Hero Light

[Arashi_Leonhart]

That's right, Assassin Gets Serious, coming soon to a theater near you!

I'll time it to coincide with Fate/Far Side II: Apocrypha Tohya

[qwertyfatcat]

Will this become a series Broble? Can I finally raise my 3 star CuLancer card in the air for this?

[Bloble]

Will this become a series Broble? Can I finally raise my 3 star CuLancer card in the air for this?

Might do one more.

[Imperial]

I love it. Lancer's single-mindedness, his unique insights into how to fight this particular battle, how this mass attack differs from Alexander's, the cohesion of the Hassan unit if they weren't being thrown away on a feint, the way you portrayed both parties as remarkably lethal and rising to the occasion instead of playing one as a speed bump for the other, the tantalizing clues as to who is in play, etc.

I'm wondering exactly who the Masters are in this scenario. Hassan seems to be guarding the Einzbern castle, so did Kerry get his Assassin? Is Lancer salty about being Kirei's Servant again, or is he in the Gilgamesh spot as Tokiomi's, and Hassan is acting out that resentment you mentioned? I'm probably not reading it closely enough to get all the pieces to fit, but then again, that part never really mattered.

Lancer is pitch perfect, you do a great job of waxing on the nature heroism alongside engrossing fight scenes, and I will keep my fingers crossed for a part three.

[Rafflesiac]

I assumed that Lancer was Kayneth's Servant from the last chapter and Lancer's remarks on hitting on someone's wife.

And great job on this chapter, Bloble. It's great to see the Hassans as an actually threat instead of useless scrubs.

[Imperial]

I assumed that Lancer was Kayneth's Servant from the last chapter and Lancer's remarks on hitting on someone's wife.

That was my initial assessment, but I guess it doesn't really matter. It's not about the Fourth Grail War so much as it is Lancer fighting his ass off.

[Mattias]

Your stories always end up confusing me. You do an action piece, and then you throw out something like Sun God, then you go back to action, and then you do that Natalia one. I never know what genre the next one will be. All I know is that it will be very good.

[Leo Novum]

I like this. I like this very much. Underdog Lancer is best lancer.

[Bloble]

The sun falls behind the mountain.

The moon rises from the other side.

The whistling winds of winter disturb the trees surrounding the peak.

Archer doesn't much enjoy guarding the temple.

Its wooden construction was handled with care. Those hands that erected it truly believed they were creating a symbol of something more profound than themselves. Aesthetically, there is no flaw, and for that reason it survived undisturbed to the modern age as something even the careless youngsters of the new generation hesitate to insult. The solid arches and soft floors, however, tell a different story: this place is an offering, an appeasement to some unknown power.

When he is ordered to guard the Ryuudou Temple, Archer is being asked to protect an apology.

Offerings of peace are admirable, but the fact that it's all for naught is enough to sour his enthusiasm... not that it can be noted from his stance. He has stood straight and tall on top of that gate since before the start of the war, not once descending from it. Even now as the sun sets and paints the sky orange, he remains. It need not be said that human necessities such as sleep or shelter are not offered to a Servant.

It has been days. Since he was summoned and stationed, and attacked three times. One fell, one ran, and one was called back before his hotly-anticipated death. Archer regretted not managing to finish off the Lancer before the man was forced to retreat, only because Lancer had clearly looking forward to it. Still, that regret only lasted for a moment. It was certainly not worth building a monument to.

Much like this monument. It's not worth protecting.

On the other hand, his duty has by no means been a difficult one. The only feasible approach is straight up a long flight of stairs. All else is covered by a fairly simple yet effective barrier that will drain away any warrior's strength in moments. Archer's Master may be paranoid and vengeful, but she is no fool. She knew that her activities would inevitably be exposed, and that they would provoke attack, just as she knew where to place Archer to halt it in its tracks. It's merely a shame that he was only able to speak with her once before her insecurities manifested as an order to never invade her presence again.

"█████████████!!!"

There it is. The fourth intruder.

Archer has not left his position since he was summoned. He has spoken three times since then: once to his Master, who gave him his orders and nothing more, once to the vanquished Servant, and a third time to the Lancer that cheated death. None of those conversations served to inform him as to the circumstances of the War, nor of its combatants.

Even so, it doesn't take a genius to recognize a Berserker when he sees it.

The mad beast makes itself known from the start.

The bottom of the staircase struggles to bear the weight of what might as well be moving stone. Though it bears the shape of a man, the creature's movements are mechanical. It trudges forward, three steps at a time, its slate-grey skin grinding down the stone stairs with every movement. As it senses Archer's gaze upon it, the Berserker looks up and responds in the only way it can.

"██████████████!!!"

The proclamation shakes the mountain and the gate to their roots. Only Archer's heart remains unmoved. He has seen past that wordless cry and discerned the promise within it: If the invader can scale the mountain and reach Archer's gate, then victory will be his. Such is only logical; an Archer that specializes in ranged bombardment will certainly be defeated in a moment by a warrior that has traded away sanity for the ability to deal point-blank destruction. Even more than that, the order binding him to that location makes retreat impossible for Archer, so he will have no possibility of escape.

"The conditions are acceptable. Then – come at me, Berserker."

"█████!!!"

That a machine-like mad warrior like could even give shape to such a promise is unusual, but Archer decides to give it no special consideration. It must have been implanted there by a Master beforehand.

An order to protect and an order to destroy. Between them there is nothing unusual to be found.

Archer raises his right arm and materializes his weapon: a warped bow of black and gold steel. A portion of the circulating magical energy in his body flares out from his back as a burst of fire, from which he withdraws a trio of sun-red arrows with his free hand. With the sunset at his back, he beckons the beast to approach.

Berserker wastes no time. Instead of responding to his opponent's invitation, it's more accurate to say that he's unable to factor it into his mission.

The giant steps forward.

The sun glimmers.

A streak of light catches the glare and assaults Berserker's head in an instant. As it reaches the halfway point between top and bottom, Archer has already foreseen it will fail. Berserker's sword began its swing the moment he sensed killing intent.

It strikes the dark edge of the slab-like blade Berserker carries and veers off into the woods, leaving behind an angry orange glow. Several trees have been set alight, but the approaching Servant has not so much as been inconvenienced.

Berserker takes another step.

The remaining two arrows veer downwards, one slightly behind the other. Again, both are effortlessly deflected. Berserker does not possess the intelligence to plan out a defence, but his instinct as a warrior is enough to handle simple attacks moving in a straight line.

"Hm." Archer takes a precious second to consider his next action, granting Berserker two steps in the process. "Is that self-preservation, or an autonomous function?"

Not knowing the answer is a refreshing feeling. He cannot make out a method to the creature's madness, and so has found himself in a rare situation where his opponent's inner self cannot be read. Even so, the number of options remaining is not insignificant.

"Then, I'll have you give back that distance."

The next arrow he crafts from his magical energy is thicker, heavier, swirling with internal light that has yet to burst. He carefully places it on the bow, pouring in as much magical energy as he can risk, and releases it just as Berserker is about to step onto the first landing.

As before, the giant's sword is already in place to intercept the offending projectile. Yet that reaction is precisely what Archer expected.

It detonates.

A back-blast of fiery air swirls over Berserker's body as the godly bolt explodes into flames hot enough to be found on a star's surface. There is no use in defending against it; the area of effect is several times larger than even the giant's stone body. Every bare spot is assaulted by heat that will boil eyeballs and turn skin into flakes of black paper, enhanced further by a burst of magical energy.

The only correct answer was to dodge, but Berserker could not choose it. He had no choice but to confront it directly.

Even so...

"███████████████████████████!!!"

He does not need to dodge. This Berserker was hand-crafted to face everything head-on. The flames have scored dark holes in skin that should have been as durable as stone, and one of the monster's red eyes is leaking from his skull. Those wounds would be sufficient to cripple even a powerful Servant, but if it's not debilitating, this Hero will ignore it completely.

A third of the staircase has been taken.

"That single-mindedness will destroy you," Archer remarks, not the least bit unsettled. If there is any frustration to be had, it is in his own methods of warfare. A flame-wreathed bow would not be his first choice, with how similar it is to the fighting style of a certain half-brother. But then, they are both unparalleled archers. Perhaps it would be different for a skilled combatant, but a Berserker only capable of mindless destruction will certainly fall in two, at most three shots. "Are you even capable of reconsidering your actions?"

There is no response, of course.

Archer looses two more arrows filled to the brim with magical energy the moment Berserker pushes forward again. The first is caught and explodes against the Servant's remarkably durable blade, washing over him but most importantly blowing away his guard.

The second burrows into the space just above Berserker's heart, and detonates.

Archer does not need to wonder about the result. It was certainly a fatal wound. There must be nothing left of Berserker's upper body.

He's partially correct.

The clearing smoke reveals a gruesome sight. The entire right side of Berserker has been vaporized. His hand that held the great stone sword is nothing but ash, and the blade is embedded into a tree beside the stairs, splitting it in half. His face is half-gone as well, and without neck muscles to support it, his head flops backwards.

But... the giant's other arm twists, contorting, and grips the discarded weapon, pulling it free.

It was too shallow. That skin – its durability can't be explained just by strength.

Berserker steps forward again.

The giant's legs were not damaged. Archer's attack was meant to kill the enemy, so he didn't bother aiming to impede its movements. For that reason he is slow to react. By the time he has launched another arrow, Berserker is halfway up the staircase.

This one packs enough magical energy to halt the moving corpse in its tracks. Following it, a stream of smaller arrows pepper Berserker. Each one is only launched with a minimal amount of magical energy, enough to warrant defence but not exhaust Archer's strength.

He needs a time to consider. Without hesitation, Archer sacrifices five percent of the magical energy his Master had gathered up from the city below over the course of a month. It will be enough to to halt Berserker for three seconds.

It's not impossible for someone to continue moving without parts of their mind, but for a Servant to survive the destruction of their spiritual core, that would require the power of a Command Seal or a Noble Phantasm. The situation isn't decisive enough for the former, so it can only be Berserker's ability. Perhaps that was why Berserker's Master had no hesitation in ordering him to weather the attacks of the most destructive Servant so long.

In any case, if it's a battle of defensive ability, Archer won't be beaten in that regard, either.

For the first time since he was summoned, Archer is given a reason to step down from his perch. He takes it, instantly streaking down the stairs to meet the Berserker halfway.

A voice screeches in Archer's mind as he sails through the air: "What are you doing?"

"This one can weather my attacks," he replies, sending the thoughts to his irritated Master through their link. "To fulfil my mission I require more of my power."

He lands at the second landing, just as Berserker arrives. Their states could not be more different. Archer is a gleaming warrior cloaked in shining armour, but Berserker is a naked beast wielding naught but a slab of stone. Even so, that beast is powerful enough to give pause to one that has faced down Gods.

"You've just wasted enough magical energy to power a regular Servant for a week! Are you being this inefficient on purpose?"

The stone sword descends mercilessly. The parts that were blown away have regenerated, so there is no weakness to Berserker's strike. Its speed and strength far surpass those of an Archer not meant for close-range combat.

"If strength is great, so is consumption. That Berserker is using just as much. If we turn it into a battle of attrition, your stock of magical energy will undoubtedly outlast his Master's."

Even so, he faces it head on. Archer raises an arm and catches the strike on his elbow. It's heavy enough to send crack the stone beneath his feet, but apart from a wince... he is nearly unhurt.

"Denied. This energy is not meant for you to waste with those costly Noble Phantasms of yours. You can have a quarter, and no more. That's enough for your armour or your spear, with some to spare."

It's that armour that saved him from being turned into paste. The unrivaled power of the wild warrior is reduced to a tenth, something that even Archer can bear for a few minutes. A second blow and a third are launched without pause, and Archer just barely catches them on the less vulnerable parts of his body.

"If I use the spear -."

He should have fallen instantly, but the ability of Archer to withstand one-sided punishment is great. Scratches accumulate on his body, but he does not budge. Archer defends, Berserker attacks, and for a moment the battle is stalled, two-thirds of the way up the mountain.

"Do you take me for a fool? If I couldn't repair it, I wouldn't have allowed you permission in the first place. Stop him, with your body if you must. Should the greatest hero of India lose to a mindless Berserker, he'll shame more than just his Master."

He can only nod. She is cruel, but also cunning. In any case, Archer is not yet worried, even as his body accumulates damage under the unceasing avalanche of blows, each of which could destroy him outright were it not for his armour. This much is bearable. The battle would be won if it was just this, but he needs to protect more than just himself.

Archer's bow shudders. The flames that been launched from its strings now burn from within it.

He did not come down to claim victory. It was for two purposes: to concentrate magical energy within his bow, and to discern the nature of the enemy's defence.

In both respects, he has succeeded.

The next blow smashes into stone. Archer is gone in an instant, flying back through the air as Berserker charges forward once more.

Archer nocks no arrow. Instead, his bow releases a torrent of flames that momentarily resemble a second sun rising when the first has set. As he pulls back the strings, the fire is concentrated into a single hair-thin beam of light aimed squarely at Berserker's position.

For the first time since the war began, Archer unleashes his trump card.

"Brahmastra..."

The warrior stops. For the first time since the battle began, the giant's ascent is halted. The power he instinctively feels from that Noble Phantasm is enough to activate the self-preservation instinct that had been sealed by his madness.

"Kundala!"

The arrow becomes a beam of light that utterly eradicates the staircase. It cannot be called mere fire anymore. The nuclear disintegration reactions occurring in the midst of that inferno are much more than a pale imitation of the sun; they are a finger of the god of daylight descending upon the world in the form of a Noble Phantasm that can incinerate anything.

Berserker is already gone from that place. He gathered strength in his legs and leapt up into the air to dodge the attack that would undoubtedly kill him.

But it's too late. Archer has already foreseen Berserker's demise. He pulls back on his bow and the beam sweeps upwards, catching Berserker on the rise and engulfing the stone warrior in its overpowering light.

His skin is surely disintegrated.

Perhaps if the battlefield had been open, dodging would be possible. But in this narrow corridor where dodging can only happen in one direction, there is no escape. For that reason, Archer had been summoned and stationed there.

As Archer lands on the gate, the twisted remains of Berserker land halfway up the hill and roll to a stop at the bottom.

“So that was it.”

The battle should be over, but Archer still feels a spark of life in those bones. The spiritual cores were both utterly broken, but the whole still remains. Sure enough, scraps of muscle twitch, slowly but surely assembling themselves into an immortal warrior.

“Brahmastra did not fully activate...”

Archer's Noble Phantasm was cursed to be unusable against those of greater ability than himself. However, those that can be counted among that number are few. The fact that he was only able to partially draw forth its full strength must mean Berserker's sealed mind is formidable indeed. That his foe is being faced in this state is both tragic and fortunate.

Still, it wasn't entirely ineffective.

The attack was both to push back the enemy and cement Archer's prediction. Brahmastra dealt a sizable chunk of damage, but the flames he'd infused it with were completely ineffective. Now he is certain: this Berserker possesses both the power to self-revive, and an adaptable skin that renders useless any repeated attempts to kill him by the same method. There can only be one Heroic Spirit with those qualifications.

“That power is something many might resent, but such is to be expected of one that received a divine blessing. The gods were cruel to you, warrior, yet that curse may have been their one kindness.”

Though, the mad warrior may disagree.

“Berserker, I've seen through you. This battle is over.”

If it were just this, Archer would be the undeniable loser. He expended more magical energy than Berserker, and now his attacks will be completely ineffective. His foe, on the other hand, stands tall and unbroken, with not a single sign of his previous wounds remaining.

And yet, it is without a doubt Archer's win. He was finally able to discern the nature of the enemy, so the certain path to victory has revealed itself. Now that his uncertainty has been dispelled, all that remains is letting the events play out as they will.

"████████████████████!!!"

Berserker speeds up, sword upraised, as expected.

Berserker charges, as expected.

The arrows loosed from Brahmastra are so weak now as to not even warrant blocking. They slide off of Berserker's skin, as expected.

Archer closes his eyes and reaches within himself, calling forth the one arrow he has yet to fire. He places his hand on his chest and grips something solid. As he draws it out, the armour integrated into his skin shatters, flaking off and disappearing into motes of magical energy. To access the ultimate offence, he must throw away his ultimate defence.

Berserker speeds up, sword upraised, as expected. Even a mindless beast understands death when he sees it.

The arrow is thick, heavy, formed of black and gold just like the bow it now rests upon. It gleams with energy, enough to blow the top off the mountain they fight on.

It is Archer's queen, with which he will finally checkmate Berserker.

Berserker is halfway up. He leaps once more, speeding up in an instant and shooting towards Archer. If he can stop the Servant before the Noble Phantasm is fired...

But he cannot.

"████████!!!"

At the last moment, point-blank, Archer releases death with a whisper:

“Vasavi Shakti.”

All becomes light.

Vasavi Shakti, the spear of the thunder god, Indra. Before its might, everything under the sky will be annihilated without mercy. In Archer's hands, it becomes an anti-Divine weapon capable of concentrating the power of the all the energy in the world's atmosphere into a single devastating projectile.

That Berserker was destroyed is not something to be questioned. His very existence – the divine blood that runs through his veins and grants him the blessing of resurrection – was burned away completely, leaving no possibility of regenerating.

When the second sun fades and leaves only a starlit sky, Berserker has already been erased from existence.

A force that cannot be withstood without protection exceeding the limits of humanity. A concept that erases any divine force surpassing human strength. If the mad warrior's Noble Phantasm was cheat-like, then it has been completely obliterated by something that cannot be opposed, neither by Heaven or Earth.

Archer lands on the gate, and sighs.

Before him, the whole side of the mountain is missing. He turns away, not wanting to look upon it.

The battle was a tiring one. He ended up over-reaching again. His Master will certainly be mad. He was meant to be a low-upkeep Servant, but as was fitting to her overindulgent nature, she summoned him instead.

Well, she won't be able to complain. This worthless apology of a temple was protected, after all...

“Too shallow, guardian.”

He is slow to react.

Something pierces Archer's back. It juts through his spiritual core in an instant, dispersing the strength that had been gathered there. In an instant his ability to fight is taken from its minimum to nothing.

It takes all of his strength to turn and face the enemy that so casually ended his tenure as a Servant.

The foe before him cannot be called imposing. Compared to Berserker's earlier strength, the man is a nearly as much of a wreck as Archer himself.

A puddle of blood spreads at the skinless man's feet. His imposing bulk is gone, but the stone blade is in his hands. A string is drawn between handle and edge, forming a crude bow that holds one more arrow.

“You...” Archer's surprise fades as he realizes his mistake. “Herakles, no, Alcides. But, how-?”

His near-vanquished foe shakes his head. Archer cannot see through the veil covering the Servant's eyes, but he imagines the man is smiling.

“False Archer,” says the Servant. “I saw through you three days ago. This battle was over then.”

His body is beginning to disperse. The vast reserves of magical energy that sustained his existence have been disconnected. His arrow is shattered, but his bow...

“Brahmastra-!”

His hand is severed at the wrist, as the man he'd mistaken for Berserker fires off a shot from his crude bow. It's not a terribly complicated weapon, but enough to damage the exposed Archer further.

“That armour was the biggest irritant,” confesses the one that snatched victory from defeat. “Finding a way to remove both it and that arrow-spear was no easy feat. I told you, didn't I? If I could survive your attacks and reach the gate, it would be my victory.”

“Berserker... no, you are...”

The masked warrior tilts his head. “Ah, yes, that discarded shell. You burnt that away, along with my Noble Phantasm. My divine blood was easily sacrificed, but I do regret losing God Hand. Well, an Archer ill-needs such things.”

Karna – the False Archer, sinks to his knees.

He does not need to agonize, even though the defeat was largely self-inflicted. He had simply been complacent, allowing others to observe him and deduce a strategy. If he had peered more closely, he may have discerned Berserker's true nature at the beginning.

“A double-summoning... you were crafty, Archer.”

In the end, he can only offer praise.

Archer shakes his head. “Blame your Master. She summoned you before the war began. My Master expected that you would be a headache, so I was separated into two layers for precisely this moment. It's not the weapon that decides a battle, but how it is used. Your strength was mismanaged.”

False Archer shakes his head. “I need no more words. Go. Finish your mission.”

“It is done,” admits Archer. “The arrow that slew you was one of nine. Your Master is already dead.”

The False Archer turns back to look at the temple. It is a ruin. Support beams have been shot out, and the roof has collapsed inwards. He can't feel a connection to his Master anymore.

“...then, fare well, Archer.”

As the Hero disappears, he releases all frustration once more. At the very least, he doesn't have to guard that blasted temple anymore.

[RoydGolden]

Wow, that was certainly something. The Karna x Heracles fight was ridiculously badass, and the twist at the end caught me totally by surprise. So, Vasavi Shakti simply "burnt off" the divine aspect of Heracles, leaving only his mortal self (Alceides) behind? Not at all sure if that's the way it should work, but at the very least it was one heckuva' entertaining read.

[ItsaRandomUsername]

How often does a conversation one with us literally the night before get turned into an actual story the very next day?

Glad to see you back and in action, Bloble.

[Bloble]

Wow, that was certainly something. The Karna x Heracles fight was ridiculously badass, and the twist at the end caught me totally by surprise. So, Vasavi Shakti simply "burnt off" the divine aspect of Heracles, leaving only his mortal self (Alceides) behind? Not at all sure if that's the way it should work, but at the very least it was one heckuva' entertaining read.

This version of Heracles was specifically summoned to survive Vasavi Shakti in that way, but if you like, you can think of it as me wanking good old Berserker.

By the way, I said Hero Light would have three parts, but this is more like part 1.5 or 2.5. They occur in the same overarching story, but a main installment is one that has Cu as Lancer in it, so you can expect the last true chapter when inspiration strikes.

[Rafflesiac]

RIP Karna, India < Greece

It all comes down to the Masters, huh; reminds me of Fox Tail. Reading Ancient Mythological Touhou was a pleasure, Bloble.

[Imperial]

That's exactly the kind of bizarre rule-breaking strategy I would expect from a T-M story. This story never disappoints. Good on you, Bloble.

This one really threw me for a loop though. I found myself wondering what Medea and her new gatekeeper had to do with Cu. It doesn't really matter, I suppose, given that this is a story of moments instead of a complete narrative, and that suits me just fine.

[RoydGolden]

That's exactly the kind of bizarre rule-breaking strategy I would expect from a T-M story. This story never disappoints. Good on you, Bloble.

This one really threw me for a loop though. I found myself wondering what Medea and her new gatekeeper had to do with Cu. It doesn't really matter, I suppose, given that this is a story of moments instead of a complete narrative, and that suits me just fine.

Well it's Medea, of course RUUURU BREAKING is to be expected. (Though in this particular case it didn't exactly turn out in her favor)

[Bird of Hermes]

This is some real good stuff here Bloble, it's really nice to read a well written action scene.

[Bloble]

The dim hallway’s dark fades into the past.

Sand and light replace broken glass and scarred concrete.

The once-narrow battlefield is now endless.

Rider stands again on familiar ground. He breathes deep, tasting the dry air and the energy of the warriors standing by his side, waiting for his command. Countless blazing red banners cut through the blue sky, proclaiming his absolute dominion over this place. Moments ago the hero was alone. Now he is home.

The tall king peers across the desert he has summoned, finding a familiar figure standing alone and apart, leaning upon a spear. The spearman squints and holds up a hand to block the blinding sun overhead. Its oppressive glare shrinks his shadow to the size of a small child. The heroes’ eyes meet, and even at a distance Rider can make out his opponent’s weary smirk.

“It is the rare foe who finds himself here a second time!” Rider calls out. “Be proud, Lancer, for I am!”

“Oh!?” Lancer yells back happily. “And what are you so proud of? Happy you managed to get that incantation off in time?”

Rider chuckles. Here, now that the life-or-death battle that had gripped his heart and squeezed it tight for the past minutes is over and his victory is assured, he can relax and leave the past behind, if only for a while. Thoughts of alliances and Masters and betrayal are left in the dust.

“You and I were summoned to a clash of wretches,” he says, thinking on the miserable events of the past week. “I’d expected one of us would fall to tricks or treachery before we could meet again. How fortunate, then, that we’ve both surpassed my estimation! Hah! How could I not be glad to face you at the end of this rotten war? There can be no more appropriate foe!”

“Well, when you put it that way… guess it could be worse. The sun’s alright. Nice to fight during the day for once.”

The soldiers shift, mutter, grumble at Lancer’s indifference. Rider’s army remembers its wounds well. Bloodlust simmers beneath stoic composure, waiting for an order that does not come. Rider pensively rubs his chin with two massive fingers. “Do you recall our last battle, Hound of Culann?” he asks. “My offer still stands. After everything you’ve endured, surely you won’t still swear fealty to the man who calls himself your Master. He would certainly have you go the way of Diarmuid.”

“That promise, huh…” Lancer thinks on it for a moment as he squats down, eyeing up the formation of Rider’s army. It is nothing more than a mass of men and women, thousands strong, clustered around their leader. In the center are spellcasters and shieldbearers, attentively guarding Rider. A simple charge like last time won’t do it, and even his greatest weapon will surely fail to pierce. A hopeless situation, once more. “Back in my day,” he says. “You didn’t get to choose your master. No more than a hound can choose who holds his leash.”

“Are you a hero or a pet?” is Rider’s response. “My friends aid me of their own will! That is true loyalty, to one worth following. Unchain yourself, Lancer! I would not have you die a dog’s death!”

Rider’s rhetoric wouldn’t last a second back home, Lancer thinks. A man who would conquer the world cannot understand a man who would serve another, let alone the geasa that bind him. They could bandy about the subject some more, but he has no intention of doing so. Sweat gleams on his scalp, his heart beats deeply in his chest, and battle frenzy lays barely in check behind bared teeth.

Surely the army arrayed before him feels the same.

“Enough banter, Rider,” he calls back. “My deal’s still on the table too.”

Lancer stands straight and tall and grips the haft of his red spear tightly. He draws its blade and cuts the desert, tracing a line in the sand before him.

“I’ll defend this ford to my death. Conquer it if you can! Send your best warriors! You want my friendship, come and take it before I take your head!”

Gae Bolg flashes once more, then again, again, countless times, making the air shine as it carves rents in the desert that glow red, forming runes with which Lancer is ever-so familiar. They surround him on all sides, carving out a territory within Rider’s domain. Its wielder rests the spear on his shoulder and silently extends his free hand to Rider’s army, beckoning them to approach.

“What is that?” asks Rider.

An attending mage answers: “Tis a runic technique, my lord. I am familiar with the oaths of the Knights of the Red Branch. Ath nGabla will enforce a battle to the death with no retreat allowed for either combatant. A secondary spell will form a barrier to prevent others from interfering once a battle has started. We should have no issue dispelling it from the outside-.”

“No need,” says Rider. “He has dictated how the battle will go. Disrespecting that would be ungracious towards a man I will soon call friend.” He clears his throat and sends his voice clear across the desert. “I accept the terms! My friends, you are free to duel to your heart’s content! Show him that the warriors of my Hetairoi are unmatched! My only command to you is thus: Win!”

He is answered by a thundering roar. The army at his side surges forward, competing to see who will earn the honor of claiming Lancer’s head first. He waits silently in the red circle, similarly shaking with anticipation, manic glee creeping up his neck as thoughts of the world outside are discarded one by one. Wars? Wishes? He needs no such things. His wish is to fight, here and now.

Indeed, the fight comes right to him.

“For Iskandar!” cries a horsewoman, clad in furs and wielding a gleaming, twisted bow, as she charges her auburn steed into the circle and looses a volley of arrows at the blue spearman. His limbs twist, Gae Bolg whips through the air, and the sound of steel against steel ignites the fighting spirit of all who hear it as he expertly knocks each projectile out of the air one by one. As the horse bears down on him and its rider grips her bladed bow in both hands, ready to bring it down on his neck, he braces himself to meet their charge.

Hooves kick up sand. Metal parts flesh. Bones crack and voices groan in pain. In the midst of the struggle, Lancer remembers.

-------------------

The castle’s defenders were spent. They had gathered together what they could, with the day they had, and it had not been enough to repel him. Lancer arrived as promised, his moonlit journey through the forest uninterrupted. He came to the great doors and with a single knock sent them tumbling from their hinges.

The opposition he faced was pitiful in its meagerness, so much so that it pained him to recall it. Lancer would have rather faced a powerful foe than many so beneath him, yet he knew very well that he had slain the castle’s greatest defender already.

He went through it room by room, knocking aside curtains and vases and bookshelves and ornate tapestries and couches and antique tables, seeking only one thing. Sometimes attempts were made to stop him, all of which failed completely and utterly. Lancer cleared the first floor, then moved onto the second and took it a wing at a time, going through bedrooms and bathrooms now, piercing mattresses and pillows and sending feathers through the air in his wake.

Orders were orders, even if he were loathe to follow them. The east wing was empty, and he knew the man he sought would be in the west.

The traps and countermeasures arrayed before him would have stopped many intruders, but not a Servant. Lancer knew he was there when he reached the door at the end of the last hall and found it crudely barricaded behind assembled furniture. He sensed behind it the presence of command spells. The barricade gave him no pause.

The small shape standing before it, however, stopped Lancer in his tracks.

She said nothing. Merely stood before the barricade, arms extended, a child playing at heroism. The look in her eyes told Lancer all he needed to know.

“Tch. Coward!” he called past her, to his target in the other room. “Putting a kid in my path just to save yourself? What happened to being famous for killing mages? If you had any balls you’d face me like a real man!”

There was no response, of course. Lancer doubted the man was in any state to speak, much less stand. The target’s last remaining defender stood there, now clutching in her hands a small knife, stolen from the kitchens perhaps, and silently pointing it his way.

“Gimme a break…” he grumbled. Distaste warred in his mind, against explicit and clear orders he’d been given to eliminate the target and any who stood in his way. “Who do you think you are, kid? You’re no hero. Playtime’s over. Get outta here.”

No reply. The sad eyes of the small child stared unblinking at Lancer. Though she was utterly powerless, he knew she waited for some kind of opening that would never come.

“You think you’re gonna accomplish anything, doing this?”

She silently asked him the same question.

Lancer was not sure how long they stood there, nor how long the battle of wills lasted. It may have been half the night, for he was sure the moonlight danced across her face the longer he stared, as it brought to mind similar eyes from memories he would have rather not remembered. Lancer wondered if history was to repeat itself, and then he asked himself if he would be satisfied with that. He had done nothing but relive old glories, so perhaps it was only right that he relive his mistakes as well.

“…alright. You win, warrior.”

His attack was imperceptible to the child. She did not feel a thing as Gae Bolg’s end whipped through the air and slammed into the side of her head, sending her sprawling lifelessly across the carpet like a broken doll.

Lancer grumbled wordlessly to himself, a bitter taste in his mouth as he smashed the barricade with one fell blow and stepped through.

-------------------

Human and horse tumble through the sand. In the blinding haze, Lancer moves on instinct alone. He leans back to avoid a blade that slices hairs from his neck, and thrusts Gae Bolg forward, feeling it jump in his hands as it slams into something soft.

He steps back, waiting for the sand to settle and his vision to return. When all is clear once more, he stands alone in the circle, with the dead rider and her steed at his feet and all the rest of Rider’s army arranged around them, watching silently. Lancer wordlessly places his hands upon the fallen rider and her steed and feels them fade into magical energy, which he swiftly captures for himself.

He cracks his neck and wipes away the blood from his now-healed wound. “Next?” he asks.

A hulking brute of a man covered in armored plates leaps into the circle and immediately slams a great warhammer into the ground, roaring in disapproval.

“Pissed your friend bit it, huh. Blame her, not me.”

The armored hulk swings with enough force to blast away the sand behind Lancer, but he is already gone, ducking low and swiping at the man’s legs from the side. Gae Bolg clinks harmlessly off of steel boots, and Lancer curses the shallowness of his strike, before diving back to evade the hammer that drives into the earth along his path.

Before his foe can fix his posture, Lancer puts strength into his legs and leaps high, driving down point-first, focusing all his power in one armour-piercing blow. He sees the man’s helmet jerk upwards just before a spear point punches right through plate and embeds itself in between his shoulder and throat.

The victorious grin is wiped off Lancer’s face as the man releases his weapon, wraps the fingers of his left hand around Lancer’s wrist and spear both, and slams Lancer into the sand, driving the breath from his body. The armored man squeezes, and audible cracks signal bone bending before strength. He draws back his right fist, gauntlet spiked with metal, and slams it into the sand, with Lancer just barely drawing his head aside as it grazes his ear.

“Gae!” he cries as the man draws his helmet back for a fatal headbutt. “Bolg!”

A flare of red magical energy pulses through the magical circle. A thousand thorns spread through the large man, upon which he shudders, breathes his last, and passes on, leaving behind only a scant bounty of magical energy with which Lancer can’t hope to recoup the losses to his reserves.

Still, the spearman stands, now nursing his left wrist, which throbs painfully.

Lancer stares at the army that now surrounds him. Just past the edge of his runic circle are over ten thousand warriors who want him dead. He can see in their faces both scorn and jealousy, for the smell of blood has awakened their instincts just as much as his. They were summoned to serve, but that reason is rapidly fading. He knows how it will go. He has seen this before, on the border river between two lands, where he dueled for three days and nights to hold back an army. After a few bouts, after more deaths of treasured allies and blood brothers, it will be too late to restore their reason. They and he will be nothing more than animals whose only desire is violence.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Next?” he calls, and a new hero steps up.

From the back of the crowd, riding atop Bucephalus for a better view, Rider watches silently.

He watches his friend, the renowned martial artist who taught orphans to defend themselves, lose a finger, a hand, and then his life to Lancer’s red spear.

He watches his friend, the wise sage who had never lost his cool even staring down death, choke on his last spell and die gurgling before he could do a thing.

He watches his friend, the quiet criminal who’d found her redemption saving him from an ambush, crippled and executed with casual finesse by someone who’d done the same a thousand times.

Rider watches, and begins to wonder if he was right to ask this man to join him. Even if it means nothing, even if he and his army have tasted death a hundred times, is it right to ask them to die just so he can pursue yet another ally? Rider wonders, and ponders the thought for several moments, before dismissing it. It is right. If it were not, he would be no King at all.

Next he wonders if he has the time to grant Lancer’s request like this. Rider’s Noble Phantasm does not normally last long. He cannot afford to take his time, can he? Yet the energy thrumming within Rider’s chest tells him he has hours, if not days. This close to their power source, to the Grail itself, empowered by his Master’s remaining Command Seals, he can fight at his fullest, while his opponent slowly spends his last reserves of energy.

As Rider sits upon his steed, he slowly begins to wonder less and less, as do the men and women around him. The smell and taste of blood fills the air and taints the sand. They are transfixed, mesmerized by the gladiatorial nature of the mad hero fighting an endless battle before them. A small part of Rider, even as he is drawn into the heady haze, is disgusted by it. He is no barbarian king, he thinks, to be enjoying blood sport. And yet he enjoys it all the same, cursing and cheering on the deaths of his friends while wondering when it will end.

Lancer is worn down, blow by blow, swing by swing, by a succession of heroes, each worthy opponents and legends in their own right. Each time, he finds a way to survive and to win. Each time, he feels a familiar thrill, the joy of being alive. Each time, each time, each time… how many times has it been, he thinks? The stray thought almost gets him killed as a mighty axe cleaves through the air and nearly through his head. No thoughts now. Only life and death remain.

He laughs, and calls out “Gae Bolg!” once more.

The roar is constant now. Men stamp their feet and shout their collective rage into the arena where the hero slowly dies the death of a thousand cuts. How many has he killed now? Surely over a hundred have fallen by his hand, with thousands more waiting, wishing to win the glory of ending the hero’s rampage. They wave their hands and weapons, and beneath the reproachful sun their shadows dance and mingle and travel, darkness twisting beneath light as the son of light fights off the darkness of death.

Soon, Rider knows. Soon it will end. He beholds Lancer leaning on his spear for support, one arm limp, legs like lead, and a hole in his stomach that will not stop bleeding. The next one, surely, will end him. Yet Lancer’s still says “Next!” so strongly that for a moment Rider’s confidence is shaken, and he believes the man’s impossible victory may manifest for real.

Rider leans forward, almost wanting to step into the ring himself. Warrior blood boils in his veins, warring against the distant composure of a king. Only his last remaining shred of discipline prevents the suicidal action. Everyone around him has lost their minds already, chanting, calling for death. He only barely remembers he is supposed to be a hero, not a beast.

Lancer stumbles then, a sword stuck in his gut up to the hilt. The warrior opposing him twists the blade and pushes it deeper, and Lancer releases a wet gurgle as his legs buckle, even as he rams Gae Bolg into the other man’s chest, returning the favour. They remain locked in struggle, both slowly dying in each other’s arms.

“Finally-!” Rider is about to crow, before his breath catches.

With a guttural scream, Lancer seizes the hair of his foe with his other hand and sharply pulls. Red wells up along the man’s head and his grip on the blade loosens for the single moment it takes for Lancer to lift him up, impaled on Gae Bolg, and hurl him bodily into Ath nGabla’s barrier. A sickening crunch follows a short fall, and when the disarmed warrior rises the last thing he sees is blue, before Lancer’s extended foot catches his jaw and spins it around his head.

The spearman grabs the blade going through his body and tears it loose, throwing it unceremoniously onto the sand. Runes glow on Gae Bolg’s blade as he brings it to the hole in his chest, and the sound and smell of flesh sizzling that follows is enough to make even Rider wince.

“No, of course not. You would not fall just from this,” Rider murmurs to himself. “The last battle of one so stubborn should outmatch even the aristeia of Diomedes. If only I could cast aside my duties and be the one to fell you at last!”

The shadows twist and move beneath the shaken army, jumping to and fro. A place meant for triumph has been stained. They feel a hint of uncertainty, and it is enough to drive them into a frenzy.

“Who’s next!?” asks Lancer, and none answer his summons. The sun shines at his back, a halo of light booming about his wild hair and mad eyes. Rather than weakening from his wounds, each one seems to give him strength. “Who’s next!?” he demands once more, and slams the butt of Gae Bolg into the sand, shattering what remains of his fractured runic circle.

Answers rise to his challenge instantly. The first to step forward is another spearman, clad in golden armor and winged helm, bearing a short spear and small shield. “That battle-lust will be your end, and Ptolemy shall see it delivered!” he calls out, and then flies across the sands straight towards his target as if borne by heavenly winds. Lancer meets his charge with pure aggression, rears back, and thrusts Gae Bolg forward in a great joust.

Sparks fly as the tips of two blades meet and skid away from each other. Neither man stops his charge, and each measures the length of the other’s blade by their own. Just as Gae Bolg is about to slice off his fingers the golden spearman twists his hand, warping the length of wood in his hands and nearly bucking the red spear out of Lancer’s grip. His shield hand comes up and around, aiming at Lancer’s unprotected neck just as they meet, a ploy designed to decapitate his foe at the last moment.

With a shout and a sudden burst of speed, Lancer drives his head and shoulder into Ptolemy’s chest rather than face the sharpened shield’s edge. It’s like headbutting a wall, but succeeds in draining the strength from the other spearman’s charge, sending him sailing back with his breastplate crumpled while Lancer continues forward, driven more by mania than strength.

The flying spearman is caught by three allies, with four more stepping forward, bringing spears and tower shields to bear. Even as they prepare to meet Lancer’s wild charge, he does not slow for an instant. He draws back Gae Bolg, muscles tensing and then twisting far beyond human shape, and then looses a great onehanded swing that would shatter any other spear from the force of the ill-fitting strike, yet instead divides in two the hafts of the men’s spears, and their shields as well.

Mad with rage, the Hound of Culann falls upon his foes with his bare hands. The last thing Ptolemy and his entourage see before their second deaths are the whites of Lancer’s eyes and the crimson of his heart in his throat as he screams out the war cry of the Red Branch.

Beautiful, Rider thinks. No, dreadful. But in its own way, beautiful. A shame, then, that it must end.

The next moment, a heavy warhorse barrels down on Lancer from the other side of the clearing, before the red fog in his eyes can fade. Hooves strike across the small of his back and a scimitar slices open his skin from shin to shoulder. He is shoved to the ground, then a weight he cannot lift drops on his neck, crushing him to the ground. A volley of arrows rises to the sky to rain down upon him, blotting out the sun in the process, even as he curses and struggles to free himself.

Shadow envelops all of them in that instant. From person to person, man pushes past man, for they are no longer an army; they are a mass of individuals, all surging towards the center to sate their hunger for revenge.

All save one, slips past in the opposite direction.

Rider leans forward, excitement rising in his throat. Surely, he thinks, this is it. Even Herakles could be felled. This was Lancer’s final charge. The arrows descend, and the king hears them thudding into flesh, one after another and all at once. Elation fills chest, relief that this one-sided massacre might finally be over, and soft comfort on the back of his neck-.

“Eh?”

Softly, softly, a hand strokes Rider’s cheek, while another softly, softly, traces a line across his throat. The line opens up red, and blood rushes from his head, and he is all of a sudden dizzy, and his hands can no longer hold the reins, and he is falling, falling, falling.

He lays on the sand, staring straight up at the blinding sun. He tries to speak, to call for aid, but he cannot. Not one of his warriors notices, for they cannot tear their eyes away from Lancer’s demise. Only one looks Rider’s way: a small dusky-skinned girl. She stares down at him, and he up at her. She clutches a small dagger tightly in her dainty fingers.

Strange, Rider thinks. This small shadow doesn’t seem like she could hurt anything.

Determination fills the girl’s eyes. The hero-light shines about her head, and she drives the blade down into Rider until it can go no further, until he spasms and croaks and is finally, mercifully, still. He dies surrounded by friends. Not a one notices, not until the deep hollow feeling in their chests makes itself known, and hunger for violence becomes heavy sorrow, and the cheers for blood reduce to wails of lamentation.

The wails fall silent within seconds. The once-crowded desert is now nearly empty. It will vanish momentarily, but enough time remains for its two remaining inhabitants to look at each other.

Lancer, too lies on his back, staring at the sun. He is in worse shape than Rider was, living by stubbornness alone. One hand is broken and twisted. Both legs are swollen. Ten arrows have found their mark on him, each in the most inconvenient possible location, his back is cracked in several places, and blood festers from the sword wound to his stomach. Finally, his ribs have nearly caved in. Nothing too bad, he thinks. He’s died from worse.

The girl walks through the bloody desert until she reaches Lancer, and he offers her a wink and a weak smile.

“Good job, little sand worm,” he says. “Is he…?”

She nods.

“Well… that was fun. Haven’t ever… done that before…”

She looks about the desert. “You never fought them?” Assassin’s remnant asks, her voice small and unsure.

“No… pretty sure I have…” he closes his eyes, thinks back, and smiles. “But what I meant… was you.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hands, at the knife, and then at the fallen hero. She hesitates, yet unsure.

“Don’t… no need to say it… I remember. You do too, right?”

She nods. Lancer opens his eyes again. Before him stands a different child, a young boy with fair hair and eyes like rubies. The boy beams, his smile like the sun.

“Ah… thanks.” Lancer closes his eyes and burns the sight into his memory forever, even if forever will end momentarily. “Go on,” he says. “Win this thing, will ya? You’re the last Servant now. And if you meet the guy who summoned me… give him what he deserves.”

He cannot see the child anymore, but he imagines she has nodded.

The desert disappears around them. A small, gentle hand touches Lancer’s cheek, and then it is gone.

“Ah… so that’s how it feels…”

The hero lays in long rest, spent and content, knowing the light will never fade.

[Dullahan]

bringing it back

[Rafflesiac]

Good stuff.

[SpoonyViking]

Shame I didn't catch this back in the day, but I'm glad to have discovered it now. These are all very good!