Okay, so this one was slightly-- oh, why am I bothering? This is crack. Well, the Shakespeare parts are, which I tried (and probably failed) to balance out with the Astolfo ones. Which rather fits the title, methinks. Anyway, enjoy.
NOTE: It is in my headcanon for animated!Apocrypha that Shakespeare will be voiced by Emperor Chuck. So, if you'd like, please imagine Norio Wakamoto doing the voiceover. Thank you.
<===)-(===>
Evaporation of Sanity
"Now, then... first, we have to put our heads together and think of a way to help you. Oh, I would definitely suggest against leaving it entirely for me to decide. For no man can show as much a lack of restraint as I, Astolfo!"
<===)-(===>
Astolfo hummed a merry tune as he proceeded to a very secret place in the fortress of Millennia. Of course, he had mapped nigh every nook and cranny of the place, one of the joys of being in physical form.
He checked his pockets as he made a left turn. The package he carried, in all actuality a simple something wrapped in a paper towel, was still mostly intact. He smiled to himself as he reached the end of a corridor.
Astolfo bent the hand of a statue of a long-dead scion, opening a secret door to his right. As he entered, he heard the rumble of the door closing behind him.
<===)-(===>
Shakespeare was, for lack of better terms, having a field day.
He had pressed Semiramis for details regarding Atalanta’s support mission after Berserker’s reckless charge towards the enemy fortress (to this day, Shakespeare insisted that he had no part in sending Spartacus on that suicide mission). The Assyrian queen did not disappoint; she told him Achilles, the Rider of Red, had accompanied Atalanta in the mission.
Naturally, Shakespeare was now hounding both in hopes of squeezing out a good story from their (supposedly) sordid sojourn in the woods.
He stood outside the door to Achilles’ quarters, mentally reciting the (totally bombastic) monologue that would bag him the information he sought.
Shakespeare knocked in the most melodious fashion he could think of. When Achilles’ head popped out, Shakespeare began his speech.
“O most mighty Achilles, Heracles of this age, I, thine humble servant, humbly asketh if thou mayest enlighten mine mind with—”
“Whoa you’re creepy,” was all the “most mighty” Achilles could say, before slamming the door in the playwright’s face.
<===)-(===>
Astolfo sat beside his homunculus friend, who had just woken up from his prana depletion-induced coma.
He was pale as a bed sheet and his eyes were bloodshot, yet when Astolfo asked if he fared well, he said he was fine.
In light of his condition, Astolfo brought out the package he had been carrying and opened it to reveal a small stack of chocolate chip cookies.
“Have some,” he requested.
The homunculus complied with his order by gingerly picking one cookie up and nibbling along the edges.
“Does it taste good?” Astolfo asked.
Though the homunculus did not give a verbal reply, the fact that he quickly polished off the whole stack was enough for an answer.
“They’re not overly sweet, and those brown bits are quite bitter. By the way, where did you get those?”
Astolfo jumped slightly, clearly unready for the question. “Ahh, well… they were at the dining table, and I thought you might like some, so…” He trailed off, hoping that the homunculus could catch his meaning.
“Ah.”
Astolfo took the homunculus’ hands into his own, a pleading look in his eyes. “Please don’t tell Siegfried.”
“Not a word,” he answered. “Though it’s not like we talk whenever he’s around.”
<===)-(===>
Even in the face of his loss, Shakespeare’s resolve to craft a drama of the young lovebirds’ passionate courtship (or so it seemed, in his eyes) remained strong.
Seeing as asking the male had… less than favorable fruits, the playwright then decided to ask the female.
Once again, he knocked in the most melodious manner he could think of, and once again broke out the can marked “Special Flowery Monologue (Flattery Ver.)”
“O magnificent Aphrodite, enthralling Muse of my soul! Your humble servant, Shakespeare, seeketh thine most divine assistance in a matter most perilous.”
Atalanta, unimpressed, crossed her arms. “I assume you know what happens when one presumes themselves as equal to the gods?”
“They are transmogrified into animals, or some oth—” Shakespeare began.
The ears on top of Atalanta’s head twitched ever so slightly. “Exactly.”
Shakespeare felt the door slam in his face. Again.
<===)-(===>
“Hey… Do you want to see the world?”
The homunculus thought for a moment. “I… don’t know. I don’t know enough for me to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.”
Astolfo grinned. “Do you want me to describe it to you, or should I get you a box?”
The homunculus looked puzzled. “Why a box?”
“You know, so I can smuggle you out of here.”
“I rather doubt that a skirt-wearing man carrying a person-sized box is an inconspicuous sight.”
Astolfo rolled his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Fiiiine. Describe it is then.”
Astolfo rose and paced around. “Hmm, let’s see, mmm… ah! I got it! The world is like a cookie. You know, like the one you just ate.”
The homunculus’ head tilted. “You mean it’s made of dough?”
Astolfo laughed. “Of course not, silly! If that were true, you might as well have eaten your way to freedom!”
“It’s like a cookie metaphorically,” Astolfo explained. “It’s just the right amount of sweet. No more, no less. And even though it can get bitter, that’s part of what makes it delicious!”
“Ah.” Though the homunculus could not completely grasp Astolfo’s lofty words, he was beginning to understand.
Just then, Astolfo winced as if someone had pinched his arm very hard.
“Is something wrong?”
Astolfo shook his head. “No, it’s just my Master. I… I have to go.” He turned to go, and started running off.
“I’ll give you my answer next time,” the homunculus called, though he wasn’t sure if that reached his friend.
<===)-(===>
By the time the two Servants (and Master) sat on the table to have their afternoon tea, Shakespeare was absolutely (for lack of a better, more mellifluous word) pissed.
Neither of the two lovers had given him material for him to write his newest drama, and he was at wits’ end in trying to find a way to do so.
He maintained his death grip the handle of his teacup, and made short, calculated sips as his other hand flew (with the assistance of a quill, of course) over a piece of parchment paper laid of his crossed leg.
Such was the intensity of his focus that his two friends were bothered.
Semiramis was the first to ask. “Is something wrong, William?”
Shakespeare’s hand lifted away from the paper, appearing as if a viper poised to strike.
“No, no, nothing is wrong. Everything is completely normal and not wrong.” The fact that he mentioned ‘wrong’ twice in his statement made his compatriots suspicious.
“Give me that.” Semiramis filched the papers from beneath Shakspeare’s nose, to which the playwright responded with (a completely award-winning) wail of “No! My manuscript! My magnum opus!”
But it was too late; Semiramis was already reading the paper’s contents.
“My Adonis, o moon of my life! How I long for thy spear, that magnificent monument to thy martial prowess! That which has pierced the highest heavens of the gods! I pine for it, I ache for it! Deign that thou mayst sendst it from heaven to pierce this, mine loneliness.”
By the time she finished that paragraph, Semiramis’ left eye was twitching, and Shirou blanched to a color nearly identical to his hair.
“…I don’t even want to see what material you have in mind for Atalanta.”
“This is…” Shirou began.
“Marvellous? A monument to mine mastery of the English language? A perfect encapsulation of the lovers’ insurmountable, unbridled desire? Why thank you.” Shakespeare stood up and bowed.
“…the Elizabethan equivalent of shitty phone sex.”
Shakespeare launched himself to the floor spread-eagled, pretending that he had been severely hurt. “O, how thou woundeth me, Master! Thy words are like a sword that pierces my heart, a fire that sets it aflame!”
“Oh, hush now,” Semiramis said. “This isn’t going to work because, first: you’re using your ‘magniloquent’ English, which neither of the two actually care to use, and second: this isn’t a love letter. It’s a fuck letter. Make it sound like they want it, need it, even.”
Shakespeare got up and pretend-dusted himself off. “And what, o wise queen, wouldst thou suggesteth I put in those letters?”
“Hmm…” Semiramis crossed her legs and thought. “Things like ‘I want you inside of me’, or ‘I want to get off with you’, or failing that, ‘please fuck me’.”
“Or ‘please put your pOnOs in my vagOOO.’,” Shirou suggested.
The two Servants stared at him for a short while.
Shakespeare came up to Semiramis’ and Shirou’s side of the table, giving them both a good lip-smack on the cheek and shaking their hands.
“Many thanks to you, o friends! Rest assured that thine part in the genesis of this great drama shall not be forgotten.” Shakespeare bowed, as if he had finished an award-winning performance.
“Tally ho!” he said as he left.
Shirou and Semiramis sat in silence for a while.
“Did we just…” Shirou began.
“I think we did, Shirou,” Semiramis said, sipping her tea. “I think we did.”
Originally Posted by Seika
F/GO SUPPORT
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