Fate/Prima Nocta

[Express]

Sedimentary rock has quite a few things in common with humans if one stops to think about it for all of a second. Many individual deposits of sediment contribute to a growing entity; upon which after a certain amount of foundational time has passed, is referred to as an individual among others.

But this understanding is flawed. A layer of rock as well as a human being owes everything it has to its history, to what personally came before it and contributed to its creation. While sedimentary epochs are judged far more leniently in this regard--one such layer may hold a perfectly preserved fossil, another carrying obvious stress indicators of cataclysmic change--humans actively reject any notion that challenges their perceived individuality. Perhaps this is just the most base manifestation of what’s called the “sin of pride”.

In her mind, rocks have it rougher than humans by quite a long shot. Exposed to harsher elements yet without the consciousness and mobility to combat the indifferences of nature, humans remain blissfully unaware of the hardship of the common rock. Most thoughts had no use reappearing in a mind like hers; but in this place the concept was intrusive enough, as a reminder of why she was forced to live like this.

But was forced really the correct term to be using? She didn’t give it much thought. It was moot, after all. She simply continued to gaze upwards toward the lip of her grotto, the gentle lullaby of the tide rocking her back and forth on the sandy seafloor. It was easier to breathe here, if only slightly. The world and its gravity didn’t weigh so heavily upon her underwater, and the small fish that passed through and the various barnacles clinging to the craggy walls were company enough for her.

Stray white hairs drifted in front of her face, reminding her of the one she was patiently waiting for. “Hairs” was really just a term that vaguely fit the concept, as her body didn’t produce keratin anymore. It was a kind of linguistic laziness that was unlike her, but maybe it was just the last vestiges of the humanity she’d left behind exhibiting itself wherever it could.
Still, she was reminded of his beard all the same. And the alienness that he represented to her.

She’d been expecting Medusa. No, not expecting. That word had too much of a positive connotation. Dreading, perhaps. It was inevitable that the Gorgon would appear to her, given her heritage, yet all the same she had held a bitterness against such an eventual occurrence. The truth was, she had nothing to say to Medusa. An ancestor that had had no conscious input in being such an ancestor was little more than a stranger.

An offhand gift to her family by way of Heracles, there was never any powerful emotion attached to the bit of dead snake the queen of Tegea received that day, at least not from the perspective of the mighty son of Zeus. There were far more important things to think about, course. It was little more than a favor to an ally of war. Yet this prize was coveted and cherished. So much so that it became a part of her family’s being. She was the product of a selfish wish to cling to a meaningless gesture, all thousands of years before her birth.

And yet, she was highly--and, perhaps, happily--surprised when the one that appeared before her was nothing like the monster she’d been expecting. The first thing she noticed when the glowing light had died down was how white his hair was. A shaggy, snow white beard stretched down to rest between his wide-set chest. The hair curved up along his rugged cheeks, topping his ears to circle around his very bald pate. He was clearly elderly, at least in comparison to how most of the beings like him composed themselves. His age was nothing more than a number, given the extreme context of his body, she knew. Barrel-chested and rippling with muscle, he was in far better physical condition than men half his age with twice their power. His clothes were simple, and he wore nothing on his feet. Pale skin exploded into ruddy patches on his nose and extremities, unable to hide that he had once been quite comfortable living under a hot sun.

Harsh blue eyes regarded her, and then he asked that most fateful of questions.

“「 」”

She gave her answer.

“Know then that I am one who shall protect thee, Master.”

He hadn’t given her a name, or anything to call him. It was fine, she hadn’t either.

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

200 million years ago, the supercontinent of Pangea fractured into the beginnings of the continental tectonic plates. It was at this time, so early in the formation of the “modern” planet, that Greece began to form. The Cyclades, Dodecanese, Ionians, Sporades, as well as the more famous individualist islands like Crete, all began from a common coastline that remained relatively unchanged until the wandering earthen giants slowed and eventually halted their million year journey. To put it simply, then, Greece has been a hub for historical achievements long before the species known as humans even came into existence.

Greece has the privilege then, due to being a launching point for civilization, of having its historic and prehistoric history verified mostly without a shadow of a doubt. It’s only in the modern age, ironically, that Greece as a whole has fallen by the wayside. Massive national debt and various other contributing factors caused Greece to withdraw little by little from the historical limelight. A phenomenon that allows the archipelago to once more drag the familiar misty blanket of mystery around its rocky coasts.

Which quite suited the ancient line of Greek mages just fine.

Modern political violence meant nothing to beings who had long left non-magical society behind. If anything, useful idiots were strategically deployed to cause trouble in certain parts of the country for the puppetmaster’s own personal gain. While the younger members of the Mage’s Association snickered around talk of the mighty families produced by the islands, those with more far-reaching memories were able to recall the staggering contributions to magical society Greece has made in the past.

However, one such embarrassment was potent enough to plague even the staunchest of Greek mages. Whether it actually happened or is simply a myth is a point of contention, but the truth is irrelevant. Simply the rumor of the failed Greece Subtype Holy Grail War is enough for some to stake their reputations on disproving it. Because the truth is the Greeks haven’t presented anything groundbreaking to the Association in a very, very long time. Old rumors popping up like lesions at a time when their influence is on the wane is seen as one of the worst things that could possibly happen.

The story goes that the war had been a disaster from its inception. Greece’s disproportionately vast concentration of immensely powerful Heroic Spirit material proved to be a detriment to the order of the war itself. Mages were desperately slaughtering each other publically for any relic of Heracles they could get their hands on, leaving a sizable number of bodies already before the war had even officially started. After Heracles, the process repeated for the nearest relic of Achilles, and so on and so forth. Eventually, after some form of conclusion that was never made even the slightest of public knowledge, elder patriarchs from every influential Greek family gathered to impose a special regulation set on any future Greece War.

Called the Dódeka Parapáno, or Twelve Above, the regulations sought to criminalize the summoning of a selection of Greece’s 12 most famous heroes within the confines of the country; under the notion that to do so with such famous figures, combined with the natural homeland bonus provided, would make each of the singled-out individuals completely uncontrollable. While it was true that the Greeks realized the potential terror of a maddened Heracles boosted to godly levels of power, the Twelve Above was much more of a political peace treaty than anything else. Wasting time and effort squabbling over catalysts had a proven track record of destroying reputations and previous family alliance; it was better to simply avoid the whole trouble of it. Both the Church and the Mage’s Association were notified of the Twelve Above’s passing, and Greece instantly lost any appeal as the site of a Holy Grail War.

Which begs the question of how Greece obtained a copy of the Grail in the first place. The answer lies only with the mysterious giggling White Woman who spread the secret of the ritual across the world like the intoxicating poison it is.

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

She pulled herself out of the rocky grotto, onto the rather out of place tile flooring that rimmed the lip of the watery entrance. The expected percussive smattering of stray water droplets echoing across the tile never came, every bit of moisture clinging to her saline body. Her half-lidded eyes had no need to adjust to the dim light of the setting sun that shone in through glassless windows, yet she blinked rapidly regardless. Then frowned.

Her mansion, which sat nestled in a cove on an unnamed island in the Argolic Gulf, was big, dark, and empty. It was also highly familiar to her, necessary given the state of her eyesight. Yet still, there was something unexpected that raised the cilia on the back of her neck, for lack of a more apt term.

He was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the room. His back was turned to her, yet what meager light penetrated the room refused to reflect off his bald head. She never would have known he was there if he hadn’t shifted slightly. Intentionally? Hard to say, but the gesture didn’t go unappreciated. Or appreciated either, for that matter. That he had moved to signal himself to her was a fact, nothing more.

She continued to stare at his back for several more long minutes, willing herself to perceive his frame more clearly, but finding herself unable to do so. She took a single shuffling pace towards him, all residual water from her “bath” having by now been absorbed into her body.

“I require something from you.”

There was no surprise in these words, despite their suddenness. Tension was something she couldn’t grasp very well. If she’d been anyone else, that person most likely would have fallen over startled. But because it was her, and she was she, the words were taken in stride the same way she did everything else.

“State it.” She quietly ruminated on his voice. Baritone, but there was a crackling quality that made her think of a man attempting to speak after not drinking for several hours. Her own was barely a whisper, but she knew he could hear it.

“I require something by which to call you, Master.” The ensuing pause was kept brief.

“You already call me Master, that should be sufficient.”

A longer pause. At least a minute, by her estimations. She couldn’t verify anything, of course, as she didn’t have a clock inside her abode. This wasn’t uncommon either, to have demands made by that being known as a Servant, at least to her knowledge. It almost made their title pointless, if they weren’t so committed to following commands. Maybe she’d been paired with someone ill fitting…

He shifted.

“Regardless, this is what I require.” This must be the arrogance of the elderly that she’d read about, or perhaps there was some other motivation at play. Still, a criminal doesn’t sign their name on the butt on their pistol. It was the same concept, the less she knew about him, and the less he knew about her, all the better. Which is why she couldn’t comprehend why she answered him the way she did.

...

“Cassiopeia.”

She uttered her own name almost distastefully, as though the word itself were taboo. No doubt this was noticed by the man in her house, but the mood simply continued to remain unchanged. A low rumbling escaped him. It was a grunt of acknowledgement. Assent? Dissent? No, such a sound was impossible to discern any meaning from. Losing the initiative concerning the balance of power was a real threat, as the physical power of a magus was nearly always dwarfed by that of a Servant. By several magnitudes. Action, therefore, needed to be swift.

“If you are content with this relationship now that I’ve accommodated your wishes, I have mine own I ask of you to grant. Face me if you address me as your Master.”

…

“Cassiopeia. Master. Allow me to share with you a piece of wisdom: Do not confuse frugality and honesty for humility, many times they do not cross paths at all.”

An inch. His head turned an inch. Though he was no closer to facing her directly, Cassiopeia understood it as the signal of acknowledgement it was. She finally had his attention. His words, on the other hand, breezed through Cassiopeia’s head with not an iota of thought spared for them. Poetry was a useless linguistic conceit, so she failed to comprehend what was said at all. Perhaps sensing he was losing her, the man intoned his head back to its original position. So close.

“It isn’t fit for a man like me to gaze upon the flesh of a woman who is not my wife. Put some clothes on, and I will show you my eyes.”

Oh.

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I've been sitting on the beginning of this for a while, some might notice this tiny chapter is just the blurb I included in my Make-a-Magus contest but expanded.
I have a second chapter mostly on the way, stay tuned (?)
Greece is going to be a heavy theme and setting in this piece so apologies to any Greeks if I mess your history/geography up.