manuscript. Dee's scrying crystal (the original, not the replica at the British Museum) held it in place like a paperweight.
Kiritsugu peered down the barrel of his Thompson Contender. It was an ugly-looking, single-shot pistol with a wooden stock and hexagonal barrel. Even the trigger guard carried a protrusion that resembled a barb. For all its ugliness, though, it was also one of the deadlier Mystic Codes.
Its magecraft-enhanced frame could handle the recoil from rifle bullets. And the bullets themselves carried ground-up fragments of his ribs. Whenever they hit magic circuits, they warped and fried them.
He clicked the barrel open and shut.
Ticking accompanied the sound.
A replica of Harrison's nautical clock marked time - a mess of brass, bulb-shaped weights, and springs. It was floating in midair, careening first to one side and then the other. I later concluded that this had something to do with my father's longstanding contention (expressed in several ignored letters to the publishers) that a recent popular history of navigation had erred in its account of the clock's accuracy when tilted.
Another clock, this one heavy with prana, marked the actual time. Its gears gave a substantial sort of thwunk instead of the usual ticking.
"Karasuba's waiting for us," I said.
Both men looked at me.
"This is her finale," I said. "We've just showed ourselves worthy of her attention. So to speak. She won't use the Jinki until she's killed us."
Kiritsugu nodded. I suppose he'd dealt with magi long enough to understand that sort of mentality. My own father still regretted never facing Kiritsugu during Heaven's Feel.
(Given that my father's original Volumen Hydragyrum hadn't even been able to block rifle bullets unassisted, I was rather less sanguine about his prospects).
My father smirked.
"Then we'd best knock on her front door," he said.
I found myself wondering whether Karasuba would have reacted to him if he'd arrived in Shin Tokyo instead.
Before he left, my father grabbed a few supplies for one last trick. Most of them had come from his office at Euryphis. The Spiritual Invocation Division.
I just hoped that he'd stay clear of Karasuba. With the greatest respect to my father, I did not believe that he could have beaten Karasuba with a year to prepare. Not if there were two of him.
************************************************** ****
I will not bore you with the details of our journey. The streets remained deserted, and the other Sekirei did not interfere. We headed for MBI's main building. It was, ironically enough, a clock tower. A helicopter shadowed us. It did not fire. The air still carried a morning tang.
We hit the first wrinkle a bit later.
MBI's remaining soldiers had thrown up barricades in front of the main building. Men knelt with automatic weapons. The cluster of camouflaged uniforms seemed out of place on the asphalt, like a group of migratory bushes. Behind the men waited armored cars. Their turrets sported some very large automatic cannons.
My father retrieved a few items from his valise. Years' worth of accumulated gifts, projects, and weaponry were about to go up in smoke. I felt a vicarious pang of regret - irrational though it might have been - for casting it all aside. Heirs can be replaced, after all. Mystic codes often cannot. Some of them may have been with him during Heaven's Feel. A few probably dated back even further.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said.
My father stepped toward the soldiers. He held his hands behind his back. I took some satisfaction in the fact that he intended to lose it all with a certain flair.
"Normally, I have nothing but contempt for the pandering 'fantastic' fiction that you people write to escape your empty lives..." he said.
Step.
Step.
Step.
"...Yet it may surprise you to know that magi are not immune to certain...shall we say, guilty pleasures..."
The whips of the Volumen Hydragyrum twined and writhed like some nighmarish, silvery sea anemone.
"...Take my son, for instance. According to the familiars I assigned to spy on him as a boy, it seems that he was a Lovecraft aficionado. We cured him of that, naturally..."
The wind howled. My father's robe fluttered around him. The soldiers fired. Mercury flattened into a dome-shaped shield. As bullets ricocheted, my father's voice amplified, booming over the sound of gunfire. He swept his arm toward Volumen Hydragyrum's coils.
"...Indeed, if I shared my son's questionable tastes, I might even have deigned to unleash this tentacled monstrosity on you..."
The mercury whips twitched. Gunfire continued. I heard the pneumatic whirr of one of the infantry fighting vehicles' turrets as it rotated. In a few moments, the automatic cannons would train on us.
"...But as it happens, ever since my introduction to the genre during my university days..."
Shrouded figures appeared in the air behind my father. Strips of their black robes floated and billowed as if they were underwater. Their moans chilled blood. They hissed, and the smell of decay wafted over the battle ground.
Wraiths. A rather special, customized group of wraiths.
"...I prefer Henry James."
With an unearthly shriek, the wraiths descended on the soldiers in a wave. They simply flowed through the barriers, armor, and everything else. The sky glowed a sickly orange. Screams provided accompaniment. A few men with wide eyes tried to scramble from their vehicles. One poked his head out of a turret hatch before getting pulled back inside. The hatch closed.
I turned away. It is not pleasant to watch wraiths do their work. With all the grace of a private military contractor at a Fabian Society convention, I seized upon the first point of conversation that had presented itself.
"Father, I hope you will honor me someday by telling me about your experiences during-"
My father fixed me with a glare that would have frozen molten glass.
"No. And if you mention a word of that speech to your mother, you'll wish I'd turned you over to the Clock Tower."
"Yes, Lord El-Melloi."
"And in any case, I - duck!"
An ice spear flew at him.
He pushed me aside.
The Volumen Hydragyrum dutifully flattened and expanded. Large quantities of prana poured into it in an instant. The Sekirei that had launched it stood on a telephone pole, watching us. I recognized the Crest on her forehead. Akitsu, I believe they'd called her.
The spear punched through.
It caught my father in the chest. A red mark bloomed until it covered most of his torso. Even with his reinforcement, the projectile sent him tumbling across the pavement.
I am not sure how Akitsu did it. Perhaps it was some insane sort of reinforcement. Perhaps she could pour prana into her ice shards in the same way that my father manipulated the Hydragyrum's mercury. Regardless, I should have expected something like this. Homura, after all, had been chopped to bits by Akitsu's ice. And he had survived my alchemy lab.
More ice spears flew. The Volumen Hydragyrum changed tactics. It swatted them out of the air, parrying rather than blocking. The ice in my father's chest melted. Time seemed to reverse itself as his blood flowed back into his chest. For just a moment, he grinned at the Sekirei who had attacked him.
Another spear penetrated the Hydragyrum. It pierced his leg, pinning him in place.
And then, the barrage began.
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Originally Posted by Hymn of Ragnarok
