Happy birthday to me, and this is from me to all y'all!
Contains spoilers for Fate/Grand Order and Dies irae ~Amantes Amentes~.
Disclaimer:
Fate/Grand Order, Dies irae, and its related concepts and ideas are the intellectual properties of Kinoko Nasu, Masada Takashi, Type-MOON, Notes Ltd., light, and other respective rights holders. This story is written solely for the purpose of entertainment, and not for any sort of monetary profit. If anything, consider this free advertising.
5 June, 1942 — Berlin, Germany 00:00
Operation Anthropoid had successfully concluded a little over a week ago. Obergruppenführer and chief of the Gestapo, Reinhard Heydrich, a man of unfettered ruthlessness and one of the 'Four Big Hs' of the Reich, had succumbed to his grievous wounds and died in a dingy ward of Prague's Bulovka Hospital.
Thus, did that chapter of the ambitious and warlike nation's story end, and so a new one began, a transition smoother than that of a page being turned. The rebel assassins responsible for offing the head of the secret police would not be allowed the luxury of lives as war heroes. A massive manhunt would be conducted, the largest in Nazi Germany's history. The men responsible for Heydrich's demise would be hunted and driven to their deaths—victims and martyrs to the cause against German oppression. Thousands more, Jews, innocent of the assassination plot, would be killed as part of Hitler's revenge.
That was the price of victory in this era of wartime. Though the loss of life as a direct consequence was immense it was a victory nonetheless. It was one step of many necessary to topple the Germans and to bring an end to the World War's continental fronts. That was the price of victory, the price of life.
To both Allies and Axis, Reinhard Heydrich was a priceless existence, valuable whether he lived or died, and upon whose shoulders the future of that world-at-war resided.
But, humans are capable of pricing even the priceless;
To both Allies and Axis, Reinhard Heydrich was a man worth the thousands executed.
These events and accompanying results—brutal in an era of concentrated brutality—was all to be expected. History properly proceeded according to the principles of common sense, grounded firmly in reality. No anomaly to be found there. There had been no body doubles. No curing him in a secret facility. No arcane rituals to be commenced hence. No matter his path, no matter his accomplishments, Heydrich lived and died as a man.
While the rest of Nazi high command reeled from the loss of Heydrich, the Ahnenerbe went about their business as usual.
It was the witching hour, on the clock, and only hours since the confirmed death of the Butcher of the Schutzstaffel. A stout truck, Mercedes-Benz L3000, as much a veteran tempered in the flames of this Greater War as the men aboard it, growled down the familiar streets of Berlin. Its headlights glowed in the darkness light like a pair of demon's eyes, looking like an infernal machine laden with fell cargo.
"The nine fragments of the mummified saint is one thing, and the nine-headed hydra fetus is another, and that meteorite sword certainly has its own value," one of the Nazis said to another, idling away the last legs of the journey with conversation. "But, this is a first. Isn't this the first 'holy grail' that Ahnenerbe has claimed?"
"Don't have the clearance to know our full inventory, but it's likely," replied his conversation partner. "Why else would the superiors send us south with an actual 'Fafner' class? Otto, it's got to be so!"
When rumors of a grail buried in rural French territory had reached said superiors those men underwent a renewed thirst for it. Salt had been poured into the freshly-reopened wound of the German army's previous failure in Fuyuki City's battle ritual of years before and a fire had been lit under the collective arses of those within their group.
Hence, this monster of a car was granted to this blitzkrieg of a retrieval operation. This vehicle was not only of sturdy, quality make at least as much as the rest of its brothers on the frontlines, it was a treasure truck. A grounded Ahnenerbe skua used to spirit away pilfered artifacts back to Himmler's grubby hands. It was custom-worked to the gills. The carapace of its caboose was far thicker than regulation decreed – fifteen centimeters of Teutonic steel, sandwiched about a layer of lead. Extra protection for the occult within. Pandora's Box on wheels.
The Nazis within were well protected, yet trapped inside the cabin with their precious, deadly, deadly precious cargo.
"Only folk as stupid as those pig-headed Gauls could call THAT a holy grail," the one named Otto Glas pointed with his chin toward the crate tethered to the center of the truck's pallet with a blanket of chainmail netting. Longer than it was tall, it was the only good being transported, sans the men looking over it. "It's not even a chalice. Damned romantics."
"It grants wishes, so it's a holy grail in that village's book."
"Get real, Seb! The only wish it grants is DEATH."
"But it does so so reliably. No wonder her grave had become a secret altar."
"If I looked THAT good when I'd been dead for a hundred-fifty-plus years I'd be worshipped, too."
All of the men kept close watch on the crate, the coffin. Though they were weary from sitting down so much as the trip progressed to and from homebase and its destination their muscles bristled with apt wariness. If the coffin came loose, threatened to so much as drift in anyone's direction, they knew to jump out of the way and re-stabilize the box. If IT was loosed, if IT touched anyone, then that man would instantly die. Their neck would split. Blood would spray from the perfect cross-sectioned stump like water from an exploded hydrant. Their head would bounce and roll across the floor, their last seconds of consciousness to be experienced at jackboot-level.
The blade of an invisible, unstoppable guillotine would claim their head. Just like what had happened to Ike, David, Jahn, Conor. The exhumation of her remains had a deadly conclusion for a few of the Ahnenerbe's good men. The treasure poachers could hardly be blamed for the extra-conscientious trepidation.
Knowing that, they were still drawn to their tack, for reasons beyond interested professionalism. Every one of them who remained aboard the L3000 had participated in the exhuming of the remains. They knew just how beautiful this package was.
No one knew the reason for her miraculous, immaculate preservation. With what was she blessed? Cursed? Whatever it was, it was extraordinary. Nothing they had ever seen in their time at the agency compared to her. Skin the color of fresh milk, wholly blemish free. Downy blonde hair that went well past the shoulders that would have caught the golden sunlight just so. Fertile and womanly curves, wide hips made for child-bearing and pleasantly plump thighs and voluptuous bosom—a body that just wouldn't quit in life and in death. Perhaps she'd've driven the village men wild. Perhaps she actually was a temptress. She certainly tempted even the Ahnenerbe men who had claimed her from the backwater French village.
Simon Staussman had said, his voice a tad wistful as he took a swig from a canteen full of schnaps. "From the way she looks, if you warmed those remains up to a suitable temperature then she'd be just as taut and inviting as any living woman."
Otto had quirked an eyebrow in judgment of his fellow. "The fact that her head is decapitated from her body is a bit of a turn-off, no?"
"Yes," admitted Simon. "JUST a bit!" he grinned a cheeky grin and a bongo staccato of a laugh.
Whether she was a saint, or a witch, or a goddess or a demon, all anyone knew was that the body of Marguerite Breuilh contained an absolute and highly specialized power.
"Offering a quickly-answered prayer to her for swift death. Imagine if such a power could be controlled, redirected," said another, named Herman Siegkirk.
"Now that's thinking like an Aryan!" Sebastian 'Seb' Amsel jovially wisecracked. Despite the tension in the cabin, a few other Nazis laughed. Yet, the always kept one eye on the coffin, on the watch for potentially deadly instability.
Soon enough the expedition returned home. Ahnenerbe men back at Ahnenerbe HQ, the Berlin branch. Specifically, the top-secret storeroom of the project, where only the most potent and eldritch of prizes resided. The LJ3000 grinded to a half. That was the cue for the men to stand up and gingerly unpack the coffin from the truck. The box was picked up by the handles on its sides, and the squad of Nazis, evocative of funerary guests with their black uniforms and the young woman's remains in tow, pallbore the coffin away into their possession.
They hid this holy grail—their FIRST holy grail—away from the prying eyes of the Holy Church, stowed it away into a particularly hallowed corner of the Ahnenerbe reliquary; a deep and secure chamber reserved for only the most sacred, most potent of artifacts.
Thus, L'enfant de Punition was stored alongside Longinuslanze, and THAT was the catalyst for the abnormality that wracked this history.
The end began the moment the relics were in proximity of each other. The air in the room changed. The smell of ozone and wet fields. Like lightning about to strike a graveyard. Struck, too, were the Ahnenerbe members. Their crew-cuts stood on end. Channels of energy flowed from crate to crate, aura that swirled and jumped between the vessels like a pair of explosive Tesla coils.
"What is it?! What's going on?! I've never seen anything like it!" Veterans, the lot of them, and not a one had seen such a spectacle of a ritual commence itself so spontaneously violent before their eyes. The other relics shook in their containers, as is trembling in fear. "How can this be!" cried out the scholarly foot soldier Sebastian, "Why this synergy—?!"
"Is it a relation between the two? Was she anointed by speartip?!"
"Impossible! You saw the body! The stigmata doesn't match up! There is not a single stab wound on the body! She cuts off all heads, hers included!"
Godly lance and the corpse of a goddess. Two artifacts of peerless supernatural might resonated with each other. Two artifacts with nothing to do with each other.
The ritual grew exponentially more apocalyptic with each millisecond. Their uniforms rustled on their bodies, as if they were caught in the headwinds of typhoon. A nascent sunburst welled at the point where the two wildly undulating streams connected. Its light was blindingly powerful, cast bright darkness about the room that made shadows grow long and impenetrable and sinister.
"We have to stop it!" cried Johan.
"Yes, but how!? There's no precedent!" bemoaned Klein.
"Just do something! Anything at all!" Simon snapped, fear and anger making his eyes twitch wildly.
This disturbing phenomenon reminded all who were present to witness it of a lit fuse, brilliantly burning away and impossible to stop.
The godly lance and the corpse of a goddess. Two artifacts of peerless supernatural might resonated with each other. Two artifacts with nothing to do with each other. Two artifacts with nothing to do with each other — except in a certain sector of the multiverse.
A pulse of gravity made their stomachs feel like lead.
They should have never been gathered in the same place. To associate one with the other was to reconnect the ties that bound the Mercurial Serpent's master plan.
A small door had opened.
Time seemed to halt in place for the people in that room. A svelte voice, smooth as molten gold spoke to them all.
"Such a grave accident, one that sets all your fates in stone. Yet, it is a happy accident nonetheless. I thank you, fine gentlemen of an Ahnenerbe not our own. This fresh world is one that I shall embrace with all of my love."
"...Heydrich?" they whispered in synchronized, reverent disbelief upon recognition of the voice.
Time flowed again. A leyshift occurred in that very room.
And all Hell broke loose.
The door was small, but it was enough. Hell detonated forth from that nexus point like a supernova, and Berlin became ground zero for the endtimes.
Boxes of insignificant and powerless artifacts were crushed in that storm of rage. Otto was pierced with so many bayonets that he resembled a pincushion, a brutally joyful ode to impalement as his flesh oozed juicy lifeblood, like from a hot, popped wurst. Sebastian was pulverized with a storm of lead. Robbed of his Aryan aesthetics in a moment's notice. Ground up into bullet-cooked hamburger. Simon was stuck with knife-blow after knife-blow, brained with the butts of countless firearms, tenderized into a soft loin with a brigade's worth of flailing limbs. Herman, Klein, Johan—the entire squad of treasure hunters was eradicated and shredded like cabbage. Put the 'Kraut' in sauerkraut.
Their deaths, all, were but the first course of a perpetual feast for the still-hungering and invading Valhallans.
Meat. Blood. Bone. Viscera. It all spilled freely but for an instant. An instant was all it took. Thousands of whooping ghastly warriors gushing from it per second had annihilated every single person in the room before any soldier's heart had a chance to even beat once. The Ahnenerbe compound was instantly reduced to vaporous dust, a finer level of destruction than what even the atomic bombs slated to be dropped on on the Nipponese Empire in only a few years hence would have been capable of. Such bombs would never drop in this timeline, for the absolute power henceforth would be the radiant demon of a man who had emanated his perverse desire all over the world.
Berlin, the intended perpetual capital of Hitler's reign, was instantly overshadowed by the leering golden castle that hovered above the freshly-reaped capital of Nazi Germany.
From the first universe that ever existed to the last that ever shall be, Reinhard Eugen Tristan Heydrich's foul Weltall was the true thousand-year Reich and would last a thousand years more.
.
- ] | [ -
.
5 June, 2017 — Chaldea Security Organization, 7:00
The alarm clock on your smartphone goes off, and a chipper tune that you've heard hundreds of times before emanates out and allows you to wake up and start your day. With a groan and a yawn you greet the morning in kind.
Upon checking to the best of your abilities to confirm that no troublemaker(s) have snuck into your bed for some amorous funny business, you strip out of your Four-print PJs—a gift from a certain Servant—and take a soak in the shower. No longer than ten minutes. As Chaldea's 48th, and only surviving, Master, you do maintain some responsibilities and obligations, even outside the times of crisis that arise with each new Order and strange singularity. Even though the Human Order has been saved, there's still this and that to be asked of you. Thus, you've made it a habit to wake promptly.
"At least I have weekends off," you say to yourself as you pat the wrinkles in your immaculately-white uniform down and finger an ear to get the water out of it. "Sorta."
There is a knock on your bedroom door accompanied by a small clattering. You perk up at the sound of a guest, and compose yourself further upon recognition of the voice. "Senpai? May I come in?"
"Matthew? Door's unlocked. Come on in," you say to her.
"Pardon me, but you sleep with your door unlocked?"
"Why bother? Anyone who really wants to get in will get in, and there's nothing I can do stop them."
"That attitude is why people like Kiyohime, Raikou, and Medb always pick on you."
"That's one way to put it..." you muse, your mind briefly drifting towards remembered thoughts of hellish heavens brought on by them and others.
"Anyway!" The one-and-only Miss Kyrielight squeaked, desperate to regain the conversational reigns. "I should have been more clear: may you please open the door for me? At present my hands are rather full."
"Right. Of course. Sorry to make you talk through a door." You bow in apology, even though you're still talking to her through a door, and open up said door in order to let her in. Without any barrier to block your sights you see each other for the first time since you've woken up. "Good morning, Senpai," Matthew greets you. Bearing a covered tray, she enters, and with a trace of an uncertain wobble in her steps.
"Jeepers creepers, Matthew. Your eyes are all red," and indeed, her bespectacled, amethyst eyes peeking through the dangling bangs of her fair hair are acutely bleary.
"Oh! Oh no. Is it that obvious?" She pushes up her lens with the edge of her left forefinger and rubs at them, a feeble attempt to banish away the telltale sleepiness. Even though it quivers slightly without the additional support of the left, her hand still dutifully grips onto the tray. "Physical signs of fatigue, I can't say I didn't expect it."
"What are you talking about? I mean, sit down, first."
"I'm not the one who's supposed to be relaxing, but if you insist, then I shall," Mathew sets her burden down atop your clear glass end table and sits in the sleek chair beside it. Her head lolls for a moment, but then she quickly stabilizes herself and looks to you.
"So? What's up?"
"Am I not allowed? Does it trouble you that I'm here so early?"
"Not at all. But, you seem very tired. It's worrisome."
"Ah, that. Well, about that..." Matthew's words stall in her throat some, out of shyness and fatigue in equal measure. "Normally you'd leave to go have breakfast at the dining commons, right?"
"Yeah, with you."
"As would be usual. That is, until last night. I had an idea. Just once, I wanted to make breakfast. For us."
"Oh..."
"However, I lack that. The knowledge. The experience."
You shrug your shoulders and tell her "Cereal isn't that hard."
Matthew balks at that. "It had to be something special! I thought pancakes. So, I prostrated myself before Princess Medea and asked her to teach me how to make them.
"I really am no good at cooking, but once she heard of my plight, got into her head what she assumed my motivations are, she became wholly dedicated and took me under her wing. It took me all night long, but I finally learned how to make pancakes!"
"Can confirm that Medea Lily is hella into pancakes."
"That's one way to put it..." Matthew muses, some shyness in her voice as she remembered the Colchinese royal's dusk-til-dawn heart-throbbing cooking lesson devoted to all of the Jasons and Senpais in the world.
You dared to change the subject, ever so briefly, to a thought that had barely escaped you. "By now we've been friends for two years. Did you really not know that I always keep my door unlocked?"
"You see, I never bothered to storm into your room all on my own before."
"We need to preserve you for future generations because you're some kind of national treasure, Matthew."
"I'm both flattered and concerned, Senpai!"
"Anywho. So that means that the tray is—"
"It's breakfast in bed! So, if you would kindly..."
"Ah, alright," and you sit down on the bed, clearing up your lap and ready to make it available. Matthew stands up, renewed determination in her steps, and presents you with the tray. She takes the top off. Underneath it is a stack of still-steaming hotcakes. Fluffy and thick, brown on top yet delightfully pale in the middle, not soggy at all, despite being underneath a lid for the entirety of you and Matthew's back and forth. On the side: a sauce of butter, a pitcher of maple syrup, and a bowlful of fresh fruit. Cantaloupe cubes, sliced strawberries, whole blueberries, kiwi wedges.
"Wow, Matthew! It looks delicious!"
"I thought...it best to keep it simple, for my first time."
"Matthew's first time... Uh! I, er, mean, yeah, it's simple, compared to the last time Medea Lily made pancakes." Putting aside impure thoughts, you remember it. The extravagance. The excess. A plague of pancakes. Drowned in an endless spread of sauces, fruits, whipped cream, chocolate, caramel, drizzles of every conceivable flavor, cloyingly sweet. It was a Herculean task to eat them all. It actually ended up as Herakles' Thirteenth Labor, you'd swear that much. Once again you gave thanks that the greatest hero in all of Greece was your ally.
Matthew's pancakes, in contrast, were simple things. Intimate sweets.
"Please enjoy it, Senpai. I made it for you."
"Don't you wanna share? You've been up how long? When did you last eat?"
"It's fine," said Matthew. "I had some coffee. That shall keep me up."
"At least sit down here. You're welcome to do that. A girl who pulled an all-nighter isn't allowed to just stand around while I eat this tasty-looking breakfast."
"If you insist," so she says, but she says it with a small, proud smile upon her face. At your behest the sleepy-eyed Matthew takes a seat besides you, atop your bed as well.
You flash her a nod of approval, and give a word of thanks before you partake of the proverbial most important meal of the day. "Alright, let's see how it goes!" Butter and syrup are liberally applied. Then, a slice of the stack is forked and popped into your mouth. The taste of it immediately makes your eyes light up. "Holy crap! This is GOOD! And is that a fried egg in-between each layer? Ah, man, they're runny, too! Unexpected, but decadent! I like it! Hey, Matthew! You made this for us, right? Come and try some of—"
Prepared to offer the chef a forkful of her own dish, you turn to the girl in question and see that she lies prone upon your bed. Bangs drape over her closed eyes. Her breathing is steady, slow.
Matthew Kyrielight has fallen asleep on your bed.
" 'Coffee,' huh?" you gently pat her head and continue to eat the breakfast that she worked so hard on.
.
- ] | [ -
.
The blaring klaxon jolts Matthew Kyrielight awake.
"Ah! Senpai?!" She bolts upright, calling for you. A blanket falls off of her. But, you're nowhere in sight. She is alone in an empty bedroom, an empty tray of tableware and cutlery next to her. "Senpai?! Oh no!"
The warning screeches at her. Urges her. Her heart is already racing, has taken a head start. She complies. She takes off like a loaded gun. Before she even realizes it she's already sprinting down Chaldea's white marble halls, veering straight for the command room.
The young woman isn't sleepy anymore, of that much she is certain.
Though she runs as fast as she can she feels like she has been dragging her feet the whole while. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" She holds back the tears as she apologizes for her neglect. It's her folly. She knows it. It's because of her that everyone's problems have surely compounded in her absence.
"Miss Kyrielight, good timing! What I mean by that is this situation is truly bad, but at least your timing is good nonetheless!" said Leonardo da Vinci as she regarded the newly arrived girl. The Renaissance Man-Turned-Woman turns a blind eye to Matthew's sins, perceived or otherwise. Matthew takes a closer second look and sees you, the 48th Chaldean, alongside da Vinci. Stowing away the trepidation, she breathes a small sigh of relief, but the feeling is soured by the urgency. "Take a look at Chaldeas yourself."
That very map, a world-egg of a globe, and the center of Chaldea's whole operation of the observation and preservation of humanity's future. Any problems with history, past or present, would show up as glowing blips, isolated singularities closely associated with a certain region that served as the base of the incident.
"Oh no. What's wrong with Chald—"
Then, Matthew Kyrielight sees it.
"—eas?"
"It's quite a sight," da Vinci says, a reserved and seriously-toned awe.
Unlike another similar occasion, Chaldeas doesn't roil with flickering flames, its recognizable continents and shorelines being denigrated into tinder for history-burning schemes.
The entire world has turned gold.
Pure gold.
Beautiful, featureless gold.
Matthew regains a modicum of composure. "It's hideous," she says, still reeling at the sight of the totality of it all.
"Isn't it?" da Vinci agrees, her expression still concerned and fixated. "We're burning serious rubber, running as many diagnostics as we are. There hasn't been anything of this scale since Beast I kickstarted our adventures."
"Wow, how nostalgic," you sneer, also unable to peel your eyes away from the transfigured world suspended amid the massive pedestal of thaumaturgical technology. "So, what? Some kind of Reality Marble?"
"Despite how impressive it looks, in the end it's all a singularity," The woman waves it off, as a means to regain command of the situation rather than to play it off as nothing serious. Anyone can tell that the whole world has been overtaken by something fearful. "Once the fine men and women of Chaldea pinpoint the date of the incident then it's down to business as usual."
"Senpai? I'm sorry. I should've been here, right beside you as it happened."
"Don't beat yourself up over it, Matthew. You were tired. I let you rest. You needed it."
"Even so, I was neglectful. Irresponsible. I deserve demerits."
"I told you. It's not your fault. It's some asshole's. It's our job to set things right."
" 'Right?' Yes, 'right.' Of course. We just need to do it together, as always."
"Be glad that you're a light sleeper. You barely missed anything."
"Ma'am, da Vinci!" came Operator Vernon's voice from the other end of the comm. "We got a lockdown on it! 1942, Berlin, Germany!"
Now that, that's a period that shook the world. A time that was modern history's infancy, baptized in the charred blood of millions. It's certainly no exaggeration to say that everyone who lives in modern society, as part of a global Planet Earth, has had their present and future influenced by those years of world war, you included.
"If there was any place that a singularity would show, that'd definitely be it," you say, fist clenched.
"Okay then, Vernon! You wonderful bridge bunnies know the drill. Fire up those coffins! Master, please prepare for a leyshift to that charming time and place."
"Don't need to tell me twice!" and you make to step out and into the transference chamber.
This time, it's a woman's voice that wells from the comm. "What the hell is this?! Da Vinci, these signals!"
"Operator Tashi?! Report!"
Tashi doesn't get the chance to say her piece before it happens. The globe shifts into a single aurum eye that runs through everyone in Chaldea to the core.
—An evil eye.
"We've been backtraced!"
Your team has pinged the singularity, and the singularity has pinged back. The various meters that track and regulate the readings and systems of history and Chaldea spike and beep and whistle like they're all going to break. A massive influx of prana warbles about, makes the air feel as thick as pudding.
Code red.
Code red, indeed.
"It's right outside!" says another of the panicked operators. "The energy is amassing on the facility's grounds! No, it's emanating—!"
A churning vortex. A star of magical energy. Like the summonings you've seen done hundreds of times before exponentially expanded. Like an entire world has been dumped on your doorstep. A natural disaster is in progress, just outside of Chaldea's sturdy and flimsy walls. Space distorts under the weight of the presence. All monitors are turned to it, unable to look away.
Space bleeds like a ruptured hymen, leaks foul essence into the surrounding air. A hole shreds space. A cyclopean golden skeleton slides through the causeway as if crowning out from a gargantuan birth canal. Like its lower body is still sealed away in some unholy womb in another time and place, another world. It looms over the facility of Chaldea, its shadow dark on the white snow that perennially litters the ground at these high altitudes.
"TRISMEGISTUS' random access memory has been triggered! It recognizes this level of power! It's Tiamat-tier, at least!" O-Tashi explains, alarmed.
"This is bad, Senpai," Matthew says in response to the data. "Shit," you iterate. "Yes! Very 'shit!' " she responds, in a tizzy that'd be adorable were it not for the gravity of the situation.
Fear and loathing fill your heart. You remember the Pyrrhic victory in ancient Mesopotamia, courtesy of the immensely-powerful primordial goddess that this thing has been likened to. Powerful anxiety tempered by your experiences laps at your senses. You make the decision. You must keep yourself too busy to be afraid. Thus, you mentally shout a command that is received by every single one of the Servants contracted to you. Each one is living proof of the Human Order's accomplishments. Larger than life personalities, to boot. Many heads butted together. Many friendships and cliques formed within the ranks. Yet, despite it all, their reason for being here is singular. Despite their legion of differences their decision is unanimous.
Your order:
"Everyone to battle stations!"
Their answer:
"Don't need to tell us twice, Master!"
They are here because of you. You and your unbreakable connection with them.
Having relayed that order to all of your allies, you turn to the acting commander of the Chaldea Security Organization and call her name. "Leonardo da Vinci, Ma'am!"
"Yes?"
"Sorry in advance for the mess!"
The sound of a choir resonates across the frozen mountains. Each of the hundreds of notes that its melody is composed of is the voice of a superhuman. Each phrase spoken by each mighty individual contains words of power that acts as the firing pin to the strengths that make them such venerated heroes. Beams of light fueled by hopes and dreams and fury and ancient magics and everything in-between; devastating blasts of draconic soundwaves, sure-shot bullets and rending lighting; exploding projectiles of powder and brimstone; unknowable rays from enigmatic spacecraft; the hungry spirits of the dead; the power of the sun itself mighty enough to vaporize everything in its wake. This is but a small descriptive sampling of the powers at your side, directed straight at the manifested monstrosity right in your backyard. There are no pulled punches to be found here.
The golden bones remain unblemished.
Then, a voluminous and sublime voice reverberates from that hole in the heavens and across the land. "Isaak," HE commands with darkly biblical absoluteness. "Pluck the root. Seize the commander."
The titanic intruder acknowledges the god-given order with the impersonal voice of an emotionless doll. It is the rumble of an engine's gears turning, not a subordinate regarding their superior. "Lord Heydrich."
For the first time since its arrival the skeleton moves.
Its humongous hand surges forward as fast as a golden comet. It slams into the side of Chaldea, scatters the battery of Servants that had gathered atop her walls and launched their strongest attacks, their Noble Phantasms, at the device, the so-called "Isaak."
The whole central building shakes like it's been hit with an earthquake. Ceilings crumble. Floors collapse. Electricity flickers, fades, blacks out, a patchwork of the systems giving way and dying from ruptured connections. The facility has been ruptured like a cracked nut, rubble all along the rift.
But, this attack is no true attack. All of the widespread collateral is nothing for the mighty intruder to be concerned over. All that matters is the seizure of his given target.
With ginger precision and speeds fast enough to threaten you into black out, you are spirited away straight from Chaldea's familiar halls and into the vast and bony grasp of the giant skeleton. It lifts you up and away and into the frigid mountain air, which buffetts your exposed face and hands.
Part of you thinks that you hear Matthew passionately call out your name in anguished and longing sorrow brought on by your abduction, to accentuate the drama with raw and impotent emotions. But you know better. You saw her get knocked under a shower of rubble. What you hoped for, it was actually just the wind flaying your ears and playing with your mind.
"O-Of course!" you bemoan your situation, the only possible choice. "Why me?! Why me!!"
The skeleton does not reply. The exposed teeth would normally appear to a human's gaze as that of a deathly smile, perhaps cheeky. You now realize that that is just projection. The truth of the matter to you is obvious. There is no flesh here. No muscle, no skin. No way to express emotion at all.
It does not revel in its might, nor does it find any pride in its action. It is an unliving thing that only follows orders and does nothing else. It is a tool, governed by a purely mechanical concept.
Then, as to the one who wields said tool—
He says nothing, for there is no need to narrate everything that one does while merely driving a car.
The skeleton stirs again with further animation. It begins to recede back into the vortex. The flow reverses like unbirth on a gigantic scale. You feel like you're being airlifted straight into the gates of Hell.
"H-Help—"
You begin to call for aid, but you didn't even need to. Your Servants, routed though they were by the device's one and only 'attack,' have taken up the charge. Atalanta has fallen back into the rocky crags of the peaks that Chaldea juts from. The vantage point that the high ground provides is a boon to the Archer-class, and she takes advantage of it to launch a flurry of precisely-aimed arrows. Arrow after arrow crashes into the joints between each of the humongous knuckles.
A broadsword hurled like a missile bounces off. A jet of whitewater that can slice through mountains runs over it like mere raindrops. Chains meant to hold the giant in place instantly snap apart into useless steel. Daggers coated in the most deadly of poisons, hoped to disrupt some internal system—any internal system at all—that allows the skeleton to move are not granted the right to even nick the impenetrable golden plating. Everyone tries what they can to free you. Everyone does what they can to take down the pillaging invader.
The same song and dance repeats. Like a recurring chorus.
It is all to no avail. The will of God cannot possibly be defied.
But, no matter how futile such a venture might threaten to be, they would not be heroes if they didn't act in defiance of fate. They leap off the ramparts and into the air, determined to pry you directly away from your abductor. One Servant in particular amongst the many in this charge rockets away from Chaldea, and faster than the rest. Under the usual circumstances, he is not particularly agile, and is outclassed by many others in that regard. However, his magic—flexible, GRAND. He explodes his energy forth like an engine, aping the skill you recognize as Prana Burst, scattering the flight paths of his many co-Servants about him, and uses the propulsion to fly faster than any wind or hero the world has seen. He's full of determination and intention. "Master!" he calls to you.
"Merlin!" you likewise call to him.
"Master—grab hold!" As Merlin catches up to 'Isaak' and flies towards you he aims his staff forward, to you. You pull at your arm with all your strength, desperate to free it. You dislocate it, and the pain flares up and makes you scream. But, it's free, and you reach out with all your might to the Caster's powerful mystic code.
The air swirls around you all, as if the vortex you're inside of is a monolithic hurricane, a whirlpool to damn you the darkest of abysses. You're pulled. Merlin pushes forward. It's his speed versus the bones' speed. You roar in agony. Merlin groans from the strain. There is an equilibrium of movement. He chases forever. You are chased forever.
Then, the scale tips. The Grand Caster moves forward. It's enough. Your fingers find purchase on his magic staff, and he pulls himself right to you. Merlin's face is painted over with utter distress and anguish, sweat running down his face. "Master—! PLEASE—!!!"
You oblige. You offer no resistance. Magic most powerful and venerated flows through your body. Magic cast directly on you. Magic that streams through your every capillary and pore, flows through your channels and outwards—
'Nid oes lle i mi y lle hwn yn fy;'
A miracle occurs. Not by chance, but from your body, used as the basis for the ritual.
'——Cyfnewid meddyliol a chorfforol mil o filltiroedd——'
One instant; you're captive to the most perfect prison to exist in reality.
'———i gerdded yn eich esgidiau i fyny rhiw, sacrament o'n ffordd!'
The next; you see Merlin in your place, and you're instead being blown about by the winds of time.
'Teleportation... exchange spell, successful...' You could never hear Merlin's words, so he speaks directly to your thoughts. His words may be strained, but there is nonetheless satisfaction there. 'Thank goodness...'
'Merlin? What now?' you ask, but your question is already answered, has been answered since the very start.
With dim but dawning awareness, you recognize it: a leyshift in progress.
With that, you close your eyes and welcome yourself to the year 1942.
.
- ] | [ -
.
5 June, 1942 — Berlin, Germany ??:??
Without even a moment's notice, he was freed of the iron-grip that crushed his very soul. The hand had let go of him. So, he fell. He fell as much as was he drawn. He was like a fish, reeled in by a taut line to an inescapable boat. Fell. Drawn. Summoned, from the heavens atop the world from which Chaldea observed human history and into the pits of Hell. His spiritual body was tugged by the yoke through fiery red depths.
The soul-crushing pressure returned, a millionfold—water-pressure from the burning sludge of an uncountable number of haunted souls. He heard a sound. Inexorably rhythmic, it promised of fates carved into stone; the foundation stones of this reality. Impossibly grand, it resounded from everywhere; the tune of an inescapable realm. Merlin was moved as the sound reverberated through the soulspace, and only as it did so.
It took him but a moment to recognize the sound, realize where he was. It was a heartbeat. This was blood. He was in an inconceivably huge vein within the marrow of those bones.
He fell again and collapsed where he sat, deposited by the leyline of a vein somewhere. When his mind caught up with his body and his vision un-blurred he took in the sight of a vast dining table. So vast, it stretched off into the far distance, past the horizon line of the equally vast hall. He was seated at an end of the table, and on either side, facing each other, sat the damaged souls; living dead that wore their fatal wounds like uniforms and badges of honor.
Down the row, he spotted a Servant. Beowulf. The monster-slaying hero-king was in a fugue state, wore a tooth-gnashing grimace on his chiseled face as he nursed a flagon of chthonian grog.
Beowulf wasn't the only other Servant. He felt others, scattered far and wide, but here.
He turned to the gift of his clairvoyance with the ease that one would take a breath. He looked. He cast his vision upon this entire unworldly room. He saw it all from above, like images taken by an astral satellite. The millions of souls and their still-growing ranks. All of the Servants, his Master's Servants, standing out in that crowd like islands of lush and brilliant diamond, souls more dense and more powerful than undead tides about them.
The table, supremely huge enough that each and every one of them had a seat at it—though it possessed distinct heads, was shaped like a swastika.
"I reckon it's a bit much to hope for that this swastika is the one that stands for well-being and auspicion?" he asked, seemingly no one in particular.
A fine voice replied, perfectly audible even over the black white-noise of a crowd of millions of murmuring souls, as if he were seated right next to him. "As a matter of course, it does. However, such opinions are entirely relative. In this castle one's fortunes and satisfaction with their lot in the afterlife is utterly in my hands."
The host had deigned to show himself among the rabble.
"The symbol is merely convenient. It has always been such, but was especially so for our long-departed ex-Führer. For us, it has lost its Aryan raison d'etre over the course of many lifetimes. Even in the humble beginnings of our Longinus Dreizhen Orden it was merely a flag to fly for many of us.
"Regardless of personal conviction, convenience has its uses. Even now, there are many of my foot soldiers who still rally behind it and use it to kindle their rage. For me? It makes a fine table for a fine banquet."
In his mind's eye, he saw the man who spoke all this. Golden hair. Golden eyes. Black jacket. A peerless entity garbed also in the white clothes of a savior.
"Merlin himself," He said with a smile, at last using the Servant's name. "It's been an age since a great magus has been within these halls."
"Do you know me? Ah, but a silly question that is, for you surely know of me, for what ears have not heard the name of the Magus of Flowers?" Merlin put forth. "Still, half-introductions are all-the-way rude. Might you have a name to share, sir—?"
"I am Reinhard Heydrich, lord of this realm and your host. Address me with any honorific you deem suitable."
"Heydrich, huh?" If Merlin had a wizardly beard like how we was depicted in so many imaginings he'd stroke it. Maybe he'd let it grow out just this once, just for such an occasion. "Now that, that is a most curious thing. The name is a familiar one, but an association with a Longinus Dreizhen Orden, and the scope of the power wielded by he who bears said name—"
Incalculably vast. As deep and as dark as a golden sea. A great aurum flood to drown reality, and this castle, a hellish ark full to bursting with innumerable, unstoppable warriors, was borne in on the strange tides of this mighty man's truly, truly inhuman power.
No. Not a man—a golden Beast.
"—is incongruous," Merlin put lightly. "The magical foundation that empowers you—and this whole place—not one I've any familiarity with. But hey, a singularity wouldn't have manifested without an anomaly, and this is certainly a doozy of one!
"By the by, do you not think it, also, a tad rude that we're having a long-distance conversation like this?"
"There is hardly a need for us to meet face to face, much less speak. We can see each other just fine, can we not?"
It was then that Merlin knew. Clairvoyance. This man, too, had the gift. "That's sensible. After all, this place is your realm, a proper extension of your own peerless body and inimitable soul."
"Indeed. This eternal Valhalla of ours is tied to me, and me to it. Its Weltall is mine, and every individual thralled to it is a brick in the castle's mortar.
"—that includes you as well, o' guest of honor." Heydrich's eyes narrowed with dangerous interest. "Or rather, FALSE guest of honor."
"Oho? Whatever could you mean?" Merlin asked with a cheekily dopey smile on his face and a bead of sweat on his forehead.
"Shift about in your seat, magus. See how it feels. It is good, is it not? Of course it is. It's at the other end of the table, diametric from me, the head. Such luxury is reserved for the guest of honor. Yet—it is slightly uncomfortable, is it not? Of course it would be. It is fitted, and not for you. It is for your commander: Legate."
"Ah, how vexing that my Master couldn't make it to this fun little soiree!"
"It was also clever of you as well, kingmaker of yore. You two were unable to overpower Gladsheim, so you ought to out-maneuver it instead."
"Oh, you know, just the usual seat-of-your-pants kind of thing."
"Quite so. But, such plans are never thought out beforehand, and often fraught with error. Your sacrifice was for naught, as you can see." Heydrich waved a white-gloved hand, indicated the sprawling troops about Him. "Perhaps it is because your contractor, your said Master, was unable to escape Gladsheim's pull. Perhaps it because of the paths that link you, in particular, and every single superhuman here. I'm sure that, were my dear friend here among us, he would be able to know for sure the exactitude of the mechanics behind it. But, that is a digression, and this is truth: not a one of your compatriots was able to deny my summons." It was exactly as He said. Sprinkled sporadically amidst Heydrich's legion, like dried fruits in a bread pudding, was each and every single Chaldean Servant, present and accounted for.
"I'm more of a glass half-full kinda guy, Mr. Reinhard." Merlin returned the Golden Beast's smile with one of his own. "You mean to cast a glamour upon us? I see my fellow Servants here, but they're a far ways away from licking your heels and baying for blood."
"Is that what you think?" Heydrich asked, an unassailable coyness in His tone. He then gave a mere nod.
"—Anchin."
The disturbed and banshee crooning of a woman slithered into the eardrums of those within the dining hall.
"Anchin..."
A Word; a Name; execrated and adored at the same time in a single breath.
"Anchin..."
It rose in volume, tempo, temperature, like a matchstick's mere flicker into a bonfire.
"Anchin...!
Repeated ad nauseam until it became a manta;
Chanted as a mantra until it collapsed under the weight of its own words and lost all shape and meaning as a word.
"AaAaaAAaAAAaanNnNnnnNchiiiIIIIIINNnNNnnnNNNN— !!!"
A bestial squall devoid of humanity and reason reverberated off the walls. An inferno burned brightly down the line of the endless table. A dark shape silhouetted by the hot and bright flames surged forth. Like a burning flood barrelling down a narrow canyon, its body crushed and incinerated everything in its path.
The dragon—the serpent—bumrushed him. "So that's how it's gonna be, huh?!" He sprung into action without skipping a beat. As if he had the foreknowledge that this battle was to be. As if he merely wanted an excuse to fight and fight and fight. With Hrunting and Naegling in tow, Beowulf sprinted down the highway-like table, kicking away plates, platters, and silverware as he charged headlong at the surging monster. He said to her, with a maddened snarl, "This ain't my first rodeo shitshow, lass! If ya really want an Anchin to stick it to ya this badly then let's get it on!"
The hero, his legend which ended at the scaly hands of a dragon.
The dragon, her story that only truly began in the end of her own legend.
Without a moment's notice, Lady Kiyohime and King Beowulf indulged themselves and fought to the death right then and there.
The crowd, every single deathless soldier, loved it.
"These Servants," said Heydrich to Merlin, mind's eye to mind's eye, as the timeless battle between archetypes raged on. "as they are called, are like you, Merlin: famed individuals from humanity's glory-filled past. They are the strongest that this world has known, the strongest in this world that will ever be. Their personalities are as forces of nature that darken the skies and cast shadows over the common man.
"But, no matter how far-reaching their escapades may have been, they all eventually succumb to death's grip. One and all their stories ended. But, strong personalities foster strong desires, and in death desires linger. The strong in personality leave behind the strongest ghosts."
"Of course it stands to reason that the strongest ghost would have the strongest desire, Mr. Reinhard," the wizard said with regards to the former chief of the Reich.
"Inaccurate," replied Heydrich. "There is a crucial difference between them and I, and one that is shared with you as well. Death is unknown to the both of us. Yet the Lord of the Dead I am. My desires are indeed the strongest there are, and thus the ghosts always find their way into my fold.
"The dead have desires, but it is up to the living to acknowledge them."
—and thus did the mane of the Golden Beast grow.
"What is yours is yours, and what is yours is also mine. Whatever the Servants of this world may be, they too are also my Einherjar, in part. Some are more susceptible to it than others, those in which the spirit of war rings loudest, but eventually they will all succumb to Gladsheim's curse. It is their nature." he said. "They will rank amongst the strongest of my Einherjar, even without Krafft's boons."
Merlin, mulling over the spectacle of Beowulf and Kiyohime killing each other and Heydrich's words, pursed his lips. "I take it then, Mr. Reinhard, that your goal is not to annex more soldiers."
"Hm? Showcase to me the wisdom of Merlin. What meanings can you divine from this Golden Beast's thoughts?"
"I'll do my best!" Merlin cracked his knuckles and steepled his fingers. "Exhibit A: 'This world' this, 'This world' that. You aren't from around here, are you? I mean, REALLY not from around here. You're, like, female-Musashi Miyamoto strange. Male-Arthur Pendragon strange!"
"...hm." Heydrich raised an eyebrow.
"That particular bit aside, am I right, or am I right? In this timeline, this singularity, Reinhard Heydrich is dead. But, there's a Reinhard Heydrich right in front of me, and he's a souped-up badass, to boot. Are you from a world where Heydrich survived?"
"I hail from a world where Heydrich's death is a deceit."
"Important nuance. I getcha," Merlin pointed a finger at Heydrich, even though the latter was nowhere within the former's physical sight. "Anywho, Exhibit B: the world's already gone to hell in a hand basket. Congratulations on your apocalypse. No one can stop you. No one can stop what's already happened. So then, why this? Why Servants? You already have the greatest army in existence, and the finest leaders, too, I can tell. I can feel the immense weight of their souls, all about us, even without looking for them. You don't need our help. Because you don't want Servants, you want our Master.
"Alas, that I do not know why. That's as I far as I can go."
"Not so bad. It seems as if the frog within the well has a telescope at his disposal," Heydrich gave Merlin a slight commendation. "Still, the frog is but a frog. Even if it can see the land above with its telescope it cannot dig beneath the surface of the earth and breach its infernal truths."
"Then, what is it that you desire?"
"You are an adequate conversationalist, so I shall allow you an answer. However, first you must properly prostrate yourself before me, magus. This arrangement of ours is a lasting one," and His words were pregnant with confident threat and inevitability. "Unless you'd prefer me to first strike you down and exert myself over you directly."
"...That is unnecessary, Master Heydrich." Merlin swallowed what pride he had. "Then, why—what need is there for my Master?"
"War is a force that calls men to arms and forever alters their path. It is unknowable and undeniable.
"There is no need for your Master specifically, anymore. Their role has already been fulfilled. Their legion of comrades has been absorbed into my own legion of comrades. As the newest—and weakest—member of the Longinus Dreizhen Orden, what they're to do next is up to the them and to the unknowable will of War.
"—and what the Chaldean tool can provide for my true cause."
The bloody battle that had raged through this discourse had at last died down. So brief, yet so vicious, both hero and monster succumbed to their wounds. Beowulf's chest had been torn open. His ribs stuck out like the petals of a spider lily in bloom. Black with blood, black with char, he was reduced to a lump of grilled meat by dragonfire. Kiyohime leaked gallons of blood that soaked into the tablecloth and dripped onto the floor in pools. Her entrails, steaming and hot from the vicious wounds torn into her scaled hide. The beastly form that she appeared in was carved up like an exotic entree, as if to be served to the foot soldiers.
The both of them faded away into sparks of golden light, the death knells of a Servant.
They appeared again, a moment later, in the fiery miasma of an Einherjar. The crowd welcomed their new comrades.
The first of Chaldea's Servants had given into the Valhallan curse. They would not be the last.
Heydrich brought the tines of a fork to a wine goblet. At that sound the virtually infinite hall and its battalions of soldiers grew silent, a miracle easily achieved by the god of that world. "For the first time in one-thousand years we have a guest," he said. "This is a special event. Einherjar old and new should enjoy it as they see fit. Great honor and spoils await, and even treachery shall have its place here amongst the revelry. It shall all fit into the schedule, for our guest will inevitably join us."
His word was absolute, had long since surpassed being akin to powerful magic and had instead sublimated into divine law like the aging of fine wine. Heydrich was lord of this realm. There was no way to defy Him, no way to overthrow Him. That was why there were no bounds on anything here. This lawless Cocytus of a Kowloon Walled City would perturb Him not, for they were His beloved Einherjar, and He was a peerless conqueror who would always get His way.
The eastern Shambhala that had been thwarted by Zarathustra without even the completion of the Pentachroma? Then wait. Bide the time until the next one matured into a fine harvest worthy of reaping.
The entire world had been overtaken with His war, leaving nothing but a stasis of violence and destruction and His desires still unfulfilled? A means to a new world would present itself. This one, so alike, yet ever-so different. Though fate governed this world, as it did the former, the very metaphysics of this different reality were off-kilter enough to perhaps work.
The Golden Beast called them to arms. A million voices cheered. A select handful, His closest comrades, of the original Longinus Dreizhen Orden, and the oldest Einherjar, had their own thoughts.
Number II felt nothing, its desires corralled in by the pale death mask it wore, like it had always been.
Number III, having lost long ago, offered no resistance.
Number IV's grin was wolfish, a perfect expression of his innermost wants.
Number V's fire did not burn, had not burned for that long millennium, but could perhaps burn again.
Number VI was everywhere and nowhere and felt nothing at all.
Number VII was as silent as the grave.
Number VIII, beneath the smile, carefully considered it all.
Number IX was perfect and dignified.
Number X rustled with excitement, shaking like a nervous dog.
Number XI wanted to be somewhere else.
And, Number XII had a dopey and cheery expression, just like a child's on Christmas morning.
"As for you, kingmaker, feel free to watch the festivities unfold in its entirety from within your newfound Vivian-cave."
Once again, Merlin was under house arrest.
In the meantime, the deathless Einherjar acted on their own.
Reply With Quote
Originally Posted by I3uster
