[FF] Phantoms (by Burnout)

[Burnout]

From the brochure:


HISTORY:


RYUUDOUJI, founded in 1325, still proudly displays its main buildings, which are the finest example of wooden architecture in the world. In December of 1993, Ryuudo was considered the first monument in Japan to be registered as part of World Cultural Heritage. These facts seem to indicate that the spirit of the harmony, advocated by its illustrious founder, can be comprehended by the conscience of the world people. In other words, the soul of the revered monk is still alive in every bit of the temple’s grounds…


The Ryuudouji temple, like the family that bore its name, had seen better days. It’d been spared the conflagration of the Fourth Heaven’s Feel- Only to meet the same devastation in the Fifth.


Fate, it seems, had a sense of irony.


Chipped stone steps, worn smooth with time, lead up to a great wooden gateway, the sweeping arcs of the roof caked with snow; Broad-shouldered, it hunched beneath its burden, framed by support pillars as thick as tree trunks- Marred only by the deep, vertical cracks gouged into the very hardwood, too sharp and angular to be anything other than-


-Blades-


I paused, before the portico, a superstitious shudder creeping up my spine. To me, this was holy ground- But not for the same reasons. Here, a crimson swordsman had defied the madness of a king in gold.


Here, the right man- In the right place, at the right time- had saved the world.


From the stories, I’d expected to still hear the distant rumble of war- a ringing of steel that’d gone on and on without pause, until one soon triumphant- but there was only the patter of snow and leaves on the high roof panes; Wisps of white cloud drifting in the air, like incense- But never quite hiding the faint, bitter reek of ash, of char…Of burning.


It’d burned, like London had burned- And it’d never recovered.


The great wooden gates were conspicuously open- The sandalwood charm I’d been given, looped at my belt like a talisman, chiming softly on its chain as I approached the shrine. Though the characters on the sign had been blurred to indecipherability, a heavy brass bell still remained in place, linked to the red-and-white rope that hung from the ceiling before the altar.


The bell tolled, as I gave the rope a tug; a coin clattering into the offerings box. I clapped my hands, twice- bowing my head, for a heartbeat, in an attitude of prayer- then backed away, exhaling slowly as the echoes died.


Once, for fortune. Twice, for-


Footsteps, scuffing against the snow. My eyes cracked open.


-It seemed the temple wasn’t quite deserted, after all…

[lethum]

Nananananananananananananananana-tan tan!

EDIT: I liked.

[ItsaRandomUsername]

Short, but nice.

[Burnout]

Her name, I gathered, was Ryuudo Nami- No, she wasn’t the caretaker; Her family had wanted her to attend Homura Gakuen, just like her father, and so she’d made the move from Kyoto without complaint. Yes, the temple was officially closed, but had never been formally deconsecrated, Mr…


“-What was your name again, sir?”


I smiled. “Akito,” I said, strolling along beside her- “Emiya Akito.”


Nami nodded, but I could feel her sneaking curious, sidelong glances at me- Those warm brown eyes ever-so-slightly narrowed- she wasn’t sure how she knew, but she’d caught the lie, all the same. It didn’t matter, though; I’d taken her measure at first glance, and she was no Magus. Not like Kazuya at all; His talent, raw and unfocused as it’d been, was like a road flare. Hers was like a single candle, in a darkened house across the street- palpable, but insignificant.


-Or so I thought. There was an easy confidence to the slender, unassuming figure- Hair fastened by crimson ribbons- her stride professional, measured as she guided me around the temple, until I could almost believe she’d done it before.


Within, the temple was as discretely shabby as the gateway; I could see where varnish and paint had been used to cover burn marks on the floorboards and the legs of the furniture. The drapery had been gathered so as to hide patches of char on the walls, vases painted over- or replaced, with equivalents that were just barely beginning to gather dust-to disguise chips.


“-I’m really sorry to trouble you,” I said, glancing at the flagstones in the courtyard- The long-ago heat had been so intense, the stones themselves had melted and run like hot wax, fusing into a single smooth, seamless whole- except for the fractures skittering through the surface, like kudzu run riot, criss-crossing the surface in skittering fault lines. “I should’ve called ahead, but…”


“No, no, it’s all right,” Nami assured me~ She half-turned, her hands clasped behind her back- the pleated hem of her brown-and-white skirt fluttering in the breeze. “…It’s been a while since this place has had any visitors- And if it helps your book, Akito-san, it’s the least I could do.”


“That’s too kind of you,” I murmured, feeling the pangs of conscience. A place like this, one of the city’s sacred sites- It was a wonder she’d survived this long, oblivious, without a Magus turning the temple into his personal stronghold. Faint as it was, something lingered- The echo of a blessing, the memory of power- ringed with stone, encircled by earth, making the ‘common sense’ of the world especially thin, here…


For a moment, I toyed with the idea of telling her to run- Just run, fleeing Fuyuki as fast and as far as her legs could take her. That way, she might even have a chance.


“…Akito-san?”


I blinked. “-Sorry,” I said, startled from my reverie. “…Did you say something?”


“I was asking- What’s your book about?”


“Oh, well, it’s a fantasy novel- After many adventures, a hero retires to a temple, to seek enlightment. But to safeguard his skills- Because he has nothing to fear except losing it, after all - he teaches his apprentice swordsmanship.”


“And?”


I shrugged. “-And his apprentice kills him in his sleep. That’s the irony, you see? He can defeat anyone- Except the person he loves the most. He never sees it coming- Not even when it’s too late.”


And I remembered-


-Ripping, tearing, gouging-


-Red, red, a flare of insulted rage-


-Tasting blood in my mouth, her meat in my teeth-


-the limp form crucified on the gate’s spikes, ruddy sunlight on blonde hair-




She frowned. “I’m not sure I like that ending…”


“Well,” I said, with a casual shrug. “It is a tragedy, after all.” It came out more bitterly than I’d expected, and I forced lightness into my voice.


“-What about the apprentice? What happens to him, in the end?”


“Oh, him?” Wrong-footed, I smoothened down my coat, to hide my surprise. “-I’m still working on it, to tell the truth. I suppose he goes on to be the greatest swordsman he can be…”


“So,” Nami mused, almost to herself- “…It’s only a tragedy for your hero, isn’t it? For your apprentice, it’s a happy ending...”


I stopped. Stared at her, for a long moment. “You know,” I said, thoughtfully. “-I’ve never actually thought of it that way. Ever.”


A happy ending. Perhaps I'd find one, after all...

[giodan]

a true dark fate story! goood work!!!

[Soldat der Trauer]

Wow. Apparently when this fic was dot-stabbed earlier, it was done using Roa's Eyes, b/c Phantoms has definitely been resurrected. All hail the black arts!

It's nice to see you back, Burnout-sempai.

[Fangstrike]

Okay... I hope I'm drawing the wrong conclusion, but I hope Ichiro isn't referring to Shirou and himself in his "novel."

[Kieran]

I honestly can't remember, but I wouldn't rule it out . . .

I'd forgotten how good this was.

[Burnout]

It wasn’t long before the novelty of the tour wore off- The sky above Ryuudoji had become an aching blue, the sun beginning it’s afternoon track down the sky; The shadows cast by the warm light hard-edged and black. We’d nearly completed a full circuit, now, and I paged half-heartedly through the booklet I’d picked up- From an oddly anachronistic plastic bracket mounted on the wall. It was cheaply printed, with black-and-white photos of the temple from odd angles- The ink rubbing off on my fingers, as I turned the pages.


Nami had sensed the change in the atmosphere; Now, she just walked silently ahead, waiting politely when I lingered- I felt bad, for wasting her time, and flipped through the book instead of meeting her gaze.


Apparently, a local teacher and his fiancée had vanished, shortly before the inexplicable- And ferocious- inferno that’d almost razed the temple; the woman’s body had never been found. All very tragic and tedious- I was beginning to wonder if this was some elaborate joke of Arisa’s. I’d taken her words, her gift, as some sign, a hint- But perhaps I’d been wrong, and she hadn’t meant anything by it. Or worse, it’d been solely to make me waste time- Time I could’ve used to…


Wait.


Here, the floorboards were freshly cleaned, the faint scent of ash no longer lingering in the air; There was a room, beyond, not quite hidden, discreetly screened by a sliding door.


“-Where are we?” I asked- Curious, now. There was something here- Something special. I could feel it, faintly, with an intuition that bordered on prescience.


“Ah, wait, that’s-“


I parted the drapes, before Nami could answer, and…


-Stopped. Stared.


Like the temple’s gateway, the hall beyond had an air of impressive, sober dignity- But the fires had never reached this far, leaving it untouched, without the faint scruffiness of disrepair. From the scrolls unfurled on the paper walls- The racks arrayed in perfect order, on the far wall- this was the dojo-


…And there was someone here.


Black hair, pulled back in a lank black ponytail- sharp, angular features furrowed in concentration, eyes resolutely shut. An arc of sweat darkened his grey gi- sleeveless, to expose heavy arms from broad, powerful shoulders, a grim set to his jaw. He sat in lotus position, holding himself so still the effort was palpable.


A thick shaft of polished wood, wound with rope for a grip, resting on the floor before him. It looked heavy, the grain almost black- solid enough for a singularly lethal cudgel.

I turned to Nami. “-Thank you for bringing me this far,” I said, to the bewildered girl. “But I think you should go.”


“A-akito-san?” Her gaze flitted past me, and she bit her lip- “You shouldn’t-“


“Go,” I said, and this time, I put sorcery into the words; Just a gentle nudge, not a push, but it was enough to make her stumble back, her words cut off as I walked out of the shadows of the corridor, into the hall.


An eye- fiercely green, flecked with gold- cracked open, just for a moment, as the door slid shut behind me. Slowly, making no sudden motions- Ignoring the uneasy sensation of being, inexplicably watched- I crossed over to one of the racks, reaching for a bokken. It felt heavy- too heavy- in my hands, as I turned, giving a practice hack to free my wrists. My coat, damp from snow, flapped wetly at the motion- But I wasn’t about to shed it. Not now.


I realized, distantly, that my fingers were shaking. I clenched them tight around the hilt, eyeing the slight curvature of the ‘blade’- In London, I’d always practiced with blunted gladii, which made a brisk surrusation of hissing steel as it cut the air. This made a dull whuff- Like a promise of imminent impact.


He rose. It was like a magician’s trick, an unfolding- Levering himself to his feet without effort, leveling the staff like a spear; The end aimed at my throat, at first- Before lowering, almost dismissively, level with my belly. I glimpsed something that was almost a smile, almost a snarl that drew lips back from white teeth.


I’d planned to say something- To marvel at the secret coincidence of finding him here. Something appropriate, something witty, anything to break the tense atmosphere that’d settled. Right now, though, I could only swallow, as I bent my knees- Raising the wooden sword to guard.


Tyrfing had been forged for one specific purpose; To cut. It carved the air, like a ribbon of steel. A blade like that couldn’t be parried, or blocked- A single slash would shear through anything not made of the same perfect steel, infused with the weight of legend.


With this, though- There was no possibility of executing deft feints or parries. I could block, swing or thrust- Then follow through, if I wanted to stay on my feet. It was, I had to admit, less than ideal.


I came at him with a full-blooded effort, sweeping the bokken across in a forceful slash; The staff was interposed, and he parried- A harsh *clack* of colliding wood- the other end scything across in a vicious stroke I had to duck. The bokken’s tip glanced off the floor, as I brought it up in a wild swing- one that bought me time to back away.


This time, his staff sizzled through the air, point-first- I sidestepped the lightning-fast thrust, but not before it singed across my ribs, hard enough to make me hiss in unwelcome pain; But that was part of the plan, too. My hand shot out, at the overextended thrust- Gripping the staff, capturing it under my arm as I cinched it like a couched lance; My wooden blade hewed at him, hard, as I-


The world spun, end-over-end. My feet left the ground, flailing, kicking- Dimly aware that I’d been *lifted*, effortlessly, trapped by my own grasp- Until I slammed, hard, into the ground with a bone-jarring thud. Somehow, I got my feet under me, still dazed, levering myself up onto shaky legs…


For what it was worth, I saw it coming.


Just a slap. Open-handed. A wide, flat palm that came up from hip level to the corner of my jaw- Like it’d had been shot from a rifle. I didn’t even manage to blink before the room went white, and fireworks went off in my skull. I bounced off something hard and fell on something harder and when the world darkened back into existence, I was on my hands and knees on a stone floor, staring at a blurred and doubling pair of sandals.


My head hurt. Trying to move made it hurt worse.


“-Almost decent,” the Servant- Because that was unquestionably what he was- allowed, his voice muffled, to my ears, yet echoing- as if from the end of a long, dark tunnel. “…Perhaps the best one could reasonably expect, in these fallen times.” A philosophical pause. "-Treachery comes easily to you, I see; I like that. That earns you an audience."


“…Hardly…*fair*…” I managed, looking up into his blurred faces- All four of them. I closed my eyes, opened them- Then there were only two. Better.


He snorted. “-‘Only the defeated cry out for fairness. The victorious forge their own mandate.’” He pronounced the words in hard, affectless Chinese- The inflection flat, archaic- each syllable precise, as if he was quoting. Then, with an indulgent chuckle; “Can you stand?”


I almost made it to one knee. Almost.


“Do I have to?”


“You wouldn’t like it if I have to use the boot.”


A few more breaths, and my vision began to clear. I found one of the benches, and used it to push myself up, swaying to my feet- Still waiting for the world to settle back into place, to stop moving for a moment. He waited, almost indulgently; Staff resting on his shoulder, in casual threat. My gaze darted to the thick, knotted scar tissue that encircled his throat- still raw, where a long-ago noose had once bitten into his flesh- Vivid enough to make my shoulder ache in sympathy. When he raised a hand to rub at it, with an ease that came of long familiarity, I glanced down at the floor, instead.


It seemed safer.


“-Now, Magus.” The Servant dipped his head in a sardonic bow; His courtly words quite belied by the dark amusement that crept into his voice “…What can this humble Lancer do for you?”

[Soldat der Trauer]

@Fangstrike: Could be either way. All we know is that Ichiro mentioned that Emiya Shirou's death is memorable in some fashion to the magi community. Something happened during the Incursion 5 years past, and as our POV character has said, "I wasn't there. No one was." Also, consider that this Archer appears to be EMIYA, though apparently affected by this world's version of Shirou somehow; this means that Shirou died after contracting w/ Alaya, and we know how that occurred in canon. Besides, Ichiro's 'analogy' is immediately followed by a flashback that apparently concerns his (late?) fiancee, so perhaps the novel is meant to refer to a dif relationship? Or it could just be a cover story that was real enough in some aspect that it caused him to flashback, I don't know.

[Grant]

Some VN or just a random image?

[Burnout]

I can't recall where, exactly, but the CG's from one of Innocent Grey's visual novels.

[ItsaRandomUsername]

Moar?! Nice.

[Burnout]

[VIII/Last Sky]


It was the end of winter, when they came for him. His scalp was shaved, the flesh scored deep with crude, gouging scars- His limbs fettered as he stumbled into the light of the last day.


The sky had turned a sick yellow, the freezing slush cold against his bare feet; Each step *burned*, but he was so numb, so sick with fever, that he did not care. The spear at his back prodded him each time he faltered- Forcing him up the treacherous, rotting staircase.


It’d taken them months to build the gallows. He could see the wear marks, where the ropes had been looped around it by eager hands, cutting into the ominous black gibbet beam. It creaked and groaned to itself, as the wind muttered and moaned. He could taste the snow on his lips and tongue, and felt it prickle on his face; The thick, sullen black smoke of campfires coiled heavenward, pluming the winter sky like lost prayers.


It didn’t have to be like this, he said. He was still their General. He could still lead them onward- Through the maelstrom of battle. Through the tide of blood that threatened to drag the world into madness. Towards the one shining vision of the future, that burned more, not less, brightly, with each day.


To glory.


When the rope knotted around his throat- when the hood was forced over his head, shrouding his world in black- he realized that this was really the end. In that last moment, he raged. He cursed the uncaring heavens, and the unjust earth. He cursed the men who’d lead him to his destruction, and the women who’d betrayed him again and again.


-But most of all, he cursed himself.


He despaired, and his despair was rich and deep and true, and it bored a hole all the way down to hell itself. Then the trapdoor slammed open, cold air blew up out of the black void, and the world was wrenched from beneath his feet.


He fell forever.


Except-


Except that it wasn't the end for him, at all- But the beginning.

[Alulim]

Hooray for a snippet~

[Soldat der Trauer]

Oh my god... It's EMIYA.

[Kieran]

Always good to see this.

[Burnout]

I had a speech ready in his mind— a variation on the one I’d used before, with other sorcerers. It started out mysterious, became enticing, hinted that I could offer plenty, in return for the smallest service, and ended with a frank and flattering suggestion of alliance.


Except-


-Except, he wasn’t listening. At all.


He stood at parade rest, his back ramrod-straight; Hands clasped behind his back, as he stared out of the window, unseeing. His face might as well have been carved from solid granite, for all the clues it gave. There was the faintest air of disdain to him- Something in his posture, a slight twist to his lips- that suggested this was all beneath him, that to answer would lower himself even further.


Limned in the wan sunlight, his profile was noble, yet tragic. I could believe that, once, he might have been a leader of men- Except for the thick, gouging knot of scar tissue that encircled his throat like a collar, deep and rending- A wound that must have most assuredly killed him.


And so- knees bent beneath me, holding myself perfectly still- I waited. Until the faintest echo of my words had died away to nothing. Until the shadows arose and receded, stretching out to distorted black silk, edged in grey. Until-


“You,” Lancer said, in a low, tectonic rumble of a voice. “-are a fortunate man.”


I blinked. He’d turned, slightly, lifting a weighty eyebrow as he regarded me. Not me, I realized- but the gash in my shoulder, the one that suddenly itched and throbbed beneath a thick pad of gauze and crusted blood. “I don’t-“ I began, momentarily blindsided.


“The wounds inflicted by Rider never heal.” His tone was matter-of-fact, almost conversational. My mouth went dry- A shiver of realization crackling up my spine, as I moved my hand to my shoulder. “-I thought it was nothing, just a scratch-“


“Hmmmmmph.” His face creased, like erosion scars on a granite cliff. “It’s something. They can smell it.”


I remembered-


-claws like lightning bolts, slicing down-


-A slashing track of eye-searing light-


“Rider,” I said, evenly, “-Is dead. I saw it die.” Or at least, I dearly hoped that it had died. I shifted my weight, hands on my knees- I could hear the doubt in my own voice; the creases continued to deepen around Lancer’s mouth, and at the corners of his eyes- And I realized he was slowly- slowly- working himself towards a smile. A smile like death, lips drawn back from his teeth, but a smile all the same.


It said: Really?


I scrubbed at my face, brain working heedlessly- a tiny spark of realization flickering in my mind. “Wait,” I cut in. “-You said they. There’s more than one?”


“Yes.”


I stared at him. “-Is that why you’re here? Is that who- what killed your Master?”


There was no response.


“Are you only going to answer every other question? Is that what’s coming for you? Is that why you’re waiting here?” There was real heat in my voice, now; this stoic silence was immeasurably frustrating. I could feel some great revelation lurking beneath the surface- If only I could get this stiff-necked, stiff-backed Servant to talk-


“I see no reason to tell you anything,” he answered, with calm disdain. “I can smell the meat on your breath- the mongrel in your blood. Aid a Master like you? A murderer and a canni-“


“-Then do it for yourself,” I interrupted, not rising to the bait. “You’ve chosen this place, one of Fuyuki’s holiest sites- But it isn’t going to be enough.” I inclined my head, picking my next words with care. “Not even when the girl dies.”


Lancer’s jaw clenched- Jade eyes narrowing to slits. “You’re going to sacrifice her, aren’t you?” I pressed, sensing weakness. “Without her, the sacred ground is just rare earth-“


“Have a care, sorcerer.” His voice dropped to a leaf-rustle whisper, forcing me to bend closer to hear. Outside, the howl of the wind through the winter trees- the sudden, eerie surrusation of sound through bare branches- became more mournful than ever. “-You know even less than you think.”


I caught a flicker of something- an urge to do violence, kept in check by iron will. There was an enormous, thwarted frustration within him, boiling beneath the surface; As if he’d suffered terrible injustice that had yet to be avenged. The invisible threads that bound him to this world- That wove Od and memory into the shell of a hero- were assuredly slipping…But Lancer was so ferociously present, so centered in the moment, that he made Assassin look like a ragged shadow.


I swallowed, dryly, resisting the urge to look away. Lancer frowned, raking his fingers through his lank hair- As if the explanations were a struggle. “It,” he began, at length, “-has no name. It is a thing outside the ‘common sense’ of the world- A shadow out of time.” He fixed his stare on me. “It tore my Master apart, cackling and jubilant. And now it comes for me.”


Now I felt uneasy. His unwavering stare, that alarming edge to his voice; It reeked of madness, to me. “…How could something like that even be a Heroic Spirit?” I mused, thinking of the warped thing that’d haunted me, stalked me as I fled through the school; A voice like fingernails scraping down sandpaper, breath snarling through the mouth grille of an avian helm…


Again that non-smile, one that bared teeth in a rictus.


“-Who said anything about a Servant?”


*************************



The wind’s howl had faded to a low, uneasy mutter, sheeting through the dark, tumorous trees as I trudged down the steps. It was bitterly cold, now, as the last light of the day faded; True night had yet to fall, but the sky was lit with the eerie colors of the aurora, a glow that was entirely unlike natural sunlight.


I was distracted, troubled by the revelations I’d uncovered. For a man of few words, Lancer had been astonishingly evasive. He’d remained tight-lipped but grimly fatalistic, seeming to take a perverse delight in the doom that approached; the last I’d seen of him, silhouetted against the thin paper screens, he’d settled back down to continue his silent vigil.


He didn’t have much longer to wait. Not long at all.


“-Did you find what you needed, Akito-san?” Nami had inquired, as I’d left; her breath smoking in the cold snap of the coming night, parasol casting long shadows across the winding steps. She’d insisted on seeing me off, the perfect hostess- At least as far as the temple’s gates.




“Of course!” I’d answered, with bluff, hearty cheer; “-I can’t thank you enough, Nami-san. I’m sorry to have imposed, but this will make all the difference.” A wave, a smile, and I was ambling down and away, struck by a simple, cruel premonition-


She would be dead by midnight.


At the base of the steps, I paused, fishing out unpleasant organic curios from my pockets- A handful of black feathers, a curving talon, two glossy black beads; All wrapped in the crinkled yellow paper of a fu. Cupping them in cold-numbed fingers, I exhaled, sharply- And threw my hands up.


With a raucous squawk, a crow fluttered away into the darkening sky, ragged wings flailing against the air. I shaded my eyes, watching it wing away- carrying the simplest message:


Come and see.


“-He’d better be ready for this,” I muttered, without malice; I’d have need for Assassin, and soon. I wasn’t about to let Lancer expend himself in one last, futile gesture- As the sun dipped below the horizon, I lifted my arm, admiring the sigils traced into my flesh. The runes drank in the dimming light, reflecting it with a ruddy glow that was so very much like blood.


If all went well, I’d soon be bearing a matching set.

[Alulim]

More, hooray~

[ItsaRandomUsername]

And so the plot thickens. Reiji is really starting to act like a magus, isn't he? Well, naturally, he's prepping himself for whatever the Sixth Grail War has to throw at him.